by A. Giannetti
“Adamant!” thought Elerian to himself. “I have on my finger the hardest substance in the Middle realm.” Eagerly drawing the gem across the surface of the cover near Anthea’s waist, Elerian watched as the sharp facets of the stone cut deeply into the smooth surface of the crystal. After quickly scoring it again and again, intersecting one cut with another, he raised the hilt of Acris high in the air with both hands. With all his strength, he suddenly brought down the pommel against the cover. At the moment of impact, the argentum wrapped around the hilt of Acris grew suddenly warm in his hands and a blinding flash of white light filled the chamber, accompanied by a high, pure sound that reverberated through the cell as if a great glass bell had suddenly been rung. A sharp crack split the air as the crystal fractured where Elerian had scored it with his ring. Encouraged by the web of fissures that had appeared, he struck again, and the cover crumbled away into a heap of small, glittering shards that rang together with a high clear sound as they fell against each other. Both Elerian and Dacien started then when a high-pitched, keening wail suddenly filled the room.
The unexpected cry emanated from the stone figure of a lentulus crouched on a pedestal set against the far wall of the chamber. When Elerian’s gaze was drawn to its nightmare face, the statue opened black eyes of polished jet, regarding him with an almost palpable malevolence. His third eye opened then, revealing a featureless crimson form conforming to the contours of the stone figure.
“A shade resides in the statue,” thought Elerian to himself in dismay, “a last hidden guardian to thwart my escape. It must have been asleep until I shattered the cover of the bier.”
With the guardian’s wail piercing his ears, Elerian hurriedly handed Acris to Dacien before brushing the shards of crystal from Anthea's pale, thin face with his right hand. His last faint hope that she might still live faded away then, for he felt no warmth where his gentle fingers brushed her skin.
“She is cold like my heart is now that she is gone,” thought Elerian to himself. He gaze fell on her hands then. They were folded across her chest, the fingers of her right hidden beneath the left. “Ascilius was right then,” thought Elerian bitterly to himself when he noted that all of the fingers of the exposed hand were present. “Her supposed maiming was nothing more than a falsehood designed to incite those who loved her into attempting some sort of hasty, ill-conceived rescue.”
Ignoring the pain from his injuries, Elerian lifted Anthea’s body off the bier, finding her light as thistledown in his arms. “She must have been starved before being interred in her coffin,” he thought angrily to himself, “for she could not have survived in that airless space more than a few hours. If the fate predicted by my orb proves false, I will have vengeance against her murderers after I have buried her and properly mourned her loss,” he grimly promised himself. Holding Anthea’s limp form close, as if he grasped something precious to him, Elerian searched his memory for the spells which would reopen the gate to the cave where he had left Ascilius. The words which he had so carefully memorized and recently used did not appear in his mind, however. For the first time, he sensed that some powerful will now contended with his own, clouding his mind to prevent him from casting the spells which would allow him and Dacien to escape Anthea’s cell.
“It must be the shade which is responsible,” Elerian thought grimly to himself. “Acting through prudence, or because he saw the eye of my sphere, Torquatus must have placed it here to hold me in this dungeon if I used a portal to gain entrance to it. I am trapped here with Dacien just as the orb foretold.” Over the high, keening wail which filled the cell, Elerian could now hear a tumult of shouting, growls, and roars through the cell door. Because of the foretelling he had seen in his orb, he knew that scores of Mordi and mutare now filled in the passageway, standing behind a great Troll who waited eagerly for an Uruc to use the black key that he held in his right hand. In a moment, they would all enter the dungeon and the doom predicted by his sphere would come true. The sound of Dacien’s anxious voice abruptly brought Elerian’s attention back to his companion.
“You must reopen the portal now or it will be too late,” urged Dacien who had also heard the threatening sounds emanating through the door to the cell.
“I have already tried and failed because of the guardian who raised the alarm, Dacien,” replied Elerian hopelessly. “In a moment the door will open, and we will be slain by the countless servants of Torquatus who now fill the passageway as my orb revealed to me days ago.”
“We will make a valiant end then,” replied Dacien courageously as he took a firmer grip on Acris’s hilt, but Elerian made no reply, standing with bowed head, as if too tired and discouraged to make any further resistance.
“We cannot prevail against the horde about to descend on us, no matter how courageously we fight,” he thought bitterly to himself. “Dacien and I will die here while the one responsible for our grief lives on to wreak his evil will on the world.”
“The doorframe is made of stone you idiot. Destroy it!” an urgent voice suddenly whispered in Elerian’s mind, piercing, like a ray of sunlight, the despair which had enveloped him. He had no idea whether the thought was his own or whether it came from some other source, but he responded instantly to its suggestion with renewed hope.
“Follow me and get down!” he shouted to Dacien as he hurriedly carried Anthea behind the stone bier. As he gently laid her still form on the cold floor behind the platform, Elerian could hear a key rattling in the door lock. Concentrating all his will on piercing the fog in his mind, he created a moment of clarity that was too brief for him to recall his complex portal spell but just long enough to bring to mind his destruction spell, a charm which was far less intricate. Seizing upon the words that appeared before his mind’s eye, Elerian raised his right hand and immediately cast his spell. The instant that a golden orb the size of his doubled fists flew from his fingers toward the door of the chamber, he cast himself onto the floor, covering Anthea with his body.
The thick iron door of the cell resisted the destructive energy of the spell Elerian had thrown at it, but the living rock around the door gave way, fracturing with a deafening crack under the assault of the charm. Pressed for dear life against the bier, the floor of the cell trembling beneath them and deadly shards of stone whining over their heads, Elerian and Dacien did not see the cell door wrenched from the entryway as if suddenly grasped by an enormous hand. Tipped forward so that it advanced edge first several feet above the floor, the door roared down the corridor behind it like an enormous, iron scythe, mowing down all who stood in its path. The few guards who escaped its deadly progress were struck down by the whirlwind of deadly stone fragments and shards of stone that accompanied it down the passageway. Already stunned by the initial blast which had beaten against their ears like a club, Elerian and Dacien heard a second tremendous boom and felt the floor tremble a second time as the door reached the end of the passageway where it struck a second door and the stone walls that supported it, causing the ceiling to collapse and seal off the corridor from the rest of the fortress.
When silence reigned in the cell again, Dacien was the first to stagger to his feet. Choked and partially blinded by the stone dust that filled the room, his ears ringing from the force of the explosion, he first looked to Elerian who immediately opened his gray eyes at the touch of Dacien’s left hand.
“What was the result of the spell, Dacien?” Elerian asked in a faint voice. “I am too weary to stand and see for myself at the moment.”
“Wait here while I find out,” replied Dacien. Acris in his right hand, he circled the bier before walking warily through the gaping hole that had taken the place of the cell door. The mage lights which lit the corridor outside Anthea’s prison had survived the explosion, their crimson rays illuminating a scene of devastation, for the passageway outside the cell was filled with motionless, mangled bodies and its walls and ceiling were splashed and dripping with gore. Like a boulder rearing up among smaller stones, the great b
roken body of the Troll lay in the center of the corridor not far from the doorway. Crushed beyond recognition against the creature’s stony body was the Uruc who had put the key into the lock.
“Elerian has laid waste to the whole crew with a single spell,” thought Dacien wonderingly to himself as he cautiously stepped into the passageway. When a Mordi stirred feebly and opened dark eyes filled with malice, Dacien felt a sudden thirst for vengeance for Anthea’s death well up in his breast. With a cold light in his eyes, he thrust Acris into the Goblin’s throat, feeling only a slight drain on his life force as he did so.
“These Mordi die easily,” thought Dacien contemptuously to himself. Falling unwitting into a fey mood, he prowled the dusty corridor searching for more victims on which to vent his rage. He did not walk far, however, before he suddenly felt his right ankle seized in a strong grip. A mutare, protected by the bodies of those who had fallen on top of him, had survived the explosion and, cunningly feigning death, had waited until Dacien passed by him before attacking him. Specter like from the white stone dust that covered his hairy body, the changeling pulled Dacien off his feet, sending the Tarsian sprawling, chest down and full length across the floor. Dacien immediately twisted onto his back only to have the mutare leap onto his chest, driving all the breath from his lungs. Baring the sharp teeth in its wolf like muzzle, the creature crouched over him, seizing his right wrist in an iron grip with its left hand to prevent him from using Acris. Before Dacien could stir, the taloned fingers of the changeling’s right hand circled his throat and began to constrict, cutting off his supply of air. Unable to reach his dagger, Dacien wrenched at the changeling’s hairy wrist with his left hand, but the strength of the hulking mutare far exceeded his own. Sinews like granite continued to tighten around his neck and bright motes began floating before his eyes, precursors to unconsciousness.
“This adventure ends with my death as Elerian predicted,” thought Dacien grimly to himself as the mutare gloated over him with savage, yellow eyes. He felt no fear as he spiraled down into unconsciousness and death, only regret that he and Elerian had failed to save Anthea.
THE PRISONER
As from a great distance, with the thread of his life almost broken, Dacien suddenly felt the mutare shudder. The relentless fingers wrapped around his throat tightened convulsively and then fell away as the changeling dropped heavily across his chest and face. Gasping for breath through the shaggy, stinking pelt pressed against his lips and nose, Dacien gathered all his strength and pushed the unresisting, hairy body of the mutare off to his left. Drawing in great gulps of air, he felt his head clear and his strength return. Raising his head and looking to his left, Dacien saw at once the reason for the changeling’s demise. Planted between its shoulders, at the base of its thick neck, was the bright, ridged hilt of Acer, its blade sunk to the cross guard into the mutare’s spine. When he looked toward the end of the corridor, Dacien saw Elerian standing in the ruined entrance to Anthea’s prison with Anthea resting on the floor at his feet. Somehow, he had roused himself in time to make the remarkable cast that had saved Dacien’s life. Slowly, Dacien climbed to his feet.
“A good and timely throw,” he called out wryly to Elerian.
“I had rather not make another one,” Elerian called back wearily.
“Fear not, I will not make the same mistake twice,” Dacien called back. Acris held ready to strike, he warily inspected the rest of the corridor, but found no more of the enemy alive. Behind the pile of rubble that sealed off the corridor, however, he heard the muffled sound of horns, shouts, and more alarming, the thud and rasp of picks and shovels. At once, Dacien turned and raced back to the cell entrance where Elerian now stood outside the ruined doorway with Anthea’s body in his arms.
“Elerian, the enemy is working to clear the barrier at the end of the corridor!” he anxiously informed his companion. Before Elerian could make any reply, the wail of the guardian, which had ceased after the explosion, suddenly smote his ears again, issuing from the ruins of the statue that housed it. Again he felt the shade’s influence as it sought to cloud his mind, but it seemed to him that the force of its will was less powerful now.
“The power it has already expended may have weakened it,” thought Elerian to himself, for he knew that shades could not, on their own, renew the power they used.
“The influence of the guardian seems less now,” he said quietly to Dacien. “Hold yourself ready while I make another attempt to open a gate.” As he prepared to cast his spells, Elerian suddenly felt his gaze drawn to a nearby cell on his left whose iron door hung half open on twisted hinges, partially exposing the dark chamber behind it. A strong sentiment that he ought to explore that dark place suddenly coursed through Elerian’s mind. Wary of additional traps and apprehensive that more of the enemy might appear at any moment, he tried to ignore the impulse, but if anything, the impetus to enter the cell grew in strength.
“A delay could be fatal,” Elerian silently cautioned himself, but remembering the impulse which had led him to take the adamant and its happy result, he abruptly walked across the passageway to stand before the cell doorway.
“Elerian, why do you wait? We may have only moments to escape!” Dacien warned, for it seemed to him that he could now hear the harsh blare of horns and a great deal of shouting from beyond the barrier at the end of the passageway. As if he had not heard the warning, Elerian, still carrying Anthea in his arms, stepped inside the cell and lit a small mage light, for the darkness inside the dungeon was thick and unrelieved by any light. The rays of the small orb that now floated above his head revealed a chamber that was empty save for a bundle of rags in the far, right-hand corner.
“There is nothing here,” said Dacien urgently over Elerian’s right shoulder. “Let us go or we are lost. The barrier at the end of the corridor is beginning to crumble.”
Still Elerian hesitated, for his sharp eyes had detected a slight movement in the bundle of rags. Quickly, he crossed the filthy stone floor of the cell and looked down into a gaunt, ruined face partially obscured by a filthy blanket. What he had at first taken for a bundle of tattered clothing was another prisoner.
“My premonition was off the mark this time, for this poor fellow is of no use to himself or anyone else,” thought Elerian to himself as he looked down at the half-dead captive at his feet. He felt again the urgency to be off, but the still figure at his feet had roused his compassion.
“Bring this fellow with us, Dacien,” Elerian said at last, his voice full of pity.
“Your soft heart will be the death of us,” objected Dacien anxiously. “There is nothing you can do for this poor wretch. Death has already wrapped its arms around him and will carry him off soon.”
“I will not leave him here,” replied Elerian stubbornly, “even if I must carry both him and Anthea.” Grumbling to himself, Dacien finally stooped to gather the bundle of bones and rags that was the prisoner into his arms while Elerian again tried to recall his portal spell. He was relieved when words came easily to him, but he was unable to cast the spell, for the location of the cave would not come to him. Elerian searched his mind and once again felt the subtle influence of the guardian in Anthea’s cell on his thoughts.
“The creature will be the death of us yet,” was Elerian’s frustrated thought as he realized that the shade still retained enough power to partially obscure his memory. He thought then of the ring that he had given Ascilius. As he bent all his thought toward the Dwarf, Elerian saw the white gem set in his ring light up as if a fire had been kindled in its heart. His third eye opened, revealing a golden thread that sprang from his ring, disappearing after a short distance into a small, almost invisible portal. “How strange that the ring I made to save Ascilius may instead save Dacien and myself,” thought Elerian to himself, for he now had only to follow that thread to reach Ascilius and the rest of his companions.
Facing the end of the thread springing from his ring, his back to the doorway, Elerian began his portal spell
with Dacien standing by his right shoulder, the rescued prisoner in his arms. Neither of them noticed the tall, slender Uruc who suddenly appeared in the passageway behind them. He was the captain Lepida had left in charge in her absence. When the barrier blocking the corridor was finally breached, he had raced to the end of the passageway, outstripping the Mordi and Mutare who followed him. Spying the rays of Elerian’s mage light, he drew his sword, holding his black blade level in his right hand. Ready to strike, he advanced so stealthily into the chamber that neither Elerian nor Dacien heard his soft footsteps as he came up behind them.
“Two quick thrust of my sword will finish both of them before they are even aware of me,” thought the Goblin to himself, his pointed teeth bared and his eyes alight with red sparks as he thought of the reward he would gain for the two murders he was about to commit. As he drew nearer and nearer, Dacien and Elerian continued to concentrate all their attention on the opening that had appeared before them, floating in the air like a clear, man-high window.
“Step through,” Elerian said urgently to Dacien. “I do not know how long I can hold the gate open!” When Dacien suddenly leaped through the portal, the startled Uruc closing on the two companions hesitated for a split second, for lacking mage sight, it seemed to him that Dacien had disappeared into thin air. Overcoming his surprise, he lunged forward, thrusting his sword at Elerian’s back, but an instant before the dark blade reached his flesh, Elerian leaped through the portal, releasing the spells holding the gate open the instant he was through it.
In the dungeon, the Uruc’s sword pierced only empty air instead of solid flesh. Cursing aloud, the Goblin raged about the chamber for a moment, striking at empty air until his wrath diminished. Behind him the passageway was now full of Mordi and mutare watching him with fearful, confused eyes, for they clearly thought that he had gone mad. Angrily, the Uruc pushed his way through the throng, stalking across the corridor to the cell that had held Anthea. Knowing that his Dark King was not very accepting of failure, he thought it wise to find some way to deflect Torquatus’s anger away from himself. The moment that he set foot in the chamber, the guardian ceased its alarm.
