“Don’t worry, Borovazk,” he said at last, resting a hand upon the ranger’s shoulders. “We will find Marissa, and when we do, we shall make the witch and her hag minion pay for what they have done here.”
Borovazk looked Taen in the eye, and the half-elf could see the Rashemi’s desire for that revenge. “Is good to hear, little friend,” the ranger responded. “Borovazk think that he is done with this little adventure soon, and he will be glad of it.”
A shriek erupted from a shadowy corner of the crypt, followed by the sound of Yurz’s cackling laughter. “Me find it!” the goblin proclaimed loudly. “Come, friends of Pretty Lady! Yurz find the door. We not far now!”
For what seemed like the first time in quite a while, a smile split the grim terrain of Taen’s face. “Perhaps,” he said to Borovazk, “our adventure will end sooner than we had hoped!”
With a grunt and a sigh of effort, the half-elf pulled himself to his feet, gathered up his gear, and strode toward the now-open secret door. Without a second thought, he walked through it.
Chapter 23
The Year of Wild Magic
(1372 DR)
Marissa breathed fire.
It seared her lungs; her chest burned with each labored inhalation. The druid struggled once more against the bonds that held her, but the steel chains just cut deeper into the skin of her wrist with each movement. The room was dark-it was always dark, except when the hag came. Shadow and flame defined her universe. She wanted to scream, but her voice, too, had become fire, so Marissa wept glistening trails of tears that were her only comfort.
The druid had no idea how long she’d been a prisoner. She remembered the bridge, remembered the sting of spider venom, and the next thing she’d been aware of was the cold kiss of her steel shackles and the bitter voice of the hag whispering hateful secrets into her ear. At first Marissa’s mind seemed numb and sluggish-as if wreathed in a chill gray fog that drained thought and speech. She fought off the sensation, realizing at the last moment that it was merely a spell cast by her captor.
That was when the pain began-physical and psychic assaults that left Marissa barely conscious. She cried out again and again to her god for some measure of mercy but received nothing but more agony.
It was all about the Staff of the Red Tree. The hag had made that clear from the first moment. Somehow the artifact resisted her attempts at mastery, and the monster assumed that Marissa held the key. Perhaps she did, the druid thought bitterly, for even now she could hear the voice of the staff, muted, like a distant whisper, calling to her in the depths of her mind. If Marissa held the key to the staff’s power, she had no idea how to access it.
She hung in the darkness, weeping, waiting for the hag’s next visit. She thought now and again of Taenaran and her friends battling for survival somewhere in the bowels of the earth below the citadel. She had no idea if they were still alive or if the hag’s minions had slain them. She remembered, dimly, the promise of a conversation with Taenaran, a conversation that she had put off until the end of their journey. Endings, she thought bitterly, have a nasty habit of coming when you least expect them, yet Marissa still held out hope that she and Taen would see each other again. She hung by that thin silver thread of hope over the abyss of despair as surely as she hung by the steel chains that bound her.
She was surprised, therefore, by the voice that cut through her interior wrestling. “Do not think that anyone will come for you,” the voice said. “You are alone.”
At first Marissa expected to see the hag, green skin and misshapen face leering out of the darkness. It only took her a few moments, however, to realize that the voice sounded different, huskier than the hag’s. Dim light filled the room. The druid blinked hard as the illumination aggravated her eyes. When she could focus, Marissa saw a brown-haired figure standing before her. At first her heart leaped at the sight of the stranger-until she caught sight of the ore rune hanging around the figure’s neck. The stranger’s scarred face and her flat, gray eyes confirmed what Marissa suspected-the half-orc standing before her was no sympathetic rescuer but rather a servant of the hag.
A servant, she thought, and something more.
Power emanated from this creature. Marissa could sense it-a darkness as deep as the Abyss filled her. If she served anyone, it certainly wasn’t the hag. That thought sent fear knifing up her spine.
“You’ve caused Yulda quite a bit of trouble,” the stranger said, “you and your friends.”
She drew closer to Marissa, reached out a thickly muscled hand, and ran her fingers lightly down the druid’s cheek. The captive half-elf tried to turn her head, but the stranger grabbed it harshly with her other hand. Marissa could feel the barbed points of steel claws pressing harshly into her head.
“You won’t give up the secrets of your staff to the hag,” her tormentor whispered. “I respect that.” The half-orc released Marissa’s head. “You will reveal them to me, or I promise you the torments I have prepared for you will make you beg for the hag’s return.”
Marissa closed her eyes for a moment and prayed desperately for strength. The voice of the staff rose in her mind. The whole of her journey in Rashemen flashed before her. The druid knelt once more beneath the trunk of the Red Tree, spoke face-to-face with the ancient telthor. The memory of that time eased her fears. She had seen wonders and experienced moments of peace within Rashemen of which she had never even dreamed. If this, then, was Rillifane’s will, that she should suffer and die in the darkness, then Marissa would accept it. Who was she to enjoy the wondrous gifts her god had given her while rejecting the rest of her life, which was also from him? She knew that suffering, too, could be a kind of gift, one that brought the sufferer closer to the divine. The hierophants spoke of that often enough. Now, within the ancient citadel of her enemy, Marissa would live that reality.
With Rillifane’s name ushering forth silently from her lips, she opened her eyes and gazed steadily at her interrogator. “I can tell you nothing,” she exclaimed, “and even if I did know something, I would never reveal it to you.”
The half-orc smiled in response, and Marissa felt her heart begin to falter once again. “We shall see,” she said and placed a rough hand upon the druid’s head, whispering a prayer to her god as she did so.
Marissa tried to shut out the cleric’s voice, but the harsh cadence and sibilant syllables of the half-orc’s whispered devotion filled the room with a dreadful cacophony. She shuddered and twisted against her bonds, writhing in pain. Though she couldn’t understand her torturer’s words, Marissa felt their power; it washed over her, stinging and lashing her spirit with each phrase. Her cell grew dark once more-pitch black-and chilled, as if the half-orc’s spell were drawing all of the energy from the room. The chill intensified, deepened, stealing her life with each knife-sharp breath that she took. Memories of her life beneath the sun, time spent with friends and loved ones, laughter, life, joy-all of it was falling away from her into an icy void. Marissa knew with a terrible certainty that there would soon be nothing left, that she was being hollowed out, emptied, until all that remained was ice and darkness.
The druid struggled against her fate, summoning thoughts from her childhood, shouting prayers to Rillifane and any god who might hear her cry. Nothing helped. She felt herself falling. Her last thought before the darkness took her was of Taenaran.
The corridor stood empty.
Smooth, polished stone-so different from the highly decorative craftsmanship of the citadel’s undertomb-caught and reflected the dim light of torches that burned fitfully in iron sconces. The passageway ended in a solid stone door shut tightly almost twenty feet in the distance. Taen and his companions stood silently in the shadows and listened for any sound that might indicate the presence of their enemies.
They heard nothing.
Taen crept forward carefully, making sure his weapon did not scrape against either wall of the small passageway. When nothing jumped out at him, he waved for the others to follow. De
spite their apparent safety, a sense of unease rose up in him, like delicate fingers of ice running along his spine. Bitter experience had taught him to trust his instincts. The half-elf peered intently down the corridor.
“I don’t like this,” he whispered to his companions. “Something’s wrong.”
“You’re just figuring that out now,” he heard Roberc’s hushed reply from behind him.
Taen’s sense of unease intensified-fingers turned to sharp daggers stabbing at his back. “Wait,” he blurted out as Yurz reached for the closed door before him.
The goblin froze, one long-fingered hand nearly touching the dull gray stone. On a whim, Taen closed his eyes and cast a spell of detection upon the door. Immediately, three purplish-black glyphs flared into existence on the door’s stone surface. The serpentine symbols writhed and roiled like grubs suddenly exposed to the light of day.
Yurz fell backward with a yelp, but Taen could spare the goblin none of his attention, as the power from the now-revealed glyphs hammered against the half-elf’s mystic senses and threatened to overwhelm him. If any one of their group had actually laid a hand upon the door, it would have released unspeakable energy upon them all.
Taen walked toward the door with one hand extended. He gathered his own power and sent it streaming toward the door, hoping that his skill would be sufficient to dispel the protective glyphs. As the energy from his spell met the power bound up in the runes, the glowing symbols dimmed like a banked fire then flared into unmistakable life once again.
Taen swore. “That’s done it,” he nearly shouted.
“What do you mean?” Borovazk asked, casting a wary glance at the angrily pulsating symbols.
“I couldn’t dispel the glyphs,” Taen replied, “and now whoever set them here knows that someone has tried to tamper with them.”
“What do we do?” Roberc asked, drawing his sword.
Taen reached into his backpack with the other and drew forth a triangular prism. “We’ll have to move fast,” he said. “I was hoping to hold this in reserve in case we needed it against the renegade witch, but it seems that our need is very great at the moment.”
The half-elf muttered a few words over the prism. Pure white light blossomed from the clear heart of the item. “This prism should draw the glyphs’ energy into itself,” he said to the others. “Once those symbols disappear from the door, run through it. We’ve already lost any element of surprise.”
The gleam in the crystal grew brighter, filling the room. At first, the purplish glow from the warding symbols polluted the bright light, bruising its argent incandescence. Gradually, however, the prism’s power overmastered the glyphs. At first, their sickening light seemed to draw back, retreating from the crystal’s illumination, but the pulsating energy moved toward the prism, entering its angular planes. The process took a few more moments as the glyphs gradually faded from the door’s surface. Once completed, the light from the prism faded, and the room returned to normal.
“Now!” Taen shouted and drew his weapon once again.
The others ran toward the door, throwing open its bulk with a mighty heave. Within the space of three heartbeats, Taen stood alone in the corridor.
Carelessly, he dropped the prism to the floor. It bounced once on the obdurate stone then exploded into a thousand fragments. Taen would have spent another moment making sure the evil power had truly dissipated, but the sound of Marissa’s screams reached his ears from the corridor beyond the door.
He made a wordless noise and leaped into the shadowy passageway-unprepared for the horror that awaited him.
Chapter 24
The Year of Wild Magic
(1372 DR)
The horror charged.
Twin skeletal heads, one human and one monstrous, opened their mouths as if to scream, while long, bony arms swung a gleaming obsidian axe. Taen nearly toppled as he dodged the weapon, caught off guard by the speed of the attack and the high-pitched keen that ushered from the creature’s heads. Borovazk leaped forward, his own axe cutting through the air in a wicked arc. The axe edge struck armor, but was unable to penetrate the thick, silvery chain that covered the beast from shoulder to knees. Still, the force of the blow knocked the creature back a step, and Taen took that opportunity to pull back from the monster safely.
In the dim light of the stone corridor, Taen could see the glint of bone, some yellowed with age and others gleaming white, that made up their opponent’s prodigious bulk. Unlike most of the skeletal creatures he had fought in the past, the bones of this monster didn’t seem to fit together well. It was as if someone had scavenged parts from a host of different beasts and cobbled them together with magic. Arms that could have come from an ogre or a giant ended in hands that seemed delicate, almost elf like in appearance. Likewise, the beast’s human-sized legs ended in elongated, three-toed feet. Bits of dried and desiccated flesh still clung to parts of the monster’s bones. It was the eyes, though, that disturbed Taen the most. Deep within the empty sockets of the monster’s four eyes, purple flames burned with flickering intensity. A chill ran through the half-elf whenever he found himself transfixed with that gaze.
There was little time to reflect on this puzzle, however, as the skeletal creature lurched forward, swinging its axe once again. Roberc darted forward as the weapon whistled over his head and drew a thick-headed mace from his belt. Two mighty swings of the weapon sent bone chips flying out from the monster’s legs. Its keen changed in tone, transforming into a roar of anger. Within moments, twin sheets of purple flame exploded from the creature’s eyes, engulfing Roberc in an eldritch conflagration.
Taen cried out as the flames erupted around the halfling, but he was too far away from the fighter to do anything. Behind him, however, the half-elf heard a low growl before Cavan’s furred form darted forward, hurtling toward the ball of flame. The war-dog leaped toward the burning fire and yelped with pain as he entered the fiery sphere. His momentum, however, carried him through the raging inferno in moments, with Roberc’s smoldering form before him.
Taen heard Borovazk’s shout of rage as the ranger struck from behind their skeletal opponent. Axe and warhammer beat against the monster again and again. In the small confines of the corridor, the sound of shattering bone echoed with a sickening crunch. The monster staggered forward, its back now twisted at an awkward angle, but its axe still slicing through the air-and drew closer to the fallen Roberc.
The half-elf cursed every moment that they stood here battling this monstrosity. Marissa was somewhere nearby, held captive and obviously in great pain. They would have to end this battle soon. Reaching down to his belt, Taen pulled out a long, thin tube and broke the wax seal. Deftly, he pulled forth a thin roll of vellum, unfurled it, and began to chant the words that were written in spidery runes upon it.
Instantly the air before Taen began to ripple and shimmer with incandescence. The luminescence resolved within moments, revealing a giant fist that floated in midair. The half-elf sent the arcane fist streaking toward his opponent with a thought. It hurtled toward the monster, striking it with enough force to send it flying back several feet back and smashing it against the stone wall. It lurched forward, unsteady now on its skeletal feet-only to find itself pummeled repeatedly by the arcane force of the floating fist. Each time the spell-summoned hand struck, bones snapped like dry tinder. By the third attack, the skeletal creature toppled backward in a tangle of limbs. Its arms and legs lay twisted, yet still it shuddered, trying to stand and resume its attack.
Taen kept up his concentration, sending the fist crashing down upon the defeated skeletal monstrosity again and again. By the time Borovazk had seen to the injured halfling and his canine companion, the arcane spell had reduced its hapless opponent to a pile of splintered bone and dust.
“Are you all right?” Taen asked the halfling as Roberc and Cavan sidled up to join the half-elf in the center of the hallway.
“I’m fine,” the halfling growled in response, taking a hard swig from hi
s wineskin and sucking down the liquid.
“Then let’s move,” Taen said, pointing toward the thick stone door that blocked the only other exit from the corridor. Carefully, he crept forward, alert for any signs that the door might fly open, releasing a horde of enemies that would threaten to overwhelm them.
Nothing happened.
The half-elf stood before the portal, head cocked, elf ears focused intently on what lay beyond. For just a moment, he thought he heard what might have sounded like sobs coming from beyond the door. Before he could make any further determination, however, the sounds stopped.
The silence brought a surge of anxiety racing through Taen’s body. What if they were too late and Marissa lay dead somewhere beyond the doorway? That thought sent the half-elf springing into action. He was about to leap forward and muscle open the door, when he heard Roberc’s voice hissing from somewhere behind him.
“Careful, Taen,” the halfling whispered. “Remember the last door.”
That warning froze Taen before his shoulders had reached the stone. He cursed himself silently for a fool. If he kept letting his fear for Marissa override his experience, he would end up getting them all killed. Taking a deep breath, he whispered the words to a detection spell. Once again, disturbing glyphs appeared before him, inscribed onto the surface of the door. He searched his memory for the right spell then sent his arcane power out with a word of command. When the sigils faded completely from sight, he turned to Yurz, still huddling fearfully in the corner.
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