Keith Francis Strohm

by Keith Francis Strohm

  She turned to find Fleshrender lying comfortably on the stone floor, tearing apart the corpse of a mountain hare. The telthor looked at her calmly as it ripped the rabbit's soft flesh from its bones. Despite herself, Yulda couldn't suppress a shudder at the creature's actions. Telthor, she knew, did not require sustenance to live. The beast simply enjoyed the taste of death.

  Careful not to disturb her feasting companion, the witch walked toward the back of the cavern, where an uneven hunk of blue-misted ice sat on a simple stone pedestal. She knelt before the pedestal, gazing deeply into the colored ice. Almost immediately, a dim light began to pulse within its heart, growing stronger with each beat, until an unearthly blue gleam radiated throughout the entire cavern.

  Shadows began to emerge in the ice, silhouettes and suggestions of a scene that resolved quickly into a clear picture at a single word from the witch. Looking in the ice, one would think it a mirror, reflecting the interior of the cave in which it sat. Yulda, however, saw with deeper eyes. The cave she gazed at stood several hun­dred leagues from her demesne. With a sweep of her hand, the picture began to move, searching the lair of the wyverns.

  At first she thought the cave empty, for there was no sign of the wyverns or her guests anywhere. Then she caught sight of a large shape almost completely hidden as it lay slumped against a cavern wall. Yulda smiled, thinking it the collected remains of her would-be assas­sins, but her smile soon changed to horror as she saw the hacked up corpses of the wyverns, bloodied bodies and slashed tails intertwined as they lay still and cold in a cave somewhere beneath her citadel.

  How could those gods-blasted fools have escaped their fate, Yulda raged. The meddlesome intruders could be anywhere now! She extended her arcane senses deeper, pouring her newly regained strength into the scrying spell, bridging the great distance between her and the citadel with the merest thought. She scanned the tombs and lower dungeon of the citadel to no avail. With a frown, she went even deeper, magically peering into the depths beneath Rashemar. Through empty tunnels and echoing chambers her mind ranged, skimming over the rude consciousness of half-sentient creatures slithering through the subterranean realm, until at last she found her quarry—and something else.

  Something of great power.

  It beat against her senses with a wild, almost uncon­trolled strength, shining like a beacon in the dark. She withdrew her mind, not wishing to alert whatever power was present. This, she thought, changed everything. Could those fools have been foolish enough to bring the Staff of the Red Tree right to her doorstep? Yulda's craggy face cracked into a twisted, gap-toothed smile. Such a powerful item would only insure her success if she could bring it under her sphere of control.

  It took only a few moments for the plan to coalesce in her mind. She sent an eldritch message to Durakh then called Fleshrender away from his dead plaything. Stepping into the mystic circle inscribed to the left of the stone pedestal, she disappeared.

  Her last thought before the spell of teleportation activated was of the Iron Lord's citadel burning.

  Chapter 20

  The Year of Wild Magic

  (1372 DR)

  The Staff of the Red Tree shuddered in her hands.

  To Marissa, it felt as if she were holding a living thing—an animal shivering in the chill cavern air or quivering with rage. The voice of the Staff of the Red Tree buzzed in her mind like a swarm of angry hornets and had done so ever since they had left the steaming pool. It was difficult to concentrate with the pres­ence of the Staff of the Red Tree looming over her internal senses, but the druid managed to mark their journey from the spring-fed cavern to their current location—a quarter candle's sojourn—well enough. Yurz had turned to say something to her at several points during that time, but Marissa could not distinguish the goblin's voice from that of the staff's angry hum.

  She had simply nodded, hoping the creature hadn't asked her anything important.

  Now she and her companions gazed out at the vast expanse of a cavern. The druid shook her head, mentally forcing the voice of the staff to the back of her mind so she could examine her surroundings. Stone and shadow stretched out before her, well beyond the limits of arcane illumination and elf-sharp vision. What small portion of the giant cave Marissa could see resembled an ocean of petrified waves, their undulating crests and troughs stilled by the eyes of a giant medusa, fixed forever in this subterranean world—a world which tumbled down into the depths below her feet as much as it soared to the heights above her. The slightest sound, whether the soft scuff of boot on the rocky ground of the passage or the rhythmic exhalation of Cavan's panting, reverberated wildly in the vast chamber.

  Standing at the entrance to this massive cavern, Marissa felt as if she stood upon the edge of oblivion. Normally such a precipitous location would have spun her head with dizzying fury. It wasn't so much the height that bothered her—she had spent time enough scaling high-trunked trees and outthrust cliffs—but rather the enduring sense of nothingness, as if one step would teleport her to a place where nothing existed, neither time nor physicality. The very thought unsettled her.

  Thankfully, a wide-shouldered expanse of natural stone broke up the cavern's emptiness. Dark rock, nearly as black as pitch, arced over the cave's shadow-filled depths, presumably linking their passage with the entrance to the citadel's tombs. In places, great stalac­tites reached down from the ceiling like giant teeth, almost touching the bridge's uneven expanse. Here and there, Marissa could make out thick stalagmites thrusting upward from the bridge toward the cavern's hidden roof. It seemed to her like a maze of hard black rock, difficult to navigate at any speed. That thought sent a frisson of unease up her spine. Anyone crossing the bridge would find it almost impossible to retreat if they faced an overwhelming attack.

  The others had gathered around her, each of them casting a professional eye toward the bridge. Marissa took that opportunity to voice her concern. The others agreed.

  "I was just thinking the very same thing myself," Roberc affirmed. "Perhaps one of us should go ahead and act as a scout."

  "Not necessary," Yurz interrupted. "Me know quickest way across bridge. Friends follow Yurz."

  Marissa caught the looks that the others cast among themselves. Clearly they still mistrusted her enchanted companion. She sighed. "Thank you for offering, Yurz, but I can send Rusella ahead," she said, indicating the raven perched upon a gray stone ledge.

  "You could do that," Taenaran responded, "but anything keeping sentry in this cavern would know that something was up if it saw a strange bird flying through."

  Marissa bit her lip in thought. The half-elf was right. There was only one other thing that she could do.

  "I will scout ahead again and make sure the path is clear," the druid said.

  Not waiting for any response, she gathered her power around her like a cloak. Years of practice allowed her to shape the image of a creature in her mind's eye, making minute adjustments. With a single thought, she filled the image with her essence, finally sealing it with a blast of divine power. In a single heartbeat she felt her body begin to change. The world shifted in and out of focus. Her bones lightened, becoming flexible, while skin stretched taught, taking on a scaly texture. In another moment, the transformation ended, and Marissa slith­ered forward, her serpentine body flowing easily over and around the jutting rock of the bridge's floor.

  Though not completely blind, the world seemed dull and shadowy as she viewed it through small eyes that remained fixed above her jaws like tiny black seeds. She felt, rather than saw, the details of the world around her, separating and cataloging the thousands of minute scents in the cavern with a single flick of her forked tongue. Marissa searched the area around the bridge carefully, using her form's ability to distinguish changes in heat to see if anyone—or anything—lay in wait for them. Though she could sense a slight vibration in the heart of the ebony stone, the druid did not perceive any immediate threats.

  Carefully, Marissa made her way back to her com­p
anions. The druid saw Yurz take a few steps back as she coiled herself up and with a single thought shifted forms.

  "It looks as if we're safe," she said after a brief moment of disorientation.

  "Good," Taenaran said, "then we should hurry. I doubt that our traitorous witch is in the citadel sitting on her thumbs."

  * * * *

  Yulda gazed at the invaders from the shadows.

  Hidden on a ledge high above the ebony bridge, she watched their slow progress. From the witch's vantage point, the intruders looked like nothing more than annoying insects, snow beetles creeping along an almost mindless path. Unlike the harmless beetles that infested the snow-peaked heights of Rashemen, however, the creatures below could sting—to deadly effect.

  She hadn't been surprised to discover that a feckless goblin led them. Those weak-willed humanoids were always falling prey to the smallest enchantments. It did explain, however, how the invaders made it so swiftly to the underground entrance to her citadel.

  Yulda would feel great satisfaction in watching her minions tear the goblin's disgusting head from its shoulders.

  It was almost time. The foolish intruders had almost made it to the halfway point of the bridge. When they did, the witch would send a silent signal to Durakh and her forces. Not only would she have the satisfaction of destroying those who dared to move against her, she would also capture the artifact in their possession. Even from this distance, Yulda could sense its presence; it shone like a beacon in the darkness to her arcane senses, pulsing with immeasurable power. The witch had nearly fallen from her hiding place in shock when her eyes had confirmed what her heart had hoped for. The fools had walked into her demesne carrying nothing less than the Staff of the Red Tree.

  With the Staff of the Red Tree at her side, she could tear the Urlingwood up by its roots and squash the pathetic wychlaran, who burrowed blindly like grubs beneath the forest's shadow. Corrupting the will of the Staff of the Red Tree would not be easy, but she would drain the last drops of life from her captive vremyonni to accomplish the task—and once done, she would never have to beg, cajole, or steal power from anyone else again.

  The anticipation sent a pleasant tremor coursing through her body.

  Cackling softly to herself, Yulda almost missed the moment when the intruders reached the appointed spot. Cursing her foolishness, the witch sent a telepathic com­mand to Durakh, who lay in wait just behind the stone door to the undertomb on the other side of the bridge. The cleric's ogres would lead the charge, followed by her own arachnoid servants.

  At that, shapes loomed out of the shadows around Yulda—wide-bodied, multi-legged monstrosities whose mandibles clacked together hungrily.

  "Yes, my pretties," she cooed softly to the giant spiders, "it is time."

  With a single command, she sent the monstrous arachnids scurrying down their thick, silken strands of web. The creatures' eyes caught and reflected the light from below, gleaming as they descended toward their prey.

  As the door to the undertomb burst open, Yulda summoned a bright, greenish light that surrounded her body in a sickening nimbus of power. Stepping forward, wrapped in her hag illusion, she floated idly in the air above the bridge.

  "Welcome to my home," she shouted at the stunned intruders, magically amplifying the strength of her voice. "Too bad you won't be alive to enjoy its comforts!"

  Her laughter echoed in the cavern.

  * * * *

  Time slowed down for Taen.

  Between the moment when tall humanoid figures began to pour out of the undertomb door and the shrill, dark voice reverberated in the cave, an eter­nity seemed to pass. The half-elf watched in horror as broad-shouldered, long-limbed beasts with greasy yellow skin and long, tangled hair ran toward them, cutting the air with great sweeps of their thick-boled wooden clubs. A wave of foul odor wafted ahead of the beasts, stinging Taen's nose with the stench of rotten meat, rancid sweat, and offal; he nearly retched from the malodorous assault but managed to hold himself together.

  From behind him, Borovazk shouted. "That voice—is Chaul, the Hag of Rashemar."

  Taen could not spare long to gaze up at the where the sickly light pulsed, but when he did so, the half-elf caught sight of the green-skinned creature. It floated idly above them, shrieking out imprecations and dire threats. He would have cast an offensive spell at the beast, but the ogres were almost upon him.

  Without preamble, time snapped back in step. Quickly Taen turned to the side, allowing both Roberc and Borovazk to meet the onrushing monsters. Though the beasts had the advantage in numbers, the width of the bridge worked in the defenders' favor—the ogres could not bring more than three of their warriors to bear at any given time. By now the Rashemi ranger and his halfling companion fought like an efficient construct. The moment that the wave of ogres crashed into them, they set to work. Borovazk struck high, wielding his war-hammer and axe with consummate skill. His first swing shattered an ogre's club. The beast took a step back as its hard wood weapon splintered beneath the crushing blow. That gave Roberc all the advantage he needed. The halfling sidestepped a sweeping blow from another ogre and darted forward, slicing deeply into the open flank of the now-weaponless creature. Blood spurted from the wound as Roberc's sword cut corded muscle and thick tendon, stopping only as it met bone.

  The wounded ogre roared in pain, hopping back further. One of its companions stepped forward, fill­ing the gap. Taen knew that they couldn't win a battle of attrition—despite his friends' battle skills. More humanoids emerged from behind the open door, crossbows held at the ready. Several had begun climbing the stalagmites on the bridge, obviously searching for a better vantage point from which to loose bolts.

  To his right, he could sense Marissa gathering her power. The druid walked behind the furiously engaged halfling and touched him with her staff. Immediately Taen could see his skin harden, becoming thick and rough like the bark of a tree. Confident that his friends could hold the line for a few more moments, the half-elf took stock of the goblins' emerging positions and loosed a spell of his own. A ball of fire exploded behind the ogres. Goblins shrieked in pain and fear as the conflagration decimated their ranks. Two of the ogres also roared with anger as part of the magic flame licked their backs.

  The half-elf would have cast a second spell, but Roberc stumbled backward from an ogre blow, almost knocking Taen over. The fighter cursed with obvious frustration. Luckily for the him, the halfling had caught part of the attack on his shield—which now hung uselessly on his arm, bent backward beyond hope.

  Seeing his master falter, Cavan leaped forward, fore­stalling the ogre's follow-up attack. The war-dog danced neatly out of the path of the ogre's club and bit the beast on its thigh. Seeing an opportunity, Taen drew his own sword without thinking and cut downward as the mon­ster lifted both arms to crush the animal worrying at its legs. His elven sword cut a long swath into the ogre's belly; blood, guts, and other effluvia came spilling out as the beast fell backward.

  "My thanks," Roberc said as he finished unstrapping his ruined shield and jumped once more into the fray.

  Taen had no time to acknowledge the halfling. Three crossbow bolts hissed past his head, and a fourth would have pierced his leg if he hadn't seen it hurtling out of the shadow at the last moment. He flung himself side­ways, twisting his hips so that his legs spun over the missile in mid air. It was a defensive move he hadn't used in quite some time, and the half-elf's body protested as it landed back on the ground. There was no time to falter, however, as Taen's ogre opponent reached out a meaty hand grab him. Long fingers latched on to his shoulder with the strength of steel; he could feel his bone quiver beneath the excruciating pressure of the beast's grip.

  Unable to bring his sword to bear, Taen beat his fist against the ogre's arm, trying to break the hold. It didn't work. Slowly, inexorably, the half-elf felt himself being drawn toward the ogre's chest. Once there, the beast would envelop him in a crushing hug that would grind his bones to dust.

&nbs
p; The words to a spell fluttered in his mind. Taen shouted them out loud, but the pain of the ogre's grapple distracted him, and the spell's energy dissipated harm­lessly into the air. The half-elf knew that he had only moments in which to free himself.

  Suddenly the ogre pitched sideways, releasing his iron grip. Taen fell backward, his left shoulder nearly numb. Marissa stood beside him, the tip of her staff glowing faintly. The monster roared at the sight of the staff and dived forward, trying to rip the artifact from her hands. Taen called out a warning, but he soon saw that it wasn't necessary. Marissa quickly retracted the staff. Overbalanced, the ogre tripped and stumbled for­ward. The druid stepped to the side deftly, planted the staff against the ogre, and pushed.

  The beast tumbled sideways, rolling over the lip of the bridge and plunging into the darkness below.

  Taen rolled to his feet and returned to the battle, relief at Marissa's safety flooding through his body, combating some of the fatigue that threatened to slow down each parry and swing of his sword. The soaring melody of the Song accompanied him into the fray with a strength that he had not experienced since his days as a tael. He settled into the Song, wanting to abandon himself to it completely, but he kept waiting for that dreadful moment when it would drag at the core of his being like a blood-hungry vampire, so he fought his enemies under an uneasy truce with the Song building within him.

  Behind him he could hear the druid shouting words to another spell.

  * * * *

  Marissa watched the intricate dance of Taenaran's swordplay and marveled, not for the first time, at the half-elf's fluid style, the lithe interplay of body and steel, moving and weaving with an almost unearthly grace. Where Borovazk and Roberc met the ogres' pow­erful attacks with an almost equal ferocity, the half-elf seemed to flow with his opponent's energy, blending with it instead of meeting it head-on.