Shadowtrap: A Black Foxes Adventure

by Dennis L McKiernan

  Arik looked closely at the ancient syldari, then reluctantly nodded. “All right, wizard, but should anything happen to my companions . . .” Arik left the remainder of the thought unspoken and instead turned and looked downslope. Arton was now on his feet, and Arik gestured for all to come up.

  “Huah!” exclaimed Arton clambering up the smooth slope, “this stone isn’t slick at all.”

  “All part of the ward spell,” puffed Pon Barius, the mage helped along by Kane on one side and Rith on the other. “It will reactivate as we go back down.”

  “In the jungles of my homeland,” said Rith, “there is a vine with flowers whose fragrance puts people to sleep should they remain overlong in its domain. Many a weary traveler has lost his life by stopping to rest nearby.”

  “This ward is much the same,” remarked Kane.

  “Not quite,” replied Rith. “You see, here I think you slumber your life away”—she received a confirming nod from Pon Barius—”but there in the jungle, the vine sends out feelers, sends out shoots, and hairline roots penetrate the skin and suck the life from its victim.”

  “Arda!” declared Kane. “Like a slow-creeping lamia, eh?”

  Lyssa, following after, asked, “How can you avoid that trap?”

  “Keep a sharp eye out,” answered Rith. “Watch for its red flowers, and look for the bones of its victims. Above all, should you smell a sweet fragrance and suddenly feel weary, flee from the vicinity.”

  For another four candlemarks or so, up and across the lustrous mountain they clambered, the slope sometimes gentle, sometimes rough, but always passable by the Foxes, though at times they needed to bodily haul Pon Barius up the way—mostly by the old wizard riding pickaback on Kane. And the track they followed at the behest of the mage was winding and seemed to have no purpose, for at times they went up, at other times across, and occasionally they even descended. But at last Pon Barius pointed a short distance ahead. “There it is,” he quavered.

  Before them stood a low sheer face of white granite sparkling with the glitter of quartz.

  Arton, in the lead, was first to come to it, and he ran his hands over the surface, moving to the right and then farther to the right and farther still. Pon Barius gestured to Kane and Rith and they came to a halt as the old mage watched Arton. At last, some twenty feet away from where he had started, Arton paused. “Here is a door,” he called, his hands tracing up and across the stone and back down, outlining an unseen portal. Then he turned to face them all and said, “But it has no lock.”

  Pon Barius’s eyes went wide. “Precisely right, my boy. How did you do that? I detected no spell.”

  Arton shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s just a talent I have.”

  “Hem.” Pon Barius stumped to the wall. “D’you remember what you once told me?”

  Arton frowned. “I’ve said many things to you, wizard.”

  “About doors and locks,” snapped Pon Barius.

  Arton shrugged.

  “Well, if you don’t remember, I do,” growled the old syldari. “You said that any lock could be opened if you but had the key.”

  “Oh, that.”

  “Yes, that.”

  “So . . . ?”

  “So, in spite of what you claim, lad, this door does have a lock.”

  “Not any that my picks will open or my fingers loose.”

  “Heh!” barked Pon Barius. “Precisely right. But, you see, there is a key . . . one that will indeed unlock this door. Now stand aside.”

  As Arton moved leftward, the wizard advanced and planted his right hand against the stone and bowed his head. Behind him came the sounds of blades being drawn, the unlashing of a spear, and the cocking of a crossbow.

  Pon Barius took a deep breath. . . .

  “Kínÿîtñì!” he called out, his voice singing a melodious command.

  And spreading outward from his hand a sparkling grew, quartz chips in the white granite flashing, but brighter than the setting sun would allow if it were but reflections. As the light spread outward, it slowed, until at last it stopped. And there shining on the face of the stone was the bright silhouette of a door. All of a sudden the sparkles vanished and a dark line formed down the center, growing wider with each heartbeat as the portal split in two and doors wheeled inward to the sound of stone grinding on stone. The Foxes tensed and gripped weapons, and Kane, his spear ready, stepped aflank the old mage as Arik took the opposite side. And still the doors ground open, darkness growing, until at last they fetched up against walls inside—boom, doom. An ebon gape yawned before them, and just beyond the threshold an arched passageway slanted down into blackness.

  Arik started to speak, but his words were choked off as a hideous stench poured forth from within—the foul odor of pus-filled, rotted flesh. He gasped and reeled hindward, as did Kane, as did all of the Foxes, their gorges rising, Arton retching, yielding up his breakfast meal. But Pon Barius stood fast in the putrid miasma and raised his arms and murmured a single word . . . and the odor vanished.

  Then the old mage swayed and staggered sideways, catching himself on the edge of the opening, where he slumped to the ground. Kane, gasping and blowing to clear his nostrils of the putrescence, stumbled to Pon Barius’s side, but the wizard waved him away, saying, “I’ll be all right in a moment. Those were the third and fourth wards, and nullifying them took much out of me.”

  “Third and fourth?” Kane looked at the old syldari.

  “The third ward is a secret door that opens by word alone; of course you must know the exact word and the precise intonations. The fourth ward is the air of decay.”

  As the other Foxes puffed and blew, Arton poured water into his mouth and gargled and swashed and spat, then wiped his sleeve across his lips. “Gack, but that was awful.”

  They rested for long moments more as the sun slid below the horizon and shadows mustered all ’round. At last, in the gathering twilight, Pon Barius struggled to his feet. “Come along,” he wheezed, “time does not tarry.”

  Shouldering their backpacks, but keeping their weapons in hand, the Foxes made ready. At a nod from Arik, Pon Barius stepped across the threshold, Arton beside him bearing a lit lantern, the others following, Lyssa the last to enter. She stood a moment, peering into the dimness, into the dark, narrow way, into the black strait where unnumbered tons of stone groaned overhead, into a place with walls that seemed poised to slam closed and crush the life from anyone within their confines . . . and ahead the light receded, leaving nought but blackness behind. With a curse she plunged inward, running to catch up.

  Into the mountain they wound, following an arched corridor, the way turning this way and that, rising and falling. Faintly at first and then growing louder there came the intermittent sound of stone grinding on stone. At last they came to a dead end, and only blank rock stood before them. From beyond they could now and then hear the rumble of stone on stone.

  “This is a door,” hissed Arton.

  “Of course it is, lad,” muttered Pon Barius. Then he turned to the others. “Now, stand ready and when I say move, move! Follow me swiftly, no matter what you see.”

  The hair stood up on the back of Arik’s neck. “Why do I feel as if we are about to step into an elaborate trap?”

  Pon Barius canted his head and stared a moment at the flaxen-haired warrior, then said, “Perhaps it’s because that’s precisely what it is.”

  Suddenly, grinding, the stone before them slid to one side, revealing a corridor running left and right and an opening straight ahead. “Move!” barked Pon Barius. Quickly he stepped over the threshold to stand at the far side of the juncture; Foxes rushed after.

  And all about them was a cacophony of sound: heavy thudding, loud whooshing, the cascade of water, the howl of wind, and clamors unidentifiable.

  “Wait,” cried the mage above the noise, standing still. “Do not step from this intersection.”

  A moment later, stone ground against stone as the door behind slid closed, and walls moved.
“This way,” shouted Pon Barius, and down a newly revealed corridor he hobbled to come to another intersection, where once again he waited, as did the Black Foxes following after.

  Again there came grinding on grinding, and three ways opened: one filled with whooshing fire, one with a deep abyss yawning, and the last empty. “Wait!” cried the mage above the clatterous noise.

  Again the walls shifted, corridors disappearing, new ones appearing. Now a great stone as wide as the passage whelmed repeatedly down into one corridor like the strokes of a monstrous hammer, thudding into the floor over and again; a howling, black abyss yawned in the second, an endless fall below; a whirling pool filled the third, and screams of terror rose up from its huge funnel. “Move!” cried Pon Barius, and he hobbled quickly forward into the corridor where the great stone slammed down. Lyssa shrieked and could not move, for here was her worst nightmare come true. But as Arik turned to plead with her, Kane swept her up and took her kicking and screaming into the passage after the mage. Thdd! Thdd! whelmed the stone, the floor juddering under their feet, yet the great maul had no effect whatsoever on those running behind Pon Barius.

  Moments after they made it to the subsequent intersection the stone walls slid anew. Once again Pon Barius waited, selecting none of the choices offered. And he waited again on the next move, once more selecting none. And as he waited he called out above the noise, “At each juncture all of the choices are lethal but one, and you will die hideously should you choose unwisely. But one of the choices is illusory, though it is difficult to discern. Should a correct choice be offered you and you wait too long, you will miss your chance and be trapped forever.” Again the walls slid and once more they waited. But when the walls ground again, he called out to them and hobbled over the depths of a sulfurous yawning abyss, and this time it was Arik and Lyssa who shoved shrieking Kane across.

  They carried screaming Rith through roaring flames, and Ky fainted when flesh-shredding iron claws whirled at them. Arton gibbered in terror as great crackling bolts of lightning jagged across the corridor down which they ran. And Arik was knocked unconscious and carried by Kane as they waded through slime-filled water which swirled with unseen shapes.

  At last they reached the end of the ever-changing maze. As stone slid across the hallway behind, closing it off, Pon Barius said, “The maze of terror.” None of the Foxes needed to ask him what he meant by that . . . though Pon Barius went on to say “It reaches into the minds of those within and presents them with their innermost fears.”

  When Ky asked Pon Barius which one was his dread, the old mage looked at her and cackled, “That one, my dear, I nullified even before we entered.”

  Ky shook her head. “Not fair, master. Not fair at all that we should face our terrors while you did not.”

  Pon Barius laughed, then turned and trudged ahead, the Foxes following after.

  A straight corridor disappeared into dimness before them, but in the far distance they could see a bluish glow. “It is the sixth ward, and in its way one of the most powerful of all,” said Pon Barius as they approached.

  “What can we expect?” asked Arik. “When we trip it, that is.”

  “Oh, lad, you must not trip this one. Instead leave it entirely to me, for this means death to anyone who touches it.”

  “Death?”

  “Yes. It is an aethyric sphere of death, which completely englobes the chamber wherein lies the silver chest.”

  Arik grimly smiled and stepped back, gesturing down the corridor ahead. “Lead on, wizard.”

  “Lord, Arik,” muttered Lyssa, “the whole of White Mountain is nothing but deadly traps and snares.”

  “That’s right, young lady,” agreed Pon Barius. “How else to protect the indestructible gem from demonkind and others? With deathly wards, that’s how—lethal . . . all but the first and last.” He waved a hand back in the direction they had come. “Why, if you were to attempt that on your own, heh, without a doubt you’d be dead by now.”

  As they approached the archway at the end of the hall, before them glowed what appeared to be a bluish wall of witchfire filling the portal, beyond which lay a large, lighted, empty, circular chamber, a chamber perhaps twenty strides across. Arton took one look at the witchfire and moved completely to the rear. “The rest of you stand back as well,” growled Pon Barius.

  As the Foxes moved away, the old mage turned toward the glowing surface of energy and stood silent for long moments, his head bowed. At last he raised his face and mouthed a word, but what he said, none knew, for he made no sound whatsoever. With a brilliant, silent flash the barrier vanished and Pon Barius reeled hindward as if struck a devastating blow. Kane sprang forward just barely in time to catch the ancient wizard as he collapsed.

  As Kane lowered unconscious Pon Barius to the floor, “Water!” he snapped. “In a cup.” While Ky fumbled through her pack for a cup, Arik unslung his waterskin and uncorked it. Kane rummaged through his own knapsack and extracted a packet. Ky handed him the now filled container, and Kane crumbled a dried mint leaf into the liquid then swirled it about. He lifted the head of the old syldari and held the cup to his lips, giving him small sips. Pon Barius swallowed some and swallowed again. Moments later he opened his eyes.

  “Did I do it?” he croaked.

  Kane looked at the archway. No web of energy covered the opening. “Yes. The witchfire is gone.”

  “Eh, help me up. We are almost there, almost done with this mission.”

  As Kane lifted the mage to his feet, Ky stepped forward and put the syldari’s arm over her shoulders and supported him. Pon Barius gestured ahead. “Go slow, now. I haven’t much left in me, you know.”

  Slowly, Ky helped Pon Barius toward the lighted chamber. Behind, Kane scooped up his and Ky’s packs and followed, the other Foxes in his wake.

  The chamber they entered was indeed round, hemispherical, in fact, the walls rising up and arching over, as if it were a huge stone bubble resting on a floor of stone—a half a sphere bounded by a great circle. Pale light seemed to emanate from everywhere, from nowhere, as if the very stone were aglow. The floor was smooth and white, as was the spherical dome, and all was plain—no embellishments whatsoever decorated the unrelieved surfaces.

  And the chamber was empty.

  “Wa,” muttered Arton to Rith, “has someone stolen the silver chest?”

  Rith looked up and around and down, then eyed Arton and shrugged, whispering, “If they have, then Pon Barius doesn’t seem to have noticed.”

  Arton cocked an eye at Pon Barius. Then the thief whispered, “Perhaps it lies hidden somewhere.”

  Puffing, Pon Barius had Ky help him to the center of the room, where he disengaged himself. He looked at the Foxes and wheezed, “We are here at last, and Arda, but I am weary, my power nearly spent.” As Black Foxes shucked their packs and set them down and shed their climbing gear as well, Pon Barius said, “There is but one last thing for me to do. And then I’m afraid I must rest until I recover enough to get us all past the deadly maze again.”

  “What about resetting the wards, master?” asked Ky as she unbuckled her climbing harness. “Won’t you need power for that?”

  “Oh no, child,” answered Pon Barius. “The other wards will reactivate as we leave them behind. No, it’s only the maze we need worry about—it’s deadly warding, that is.”

  He turned and faced the center. “We’ve come to the final ward, the one which hides the chest.” Arton and Rith glanced at one another and smiled. “Now, give me room to do a final casting.”

  As the Foxes picked up their gear and backed away, so, too, did Pon Barius withdraw several paces from the center.

  Kane set his pack and harness to the floor and then stepped to a point directly behind the mage, ready to catch him should he collapse again.

  Once more Pon Barius stood a moment with his head bowed, then looked up and mouthed a silent word. As Kane caught him and started to ease him down, the white granite in the center of the floor began t
o change, to alter, to ripple as if it were water. Kane pulled the ancient mage away as in the midpoint of the chamber a modest “pool” formed, some six feet across all told, its surface a shimmer of liquid stone with embedded quartz droplets sparkling. And then the ripples ceased and all fell quiet.

  The Foxes watched a moment, and Arton said, “Hmm. It seems as if—”

  Of a sudden, rising up through the liquid rock came a pillar of stone, a low, broad, flat-topped column, perhaps three foot across. On this column sat a small, crystal coffer—roughly a cube, not quite a foot on a side—and clasped within the clear crystalline vault gleamed a block of purest silver, its surface covered with carvings and runes.

  The rock pool solidified.

  Pon Barius coughed and opened his eyes and looked at Kane. “No mint tea this time, eh?”

  Kane looked down at the old mage, then grinned. “If you insist.”

  “No, no, boy,” wheezed Pon Barius. “Just help me to my feet.”

  Arton, now standing at the very rim of where the pool had been, turned and asked, “Is it trapped?”

  Pon Barius shook his head and said, “Nothing fatal here, lad.”

  Arton stepped to the side of the pillar. “Why the crystal vault? And the carvings and runes, are they special?”

  “Heh,” barked Pon Barius, “ever the thief, eh?”

  Arton grinned.

  “As to the crystal vault,” said Pon Barius, “that’s so the silver doesn’t come into contact with the, um, with the pool. That wouldn’t do, you know. And the carvings, well, they have their purposes—decoration among them—Borga’s idea of what such an important thing should look like, you know. He was the gnoman who made the chest.”

  Pon Barius turned to Rith. “Well, let’s get on with what we came here to do. Give me the dagger, my dear. It’s time we put the gem in its appointed place. Then I’ll sink it back into the stone, though it’ll use up the very last of my power. And then we’ll have to wait awhile until I can recover.”

  As Rith reached into her leather jacket to take out the silver dagger, Pon Barius shook his head and said, “Seven hells, here I have to nearly kill myself to complete what we began so very long ago. And where is the Circle just when I need them? Dead, that’s where. None are left but me.”