by Doug Niles
As they watched, the conjured creature left the wreckage of the burning building and once again passed behind the armory, heading toward the northwest. It was backtracking through its path of destruction, entering another quarter, a long block of tall buildings housing formerly prosperous mercantile shops. One sinuous limb tore through the front of a weaver’s store and cast a rainbow array of colored woolen fabrics into the air.
Ankhar and his party started after the creature, but they halted as the half-giant indicated a large, undamaged inn on a corner of the Duke’s Avenue. The watchers on the temple spire observed the bodyguards enter the stone-walled building, which was dominated by a thirty-foot tower at one corner. A moment later one of the men emerged and gestured, and the half-giant, with his wizard and shaman, followed them inside.
“Looks like he’s going to set up a temporary headquarters,” Jaymes said. He touched Moptop’s shoulder. “Do you think you can find a way over there through the sewers?”
“Sure! I can find my way anywhere; that’s why I’m called a pathfinder. We can go down through that grate that’s right over there in front of the temple. And we’ll have to find a place to come up over by that inn, but it shouldn’t be difficult. Just got to consult my maps,” he said, reaching into one of his pouches as one of the Solamnics could be heard to sigh deeply.
“Some of the grates are settled so firmly they can’t be removed,” Brianna cautioned.
Jaymes raised a hand to the hilt of his sword. “I can cut through steel, if need be,” he assured her.
“Good luck,” she said, placing a hand on his arm, squeezing him with surprising force. “And be careful.”
“You too,” he said, placing his own hand over hers then quickly breaking from her clasp, grabbing the kender by the shoulder, and pushing him into action.
The three Sword Knights, the Kingfisher, Moptop, and Jaymes quickly descended to the street level. Passing out through the front doors of the temple, they found the temple grate in an alley just to the side of the building. Two of the knights lifted off the heavy iron grid, exposing a shaft descending into the darkness. Rusty iron brackets set in the wall of the shaft held a ladder that looked to have been installed before the Cataclysm.
“This will do,” Jaymes said, the first to sit on the edge of the hole and drop his feet toward the first rung.
“Can’t I lead the way?” the kender complained plaintively, plopping down to sit beside the lord marshal. “I’m the pathfinder, remember?”
“I’ll go first,” Jaymes interjected, winking at the others. “The pathfinder must be protected. When we get below safely, you can advise me which way to go.”
With a shrug, the kender moved his legs to the side and allowed the lord marshal to precede him into the darkness. He came swiftly behind, however, followed by Sir Maxwell and the three Knights of the Sword. The kender, as usual, had a supply of small torches and passed a pair of them to two of the knights. They were ignited by the touch of one of his matches, and when held aloft produced enough illumination to tolerably light the way. Sir Maxwell, meanwhile, cast a light spell on the blade of his dagger, and held the weapon before him to add its cool, milky illumination to their mission.
Jaymes went in the lead, holding one of his small crossbows cocked and ready. Sir Maxwell, with his lit blade, advanced beside him, followed by the kender and the other knights. The passage was roughly cylindrical, with an arched ceiling and walls, though the floor was solid and flat. Muddy puddles of water reflected the torchlight, but they were able to step around these and for the most part, keep dry.
Moptop pulled out a long sheet of parchment and scrutinized it under the torchlight. “Now, we follow this until it ends up ahead, and then we take a left,” the kender said.
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” grumbled Sir Michael, holding the torch high with his left hand while his right rested on the hilt of his sword.
“I can attest that he has a way of finding paths,” Jaymes said quietly.
They advanced in silence for perhaps a hundred paces to discover that, true to Moptop’s prediction, the tunnel did end in a T-intersection. They took the left branch and continued for a similar distance, past several small tunnels shooting off in different directions. When they came to a larger juncture, with three full-size passages leading away, the kender silently pointed them to the right, and they continued on for a short distance.
Moptop gestured to Sir Michael, and the knight lowered the torch for the kender to squint at his parchment again. Looking over the pathfinder’s shoulder, the knight shook his head in dismay as he saw the tangled patchwork of charcoal marks. But he bit his tongue, as Moptop curled up his parchment and tucked it back into his pouch.
“Right this way,” he said in an exaggerated whisper. “Now is when we should start looking for a way up and out of here.”
They found a way up in only another fifteen paces, tucked in a small alcove to the side of the tunnel, where a series of rusty rungs similar to the ones they descended led toward a metal grate overhead. No sunlight illuminated this grid, so Jaymes guessed they were either under a building or a roof’s overhang or perhaps in a narrow alley. Any of the three boded well for a surreptitious exit.
The lord marshal gathered the members of the little party at the base of the ladder, speaking quietly and quickly.
“Remember, the Thorn Knight first,” he said. “The giant and the witch-doctor are dangerous, but it’s the magic-user who is likely the chief link to the elemental. After we take him down, make for Ankhar and the shaman. All set?”
“I’m ready,” Sir Maxwell said. Most of the color had drained from his young face.
“Let’s go,” Sir Michael said, nodding curtly. “We’re all ready.”
Jaymes led the way, still holding one small crossbow while using his free hand to climb the ladder. He moved as stealthily as possible as he ascended, peering through the bars of the sewer grate, trying to get some idea of where they were going to come out above. By the time he was at the top of the ladder, he could see two walls with exterior surfaces of sooty stone, which seemed to indicate that they would be within a narrow alley. There was a thin line of smoky sky visible between two roofs that nearly overlapped each other, casting the whole area in welcoming shadows.
The grate was not so welcoming, however. Jaymes shoved at it with one hand, but it wouldn’t budge. Reluctantly uncocking his crossbow and slinging it at his belt, he put both hands against the rusty bars and braced his feet on a ladder rung. He pressed with all his strength, gritting his teeth, sweat beading around his eyes, but the grate was stuck fast.
Putting his face right up to the bars, he peered to the right and left. He saw barrels stacked nearby, apparently blocking off one end of the alley. The other end opened onto a wide avenue, and as he watched, a pair of ogres lumbered past. They paid no attention to the alley, but the grate was only a couple of dozen feet away from the street.
He turned around and dropped a few rungs, nearly stepping on Moptop’s fingers before turning to whisper to the kender. “Which building do you think is the inn where Ankhar went?”
“Well, let’s see.…” The kender pulled out his scroll of parchment, allowing it to unroll downward until it dangled past his feet, swinging past the nose of the knight behind him. He looked up through the grate then back at the sheet. Finally he nodded. “That one over there—it has to be that one,” he said, indicating the structure to the right side of the narrow alley.
“Fair enough,” Jaymes said, trying to mute his skepticism. “We’re going to have to move fast,” he informed them all. “I’m going to cut through the grate with my sword, which might attract some attention. So get ready. Everybody up and out in half a breath.”
“Lead on,” Sir Michael said. “We’ll be right behind you.”
At the top of the ladder again, Jaymes cocked both crossbows and slung them at the ready. Then he twisted sideways so he could draw Giantsmiter out of its long scabbard. Balanci
ng on his feet, with one knee propped around the back of a rusty rung, he slowly extended the tip of the sword between the bars of the sewer grate.
When he twisted the hilt in his hands, flames appeared along the steel edge, soundlessly flaring, bright blue in the shadows of the sewer shaft. He touched the blade to one rusty bar, producing a noise like the hiss of water spattering in a hot pan; the weapon quickly cut through the bar and came to the next with another loud, sibilant noise. Sparks and bits of molten metal spattered downward, some of them singeing his arms.
He ignored the pain and kept up the pressure with the sword. In a moment he had cut through all the bars at one end. Swiftly he repeated the process on the other three sides. Slicing through all but one of the metal rods, he lowered his sword and with one hand, bent down the almost-severed grate to open up a clear route to the alley.
With a glance down, confirming that his companions were poised for action, he pulled himself upward and out, quickly scrambling into a crouching position on the rough cobblestones of the alley. His eyes fixed upon the open end of the narrow passage. Fortunately, all he saw was a deserted section of the Duke’s Avenue. He slipped his sword back into its scabbard and took up his twin crossbows, one in each hand.
By then Moptop and the Kingfisher had emerged, with the three Knights of the Sword coming after. Maxwell looked almost boyish in his bright tunic and leather leggings. He held his dagger at the ready while offering a hand to Sir Michael, the last of the knights to emerge.
“There’s a doorway over here … looks like a kitchen door to the inn,” Moptop said, striding over to a rickety wooden barrier. The smell of lard seemed to confirm his diagnosis.
“Keep an eye on the entrance to the alley,” Jaymes ordered one of the knights. “We’ll be going back down that hole in a moment.”
He led the others to the kitchen door and tried the latch, finding it locked. Shrugging, he dropped his shoulder and plunged forward, breaking easily through the flimsy planking. Lunging into the empty room, he saw another door past the long cooking counter and huge iron oven. He advanced through the kitchen at a run, but the door to the main room flew open before he got there.
Jaymes found himself almost on top of one of the Dark Knight bodyguards who had accompanied Ankhar down the street. The man was clearly shocked to see an intruder in the kitchen, and he reached for his sword with lightning reflexes. Jaymes raised one of his crossbows and shot, the powerful weapon punching the lethal bolt into the man’s throat just above the rim of his breastplate.
Gagging, the knight fell back, and the lord marshal charged into the inn’s great room. He spotted the half-giant at once; Ankhar was standing near the front window, where he had apparently been watching his troops pass by in the street. He spun around, mouth gaping in a tusk-baring expression of astonishment. The little hob-wench was there as well and reacted quickly, shrieking in agitation and shaking her grotesque totem at the intruders. But where was the Thorn Knight?
Jaymes caught sight of the Gray Robe on the far side of the room. The man moved with liquid grace, gliding behind a stout pillar as if he knew that he was the target of this sudden intrusion. Other Dark Knights, more of Ankhar’s bodyguards, closed in, but Jaymes dashed across the room, while Sir Michael and the other knight met the guards with their steel. The lord marshal rounded the pillar and confronted the Gray Robe.
The Thorn Knight’s eyes met his. The magic-user was working on some kind of spell, murmuring an arcane word, gesturing with the slender fingers of his right hand while he waved a slender stick of wood in his left.
The lord marshal started to raise his crossbow, but the mage, without hesitation, charged right toward him—and away from him at the same time. Jaymes swung a fist at the Gray Robe, and his hand passed right through the image, causing it to disappear. Suddenly there were four identical wizards, all running from behind the pillar, each going in a different direction. The lord marshal swung the weapon, with its single remaining shot, from one of the images to the next, unsure which was the real Thorn Knight.
Moptop sprinted past and flew at one of the gray-robed figures, stretching his arms wide in an attempted tackle. The kender flew right through the magical image and landed hard on his nose. At the same time, the conjured reflection of the wizard vanished from sight. But that still left three possible targets, one racing toward the front door, and two diverging into opposite ends of the great room.
Meanwhile, Ankhar had recovered his wits and entered the fray. He pulled a sword from his belt that, while it was styled like a short sword for the half-giant, boasted a blade every bit as long as Giantsmiter’s.
Making a guess, Jaymes started after the Gray Robe who was heading for the door. He raised his crossbow, ready to shoot the man in the back. He barely noticed the Kingfisher, frantically chanting something and waving his hands around the room.
“There!” cried Sir Maxwell as the image in front of Jaymes disappeared.
The lord marshal spun around. The image of the Thorn Knight heading toward the back of the inn was also gone; only the one to the side of the room remained, his robe sweeping behind him as he leaped for the stairs leading to the second floor. Lunging after him, Jaymes slammed into genuine flesh, knocking the Gray Robe down.
The wizard fell into the railing, slumping backward. His lips curled into a snarl and his hands—one holding the wand, the other empty—gestured before his face.
But he wouldn’t have time to finish the casting.
Jaymes had raised the crossbow and now shot his bolt right into the man’s chest. The force of the strike hurled him backward, but the lord marshal was already on him as he fell. He saw the wand falling from the mage’s limp fingers and dived to snatch it up. He felt it snap between his strong hand and the floor before it rolled under a nearby crate.
“He destroyed the wand!” shrieked the shaman, her tone horrified.
“No!” Ankhar bellowed.
Jaymes could see that the Thorn Knight was badly, perhaps fatally, wounded. The half giant’s bellow, every bit as panicked as his mother’s cry, echoed in the room. More of Ankhar’s troops charged toward the front door, a press of reinforcements.
Clearly, the outnumbered attackers needed to withdraw. “We’ve accomplished what we wanted!” he cried, now pulling Giantsmiter from its sheath at his back. He rushed toward Sir Michael, who stood alone against a pair of Ankhar’s bodyguards. Moptop, his nose bleeding, ran along beside him, leaping over the body of the slain Sword Knight who had stood at Michael’s side when they entered the room.
“Where’s Maxwell?” demanded Jaymes, holding his great sword with one hand and spinning on his heel.
But Ankhar had closed in on the young Kingfisher. With one great hand, he gripped the young wizard around the throat and lifted him from the floor. Maxwell’s feet kicked and his arms thrashed, but he could do nothing against the hulking brute. With a deep, wet snarl, the half-giant tightened his fingers around the man’s neck.
Sir Michael cut down the last of the Dark Knights with a thrust to the gut, and joined Jaymes as both turned to rush toward the enemy commander. The hobgoblin shaman shrieked something, and both warriors halted abruptly as if they had crashed against an invisible fence. The lord marshal swung his flaming sword at the barrier and felt it wavering as Maxwell’s face turned blue, his flailing limbs suddenly drooping limply.
Moptop sprang across the room, jumping right at the shaman’s head. He wrapped his arms around her face, and the two of them stumbled crazily toward a large stone fireplace—the hearth, fortunately, cold. Their shouts and screams mingled chaotically as they tumbled onto the granite shelf, the kender on top of the old witch-doctor. With a shout of triumph, the kender broke free of the shaman’s violent embrace.
At the same time, the door to the street burst open and a troop of ogres charged in. “Kill them!” shrieked the witch-doctor, pointing with her skull’s-head rattle, and the brutes charged en masse toward the two swordsmen and the kender.
Maxwell made one last desperate gesture—a wave of his hand toward Jaymes. His mouth worked, and though no sound emerged, he clearly signaled: “Go!”
More ogres spilled through the door. The hob-wench shrieked her “Kill!” command over and over.
“You’ve got to flee,” Michael said to Jaymes, as they edged back from the approaching ogres.
“You too,” commanded the lord marshal, taking the other man by the shoulder and pulling him back. “There’s nothing more we can do.”
Grimacing in fury and grief, the Sword Knight acknowledged this truth. Moptop was already out the door, and they turned and followed him into the kitchen, stopping only to pull a heavy ice chest down to block their escape.
In the alley they saw that the last Sword Knight had taken up position near the street, where he stood matching swords with a burly ogre, giving ground slowly. Arrows zinged around them as some of Ankhar’s archers, responding to the alarms, shot wildly into the alley. The knight groaned and fell, bleeding from a gash through his chest, but before the ogre could advance, Sir Michael charged to replace the fallen man.
“Get away from here!” the swordsman shouted over his shoulder before cutting down the ogre with a single stab. More of the brutish warriors filled the mouth of the alley.
“Go!” Michael cried before meeting the next ogre with a resounding parry. “Est Sularus oth Mithas!” he shouted, the ecstasy of honorable battle radiant in his voice.
Jaymes shoved Moptop toward the gaping sewer hole. With a yelp, the kender ducked out of sight, and the lord marshal tumbled after. They ran into the darkness, chased by the sounds of ringing steel from the lone knight’s valiant holding action.
After no more than ten breaths, the sounds of battle suddenly ceased, but soon they were around the first corner, sprinting away through the sewers of Solanthus.
