***
Zercha gazed up at the dark, skeletal finger that pointed accusingly at the heavens. "Let me in!" he bellowed, beating his fist against the tower's hard shell-like surface. Zercha was burning with emotion, and the tower felt blistering hot beneath his touch. He pushed against it with all his might, willing it to open.
The tower seemed unfathomable, a wonder left over from a forgotten world. The ways of magic had been lost and were kept alive only in tales by firelight and in the hearts of dreamers like Zercha. His passion was a thirst that could never be quenched, because the mystical waters had dried up long ago.
Yet Zercha pressed on when reason told him to surrender, demanding the tower receive him. His hands seemed bound to the dark shell by fire, and his will seemed to burn equally hot within him, as if being tempered in a forge.
The hard surface suddenly gave way, and Zercha stepped forward through what felt like a wall of thick jelly. He found himself standing in a winding hallway lit by a faint greenish glow that seemed to have no point of origin. But when he pushed against the wall where he had entered, it was solid.
"Zercha, what have you done!" he whispered to himself.
The hallway wound upward, and Zercha followed. His legs seemed ready to buckle beneath him, more from terror than pain. The hallway contained a gloom he had never imagined, like a withered soul that had been hiding beneath a simple and mysterious shell. All the wonders and longings that had been growing in his heart since childhood were torn away. Magic was not a warm blessing that would bring him happiness--rather, it was bitter, bringing to mind a coiled snake waiting for centuries amidst dust and stone to latch onto living flesh.
Zercha leaned against the wall and groaned. "Father, why didn't I listen to you? Now I have trapped myself forever!"
Noises arose from all around him--scraping sounds and faint voices he couldn't understand. Zercha slammed his staff against the wall, hoping his father would hear him and try to find a way into the tower. But deep inside he knew his father was too simple to understand what had happened. Brimbal would assume his son had been devoured by wild animals or that he had wandered off with the intent to never return.
The staff broke in two, and Zercha hurled the pieces to the floor. "This is what I wanted?" he whispered in disbelief.
Having no choice, Zercha continued his climb. He passed round doors bearing strange markings, and walls covered in lumps and pits that looked like eyes, mouths, and horns. The tower seemed to be a single, living entity, though Zercha couldn't fathom what type of monstrous creature it might have been.
At last he reached the tower's peak and entered a circular chamber filled with fragments of multi-colored, shattered crystal. Immediately, an unseen presence seized his throat and began to strangle him.
The coiled serpent that was the essence of magic had struck, burying its fangs deep into Zercha. The ancient energy flooded his body like burning pain, opening channels and planting seeds. Once the magic had thoroughly infested him, the choking sensation departed, and Zercha was left physically unharmed--yet his body was bitterly poisoned by sorcery.
Zercha studied the room for clues, and found images of spell-hands engraved on the walls. They all looked like his father--tall, lanky, bald, and dressed in robes--and they pointed fingers at him accusingly, their faces contorted with the fury of judgment.
Zercha slumped to his knees, the will drained from him. The revelation didn't shock him. In fact, it made perfect sense. Magic didn't make men wise and thoughtful--it made them hard-willed and sour.
Footsteps echoed outside the room, but Zercha didn't turn to look. He knew it was his father approaching.
"It's a shame things have come to this," said Brimbal, striding into the chamber and placing his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Yet because you're my son, you were all too susceptible to this fate."
"Tell me, Father," said Zercha, "will I grow taller and thinner now? Will my hair fall out? Will my eyes become beady like those of a hawk? Will the ghost lights now fawn over me, and will I be able to collect the crackle-eggs from the poisonous marsh? Will I become a cynical, wretched excuse for a man? I'm a blind fool, Father. The men in the tavern know what you are, and they mocked me for my inability to see it. Yet you helped to cloud my vision, and then you let this happen. You could have prevented me from coming here."
"Yes, I let it happen," said Brimbal, sighing. "Had you followed me to the Wood Lord's lair, he would have taught you simple living and common sense--a truly magical way of life. He would have taught you how to heal your legs through the gifts that nature has given us. But when you ran off, I felt my lone opportunity to take you there had been wasted. And so I let you go to your fate...young spell-hand."
"You should have stopped me," said Zercha. "Instead, you let me succumb to a most bitter curse. You are an utter failure of a father!"
"Maybe so," said Brimbal, "but I was unable to cure your mother. I couldn't let you lose your legs. It's a hard world for the crippled, my son."
Zercha stood up. Already, his legs felt stronger, but his heart felt colder. "So what now, Father? I feel a terrible darkness within me that seems to want to devour my soul. How shall I live?"
Brimbal's face hardened, and he stood up tall. "You shall learn to control it." He pointed at the broken shards of crystal. "Or you shall destroy yourself in your madness like most of the spell-hands of old."
Zercha glanced down. At his feet was an unbroken lump of white crystal. He lifted it. "The merging of my will and sorcery, bound in physical form. There is so much of me within this stone. Too much. It shines with such promise, Father. Yet perhaps I should smash it now and be done with it. Would you even care?"
Brimbal gritted his teeth. He pulled a green crystal from his pocket and held it up. "But that's not what you want, my son. You would rather I smashed my own and fell into ruin. Yet I have lived for hundreds of years. I will outlive you, boy! Mark my words. Your broken shards will lie in this tower while I still walk the land."
With that, Brimbal turned and strode from the chamber.
Zercha gazed at the white crystal, which seemed to pulse in his hand like a beating heart. He smiled. "We shall see about that, Father. I may surprise you." The old dreams still stirred within him, and he clung desperately to them. He had become a spell-hand, but he was not like his father--or any of the spell-hands of old. The magic within him was already molding into a new and gentle form. Zercha was strong in a way his father had never realized. His dreams were the essence of his strength.
End.
Brock Strangebeard and the Skulls of Callaharn
Sullen eyes met in the wagon's small prison cell. The cracked wooden roof could not shut out the downpour, and water dripped on the grizzled prisoners. Brock gazed at the cell bars in contemplation. He had already tried bending them twice. Perhaps, with a little help from the others, it could be done, but unlike Brock, the men feared execution if caught trying to escape.
"Blasted rain!" a big man named Keleaf muttered, as it rolled down his face. He sat apart from the others, and no one but Brock dared meet his gaze.
Brock frowned. "Why curse the rain, Keleaf? It's sure to turn the road to mud and slow us. Are you that anxious to stand trial?"
"I'll be found innocent," Keleaf growled, slamming his fist against the iron floor, "unlike the rest of you dogs. I didn't force myself on that wench. It's a lie." He sneered. "But you, little man--I'm guessing you're here for a good reason."
"I'm guilty all right," said Brock, shrugging, "and proud of it." He had broken the jaw of one of Lord Lassanair's soldiers in a bar brawl. Just another fight to Brock--but it was probably enough to earn him a good many years in a stinking dungeon.
Keleaf grimaced. "You make trouble for the rest of us, dwarf. I ought to choke you dead and be done with you." He leaned toward Brock, his huge shoulders hunched with purpose and his bearded face bearing a maniacal grimace. He outweighed the dwarf by more than a hundred pounds. "And don't think these oth
er cowards will back you up." He glowered at the other men in challenge. They looked away.
Brock gazed up at him with disgust. "I know your kind, Keleaf. I can see it in your eyes. You don't deserve your freedom."
"You have stayed with the carnival, little man," Keleaf said. "I know all about you. You were a freak that performed for the crowds, and undersized imp on display for the amusement of others."
Brock smiled. His hand curled into a meaty fist. "I might be a freak, but I'm no wretch who terrorizes helpless women."
Keleaf reached out with a huge, calloused hand and seized Brock's crimson beard. "You've got a dagger-sharp tongue, little man, and it's sure to be your undoing. I heard you were abandoned on a pile of fish guts as a baby, that you grew up brawling on fishing boats. You don't seem like much of a fighter, but more like a sissy!" He tugged the beard. "Beautiful little braids, like a woman's hair. Indeed, I had my way with that wench, just like a strong man should. But what would you know of that? Maybe you prefer a strong man yoursel--"
Brock struck so fast Keleaf never glimpsed it. His calloused first burrowed straight into Keleaf's big, hook nose and smashed it into ruin. Brock hit him once more before Keleaf had time to slump to the floor in a pool of blood. Keleaf groaned and clutched his broken nose, then broke into bubbling snores.
Brock rubbed his fist. "Figures I'd have to lay out the strongest of the bunch, when I need help bending those bars."
"It doesn't matter," said another man, named Wofar. "If we try to escape, we'll get cut down right here in the road, with no chance to surrender. I've seen it happen before. Lassanair's soldiers are vicious." He raised his hands. "Why are we not in irons? It is because they want us to try to escape so they can have an excuse to kill us. It provides them with sport. I'd rather take my chances on trial."
"And end up slaving your life away in some wretched pit?" said Brock. "I'd rather take my chances trying to escape."
The rain thundered harder against the wagon roof. The wagon slowed, and they could hear men shouting and Brothus beasts bellowing. Soon the wagon halted.
Wofar muttered a curse. "All this does is delay what must come to pass. Now we have to sit longer in torment and wait for our fates to be decided."
"Not if we break out of here," said Brock. That statement was sounding old to his ears, and he was tired of uttering it. His brawler's temper was starting to flare, demanding he take action.
But no one agreed to help him bend the bars, and so they simply sat and waited. Finally Brock seized Wofar's tunic. "You're either going to help me--"
Gurgling screams of terror and agony mixed with shouting erupted outside. Something thudded against the wagon.
Brock hunched forward, his eyes wild. "What in the seven hells is going on out there? It sounds like we're under attack!"
He shoved a prisoner out of the way and seized the bars, yanking on them furiously. "Help me, or die in a cage!" he grunted.
Wofar leapt to his aid, and then another prisoner joined in. Together, they managed to pull the bars apart enough for the dwarf to squeeze through. But the wooden casing that engulfed the cage was sturdier than Brock had hoped. He shoved his foot repeatedly against the locked oak doors beyond the cell. Finally, the doors cracked apart and daylight flooded in through the back of the wagon.
Even as the sounds of slaughter died down, Brock worked his way through the opening in the bars--and got stuck. "Push on me!" he bellowed. The men shoved him through with such force that he toppled off the wagon into the mud.
Brock rose and wiped muck from his beard. The wagon train stood silent in the downpour, the Brothus beasts gone from their harnesses. Lord Lassanair's soldiers lay dead in the mud. Their heads were missing.
"What do you see?" Wofar called out.
Brock didn't answer. He blinked his eyes in disbelief, even as he swiped up a soldier's sword and backed away from the wagon. His heart thudding wildly, he made his way between the wagons, searching for the head hunter. But he encountered nothing but the dead, and at last he lowered his guard.
Brock found the key and unlocked the cell. The prisoners poured out, except for Keleaf, who was still out cold. Brock considered locking the cell and leaving the big man to rot, but instead he tossed the key in the mud.
The men glanced around with pale faces.
"Grab what weapons you can find," said Brock. He located the wagon where his throwing axes and belt were stored, and gave the sword to Wofar. He flipped an axe into the air in an unconscious gesture and caught it, pondering what he had witnessed. How had the soldiers been slain and their heads removed so quickly? The cuts were messy and jagged, as if the heads had simply been hacked off carelessly, but it had all happened with astonishing swiftness that spoke of something unnatural.
Soon Brock and three men were armed and stocked with provisions. "We'll make for Lord Holnon's lands," said Brock. "I hear he is no friend of Lassanair. We're not likely to be pursued there."
A groan made them whirl around. Keleaf had struggled down from the wagon, clutching his nose. He ripped some cloth from a dead soldier's tunic and pressed it to his face. He glowered at Brock, and kicked the dead soldier in the ribs. "Good for these dogs," he said. "I hope they died in agony. And I hope you suffer the same fate, little man. If I have my way, you will."
Brock nodded. "That's why I'll not travel with you, Keleaf. Make your own way to freedom. There's danger enough around here, obviously, without having to keep my eye on a dirty backstabber all the time."
"You ambushed me!" growled Keleaf. "So who's the backstabber, dwarf? The gods put a curse on you, for your mother to bear such a short and stocky man. No good can come from having a freak like you as company anyway." His eyes wild, Keleaf seized a fallen sword and lurched off between the wagons. "I'll cut off your face!" he howled back, and then he was lost amidst the wagons and driving rain.
"We should have killed him," said Wofar. His dark eyes narrowed in his rat-like face. "His yelling will bring back whatever slew the soldiers."
One of the men--a chubby fellow named Nunro--fell to his knees in the muck, his sword dropping from a shaking hand. He took to blubbering. "I...I've never seen so much death, so much--"
Brock slapped his face. "Straighten your spine, Nunro."
The remaining man, an older fellow with a silver beard named Vancas, sighed and hauled Nunro to his feet. His eyes were cold and dangerous, and Brock sensed he was an experienced killer. "What kind of rogue are you Nunro, anyway?"
"I stole to survive," Nunro sobbed. "Food, mostly. But this..." He looked around, his mouth hanging open. "Their...their damn heads are..."
Vancas released him, and Nunro sagged to his knees again. Vancas glanced at Brock in disgust and shook his head. "He's useless to us. I'll be damned if I'm going to carry a fat whining baby through the muck."
"Get up and walk like a man, Nunro," said Brock, "or lay in the mud and blubber until the head hunter returns. But it's time for the rest of us to go!"
They started off, and Nunro followed. The rain swept the road in sheets, hammering into them. The few twisted pines along the road did little to shield them. Soon they encountered some Seketi ruins--black pillars where victims were chained and left to die. The pillars were from the Age of Cities, when three empires ruled the world with devices from the gods, and they still pulsed with energy. The bones of the dead were absorbed into the pillars, sustaining them somehow.
Wofar pointed with a shaking finger. "The Mark of Callaharn. His priests must have a Gosarni close by somewhere. No doubt they are the ones who beheaded the soldiers for some foul purpose."
Brock examined one of the pillars. Each bore a symbol of a half circle with spikes that protruded upward. "What is a Gosarni?"
Wofar leaned in close, speaking loudly over the storm. "A temple of many arms that captures the will of the stars." He ran a trembling hand over a pillar. "The priests feed the dead to these monuments and receive energy in return. But look--the pillars bear no corpses! The prie
sts must have been in a hurry to leave all those dead bodies back there." His voice dropped so that Brock could barely hear him. "In a hurry to get those severed heads back to their temple. It is said even the dead are not safe in a Gosarni, that corpses can be made to suffer." He pointed at his head. "This is where thoughts come from, and pain... A head might still live even when detached from a body in a Gosarni temple. The priests of Callaharn are vile beyond reason." He bit his lip, and his dark eyes shone with wonder and something that might have been excitement.
"Maybe so," said Brock, frowning, "but it has nothing to do with us. All I see is a golden opportunity to escape the dungeons." Whatever machinery powered the pillars was beyond Brock's comprehension, so they started off again.
"I saw something!" Nunro cried, pointing off into some pines and boulders. "A dark figure. Someone stalks us. Someone--"
Brock clamped a hand over Nunro's mouth. "Don't let them know we've spotted them!" he growled. "Keep your voice down and don't point."
"Too late!" hissed Wofar, raising his sword.
Three figures cloaked in black burst from the trees. They held huge, two-handed curved blades. They ran with the speed and agility of deer.
Wiping rain from his eyes, Brock took aim at the middle one and hurled his axe. He cursed viciously as the figure deflected the axe with his hook blade. Brock drew two more axes from his belt and hurled them both at once. The figure deflected one, but the other slammed into its face. The black-cloaked figure dropped like a stone into the grass beside the road.
The remaining two closed in. Brock had one axe left, and he swung it at a figure's legs. The figure easily jumped the blow and lashed out with the hook blade, just missing Brock's throat. The two foes circled each other, a snarling brawler squaring off against a featureless phantom.
Wofar and Vancas engaged the remaining figure, while Nunro backed away in terror. Wofar blocked a vicious stroke, but the figure kicked his legs out from under him. He landed on his back, the sword flying from his hand.
Meanwhile, Brock ducked another hook slash and caught the figure with a glancing blow to the thigh. The figure staggered, and Brock slammed his axe into its chest to the crunch of bone, driving the figure to its knees. The two foes were now at eye level, and Brock glared into the darkness beneath the hood to glimpse the smooth face of a man. Brock's own face broke into a broad grin of battle lust. He drove his left fist against the fellow's skull even as he wrenched his bloody axe free from his chest. The man shuddered and lay still.
Brock turned to find that Vancas had finished off the other foe. The elderly man knelt calmly by his victim, the rain washing blood from his sword. His cold eyes met Brock's. "Nothing common about these fighters."
Brock raised his bushy eyebrows. "Not in the least." He helped Wofar up, and glared at the still-cowering Nunro.
Wofar spat on the corpse. "I'd hate to think these three slew all those soldiers back there, considering how easily we vanquished them."
Vancas smiled. "Easy, you say? Nothing easy about it. And as I recall, you spent the battle lying on your back in the mud."
Brock recovered his axes and then searched the dead men. Their robes were empty, and large, empty leather sacks hung from their belts. They were young men with smooth, pale faces. His battle lust having subsided, Brock felt a pang of regret. He never liked to see young men cut down in the prime of life, whatever the circumstances. "A damn shame," he muttered. "These lads should be out in the fields working, or learning a trade in town--not lying dead in the road."
Vancas nodded. "It is indeed a sorry sight."
Wofar grimaced. "They're the dogs of Callaharn and do not deserve pity. Their hearts are frozen, their minds born knowing only evil."
Brock stepped toward him. "How do you know so much about the priests of Callaharn? I used to travel all over this land with the carnival, throwing my axes for the amusement of the crowds, and yet I barely heard of them. I'm guessing you've had dealings with them."
"You guess correctly," said Wofar. He spat in the mud, his thin, rat-like face twisted in a scowl. "I used to deliver...goods to them, right up until they lowered their payment in a surprise move. I murdered one of the bastards, not knowing they were in good with Lord Lassanair. I was tracked down and arrested."
"And these goods," said Brock, "were no doubt fresh corpses."
Wofar laughed. "Not all of them were fresh. I robbed graves at random, dwarf. Yes, it was wrong. I feel terrible for having done it. But I assure you I have no love for the priests of Callaharn, and not simply because they cheated me. They are the most wicked and disgusting creatures on this earth. The filth in their temples clots in the sewers below ground, choking off all that is wholesome. It's down in those stone bowels that the dead find no peace, their screams echoing upon bloodstained rock."
Brock nodded. "Maybe so, but that didn't stop you from profiting from such evil."
Wofar shrugged. "A man has to earn a living. I didn't like it, but I needed the gold. What can I say?"
Vancas prodded Wofar's chest with his blade. "At least we now know what kind of man you are, Wofar."
Wofar shoved the sword aside. "Before you judge me, old man, tell me your story. You handle a sword better than anyone I've ever seen."
Vancas' lips tightened. "You're better off not knowing, for the moment you learn of my past is the same moment you find my sword in your heart."
Wofar swallowed. "Very well. It's none of my business anyway. We need to get moving. I'm certain we'll be attacked again, and perhaps in greater numbers."
Brock gazed hard at Vancas, his fiery green eyes meeting the cold eyes of a confident killer. Before he could speak, Nunro grabbed Brock's shoulder from behind and yanked on it. "Please, let's just get away from here!"
Brock shoved him away. "Keep your mouth shut. You've got two legs, don't you? If you want to get away from here so badly, start walking."
Nunro sniffled and turned away.
Brock kicked him in the calf and made him hop. "And none of that damn baby stuff. A big man like you shouldn't be crying all the time. Next sob that comes out of your mouth, I'll put my boot in your arse."
Vancas patted Nunro on the shoulder. "Don't go laying hands on the dwarf, and you'll be fine." He laughed. "You're just lucky he didn't fix your nose up like Keleaf's back there in the wagon."
Brock muttered curses under his breath, wondering how he was going to keep Nunro alive. The other men could take care of themselves well enough, but Nunro was a formidable burden. He was easily the most thin-skinned thief Brock had ever met--sharp eyed, certainly, but as weak as they came in battle.
The rain continued to hammer them. They struggled to the top of a muddy hill, which gave them a good view of the surrounding land. Beneath the blackened sky, forest stretched away from them below on either side of the road, and rising from the midst of the trees was a series of huge, crooked stone arms that looked like the legs of some enormous spider spread out above the treetops.
"The Gosarni," said Wofar. "The temple of many arms."
Nunro pointed a trembling finger down at the road. "I see figures, cloaked and hooded. Perhaps more than a dozen."
Brock squinted, but could only see a tiny blur moving in the road in the distance. "I trust your eyesight over mine, Nunro," he said. "It must be more of those priests, out hunting for heads again."
"But they never hunt in such numbers," said Wofar. "They must be planning something unusual. With all those priests stalking the land, the Gosarni may be all but abandoned. I think we should try to loot it."
"Four men," said Vancas, "daring to loot a temple guarded by an army of priests who fight better than most trained soldiers? It would be a risky move indeed. And by what you say, Wofar, we could find a fate worse than death."
"The temple holds precious metals and jewels," said Wofar, "and some of the rarest treasures one can find. The priests loot tombs throughout the land--even the most dangerous tombs where no sane man would venture. They hoard t
he treasure away in the Gosarni to honor the spirit of Callaharn."
"I think we should loot it," said Brock. Wofar's words had stoked the fires of his lust for treasure. "I am also curious to learn of their plans. Maybe we can do something to thwart them."
"It would be no small risk," said Vancas, his cold eyes gazing down on the temple. "But I'm with you on this. I would like to put a stop to their vile schemes as well." He poked Nunro's ribs. "But what about this useless sack of dirt?"
"He can hide himself in the forest," said Brock, "and await our return."
Nunro shook his head. "I fear to be left alone. And..." He swallowed hard. "And I want my share of the loot."
Vancas chuckled. "Are you growing a spine, Nunro?"
Nunro shrugged and didn't answer.
Brock seized Nunro's tunic. "You have to earn your loot. If you choose to go with us, you'll be expected to hold your own in all ways--including battle."
Nunro nodded. "I can be of value to you." He pulled a leather sack from his pocket and held it up. "These are lock-picking tools that were taken when I was arrested. I got them back when we stocked up on provisions from the wagons."
"You might yet prove your worth, Nunro," said Brock, releasing him.
"Let us leave the road!" said Wofar, motioning them urgently toward the forest. His rat-like face twitched as he glanced about, his beady eyes darting everywhere. "We are too exposed here."
They worked their way down the hill through the thick forest in the temple's direction. They slipped on mud and loose sticks as they descended the steep slope. As they neared the bottom, a large figure leapt out from behind a tree onto Brock and both Brock and the figure toppled several yards down the hill. The figure latched onto Brock's neck with a meaty hand and sought to strangle him.
Brock broke the hold and shoved the figure away. He jumped up, drawing an axe. He found himself facing Keleaf.
Keleaf pointed his sword at Brock's chest. "Are you ready to die yet, little man? I owe you for crushing my nose."
"I should have crushed your skull," said Brock.
The other three men reached them and stood watching.
"You'll see me again soon," said Keleaf. He grinned and backed away, pressing a rag to his nose.
"Another cowardly ambush?" said Brock. "I think not!" He hurled his axe at Keleaf's chest, but the big man had already ducked behind a tree. The axe stuck in the tree trunk, and Keleaf charged off through the underbrush.
"Bastard!" Brock growled, wrenching his axe from the wood. "I should give chase and put an end to him." However, he doubted he could match the speed harbored in Keleaf's long legs.
"We have no time or energy for that," said Wofar. "We need to secure our loot while the priests are out hunting."
"You'll get another chance at him, Brock," mused Vancas.
Soon the temple's huge bulk rose up before them amongst the trees, a dome made of dark, mossy stone blocks with the arms spouting from the top and reaching out above the forest. Rain poured off the dome in rivers.
Seketi pillars rose up here and there from the forest floor, most with headless corpses chained to them. Merged with the stench of decayed flesh was the stench of the sewers that ran beneath the temple and the earth around it.
The men gathered around a stone tunnel that led down to the sewers. The tunnel mouth was covered in a locked, badly rusted iron grating. Below that, a stone ladder was cut into the tunnel wall. The forest was quiet around them aside from the pounding rain, and no priests were visible near the temple walls.
"The priests have several entrances into the Gosarni," said Wofar. "The sewers are an easy way to move corpses and treasure to various locations. The temple itself is like a small city and is sure to be heavily guarded. I fear the best treasure is well beyond our reach, but we may find some worthy loot nonetheless. I suggest we sneak into the sewers, get what we can very quickly, and then get out."
"If we must," said Brock, frowning. "Yet I would prefer to try to get into the very heart of the temple itself."
Wofar's eyes widened. He glanced about wildly, as if Brock had spoken a curse that had summoned their doom. "It is not possible! We would never return from there. No, we must go where the corpses go. I assure you there will be as much fine loot as we can carry."
Vancas tapped the locked grating with his sword. His eyes were sullen and doubtful, as if he were having second thoughts about looting the temple. "Unless we can get past this barrier, we may have to settle for no loot at all."
Nunro glanced around nervously and then sought to pick the lock. He worked at it as the rain beat down on them and the others grew impatient. At last, he shook his head and slammed his tools to the ground. "It's too difficult."
Brock seized Nunro's shoulder and shoved him away from the grating. "What kind of rogue are you that you cannot pick a simple lock? If we smash this lock apart, the noise is sure to echo through the sewers and draw attention."
Nunro shrugged helplessly. "I can't do it."
Brock sighed, squatted down, and seized Nunro's tools. He worked at the lock for a time, shaking his head and muttering. At last, he stepped back. "The way is open," he said, tossing Nunro's tools back to him. "Though I fear I may have unlocked a path to one of the seven hells."
Nunro's eyes widened. "How did you manage it?"
Brock ignored him, and the men pulled the granting open. They worked at it slowly, but the rusted hinges on both sides of the grating squeaked loudly every inch of the way. Finally they just yanked it open quickly.
Vancas took jerky from his pack and tore into it with his teeth. Then he gulped water from a flask. "Better eat now," he said. "Unless you can stomach the stench below. And this might be our last meal."
The others ate and drank their fill, and then climbed below. Their packs were soaked, but Wofar had secured a lantern and some oil from the wagons. They managed to get it lit. A stone tunnel stretched away into the darkness, in the temple's direction. A walkway allowed them to stay out of the murky water that passed under stone beyond the entrance to some unseen end.
Not far along the tunnel, they encountered heaps of bloated animal carcasses, crawling with rats. The stench overwhelmed them.
"Remains of animal sacrifices," said Wofar, his eyes shining in the lantern light. "Unlike humans, the animals have it lucky. They are slain and forgotten, their suffering ended with their lives."
Rats scurried past them, squeaking loudly in the tunnel. One nibbled at Brock's boot and he kicked it away into the sludge.
They encountered storage rooms containing only empty crates and barrels, but then they found one that held three large brass chests. Wofar's eyes lit up greedily and he moved toward the entrance, but Nunro grabbed his arm and held him back.
"Let go of me, you fat oaf!" growled Wofar. "I see treasure in there."
Nunro pointed into the room. "There are tiny holes in the walls. Can't you see them? Something isn't right."
The others squinted in the lantern light, but couldn't see what Nunro had spotted. "A trap, no doubt," said Brock, "which explains why the chests stand unguarded. They are most likely empty."
"But what if they aren't?" said Wofar, his voice growing louder. "What if we're passing up a wondrous opportunity?"
Vancas seized Wofar from behind and laid his sword to Wofar's neck. "You talk in a whisper, friend, or I'll slice you quick and leave you to rot in the stink. I won't have my head claimed for some vile purpose because of an idiot who spouts drool at the sight of something shiny. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, I understand," Wofar said, his eyes showing their whites.
Vancas shoved him away. Wofar grimaced and rubbed his throat, gazing anywhere but at Vancas. When he pulled his hand away, it was smeared with blood from a shallow cut.
More rats surged fearlessly around their feet and tried to climb their legs. They hacked a few of them into ruin and kicked the rest into the river of filth. The tunnel split in two and they choose one randomly.
&nbs
p; Soon they came across a storage room with a locked iron door. Nunro was able to pick the lock this time, and in the small chamber beyond they found some trunks containing fancy clothing and expensive jewelry.
Wofar sniffed the clothing. "These haven't yet picked up the stench of the sewers. This is the type of loot you won't usually find in a Gosarni, but since the priests are out in large numbers seeking victims, there could be many such treasures down here in storage rooms. We must keep searching!"
"You took too much loot, Wofar," said Nunro, who had only secured himself a small article of clothing. Wofar's pack and pockets were bulging.
Wofar sneered at him and tapped the floor with his sword. "So the little coward dares speak his mind. Well, you have no value to us, so don't complain."
"Nunro deserves his share," said Brock.
Nunro's face turned crimson. "Yes, I am a coward. I don't deny that. My very blood quivers in terror right now. But I have nothing, Wofar. Once we escape, if we escape, I'll need something to barter with so I can put food in my belly."
"Your belly is fat enough as it is," said Wofar.
Nunro's hand trembled on the hilt of his sword.
Brock stepped close to Wofar, and flipped an axe into the air. "If you don't give some of that to Nunro, you'll have me to deal with."
With a curse, Wofar tossed some of the loot to Nunro.
They moved on. The tunnel ended at a large stone door, which bore no lock or handle. Brock studied the walls and floor carefully in the lantern light, searching for a trigger that would open the door. At last, grunting with disgust, Brock stepped into the murky waters and probed them with his feet. He felt a short lever beneath the surface. "Of course they'd have to hide it in the filth," he said.
The others exchanged tense glances. "Are you sure we should go through with this?" said Vancas.
"When this door opens," said Brock, "we could be facing anything. This lever could even trigger a trap."
"Maybe we should leave!" said Nunro, who was shaking from head to toe. "I...I think we've gained enough loot."
"I tend to agree," said Vancas.
"We must go farther!" Wofar insisted. "I'm certain we can gain more treasure, and much better loot than what we've found thus far. There are too many priests out and about to guard every minor chamber in these sewers."
Vancas stepped toward Brock, his face grim. "Let it be. I say we turn back while we still can. We can always deal with these priests later."
"Flee if you must," said Brock. He motioned back along the tunnel and waited, giving Vancas and Nunro time to gain distance, but neither moved. With a shrug, Brock kicked the lever. A loud grating noise arose and the door slid up to reveal two hooded priests with curved blades, who were already in motion.
One priest leapt for Brock with such speed the dwarf nearly lost his scalp. As Brock ducked, the hook blade passed over his head so closely he could almost feel its coldness. Brock swung an axe at the priest's head, but the priest stepped back and dodged the blow. Meanwhile, the other priest leapt for Nunro, only to have Vancas' sword meet his blade before it could cut Nunro down.
Brock's foe drove his hook blade down in a vicious stroke that might have cut the dwarf in two from head to toe. But Brock sidestepped it and chopped off the priest's hand at the wrist. A cry escaped from beneath the hood, and the priest tried to swing his heavy blade one-handed. But the swing was too slow and Brock easily avoided it. He slammed his axe into the priest's skull to finish him.
Brock whirled around, to see the other priest skewered on Vancas' blade. Wofar had plunged his own sword into the priest's back. Nunro was crouched against the tunnel wall, his hand over his face and his sword dangling uselessly.
The torch-lit chamber beyond the doorway was empty of foes, but a gruesome sight awaited them. Black, metallic pillars filled the room, with human heads perched atop them. Some of the heads had such thin, pale flesh on them they seemed to be little more than skulls. Rune-covered brass pipes ran from the pillars up into the stone ceiling. Tables stood here and there with headless corpses atop them and strange bloodstained tools.
"By the seven hells!" Brock growled.
Vancas' eyes smoldered with rage and disgust.
Nunro moaned and covered his eyes.
Wofar laughed quietly. "I told you men about this. The heads still live. They feed the gluttonous belly of the temple."
They entered the room, and Brock gazed up at one of the skull-like human heads. Its eyes rolled around its sunken sockets and its thin lips moved. Brock's own face had paled. "We must put an end to this madness!"
Another stone door, on the far side of the room, slid up, and an ancient priest stepped into the chamber. He pulled a lever and the door lowered back into place. His hood was thrown back, revealing a wrinkled face bearing black metal plating on his cheeks and forehead. He also bore metallic claws on his fingertips. In one leathery hand he held a human head. When he laid eyes on Brock and the others, his expression didn't change. He placed the head on a table and approached them.
Brock prepared to hurl his axe, but his curiosity stayed his hand. The priest seemed about to speak.
"Greetings," the old priest said, smiling. "Have you come to learn of the greatness of Callaharn, or simply to loot my temple? I am the high priest of this Gosarni." He motioned to the severed heads. "And these are my children."
"The...the high priest?" stammered Wofar. He gasped and fled from the room. Moments later, the stone door lowered back into place.
Brock cursed. "That dog has trapped us in here!"
"I should have killed him," said Vancas.
The priest stepped closer to them. "Your companion will not get far. The forest is filled with my hunters, and they shall return with his head in due time."
"It's your head that will soon be free of its neck," said Brock. He spat on the floor in disgust. "And then I'll free these victims of their torment."
"You cannot slay me," said the high priest, still smiling. "I bind this temple together, and without my guidance, it would fall into ruin. I knew you were in here. This Gosarni is practically alive, sensing everything. Thieves never return from these halls, but they are a blessing when they come to us. You bring gifts for Callaharn. Your heads will feed the temple so that power from the stars can be captured. That power transforms us, gives us strength far beyond that of any mortal. With the stars aligned to grant ultimate power, we must have more minds to feed energy to the Gosarni."
"So that explains why so many priests are seeking heads," said Brock. "You bring suffering to others just to satisfy your greed for power."
The priest frowned. "No, that would be immoral. We do it in honor of Callaharn. Once, Callaharn was a noble sorcerer who brought great healing to the land. But he was weak and incomplete. In his arrogance, he sought to tame the demonic energies that no mortal can conquer, and they merged with him and enslaved him, and he became something greater--the Callaharn whose spirit we worship now. He is a god to us, and he is all that matters in life."
Brock hesitated, sensing that the priest was harboring great power in his ancient body. But before he could form an attack plan, Vancas hurled himself at the high priest. He moved with astonishing speed, his sword driving toward the old man's throat. But the high priest batted the sword aside easily with a clawed hand, and it clattered to the stone floor. The high priest seized Vancas by the throat and lifted him.
"You have great skill," said the high priest.
"Brock!" Vancas grunted, as he struggled to break free. "I am a spy for Lord Holnon. Tell him of this place, and he will send soldiers to deal with these--"
The high priest ripped Vancas' heart from his chest and devoured it. Then he turned toward Brock, grinning with pointed, bloodstained teeth. Nunro wailed in despair and crouched behind a pillar. With a roar, Brock charged the high priest, swinging an axe at his skull. The priest batted the axe from Brock's hand and caught him by the throat. He lifted Brock into the air.
"You're a
strange man," the high priest said. "You seem to have the blood of the stone cutters within you, the little folk from the hills and dark marshes. You have a strong mind, and I thank you for bringing me such a fine gift."
Brock drew another axe and swung viciously at the high priest's head, but the priest blocked the blow with his arm. The high priest pressed his clawed hand against Brock's heart. Then he gasped, fresh blood running from his mouth. Nunro stood behind him, his sword lodged in the high priest's back.
The high priest tried to turn, and Brock slammed his axe down on the metal-plated forehead. The plating split in two along with the high priest's skull. He released Brock and stood swaying, blood pouring down his shocked face. "I go now to my lord Callaharn," he whispered, "where my power will grow tenfold. I may return yet again..." He toppled to the floor and lay still in a crimson pool.
Brock gazed down at the priest for a moment, chills breaking out all over his flesh. Then he motioned to Nunro. "Help me free these heads of the pillars, and then we'll be on our way. I've had enough of this place."
Together, they ended the suffering around them. The heads were attached to the pillars by clusters of thin black wires that were easy to sever, and soon all the pillars stood barren. After that, by axe and sword they did the gruesome work of making sure the heads could never again be revived.
Brock searched the high priest's rope and found nothing. Cursing, he stuffed some bloodstained tools into his pack. Brock pulled a lever that was in plain site, and they stepped out into the tunnel.
Wofar lay dead in the sludge, with Keleaf standing over him holding a dripping sword. The big man pointed the blade at Brock. "Now it is your turn," he said. "But the fat man stays out of it. It's our business."
"Fine by me," growled Brock. He sheathed his axe. "Throw down that sword, Keleaf, and we shall handle this like men!"
Keleaf nodded and tossed the sword onto dry stone. He motioned to Brock. "Come and face me, little man. Right here in the filth."
Brock seized Nunro's arm. "Stay out of this, no matter what." Then, his face breaking into a broad grin, he leapt into the stinking waters.
The two men traded blows, and Keleaf quickly got the better of Brock, landing a glancing blow to Brock's scalp that drove the dwarf to his knees. Keleaf charged in to finish it, but Brock rolled out of the way and jumped to his feet.
Keleaf came in swinging, his eyes smoldering with hatred, but Brock caught him with a massive uppercut to the chin while seizing Keleaf's tunic. Even as Keleaf's head rocked back, Brock yanked him forward and drove a crushing blow into his ribs. Keleaf fell facedown in the sludge and lay still.
Brock stepped up onto the walkway. "Let's be off."
"But he might drown," said Nunro, pointing at Keleaf.
"Good," said Brock, and he walked away.
***
Fortunately for Brock, it was still raining when they emerged from the tunnel. The grime that covered him was quickly washed away.
"Where shall we go now?" said Nunro.
"I'm going to meet with Lord Holnon," said Brock, "and do what Vancas requested of me."
"Do you need a companion?" said Nunro.
"No," said Brock. "Go somewhere and learn an honest trade."
"But I'm starting to become a worthy rogue," said Nunro. "You could use a companion like me. We could grow wealthy together. I feel more confident than I've ever felt before."
"I don't doubt that," said Brock, walking away.
"But what about you?" said Nunro. "Are you going to give up adventuring and learn an honest trade? Are you going to take your own damn advice?!"
Brock said nothing. He wondered who the stone cutters were of the hills and dark marshes that the high priest had spoken of. He wished he could have kept the ancient man alive to question him.
"Are you going to answer me?" Nunro called after him. He cursed.
Brock continued on in silence. Soon he was lost amidst the trees.
End.
The author's website:
www.robertekeller.net
Tales of Dark Fantasy Page 17
