The Tomb of the Dark Paladin

by Tom Bielawski

  Goblins! he thought to himself. Goblins were the mountain dwelling kin of oroks, vicious and cruel and barely intelligent. Their wild and unpredictable natures ensured the nasty creatures had no allies among the more intelligent races and they were too stupid and mean to be enslaved. As a result, no one wanted anything to do with goblins.

  This one looked vaguely human, though he was barely four feet tall. His skin was scaly and hairless like a rat's tail; it seemed to peel in great flakes. Its head was hairless and its ears were long and pointed, though they seemed to lay flat against its head like an angry horse. Its long nose sniffed the air and whiskers twitched below it, giving it a distinct rat-like appearance. It was clothed in rags and the stench that wafted through the opening suggested to him that perhaps this prey was not worth the effort.

  But the thirst for blood was more than either the assassin or his blade could handle. In one deft move Zach planted Morloth into the goblin's chest, all the way to the hilt. The little goblin thrashed briefly, but Morloth quickly paralyzed him. In seconds the creature was dead and the blade, and Zach, felt revitalized. Another goblin poked its head out of the hole to see where its cohort went and Zach grabbed it by the ear, yanking it through. He was surprised by the wild creature's strength as it flailed and thrashed trying desperately to get away from the unseen assassin. The goblin let out a shriek but Zach managed to get enough of the blade to penetrate the goblin's hide; paralyzed, it fell limp and died. When the second goblin had become little more than a dried husk, he removed the blade and reveled in the ecstasy of the kill. However, there were more goblins lurking in the freshly dug tunnel, and a stream of them tried to squeeze through the hole at once. Zach stood ready, short sword in one hand and Morloth in the other. He swung and parried and slashed with fevered abandon, reveling in bloodshed and death. He knew that the more he fought the more visible he would become to them, and as creatures of the Underllars, their vision would be superb in the darkness. But they were no match for the Shadowblade.

  After Zach slayed five goblins in quick succession, the remaining creatures retreated quickly back into their tunnel. Zach was brimming with life and energy and rage. He truly wanted to hunt down each of the little vermin and exterminate them, but caution stayed his hand. He peered into the small tunnel and found that the retreating goblins left behind their tools, they seemed to be primitive hand picks at first glance. When he looked more closely, he noticed that the tools had all been dipped in a resin of some type. Could it be poison? Perhaps it was a magical concoction that helped muffle the noise that their tools made. If so, where did the dimwitted creatures get such sophisticated resin?

  Zach dropped the simple picks and searched the bodies of the dead goblins. He found little of interest about the corpses of the little creatures except that their fingernails were like a dog's claw and hard and shiny as metal. If these creatures could use their bare hands to claw through rock, their nails could prove to be useful weapons. He went to work on the corpses with Morloth and in minutes had a pouch full of the metallic goblin claws. His blade satiated, he decided it was time to return to the camp and he dragged one of the goblins back with him. The giddy feeling of the energy he had stolen from the goblins was beginning to fade already, he assumed the life-forces of higher beings must provide more sustenance to the dagger. When he arrived at the camp, Balzath was awake and sitting calmly next to a magically created fire.

  "Had a nice walk?" she asked quietly; the others were not awake.

  He grunted in response and dropped the dried out husk next to her. "There was trouble ahead."

  "Trouble or trifle?"

  "Take your pick," he said with a sneer, sitting beside her and staring into the cool magical flames.

  "A few goblins are a trifle, a few hundred are something more."

  "A dozen," he said. "No more."

  "My dear," she began, looking up at him from the fire. "Although mountain goblins fear ogres, the great ogres know enough to be constantly on guard for the little sneaks. There are probably thousands more within a day's walk of your encounter."

  "Why are we here, Balzath?" he said angrily, changing the subject. After his brief battle, the assassin felt sure that the four of them could handle two thousand goblins without help. Balzath did not seem inclined to answer.

  "I've never met an ogre," he said, exasperated. "What are we in for?"

  Balzath smiled, "Fearsome, powerful. Ancient, ill-tempered."

  "That tells me a lot," he said wryly. He sat back, staring into the fire with the witch beside him and contemplated the witch's silence.

  As soon as the rest of the party awakened, Balzath insisted they move on. They stopped briefly at the point where Zach encountered the goblins so that Balzath could investigate. Urelis cast a few spells and muttered to himself while Ebonaar just muttered. Zach knew the priest was capable of magic, but the man seemed reluctant to call on any of the special powers of his benefactor.

  When it was clear that there was nothing to be gained from tarrying, the four moved on again. This time the dull tunnel stopped at a pair of massive stone doors. The doors were inscribed with ancient runes and designs and a great ring hung from it.

  Urelis approached the ring and banged it against its metal plate. The sound was loud and it reverberated through the tunnel around them.

  "What are we doing here?" whined the priest, kicking the floor. "Ogres are not--"

  Just then a boom sounded so loud that Zach felt it in his chest. The doors swung outward and there stood four people. They were not human, nor were they Elvish or Orcish. They were smaller in height than Zach, but considerably more sturdy and more powerfully built than most humans. Their skin was black and their bald heads glistened in the magical lights illuminating the chamber.

  "Ogres," whispered Zach. They were impressive figures. By their stature they resembled what the legends said about dwarves. But their seemingly hairless heads and faces were decidedly unlike any dwarf he'd heard described. Each of them wore a uniform and carried a spear, but none wore armor.

  The four ogres marched out of the doorway in strict formation, more followed in a long column. Urelis whispered a word and darkfire danced on his fingertips while Ebonaar's claw hand grew pustules that oozed and formed a ball of liquid puss that hovered in the air above his hand. Zach edged away from the priest, he didn't want any of that foul stuff to splatter on him when he threw it.

  The ogres squad stopped as one. Then a single ogre dressed in a robe and carrying a staff with a glowing ball atop it, walked out of the doorway and stood beside his fellows. The three magic-wielders enacted various spells or charms to allow them to communicate with the ogres. Zach waited, a hand on his dagger, ready to fight his way out if it came to that.

  Balzath stepped forward and met the leader of the ogres, her hands free but still quite capable of dealing death.

  A sound heavy as the mountain they stood under barreled out from the ogre leader.

  "Who dares trespass on our lands?"

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  C H A P T E R

  T W E L V E

  ~

  The companions traveled for several days along a road that wound along the Myrnnish countryside, barely wide enough for a carriage. The ground was cold and hard beneath hooves of the horses. Carym hoped that the Rhi's men had given up pursuit; their last encounter with the poorly trained troops had left more than one of the unfortunate men dead. And his own recent brush with death in the Realm of Flames had weakened him considerably.

  He kept his eyes on the tree line along the roadside. He didn't know what he was looking for, but he felt like he should expect an ambush at any moment. The way things had devolved, it seemed only a matter of time before they were attacked again. The trees were still bare, and the sounds of the wild drifted more readily among the silent trunks. More than once they stopped upon hearing the sound of dead leaves crunching under feet deeper in the woods. Yet each time their alarm was unfounded, the sounds were attributed to fo
x or deer or squirrels.

  "Have you found us a place to stay, Bart?" asked the knight, his tone weary. The days of dogged flight from Rhi's forces had worn away at all of them. Ederick had set a furious pace and their mounts were in desperate need of rest. Now the knight and the bard had a new understanding of each other; a deeper respect grown from a common experience had formed between them.

  "I believe so," he said. "There is a village ahead. A farmer told me he would rent us his barn for the night, so he did."

  "It isn't the warm bed I was longing for but it's better than sleeping in the saddle again," said the knight softly. "Thank you, Bart."

  "There haven't been any signs of signs of the Rhi's men in two days, nor any of the Shadowfyr's hunters, perhaps we can risk a night of rest," offered Hala.

  Carym glanced at Genn as she sat wearily in the saddle, her eyes heavy and her expression grim. "Gennevera," he began but the woman ignored him. Ever since their departure from the Tower, she had become detached from him. Other than a brief show of emotion and relief at his return from the Realm of Fire, she had barely spoken to him. She spurred her horse ahead and Carym's heart ached from rejection. Carym sensed Hala looking his way. Though he knew there would only be compassion from the warrior-princess he could not meet her gaze.

  Last in line, Carym trotted onward toward the promise of a somewhat less miserable night.

  The companions were closer to the village than Carym expected. Apparently the bard had spent a good deal of time with the old farmer assuring him there would be no trouble, time in which the group did not idly sit. The village was larger than Cannok, but it was still small. There were barely a dozen homes and a few shops centered around the muddy road. According to the old farmer, whom Carym could only understand through Bart's translations, there was a smattering of other holdings nearby that associated themselves with this small community. There seemed no love for the Rhi or his men in this part of the land, though the farmers made it clear they wanted no trouble with the monarch either.

  "What is this place called?" asked Genn, breaking her gloomy silence as the group walked along. Night had fallen by now and the old farmer led the companions by torch light, a few of the town's men had come out with their own torches to help and they all chatted with each other warmly in their Myrnnish variety of the Cklathish language.

  "Pwillypwynt," replied the bard with a smile.

  Carym laughed, knowing there was no way he could pronounce the word. Genn scowled, thinking herself the victim of a joke. Thunder rumbled in the distance perhaps to herald rain, something which none of the companions wanted.

  "A sleepy little farming community?" asked the knight, eying the white cottages topped with thatch roofs. The smell of wood burning in hearths and stews cooking over fires drifted out into the night air and stomachs rumbled hungrily.

  "Aye," said the bard. "Though the farmer says there's been trouble with strange wild dogs lately."

  "Wild dogs," Carym repeated grimly. Carym assumed that these wily farmers would know the difference between a dog and the giant wolves that had been hunting them, but for some reason he felt a sense of foreboding.

  "Sheep stealers, nothing more."

  Bart flashed Carym a warning look. They would likely be turned away if the villagers learned anything more of the trouble that followed the companions everywhere they went. "With fiery eyes," the bard whispered softly. Carym nodded grimly; no ordinary dogs had been plaguing this town. He wondered briefly if the companions ought to move on, but reconsidered. If the dogs were minions of Umber they would find the companions wherever they went. They were all just too bone-weary to consider moving on.

  By the time they reached the small farm, the air had become a bit warmer and a bit more damp, everyone knew it would rain soon. The old man led the group through the village to his own small farm. A white-walled cottage with a thick roof of thatch stood warm and inviting with the flicker of a warm fire visible through cracks in the shuttered windows. The farmer led them through a gate in a long stone wall that framed a large pasture, too large to see its width and breadth in the dim torchlight. Finally, they reached a small barn, barely large enough to house all the horses and themselves. Much to Carym's chagrin, there were no stalls in the barn, just hitching posts to tie the horses. The old farmer would not hear of them leaving the horses outside with the threat of wild dogs.

  "This is outrageous!" hissed Genn after the old man left. "He expects us to sleep in here with horses milling about? They will step on us while we sleep!"

  "Or drop something on us," said the knight, laughing aloud. Genn scowled and Ederick just laughed harder. Carym had to suppress his own laughter, he was in enough trouble with her as it was.

  "If you don't like it, sleep outside," snapped the bard. It was clear to Carym that Bart didn't find the matter at all amusing and seemed ready send the woman out. Ignoring Carym, Genn stalked over to a corner and piled up some hay, spreading out a cloak to make a bed.

  "You might want to make sure your bed isn't lumpy!" quipped the knight, laughing again. Carym couldn't stop himself from laughing then and realized, ruefully, that he had probably driven deeper the wedge that was growing between them.

  A peal of thunder roared and a light rain began to fall, silencing them all. There was little sound save for the horses shifting or snorting, mercifully there was no sound of water leaking in through the roof; a testament to the quality of the building skills of the hardy Myrnnish farmers.

  Carym lay on a pile of hay, so weary he was immune to the pieces of straw which managed to poke through gaps in his clothing. He had taken off his light armor and was more comfortable than he had been in days. He was weary and wanted to sleep very, very, badly. Yet something nagged at him.

  Did we set a watch? he wondered to himself, his eyes very heavy. He remembered another time when he and his companions had overlooked the setting of a watch with disastrous results. But that seemed so long ago, and so far away, that he could scarcely recall the incident in his sleep-fogged brain. Finally, Carym drifted off to the gentle sound of the falling rain and the stomping of horses' feet and the snoring of his friends When the thunder had quieted and the rain stopped, the howling began. Carym knew they were in trouble.

  Bart was the first to awaken when the baying of the hounds broke the silence.

  "Up!" he shouted. "Everyone up!"

  "What's the matter, Bart?" asked Genn, irritation in her voice.

  "Get up and get ready," he said grimly, the sound of baying hounds could be heard in the distance. Bart whispered quiet Sigil words and cast a spray of tiny balls of light into the air. They hovered near the ceiling of the barn and cast them all in light. "I pray we haven't just brought destruction to the good folk of this village."

  "Don't you think you are overreacting? Aren't these just wild dogs, as the farmer said?"

  "Lie there if you will, woman," he growled. "But you'll die there if you don't prepare yourself, so you will!"

  "Damn!" Carym swore softly, the sound was growing stronger by the minute. "How could there be so many?" Had they brought more of the terrible killers with them? He hoped the beasts would leave and there would be no innocent lives lost, but it was a false hope. The horses began stomping and snorting as the sound grew louder, they knew that fierce predators were approaching.

  "I agree with the bard," said the princess. "We must prepare. Wherever these creatures have struck, they have not been alone. This isn't the first village that has had trouble with wild dogs. We must assume that the dark creatures have returned and in greater numbers."

  "Shouldn't we go outside and look?" demanded Genn. "I don't want to be trapped in here!"

  "If we go outside, we lose the advantages we have. In here, we have light and obstacles that the enemy must overcome. Out there, they have the advantage."

  Genn did not respond, nobody did. Each person had quickly readied themselves to fight. The sounds of the baying dogs had finally tapered off and quieted. Everyone strained
to hear in the near-silence; even the horses had stilled themselves. Carym prayed they were overreacting.

  After a few moments had passed and nothing happened, Carym hoped the companions could began to relax.

  "All seems quiet," commented the knight softly and Carym was relieved. Hala nodded, but she was ready to fight anyway. In a flash of soft amber light, she transformed into something that was part jaguar and part human. Her muscles rippled under her skin and a sheen of soft but incredibly strong fur shimmered in the magical light. Carym truly felt sorry for anyone or anything that found itself on the receiving end of her dagger-claws; what a good feeling it was to have her on his side.

  "Do you sense something?" asked Carym of the Jaguar Knight. Hala's senses were far superior to the senses of the other companions while the magic had control of her body. A low growl from her throat was his answer.

  And that's when the wooden planks that comprised the side door of the barn, near where the horses had been hitched, exploded in a shower of splinters. Two vaguely human forms with long arms and pointed ears stood amidst the wreckage of the door while red eyes leered in from behind them. The sense of dread in the pit of his stomach left no doubt in Carym's mind that these were the same werewolves that he had confronted in Obyn--and had barely escaped.

  The horses, themselves animals of prey hunted by others, gave in to their natural instincts when the two arch-predators entered the barn and began pulling frantically against the lead ropes that held them. With a great CRACK, one rope after another snapped and loose horses created havoc as they reared up in fear or bolted around with eyes wide open inside the small barn.

  Bart crouched down as though ducking from an attack, but his eyes closed in concentration for a moment. Carym sensed the air in the barn beginning to crackle with energy, the hair on his arms seemed to stand up of their own will. Then with a crack like thunder Bart surged into the the air above the chaos and began to fire arrows empowered with magic at the two werewolves. Each missile fired with a clap and crackled with magical lightning.