Inch by inch he made his own struggle for a nearby doorway. He would have appreciated having his axe somewhere close, but he did not know where it landed. Of course, he also lacked the strength to wield it even if he did have it. As of yet, he still lacked much strength and feeling in his nerves to accomplish much more than a slow crawl. He had a hard time getting to the side of one crate. After that, he struggled to slither past a barrel. All the time, his nerves screamed about being discovered before he could get out of plain sight. The doorway beckoned, offering shelter. Petrow breathed hard as he moved towards it. His own noise kept him on edge. His outstretched fingers could finally touch the doorframe. It wasn’t enough of a hold to pull him forward, so kept using his legs.
Petrow’s shoulders got through the doorway. Hand and foot he worked to crawl into the room and past the open door. His hips brushed past the frame. Sensation began returning to his body. Petrow brought his feet past the doorway, only to hesitate on how to proceed. His best option seemed to be closing the door. He pushed at it, and at first it seemed the door had weathered the years enough to close smoothly. Unfortunately, it got to within a few inches when it suddenly stuck. Petrow wasn’t sure if it was a hinge, or any other object, but for whatever reason the door would not shut. The young man did not try to force it, suspecting the noise might invite more danger than an open doorway.
He still savored getting past the doorway when his senses recovered enough awareness to reveal a new sensation. He felt something that might be blood in his pants. He looked down. His crotch was wet. A particular smell came to his nostrils: it was not blood.
He had wet himself!
Petrow was aghast that he had lost control. The more he gave thought to it, the more he realized that he hadn’t. Trestan had been right after all! The paralyzing miracle apparently relaxed more muscles than one realized. Petrow would have been red-faced if any of his friends had seen how he looked now.
He had little time to ponder it, as he heard sounds coming from where Savannah had been trapped.
* * * * *
They tangled close for a moment, twirling in a flexible but deadly dance. When Cat and Loung broke apart, she had a new bruise from his staff and he wore another nick from her sword. Loung expected another assault, but the half-elf turned and evaded him once again. She ducked through another entry into a darker room.
Cat heard the Tariykan following her. She hoped the dim light would grant her an advantage. From what she could see, it had been another storeroom. Unlit torch brackets jutted from walls, racks holding old wine bottles lined one side, weapons racks stood present but empty, and all sorts of rotting containers stood in unstable stacks. The darkness and clutter of the room would favor Cat, or so she hoped. One source of light entered the room from a rusted grate in the ceiling. Distant sounds of fighting could be heard. The light illuminated an area in the center of the otherwise dark cellar.
Cat ducked off to one side as she entered. She crouched and slowed, becoming a hunter. The half-elf slinked past a few piles of debris to get a better ambush position for the warrior following her.
Loung ran into the room but slowed immediately. His eyes searched the room, ascertaining the danger. His staff came up before him in a defensive stance. He moved forwards slowly, gracefully, retaining his balance at every moment. The martial artist went into a trance. He pushed the world away, refocusing his senses in another way. His mind looked for things unseen, and listened for things silent. The meditation allowed feeling the world from a different enlightenment.
Movement and noise came from one side. The Tariykan twitched, realizing a bit late that it belonged to a rat. Nevertheless, the distraction almost hid the real threat from his other side. Cat took the opportunity to lunge at his unprotected back. The inner senses of the Tariykan warrior moved him more on reflex than actual thought. Even so, the tip of the rapier stabbed into a portion of his back before his twisting body rolled with the strike. Staff whipped around as he spun, lashing out at the figure behind him. His blow hit, though the whole twisting motion brought further pain to the injury.
Cat fell back with a numb hand; rapier sailed through the air. Its silvery blade glinted in the grate’s light shaft as it flew out of sight.
Disarmed, Cat jumped over a crate, and rounded a stack of barrels. Loung sprung over obstacles in his race to get at her before she hid. He rounded one corner as her foot lashed out in a sweeping kick. He fell to the floor hard. Loung reacted quickly, rolling to his back as she sprang on him. He kicked outward, pushing her over a barrel with the blow. He got to his feet in time to get hit over the head by an empty barrel. In the next moment, the darkness gave Cat enough advantage that Loung’s staff thrust split a crate. She wasn’t feeling so confident seconds later, when a kick from the man connected solidly into her abdomen.
Cat and Loung whirled around debris piles and vaulted obstacles during their chase. The darkness slowed Loung, but his reflexes compensated for his lack of vision. Loung’s bamboo staff also gave him an advantage. The fight slowly went against Cat. As much as she might have tried to match Loung in agility, he had superior strength and a weapon. Cat had a hidden dagger in her boot, best saved for when she had the surprise and opportunity to use it. As the fight wore on, she lost her opportunities. For every hit she landed, she seemed to suffer worse. A punch to Loung’s face resulted in a staggering blow to the head. The staff knocked her helmet away. Cat stumbled, but gathered enough balance for a weak kick. Loung accepted the hit. As he did so, the human spun into a roundhouse kick. The half-elf went to her knees after her jaw shook from the blow.
Cat retained the state of mind to get back to her feet, but her opponent’s moves came as a blur. She doubled over as his staff slammed into her gut. The human warrior put his staff between her legs and slid under her bent-over frame. With a practiced move, he flipped her over one side. Cat flailed airborne for a moment, sailing over another crate to land heavily on the cold stone.
She lay hurt and bleeding, staring through blurry eyes as Loung casually walked closer. It reminded her of that moment on the roof in Troutbrook. She was helpless at his feet then as he moved to finish her. Back in Troutbrook she had been saved by a timely distraction, but such an event was unlikely here. Cat felt angry and sad at the same time. Loung could kill her, and somewhere up the hallway Petrow lay helpless. She had been one of the most experienced adventurers of the group, and she felt she let the rest down.
CHAPTER 26
Trestan couldn’t see much from his hiding spot. A few cracks between weathered boards offered a restricted view of the outside room. Out in the halls nearby he could hear the steps of the minotaur, alongside monstrous roars of frustration. The young man had yet to regain his breath, and every gulp of air sounded loud in his ears. The prey may have gone to ground, but the hunter remained near, searching.
When Trestan reached the top of the stairs, he had found another maze of corridors and side rooms. He dodged through several trying to lose the minotaur. When short of breath and with muscles aching, he opted for a new tactic. Trestan hid in an old wardrobe closet, standing against a wall of a bedroom. Although scared to remain in any one place for long, further running would have been fruitless. When he had first ducked into this spot, the monster had run past this same room and looked inside. Trestan had been an absolute statue inside the closet, with no movement or breathing at that time. Trestan felt relief as Bortun rushed past, continuing his chase elsewhere.
Time went by while Trestan stayed in his hiding cubby. His heart prompted some kind of action, or some attempt at returning to the throne room. He felt the despair of letting his friends down. Darker thoughts whispered that all his other friends might already be dead. It was possible there might be nothing more for Trestan to do than sneak out of the keep at night and hopefully find some way to get off the island. Such thoughts were reinforced by the distant roars of the minotaur. Trestan even heard the minotaur chopping something apart with his axe out of frustration.
>
He tried to bolster his courage. No matter what he feared, he had to make a stand beside his friends! Abriana’s whole philosophy involved struggle for that which you loved. As with Jareth, Trestan should not worry about dying if he fought for the right things. He may not be a paladin, but Trestan vowed to make his stand with the others. No matter the threat, he would have to put up a wall of courage and see things through.
A new noise came to his ears. Bortun was making noises with his bullish snout, not far away! The creature snorted several times, but made other noises as well.
Trestan tried to hold down a new wave of panic. The young man peered through the cracks of the wardrobe doors to get a better look at the entry to the room. He saw the edges of Bortun’s outline standing very close to his hiding spot. The minotaur turned its head about, making some more sniffing noises. It snorted a blast of air directly at the wardrobe, and then its axe went up for a swing. Trestan’s eyes went wide.
Bortun roared as he slashed with the axe. The massive blade cleaved through the double doors of the wardrobe. Old wood splintered, flying about the room in a shower of debris. As wooden pieces scattered about, a crouched human bolted from his hiding place. Trestan ducked underneath the minotaur’s swing. Pieces of wood sprinkled his head and armor.
Trestan stopped abruptly and turned, attacking while he had the chance. It almost caught Bortun by surprise, but the minotaur got his axe in a defensive style in time. The elvish blade sent sparks flying from the massive axe head. Bortun showed his lack of concern for the young man’s skills. The minotaur pressed forth. Trestan wanted to try another attack, but unless he moved quickly the minotaur would block the only exit to the room.
The young smith dove into a roll, aimed for the doorway. A swing from the axe just missed him as Trestan tumbled his body into the hall. Bortun followed closely, but was still not beyond the doorway when the young man got to his feet. Trestan tried to keep the minotaur cooped up in the doorway. Trestan went into a flurry of two-handed sword swings. The spinning elvish blade wove a deadly dance in front of the minotaur. Bortun let loose another roar while shoving his axe forwards.
Trestan was pushed aside, and the minotaur’s large frame was able to get into the hallway, where it finally had room to swing again.
* * * * *
Her side felt warm and wet. The only sliver of light came from the crack under a closed door: her only escape. Savannah shoved the door with the shoulder on her good side, but something blocked it shut. The cleric almost swooned from the pain of the attempt. She was forced to rest until it subsided. Savannah turned her mind to her injury. The attack had cut deeply. Her lungs felt labored, and she tasted blood.
The abbess of DeLaris forced herself to regain her concentration and focus. She was a healer, after all, and it was time to get rid of the wound and return to the fight. In that darkness, she prayed. Chanting a mantra of praise and healing to her goddess, her fingers traced symbols in the air. She raised her weakened arm, wincing, and touched her other hand to the wound beneath. Miraculous healing energies filled the puncture left by the rapier.
Skin and tissue knitted together seamlessly. The wound expelled dry blood. The body’s normal process of forming scar tissue was bypassed as the edges of the skin stretched together and reattached like nothing had happened. Her lungs took a deep breath of air without any pain. Savannah’s clerical powers healed the wound completely, leaving her with a clearer mind.
The abbess stood upright, though still in darkness. The room housed an awful stench. It was probably for the better that she did not see whatever caused the foul smell. The human woman reached out and touched the stuck door holding her prisoner. The walls, made of solid stone, were beyond her power. The door was a different matter entirely, despite being wedged shut. Her faith allowed the abbess control over the bodies of any living, or once-living, beings. The door, mostly composed of wood, was akin to the skeletal remains of a once-living creature.
Savannah prayed for rot and decomposition to hasten, commanding the wood of the door to yield to the effects of time. The wood lost its strength. Nails and bolts fell out; planks came off of their hinges as the door came apart. The commands of the devoted follower of the Goddess of Death turned the wooden portions of the door into a pile of dust.
Savannah stepped over the metal and ash on the floor of the entry. She gave no more than a glance to a wooden wedge resting on the floor. Savannah looked about the hallway for any signs of others. The half-elf and the Tariykan were missing, as well as the young man she attempted to strangle. She could not see the woodcutter’s axe, but that had fallen out of sight amidst the clutter in the hall. Truthfully, the cleric didn’t give Petrow much thought. It disturbed her to think he might still be alive after she claimed his life for DeLaris, but she doubted that he could escape the island alive. She walked back up the hall to retrieve her weapon. Savannah remained unaware that Petrow held his breath behind a nearby door. It relieved Petrow when the woman continued walking up the hall, making her way back to the throne room.
The dark cleric had to look around a bit to get her orientation back. The keep had many confusing passages, but she could find her way. Savannah approached the throne room cautiously, unsure what to expect. Oddly, two distinct sounds came from the room. There was a sound akin to rocks shifting, as well as a noise like someone setting up a dinner table. Her brow furrowed as she tried to guess at the source.
Savannah entered the doorway to the throne room, and gazed over the effects of the battle. Piles of stone and rock occupied two different places of the room. One pile settled beneath a shattered portion of the second floor walkway. The cleric had not been able to witness the half-elf’s plunge from the balcony. The abbess could not help but notice the remains of several undead corpses around the room. Limbs and rusted pieces of armor left few areas uncluttered by the fight. An exception to this was the floor on which the symbols of the summoning had been inscribed. Someone had used magic to clear the area for its proper use. The elf mage, Revwar, set items back in their proper places on tables. The spell caster worked calmly, undisturbed by enemies. The cleric watched as he unhurriedly put back jars, relit candles, and practiced reciting phrases.
Savannah looked into the far corners of the room, still expecting trouble. He must have heard her approach, since her metal armor made enough noise. Even if he did, however, he continued to work at restoring summoning components until she spoke to him. “All is so unnaturally quiet. Where are the others?”
Revwar faced her, but gestured to the many doors and arches exiting the chamber. “Somewhere about, scattered here and there. I shouldn’t worry much. The half-elf was much bruised, and Bortun can handle a boy with a sword. I assume your opponent met your goddess?”
Revwar turned away, anticipating the answer. Savannah shocked him a bit with her reply. “Actually, he yet lives as far as I know.”
Savannah preferred not to dwell on the repercussions. When a cleric of DeLaris claims a soul, they displayed the goddess’ control of death by following through with the kill. By arrogantly proclaiming her control, and then not being able to carry out that death, it became an insult to her goddess. DeLaris expected a certain respect and fear from mortals, due to the finality of their days always tugging at the corner of their minds. To be free of such a fate emboldened individuals. It was imperative that Savannah or one of her companions carry out the decree of death soon.
When Revwar turned to the cleric, with questioning eyes, she responded, “I also ran into that half-elf. She was fighting Loung, with a lot of fighting spirit still in her.”
Revwar nodded, but returned to his work. The abbess asked, “What about the dwarf?”
The elf offered a rare smile. He waved a hand towards one of the two rock piles in the room. The first had been easily identified as being the remnants of the upper balcony. The grating noise of rocks came from the second pile. The rock pile looked odd, as it slowly moved about itself and stacked more vertical than what wou
ld normally be allowed in respect to natural balance and gravity.
Revwar proclaimed, “He is underneath that pile, though still alive it would seem. He is trapped and slowly suffocating under two earth-bonded spirits…elementals.”
The blue-eyed woman nodded. Her gaze swept across the piles of undead in the room. “You have been harnessing the powers of the relics. You brought forth their guardians to aid you.”
Revwar nodded. “I had to use many spells, both for offense as well as spells to cloak me in safety. After a time, it was best to use those other available powers. Should the dwarf break free, he’ll find I’ve had the time to prepare myself better. Though I believe I have little to fear now. You are here with me, and we can complete the summoning.”
The abbess was a bit surprised. “Without knowing about the others? We still have enemies somewhere near.”
The elf caster shrugged. “I think it will matter little. I’ve heard occasional sounds, from items being smashed to Bortun’s roars, though each seems far away. These enemies are young and disorganized, and little threat. Besides, the summoning is the reason we are here. Once the gateway is opened and the demon comes through, we will have achieved our goal. Let them try to do anything to us with it present, I’m sure we would find the result entertaining.”
Revwar turned back to preparing several items that had been left abandoned when the fight erupted. “Do me a favor,” he pointed at the fire they had constructed off to one side, “Make sure the kettle is boiling and bring that back over here. Don’t let it touch your skin if you can help it, the mixture is quite corrosive.”
* * * * *
Cat struggled to rise from her prone position. Loung was standing threateningly close, with his quarterstaff in hand. “Did you ever hear of the Philosophies of Torichi?”
The Earthrin Stones 1 of 3: Inheritance of a Sword and a Path Page 51
