Ususi responded, “If he continues to guard the Sighing Vault, then yes. Eschar yet bars our way.”
CHAPTER 20
Fallon worried. Doubt gnawed at him like a vicious rodent, turning his stomach sour. All his dreams of power, conquest, and comeuppance paid to his fellows in Yeshelmaar had become pale things, the goals a child might hold dear, not a man. As he tramped on through the maze of ancient summoning stones, senseless traps, and chambers whose purpose he could not divine, the darkness whispered only one thing to him. The message was bleak: Fallon was a minor, expendable little player in a drama that had little use for him once his part was played.
The pain of the Rotting Man’s touch also continued to plague him, making all his thoughts slow and captious.
It hadn’t been that way while he was under Anammelech’s wing. The blightlord had nurtured Fallon’s tiny imaginings, coaxing petty daydreams into an all-out betrayal. For some reason, Fallon had believed that the promised rewards would make it all worth while. That shroud of comforting belief had been stripped from his eyes by his contact with the Talontyr.
Fallon was no fool. At least, he didn’t like to think so. Perhaps Anammelech had just as little use for him, but fed Fallon’s ego merely to bring him more fully into the camp of Dun Tharos. The coin the blightlord paid the elf for his reports of the doings in the Nentyarch’s court was also head-turning.
It all had come to this. He had a date with a servitor of an evil goddess. He wondered how he could have ever been such a fool.
Sliding between sleeping demons and past the defenses of ancient Nar conjuries didn’t aid his disposition. Fallon was a skipping stone and Under-Tharos the water; he could sense the ever broadening wake he left behind; his and Ash’s rapid passage enlivened defenses long dormant and woke creatures trapped for centuries in deathless slumber. Doors that gaped open and unmoving allowed him unrestricted access, but after he passed, he could hear echoes as they slammed shut, as if embarrassed they had allowed his unrestricted passage so easily, determined not to make the same mistake twice. He didn’t fully understand why the doors, the yawning traps, and the slumbering horrors were not already energized. Perhaps it was the doing of the Talontyr, whose power had reached out and calmed the surface in preparation for the elf’s passage. Once past, the calm broke. As long as Fallon could keep skipping ahead of the storm, he remained safe.
He supposed Elowen and her sad crew were even then meeting the first of the things he had aroused with his passage. At least he could take some small comfort in knowing that his pursuers would fall ever further behind and probably be slain outright in the bargain. Of course, they were merely trying to do what was right, a course he had abandoned long ago to his present detriment. It occurred to him that morals might have more behind them than mere ‘happiness and light.’
He gripped Ash’s hand again, pulling the child along behind. As always, she gave no resistance. She never cried, or for that matter, even bruised. A pang of guilt, unfamiliar, assailed him. Didn’t he care about the unresponsive child and her eventual fate, likely horrifying? Later, if he had a minute to spare, he would investigate that feeling, despite its sudden unwelcome appearance, but he had to spend all his effort on staying ahead of the waking wave behind him. He worried that his wave of disruption would crest, and finally catch him up before he made it all the way through.
He considered the shape he’d seen in the very first chamber, a shape caught in the ice. He gagged then shuddered when he recalled a single eye opening way back in the cold, before he turned tail and fled deeper.
A luminescence he had only half noted earlier was growing stronger as he approached. It had a pale, green, washed out look to it, as if the light were somehow weary. Its light was stronger than the radiance provide by his hooded lantern.
“That’s worrying,” he said aloud to Ash. The light was the first he’d seen since entering Under-Tharos. He wondered if something had awakened ahead of him.
He turned to the girl. “You know, maybe we ought to reconsider our path, eh? I wonder if I just ran for the surface now …”
Without warning, the pain in Fallon’s head spiked. He cried aloud, clutching at his head, stumbling, sending his lantern tumbling. It was like a fire raged behind his eyes. His mind was on fire. He could feel his will to resist, his personality, his very essence begin to smolder in metaphorical heat.
He grunted, squeezing his forehead all the harder, trying to wring the pain away. The pain redoubled. The realization struck Fallon that the impetus implanted by the Rotting Man was more than mere direction; it was a malicious presence intent on hollowing him out from the inside, leaving a physical husk, a husk capable of accomplishing only tasks set for it by the Talontyr.
“No, leave me my mind!” he screamed, but as relentlessly as the tide receding, his personality crumbled under the repeated hammer strikes from within.
Memories of his upbringing at the hands of his kind sires flared and died. His time spent in training as a hunter under the cool green leaves crumbled. His brief love for an elven maid of surpassing beauty was stripped from him. What had she told him? “Oh, but for the piece of my heart you have stolen with your tender kisses …” No, it was gone; he couldn’t remember. Weeping at his loss, the knowledge even that his memory was crumbling began to flame and wither. His first contacts by Anammelech, who seemed so innocent at first, and all his later betrayals spiraled into darkness. Everything was taking on a burning redness where there was no room any longer for what had once called itself Fallon.
Then came something new.
Amidst the scarlet flames, a point of pure white light glimmered. With the white light came surcease from the agony and a foothold against the erosion of Fallon’s mind. The white light grew, faster and faster, and where it touched the pain was extinguished. Fallon felt his personality shuffling back from the precipice to which it had been forced. Finally, the attack ceased, and with it the pain broke. The compulsion was defeated.
There was Ash, standing closer than she had before. The girl rested the back of her hand lightly against Fallon’s forehead. Then she pulled back, a glimmer of interest in her eyes gradually dulling back to their customary somnolence.
The child’s touch had saved him.
When his strength was recovered, Fallon considered his options. The pain was completely gone. His mind was made whole again. In the aftermath of the Rotting Man’s treachery and in the face of his salvation at Ash’s intercession, the elf decided it was time to think about his future.
He would abandon his instructions from the Rotting Man. He would reverse himself, despite all the steps he’d taken, each step stretching back in tiny increments, in sum sufficient to propel him to where he sat, back propped up against some forgotten Nar tomb, the child he had kidnapped sitting nearby, and a foul green light from the corridor ahead painting everything a sickening shade.
What could be the consequence of one more bond broken when he had already severed his loyalty to the noble Nentyarch? Fear of the Rotting Man’s displeasure couldn’t be discounted, but Fallon had a hard time imagining what the Rotting Man could do to him that was worse than what had just been attempted. Losing himself was more than the elf could bear. The Rotting Man had miscalculated, or more likely, the Rotting Man hadn’t known that the child had the capacity to neutralize his foul power.
Where could he go now? He couldn’t go back through the hallways and dark passages from which he’d come. He’d alerted too many ancient horrors, rattled the cages of too many bound demons dating back to Narfell’s preeminence. To turn back into the face of that storm would be little different than acceding to the Rotting Man’s desires. Either way, he was sure he’d end up dead and his soul forfeit in the bargain.
If he couldn’t go back, he’d have to go forward, but too straight a path would deliver him into the Rotting Man’s hands. Actually, he recalled that a blightlord had been dispatched to meet him. Damanda. If he stayed on his present course, his meeting with
her would occur within the day.
He’d have to strike off in a direction of his own choosing—a scary thought. The dungeons of Under-Tharos were legendary, both for their demonic contents and their extensive size, but perhaps he could scent a passage to the surface.
“You ready to get out of here, girl?” Fallon asked the child, his voice gentler than was his wont. “I’d give a lot to see the sun again.”
He stood. The lantern he’d dropped had miraculously not broken nor even leaked too much; it was of Yeshelmaar make after all. It didn’t take but a moment to pick it up. Taking Ash’s hand, he turned down a dark side passage to the left that was not marked in his mind.
The green light from down the wide corridor flickered wildly, as if in the throes of a tantrum. After a time, the emerald light returned to its originally sickly hue, waiting, or more properly described, lurking.
CHAPTER 21
Elowen ran a finger down the length of Dymondheart. The blade still seemed sluggish. Light failed to ripple along its length as it had when she’d first unsheathed it. She worried the vigor it held before would not return.
“Should we press on or rest?” asked Marrec. The cleric stood peering down the passage which they all believed opened on the Sighing Vault.
Elowen sheathed her blade, hoping her worry was unfounded.
“We should rest,” snapped Ususi. “I’ve depleted my energies too much today and need time to prepare myself, especially if we must face Eschar once more.”
Marrec nodded at the mage.
The tattooed southlander said, “The demon is retreating. We should press our advantage and pursue it immediately.”
Elowen spoke up, “We barely faced it down here. If Ususi is tapped, I doubt our ability to face it again.” As she spoke, she rested her hand protectively along Dymondheart’s sheath.
Marrec rubbed his forehead and said, “Time’s not on our side. Fallon could be hours away from delivering Ash to his bastard of a master.”
“If he hasn’t already,” opined Ususi.
Marrec regarded her with a sour look then said, “We’ve got to finish our business with the queen as quickly as possible, so we can move on to what’s really important.”
“Do we?” asked Gunggari. He approached their demonic chaperone, which remained immobile since Eschar’s command. Gunggari nudged it with the edge of his dizheri. It failed to respond.
“Well, we did make a deal …” began Marrec.
“With a demon!” interrupted Ususi. “Don’t you think this queen, whatever her true infernal name, will bend or break our bargain at the very first opportunity?”
Marrec stated, “Two wrongs do not a right make.”
Ususi threw up her hands. “You can’t ‘wrong’ a demon.”
Elowen tried to deflect what seemed a mounting argument, holding up one hand. “The Rotting Man is more powerful, surely, than either Eschar or the Queen Abiding.”
“So, what, we have no chance? Is that your point?” sniped Ususi.
“No …”
“Her point,” said Gunggari, still poking at the unmoving ice demon, “is that we may find an ally in the queen if we release her. Right?” Gunggari grinned at the elf, his teeth improbably white against his dark skin.
“Almost,” responded Elowen. “Like Ususi says, we can’t forget the Queen Abiding is a fiend, and fiends cannot be trusted, but this demon is desperate. Who knows how many thousands of years she’s been trapped down here in these ruins? If she wasn’t desperate, certainly she wouldn’t have arranged for creatures not completely under her control to find and bring to her the one item, which apparently has the ability to control her actions.”
Gunggari nodded slowly. Marrec adopted a considering look; Ususi frowned.
“I propose,” continued Elowen, “that before we return this token to the queen, we avail ourselves of its power. We use the queen to bolster our strength against the Rotting Man, through her token of control.”
Ususi, still frowning, said, “A tool such as this can turn in its owner’s hand. It would be too risky,”
“Don’t talk to me about risky,” snorted Elowen. “This demon had us at her mercy and forced us to agree to retrieve her trinket. That was risky. Merely being in Under-Tharos is a risk most would never countenance. Sure it’s a risk to try to force the queen’s aid, but if she can be redeemed in any way, she can do some good for a change, even if it is against her nature. This token gives us the edge we need and should provide us a margin of safety that mere agreements, backed up only by word, lack.”
“There is risk; there is such a thing as a soul hazard,” said Ususi.
Gunggari noted, “Ususi, certainly you’ve heard tell of evil creatures who occasionally do the work of good?”
Elowen noticed that Marrec colored slightly at Gunggari’s words. The Oslander had struck a nerve somehow, but she didn’t know why.
Gunggari continued, “If we are to foil the Rotting Man’s plan, renew Lurue, and survive to tell the tale, we’ll need help. The queen may be all we have.”
Ususi frowned but said nothing further.
Elowen grinned, said, “Great. Let’s see about getting our chaperone out of his fugue, then, shall we?”
Ususi looked at Marrec, waiting. The cleric shook his head but said, “Free the ice demon if you can, Ususi.”
Ususi uttered a quick word under her breath, but she began to mutter and scribe runes on the dark surface of the unmoving ice demon. The cleric stood nearby, his eyes narrowed, apparently having some sort of internal debate as he watched the wizard work.
Elowen considered Marrec.
She rarely understood humans, but she had known elves similar to Marrec, dutiful, but at turns playful; often vocal, but sometimes taciturn. The cleric’s devotion to his absent goddess verged on a lover’s attention for his cherished bride, which struck Elowen as a bit disturbing, though she’d seen it in others. In Marrec, whose goddess no longer daily bolstered him with contact and clarity of purpose, the devotion ran the risk of becoming merely a sad habit of thought. Of course, if they were successful, perhaps that would all change, as the Nentyarch had hinted.
Ususi had mentioned to her while they walked the tunnels of Under-Tharos that Marrec had admitted to some secret talent, though the human was somehow ashamed of it. That latest bit of gossip was most intriguing. She wondered if she’d get the chance to see Marrec show his ability forth.
The passage was blocked ahead.
A pale stone face jutted from the wall. The face was massive; the tunnel passage was just large enough to contain it. The face seemed human but wrenched with devilish glee; at least it seemed to be leering. It was much eroded by water, and stalactites dripped from its cheekbones and brows. The face’s mouth was wide open, and its tongue, also crumbling stone, lolled out like a carpet. The mouth was stopped up with an iron door, rusted and stained black. A single pull-ring hung from the door’s center. To Marrec’s eyes, the door appeared as if it had been closed for centuries.
Marrec asked Gunggari, “Did we get off the track?”
The tattooed warrior shook his head, saying, “No, Eschar came from this way. See? These rust-flakes on the ground show the door has been only recently closed, abruptly.”
“Doesn’t he magically flit around down here?” Ususi answered from behind, “He may only have limited range.”
The cleric supposed he could see a couple of flakes. He trusted Gunggari to be right. Time was wasting, and they had to move. “Then that’s where we are going, too.” He walked up to the door, laid hold of the ring, and pulled.
“Wait!” yelled Elowen, at the same time as Ususi, though the mage was less polite in her request than the elf.
The door didn’t budge despite his effort. He wished that the gloves given him by the Nentyarch weren’t drained.
“I said, wait,” said Elowen, at his shoulder, pulling him back. “We have to watch for traps.”
Marrec shrugged, irritable. “Eschar went this way.
Beyond lies the Sighing Vault.”
“Not precisely true,” intoned Ususi from further back, who had moved the opposite direction of Elowen when Marrec tried the door. “If there is a vault, we may have to run a gauntlet of protections to get to its center.”
Marrec’s face reddened. He could not justify his unthinking action, pulling on the door so recklessly, so he said nothing.
Gunggari finally noted, “This door, at least, appears to be free of defenses, but it is stuck.”
“Give me a hand here, Gunny,” requested Marrec. He and the Oslander both heaved on the metal door. It didn’t even creak, though both men groaned with the effort.
Something cold and odiferous shouldered him out of the way. Gunggari, similarly jostled, danced back and grasped his dizheri; the ice demon had slid up silently while their attention was on the door. Ususi had managed to free it from its compulsion of inaction.
Their icy chaperone reared back, its paw-like hands balled into great fists. With a grand release, the fists swung and smashed square into the center of the iron door. The door blew off its hinges with a screech of metal, a shower of sparks, and a clamorous crash of metal on stone. The sound continued to echo up and down the corridor for several seconds before dying away.
Marrec said, “Our guide may prove more useful than I had supposed.”
The creature leered and giggled at Marrec.
“No doubt about it,” agreed Elowen.
Marrec felt his attitudes shifting slightly. “We can’t keep calling you ‘creature;’ what is your name?” Marrec asked the queen’s envoy.
The beast considered then rasped, “The Victorious Slayer of Compassion.”
“We’ll call you Victoricus for short,” responded Marrec without losing a beat.
The creature didn’t react to the cleric’s simplification of its name, except to cough up a phlegm-coated chunk of stained ice, but it did that sometimes.
Marrec shoved his spear through the opening of the mouth of the great bust. The eldritch glow on the spear’s tip illuminated the chamber beyond.
Lady of Poison Page 19
