Hero Wanted

by Dan McGirt

  “Never heard of it.”

  “It is a small cult, dedicated to the proposition that the undead shall inherit the world. They gain few breathing converts with a pitch like that. Anyway, we must separate Necrophilus from his staff—it’s a killer.”

  “You have a plan?”

  “A wind gust might do the trick. When he drops it, charge and cut him down. Don’t hesitate and don’t worry about the acolytes. Ready?”

  Before I could nod my assent, Necrophilus looked directly at us and said, “You can come out now, Mercury Boltblaster and Jason Cosmo. Please do so slowly and carefully, with your hands above your heads. Any sudden movements might cause me to reduce you to dust with one of my many instant death spells.” His voice was as dry as the ligaments of a sun bleached skeleton.

  “Or we could just do what the man says,” said Merc.

  We complied with the death mage’s directions.

  “Very good, very good. Naturally, I have had this entire area under surveillance by prying eyes for several days. I am aware of your bargain with the hunter BlackMoon—and I intend to honor it.” Noting our skeptical expressions he added, “Oh, yes. I am certain we can reach a mutually beneficial understanding.”

  “What is your game, Deathmaster?” asked Merc, as we slowly approached the trio in black.

  “Stop there,” said Necrophilus, pointing with his staff. “Yes, that is quite close enough. Kindly be seated in a cross legged position and keep your hands atop your heads.”

  We obeyed. He didn’t seem to want us dead and we weren’t going to insist on it.

  “Listen carefully,” said the necromancer. “I know you intend to attack the Overmaster, despite your ignorance of his location. I can provide you with that information.”

  “Betraying your leader?” said Merc.

  “The whelp is no leader of mine. The search for the Superwand is madness. It was lost long ago—let it stay lost. And let Asmodraxas remain in his eternal prison. Erimandras would resurrect the past. But the past is dead, and the dead should remain so.”

  “Except for the undead,” said Merc.

  “Naturally.”

  “You mean unnaturally.”

  “Don’t vex me, Boltblaster.”

  “Sorry. So you have differences with the Overmaster?”

  “The Dark Magic Society should look to the future, a future in which we rule Arden in our own right, not as the bootlicking lackeys of demons.”

  “A future, perhaps, in which Necrophilus is Overmaster?” asked Merc.

  The old man smiled, which was terrifying in itself. “Perhaps. Though I am not alone in opposing the path upon which Erimandras has set the Society, I alone have secured the means of his destruction.”

  “What might that be?” I asked.

  “The two of you. You see, I supply BlackMoon with many of his deadly poisons at a substantial discount. In return, I call upon him to perform certain special services for me—such as bringing you to me before that simpleton Isogoras could take you to the Overmaster. Isogoras made use of my prying eyes to spy on you, unaware that my creations always transmit their images to me as well. I informed BlackMoon of your location.”

  “And here we are,” said Merc. “Why here?”

  “Erimandras is in Malravia.”

  “Fortress Marn,” said Merc.

  “Yes, Marn,” confirmed Necrophilus.

  Marn was a major stronghold of the long gone Empire of Fear, one of a chain of impregnable citadels built to reinforce the Empire’s domination. Accursed by the great deeds of evil done within its walls, Marn had stood deserted since the Empire’s fall, its isolation only reinforced by the tormented ghosts of the Empire’s victims who were said to roam its corridors still. The restless spirits gave rise to Fortress Marn’s other name—the Haunted Citadel.

  “Erimandras has made Marn the new headquarters of the Society, another example of his preoccupation with past glories,” said Necrophilus. “In anticipation of your capture, Jason Cosmo, he has summoned the entire Ruling Conclave to join him there. Unfortunately, I and several others will be unable to attend. But those loyal to Erimandras or too fearful to defy him are already gathered within the walls of Marn.”

  Necrophilus withdrew an ebony scroll case from an inner pocket of his robe. “This is a map of the secret passages within and beneath Marn, through which you may covertly enter the citadel. If you succeed in eliminating Erimandras and his followers, you will gain your safety. I can assure you that under my leadership the Dark Magic Society will have no further interest in either of you.”

  “And will be more dangerous than ever,” I said.

  “That is not your concern, Jason Cosmo, unless you make it so. But as a practical matter, consider that it will take us months, perhaps years, to recover if you succeed. During that time the activities of the Society must necessarily be curtailed.”

  “We understand,” said Merc.

  “The interior of the citadel is monitored by prying eyes. They are under my control and will conveniently fail to detect you. If you are careful, you may take Erimandras unawares. The rest is up to you.” He dropped the map case to the ground. The magic carpet rose several feet into the air. “That is all. I wish you success.”

  Necrophilus streaked away to the east, above the canopy of the Incredibly Dark Forest.

  “Sounds like a plan,” said Merc, picking up the map case.

  “Can we trust him?”

  “Not fully. Somewhere in his scheme is a proviso for our deaths. That is a certainty. But his approach is sound, simple, and surprisingly straightforward.”

  “Can the two of us hope to defeat the full might of the Society in their own stronghold?”

  “No,” said Merc. “We’ll need reinforcements.”

  “The League?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Then who?”

  Merc smiled cryptically. “You’ll see.”

  *****

  Chapter 21

  The Malravian war chant grew louder and more frenzied with each passing hour. Hundreds of black-haired, dusky-skinned, lean limbed warriors of both sexes danced a twisting, jerking battle dance around the great bonfire. Waving spears, bows, clubs, and torches, the raving horde bellowed incoherent challenges into the night. If the Malravians put half as much energy into fighting as they did into dancing, we had little to worry about.

  ***

  After our audience with Necrophilus, Merc and I spent nine frantic days scrabbling up rugged ridges, down gaping gullies, and along twisting trails to reach the Gathering Place, a huge stone bowl scooped from the top of a barren hilltop as if by a giant hand. Specifically, the giant hand of the Grey God. As patron of the Malravian tribes, he hallowed and hollowed this ground as a place where the Grey Folk could put aside their ancestral blood feuds and gather without being honor bound to kill each other.

  “I spent some time in Malravia years ago,” explained Mercury. “For aiding the tribes against Ganthians, mountain giants, and nasties from the Forest, I was made an honorary Malravian. That may be enough to gain us their support.”

  “What if it isn’t?”

  “We’ll be skinned alive and roasted on spits for daring to violate this holy site.”

  “I hope they remember you fondly.”

  “I’m sure they do.”

  “Really? No one else we meet seems to.”

  In the center of the bowl was a fissure from which seeped noxious fumes. Merc ignited the subterranean gases with a burst of fingerflame. A great plume of purple fire shot into the sky. The summons was sent. We made camp and waited for the response. For the sake of my skin, I prayed it was favorable.

  The first Malravians arrived that evening, a mulka-chewing band of twenty, dressed in furs and skins, their faces streaked with war paint. Ignoring us, they began the dance. By dawn, dozens more tribesmen had joined them in the fevered war rave. None of the dancers acknowledged our presence. They simply arrived and joined the growing circle aro
und the fire.

  Hundreds of warriors arrived on the third day, and each day thereafter. After a week, more than ten thousand warriors were at the Gathering Place, dancing, chanting, and pounding out hypnotic rhythms on their war drums. I saw no one stop to sleep or eat or even rest. The narcotic leaves of the mulka plant were their only sustenance. No one even asked who issued the summons or why. At least not until the chieftains arrived.

  Mercury and I stood on a ridge above the bowl of the Gathering Place and conferred with the chiefs of the seven main clans of Malravia. Clad in the furs of cave bears, mountain wolves, and rock tigers, their long hair pulled back in war braids, their faces pierced with bits of bone and metal rings, the great chiefs were an imposing group.

  Kogarth, eldest of the chiefs, spoke first. “You have crossed our land safely because you are accepted as one of the Grey Folk, Brother Mercury. Well do we remember your courage and service to the Folk when last you walked among us. But you dare much by issuing the Sacred Summons.”

  “Such is the right and the duty of any warrior of the Folk when he learns of a danger to all,” replied Merc.

  “What is this danger?” demanded Kogarth.

  “The evil of the Dark Magic Society. They have refortified the Haunted Citadel of Marn.”

  Kogarth frowned. “Marn is a shunned place. What transpires there is of no concern to us.” The other chiefs nodded their agreement.

  “Marn is shunned no longer by those who would spread its bloody stain over all the Grey Folk,” said Merc. “Surely the dark creatures of Marn already venture beyond its walls.”

  Those chiefs with lands near Marn nodded their agreement.

  Kogarth considered Merc’s words, then said, “Even so, Marn is invincible. If defended by sorcery, it is doubly so. To assault it would be folly.”

  “Wise Kogarth speaks true,” said Merc. He waved the scroll Necrophilus gave us. “But I know a secret way into the fortress. And the shamans of the Folk are themselves powers to reckon with.”

  Kogarth looked unconvinced.

  “Look,” said Merc, “We’ve got ten thousand mulka crazed warriors down there. They’ve got to attack something.”

  “You speak true,” said Kogarth. “So be it, Brother Mercury. You shall be our war-captain and lead us against Marn. It will be a feat long remembered in our songs—if any of us survive to sing them!”

  ***

  Four days of swift marching later, the Malravian host reached Marn. The citadel was a hulking mass of black stone crouched like a bloated spider upon a great outcropping of rock halfway up a jagged and desolate basalt peak. Marn’s crenellated walls bristled with spires and towers and the carven images of demons and monsters and ghastly nightmare things without names.

  The approach to the fortress was a narrow switchback road winding up the face of the mountain. The road was guarded by thirteen separate gate towers, though the lowermost three were in ruins.

  No defenders were visible on the ramparts, but the very stones of the place radiated cruelty and horror. Even the eternal grey mists that cloaked this land seemed to avoid the fortress. The leading ranks of our host, mulka-mad though they were, recoiled as we drew near. A fearful murmur swept through the Malravian horde as they realized what we were about to undertake. I heard wailing cries for us to turn back before it was too late.

  “The warriors grumble,” said Kogarth.

  “Well they should,” said Merc. “Many will die before this day ends.”

  “It is not death they fear, but what may follow death in this place. There are creatures here that swallow souls.”

  “We’ll do our best to avoid those,” said Merc. “I will need three mighty shamans and ten warriors to accompany me through the secret way. Preferably not so mulka sodden that they can no longer think.”

  Kogarth soon selected those who would accompany us.

  Merc nodded his approval. “Brave Kogarth, your war host must divert the attention of those within the citadel. The Society knows we are here, for we have seen their creatures scuttling in the shadows as we approached. But they do not know why we are here. Let the warriors dance and rave for a time. When an hour has passed, make as if you seek to storm the citadel, but venture no higher than the third gate. If you get that far, withdraw, and dance some more before attacking again.”

  “It shall be as you say, Brother Mercury.”

  Merc turned to those who would help us infiltrate the citadel. “We have the important task of slaughtering the leaders within, mighty sorcerers all. Yet we have might of our own and, the Grey God willing, we shall prevail.”

  “Well and truly spoken,” said Kogarth. “Go now and destroy the enemies of the Folk. May the Grey God be with you.”

  ***

  Mercury led us to a narrow cleft in the east wall of the canyon. From even a few paces away, the opening was invisible, hidden by a protruding lip of rock. The path beyond twisted its way into the depths. After a short distance we were forced to advance single file. Overwhelm in hand, I took the lead. Merc was right behind me, consulting the map. The Malravians followed. We soon moved in complete darkness.

  “Don’t magic swords glow in the dark?” I asked.

  “Most do,” said Merc.

  “Why doesn’t this one?”

  “You haven’t asked it to.”

  “True,” I said sheepishly. “Light!” I said forcefully.

  Overwhelm’s blade instantly ignited with a pale pink glow.

  “Pink?” I said in dismay.

  “Not so common,” said Merc, suppressing a twitter. “But it will do.”

  I had at best a foot of clearance above my head. I frequently had to bend double to advance. The passage sloped downward for the first thousand paces. After that it ran level for what might have been a quarter of a mile. Then the path gradually inclined upward. We took so many twists and turns that I was unsure which direction we were heading, but Merc assured me we were beneath the fortress. The air was damp, still, and cold. Malevolence bled from the walls with every step.

  And then the path came to a dead end against a solid stone wall.

  “End of the trail,” I said.

  “Hardly,” replied Merc. “We must locate the hidden door.”

  “What hidden door?”

  “The map shows the passage continuing on the far side of this wall, ergo there is a hidden door. Extinguish your sword.”

  “Why?”

  “I am about to cast a spell which will cause the door to glow with a pale green light. But I won’t be able to see it in this pink glare.”

  Overwhelm winked out. Merc made his incantation. Nothing happened. Not a trace of green appeared.

  “Well?”

  “Possibly there is no door,” said Merc. “There are spells that allow a man to walk through stone walls as if they were air. Perhaps that is how the builders of Marn made use of this passage.”

  “We’re going to walk through solid stone?”

  “Actually, no. I never learned any of those spells. The idea of walking through solid objects unnerves me.”

  “As it should. Maybe you could just blast a hole in the wall.”

  “I could,” mused Mercury. “But that might bring the ceiling down on us. Mikla, Rikulf, Iuri—any suggestions?”

  The three Malravian tribal priests grunted in the negative. It appeared our secret assault was thwarted. I ignited Overwhelm again—and then I remembered!

  “Merc! The Keeper said this sword slices through stone like warm butter!”

  “Worth a try,” said Merc.

  I set Overwhelm’s point against the wall and pushed. The sword penetrated the wall as if I were stabbing water, not stone. I traced a circle a yard wide, handed Overwhelm to Merc and pushed against the cut out section. With agonizing slowness, the stone gave way, scraping and grinding until it fell out the other side.

  And fell.

  And kept falling.

  I stuck my head through the hole and looked down a seemingly bottomles
s black shaft. The chasm was perhaps ten feet across. On the far side was a broad landing and an ascending stone stairway.

  Merc looked through the hole, then frowned at the map. “This isn’t to scale,” he said.

  “Never mind that. How do we get across?”

  “Might as well jump.”

  “Jump!”

  “Go ahead, jump.”

  “Jump! I’m not sure about this.”

  “I can easily clear twenty feet in a standing jump. These rugged Malravian mountain men can do better. They are constantly jumping across chasms, gullies, and the like. Watch.”

  With that Merc launched himself through the air, landing on the far side of the pit with room to spare. The Malravians followed in rapid succession, leaving me alone on the wrong side of the shaft.

  “What are you waiting for?”

  “It’s a long way down.”

  “Don’t jump in. Jump across.”

  “I don’t think I can do this, Merc.”

  “With those thighs? Just do it.”

  “I can’t.”

  “We haven’t got all day, hero. You’d best throw me the sword first or you’ll have to sheath it and jump in the dark.”

  “Oh, that’s helping!”

  I hurled the blade across and Merc caught it gracefully. With a quick prayer, I crouched in the gap, bunched my legs, and sprang forward. I knew instantly that I would fall short by several feet. Claws of panic ripped at me as I stared down into the onrushing void. Then I felt an odd upward tug. I flew forward to land on my stomach at Merc’s feet.

  “Nice jump, Cosmo.”

  I clambered to my feet. “I think I had a little help. A touch of the old mind over matter, perhaps?”

  Merc shrugged and returned Overwhelm. I took the lead once more, mounting the steep and winding stairway. The crumbling steps were narrow and numerous. I counted six hundred and sixty before we reached a landing at the top. We found our way blocked by another stone wall. This time Merc’s door finding spell was successful. A second spell caused a section of the wall to swing ponderously open. A foul, damp draft flowed over us. The aura of evil in the air was stronger than ever. My flesh crawled. My neck hairs stood on end.