Some of the orcs, seeing the fight going so terribly against them, turned back to the flaming wizard, flinging down their weapons and dropping to their knees, crying for a truce; but a sphere of fire shot from the wizard’s hand. Like some demonic toy, the flaming ball bounced twice against a hobgoblin commander trying to whip the orcs back to the fight, setting his fur on fire. The ball passed harmlessly over the bugbears stomping over their opponents with their heavy hobnail boots, before scorching half a dozen orcs across their snouts. The hobgoblin commander rolled on the floor, trying to escape the mysterious sphere. The two bugbears knocked him back and forth between them with their glaives, much like a pair of cats batting mice from one paw to another. The wizard twitched a finger to the left, and the flaming sphere bounced left to fry more orcs. He twitched a finger to the right, and the sphere flew to the right and set another hobgoblin blazing. Smoke filled the room, and that the wizard also controlled. With a small wind, the wizard whipped it into the faces of his attackers, so the creatures gasped and choked and dropped to the ground, smothered by the acrid fumes from their own burning comrades.
Fottergrim’s raiders were routed. As a body, they rushed to escape the fate of their choking, frying fellows. They burst around Ivy, Sanval, and Zuzzara, streamed past the rest of the startled Siegebreakers, and disappeared down the dark tunnel that led down to the river—out of the fire and into the flood.
“Oh, blast,” said Ivy when she saw how spell after spell burst from the wizard’s hands in rapid succession. “This is not good.”
She looked around, hoping to see a clear exit. There was no way out that was not clogged with dying or dead hobgoblins and orcs. More worrisome was the fact that the rest of her friends had followed her blindly into the room. Gunderal’s violet eyes were round with shock at the easy burst of fire spells that came from the wizard.
“We need help,” Zuzzara sputtered over her shoulder to her sister.
“You know I can’t control fire!” Gunderal sobbed, her uninjured hand protectively crossed over the hand still resting in the sling.
“I don’t mean to nag, sister,” said Zuzzara as she punched an orc and then slung it over the heads of Gunderal and Mumchance to join its fellows, “but sometimes you can dampen down flames.”
The black smoke still swirled around them. Zuzzara caught a lungful and coughed. At the sound of her sister’s hacking distress, Gunderal’s face turned even whiter. She muttered a spell, hissing out each word like an angry kitten. A swirl of damp but clean air, smelling pleasantly of evergreen trees and spring flowers, swept through the room. Zuzzara drew in a grateful breath of the healing mist, thumped the last standing orc over the head with her shovel, and gave her sister an enormous pointy-toothed grin.
“Knew you could do it,” bellowed Zuzzara.
Gunderal acknowledged her with a weak smile and leaned more heavily against the wall. “That should have been stronger,” she said, her voice rising barely above a whisper as she drew in her own deep breaths of the mist.
Noticing that the fighting had now completely stopped, Zuzzara added. “Hey, we did good, didn’t we?”
Ivy almost agreed, but then she caught sight of Mumchance and Kid, both of whom still hugged the wall, flanking the more vulnerable Gunderal.
Mumchance looked as glum as a one-eyed dwarf could look—in other words well down the scale toward outright miserable—and all that could be seen of Wiggles was the tip of one quivering white ear poking out of Mumchance’s pocket. But the expression on Kid’s face worried Ivy even more. For the first time since she had plucked the little thief’s hand off her purse and slung him over her shoulder to carry him home, Kid looked frightened. His head was pulled down into his shoulders, and his whole body was hunched over, as if he anticipated a blow or a beating.
Ivy glanced over her shoulder to see what terrified Kid so. She realized that Kid was staring at the flaming wizard still casually leaning on his big metal crutch. With an impatient snap of his fingers, the wizard plucked a scorched charm off his cloak and threw it to the floor. The flames springing from his clothes vanished.
The tall, thin man strode toward Ivy’s group, confident and with no hesitation. The metal crutch under his left arm swung in perfect time with his legs and lent an odd and menacing thud to each step forward. Even slightly stooped, he still towered above all of them except Zuzzara. His face was young, but deeply lined; grooves of discontent ran from long nose to narrow lips.
He stared at them with absolute disdain and then smiled with the faintest upward tug of his closed lips. His yellow-green eyes narrowed with the type of pleasure usually seen in the face of a barnyard cat confronting a particularly plump baby bird.
“How interesting,” the wizard said. “Toram’s lost little pet goat and a pack of scruffy fighters, led by a fellow in such shiny armor that he has to come from Procampur. It is amazing what you find underground these days.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
In a soft whisper, Kid murmured, “Archlis.”
“Oh, by all the gods great and small,” swore Ivy. The last person she wanted to meet was Fottergrim’s personal spellcaster, the master of Tsurlagol’s walls throughout the siege.
The wizard focused on Sanval, obviously taking the Procampur captain as their leader. The others he had looked over with a disinterested eye and immediately dismissed as unimportant. Ivy kept quiet, wanting to observe without being too closely observed.
“So what are you hunting in these ruins with Toram’s godsight goat?” Archlis repeated the odd phrase, gesturing with the tip of his metal crutch at Kid, who cringed away as though he expected it to spit fire at him.
“What do you think we seek?” Sanval answered question with question, his voice very steady and low, even as he took a half-step in front of Kid, sheltering the little thief behind his well-armored back.
“I am the magelord Archlis, the terror of Fottergrim’s army,” snapped the wizard. “Do not play games with me, little captain from Procampur.”
“I am Sanval Nerias Moealim Hugerand Filao-Trious Semmenio Illuskia Hyacinth Neme Auniomaro Valorous, a captain of Procampur’s army.” Sanval drew a deep breath after that recital. “I can say with complete honesty that I did not enter these ruins to capture you.” Sanval’s expression showed no more emotion on his handsome face than he had when confronted with Mumchance’s leaping pack of mutts at the camp. His Procampur training in courtesy still held, even as the long-nosed Archlis sneered at him. “And I never play games with wizards.”
“Wizard! Do you think that is all that I am? I, Archlis, who know the ancient secrets of Netheril. A magelord of the arcane arts. I could turn you to ash with a single word.” Archlis halfraised his Ankh, favoring Sanval with the same close-lipped smile he had given when he recognized Kid. Sanval’s hand tightened on his sword hilt.
“So,” said Ivy, stepping forward before Sanval could provoke him further, “noble magelord, how can we help you?”
The magelord looked her up and down. He did not seem impressed. “Mercenary,” said Archlis as a definition and not a compliment.
Ivy nodded. “Definitely. We did a little detour from the siege and ended up falling down here.”
“Do not lie to me. You think”—Archlis pointed at Kid, who was still half-hidden behind Sanval—“that will lead you to the crypt. But I still have the book, and without it, you could not hope to find the crypt, not even with the power of that trinket on your glove.”
Ivy glanced down at her gauntlets. The left one bore a battered silver oak leaf, a gift from her long-lost mother. The tarnished token was so much a part of her gear that she rarely gave it any thought. Odd that Archlis should notice so small and insignificant a magical item—just as the Pearl had. On his tabard hung a multitude of charms. Some were forged from iron, others knotted from what looked like elf hair; still more were tarnished silver and yellowed bone. Below the shifting, clinking charms, Ivy saw arcane sigils and runes woven into the very cloth. His hands were stu
dded with rings, and Ivy doubted that those trinkets were only charged with spells to dry out his boots. All in all, his charms and rings were a far more impressive display of magical protection and—most probably—magical destruction than her one lucky silver leaf. Still, Archlis had noticed the token, and he seemed thrown slightly off balance by Kid’s presence in their group.
“Kid is very good at what he does. And I have my protections as well,” said Ivy in the spirit of pure bluff. After all, if Archlis thought they were more powerful than they appeared, who was she to tell him that appearances were deceptive. And she would question Kid later about his supposed talents, just as soon as she was sure that Archlis was not going to sizzle their bones. “I could sell you his services. I could sell you mine. Cheap.”
Kid gave an involuntary bleat and cringed farther away from Archlis. Sanval tried to say something, but Ivy stepped hard on his boot. When he started to protest, she gestured at Zuzzara, who clamped a large hand over his mouth.
Archlis looked amused at Sanval’s angry eyes glaring at him over the big hand of the half-orc. “So, was this noble your prisoner, or is he your prisoner now?” Archlis asked Ivy.
“At the moment,” Ivy explained, “he is our employer. But, as I said, for the right fee, and that fee does not have to be too high, we could terminate that contract. I would rather keep him alive. He is a powerful fighter and we have some … potions … that we can use to keep him under control. And, although from Procampur, his own character is none too noble, if you know what I mean.” Zuzzara smiled her sharp-toothed smile and nodded vigorously in support of Ivy’s story. The others were silent—Sanval because he had no choice, and the rest because they trusted her. As always in such moments, she wondered if this were the day that she would be unable to live up to their expectations of her ability to lie her way out of a bad situation.
Having begun her story of how they came to be wandering in Tsurlagol’s ruins, Ivy added a few more details for verisimilitude. “We were scouting for the Thultyrl and, since we did not make it back to the camp by … now, we would be subject to discipline. As would this man, who is already under probation for his gambling in the red-roof district and patronage of undesirable, um, females. He won’t want to go rushing back to camp, not if there is a chance of treasure.”
Behind her, Sanval choked, and Zuzzara whispered a hoarse “hush” in his ear. Ivy paused to see if Archlis was going to balk at any of the lies she was ladling out as fast as she could. The magelord frowned at the word “treasure,” his eyes narrowing as he scanned the group again. His glance lingered longest on Kid and Mumchance. “You know how it is,” Ivy concluded hastily. “Better gold in the purse today than a promise for tomorrow.”
Archlis did not immediately dismiss her offer. In fact, he seemed more amused then doubting after his second careful examination of the group. He even snickered a little—a grating nasal sound—at Sanval still clutched in Zuzzara’s protective embrace. “Armor or no armor, that one is no threat to me. Your offer is interesting. I have fewer servants than I deserve.” Archlis gestured toward the bugbears, one of which was picking his teeth with a looted hobgoblin sword. “These have proved to be more fragile than I assumed.”
“And the hobgoblins and the orcs?” asked Ivy, waving one hand at the bodies littering the floor, still playing the role of one callous mercenary intent on negotiating a good settlement for herself.
“They had orders to return me to the defenses of Tsurlagol. Which was a waste of my time. Fottergrim never understood. I could have made him a king of the Vast, after I retrieved my treasure,” said Archlis with no lack of self-confidence. The lines running between his nose and mouth became more pronounced as the magelord brooded. “I persuaded the fool to come to Tsurlagol. Fottergrim was supposed to have made my access to the ruins easier, not more difficult.”
“Except he decided to take the city, rather than just hang around the edges,” guessed Ivy.
“Gruumsh must have driven him mad,” Archlis replied, still obviously peeved. When he named the orc’s war god, both the bugbears straightened up and made some gesture, to either appease the angry god or, more likely, to avoid Gruumsh’s notice. “The temptation was too great for Fottergrim. Once he seized the city, he had no idea what to do and refused to listen to my suggestions. Hobgoblins and orcs … Once they drink the taverns dry and eat all the meat in the butcher shops … Do they even pause to consider where the next meal is supposed to come from?”
Ivy asked in a sympathetic tone, “Down to eating the horses?”
“Yes. And what could be more foolish? How am I supposed to leave the city if they eat my carriage horses? I recommended that they eat their own mounts or, more practically, the citizens.”
“And they refused? How surprising.”
“Fottergrim muttered something about worgs tasting bad and wanting the citizens as hostages in case he needed to negotiate.”
“Obviously, an unreasonable orc.”
“A dim-witted buffoon, all stomach and no brains, like most orcs. He threw away my advice and power.”
“And the treasure beneath Tsurlagol?” She wondered what a magelord of his power could want in these looted ruins.
“I tell you, not even that creature’s powers can find the crypt,” said Archlis. Again he gestured toward Kid.
“Actually, we have never heard of …” began Gunderal, but stopped when Mumchance tapped her on the knee.
“Let Ivy do the talking,” whispered the dwarf.
Archlis switched his attention to Mumchance. “You are a dwarf,” stated the magelord.
“Thought that would be obvious.” Mumchance peered up at Archlis in his usual tilt-headed squint so he could see the magelord clearly out of his one good eye.
“Do not be insolent. What is that?” Wiggles had popped her head out of Mumchance’s pocket.
“My dog.” Mumchance could be very taciturn with humans he did not like.
“Ah, your familiar. You are a dwarf wizard, then?”
“Not a wizard.” The dwarf put up one hand to rub his fake eye, as if he were tired or trying to clear some grit out of it. Ivy knew what he was doing—preparing to pop out the gem bomb. She shook her head slightly and got an even slighter nod back from Mumchance. The room was too small, and the chances too great that the rest of them might be hurt by the blast. Besides, given that the magelord could apparently set himself on fire and not be burned, she doubted a gem bomb would cause Archlis any serious damage.
“Then it changes shape? Becomes a creature of unparalleled size and ferocity?” Archlis was still fixated on Wiggles, who was snarling at him with as much ferociousness as she could manage.
“No,” said Mumchance. “Wiggles stays a dog. A small dog. My dog.”
“Wiggles?”
“That’s her name.”
Archlis was clearly baffled by someone wasting pocket space carrying anything as useless as Mumchance’s fluffy white dog. It was an emotion that Ivy understood. Archlis abandoned his questions about Wiggles as profitless to himself. “Well, I may have a use for you—a dwarf in armor should be heavy enough.” With that baffling remark, the magelord turned back to Ivy. “You will serve me. For now.”
“All a matter of fee.”
“I will decide the appropriate reward.”
Ivy did not argue. Something about the way that Archlis kept fingering his Ankh and the bugbears kept backing up warned her that further discussion would not be beneficial. Pleased by her silence, Archlis continued. “A section of these ruins contains a simple trap in the floor, but it takes four at least to pass through safely. We made it through once, but we came upon a complication and were driven back. Then we ran into the hobgoblins.”
“And there are only three of you now,” pointed out Ivy, who knew that two bugbears and one magelord did not add up to four.
“There are only three,” admitted Archlis, “due to the complication. Which I will explain after you take us through the trapped corridor. Four o
f you are all I need, but I will let the others live as part of your fee.”
Archlis did not look like he was making idle threats. The stench of burned bodies still filled the chamber where they stood. Of course, they could refuse and fight. She knew the others were just waiting for a signal from her. Mumchance had even remembered to get a good grip on his sword instead of his second-best hammer. Zuzzara was swinging her shovel in idle little circles, drawing patterns in the dust as if she were paying no attention at all to what was happening, and she had definitely loosened her grip on Sanval. Gunderal was looking pale but more determined; her good hand had the fingers spread wide to cast some water spell. But Kid was still cringing behind her and pulling on her weapons belt. Three sharp tugs—the little thief’s signal for danger.
Ivy knew that they could take the bugbears. But she did not know how fast Archlis could activate that Ankh. He looked just crazy enough to set off a firestorm in a small room, and who knew what protections he had for himself woven into that coat of multiple charms.
“So,” said Ivy, “how far is the corridor with the funny floor?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Archlis led them out of the room and into another tunnel that continued to run uphill, much to Mumchance’s relief. The dwarf was still muttering about hearing water moving behind them. Personally, Ivy was just glad to be out of that small room littered with the burned reminders of the magelord’s power.
After several twisting turns, the magelord called a halt. “I must consult my book,” he declared. “The rest of you sit. Be quiet.”
The bugbears slumped against the wall and began hauling out various supplies from their packs. As Ivy knew from past campaigns, if there was ever a creature whose first love was food, and who hated to share, it was a bugbear. And normally she would not annoy anything that big and furry and none too bright. But she was hungry, and so were the rest of her crew. She swaggered over to the biggest bugbear, stuck out her chin, and got her nose as close to his as possible. Like most males, this maneuver made him nervous. He tried to back up, but he had no place to go. She leaned a little closer. He growled, and she snarled back, “Give me bread! Give me water!” in the only orc dialect that she knew.
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