Depths of Madness

by Erik Scott De Bie

“And a second—a corollary, if you will.” He furrowed his brow, as though thoughtful. “What’s to keep me from smiting all of you right now? It seems to me that none of us are armed, and I need no weapo—”

  As the words snapped out of his mouth, Twilight exploded into motion. She dived into a roll, came up inside the circle of Davoren’s arms, and whipped the metal shard, which she had concealed behind her arm, against his throat.

  The warlock chuckled. “Meaningless,” he said. “My powers are of the Nine Hells, and in my veins pumps the blood of demons—no mere metal can bite my skin.”

  “Yes, but I’m willing to wager that if you’ve a demon’s blood, you’ve a demon’s weakness,” Twilight said. “And this, if you hadn’t noticed, is cold-wrought iron.”

  Davoren did not move or blink, but the rage in his eyes said enough.

  During the standoff, both poised to slay the other in a single flick of the wrist, the other prisoners watched, awestruck. No one spoke.

  Then, of all assembled, Asson stepped forward. “Davoren, Twilight,” he said, the trepidation clear in his voice. “This gets us nowhere. That troll won’t sleep forever.” Down the corridor, the room having gone silent, they could hear its snores.

  Neither moved, but the tension slowly dissolved between them. Or, more appropriately, reality intruded and forced some of their rancor aside.

  Some.

  “Very well.” Davoren lowered his hands. “I shall accept the filliken’s leadership.” Taslin and Asson cringed at the words in Elvish for “skirt” and “open,” combined with Davoren’s tone. “For now.”

  The elf smiled only slightly and drew her blade away. “Very well,” she said.

  Slowly, hot anger subsided into cold anxiety. Torches flickered where they lit the chamber, and the troll’s hacking snores did not reassure Twilight. Who knew what other dangers might be in the darkness?

  But she wouldn’t think about it. She picked at her damp chemise and eyed the frayed cloaks and robes they all wore. Then she looked at the chest and the ring of keys.

  I hope this isn’t a jest, she thought. I’m near dead for some decent clothes.

  Exactly three hundred heartbeats later, Davoren snarled for the sixth time, startling Liet. “I thought our waiting was for a purpose,” he said. “Was I mistaken?”

  “Patience is not your specialty, then,” Taslin said. She kept watch at his side, gazing down the corridor and waiting for any sign of the troll, or other horror.

  “No,” Davoren said. “But rampant destruction … that I do quite well.”

  Liet knelt next to a wall, his arms around his knees. He tried not to think about the darkness, or the cold, or the troll he could still hear snoring, or … then he caught himself, stopped, and shivered. He felt awkward—alone, even surrounded by the others.

  He glanced at Twilight. The elf had tried every key and was now working on that black chest with her shard of iron. She’d shushed him when he’d tried to talk to her. The intensity in her eyes when she focused on a task disturbed him.

  “Here!” Slip shouted from where she perched atop Gargan’s shoulder. Her loud voice caused half of them to jump and the others to hiss at her in warning.

  If Slip noticed, she made no sign. Fingers traced a crease in the stone. “Found it!”

  “Found what?” Liet asked, allowing himself to hope. “A way out?”

  He looked, and sure enough, she pointed to a line in the stone, a crack like the edge of a trapdoor. Slip knocked on one side of the groove, which gave off a stony thump, then upon the other, which produced a metallic ring.

  Setting the halfling down gently, eliciting a giggle from the little creature, Gargan put his hands to the ceiling, only a head above him. The goliath pushed, gently at first, then with greater effort. With a scrape, the metal plate rose a good thumb’s breadth. A trace of dust filtered down. The goliath pushed—slowly, so as not to produce noise, and revealed a disk of metal, like a trapdoor, which he shifted out of the way.

  “From the lack of dust, ’tis a well-used portal, by my estimation,” Asson said near Liet’s side, startling him. The old man was surprisingly quick and silent.

  “Estimation? I’m surprised you can even see it, old one,” Davoren said. Taslin glared, but the warlock merely shrugged. “’tis no great slight to call an old man old.”

  Taslin drew back, but Asson laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. The priestess looked away from Davoren and gave her husband a gentle smile.

  Then the chest clicked, and Liet turned back to Twilight. The lithe elf perched over the strongbox, a wide smile on her face. “Happy Naming Day, all.”

  “Gold is meant to help us?” the warlock asked.

  The elf snapped open the lock and flung back the cover, revealing weapons, armor, and gear. Eyes lit up around the room, and the adventurers fell upon it.

  From the chest, Taslin claimed a mithral long sword. Liet chose a paired thrusting sword and dagger, and Gargan took a great battle-axe. Deep in the chest, Liet saw a dusky old rapier.

  “Betrayal,” Twilight whispered as she lifted it.

  “What?” Liet started.

  Twilight didn’t seem to hear. Her eyes locked on a certain blue gem medallion wrapped around the blade’s hilt. Unobtrusively, she untangled it and secured the chain around her throat, leaving the pendant to hang beneath her torn chemise. Liet stared at her, curious, until Twilight returned the gaze. He looked away, balancing his sword.

  “You know how to use one of those, then?” Twilight asked in his ear, and he whirled. He almost hit her in the face with the blade, and if she hadn’t moved her rapier to parry, he would have slashed her. He thought he saw sparks.

  “Well, uh, yes,” Liet said. “The point, anyway.”

  “Well,” Twilight said. She brought a hand up to her cheek and flicked the blade wide with a wink. “See that you mind it well.”

  Liet didn’t know what she meant, but the way she said it made him flush.

  Asson declined a weapon in favor of his staff. One item remained for Davoren and Slip to dispute—a small mace that would have been a weighty bludgeon in the halfling’s hands.

  “I care not,” Davoren said. “My gifts are all the weapons I need.” As if to reinforce the point, flames danced in his eyes. Liet shuddered.

  Farther into the chest came further spoils, including a suit of golden mail fitted for Taslin, a pair of vambraces too large for any but Gargan, and a shield Liet himself claimed. Built of stout wood, with a sheath on its reverse for a dagger, the shield pleased him greatly.

  Asson laid claim to a pouch seemingly of spellcasting ingredients. Twilight discovered a black belt holding lockpicks, tiny crossbow quarrels, and myriad small devices. Beneath these lay a pair of black gauntlets decorated with snarling devils that no one would claim except Davoren. The chest held a further collection of mixed equipment, including empty waterskins, rope, and a grappling hook. Slip seized a largely empty sack that seemed to contain scraps of cloth and a strand or two of rope. Taslin’s eyes lit up when she removed a cloth-wrapped bundle, and she handed it to Asson reverently.

  And beneath, folded, stacked, and reasonably clean, were—to Liet’s weary eyes and filthy limbs—the greatest prizes of all.

  Clearly, Twilight agreed. “Thanks be to Lady Doom,” she whispered. Then, without a thought to modesty other than turning her back, she threw off her tattered shift.

  Liet stared. As the elf’s prisoner garb was tossed aside, and before her long, loose hair could fall down her back, Liet glimpsed a black tattoo of a many-pointed star at the base of her spine. He heard a sharp intake of breath and saw Taslin stiffen beside him.

  He gaped, stunned by Twilight’s abrupt lack of clothes, for a single breath before she spun back. Black trousers fit her slim legs snugly, while a white, billowing blouse lay light and loose around her soft curves. With a flourish, she added a deep scarlet half cape to the ensemble and pulled a leather glove onto her right hand.

  She must have real
ized they were staring—the women in shock, the men in disbelief. “What?” she asked as she belted the sword around her slim waist.

  A chorus of murmurs greeted her question.

  The halfling grinned. “That’s a nice sword!”

  Twilight’s hand flicked to her rapier hilt, fingers brushing the star set in its dusky steel. Liet realized that it matched her tattoo, which, in turn, led him to think about her mark’s position, and he felt his face going hot.

  Liet found an earthen-colored tunic of his size in the strongbox, and hugged it to his chest. He felt Twilight watching him, her eyes searching, and he wished he could turn invisible. He resolved to change in one of the open cells. Davoren and Slip had already left to do so. Taslin seemed to care about nudity as little as Twilight did, though she changed with a little more propriety—standing behind Asson.

  Further rooting brought a new matter to light—only six sets of clothing.

  “Not a difficulty,” Asson said with a shiver. “My robe will be enough.”

  Taslin looked a question at him, but the old man just smiled. Twilight’s appraising gaze went to him.

  Then Gargan tossed a red robe he’d meant to use as a loincloth to Asson. The goliath ripped off his ragged tunic and wrapped it around his waist, girding himself snugly. His gray muscles gleamed, punctuated by odd gem-colored growths that sprouted like pebbles from his skin. With his heavy axe, Liet thought Gargan looked more dangerous divested of clothing than he would have in full plate.

  “We are ready, then,” Twilight said.

  Davoren rolled his eyes. “So lead, leader.” He’d reappeared in tight dark leathers slashed through with red, like bloody cuts. His wrists were covered by black bracers with hideous, fiendlike faces melded into the leather. A black hooded cloak swirled around him to complete the ensemble. That they were his clothes was obvious—no one else would have worn such garments.

  Twilight didn’t address her reply to the warlock. “First, we escape.” She pointed up at the trapdoor Gargan had wedged open. “Second, we look for food and water. That troll’s alive, so there must be food—unless, of course, he just eats prisoners.”

  The warlock smirked.

  “I can address our hunger,” said Taslin. “The powers of the mighty Corellon—”

  “Have peace.” Twilight glared at Taslin dangerously, her eyebrows furrowed. The priestess returned the look, concerned, then nodded.

  Asson unwrapped his parcel—a spellbook, Liet realized—and caressed its worn cover. “I look forward to reuniting with this little tome. And using it to our aid.”

  Davoren just scoffed.

  “Good,” Twilight said. “Now then. Slip?” She gestured toward the trapdoor.

  “Aye, Mistress!” the halfling said cheerily.

  There was a pause as they each stared at Slip—and she stared back.

  Finally, Twilight coughed. “The rope,” she said behind her hand.

  “Oh,” Slip said. She looked down at the rope and grappling hook she had been tying in many creative knots. “Right!”

  With a shudder, Liet got the feeling that with Davoren’s malevolence, Twilight’s whimsy, and Slip’s inability to focus, they were probably all going to die.

  Twilight waited until last, watching as they all climbed up. Liet lingered as well. She watched several times as he started for the rope, then turned back, too hesitant to make the climb.

  He moved to help Asson, but Gargan lifted the frail old man himself. Even this seemed to weaken the wizard, and he sat in the upper room, coughing and sputtering while Taslin chanted another spell. The goliath exercised his huge muscles and hoisted his wide frame up after them. Liet retreated to the shadows, his hands flexing impotently.

  When they were alone and Liet still stared at the rope, Twilight shook her head.

  “I appreciate the vote of confidence,” she said. “You must not know how many men Betrayal has led to their deaths.”

  “Oh,” Liet said.

  Between them, there came an awkward pause. She clapped once, startling him. “You’re confused.” He blushed. He did that often. “N-nay … er, aye, I s’pose. I … er …”

  “Betrayal,” she said.

  Liet blinked and his mouth opened, but no words came out.

  “What I said before,” Twilight said. “The name of my sword. Betrayal.”

  “Oh.” He fidgeted. “Charming.”

  “Are you going to climb, or is there something else?” Twilight’s eyes narrowed and her lip curled suggestively. “You saw something you appreciated, eh?”

  Turning away to hide an even rosier blush, Liet stuttered. “I-I d-didn’t want to say it in front of the others …”

  “I was right.”

  “Well,” said Liet. “Even though I’ve had a little training—with swords, I mean—I’m … I’m not much of a warrior. ’tis just that … uh …”

  “You’re afraid, and you want me to watch out for you,” guessed Twilight.

  Liet cleared his throat. “Uh … aye. Yes.”

  Twilight shrugged. “No.”

  “No?” Liet blinked. “Just like that? You won’t even consider it?”

  “No alliances, no favors,” said Twilight. “Those breed jealousies. Maybe I could watch you and myself in kind, but what if someone else needs my protection? What if another of them also asks me for an extra eye? I have but two, and only a single blade.” She tapped her fingers against her rapier’s hilt. “It would be easy to turn down Davoren—as if he would ask for help—but Asson? The halfling? Taslin, one of … the People? Consider what you ask.”

  Liet’s face fell. He rubbed his arms. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t think—”

  “No.” Twilight laid the back of her hand against his cheek. “No, you didn’t.”

  Watching Liet freeze under her touch, she could, of course, understand why. “And I respect your honesty.” Then she tapped his thin nose. “I will watch out for you as I may.”

  Liet opened his mouth, but Twilight put a finger to his lips.

  “But do not count on it,” she said. “My lord and I share many traits, and while I do not take it to such infuriating heights, unpredictability is one of them.”

  “Your lord?”

  Twilight frowned a warning.

  “I’ll be careful,” said Liet. “Y-you as well?”

  She blinked at him, as though he had just lost his mind. Twilight waited until his back was turned and he was going up the rope before she flashed a grin.

  Taslin looked away as Gargan helped Liet up, pretending not to have heard his conversation with Twilight. Asson breathed heavily next to her, and she rocked him until the shuddering passed. Her thoughts did not lie with him. Instead, she wondered about the young moon elf.

  The child’s lord, she thought. Her mark—the star.

  Her eyes went to Davoren, who leaned against the wall on the far side of the hole. Those red eyes met her look immediately. What did he know? What was he thinking?

  Taslin held Asson a little tighter.

  Tlork leaped up as though a hornet had stung his ear. He growled and spun about, massive warhammer in hand, but he couldn’t see anyone.

  The prisoners have slipped past you, came the master’s thoughts.

  “Wha?” Tlork stared down the corridor, and all the prison doors stood open. The chest that should have been at his feet was gone. Tlork’s mind processed it slowly: Not only had the manlings escaped, but they’d found all their weapons, too.

  Pursue, the master said in his mind. Now.

  Tlork jumped to obey, tottered, and slammed to the floor, his wiry foot yanked out from under him. The clumsy action broke Tlork’s neck, but it was a simple matter for the troll to twist his head and correct the problem. He looked down and saw a thick iron chain snaking from his ankle to the statue of the griffon. Tlork growled.

  “Master?” asked Tlork aloud. He’d never understood communicating silently—it involved thought, which was not the troll’s strength. “Master? Ho
w do I …?”

  Tlork waited a few breaths, just in case thought didn’t travel fast, but heard nothing.

  No matter. Tlork could do what Master commanded. He was smart enough, and more importantly, he was strong enough.

  The statue gave a dull pop as the troll’s massive warhammer fell upon it. The obsidian held, but a series of cracks spider-webbed through it, each about the length of a thumbnail. Tlork swung again and again. Perhaps, after hitting it a few thousand times, the troll could reduce the lion-thing to rubble and break free.

  At no point in the two days it took him to annihilate the statue did it occur to Tlork that a single mighty swing at the chain would have powdered the ancient iron.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Liet scrambled up the rope, helped by Gargan. He looked at the trapdoor. It had not been designed as a trapdoor, but it was the pitted remains of a metal platform opening onto the foot of an old flight of stone steps. He didn’t know the first thing to make of it.

  He could see dimly from the torchlight below and Slip’s own torch. Asson panted, leaning heavily on Taslin, but as Liet scrambled up, the old wizard revived. He whispered a word and the end of his staff lit with silvery flames. He examined the metal plate as Taslin, confident that he could stand without her aid, drew her sword and made for the steps. Edgy, Liet silently bid Twilight hurry.

  Likely, Asson had seen him gazing down the hole and misapprehended his interest. “Perhaps it’s a tool to lower prisoners,” he hypothesized, indicating the platform.

  “Where are the winches, then?” mused Davoren in his ear. Liet found the man almost at his back. He hadn’t realized the warlock was so close, and that gave him chills.

  “By magic,” Taslin hissed back. “I am surprised you did not think of that, mahri.”

  Liet did not speak Elvish, but Taslin’s tone was enough. Davoren hardly seemed to hear—or to care. The Dalesman stared at Davoren, the warlock at Liet. The older man’s red eyes glowed like fire. His face was shadowy—Asson’s silver light diminished when it touched the man, seemingly absorbed—but Liet thought he could see a mirthless smile.