“Help Twilight and Liet!” shouted Asson. The old mage could do little but shine the light of his staff wherever the creatures seemed thickest and direct the defense there.
“Leave them!” Davoren shouted. “Worry for yourself, whitebeard!” He cast out a forked blast of eldritch power, sending two of the gaunt monsters staggering back. The power sizzled outward to more wights, burning their flesh as well.
Thanks for the support, Twilight mused.
Without looking, she waited until a wight leaped for her from behind, then snapped her blade up, spearing it through the throat. The blow was hardly enough to destroy an undead creature, but the beast paused. Twilight used the opportunity to roll between its legs to aid the struggling Liet.
The youth had lost his sword in the wight’s rush and now bent his strength against the creature, merely to keep its claws from his face. Pus and yellowish ooze dripped from a dagger embedded in its eye, but it failed to distract the wight. As they wrestled, it hissed and slavered over Liet, snapping its fangs at his nose.
Twilight leaped to the youth’s defense, putting her rapier clean through the wight’s head. The wight turned its attention, and its claws, to the elf. Though the last thing Twilight wanted was to draw an attack, it gave Liet the instant’s pause he needed to scrabble out from under the wight.
Liet climbed to his feet as Twilight danced away, her blade whipping back and forth to ward off the wight’s claws. A strike caught her hand, ripping open her thick leather gauntlet, and she felt its cold power stealing away a bit of her vitality. Yet another reason not to let the wights strike her—their touch of the grave. Had Liet not known the protection of Taslin’s spell, the wight would have slain him within heartbeats.
As it lunged, Twilight managed to parry the creature to the left and then riposte, carving a hole in its face. As the wight scrabbled away, screaming in fury and frustration, Twilight snatched the opportunity to glance at the others.
The tight circle of adventurers made up the center of a hive of clawing wights. Stacked two or three deep, the horrid creatures gouged and slashed from every angle, swarming the living beings with a violence born of incomprehensible hatred. Gargan’s axe and Taslin’s magic provided stout defense, but the goliath’s swings came a little slower each time as the wights stole away his life little by little. Though his stoic face would never show it, Gargan was growing weary.
In the end, only Davoren kept the wights at bay, each of his blasts striking two or three monsters, pushing them back. And the warlock showed no signs of tiring. As long as the others could keep the circle around him, he could keep blasting.
Not counting the creature that Twilight dueled, only three of the wights stayed out of the battle. Two of them spat words of magic, and the other lay probing at its torn throat from Twilight’s attack. The casters had focused on the circle of adventurers, but with so many fellows in the way, the two mage-wights turned on Twilight and Liet.
“Just my luck,” Twilight muttered as she leaped back to avoid sweeping claws. “Thanks be to the Maid.” Her riposte ran the creature through.
The monster clawed at her, not hesitating at the pain, but Twilight expected this. Instead of dodging back, she dived around the wight, dragging the sword with all her momentum and strength. The rapier was not made for cutting, but its magically hot blade could certainly stir up the inside of the creature. With a sickly plop, the wight’s rotten lungs and heart came out with the sword, and its entrails slithered out onto the floor.
Though none of the wights died from blows that would have felled a man, Twilight hoped this one would have trouble fighting in so many pieces. When she pulled free, splashed with putrid blood, Twilight locked eyes with a casting wight. She had no hope of dodging more mystical darts.
But then Liet was there, shouting to distract the wight, thrusting his recovered sword in the way. Surprisingly, the creature flinched and recoiled, abandoning its spell.
Never one to pass up an opportunity, Twilight danced into the shadows. Darkness flickered across her pale eyes. In a heartbeat, she vanished, only to appear behind the mage-wight. She ran her rapier through its jaws.
Let it cast without a mouth, she decided.
The adventurers had almost turned the tide. They could not have destroyed so many wights by strength alone, but Taslin’s priestly powers, exhausted as they almost were, had taken their toll, and Davoren’s fire laid the wights to waste. The wights were slowly falling away, most to lie unmoving on the floor.
Twilight even saw Slip doing her part, with just her little mace. A wight leaped on her, but she clubbed at it madly, taking out groin, fingers, and eye in quick succession. Twilight saw the wight she’d injured rushing at the distracted halfling, though, and angled a charge to intercept.
In her rush, Twilight stared down the wight—fresher than its fellows—and she skidded to a halt. “A-Aran …” she stammered, frozen.
It gave her a wicked, mad smile and hacked at Slip with a blood-smeared axe Twilight recognized all too well.
“Dav-rin!” it hissed. “Dav-rin!”
The halfling managed to elude the blow, but the wight ran right over her. Slip cried out and hit the ground. The creature lunged in, smashing Davoren to the floor. The warlock’s aim faltered and ruby energy burned a trail along the floor. He turned to face his fomer companion, now his attacker, and earned a trio of black gashes across the face. Davoren could do little more than sputter and curse as the wight pummeled him into the floor. If the deathly touch ate away his life-force, he made no sign, but blood sprayed.
“No!” Twilight shouted.
With the warlock down, the rest of the wights redoubled their efforts, battering at the defensive ring of adventurers like an angry sea against a fortress sculpted of sand. Without Davoren’s eldritch might to bolster them, the weakening warriors would fall.
Twilight stared. The others were fully occupied with their struggles—none could save the warlock, if any had the motivation—and yet she stood frozen. She stared at the wight who would destroy them—that familiar auburn hair, that smeared axe …
The other mage-wight, having apparently exhausted its spells, chose that moment to rush her. Liet jumped in the way, slashing at the beast, but it elbowed him aside, bearing down on its chosen foe.
Only instinct saved her. Twilight met the wight with a high stop thrust—a defensive stab the creature slapped aside. She danced back, weaving, parrying its dagger-sharp claws. She didn’t care if it beat her defense. Without Davoren’s magic, they were dead anyway.
And Arandon….
Taslin knew they were lost. Her powers faded, and without the warlock, no matter how dangerous he was, they had no chance. They had been fools to follow Twilight’s lead—they believed such a child could keep them safe?
Then Taslin heard a wheeze, and she knew what was happening. Asson—her weak Asson, though he had no spells or even a decent weapon—would save them. Perhaps he recognized the threat to them all if Davoren did not rise, perhaps it was instinct, or perhaps he felt compassion for the warlock.
Whatever the reason, the wizened mage took his staff in both hands. He smashed the glowing crystal into the wight’s head as hard as his aged muscles could drive it. The hard oak did little damage, but the magelight seared the creature’s eyes. The wight flinched back from its battered prey and Taslin’s heart leaped.
It lunged for Asson instead, jabbing dagger claws deep into his belly. With a sputter, the old mage crumpled, and so did Taslin’s heart. Corellon’s aura might keep his soul, but his body could die just as easily as any man’s. She watched, horrified, as the wight closed it jaws on his ankle, and he screamed.
“Asson!” screamed Taslin. She tried to summon up Corellon’s power to smite the beast, but she felt not even a tingle. She had exhausted it all.
Then the mighty Gargan spun and hacked at the wight, yanking its shattered head from its withered body. Wights piled onto his back, clawing and scrabbling. Taslin couldn’t reach As
son, so she plied her sword, trying to hack the beasts off the goliath.
The warlock rose shakily to his knees. Blood smeared his neat goatee, but the hate burning in his eyes did not allow him to look weakened. Davoren roared and flung his arms out wide.
A curtain of red and black flames screamed into being around the group, slicing open wights like a burning blade. Creatures fell in pieces and chunks, the ends of limbs cauterized black from dried blood. The ruby light burst in the darkness like an angry star, almost blinding Taslin. She looked at Davoren and saw his ruby eyes gleaming madly, caged in furrows of black blood. He laughed, hysterical. The wights screamed, burning.
The priestess could not tear her gaze away. Which was the real threat?
Blinking to clear the spots from her bleary eyes, Twilight missed a parry. The wight caught the blade over its arm, threw the rapier wide, and lunged for her throat.
Then a blade burst from the wight’s chest, and the creature froze. Not knowing the source of her luck but not questioning it either, Twilight took a single step back, put her sword in line, and rammed it through the creature’s heart and back out in one movement. Its chest seeping, the wight toppled, revealing Liet, smeared with its yellow fluid, panting.
She looked at her bloody blade. Davoren’s fire died down and burned out. That ring of fire could have been used to save them before they’d even come to this place. All of them.
The band of seven coughed and wheezed in the dusty silence
Taslin was the first to break the quiet. “Asson!” she cried, falling to her knees beside the battered old man. His foot had become a pool of blood. She slipped into a healing chant, laying her hands upon Asson’s forehead.
Slip scurried to the fallen mage and, bypassing chants and ritual, sent a flow of healing into him. Asson shivered, gave a ragged cough, and started breathing more regularly. Taslin looked at her, startled, but nodded in thanks.
Davoren groaned and rose. His face was shredded—three furrows ran from lip to brow. His eye had been spared by the space of a few lashes. “Don’t all bow at once.”
“What’re you talking about?” Slip asked.
“’twas my power that saved you all,” Davoren growled. “Have you forgotten?”
No reply arose from any of them.
Twilight stared at the fallen wight that had wounded Davoren. Her eyes went to its dropped battle-axe, then back to its agony-stricken face. She heard rasping—not like breathing, but more like growls through a shredded throat. Then the thing moved, she thought, itching one great hand toward its weapon. “Lie,” it said. “Lie.”
Twilight shook.
“Oh … look.” Davoren grinned. He lifted one gray hand toward the ceiling and fire, red like blood, danced along his fingers. He snapped the hand down, and the wight’s head exploded, spattering Twilight’s face. She didn’t flinch—just watched him die again.
“’Light?” a hand closed on her elbow. “Are you well?”
“Away from me!” She threw Liet off. The youth staggered back, stunned.
Davoren smiled and gave her a look as pointed as his teeth.
What seemed the length of a bell later, Twilight sat on one of the sarcophagi in the empty room, spinning Betrayal’s hilt between her hands. The steel made a soft hiss against the stone. It was vaguely comforting.
Slip and Taslin had seen to healing the others. Gargan and Asson required the most attention, having taken grievous injuries. Asson had lost one of his feet and was coughing and retching horribly. For his part, Gargan had borne the brunt of the wights’ fury, and though he said nothing, the goliath could barely stay upright from fatigue and weakness.
Taslin could heal wounds, but she did not have the magic to restore a damaged spirit—to wipe away the wights’ touch. The halfling was remarkable in her healing, seeming able to cast any of the sacred spells she desired as she needed them. The others found this curious, but none questioned. They were just pleased to be alive.
Asson needed much healing, and his old body hadn’t done well. Nothing could cure his stump of a leg. If he had limped and breathed heavily before, he would be a wreck to travel with in his current condition. Taslin bore him shakily to the wall, where he could rest, then knelt at his side for a long while, patting his hand.
Meekly, Liet crept up to sit with Twilight, his hands clenching and unclenching.
“The way you distracted that wight just by shouting,” Twilight said without looking. “How did you manage that? Latent magical talent? Favored of a god?”
“I know not,” Liet said with a shrug.
Twilight listened closely. It was not a lie.
“My thanks,” said the youth after a moment.
“For what?”
“Saving my life,” he said.
Twilight bristled. Whether it was resentment at the risk that saving him had brought her, or embarrassment that the others were watching, or annoyance because it was too easy to hear his gratitude, she couldn’t say. Twilight looked at him venomously. “It’s what you asked of me, isn’t it?”
Liet’s eyes widened and he stood up. Whether out of respect or hurt, he made no sign. After a breath, he padded away.
“You’re hurt,” came a soft, feminine voice, startling Twilight. She looked up and Taslin stood before her, her hands folded at her waist. Of course the sun would come to see if she needed healing.
The shadowdancer shook her arm. “A nick. Hardly worth worrying about.”
“The wight’s draining touch … Slip’s power to heal a damaged spirit—”
“Save it for someone who needs it,” Twilight said, interrupting her. Her eyes remained distant—staring at the object of her malice.
Taslin saw, on the other side of the room, similarly isolated from the others, that Davoren sat glaring at Twilight. The girl returned the gaze in kind, spinning her sword with more conviction than before. Red-black blood still smeared her cheek. Perhaps she was not such a child after all.
The priestess glided cautiously to Davoren’s side. The warlock sat slumped, his face still a flood of gore. He didn’t look up as she approached.
“Davoren,” she said. No reply. “I have come to heal you. Corellon’s gifts …”
“Are neither required nor desired,” the warlock said icily. He spat, and blood dripped from his lips. He shifted and winced in pain. “Be gone, and take your feeble tricks with you. I care nothing for the whimsy of a naïve, spoiled god or his whores.”
The blasphemy rankled, but Taslin suppressed her anger. She turned on her heel and walked two steps, then stopped.
“I … I’ve also come to … thank you, Davoren,” Taslin said. “You saved Asson and myself, and for that you have my grat—”
“I don’t want your sniveling gratitude.” He still stared at Twilight.
Taslin stiffened. A hand went to her sword, but it would be dishonorable to draw on a foe in such pitiable state. “What do you desire, then?” she asked.
“Your respect or your fear,” Davoren said. “I don’t much care which.”
“You shall have neither,” Taslin said. Her hand tightened on the hilt. “Ever.”
There was a pause.
“Well, then,” Davoren said. “Go back to your decrepit sack of bones, and leave me in peace from your whining. Have I earned that much?”
As Taslin walked away, she decided she hated him.
They made camp in the ruined mausoleum where they had fought the wights. They could have pushed on, but all were tired and Asson needed rest badly. He also begged for time to study his grimoire.
Leaving Taslin in charge, Twilight and Slip—the least wounded and stealthiest of the bunch—searched the other rooms of the crypt, but found them cleared of any residents. They chose not to disturb any of the sarcophagi, lest they discover more defenders. Had Twilight been alone, she might have done just that to see what treasures she might find, but she had a band of squabblers to look out for. And after Arandon, her heart wasn’t in it.
In the
ir search of the crypt, the women found little more than dust and ash, a great many claw marks, and a series of runes carved on the walls and sarcophagi, filled in with something that looked like dried blood. They looked much like the symbol they had seen earlier on the stairs, but Twilight prevented Slip from springing any traps.
By the time they return, Twilight and Slip found the others engaged in a familiar activity: bickering. A part of her supposed it wasn’t so bad—they couldn’t be panicked and fearful if they were busy. Still, it grated.
“If not for me, none of you would be alive,” growled Davoren. His face was still horribly cut, but the bleeding had subsided. It made him even uglier.
“And if not for Corellon’s might,” countered Taslin, “the first rush of those creatures would have overwhelmed us and slain you. Your art could hold only so many.”
Davoren seized on the approaching elf and halfling for more bolts to loose. “If your accursed cave shrimp had paid attention, I would have destroyed them all.” He clenched his fist. “If you blade swingers knew your role and served your purpose—”
“Hey,” cried Slip. “I’m no one’s accursed cave shrimp but my own!”
Twilight wasted no breath protesting the argument.
Instead, she walked into their midst and shoved Taslin bodily away. The sun elf staggered, dumbfounded. Twilight put a finger in her face. “’twas your insults that took us off our guard,” she said. “Asson’s injury is your fault. Take responsibility for your own actions, sun.”
Taslin stared.
“And Davoren,” Twilight said. “Try and focus, if your little mind can stand it, on the matter at hand, lest something more than scarring befalls you next time.”
His gray face went red. “How dare you lecture me, you—”
She unsheathed her dusky blade in the blink of an eye and leveled it at Davoren’s throat. The others flinched at her speed.
Twilight stared at him. “Care to finish that bit?”
The warlock backed down with a scowl.
“The next one of you who insults another of us loses a tongue,” Twilight said sharply. “Then a nose, then an eye, then the other. Then I get creative. Understand?”
Depths of Madness Page 6
