Depths of Madness (10 page)

Twilight found it amusing that she’d made it all the way through the corridor by sheer luck, only to fall to the last trap of all—and the most obvious.

“You’re a bitch, Misfortune,” Twilight cursed.

Then a ray of flame shot over her head and cut the sword blade from its swinging mechanism. The trap swung toward Twilight, but the blade’s weight drove it into the stone floor a hair’s breadth from her midsection.

“I take it back,” she said.

Twilight was up with a start, taking Liet’s hand. Carried by Gargan, Asson wiggled his fingers at Twilight, to show that he had fired the flame that had saved her.

Trailing smoke and dust, the seven emerged from the tunnel, leaving behind a wake of triggered traps and bolts studding the walls like porcupine quills.

Aside from sweat, hard breathing, and anxiety, none of the seven carried any marks to show for the experience, except Twilight’s single shoulder wound.

“Let me see to that for you,” Taslin offered.

Twilight flinched. ” ‘Tis nothing.”

“It could fester,” the priestess pressed. “That trap was very old.”

Twilight was tempted to point out that lockjaw from old metal was a myth, or at least an incomplete notion, but instead she conceded and turned her head aside. The priestess cast the healing, and Twilight’s torn shoulder knit itself without argument.

“Aye,” said Slip. “I’m not sure we should’ve gone this way.”

Twilight looked around at her surroundings for the first time and agreed.

They could see that the sewer did not extend far beyond the trapped corridor. Five paces from the tunnel, the carved floor gave way to natural stone. Beyond were two cave entrances,

tunnels just large enough to admit the goliath if he stooped.

To complicate the scene, a five-pace diameter tunnel of stone also cut through the chamber, its smooth walls assuring Twilight that it came from the same source as the other perfect tunnels they had found.

“I don’t know,” Davoren said. “I find the change of scenery rather refreshing. Anything but more dismal, filthy tunnels.”

“Everything’s ‘dismal,’ ‘wretched,’ or ‘filthy’ with you, aye?” Slip asked. “Do you only know three adjectives?”

The warlock’s burning eyes flicked to her. “I would advise silence, little one, before I think up a fourth—just for you.”

The halfling shivered but held her tongue.

They rested from their exertion while Twilight decided which tunnel to take. She sent Gargan and Slip to investigate the cave entrances. In the meantime, Taslin conjured a simple meal of cakes and wine for them. They sat on fallen rock debris and ate.

For a time, no one spoke. Then the priestess broke the silence.

“What manner of sword is that you carry?” Taslin asked.

Twilight gave her a nonchalant look. “A rapier.”

“It is shorter than any rapier I have seen,” the priestess said.

“She’s right,” said Liet. Twilight flashed him a warning look, but the young man spoke before she could stop him. “I’ve learned a bit about swordplay, and there’s an accepted length for a rapier. Yours is short by a full hand.”

“The gods shine!” Twilight said wryly. “Creativity.”

Slip bounded into the chamber just then. From the gleam in her eyes upon seeing the food, Twilight knew better than to ask her first what she had discovered.

“It looks more like a thinblade,” said Taslin. “An elven weapon. But it is short even for that, and too long for a smallblade.”

Asson decided to join the discussion. “And that material— I’ve never seen metal of that gray sheen. I saw what it did against

those wights—the little lick of flame, the spark of electricity. What is it?”

“Hizagkuut,” said Twilight, taking a drink of water.

“I’ve never heard of it,” said the mage.

“Neither had the dwarf who discovered it,” said Twilight. “So he did what dwarves usually do, and named it after himself.”

“Who was that?” Slip asked excitedly.

Twilight looked at her with an absolutely blank face. “Hizagkuur,” she said.

“Oh,” said Slip. “That would have been my third guess.”

“Dwarf craft?” Taslin did not bother to hide her curiosity.

“One of the first Hizagkuur weapons ever crafted in the Northland, long before the rise of Cormanthyr, in the days when elves and dwarves traded freely,” said Twilight. ” ‘Twas a commission—and not by me.”

If they were expecting more from her lips, they did not get it.

Someone cleared a throat. “Who taught you to dance the shadows?” Davoren asked mildly. “You do it so well.”

“Careful, Davoren,” Twilight said.

“We have some moments before Gargan returns,” the warlock said. “Perhaps it’s time to introduce ourselves better. For instance—what means that star on your naked back, she-elf? Why is your sword so named? ‘Betrayal’ is so charming. And I believe I heard you muttering a name in your sleep—Neveren, was it?”

Stunned, Twilight opened her mouth, but Taslin gave Davoren a warning glare, her hand falling to her own sword hilt. “She will tell you when she wishes,” she said. “If she wishes. I suggest you respect her privacy else.”

The warlock looked at her hand and scoffed. “Drawing steel against an unarmed man?” he asked. “Surely your petty Colonal would frown on such a dishonorable act.”

Davoren’s pronunciation sounded closer to a human military rank than to Corellon Larethian himself, Lord of the Seldarine. The wizard had not even bothered to disguise his provocation. Twilight might’ve taken his words as an insult, but she hated this whole bloody band far too much.

Taslin, on the other hand, went almost as pale as Twilight— remarkable, considering her complexion, which glowed like the setting sun. “How dare—?” she started, letting the words trail off into indignant snarling.

Asson took Taslin gently by the arm, and his touch startled her out of her wrath. She put her hand over his and stared coldly at Davoren.

“Still your vocal cords,” she said, “before I cut them out for you, mahri.”

“I apologize,” Davoren said. “Is my pronunciation incorrect? Such a difficult tongue.” He looked at Twilight. “And on the subject of tongues, weren’t you meant to cut hers out by now? I believe she just insulted me. Or perhaps”—his eyes glittered —”you were going to be more creative?”

Twilight slit her eyes. “Both of you,” she said. “Silence.”

“What a pity.” Davoren smiled wryly and took a drink from his wineskin. Twilight noticed at that moment that the gouges on his face seemed, inexplicably, to have healed to half their former size.

Twilight bid silent thanks to Asson. The old man looked frail and weak, but he was proving his worth at tempering Taslin’s furies.

While he lasted, of course.

Gargan returned in a short time. The goliath revealed, in curt sentences, that he had found evidence of bipedal, barefoot creatures, but he had seen none of the creatures themselves. His cave had doubled back into the rounded tunnel.

Slip eventually finished stuffing herself with Taslin’s food and described her own discoveries. She claimed to have caught sight of gray hides scuttling into the shadows—but she admitted she may have been seeing things. Her cave had led to a network of caverns and passageways, which she had chosen not to explore. On her way back, she spotted a tunnel leading upward, perhaps two spearcasts into the cave and to the right. That seized Twilight’s attention.

“We go,” she said. “I want to find the way out of these sewers by nightfall.”

“How would you know when night is?” asked Davoren. “I’ve

seen no sun, and unless you can see through hundreds of paces of solid rock, neither have you.”

“I have a sense of when the night is darkest,” she said. “You acquire one when you steal for a living. And besides”—she added, lest she be tricked into talking about her past—”Taslin’s Coronal grants spells at dawn, so she knows when the sun rises.”

Taslin turned her chin up at Davoren.

The warlock shrugged. “I see,” he said. He stood, flexing his skeletal fingers and cracking his joints with one hand. “I do not wish to sit here all ‘day.’ Let us go.”

Twilight watched him carefully. She could feel eyes boring into her back, and she was surprised to realize they were not Taslin’s. Rather, Gargan gazed at her. For some reason, she was pointedly aware of the crimson markings upon his gray skin.

Suppressing a shiver whose origin she did not understand, Twilight motioned for the others to follow the warlock.

As soon as the last of them stepped into Slip’s cave, the attack came, and it came swiftly. A dozen dull gray man-shaped forms that had at first appeared to be rocks broke away from the walls, brandishing stone axes. Coils of greasy hair hung from their scalps, and huge cracked teeth dripped yellow spittle.

Twilight needed only to see the smooth, empty depressions where eye sockets should have been to know what the creatures were. “Grimlocks,” she hissed, just before the ambushers were upon them.

Slip and Taslin were knocked down before they realized an attack was coming, swatted unconscious by the blind monsters. The others managed to draw steel, but barely in time to meet the attackers.

Davoren’s hand blazed with crimson energy and a dangerous, almost maniacal smile spread across his face. He met the first grimlock with flame. The blast shattered the creature’s chest and sent it flying back in an arc. Then the warlock moved his hands side to side, showering energy blasts all around to repel the creatures. As each blast struck a grimlock, the creature shrieked in

pain and terror, halting in its rush. Davoren couldn’t strike them all, so he dodged and fled when his fire flickered out, retreating to blast again.

Twilight ducked an axe swing and whipped out Betrayal. With her speed, she might have managed a riposte, but the grimlock charged in, bowling her over. The grimlock crushed the breath from Twilight’s body against the wall, stunning her. The creature moved to maul her, but stepped into the path of a fiery blast. Davoren shattered the grimlock’s back and its legs went limp. Twilight finished it with a thrust to the throat.

Asson managed to swing his staff in line to block an axe, which shattered the oak pole like dried firewood. The one-footed mage fell, and his attacker lunged forward, only to meet the point of Liet’s sword. The boy sent the grimlock tumbling down, but couldn’t pull his blade free in time to block a whistling axe. Abandoning his weapon, he leaped away, cursing and fleeing a stone blade.

The action gave Asson time to cast a spell from the ground. Noxious fumes roared into place around the advancing grimlocks, setting them to wheezing and sputtering. Within seconds, they hit the ground, overwhelmed by Asson’s cloud. Then the mage broke into a coughing fit and writhed, just below the vapors.

Only Gargan held his ground. Two of the sightless beasts pressed him with their axes, but he spun his battle-axe faster, snapping it back and forth like a whip. He knocked aside two slashes, then smashed the blade across a grimlock’s face, sending it toppling.

Two more leaped upon his back, holding the goliath’s arms while another of the beasts drew back an axe.

“Gargan!” Twilight shouted. She leaped to aid, but couldn’t avoid an outflung axe handle. Twilight took it in the belly and doubled over.

Beshaba, it was only a jest, she thought.

Then an axe came at her face, and she knew only darkness.

A ruby streak smashed the grimlock’s face into a bloody mist as Liet’s short sword tore its way through the nearest one. The grimlock still snarled, caught in its death throes. The Dalesman seized its throat and pushed the dying thing away as it sank to the floor. Its claws beat at him limply. Liet gasped and shuddered when it was dead.

The warlock snarled and threw out another blast, burning a fleeing grimlock. He scanned the room, searching for other breathing targets, but only two stood: the hulking Gargan, and the blood-spattered Liet. Noxious green smoke obscured half the room, but it was beginning to fade. As the cloud dissipated, Liet saw no grimlocks for Davoren to slaughter.

Davoren saw it too. “By the Nine,” said the warlock. “What a disappointment.”

“Everyone well?” Liet’s head ached where an axe handle had sttuck it. “Asson?”

The mage coughed and shimmered into visibility where he sat on the floor. “This old heart’s still beating.”

“Gargan and Davoren, you’re both well?”

“In a sense,” said Davoren. “I believe my hair was mussed.” He cracked his knuckles and smoothed the gray spikes back against his scalp. He didn’t look injured. The goliath nodded silently.

Liet didn’t see anyone else, so he called their names. “Taslin?”

No response. “Slip?”

There came a groan. “By the Mother,” the halfling’s soft voice cracked.

Gargan bent down and prodded at a small body half hidden under a grimlock. He murmured something. The halfling shook her head and sat up. She looked up at the giant man, smiled weakly, and threw her arms around his leg. Gargan blinked at her.

” ‘Light?” asked Liet. No reply.

His voice shook. “Twilight?”

Tracing a semicircle over the room with his hand, Gargan growled something in his rough tongue, and while Liet did not understand, the meaning seemed clear.

“No bodies,” Asson said, reflecting his thoughts. “Taken?”

Liet helped him up, and the old man leaned on his shoulder. Liet propped him against a wall and broke away to search the room. He saw nothing.

“Five or six escaped,” Liet said. “The elves are light.”

“My, my,” said Davoren, “how unfortunate for them.” He smiled at the halfling, who was still shaking her head. “Now, child—point us toward this upward tunnel.”

Slip rubbed her brow, where a little blood trickled down. “What?”

“No.” Asson turned to confront the warlock. Davoren’s red eyes went to the mage’s face, and he faltered but spoke up. “We can’t just aban—”

“Abandon them?” Davoren proposed. “What an excellent idea. I think such a course is the optimal one. If Tymora smiles, they will keep the creatures occupied while we make good our escape. Wenches tend to be adept at such things. If they aren’t dead already, that is.” He cracked his knuckles. “Now. Where is the tunnel?”