Temple Hill (27 page)

“Traps, but no guards,” Fendel said once he had stuffed the ladder back into his enchanted sack. “It’s possible Xiliath knows about this tunnel but hasn’t shared his secret with anyone else. If he’s ever cornered, or betrayed by his own people, he’ll always have one last escape route he knows won’t be blocked.”

Again, Corin agreed with Fendel’s assessment. Maybe luck was with them. If Xiliath hadn’t even told his guards about the passage, it might be possible to sneak in and out without ever being noticed.

“Here,” Fendel said, producing one of the walking sticks from his bag and handing it to Corin. The sturdy staff was about four feet long, several inches around, and made of a light, gnarled wood. Sturdy, yet fairly light. Many of the older citizens of Elversult used such things, leaning on them to help support their feeble joints as they wandered the streets of the fair.

“Don’t take a step until you’ve used this to prod the way ahead of you for danger. Like this.” The gnome removed a second staff from his bag and gave a visual demonstration, striking the end firmly against the ground before advancing cautiously forward.

Corin nodded and sheathed his sword. He now clasped the wooden pole in his left hand, and the lantern in his right. Fendel’s spell had illuminated the first few yards of the secret tunnel, but the rest of the way was still unlit. However, the magical darkness that had blocked even the beams of their lanterns had been

centered over the deadly trap and didn’t extend the entire length of the passage.

Their progress was slow and tedious, the methodical search for traps a frustrating but necessary activity as they crept along the gradually sloping passage. After ten minutes they had made little headway—at this point the passage had leveled out, leaving them well below the network of the original smugglers’ tunnels. Already, Corin could feel his impatience and frustration mounting.

Half an hour later, the necessity of their tedious pace was suddenly and graphically demonstrated. The pressure of the end of the gnome’s staff on the floor unleashed a volley of darts from hidden slits in the wails. The projectiles fired from either side and embedded themselves in the opposite wall only an arm’s length ahead of Corin and Fendel.

Neither said a word, but they exchanged a quick glance to assure each other they were both unharmed. Fendel thumped the end of his staff on the floor again, but yielded no effect this time. The trap had been loaded only for a single round.

One look at the corroding, crumbling wall around the protruding darts and Corin understood why a second wave of missiles would have seemed unnecessary to the trap’s architect. The darts had been dipped in acid.

The sub-tunnel narrowed, forcing them to walk single file. Corin took the lead—despite the traps, he was still worried about running into a guard, and he wanted to be between the gnome and any potential foes. Passing his lantern to Fendel, he drew his sword with his metal arm. His other hand was wrapped firmly around the wooden staff.

Corin pressed the pace, driven by a growing sense of urgency. At the rate they were going, it would be dawn before they ever got close to Xiliath’s trophy room. He

rapped his staff in quick, staccato bursts against the floor, occasionally giving a few raps to the roof above or the walls on the side. Fendel trailed a step behind, a lantern in each hand to light the way, his own staff stashed safely in the bag.

The faint whiff of sulfur brought Corin up short. The warrior heard the clatter of Fendel dropping the lamps, then the gnome yanked Corin backward by his belt, pulling him off balance. As Corin toppled back the staff fell from his hand. His metallic limb kept a firm grasp on his sword, however.

The floor erupted in a wall of fire where Corin had been standing a moment before, incinerating the wooden pole and igniting the oil spilling out from the lanterns. Scrambling back from the heat, Corin and Fendel could only watch as the hall ahead of them flared up in a roaring inferno.

The flames lasted for less than a minute before sputtering out, casting the tunnel into utter darkness. Corin heard Fendel’s chant, and a second later the way before them was lit by the now glowing end of Fendel’s pole. In the magical light, Corin could see the melted metal casings of their lanterns.

“Sorry,” Corin said, his voice loud in the cramped passage, “I should have been more careful.”

“Maybe,” Fendel answered slowly, “but I think that was no ordinary trap. Probably a warding glyph.”

Corin nodded. Any guilt he felt about the near disaster he had caused quickly vanished. Warding glyphs were powerful magic. Fendel surely didn’t expect a simple soldier to avoid them. Corin suppressed a shudder as he realized how close he had come to a grisly death.

“I better take the lead,” the gnome advised. “If there are any more wards I might be able to spot them.”

They continued on. With the gnome in the lead the

pace was much slower than the one Corin had set. Fendel held the glowing end of his staff out far in front of him, still using it to tap and prod the way ahead while his keen eyes sought out the telltale signs of magical protections.

Despite his best efforts they stumbled right into the heart of the third trap. Neither Corin nor his gnome guide noticed the tiny symbols engraved on the rock wall as they passed, but they both heard the whoosh of air as the enchantment was sprung.

A cloud of billowing, noxious vapors materialized around them, its appearance so sudden they didn’t even have time to hold their breath. Corin dropped to his knees. He could feel the fumes burning his eyes and exposed skin. In the corner of his tear-filled vision he saw that Fendel had collapsed unconscious, succumbing to the poisonous fog almost immediately.

The brackish mist crawled down Corin’s throat and seared his lungs, but Corin hardly noticed as he struggled to keep from blacking out. He reached out with his left hand and seized Fendel’s ankle, gagging and choking on the fumes as he dragged both himself and Fendel down the tunnel, back the way they had come.

In the thick haze, he couldn’t even seen three feet ahead. He had no idea how far the cloud extended back down the tunnel. Realizing his vision was useless anyway, Corin clenched his eyes against the acrid smoke and continued to pull himself along. He felt his skin blistering from the corrosive cloud. His chest heaved as it tried to expel the contaminated air filling his lungs. Corin fought against the urge, knowing even the poisonous air in his lungs was far safer than the thickening fog that enveloped him now.

Two minutes later—limbs shaking, muscles crying out for air—Corin could hold out no longer. The trapped air

in his lungs vomited forth in a stinging spew, and his rebellious body took a long, deep breath. Instead of the agony of more poison slithering down his throat, Corin tasted only the cool, damp air of the tunnel.

With great gasps he swallowed the dank air, flooding his burning lungs and feeding his starving muscles with stale oxygen. He rolled onto his side, opened his eyes, and glanced back over his shoulder. Fendel’s glowing staff still lay on the ground behind them—he could just make out the pinpoint of its light through the brown cloud. Corin had managed to drag himself and Fendel only a short distance beyond the edge of the deadly fog, but the magic that had conjured the mist kept it tightly concentrated, and there were no signs that the vapors would spread any farther.

Hopefully it wasn’t too late. Like Corin, Fendel’s exposed skin was red, raw, and festering with sores. The warrior checked his smaller companion for some sign of breath and was relieved to find a steady rhythm of air coming in and out. He rolled the gnome onto his stomach and began to pound him on the back. After a few quick strikes the gnome wretched, hacking up long strings of black, sticky phlegm before going into a prolonged coughing fit. The warrior waited patiently for the fit to pass, grateful his guide was still alive.

“Are you all right?” Corin asked once Fendel had regained his composure. His voice was hoarse and rasping, his throat ragged and swollen from the effects of the gas.

“Ill… Ill be aD right,” the gnome answered, rubbing his own throat.

Corin rose to his feet and helped the wrinkled little man stand up as well.

“So, how do we get by this?” The billowing cloud showed no signs of dissipating.

“I can handle it,” Fendel assured him. “Just give me a moment to catch my breath.”

The gnome cleared his throat, wincing at the pain as he did so. He spat out another glob of the dark phlegm, then spoke in the arcane, indecipherable language of spellcasters.

As the magic gathered, Corin first felt, then heard, the rushing wind. It grew from a whispering zephyr to a roaring crescendo in mere seconds, the currents so strong they nearly ripped the clothes from Corin’s back as they whipped through the tunnel.

Corin’s ears popped continuously with the changing pressure in the tunnel as the force of the tempest rose, tearing great holes in the cloud, rending the fabric of the mist like the garments of a grieving mourner. The wall of fog disintegrated into mere wisps and puffs before being swept away altogether. As suddenly as it had risen, the storm broke.

The gnome stood with his hands braced on his hips, his hair tousled and tangled from the winds, his face breaking into a broad grin as the last vestiges of his spell dissolved away.

He caught Corin’s eye and gave the warrior a grin.

“I love that spell,” he said before going over and retrieving his glowing staff.

The injuries of both men were minor—a few quick healing spells from Fendel and their skin was restored to a healthy, pink-hued glow. They continued on.

“If my calculations are correct,” the gnome said after another twenty minutes of cautious, trap-free advancement, “we’re almost there. I suspect there’ll be another surprise before we get to the end, though.”

Corin’s grip on his twin swords tightened. Traps were well and good, but the warrior knew the best protection was a living, thinking guardian—whether man or beast.

If they were close to their goal, his instincts said, the last hurdle would have to be something he could fight. Trusting his instincts, Corin squinted into the shadows ahead, searching out the foe he knew was awaiting them.

They heard the guardian long before they saw it.

It began with what sounded like conversation, dozens of voices speaking simultaneously, their nonsensical chatter overlapping and merging into a single, incoherent whole. The incomprehensible din quickly rose to a deafening cacophony, reverberating throughout the narrow tunnel.

The very thoughts in Corin’s mind were pushed out of his skull by the babbling chaos. The noise grew louder as the creature approached, but Corin was incapable of cogent action. He stood slack jawed, arms dangling at his sides, staring mindlessly into the abyss from which the creature would emerge.

“Corin!” someone nearby shouted, but the name held no urgency for the enthralled warrior, its meaning swallowed up by the pandemonium emanating from the darkness.

The beast emerged from the shadows, an oozing, amorphous slime of eyes and teeth enmeshed in a squirming jelly of mushy, formless flesh. It crept across the cavern floor by extending gooey pseudopods and sticky tendrils from its amoeboid body, then pulling the rest of its gelatinous form forward. Hundreds of eyes twisted and swayed atop stalks protruding from the viscous puddle. Within the shapeless, quivering mass of runny flesh countless maws of tiny razors gnashed and wailed, producing the horrible commotion overpowering Corin’s senses.

Corin’s body took a reflexive step back. Even in his dulled and deadened state it recoiled from the repulsive, advancing specimen.

“Corin!” he heard again, yet he remained oblivious. The sharp pain of a hard slap io his cheek snapped him from his stupor. He shook his head to clear the confusion from his mind and gave a nod to Fendel to let the gnome know the stinging blow had brought him back to his senses.

“Fall back,” the gnome shouted above the clamoring uproar. “Let me take care of this!”

Corin hesitated. If combat was imminent, he should face their adversary, not the little gnome. Then he took another look at the gibbering, babbling mass of mucous-like matter. He imagined a host of the slimy protrusions snaking out toward him if he got in close enough to use his swords, engulfing his legs, wrapping around his arms, dragging him helplessly to the ground. He shuddered as his mind summoned the unbidden image of his own body immobilized by the gummy tentacles while the mass of mouths and eyes enveloped his form and devoured him alive.

He grunted at his lack of mental discipline, as he snapped out of his reverie. Attacking the horror would be a foolish proposition, he realized. How could he possibly engage it in combat? It had no arms or legs, no obvious vital organs. Slicing the thing in half might actually create a pair of independent beings, forcing him to deal with not one but two alien, unfamiliar opponents. Recognizing his own talents were useless in this situation, the soldier assented to Fendel’s order and retreated—leaving the wizened mage to his own devices.

Fendel’s hastily cast incantation conjured a wheel of burning flame, its diameter nearly as tall as the gnome himself. The wheel stood upright on the surface of the tunnel floor. With a mere point of his finger, Fendel started the wheel rolling toward the hideous entity.

A tentacle of dripping slime shot out from the thing’s

center and wrapped itself around the blazing wheel. The gooey substance of the tentacle instantly melted into bubbling liquid. The stench of searing sludge assailed Corin’s nostrils, making him retch.

The chaotic babble rose to the pitch of a scream and the creature’s form raised itself up into an oozing pillar, dozens of mouths spewing spittle and bile at the burning wheel rolling relentlessly forward. Wherever the spray struck the rock, it exploded in a burst of flashing, white-hot light, nearly blinding Corin.

But the spray from the many mouths couldn’t quench the magical flames of Fendel’s burning wheel. The monster slid backward, tendrils and pseudopods groping behind it in an effort to escape the heat. The thing was slow, much slower than the gnome’s fiery juggernaut.