Doors of the Dark Read online

  Darkstone waved to his ogre guards. “Kill this bloody dwarf and capture the others. The gnome I could give two shites about.”

  Idrimel blinked in surprise when Nera suddenly appeared behind the dwarf as if from thin air, clumsily knocking into him and sending him stumbling forward, hat tumbling off his head. The dwarf just managed to save his hat from landing in the muck after tipping it up in the air off his fingertips a couple times. He secured it against his chest as though it was some precious treasure. The nearest Canician snarled at Nera, obviously startled by her presence, and raised its spear threateningly.

  “Easy there, flea bag.” Nera held her hands up innocently. She backed away toward the companions, but her eyes were on the slave master. “Sorry, my little friend, I didn’t see you down there—I was too busy being intimidated by your large ogres there. You know, you could try parking your wagons over a bit so traffic can pass. It would avoid any more unfortunate misunderstandings like these.” She put a hand to Athyzon’s and Waresh’s breastplates and tried to urge them to back down. “Don’t mind us. We were just leaving.”

  Everyone was frozen in an uneasy silence for a long moment.

  Darkstone finally settled his hat back on his head, face red with anger. “What are you stupid oafs waiting for? I gave you an order!” he bellowed at the ogres.

  The nearest ogre swung his club, a mighty blow that would have felled a mammoth had it hit. Everyone scrambled out of the way, and the huge club whooshed harmlessly past them. The second ogre lumbered up, barging the first aside with a shoulder check and bringing his club downward in a vicious swing. Athyzon shoved Idrimel out of the way, and the huge club slammed hard into the ground with a massive spray of muck. A spike from the club struck Athyzon, piercing the mail and sinking into his calf just above his greave plate. The spike lodged in the muscle, knocking him violently to the ground. The snap of bone was audible, but the paladin’s grunt of pain was muffled by the mud.

  The ogre grinned, yanking on the club and dragging the paladin through the muck toward him. He raised his club again, when Yosrick darted into view, runes glowing on the head of his warhammer. His height was perfect for the blow he delivered to the ogre’s knee. Bone crunched, and sinew tore. The beast’s knee deformed, and he fell heavily onto his side with a roar of agony.

  As the gnome drew back, Waresh lunged in and buried his axe in the beast’s skull. The club fell from nerveless fingers, and his eyes glazed over.

  “Any more of ye whoresons—” Waresh’s taunt was cut off by an arrow that lodged between his pauldron and breastplate. “Arrr… Bloody damned archers!” He gritted his teeth and snapped the arrow shaft, leaving just a couple inches protruding from his wound.

  An elf knelt on top of one of the prison wagons, smoothly nocking another arrow. The pair of Canician guards was charging the group, and the human guards now were advancing with swords, daggers, and cudgels in hand. Darkstone had fallen back and was waving and hollering for reinforcements. Idrimel guessed they were about to be outnumbered by three to one, if not more.

  Make that more since they’ve got ogres, she thought as the second ogre leaped over his fallen comrade, face flushed with rage.

  “You killed me brudder!” he roared. The huge club rose up, and Idrimel could only stare as the ogre prepared to pound her to pulp. The blow never came. Instead, the ogre’s eyes went blank with confusion. He stopped suddenly, looked around for a moment, and then wandered off, club dragging in the mud.

  “That won’t last for long. We must go now!” Endira cried. A red nimbus surrounded her head.

  Just as the elven archer was about to loose another arrow, a throwing knife appeared in his chest, sending him tumbling off the roof of the wagon. Another knife lodged in Darkstone’s shoulder blade. He screeched and dove for cover under the nearest wagon. His precious hat wasn’t fortunate enough to escape the mud as before, nor were his fancy clothes.

  “Got that little bugger,” Nera said with a nasty grin. “Time we get out of here!” She waved at everyone to flee.

  The half-elf with the eye patch stabbed at Nera with his short sword, but Arron intercepted him, parrying his blade away and running him through.

  Idrimel ducked as one of the Canicians stabbed at her. She swung her mace and scored a glancing blow off the shaggy dogman’s thigh. He growled and stabbed again, but she blocked with her shield and slammed him on the arm. His growls turned to a squeal of pain, and his spear arm sagged, useless. After a moment, he switched the spear to his other arm.

  Suddenly, Idrimel was struck blind. She cried out in shock, stumbling away, her vision turned to blackness.

  A hand seized her by the upper arm.

  “Come on, we need to flee. They are too many!”

  She recognized Nera’s voice. After a moment, from the curses and cries around her, she realized she wasn’t the only one who couldn’t see.

  Of course, it’s a darkness spell of some sort!

  After half a dozen paces, the darkness abruptly vanished. Yosrick was a few steps ahead of them, trying to prop up Athyzon, who was hopping along on his unwounded leg. The sight of the gnome, half the paladin’s height, trying to assist him would have almost been comical, had her brother not been injured.

  Idrimel rushed over and laid her hands on Athyzon, chanting a powerful healing spell granted by Sol. Her hands glowed with healing energy, and after a moment, the bone knit back together and the wound closed. His face, although covered in mud, relaxed from the reprieve of pain.

  “My thanks, Sister.”

  She nodded, looking quickly around. Nera and Endira were in the lead while Arron and Waresh covered their retreat as they fled toward the outskirts of Grimdark.

  The slavers didn’t seem to have much appetite in following after the heavy losses suffered. Soon, the companions passed the last of the shanties and the perimeter of pole-mounted torches at the edge of the town.

  They entered the cavernous darkness of the Deep Roads.

  Chapter 15

  “What did I say about making a ruckus?” Nera shook her head. “You lot are as bad as Arron.”

  “I wasn’t even there! I was with you the whole time,” Arron protested, trying to look innocent across the campfire.

  The companions had stopped a couple miles outside of Grimdark at a spot that was clearly used often for a campsite. Deep wagon tracks marred the moist dirt, and manure from horses and arrvak was scattered around the area, as well as the remains of a good-sized campfire. A mutual decision was made to camp and rest and recuperate. Fortunately, a few half-burned logs had remained, which they were able to reignite.

  After a moment, a slow grin stole over Nera’s face. “Well, we did make it out of there alive.”

  “Aye, that we did, lass,” Waresh agreed. He was swiveling his arm around, no longer in pain from the arrow wound after Idrimel had removed it and healed him. Besides Athyzon’s leg wound, the others had sustained only minor cuts and bruises.

  “And…” Nera paused dramatically to get everyone’s attention. She held up a fat velvet coin purse. “We came out of it a little better off.”

  “Where’s that from?” Arron asked.

  “That little piss-stain dandy of a dwarf. Serves him right to lose his profits off slaving. Will cost him even more to pay for healers and to hire more guards.” She held open the purse so they could see the fat gold coins filling it.

  “Too bad he wasn’t put out of commission for good,” Idrimel said quietly. When her brother raised his eyebrows, she replied, “Sol frowns on the enslavement of one’s fellow men.”

  Athyzon nodded. “Yes, but it’s not our place to set things right in this forsaken place. We have our own quest to attend to.”

  “Aye, that we do,” Nera added. “We were fortunate that innkeep knew where to find this Dron Reach.” She pulled a small piece of parchment from one of the pouches on her belt and unrolled it. Menlo, the innkeep, had been more than happy to sketch out a quick map after being prompted with a
couple silvers, which Nera considered blatant robbery, but she was forced to admit they were in a hurry so had haggled only halfheartedly. Arron hadn’t seemed much interested in the negotiation, leaving her to it.

  It’s fortunate we didn’t tarry any longer since they obviously can’t be left alone without starting a ruckus.

  Yosrick looked up with interest. The gnome knelt on the ground, his gauntlets, boots, hammer, and shield neatly laid out before him. He had been muttering arcane commands for the past several minutes as he re-enchanted his gear following the battle.

  “How far to the crossroads?” Endira asked.

  “He wasn’t sure where this Order of Peraphrax is, exactly, but says if we’re lucky then we’ll make it to the Dron Reach in three days. He heard tell of a temple in those parts, which sounds promising.” Nera took a drink from her waterskin.

  Waresh grunted. “And if we’re unlucky?”

  “If we’re unlucky, then we’ll have to deal with wandering monsters and bandits known to set ambushes between these great caverns here, which he says are the Ulm Caverns,” Nera said, pointing at the map, “and the Dron Reach, which is a ways off the well-traveled routes.”

  “Good,” Waresh said. “I was afraid I’d get bored from all the walking.”

  Nera rolled her eyes. Three days of walking is too damned slow, but as long as we don’t run into any more trouble, then that will be fine with me. Sabyl, please let us find Malek before it’s too late.

  ***

  Waresh sat beside the dimming coals of the campfire, lost in thought as he kept solitary watch. His companions were rolled up in their cloaks around the fire, and soft snores reached his ears. Despite Nera’s insistence on making haste, the group had decided to rest for the night in order to cover a great deal of ground the following day. They were weary from the trying march across the surface of Yuez’hite and the battle in Grimdark.

  Nera stirred nearby, muttering something in her sleep. She turned over, her face troubled as if in the grips of some bad dream.

  At first, Waresh had thought it laughable that the rogue would have the mettle to lead them off a sealed-off Nexus and onward to the Gray Lands in search of some mage who she believed could help them—not to mention the lunacy the Solites and gnome believed about going to the Abyss and retrieving the mythical Engineer. Waresh had only hoped to escape Nexus and his sentence, eventually hoping this Malek or some other mage could free him from his thrice-damned collar.

  Yet here they were, well on their way. He had to admit he admired the rogue’s pluck and attitude. She had proven competent in a fight and hadn’t broken and run as most rogues he had known would’ve. Perhaps there is some truth to Idrimel’s foolish claims that Nera is the one meant to restore Nexus and save the multiverse, or however that blather went.

  He realized he had come to miss the companionship of a party united in their duties, having worked solitary as a retrieval officer for so long. The days he’d spent on the road as a caravan guard, and before that with the ill-fated expedition, had been enjoyable periods in his life, at least up until Dammerfang and the bitter end.

  His thoughts of the expedition caused his eyes to turn back to Heartsbane, resting on his lap. The light of the embers shone along the axe’s wicked edge as if it were imbued with hellfire. He rubbed a damp rag along the crack where the head met the haft, worrying at some dried bit of ogre brain that had crusted there.

  The battle with the slavers in Grimdark had been brief, fortunately. Heartsbane’s siren call hadn’t been as intense as he knew it would have been had the battle gone on for more than a short couple minutes. As it was, the magical darkness that had descended over them surprised him and helped to loosen the axe’s grip enough to help him win that unseen battle, a silent and solitary one he fought each time he wielded the axe.

  A soft clatter in the darkness drew his attention, and he leapt to his feet, crossing the fire and putting it at his back so his eyes could readjust. He stood for a long moment, watching and listening, but heard nothing. Eventually, he decided some small animal was likely scurrying on its way through the night.

  Resuming his seat, he lay Heartsbane down on the stone ground beside him. He was underground again for the first time in years, and the darkness and weight of all the earth around him were comforting. I hadn’t realized how long it has been that I’ve been on the run now—too damned long. Would that I could end it and save me clan some small amount of honor. The thought of crawling back home like a beaten dog and submitting to his sister’s judgment crossed his mind as it was wont to do from time to time.

  Sioned. I’m sure the hold is in good hands now, likely much better off than it would’ve been in me hands. He thought sadly of his sister’s bright eyes, which gleamed like polished chrysolite, her curly auburn hair, and her quick smile. Aye, if ever I see her face again, it’ll be right before the headsman shortens me permanently.

  Waresh leaned back as the embers faded and remembered.

  ***

  He stood before a sturdy wooden door edged with iron bands and covered with protective runes, but he feared them not. The door would still be barred from the inside, but as a prince of the mountain hall, he knew the command words to deactivate the runes.

  “Thromble et nakingung,” Waresh commanded in Dwarven. The cool, glowing blue runes faded until they matched the color of the dull iron bands.

  He pushed on the door, but as he’d suspected, it was barred. That door, leading to his family’s private chambers, he had entered many times as a child and later as a younger man. The pair of household guards he had just slain were bleeding out on the floor a couple paces away.

  Heartsbane pulsed in his hand, and the war drums resumed their booming in his head, even more commandingly than earlier. His vision tinged red again. He would not find peace until he had finished what he had started.

  Gain their respect—slay the king and seize the throne. He didn’t know if the thoughts were his own or those of Heartsbane, but it mattered not. He must obey them.

  With a cry, Waresh raised the axe overhead and sent it crashing into the door with all his might. The wood splintered and cracked. A tug removed the axe, revealing a ragged crack in the wood.

  Waresh put his eye to the crack and peered inside the chamber, his face twisted into a bloodthirsty leer. Words could not describe the fear and anguish on the faces of his family inside as he prepared to murder them.

  More blows followed, how many he did not know, but soon enough, the door was a splintered ruin. He kicked out the lower panel and ducked through and into his parents’ chambers.

  “Stop this madness, Son! I command ye as yer father! And as yer king!” Bhalkam Hammerhelm stood protectively in front of his wife, Runarria. His father was still powerfully built despite his advancing years, with only a slight stoop to his back. His dark eyes blazed with anger above his bushy gray beard, and he held his mighty warhammer, Fiendcrusher, the Hammer of Kings, in a steady hand.

  Waresh strode across the room, stopping a few paces away. “This is how it must be,” he growled.

  “Ye don’t have to do this, me son,” Runarria pleaded. “Please, lay down the axe. Yer father will abdicate if that will stop ye from continuing on this course to damnation.”

  Mother, I don’t want to hurt anyone—help me! His voice cried out pitiably in the background of his mind, but the booming drums of bloodshed drowned it out. Tears ran freely down Waresh’s face, and his hands trembled, but the call of Heartsbane would not be denied.

  Bhalkam glanced at his wife sharply at her offer that he abdicate. Some understanding passed between them, and he turned back to Waresh, shoulders slumping. “Please, Son. Do as yer mother asks. There has been enough bloodshed in this stronghold—our people already are filled with sorrow after that cursed expedition. I will step aside and let ye take the throne of the Silver Anvil Hall if that’s what it will take to end this madness.” His eyes flickered to Heartsbane.

  “I… cannot… I’m sorry,”
Waresh managed to say before his conscious thoughts were trampled to the background. Reiktir will damn me to the Abyss for this! He grimaced and watched the axe raise in front of him as if wielded by another. “This must be done before I can rest peacefully.”

  “I wish Reiktir would have turned ye aside from that path to Torval’s Hold where Dammerfang reigned. Yer mind is no longer yer own. Ye have become Belgond’s butcher.” Bhalkam raised his hammer in hands. “Go now, my love. Escape through the tunnels and see that our daughter doesn’t have to witness such evil.”

  Sioned… is she here? I have not seen her for years. His sister had been sent away several years prior, to join the service of Reiktir’s Shining Blades, the dwarven god’s order of paladins. He tried to follow that thought, but it was scattered like a wisp of smoke by the crimson haze. His ears heard a cold, emotionless voice coming from far away, and he belatedly realized it was his own.

  “There will be no escape. I have blocked the tunnels. Even now, they are filled with poisonous fumes from the fires I lit. Stand and face yer end by me hand.”

  Bhalkam’s face changed from sadness and pity to anger. “Ye are not me son—ye are a monster enslaved to Belgond and that cursed weapon. I disown ye, Waresh Hammerhelm! Sioned will become the Lady of Silver Anvil Hall after me death. And may Reiktir damn ye to the Abyss!”

  Unable to bear any more conversation, Waresh attacked.

  ***

  Waresh roused from his reverie with a start. He grimaced at the remembered pain of slaying his parents, the heartbreaking torment of being unable to stay his own hand. The red haze had not been merciful enough to veil his eyes. Instead, he remembered every bitter detail about that cursed night. He sniffled and wiped the moisture leaking from his eyes at the memories.