Doors of the Dark Page 15

  Heartsbane gleamed beside him. Even then, he felt the urge to seize it in his hand and feel the effortless power that came over him when he wielded it. He fought off the urge and spat into the darkness.

  The embers of the campfire had died out some time before. It was likely past time to rouse Yosrick for the final watch, but he didn’t bother. No sleep would be coming for him during what remained of the night. Even if it would, he wanted no part of the nightmares it would bring.

  Chapter 16

  Malek gasped and leaned against a stone windowsill, breath ragged in his chest. His legs burned from the exertion of climbing the tower. He had so far counted over four hundred steps and had no idea how much farther to the top. The interior was unadorned. Nothing inside gave any clue as to the tower’s purpose. The stone steps remained solid despite the passage of time. They were cleanly hewn by skilled stonemasons and wound in a tight circle around the inside of the spire, disappearing into the darkness above.

  Thus far, he had managed to avoid any more undead, sparing him any more fighting. He had seen and heard the skeletons sporadically in the fog, probably a couple dozen, moving about in what he had a sneaking suspicion was a search pattern. He took his time to avoid them and eventually had to stop and find a place to sleep before making it to the center square and tower. He didn’t know if he would be able to fend them off for long if he did come across any. His magic reserve was getting critically low, and his leg still pained him, forcing him to run in a limping shuffle, even less graceful than many of the roaming undead.

  Outside the tall, narrow window, the fog was impenetrable. He could see nothing below or in the distance, only the swirling gray mist. The bottom half of the tower was dark and windowless, and the stale air had burned his lungs. At least the window offered fresher air although it had the oily dampness of the fog.

  This is foolish. I’m wasting my energy climbing this tower for no reason. If my luck doesn’t hold, the undead will trap me inside. In spite of his fears, an impetus he couldn’t understand compelled him to reach the top.

  Pushing off the wall, he resumed his climb, using the staff to take some of the weight off his wounded leg. The tower grew dim again as he moved away from the window, but after a time, he could see light spilling down from above. Whether it was from more windows or a different opening, he would soon find out.

  The light grew brighter and brighter until he had to shade his eyes. His robes clung to him, sticky with sweat, and he gasped harshly for breath, winded by the climb. Finally, he reached the top of the stairwell and was nearly blinded. He was struck speechless when he stepped out of the tower and onto a circular platform about ten paces in diameter.

  The sun shone blindingly from high overhead, and Malek had to squint his eyes after days spent in the gloom. He felt as if he’d stepped outside into the first bright sunshine after a long winter storm, blinding in its intensity and reflecting off snow-covered ground. He was heartened by simply seeing the sun and feeling its warmth on his skin.

  Once his eyes adjusted, the view made him feel as if he was standing in a lighthouse high above a storm. All around below him was a roiling sea of fog as far as the eye could see. The gray mass almost seemed to suck in and trap the light of the sun as a morass would an unlucky traveler. From his high vantage, he could feel the blight of the fog—like a smothering blanket of negative energy, a disease spread across the carcass of the land, preventing it from regenerating and regrowing anew. Whatever power controlled the undead had created the fog. He was sure of it.

  His attention was drawn to the staff. It was thrumming with energy in his hand. A powerful magic had awakened, and sunlight blazed in the many facets of the large emerald. When he focused his second sight on the staff, he gasped in awe.

  The Staff of Preservation was alive with power, fueled by the sunlight—not just any power, but earth magic, vitality. Malek gently tapped into the flow and channeled it through himself, healing the deep, festering wound in his leg. Cool power cleansed and knit the damaged muscle and tissue, and the pain receded. His aches and pains were soothed, and he felt stronger than he had in days, if not weeks. Alistor had created an artifact of great wonder.

  “Use it to heal the land.” Alistor’s last wish. If I can heal the land, I can survive here.

  The thought took root, and Malek was emboldened at having a task to tend to, a focus for his efforts besides fleeing the undead and waiting to die from starvation and thirst.

  The staff needed sunlight to power the magic. Below the fog, it would be powerless again, just an ordinary staff. He had no way of knowing if the fog covered the entire land, but he’d never make it far enough to find out. In order to heal the land, he would need to get rid of the cursed fog. To do that meant to find the source and destroy it.

  Has fate led me to this?

  He knew the task would not be easy, but his survival hinged upon his success. If he could cleanse the plague from the land, as Alistor had hoped, that would be a feat he could be proud of. He clenched the staff harder, his determination renewed.

  “If you are truly my ancestor, Alistor, I shall make you proud,” he vowed.

  ***

  Malek was trapped.

  He had spent many hours resting atop the tower, enjoying the sunshine’s warmth and watching the sun set over the horizon as he made his plans. Using the staff, he had drawn as much vitality into himself as he felt he could hold. As darkness fell, he had descended from the tower.

  Malek would have to use his power sparingly, as he suspected his destruction of the last skeleton that had attacked him had somehow drawn the attention of the dark presence behind the undead and the fog. If necessary, he could try to climb the tower again the following day to renew his energy, but he wasn’t going to count on that. Time was against him—he had run out of food the past day, and his waterskin was nearly dry. Fatigue and lack of sustenance were taking a toll. The vitality gained from the staff could only sustain him somewhat—he still needed food and drink before his body gave out.

  His suspicions about the undead seemed to have been confirmed. An intelligence was driving them. Shortly after exiting the tower, he had been herded down a narrow passage, a dead end. A toppled column blocked the road ahead.

  Somehow, the undead had found him despite his attempts to hide and avoid any he found. He had stepped foot outside the spire for mere minutes before they began pursuing him. Like a disturbed anthill, the inner city was now swarming with skeletons. At first, a few at a time had appeared, then a score or two, then a hundred. He didn’t doubt there were likely thousands, all being drawn toward him, guided by some dark master.

  The stitch in his side shot painful cramps through his abdomen, and he struggled to fill his lungs with air as he ran from the undead pursuing him.

  Desperately, he scanned the way ahead, looking for a path through the blockage. He might’ve been able to climb over it had he more time, but a quick glance over his shoulder revealed the tireless undead just a few paces behind. In his weakened state, he knew he wouldn’t make it. He could picture the skeletons’ bony fingers clamping onto his legs and dragging him down, screaming, into their mass, where their splintered teeth would tear him apart piece by piece.

  No. I won’t die like that. I must fight or die, and that means using the power.

  Malek lurched to a stop, his breathing harsh, and turned to face the undead. Over the noise of his ragged breathing, the skeletons approached in a silent mass, the only sound the clattering of their bony feet on the cobblestones. A few loose pieces of metal jingled, from scraps of armor or jewelry adorning them.

  Nearly two score skeletons pursued him, crowding into the narrow lane as they moved at a brisk lurching shuffle, just feet away. He knew many more were in the vicinity. The lead skeleton must have been a warrior in life, for it wore a dented helm and greaves that rattled around on its shins. It held a rusty longsword in its hand.

  Malek summoned the power inside and focused it, picturing a huge ba
ttering ram of force. The energy warmed him as it thrummed through his veins, temporarily giving him a boost of strength and clarity of mind. He released it as the warrior skeleton raised its sword to strike him from a couple paces away.

  The force hit Malek’s pursuers with bone-crushing force. The warrior skeleton was blasted into bone fragments. The armor pieces and sword ripped through the rest of the horde, propelled by his battering ram of force. The rest of them were pulverized to bone splinters. The sound of their destruction was that of a sudden hailstorm as the bone fragments rained onto the street, amidst a few scattered clangs of armor pieces.

  Malek slumped back against the fallen column, finally able to catch his breath as the cramp in his side faded. He took stock of his situation and knew immediately it wasn’t good.

  He had released a substantial amount of power in destroying the skeletons. He couldn’t return to the tower until the next day to try to acquire more vitality through the staff. Whatever force had animated the skeletons was surely now aware of his presence.

  He wouldn’t last until morning.

  With a deep breath, he clambered atop the ruined column blocking the lane. Mercifully, the way ahead was momentarily clear of undead. He dropped down on the other side and continued onward in his search for whoever or whatever was the current master of Valirial.

  Chapter 17

  Arron sidled up beside Nera. He motioned for them to drop back a few paces from the party. She glanced sideways at her brother, noting he seemed anxious. He’s been acting strange ever since he escaped the dungeons.

  “What’s on your mind, Brother?” She stopped for a moment, watching the others continue on.

  They had been walking for what she guessed to be eight or so hours after having broken camp that morning. Endira noticed their absence and glanced back curiously after a few paces, but Nera waved her on.

  “A team of galloping oxen could pass more silently through a glassblower’s shop, eh Sister?” Arron clapped Nera on the shoulder, and they resumed walking.

  Arron spoke the truth. With the exception of Endira, the other companions could’ve raised the dead with their noise. The two followers of Sol and especially Yosrick and Waresh clattered and clanked their way along. Mail jingled, buckles creaked, boots scuffed on the ground, and loose pebbles were kicked and rattled off in the darkness as the group made their way through the immense cavern. Nera grinned at the comparison. She didn’t know if oxen could actually gallop, but the mental image was amusing.

  “Aye, that they could. But you know that very few can move as quietly as us when we want.”

  “Truly spoken. I fear whatever lurks in these caverns won’t have any trouble springing an ambush if they are inclined to.” She noticed his eyes were constantly probing the darkness for any signs of trouble. They walked in silence for a few paces before Arron spoke again. “So you truly think Malek is in the Gray Lands?”

  Nera nodded. “Aye, Endira picked up an impression from the Pale Lord’s mind during the battle before Malek was banished. I don’t know how their mind-bender abilities work, but I believe her. I could feel some odd feedback when he tried to probe my mind, so I’m sure she could discern much more than I. It makes sense, anyway, since the Pale Lord sealed off all the corruptors in the Gray Lands before that world died.”

  Arron’s grim look showed that he thought their likelihood of success was very low, but he was kind enough not to say so.

  Unable to resist the impulse, she reached up and touched the heavy silver ring seated on her horn. She didn’t want to think of the implication Arron obviously had already considered—that Malek had been gone nearly a week, likely without enough food and water, not to mention weakened and wounded from the battle.

  Arron caught her gesture, and his face softened, green eyes twinkling. “You have feelings for him, don’t you?”

  Nera felt her face go hot. “Nonsense. That green mageling never paid up for the last couple days he owed me, that’s all. I think that’s the least he can do—we can’t quite go back home and forget this ever happened, right?”

  “If that’s what you tell yourself to sleep better at night,” Arron said with a smug grin that irritated her to no end.

  She stomped on Arron’s foot, and he yelped, hopping away. She grinned to herself and lengthened her stride to catch up to the others.

  “Nera, wait! No hard feelings.” Arron fell into step beside her once again, his bruised foot evidently forgotten. “Let me take a look at this Bracer of Fellraven for a moment.”

  She eyed him askance. He tried to act nonchalant, but a glint in his eyes betrayed his keen interest.

  “It looks the same as the last time you saw it. Why so interested?”

  Arron shrugged. “I just thought perhaps you should try it again… Would save us from traipsing around in the dark for days and likely blundering into a trap.”

  “Aye… perhaps we should. I’ll try again once we stop to rest.”

  They caught up to the others and continued on for another hour before Idrimel called a halt. Nera took the opportunity to drink from her waterskin and chew a piece of salted meat. She saw Arron watching her and nervously fingered the pouch containing the bracer. Instinctively, she knew it would fail just as it had the last time she tried to open a portal to the Gray Lands. She was spared from failing to activate the artifact again by the priestess.

  “I sense a darkness out there.” Idrimel paused, holding her holy symbol aloft and turning as if trying to pinpoint the source of her concern.

  “Can ye be a tad more specific, lass? We are surrounded by darkness deep underground, in case ye hadn’t noticed,” Waresh quipped.

  Arron and Yosrick chuckled. Nera smiled but watched the priestess uneasily, one hand on Lightslicer’s hilt.

  “Something is there… lying in wait, perhaps a few hundred paces in that direction.” Idrimel pointed ahead and to their left.

  Most of them could see well enough in the gloom, which was abated by the faint illumination given off by glowing moss on the walls and ceilings. Runes carved into the ground or boulders along the way marked the road—not that it was hard to miss as it was a flat expanse mostly over stone worn smooth from countless feet, hooves, and wheels over the years, broken only by shallow puddles of water collecting from the dripping ceiling.

  Endira closed her eyes for a moment. When she reopened them, she seemed concerned. “I sense them as well. I brushed their intellects only briefly, to avoid alerting them to our presence, but discovered enough. Dark elves—we would be wise to prepare in case they sense our presence as well.”

  The nervous companions unsheathed weapons and waited, but the band of dark elves seemed content to wait them out. Tense minutes slipped by with no sign of them.

  “Perhaps they have no interest in attacking us?” Idrimel suggested. “They could be simply camped out.”

  “Let us take a wide berth around them and avoid combat if possible.” Athyzon let go of Redeemer’s hilt and looked around at each of them. “Who will scout out a path?”

  “I will,” Nera volunteered, eager to be doing something besides waiting nervously. “Wait here and try to keep your noise below that of charging cavalry.” She rolled her eyes at the innocent looks on the faces of the mail-clad warriors. Pulling the cowl of her cloak down low, she disappeared into the darkness.

  A field of stalagmites rose from the ground on the right side of the path. She slipped through them, avoiding the pools of water, and made her way silently ahead. The floor sloped up, and she gained some higher ground as she continued.

  After a couple hundred paces, she spotted a choke point ideal for an ambush. The road narrowed due to a stony ridge jutting out to the left, while a large pool of water that looked to be fairly deep extended out of sight along the right side. As anticipated, she spotted the group of dark elves a short distance beyond the choke point. She counted eight of them but couldn’t be sure if any more were about, not wanting to risk approaching too close. They had n
o fire, sitting in a close group atop a small rise that provided a good view of the road below. Several warriors sat calmly, swords on their laps. A cowled mage appeared to be meditating while a pair of archers kept watch in both directions.

  Bandits? Nera pressed herself tightly against the thick stalagmite beside her when the nearest archer seemed to gaze right at her. They had chosen the ideal spot—they had the high ground, and sneaking around them would be virtually impossible, especially with her noisy group of warriors. She thought they must be formidable indeed for such a small group if they sought to take on some of the heavily armed wagon caravans. Or mayhap they are waiting for some easier prey—foolish adventurers like us to stumble into their trap.

  “Endira.” She sent the thought out to the elf, hoping she would hear her. “A small group of what look to be bandits lies in wait ahead. We won’t be able to avoid a fight if that is what they seek.”

  “Nera, your sending abilities have become quite adept,” came the elf’s cool reply, tinged with surprise, in her mind. “I will relay that to the others. What do you advise?”

  Nera considered a moment. Although no tactician, she thought the choke point could work to their advantage also. It would prove fatal for a wagon caravan, which couldn’t maneuver and could only meet the attackers with a narrow front of warriors, but for a small group like theirs, that shouldn’t be an issue. They wouldn’t be able to be flanked if the dark elves had greater numbers hidden out there, and the ridge provided some shelter from the archers and area-affecting magic spells.

  “Proceed ahead. When you reach a choke point between a large pool and a ridge of stone, they will be ahead about fifty paces atop the rise in the road. Expect a mage, a pair of archers, and five or so warriors. Tell the giantess light should work to our advantage during the fight. I’ll try to distract the mage.”

  “We’ll try to approach stealthily so they won’t have too much time to prepare.” The elf must have picked up Nera’s amusement at the thought, for she added, “Stealthily being a relative term in their case. Let me know when you are ready to unveil your distraction.”