“An Oath and a Half”
By Tom Tinney
©2018 Tom Tinney and PiR8 productions
Any Resemblance to persons, Living, Dead, or Undead, is Purely Coincidental. Seriously…it’s not about you
“This shite is getting old”, Danbil Underburrow muttered as he worked the locking mechanism to the most recent trap door his party had encountered. In a mocking tone, he continued talking to himself “You’re a halfling so you know how to burgle, right? Locks is what you people do, right? Racist jerks. Believe everything they heard ‘bout halflings without ever having met me, will ya’? Well, buckos, not every fuggin’ furry-footed vertically challenged citizen of the realm is a thief or ever touched a pick!”
His ministrations produced a click, and whir, from the trip mechanism, locking the trapdoor in place.
His elven companion, called Furunaril, stuck his head down into the trap builders’ access tunnel.
“Good job, Halfling. You’re a fine example of your people’s capabilities. Excellent burgling!”
Danbil sighed and hung his head in exasperation. “Dammit. I really hate those loudmouthed story tellers from the South. They’ve ruined it for all of us, with their dragons under mountains and magic rings into volcanos bullshite.”
The middle-aged halfling backed out of the narrow tunnel, shimmying on his elbows and toes. Eventually he was near the entry and the leader of their hastily recruited band, Sir Erik of Arcem Veritatis, reached in to grasp his ankle, easily pulling him out of the confined space.
The efforts in the builder’s tunnel had made Danbil the equivalent of a halfling chimney sweep brush, and a cloud of dust erupted with him as he was withdrawn. He sneezed. The rest of the party tensed and looked intently down the darkened corridors to see if the noise had drawn any attention.
Danbil didn’t care. That’s the reason adventurers travelled in parties, to deal with various nasties that prowl places like their current location, the Catacombs of Wisdondor.
“What, no Gods bless you?” Danbil asked as he looked at his companions and slapped at his leather tunic, stirring more dust.
“Lower you voice, Master Underburrow, please,” Sir Erik chided, tilting his head while cupping his hand over his helm-covered ear. “Lest we attract more minions of this dark and evil place. We should embrace the silence.”
The Paladin was a pain in the ass. Sir Erik had been in the Dwarven city-state of OakenFort to seal the cessation of hostilities with its rival city-state to the west, IronHinge. Dwarves, and their notoriously thin skins, were always embroiled in a lot of bloodshed and vendettas. They warred and fought over the stupidest things.
“Idiots,” Danbil thought as he remembered the announcement of the armistice and the cheering crowds, mostly made up of dwarves from both cities. The gathering throng spontaneously broke into hundreds of fist fights and group brawls over still unsettled personal and family rivalries. But the leaders didn’t join in. They knew the consequences. The Paladin was a stone-protector and keeper of the Word for the Order of Truth. The leaders swore to uphold the treaty, they’d spent months constructing, on the Oathstone Sir Erik brought to the ceremony.
“You’ll never hear me swear the words unto death for any man, woman, or cause,” Danbil had told an innkeeper as the armistice had been announced. Then some bad turns at dice, and placards, and a few scant hours later, he’d sworn exactly that.
He’d met Sir Erik, packing his Order’s tithe for performing the ceremony, when he’d walked through the inn’s doors just in time to save Danbil from a thorough, and extended, beating over the winnings he owed to a group of dwarven mead brewers
The halfling had pegged them for easy marks. He’d been wrong.
“Whoever heard of sober mead brewers?” Danbil had thought at the time, as multiple fists rained down on him.
The shiny-armored Paladin had stepped in to stop the beating, offering to cover the debt if Danbil joined him on a little adventure.
“…shall quest with thee to retrieve the relic, as payment for my debt, ending before that upon your spoken release, your death at the hand of another or my death,” he’d said, his hand, and Sir Erik’s, touching the Oathstone.
“Lost in thought again, you sweet diminutive man?” their effeminate Elven cohort asked, his voice musically pleasing, but oozing a forced sexual undertone. He was almost as big a pain in the ass as Sir Erik.
“Lost? No. Reflecting on my poor life choices and even poorer companions,” Danbil replied, finger rooting in his ear to remove additional dirt.
“Buck-up, little man,” the elf replied, as he walked by Danbil, patting him on the head in passing. “That big beautiful of man is moving, so it’s time to go.”
“Aye, dwarf, there’s no glory or riches sitting on our arses,” said Cruinntóin, a barbarian woman wearing three tiny-pieces of chainmail that barely covered her ample breasts, and genitals region, but not much more.
“For the hundredth time, you big breasted, scantily-clad small-minded savage, I’m not a dwarf!” Danbil said through gritted teeth, looking at the woman, torch in her one hand, sword in the other.
Her face had two long scars, one near her cheek, the other on her forehead, from previous encounters, but the rest of her skin was smooth, and from shoulder to ankle she bore no old wounds. Danbil knew that it since he could literally see almost all of her bare body at any given time, except what was covered by the strategically placed, and scant, chainmail.
“Why, in his name that shall not be spoken, would you wear that to fight in?” Danbil asked, his open palms making a sweeping gesture from her broad shoulders to her bare feet.
“Why indeed? Just keep staring, dwarf, because you won’t be touching without losing a hand,” she said as she pointed her sword at him and then towards Sir Erik’s back. “Besides, why would I settle for a half, when the whole is right there in front of me?”
“Not a dwarf,” Danbil muttered for the one-hundred and first time.
“Dear lady,” the elf interrupted, speaking over his shoulder. “You must certainly know that men of Sir Erik’s order take a vow of celibacy while carrying the stone, right?’
“Why do you pursue him then, pointy ears?” She barked.
“Because, dear,” Furunaril replied, looking her up and down, shaking his head. “I like a challenge.”
“Pffft,” she replied, but Danbil noticed that she stared after the elf, appraising him with an equally interested gaze.
The Halfling donned his travelling pack and set off after the other three, overtaking them and walking beside Sir Erik, jogging three steps to his one. Sir Erik, clad in shining armor with symbolic scrollwork, carried a hand drawn map, with markings identifying traps and secret doors. One of the halfing’s jobs was to keep an eye for signs of any additional ones they might run across.
The party of adventurers, Paladin, Elf, Halfling and Barbarian travelled the catacombs for six hours before finding a room with a solid door still on the hinges. After clearing the room, they propped the door closed, reinforced it with spikes, and made a makeshift camp.
“We need to reach the chamber by midday tomorrow,” Sir Erik said through a mouthful of dried meat and trail biscuits. “If he still lives, we’ll meet up with our fifth member. Once we enter the chamber, it will require all of our skills to survive and acquire the relic.”
“And what awaits us, my handsome knight?” The elf asked, batting his eyes as he leaned over attentively. “Goblins? Undead? Worshippers of He who’s name shall not be spoken?”
“I don’t know, good Elf,” Sir Erick replied, oblivious to the elf’s attentions. “For hundreds of years, these catacombs were used by the clerics of my brotherhood to safely, and secretly, transport sacred items through the mountains. Two centuries ago, Father Cronius, had a great dwarven smith build a machine-works to create a way station in the middle of this mountain. A place to rest securely. It served us well until evil found it in an ironic twist. Forty years ago, the necromancer Markus the Black, followed the brothers as they transported the very index finger of Father Cronius by then a Saint of the Hell-Spawn Wars. That bit of his flesh is said to be able to heal any that it touches and allow he who holds it to exorcise any demon or lower-planes entity from our domain.”
“I’ve heard of the relic and it sounds like some powerful divine magic to have,” Furunaril interrupted. “But that begs the question, why hasn’t it been sought in the past?”
“It has,” Sir Erik said, then he looked each of them in the eye, one at a time. “Others, outside of my order, have tried, dying or disappeared without even reaching this point. Based on the few that made it out, they were all taken by madness. Those that emerged were raving lunatics, killing themselves or others within days. Men of my order have tried as well, only to enter the chamber and never return. After the last attempt, it was declared lost and no more should seek it out.”
Sir Erik paused as if going over facts in his mind, then he spoke again, “To continue the original story, the Clerics entered the chamber, as did the Necromancer. We are not sure what happened next, but we do know that the relic, part of the man who commissioned the chamber, was the last thing to enter it unhindered. And it never came out the other side.”
“Then why in the hair on Mildengard’s balls are we here?” Danbil asked, eyes bulging and arms spread wide.
“Because I received special dispensation to make a final attempt,” Sir Erik replied, frowning at Danbil’s graphic language. “To recover the relic and complete its journey through the mountain, to be delivered to the Shrine at Askangard.”
“That’s fine as a courtesan’s honey-hole for you, holy-man, but why are we doing so well? Nothing’s come at us and we ain’t clerics,” Cruinntóin stated from her position by the door, running a sharpening stone along her blade’s edge with a wry smile. “And we’re no madder than we were upon entering. What’s different?’
“My solution works,” the Paladin replied. “Did you notice anything odd about our journey deeper into the catacombs?”
“No, not real—,” she started to say, then nodded her head. “No offal.”
“That’s right,” he said, taking on an instructive tone. “Because there is no activity. No stirrings of creatures that would normally be found here. No tramping in debris from the outside. No hunting, dying, bowel movements. No carrion. No molds or decomposition. The stillness, like a great creature is holding it’s breath.”
“Great creature? Is there a fuggin’ dragon in that chamber? Because most of those stories about how we did one in are total bullshite,” Danbil said, pointing his index fingers skyward for emphasis.
“No, my friend, no dragon that we’re aware of. I was being metaphorical,” the Paladin said, using a reassuring tone.
“Alright then. Sure. Better. But that still doesn’t answer why we are not affected,” Danbil continued, shaking slightly as the adrenalin fled. “And how does that mean others couldn’t make it this far?”
“We’ve a theory at the monastery,” Sir Erik said, smiling. “There was most likely a dark-energy madness spell, cast by the necromancer on that day forty years ago, that seems to hold to this day. Holy men of faith can walk through it unhindered, but the rest of their party always falls to the madness.”
“Darling, I’m far from holy,” Furunaril said, looking intently at his bejeweled nails. “I’ve probably sinned myself into damnation in at least six of your human religions that I know of, and two of my own. We elves are more of a mother Earth, live and let live, crowd. And I feel fine.”
“The Oathstone,” Danbil said, snapping his fingers and looking at Sir Erik, who was nodding for him to continue. “We cannot violate the divine oath sworn on the stone. It’s bound to our soul and our mind. The divinity of that oath, to retrieve the relic, keeps our mind clear and focused, to survive and complete the oath, holding the other charm at bay.”
“That was my theory,” Sir Erik said. “And Father Brutian agreed. You’ve passed the test. Obviously, a party of Paladins and clerics had previously failed to succeed at the chamber, so a more diverse group might, therefore, be required. I needed to get oath bound conscripts with the most likely combination of those skills. The journey to the armistice provided that opportunity.”
“And if your experiment had failed?”
“You’d have died, since a madman cannot fulfill the oath, the oath would have taken you. I’d have reported the results upon my return to the brotherhood.”
“You’re a piece of shite,” Danbil said, drawing his small crossbow out of his pack. “I ought to shoot you’re fuggin’ eye out right now.”
The Paladin laughed. “Oh, little brother, that would not end well for you. You’d die instantly for breaking the oath, and the others would go mad before they made the entrance. We are committed to see this journey through to its end. Best get rest, it will become more interesting tomorrow.”
With the barbarian taking the first watch, Danbil lay with his head on his pack, sleep evading him. He noticed the quiet that surrounded him, with only the breathing of his companions. Time passed slowly. He’d barely closed his eyes when he heard his name whispered in his ear and sprung up dagger in hand. Cruinntóin lay on the ground next to where he had been, smiling and trying to keep from laughing.
“It’s your watch, dwarf,” she said, then rolled over to sleep on the bare floor. Danbil calmed his breathing, but his heart raced again as he took in her mostly nude feminine form. He wasn’t much on human women, since he spent most of his time around the height of their unwashed asses, but the barbarian was in good shape and had curves that were pleasing nonetheless. He shook his head to clear it and took his position opposite the spiked-door, crossbow in hand.
He looked at the shift-watch candle. It was exactly on the change line and he’d have to burn down to the second one below that before waking the elf. He set about cleaning and oiling his picks, the quietest activity he could think of, as he occasionally glanced at the door.
Over the next two hours, in the darkened room, he cleaned his picks. He organized his tools, and pack, verified this hidden coin count, and trued his crossbow bolts. Anything to keep his mind off what would happen when they reached the center chamber. He could hear the paladin’s snoring and the barbarian woman’s, as well. Danville was starting to reflect even further, about his life choices, and how he got there. That led to darker thoughts, so he redoubled his efforts on taking care of his meager belongings.
Danbil tilted his head slightly and said, “You’re up early, elf.” He heard a humorous huff from behind him.
“I’m impressed. Not many can hear an elf approach,” Furunaril whispered. “Which proves handy when I want to snuggle up to some well-muscled man, like our dear leader.”
“Why do you do that?” Danbil asked.
“What?”
Danbil turned and cocked an eyebrow at the elf, then tilted his head toward Sir Erik and then shook it.
“Do my proclivities offend your halfling sensibilities? We elves are a long-lived race and have varied tastes, boundless energy, and open minds, otherwise we might get bored.”
“Yes, I know all of that, but you’re full of shite,” Danbil replied, holding up his hand to the protest he knew was coming. “I’ve lived with your kind in Eliandor and Afridil. I’ve seen elves at their best and worst, their randiest and their most reserved. I’ve also seen them pursue those they desire, and sat across a placard’s table with them. It’s like you’re trying to sell that you’re holding a hand of Nobles and crowns, but you’re straight up bluffing, my friend.”
The elf seemed at a loss for words. He quietly huffed and looked around. His eyes narrowed, and he leaned closer to the halfling. Holding his fingers in a triangular pattern, he whispered, “Hiftril Kritim Maltrae Silonte”
Danbil’s ears tingled at a sudden lack of noise.
“You’re a spellcaster?” Danbil, said, an I should have known look on his face, then a crooked smile as he stated the obvious.
“I dabble. Probably one of the reasons Sir Erik saw benefit in my coming. I think he hopes I can flush out what energies we may face. I can also throw an effective ball of flame and a few other nasties.”
“I’m not complaining,” Danbil said. “I was actually worried that we didn’t have a crafter with us. So what’s the purpose of this casting?’
“A little privacy,” Furunaril said as he motioned cupped ears. “Look, Sir Erik found me about to be drawn and quartered for a minor dalliance with a major Baron’s favorite concubine.”
“Male?”
“Female.”
“I fugging knew it!” Danbil declared laughing loudly.
The elf looked irritated. “Yes, yes, get it out of your system. I’ll be honest, I have a real attraction to human woman. Almost obsessive. Not sure when it developed, but I love the way they can—.”
“Yes, I get it. No need for details,” Danbil said, palms out.
“So, Sir Erik shows up and ransoms my freedom, and in exchange I agreed to take an oath for this adventure.”
“Makes sense. So why the put-on act of pursuing Sir Erik? Or are you just an arse?”
Furunaril nodded his head toward the sleeping barbarian woman.
“You’re joking with me, right?” Danbil scoffed.
“The heart wants what the heart wants,” Furunaril replied. “Human women love to rescue wounded kittens. I’m a kitten wounded with the desire for other men that they think they can cure. They also want something more when they are told their feminine whiles won’t work in their favor to acquire it. It’s like they must disprove it. Best game of hearts I’ve ever played. They’ll do just about anything to help me heal and see the value in their charms. I mean anything!”
Danbil shook involuntarily but nodded for the elf to continue.
“And after they’ve enthusiastically done everything my 700-year-old mind can think of, I let them down easy by telling them how much I appreciate their efforts, but deep down, I can’t stay attracted to them that way and I must move along.”
“That’s brilliant. Perverse and underhanded, but brilliant,” Danbil said.
“Yes, they usually give me nice gifts and actually feel good about the sweaty, and uncomfortable, things they did, because it was for a good cause.”
“She’ll kill you if you ever bed her and she figures it out,” Danbil observed.
“Part of the thrill, my friend. Part. Of. The. Thrill.”
“As long as it doesn’t get us killed, or hinder anybody from doing their job, I don’t care. I’ll keep your secret, elf, just on the off chance you succeed. I might enjoy watching that well-muscled lady provide you with a proper beating.”
The elf nodded, moving his eyebrows up and down rapidly, “We can only hope.” He flicked his fingers and the sounds of the room came back to Danbil’s ears.
“Best get some rest, Danbil,” the Elf said, pointing him toward the barbarian and his pack, “Maybe she’ll let you share some body heat. It could be a rough day tomorrow.”
By mid-morning the party had reached a long-curved wall that blocked any further progress. It bulged toward them. Sitting next to the stone and metal doorframe, in the middle, was a small man with a shaved head. His silken robes folded neatly beside him.
“Compatriots, we have arrived. That is the chamber,” Sir Erik said as he approached the sitting man. “And this is Wan-Lu , Master of the River Songs. He has journeyed four long months to meet us here, all of the way around the mountains.”
The small man rose, but it looked more like he unfolded and floated into a standing position. Sir Erik and the man bowed to each other, then shook hands.
“Monk,” Furunaril said, having moved next to Danbil. “Order of the River Lilly based on the embroidery n his robe. Water discipline. They worship at the Shrine at Askangard.”
“We haven’t much time,” Wan-Lu said, as he donned his robes pointing to the stone and metal framed doorway, and the curved surface of metal filling it. “I have watched this metal beast move to the right, and a man-sized opening appear, then disappear to the right on the count of ten. Six of them in sequence, starting at noon. Then again at midnight. I believe this is how we gain entry to the chamber. It cannot be forced and I can see no further into the chamber when they appear.”
“The accounts in the scrolls are correct, then,” Sir Erik agreed. “There is a matching timed arrangement on the other side of the chamber. The design was to prevent too large a party from going through at any point in time. Any other observations Master Danbil?”
“Yes. It’s fuggin’ brilliant,” he said, nodding his head as he stepped to the closed doorway. “See that maker’s mark? Timindor Slyhammer. Master works-maker. Last I heard he lives down in Sunsgate making pieces that keep time mechanically. Amazing.”
Danbil withdrew a silver cone and put his ear to the metal surface, tapping it various places with bare finger and tool. Then he repeated the effort on the wall, and then the ground, running his fingers along the edges of the doorway. “I can hear gears and slides. This moving metal panel is at least half a man’s height thick and varies in materials the thicker it gets. No telling how thick the ones are behind it, but they’re there, and quite a few. No way to slide in a footing or even a jam. It is truly spectacular work.”
“Any chance you can gain us entrance, my burgling friend?” Furunaril asked, his fingers flickering.
“I think not,” Danbil said, kneeling on one knee with an iron pry in hand. He drew a large circle, then circles within that circle. “This represents that panel. The hashes would be the man-sized chambers. My guess would be as this moves to the right, another slot opens the next wall in, so you step into that, then this moves back and another slot shows itself here. Not sure how many of these layers there are, but we emerge into that chamber ten counts apart, and leave the same way.”
“In half a day,” the barbarian observed. “That’s a long time to be trapped with whatever is in there that’s waylaid all of the previous attempts.”
“Do I detect fear?” Furunaril asked, eying her and shaking his head in mock dismay. She laughed.
“No, pointy ears, I’ve no fear of man nor beast,” she replied, pointing her sword at the elf’s crotch. “They are all just things to chop and slice until I get bored. Besides, isn’t this the point where the burglar puts on a magic ring and disappears through the wall, or something?”
“For the last time, those are stories. We don’t have rings, we don’t kill dragons, we’re not all burglars, we don’t eat eight meals per day. That’s all bullshite!” Danbil said, stomping his foot and as he counted off each item on his fingers.
“Yeah, he’s got a ring,” she said turning into the others. “Waiting for the right item to use it, he is. They like to be the hero at the end of the tale.”
“This is the only ring I have, dullard,” he said pulling on a loop of leather thong around his neck. “Me gran’s wedding band. At it didn’t do her no good, because we fished it out of a pile of wolf scat near the farm after he’d eaten her.”
“That’s enough conversation. Midday approaches,” Sir Erick said. “Ready yourselves. I would ask that Furunaril enter first. You are speedy, can protect yourself from magic and have your experiences to guide you. I shall follow next, then Master Wan-Lu. Lady Cruinntóin you shall be next, and then you Master Underburrow.”
Danbil went to object, but Sir Erik held up his hand, “I do not do this to disparage you, Master Underburrow, but I would have Lady Cruinntóin ready to lend aid and provide protection if you must concentrate on any mechanisms or reveal any traps. Strictly a precaution. And I am still counting on your skill with your crossbow should we need it.”
Danbil smiled and turned quickly to the door. “It’s time. I hear the slides.”
The first opening appeared and Furunaril stepped in, sword drawn and a small flame already roiling in his palm. “See you on the other side,” he said over his shoulder and then slid out of view.
The others each entered an opening, ten counts apart, leaving Danbil by himself. He took a deep breath and steeled his nerves. The opening appeared, and he stepped in. His leaned slightly as it shifted to his right. Another opening appeared in front of him and he stepped into it. A count of ten later his enclave moved to the left, exposing another opening. He pulled the ring out again and slipped it onto his finger, feeling a tingling rush as it activated.
“I’m such a cliché,” he said aloud. It wasn’t a ring of invisibility, or armor or lightning, or any of the other magnificent things he had heard arcane jewelry would empower its wearer with.
“Kinda’ wish you could shoot fire,” he said, a little stab of pain shot through his finger. “Easy, fella, I’m just sayin’. We’ll get by with what you can do. We’re a team.”
He stepped through two more openings before entering the main chamber and stepping out into a raging battle, the likes of which he had never seen.
Furunaril was running with such speed that he was an elven blur, first along the floor, then along the chamber walls as he threw his hands toward the middle of the room, letting out bursts of flame and glowing missiles. Interspersed with that he would handle his long bow and fire multiple arrows at a mob of shapes following along, staying between him and whatever lay in the middle of the room.
A rusty sword swung at Danbil’s head. He ducked just in time, only to see a withered hand, with sharp claws, reaching for him. A flash of metal and the hand dropped to the ground before it touched him. He lost his footing as he was yanked to the left. He went to swing at whoever had grabbed him but stopped when he saw a large chainmail covered breast at eye level.
“Stay behind me, dwarf, if ye want to live,” Cruinntóin barked as she swung over his head at another attacker. Danbil did as instructed, bringing his crossbow up to his shoulder. He looked out between her legs and took in the room.
There were two score of what appeared to be undead creatures. Formerly human, orc, elven and possible even a dwarf or two. Some wore the same silken robes as Master Wan-Lu. They tried to overwhelm Sir Erik, who anchored the effort, driving toward the center of the room. His sword glowed bright yellow and flared with each body stuck. The creatures clawed at his armor but didn’t seem to be able to get through. A ball of lightning emerged from a tall figure in the middle of the room, striking the sword. Erik screamed, but held his ground.
Master Wan-Lu covered the Paladin’s left flank, wielding a staff with ends that glowed blue. He smashed limbs and skulls, causing them to burst into blue flame for a moment. The creatures didn’t recover quickly. The Monk seemed to be covered in a layer of water, the creature’s hands that clawed at him smoldered, unable to reach him through it.
“Holy water,” Cruinntóin yelled as she swung her long sword in one hand and her short sword in the other. “The Paladin threw it on Wan-Lu to ward off these evil bastards. It’s the monk’s element, so he’s wearing it like armor.”
Something bright and shiny slid along the barbarian’s skin in front of Danbil’s eyes. One of the undead had swung a rust covered blade at Cruinntóin’s bare leg. It was intercepted. As Danbil looked closer, he realized it was the bottom of Cruinntóin’s chainmail. He looked up and stared at Cruinntóin’s wholly-naked feminine charms. As a matter of fact, he could see that her breasts swung free as well. Before he could say anything, he saw the chainmail bra she wore sliding around her body like a metallic snake, intercepting another strike at her.
“Okay, the skimpy mail makes sense now,” Danbil yelled as he loosed a crossbow bolt at one of the undead dwarves ambling toward him.
“I’d rather battle in the nude anyway. More freeing and exhilarating,” she yelled.
“For both of us,” Danbil replied, adrenaline getting the best of him. His ring index finger tingled. The world slowed for a second. He took in the entire room. The battle, his cohorts, the figure in the middle. How each moved. He felt the familiar twinge of the ring. Odds. Outcomes. More facts needed. Get more input.
Danbil felt it. They were all going to die. His finger tingled again. It will end badly.There were thousands of possible actions involved and they would die in all of them. His heart sank. Another lightning ball formed in the middle of the room, held between two outstretched hands. The creature’s face was well lit. human-like. Pale skin, sunken eyes. Thoughts burned along Danbil’s arm into his head. Wight. Undead. Cursed.
The Necromancer. Still able to cast and behind him a pedestal, dark and oily, twice Danbil’s height. Atop it was a glowing orb. In the center a tiny lantern with a shriveled finger suspended inside.
A twinge and thought came to him. See. See the threads?
Danbil cleared his mind and looked again. Tiny filaments showed themselves. Like the fine spider web silk, each one extending from the pedestal to the necromancer. Blood red to his re-adjusted eyes. Threads also ran from the pedestal into the orb, white and pulsing, extending into the case and wrapped around the Saint’s desiccated finger.
Power. Light turned to dark. Conclusion reached.
There is one way for Danbil to live. His own finger tingled, he knew what he had to do, and he wasn’t happy about how he would get there.
“Do you see that orb in the middle? On the pedestal?” he said, pointing, as Cruinntóin jostled to keep herself between him and the undead mob. “The relic’s inside it. Best guess, that’s the necromancer, from the story. The orb is a spell, probably feeding him energy through that pedestal. Hell-Spawn magic, turning light to dark. We need to get the relic out of the orb. Otherwise the Wight is too powerful.”
“Furunaril! Aim for the orb. Dead center. The relic is in there, knock it out!” Cruinntóin yelled, using her short sword to point at the orb. “You need to knock it off the stand.”
Furunaril nodded, and as he reached the opposite end of the chamber, with the clearest shot, he drew his bow, firing twice at the center of the orb. The arrows flew true, each striking the orb within a hair of each other. They didn’t fly through the orb, or move it. It was formed from energy, but the tips stuck into the orb.
Danbil cursed. Then he saw Furunaril break away from his circuitous route and leap over the throng of undead, reaching for the orb.
“Noooo!” Danbil yelled. In the preceding seconds, he had noticed the arrows where still moving into the orb, just slowly. Like time held them to a different pace. Danbil’s suspicions were confirmed when Furunaril touched the orb and seemingly stopped in mid-air, his finger barely penetrating the orb. He was frozen in place with no way to defend himself. The mob of undead tore his unmoving body to pieces.
The Wight launched its gathered ball of lightning at Sir Erik and Master Wan-Lu, but it was staring at Danbil.
It knows that you can see. Danbil had already reached that conclusion before his magic ring had tinged.The mob that had been chasing Furunaril around the wall now focused on the paladin and Master Wan-Lu, while the Wight took a step toward Danbil and Cruinntóin.
“Dwarf, if you’ve got any ideas, now would be the time!” Cruinntóin said.
“HALFLING!,” Danbil yelled. “If we’re going to die, can you at least get that right?”
Cruinntóin screamed. Not in pain, but in rage. A berserker’s rage. She rushed the Wight, her swords becoming a blur, striking at the undead necromancer. Magical energies flared when her swords struck skin, doing little damage. When the Wight struck, her scanty chainmail outfit jumped to her defense, intercepting its touch. But the berserker flinched away, the skin chalky white where the mail had protected it from the strike, but not entirely from the paralyzing touch. She gave ground, using her swords to defend, rather than strike. Each step she gave, the Wight intensified its attacks, glancing at Danbil as if judging when it could reach him as well.
Danbil watched the orb. Furunaril arrows were one fourth the way in, still moving toward the suspended relic. “We’ve got to hold out for a bit more. Keep it distracted,” Danbil said, looking up at Cruinntóin’s toned and flexing body, catching glimpses of every naked bit as the magic chainmail continued to slither about and defend her. Danbil reached behind and felt the wall. The Wight was moving to pin them. The Halfling fired a bolt into the Wight’s knee. It stuck and the undead-necromancer wailed. That surprised Danbil, since his bolt only carried an iron tip. Danbil’s finger tingled.
Threads fading. Too far from Orb.
Danbil could see the blood-colored filaments reaching for the Necromancer, but only a few were long enough to reach him.
“It’s strongest when closer to the orb and stand,” he yelled to the barbarian. “Out here we can do some damage. We can’t let it retreat.”
“Aye, I’ll give it somethin’ to think about,” the berserker said through gritted teeth, her swords flashing with renewed effort. Danbil loaded another bolt and stepped from behind her, aiming for the Wight’s eye. His aim was true and the creature screamed, grabbing for the bolt protruding from its socket. Cruinntóin took advantage of the distraction and swung hard for its side and thigh, both blows hitting home. The Wight wailed again and punched outward, striking her in the midriff. Her magic chainmail made it in time to prevent contact with her skin, but the force still sent her flying and she slammed into the wall, taking Danbil with her.
The Wight shook its head and focused that remaining eye on Danbil, taking an ominous step toward him. A loud challenging roar came from their right, Danbil looking up to see a bright blue arc bearing down on the Wight’s skull. Master Wan-Lu had arrived in a flurry of robes and a spinning light display. A loud crack sounded as the staff hit the Wight on top of the head. Its knees buckled, and it roared as blue sparks exploded outward. The undead necromancer turned its full attention to the monk as it tried to stand while warding off the dozens of strikes being rained down by the spinning staff of the agile water master. Each time the Wight clawed at the monk. the staff smacked at the extended appendage, or one of the monk’s holy water enshrouded hand slapped it away. The wight’s flesh smouldered with every contact.
Only a few threads remained in contact with the Wight. Danbil fired another bolt.
The two combatants battled on, the monk seemed to be winning, but the engagement was working its way back into the main part of the room. Danbil turned to see Cruinntóin struggling to sit up as she reached for her blades.
“You stay put,” Danbil said, as he picked up her shorter sword. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep them off of us.”
He expected to hear a snarky remark, but the barbarian only grunted in pain. She must have been badly hurt from the impact. When he looked back at the monk and undead necromancer, his finger tingled. Threads that had been outstretched were within range and reached out, touching the necromancer
“Don’t let it near the orb. Keep it near the edge. It’s weak—” Danbil didn’t finish. There was a loud explosion as the Wight thrust both hands into Wan-Lu’s chest and unleashed a ball of lightning point blank. The stunned master flew into the waiting mob of undead and disappeared under a barrage of claws and teeth. The undead mob turned toward Sir Erik. The Paladin raised his sword and spoke an ancient tongue. The undead froze in its divine light, the Wight covered its remaining eye and slowly backing away. Sir Erik swung his sword, hacking the mob to pieces until it was just the Paladin and the undead necromancer standing.
The Wight shook itself and looked toward Sir Erik, pointed at him and screeched. Sir Erik’s face became stern, his eyes focusing on his adversary.
“For my brothers. For my fallen comrades. For the good of all living beings on this plane, I will end thee,” Sir Erik bellowed, the seriousness and righteousness of his tone giving Danbil goosebumps. “Now we will see whose faith is stronger and who cut the better divine deal.”
The Wight screamed, launching itself at Sir Erik, as the Paladin came at it full speed. The two crashed together with an explosion of energies. Danbil covered his face for a moment, the burst hurting his eyes. When he looked again, the two were fully engaged in a deathly battle. The Wight holding Sir Erik’s sword-hand by the armored wrist, and Erik Holding the Wight’s free hand in his gauntlet covered hand. Sir Erik rolled his blades handle in his hand, spinning it downward so the tip touched the Wight’s shoulder. It screamed. The Paladin looked strained and pale.
“Might was well go out in bloody glory,” Danbil said over his shoulder to the gasping barbarian woman, and he charged forward. He struck the Wight in the knee with his shoulder thrusting upward with the sword. It found purchase. The two larger figures became unbalanced and fell to the ground, Erik on top of the undead necromancer. Danbil lay partially pinned under them. He kicked and moved his sword around, stabbing it under the fallen Necromancer, using it to lever his legs free from the interlocked combatants.
The Halfling broke loose and scrambled out of striking distance. He turned to see Sir Erik’s sword pinned under the Wight, neck high, as the paladin struggled to find leverage and twist the blade vertical under its neck. With Sir Erik’s sword hand occupied, it allowed the Wight a free hand and it dug at the paladin’s armor until it could work under the plate and tear through the tunic to touch bare skin. The sword burned the Wight where it touched it, but as the battle continued, the Paladin was getting very ashen in color. Which would give quarter? Which one’s connection would hold, the divine one or the hellbound one? Danbil didn’t know which would emerge victorious.
Danbil ran to Sir Erik’s aid, chopping and stabbing down into the Wight’s body with his blade. While he didn’t think the weapon would kill the creature, he hoped to distract it and force it to expend energy it needed to hold off the noble knight. Danbil turned and swung at the threads connecting the undead wizard to the pedestal. Filaments only he could see. The blade passed through them with no effect.
Sir Erik looked gaunt, his breathing coming in gasps. He faltered as the Wight wrestled his non-sword arm away. It grabbed him by the face and actually laughed. A deep, hollow, maniacal laugh. Danbil felt an oppressive darkness wash over him. Sir Erik would die, the oath would break and he would go mad, or be turned. So would Cruinntóin, condemned to an eternity of crawling around the chamber, trapped in an undead and broken body.
Danbil felt like giving up. Sitting down to accept his fate. He tried to clear his thoughts, break the wave of darkness. He didn’t know what to do.
“Clink-clink-clink”.
Twinge. Now.
Danbil looked to the sound and saw that the arrows had finished pushing the relic out of the orb. They were still stuck firm, but their tips slightly protruded. The ornate container had broken open and the mummified finger lay on the ground. The blood-red threads disappeared.
The Wight moaned. Danbil moved and grabbed the finger, feeling a surge of energy. He felt invigorated, all aches and pains gone. Turning to the battling titans, he saw Sir Erik’s eyes were lifeless, blank and sunken in.
The Paladin was dead, and he fell forward on the creature beneath him, his heavy armor pinning the weakened Necromancer. The Wight was going to shove him off, provided it had enough strength left without being able to draw power from the captured relic. Danbil slid to a stop, withdrew the paladin’s heavy blade partially out from under the Wight’s neck, picking it up by the tip, slid it forward again, this time on top of the creature’s neck. He knew he couldn’t wield it, or even use it to saw back and forth. The Wight would break free long before that. It felt the blade burning its neck, and grabbed the blade, but let go as its hands burst into flame. It wailed again.
Danbil leapt upon Sir Erik’s dead body, reached down, grabbed the sword, pressing the edge down onto the necromancer’s neck. It cut Danbil’s hands, but he felt no pain. They were healing at the same time he was hurting them. He pushed the blade down into the pale flesh of the pinned creature. The undead necromancers’ hands desperately grabbed at Sir Erik’s lifeless bulk, but it could not shift the dead knight’s weight. It reached for the halfling, but Danbil dodged and leaned to stay out of its grip as he applied more downward pressure.
Danbil put all of his weight into the blade, bouncing up and down to work it into the Wight’s flesh. It struggled less with each bounce and acrid black smoke issuing from the wound being created. Danbil stood and used his boot to kick down at the top of the blade, driving it even deeper. The wight moaned and then stop struggling as holy fire consumed it.
Danbil lay back breathing hard. He’d lived.
As I calculated. The ring vibrated soothingly..
It had been right. He knew he would live. No, he didn’t. He knew he would probably live. That’s what the ring had shown him. Possibilities and probable solutions to problems based on the information at hand. It had been cast for a philosopher war-lord and ended up an halfling family’s heirloom.
A painful gasp and moan reminded him that he was not alone.
Cruinntóin lay flat on her back, in the same place she’d hit the wall, and spoke in a raspy voice, “Are you alive, dwarf? Did we win?’
“Yes, the HALFING is alive. We won. Everyone else is dead.”
“So now what? I think my back is broken,” she said. “tradition says you should slit my throat, cremate me, and return my ashes to my tribe so I can be released above the cliffs of—.”
“Shut the fugg up, I’m thinking how we’re going to get out of here.”
“Well, you’re not going to carry me, and those passage-boxes we use to leave require that I stand. That’s provided I last another half a day.”
Danbil looked around. There was old armor, rusty weapons, and treasure laying about. Not anything that could be used to construct anything to support the barbarian woman. His ring tingled.
He looked into his hand and realized he still held the relic. That would solve one problem, but presented him with another. He got up and went to the dead knight, rummaging through his belt and pouches until he found what he needed.
“Once a thief, always a thief, aye, Dwarf?” she said before she winced again.
Danbil scoffed as he walked back to the barbarian, he stood out of arms reach from Cruinntóin and spoke, “Look, Sir Erik’s oath is gone. We’re not mad, so we must have broken the spell. I can heal you with the relic, but that presents another problem.”
“What’s that?”
“That you’ll just leave me behind, or kill me, and take this treasure as your own,” he said sweeping his arm around the room. “Plus, having a relic like this and an Oathstone is pretty tempting. Nobody would be the wiser if you came out alone.”
“Heh, I did have that thought. I guess a promise to behave won’t be acceptable?’
“Not really. But, an oath sworn on the Oathstone might.”
Cruinntóin turned her head and looked at him, “Are you serious? How would you word it? If you get it wrong, we could both suffer.”
“On the way here, on the road, I did ponder what I would do with the stone. How could I bind someone to service? I think I have an oath that lets both of us prosper. Want to hear it?”
After he told her, she thought about it for a minute extended her hand and replied, “I guess that’s the best deal I can hope for. I’ll go along.”
Danbil approached, holding the short sword at the ready and put the stone in her hand. He then placed his hand over it, saying “Go ahead.”
The barbarian recited what they had discussed, “I, Cruinntóin, may not injure Danbil Underburrow, or, through inaction, allow him to come to harm. I will obey his orders except where such orders would conflict with my first commitment. I will protect myself as long as such protection does not conflict with my first and second sworn commitments, I swear this unto death.”
“I agree and release you from this oath upon my spoken word, or my death, and only if your commitment was honored,” Danbil said. He removed the Oathstone from her hand and replaced it with the Saint’s finger.
“That will at least get us out of these gods forsaken catacombs and on to our next adventure,” Danbil said happily. “We’ll split things down the middle, you and I. No need to be greedy. But I hold on to the stone and relic.”
“Sounds good, dwa—halfling. My, my, that is a strange sensation,” she said, wincing as she moved her hand along her back. “I can feel things moving around a bit. Better. How long does this take to work?”
“No idea. We got time. Just test yourself a little at time as you feel better.”
“Can I ask you something?” Cruinntóin said, looking Danbil in the eye. He nodded and she continued, “I have a feeling one of your first orders will be for me to let you bed me. You’ve been staring at me with man-lust for days now.”
“Pfft,” Danbil sputtered, “I’m not that sort. I’m going to be a very rich man. You’re going to have your hands full keeping me safe. I can bed anyone I can afford. Professionals that really know how to please a man. So why would you think I have to trick you into my bed? Right now, from where I sit, you’re not that desirable.”
The barbarian smiled and shot him a hurt, but hungry glance.
“Damn…the elf was right,” Danbil thought.
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