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Authors: Richard Baker
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in the stone building ahead. By one side of the door a crude chalk mark caught his eye. “We’re on the right track. That’s Belgin’s mark.”
Jacob glanced around and then ducked his head to descend the narrow steps beyond. Rings followed carefully, axe at the ready. At the bottom, the steps opened out into a long, low chamber lined with stout columns. Moving slowly, the two fighters advanced into the chamber, examining their surroundings. “I think these are more portals,” Jacob said after a long moment.
“Looks like it,” Rings answered. “I guess the old Netherese had an aversion to using their legs. There must be dozens of these things.”
About halfway across the chamber from the stairway, they found an archway marked with a chalk symbol and a set of dwarven runes beneath it. Rings studied the archway in silence for a long time, ignoring the fighter beside him.
“Well? What is it?” Jacob asked irritably.
“Belgin and Miltiades went this way, chasing Eidola.”
“What’s the rest of the writing?”
“The word to open the gate,” Rings said. “Are you ready?”
Jacob’s eyes were far away. Rings almost repeated his question before the Tyrian absently nodded. “Go ahead.”
Rings turned back to the portal and spoke the word Belgin had marked for him. Before his eyes, the gray stone seemed to shimmer and vanish, replaced by a curtain of seamless black. “It’s’open,” he said, glancing back at Jacob.
He was just in time to see the fighter’s blade punch into his chest.
Rings grunted with the impact, blinking in disbelief. Steel grated on bone as Jacob withdrew his sword, red for almost a foot of its length. Rings tried to raise the axe of his fathers to strike at his slayer, but the weapon seemed impossibly heavy, and it slipped from his grasp to fall ringing to the floor. “You bastard,” he gasped once, and then the breath fled from him. With a groan he toppled to the cold stone floor, blood fountaining from his wound.
Jacob raised his sword again and met his eyes. The curly-haired fighter smiled coldly. “Thanks for reading the trigger. I don’t know a word of Dwarvish. Why don’t you stay here and take a breather, and I’ll go on ahead and see how Miltiades and Belgin are faring.”
“Why?” rasped Rings. Weakly he pushed himself up with one hand on the floor, the other clamped over the ghastly injury.
“Let’s just say that Eidola’s an old friend.” Jacob eyed him clinically, then lowered his sword. With brutal efficiency he lashed out with one boot and kicked Rings’s supporting arm out from under him, crumpling the dwarf to the floor again, then kicked him hard five times for good measure before he stopped. “Damn. You got blood all over my boot,” he remarked.
Then he stepped over the small, still form and ducked into the portal.
Blackness and cold, an instant of silence that seared Belgin’s senses, and he was through the portal again. Shivering, he swept his flank with his rapier, ready for any threat. They stood in a chamber that might have been a Netherese crypt ages ago, but it had been plundered and looted decades or centuries in the past. What was so important, so dangerous, that these dead princes were buried thousands of miles from their home? the sharper wondered. The colorful murals had flaked and peeled from exposure to the outside air, and what little statuary remained had been smashed and vandalized. The stone sepulchre in the center of the room lay broken and empty, and the doors at the far end of the chamber were torn from their hinges.
Miltiades stood beside him, scanning his side of the room. His hammer still retained his spell of illumination, and its soft silver glow cast gray shadows against the ruined walls and broken vaulting. “I’d guess that these places were built to house liches through the dark ages of undeath,” he said quietly.
“Liches?” Belgin recoiled a step, even though he could plainly see that no such creature
Jacob glanced around and then ducked his head to descend the narrow steps beyond. Rings followed carefully, axe at the ready. At the bottom, the steps opened out into a long, low chamber lined with stout columns. Moving slowly, the two fighters advanced into the chamber, examining their surroundings. “I think these are more portals,” Jacob said after a long moment.
“Looks like it,” Rings answered. “I guess the old Netherese had an aversion to using their legs. There must be dozens of these things.”
About halfway across the chamber from the stairway, they found an archway marked with a chalk symbol and a set of dwarven runes beneath it. Rings studied the archway in silence for a long time, ignoring the fighter beside him.
“Well? What is it?” Jacob asked irritably.
“Belgin and Miltiades went this way, chasing Eidola.”
“What’s the rest of the writing?”
“The word to open the gate,” Rings said. “Are you ready?”
Jacob’s eyes were far away. Rings almost repeated his question before the Tyrian absently nodded. “Go ahead.”
Rings turned back to the portal and spoke the word Belgin had marked for him. Before his eyes, the gray stone seemed to shimmer and vanish, replaced by a curtain of seamless black. “It’s’open,” he said, glancing back at Jacob.
He was just in time to see the fighter’s blade punch into his chest.
Rings grunted with the impact, blinking in disbelief. Steel grated on bone as Jacob withdrew his sword, red for almost a foot of its length. Rings tried to raise the axe of his fathers to strike at his slayer, but the weapon seemed impossibly heavy, and it slipped from his grasp to fall ringing to the floor. “You bastard,” he gasped once, and then the breath fled from him. With a groan he toppled to the cold stone floor, blood fountaining from his wound.
Jacob raised his sword again and met his eyes. The curly-haired fighter smiled coldly. “Thanks for reading the trigger. I don’t know a word of Dwarvish. Why don’t you stay here and take a breather, and I’ll go on ahead and see how Miltiades and Belgin are faring.”
“Why?” rasped Rings. Weakly he pushed himself up with one hand on the floor, the other clamped over the ghastly injury.
“Let’s just say that Eidola’s an old friend.” Jacob eyed him clinically, then lowered his sword. With brutal efficiency he lashed out with one boot and kicked Rings’s supporting arm out from under him, crumpling the dwarf to the floor again, then kicked him hard five times for good measure before he stopped. “Damn. You got blood all over my boot,” he remarked.
Then he stepped over the small, still form and ducked into the portal.
Blackness and cold, an instant of silence that seared Belgin’s senses, and he was through the portal again. Shivering, he swept his flank with his rapier, ready for any threat. They stood in a chamber that might have been a Netherese crypt ages ago, but it had been plundered and looted decades or centuries in the past. What was so important, so dangerous, that these dead princes were buried thousands of miles from their home? the sharper wondered. The colorful murals had flaked and peeled from exposure to the outside air, and what little statuary remained had been smashed and vandalized. The stone sepulchre in the center of the room lay broken and empty, and the doors at the far end of the chamber were torn from their hinges.
Miltiades stood beside him, scanning his side of the room. His hammer still retained his spell of illumination, and its soft silver glow cast gray shadows against the ruined walls and broken vaulting. “I’d guess that these places were built to house liches through the dark ages of undeath,” he said quietly.
“Liches?” Belgin recoiled a step, even though he could plainly see that no such creature
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