CHAPTER TWELVE
The level section at the bottom of the ramp—just enough to create a flood-trap—rose into a more steep walkway to the entrance. Two strides into that blackness confirmed Druadaen’s first misgiving: that waiting a few minutes in the shadows at the bottom of the ramp was not sufficient to accustom his eyes to the darkness. A torch would have helped, but without any ready means of starting a fire or a supply of suitable wood, fashioning one was likely to take almost as many hours as he had left. But pressing on blindly was tantamount to suicide.
He prepared to retrace his steps… and the bracer on his wrist abruptly became the velene.
About time, he thought at it.
As if answering, the velene began to glow: fainter than the animalcules that dimly mark the wakes of ships, but enough to make out his immediate surroundings. Certainly not enough to fight by, but maybe he wouldn’t have to—at least, not in the dark. If he took pains to closely observe his path in, he might be able to run back into daylight faster than whatever creature he might lure out.
The less optimistic part of his mind pointed out that if it was nocturnal, then it might not be willing to follow him out into the light. And why should it bother? Even if it was not as swift as Druadaen, it would see and pursue him with the same ease as its nighttime prey. On the other hand, if it wasn’t nocturnal, and it returned while Druadaen was blundering about in the dark… well, that wouldn’t end well at all. Velene or no, retreat still seemed to be the only sane option…
Except that it was looking at him with its metallic eyes. They were featureless, but the silver dragonette’s posture spoke in their place; it was expectant and ready.
It would be so much easier if you could talk…
The velene turned away… until its snout pointed straight ahead into the darkness.
Well, that is a clear recommendation, Druadaen allowed. But it was still reckless.
The velene simply kept staring into the dark.
“I hope you know what you’re getting us into,” Druadaen muttered as he eased forward, watching the floor for debris that make noise underfoot.
It was a prudent decision; within a few more steps, the corridor became a veritable junk heap of weapons, tools, shields, helmets, shoes, packs, and everything else one might expect to find in the kit of a person traveling wild lands. Most of it was broken, rusted, or moldy, and he had no time to watch for exceptions. That could wait until—well, if—he survived.
The debris did impart some useful, albeit daunting, information. The shattered bones outside could indicate either of two possibilities: that the creature was very large or so ferocious that it dismembered its prey. Now, judging from the remains within its lair, the answer was obvious; it was probably both. A surprising number of shields still had desiccated arms attached, the limb having been struck from the torso by a single, joint-shattering blow.
Just as the density of detritus began thinning, Druadaen caught sight of a bend ahead. It was only half as acute as a right angle, and was immediately followed by yet another in reverse: a defensive dogleg.
And beyond it, he heard restless movement.
Druadaen held his breath, stepped back, was surprised the velene did not stop glowing. Not even when he wished—very hard—that it would.
And just as Druadaen feared, the intermittent sounds beyond the dog-leg changed into the fast, purposeful thuds of very large feet.
Druadaen started to pivot on his back foot, ready to run for the exit, not sure which he hoped more: that the creature would follow or that it would not—
The velene unwrapped itself before he finished turning and flew toward the approaching footfalls. As it exited the second part of the dogleg, its illumination changed. Less dim, it also began flashing arrhythmically, like a large metallic firefly stricken by the paroxysms of a seizure.
The creature beyond the dogleg evidently saw it instantly: a loud bellow—more human or ape than animal—and the sound of its movement shifted toward the intermittent flashes.
Druadaen held back; this was madness. Following that bloody velene would mean—
The hilt of the sword began to vibrate like a clothesline in a high wind. No: not vibrating: pulsing. The grip sent rapidly successive waves along his palm, running from the pommel to the quillons, urging him to move toward whatever creature was in the next chamber, rather than away from it.
Insanity, Druadaen told himself as he dodged around the corner of the first dogleg, careful to remain in the lee of the farther one. He glanced around that final barrier separating him from whatever creature was raging after the velene in the space just beyond.
Manic flickers from beyond the corner illuminated the near part of a large chamber, the floor peeking through between piles of rubbish. His nose pricked; even if there was a corpse smell, he wondered if he’d detect it through the thick nesting reek.
The light brightened rapidly as the velene appeared near the far wall, flying more like a hummingbird than a small dragon. The unseen creature pounded toward it, and just as Druadaen saw a hint of movement beyond the corner sheltering him, the velene stopped in midair, hovering—and became black, just as an immense, two-legged silhouette appeared, closing on it.
Druadaen blinked. No, the velene was not simply black; its outline had abruptly become a volume of space where there was no light at all, neither emitted nor reflected. Which made him suddenly aware that there was now a faint blue sheen on the far wall and the creature’s hulking back. Another light? But where—?
Druadaen looked down. The sword was glowing, the hilt-pulse still coursing relentlessly toward the point: toward the creature. Druadaen took a breath, leaned forward to charge—
The insistent vibrations in his palm waned; he paused.
From a new location along the far wall, the velene flashed, now quite brightly. The creature came around with a roar, leaped toward the airborne annoyance—and so, was facing directly away from Druadaen. He saw the ploy and charged, even as the velene’s second flare revealed his opponent.
It was at least nine feet tall, and at least as massive as the blugners he’d faced in the Under of Gur Grehar. But whereas those creatures had been corpulent, this monstrosity was top-heavy with muscle. Biceps bulging, both arms swatted the air where the velene had been; another, thinner arm raking the same space an instant after the gleaming miniature dragon once again disappeared into the darkness around it.
As Druadaen closed with his target, he almost started: a third arm? It had been long and almost skeletally thin, with three talons instead of fingers. As Druadaen came within leaping range, the monster’s head was cocked to the side; perhaps it was hoping that a new angle might reveal the velene?
Except, no, its head was not cocked; the strange posture was because it had no neck on that side. Just below the jaw, the head was directly attached to the bunched muscles of its shoulder. The creature turned—either at the sound of Druadaen’s charge or the faint, constant light of the sword—and revealed the full extent of its deformity: head misshapen as if its chin had started melting into one clavicle, eyes askew, teeth buckled and uneven in a jaw that was half again too large. But it was alarmingly swift, spinning sharply to face the new threat.
Too late: Druadaen slipped sideways, finding the flank opposite the one that the creature was turning toward him. He drove the sword deep into the torso, then sprang away—
Or tried to. The blade briefly hooked against a rib, was pinched in place by another that the creature’s turn twisted into it. The moment Druadaen meant to have been sprinting past the monster, he was just pulling the sword free and leaping back desperately.
The creature roared. The third arm raked at him. Only as Druadaen ducked under it did he realize the attack’s actual purpose: to force him to dodge rather than retreat. One of the creature’s massive arms swept at Druadaen before he could fully recover, the bucket-sized fist coming around at him in what was certain to be a lethal blow.
Druadaen snapped his sword up into a quick two-handed block, his own arms braced to resist as much of the blow as possible.
In the instant before the arm struck it, the sword flared brightly, raising a sharp chemical smell akin to the kind after a close lightning strike. The blade hissed as if being quenched—and the forearm was severed at the point of contact.
Druadaen, prepared for a bone-breaking blow, was stunned—but mentally, not physically. There was no perceptible impact, as if the muscle and bone of the creature had simply parted as it encountered the edge of the sword. The only physical shock came just after, as the sheared flesh dragged against both sides of the blade. That still sent him sprawling across the floor, bouncing into objects he could not see—and about which he did not care—as he focused on only one thing: hold on to the sword!
But as he staggered to his feet, the weapon’s glow was no longer steady. Dimming, it tried to re-brighten but faltered. Could even swords become exhausted?
No time to wonder or worry. The monstrosity’s roar of pain and rage sprang back from the stolid walls as it came around, eyes seeking Druadaen. Who took that moment to watch how it began its inevitable charge.
Its thick right leg rushed forward, planted, tensed as the left started rising; the creature was too enraged and its movement too forceful to be preparing a feint.
Druadaen gauged. The monstrosity only needed two steps to reach him. The first was nearly complete; the right leg relaxed and its heel was starting to come off the floor. As it did, the left leg planted, ready to propel the creature into contact with Druadaen.
Who waited for its right foot to leave the ground before springing forward.
The creature’s expression of eager bloodlust became surprise at the vermin’s stupidity: that it was charging rather than dodging. But a hint of misgiving crept into those melted features as it realized the vermin was veering toward its already wounded side—
As Druadaen dodged to the creature’s left—the flank opposite its narrow third arm—he stooped and took his left hand off the hilt, thereby breaking almost every cardinal rule of swordcraft. The monstrosity flailed with its left arm, trying to intercept him… but without the lower half of its forearm, it no longer had enough reach. The third arm made to slash at him, but the creature’s own broad torso blocked it as Druadaen arrived on its opposite flank. Howling in frustration, the monstrosity began to come around, pivoting on its left foot—
—Just as Druadaen, ducking as he went past, hacked down at the left ankle. He had to twist at the waist to land the blow: an extremely awkward maneuver that almost tumbled him. But he stumbled past the creature and opened the distance just enough to be out of reach. Regaining his balance, he knew it hadn’t been a finishing blow, but halfway in, the blade had slowed abruptly; at the very least, it had cut to the bone.
This time, the creature’s howl was different; the previous fury was now mixed with pain and distress. Trying to complete its turn on the wounded foot, it staggered heavily before falling to that knee, groaning.
Druadaen recovered while it was still trying to stand and, charging its left once again, kept tracking with the creature’s turn in order to get behind it. It turned to match his movement, trying to protect that critical flank, but its speed and agility were now markedly inferior to that of its smaller foe.
Druadaen reached a clear flank angle again and rushed in, bringing the sword up in a two-handed grip that put the blade level with his shoulders—just as he discovered the third arm was now reaching backwards at him, its elbow joint contorting grotesquely. One meaty pop, and the grotesque appendage was now flexing behind the creature, slashing at him. Druadaen resisted the instinct to dodge the unexpected attack; it was hasty and improvised, whereas his thrust was already set.
Druadaen did not break his momentum, but turned his last step into a long stride as he reached the rear of the behemoth’s ribcage and drove the sword’s point toward it—in the same moment that the long, ragged talons of the third arm raked across his chest and flung him away.
For a moment, Druadaen was unable to think clearly; it was instinct that brought him back to his feet. He was still dazed but could feel the sword still in his hand. He raised it, but as his vision cleared, he realized it was not necessary to do so.
The creature was struggling to get to its feet, even as it was weeping through its rage. Its cries had become high-pitched, childlike.
Appalled—even more by its sudden emotional transformation than its appearance—Druadaen backed away from it. The two wounds to its left flank had opened further; it now appeared to have been ripped open by a single, savage bite. A constant stream of blood was pouring out of the ragged gashes, spattering loudly on the stone floor where the melee had cleared it of debris.
Moaning and crying like a monstrous, misshapen toddler, the creature made a desperate charge, but between its wounded ankle and ebbing vitality, Druadaen avoided it with two swift sidesteps at the last moment.
After three more successively weaker attempts to close with its enemy, the creature collapsed, tried to rise, but could not. It fell and began to weep and yowl in a tantrum of terror, the volume of its piteous sounds ebbing as the mounting flow of blood spread into a widening puddle around it. But Druadaen continued to hold his sword at the ready until all sound and movement had stilled.
A moment later, the velene returned to Druadaen’s wrist and, after turning its metal face toward his for a moment, became a bracer once again. He leaned back against the wall, sighed, and noticed that the sword’s gleam was beginning to fade. Guess I’m not the only one that’s tired—or relieved. But at this rate he wouldn’t have light for very long. So it was time to see if he could find a flint striker and tinderbox among the debris that was mute testimony to the outcome of the many prior battles that had been fought in this chamber.
After sorting out and rifling through the intact rucksacks, Druadaen found the needed flint, masses of dried cordage that proved eager to burn, and a single taper with which he then located enough torches to light the room. At which point, he discovered just how daunting a task was ahead of him.
The greatest single source of labor—and tedium—was the challenge of sorting items of value from the rubbish. This was because many objects that appeared to be promising had been rendered worthless by brutish impacts, repeated trampling, and a fair amount of scat. However, none of the damage appeared to be intentional; apparently, the creature’s abuses were byproducts of the eagerness with which it sated its ravenous appetite and the consequently violent impatience with which it removed any obstructions to that end.
Time had been similarly indifferent and destructive. Anything fashioned from wood now only good for kindling. This included every bow, spear, and axe, even though many of their blades and points were still useful. What little armor he discovered was rusted, brittle, or broken. And whereas metal objects were more rugged, the ores used to create them were of low quality, although the actual workmanship evinced the typical range from crude to accomplished.
Still, Druadaen found more than enough serviceable rucksacks and waterskins amongst the dross, and was able to piece together a set of cured leather armor less battered than what he had. He augmented it with a set of admirably wrought bronze greaves which he found along with an equally fine shortsword of the same metal. The only other weapon of any value was an ornate steel broadsword that had been protected by its scabbard and was probably worth more than all the currency Druadaen had found: copper coins, amber beads, jade tokens, and rough garnets.
He also discovered what had inflicted the mortal wound upon the fellow whose remains he’d found on the lane up to the hilltop: a gigantic mattock, set aside in a small alcove and caked in dried blood. And having now seen the size and strength of the monstrosity which had wielded that weapon, it was quite clear how the corpse came to be halfway down the hill: the creature had simply flung it there. That in itself was a curiosity, given its avidity for meat, but Druadaen had neither the interest nor need to solve that mystery.
On the other hand, a more worthy mystery was posed by some of the broken armor, weapons, and tools he had come across: they were not made from metal, but rather, what appeared to be a cured hide or shell. They reminded Druadaen of the equipment created by a secretive guild on the metal-poor continent of Mihal’j, as well as the much-coveted sheath armor fashioned by the Uulamantre. The actual material and designs were different, but still, the parallels begged the question: had the knowledge of such a process come through the Shimmer—or some other osmotium—in the past, just like the fruit trees he’d found? Even if the answer remained obscure, searching for it might lead him to other portals that connected to Arrdanc, and possibly, a better understanding of both worlds.
But the strangest find of all was a door handle made from a yellowish alloy, possibly electrum. Druadaen’s initial attention had been drawn by its ornamental scrollwork. However, on closer inspection, he was far more impressed by its perfect symmetry in every dimension. Indeed, the extreme precision of the grooves that separated the grip from the mounting disks at either end made it appear to be comprised of several parts, rather than a single casting. Clearly, it had been cast and trued by a master.
But whereas most handles have holes for the nails or screws to affix them to a surface, this had none. Instead, the mounting plates at either end of the grip had apparently been glued to—of all things—a simple jute sack, now dried and fraying. Shaking his head at whoever had used such a fine piece for such a quotidian purpose, Druadaen resolved to free it by twisting the crudely woven cloth one way and the grip, the other.
The handle tore off the bag with a sound like ripping paper, but left a thick thatch of threads on the “underside” of the mounting disks. Druadaen frowned, worked at the clods of jute and was surprised that he couldn’t get them to budge. He had easily picked away those threads that were not in contact with the mounting disks, but the fibers that were directly affixed to them were immovable; he couldn’t even pry up their ends.
He considered simply tossing the handle into a rucksack with other odds and ends, but decided—more out of annoyance than prudence—to see if the threads could be sliced away with a knife. He drew his dagger, working to get the edge under the jute. When that didn’t work, he resorted to counter-twisting the handle to maximize the cutting or grinding force of the knife.
The jute did not budge… but the handle’s grip moved slightly.
Druadaen stopped; perhaps it was made from separate parts, after all. He turned the object over in his hands, studying its lines before gently attempting to turn the grip again. After a moment of resistance, it rotated until its slightly darker underside faced him, and the “normal” side faced in the same direction as the mounting disks—where it stopped with an audible click.
The remaining pieces of ruined sack fell away. There was no residue of glue on them and the place where they’d been attached was as pristine as the rest of the handle.
Druadaen leaned back, considering. He touched the bottom of one of the disks to one of clods of jute and lifted; it did not re-adhere. Frowning, Druadaen twisted the grip back to its original position before once again touching the disk to the jute; again, it did not reattach. But what if—? Keeping the disks in contact with the ruined fabric, he twisted the grip back into the underside-out position.
The fraying material was held fast. As before, any strands protruding beyond the rim of the mounting disk were easy to pluck away. But anything in actual contact with it remained fixed there.
So, clearly not glue. Druadaen went through the process again, touching it to a different part of the sack, observed the same effects.
Is it possible that—? Hardly daring to breathe, he tested it upon a rusted bronze cuirass—and lifted it off the ground; the handle was as firmly attached as if it had been part of the armor. He repeated the procedure, laying the handle flush against the wall. It not only remained in place, but held his entire weight. Druadaen wished he had Elweyr’s encyclopedic knowledge of artifacture, both mantic and sacred, to learn if either mentioned such a peculiar device.
Druadaen’s thoughts stumbled as it touched upon the word mantic: but, if this is mancery or miracle, then how is it that I’m able to use it? Am I not subject to the mancery in this world? Another question he could not answer. At least, not yet.
He half-rotated the grip to release it and put the handle in the rucksack he’d filled with salvage. The last torches were starting to gutter. If he meant to make it back to the shelter before dark, he would have to move quickly.