City of Hawks (27 page)

By the hellish ocher light of the incandescent hyperdragon, Gord sped away, twisting and turning to avoid obstacles as he went. Then he stopped dead. Before him was his own sword stuck point down in the shadow-ground. In its throes, perhaps the dusk-drake had plucked the blade out and hurled it, hoping to thus free itself of the fiery green agony. The opal was gone but the short sword unharmed. He picked it up and turned as he heard a roaring sound from behind.

A rubine star shot forth bloody beams, spears of light that thickened and grew more intense instant by instant. Heat washed over his back, and as the wave of radiation struck, Gord dived headfirst to the hard stuff of shadow-ground. There came a deep, sustained booming, a sound like thunder, as the inferno of opaline fire and dragon flame devoured the dusk-drake and all that was around the beast. A massive shock wave ran through the land, and then everything was again black.

With great effort Gord climbed to his feet and stood, dazed and shaky but alive. Where the titanic duskdrake had been there was nothing to be seen. Close inspection enabled Gord to discover a great crater. Talisman and hyperdragon both were gone. He now faced the pitch blackness of Snuffdark with no magical aids save his sword and long dirk. Did he still have the means to discover the greater blackness of Imprimus’ hiding place? It seemed that the sacrifice of the duskdrake, unintended though it had been, had served the allies of the evil monster well. Gord, their sworn foe, might now be unable to find the lair in which they secluded themselves. Gord slumped in dejection.

Time now to apply more of the salve to heal his new hurts. He needed time too to consider what his next step would be. The grim wind of the Twilight death howled around him, reminding Gord that Snuffdark had by no means run its full course. Yet, even as long as the inky obscurement would persist before the Shadowrealm was again restored to its weird half-light, the interval seemed insufficient to serve. When shadows again slid and swayed across the plane, the power of the gloams would return, and the fate of Shadowking and his realm would be sealed.

Perhaps there was a slender hope left. His sword’s enchantment might serve. That, and his ring whose stone had seemingly picked up some of the green fire from the talisman, together might possibly do it. Having nothing to lose from the attempt, Gord shifted his short sword to his left hand and in a minute he stood peering into the blackness. Gord’s eyes stared blindly into the pitchy world, unable to penetrate the mantling of Snuffdark.

Then, slowly, little by little, his vision began to see variations in the blackness. Here was a darkness the color of coal, there a line of duller shade. Then Gord’s vision grew better still, and deep gray and shining ebony were distinguishable with visual ability that saw not but mere feet but outward by yards. Carefully, Gord resumed his hunt, searching for the enemy, Imprimus, in that place where Shadowking had told him was the most probable locale of the malign gloam’s lair. There were both time and opportunity after all.

The sudden onslaught of the duskdrake had been more than coincidence, that was certain. The terrible beast’s finding Gord in the total gloom of Snuffdark was likewise more than mere chance. The massive hyperdragon had been in the area for some reason, and the most likely one Gord could imagine was to serve as guardian for its ally, Imprimus, during the latter’s time of virtual powerlessness. If this theory was correct, then soon his enchanted vision should alert him to that fact. There would be darkness palpable, blackness more intense than any around, for such stuff gathered around the gloam as he lay in torpid repose during the interval of lightlessness.

“Hail, prince!” The coughing roar that conveyed this salutation was familiar. Was there a bit of sarcastic mirth in the greeting? It was hard to tell. Certainly Hotbreath’s eyes and bearing showed nothing but respect.

“May your pride always be well-fed,” Gord called back in formal response, “How came you here in this vile time?”

“With difficulty, but we too learned from Shadow-king where the nest of enemies is likely to be buried. I have come with some of my own pride, and Smoke-mane too is nearby, accompanied by his females. We are here to serve you once more.”

“Because…?”

“Because it is the will of our Allking. What other reason could there be?”

“What other reason is needed?” Gord shrugged in retort. At the best of times, big male cats make for uneasy feeling, even in alliance, for whatever reason. “I seek the den of the gloam-lich and his pack now, Hotbreath. Gather your pride members and follow.” Without watching to see if the great shadow-lion complied, Gord walked on, intent upon what lay before him.

The deep-chested roar of a male lion came suddenly from ahead. Gord set his body into motion, a bounding run that ate up the intervening distance between him and the location of the roar. There was the bulk of Smokemane, with a handful of large lionesses nearby. The massive male had his head thrown back and was voicing yet a second mighty roar when Gord came springing into the place where the lion stood. “Why do you send forth your challenge?” he demanded.

“I scent the evil reek of gloams,” Smokemane answered in deep growls of most ferocious sort. “I announce my intention to seek out such prey to any who would join me in the hunt.”

“Now I am come,” Gord said to him and his females. “I will lead the way, and you and yours will follow with Hotbreath and his mates. In what comes, Imprimus is mine alone. All others are yours-for any who care to set their fangs and sink their claws. Remember in the stalking and chase that the killing of that one, the gloam-lich, Imprimus, is for none other than me.”

“As you order, lord, but let us stop this speaking and seek the prey!”

Feline noses led them to the place where powerful illusions masked the entrance to the gloam’s hidden place of safely. The way was barred by a massive slab of shadow-steel. Not even the claws of the huge lions could penetrate such stuff, but Gord’s enchanted dagger could. The long-bladed poniard was in the young thief’s hand immediately, its magical metal cutting away the hard steel as a whittling knife slivers oak. The flat surface was broken by a rivet-held box that contained the locking mechanism of the portal. It was certain that the door would be barred inside as well, but first he must remove the initial closure. The dagger’s edge pared the steel away, sending metallic curls falling furiously, and then the box’s face fell away, and the lock was exposed. Next came the thick cylinders of the rivets. They were cut through, driven loose. The lock’s inner plate clanged on the floor beyond, and Gord had a square hole he could reach through.

“I have it!” he cried as his groping found a heavy rectangle of metal on the inner side of the portal. Gord pushed upward, and the bar moved, then fell with a louder clanging to join the steel plate already lying on the stone flags beyond. Gord then tried to shove the heavy door inward, but the thing moved not. “Wait,” he told the impatient lions. “The gate is held by more than a single bar.”

It was difficult, but by straining Gord was able to reach down and locate a second piece of steel securing the door at its bottom. This time he was careful to hold the slab of steel, maneuvering the heavy rectangle so that it leaned upright against the portal it had barred. “Now, one last bit of work, and we should be free to pursue our foe!” The lower bar became a lever for the one Gord had been sure was above. Fortunately, the lockplate had been low on the door and the bars that held it fast were long. The tool served well, and with considerable effort Gord managed to employ it to free the uppermost fastening.

There was a third great clangor, then a fourth as the young thief discarded the bar he had held. When he shoved on the portal this time, the sheet of steel swung smoothly open on well-greased hinges.

“The eclipse of Mool and all the luminaries accompanying it above nears its conclusion, prince,” the huge lion named Smokemane growled to Gord as the young adventurer paused before the open entrance. “You must hasten if we are to take these enemies at their ebb!”

At that urging, Gord moved, stalking into the deeper darkness of Imprimus’ lair, followed by ten lions and lionesses. The hallway beyond the steel portal was wide and went straight into the low hill, angling downward rather steeply as it went. The man and his company of big cats had proceeded some distance, going mostly by touch and an innate sense that enabled them to move within the total gloom, when the floor beneath them collapsed.

Great claws scrabbled as the lions tried to stop their precipitous slide down the polished stone sides of the trap. Gord, as he fell, set his mind, thinking that perhaps the whole thing was some form of illusion.

Neither feline nor human succeeded. The slide continued despite outthrust claws and positive thinking. In seconds all eleven victims were dropped from the steep chute into a circular pit no less than twenty feet deep. The lions landed on their feet, shaken but unhurt. Gord also came through unscathed, for his training as an acrobat enabled him to handle the fall without difficulty and immediately move thereafter to the far wall in order to avoid being crushed by a plummeting lion.

The lightlessness in the circular pit was so extreme that not even the eyes of the shadow-lions could penetrate its murk. Then a pale luminosity issued forth, casting a soft, pale green light all around the small chamber. Some vestige of the talisman’s force still lingered within Gord’s ring, as he had suspected. The young adventurer had wished idly for light by which to see, and in the next instant a dim radiance began to issue forth from his eyes.

The two great male cats snarled and their hackles rose at the phenomenon. Gord spoke soothingly, and both Smokemane and Hotbreath calmed down, even culling their respective females to show the lionesses that all was well and to restore their own lost dignity. That was a very important thing to the big cats.

“This is good… perhaps too good to be true!” Gord exclaimed.

“You think a death trap is good?” old Smokemane growled.

Gord could not restrain himself from taking the head of the big lion and roughly stroking it. The gesture was both one of affection and reassurance. “This place was designed to catch intruders and imprison them in its depth until the guardians within the stronghold could come and deal with what they had caught according to need. Now, at Snuffdark, no sentry stands, no warder watches. I will leave this place in a moment, and soon I’ll have all of you out too!”

The lions stood still, Smokemane’s tail showing jerky twitches of uncertainty. Gord, meanwhile, took his dagger and went to work on the hard and polished stone with which the cylindrical hole was faced. He needed but scant niches for fingertips and toes. The work was simple, and soon indeed he was high above the upturned heads of the lions, legs disappearing over the pit’s rim.

He had pretended confidence at his ability to release his companions, but Gord was deeply worried that he would not be able to do so. The males weighed six or seven hundred pounds each, conservatively. The females were only slightly smaller. How could he ever manage to get such massive cats out of a well that was more than twenty feet deep?

A narrow walkway circled the pit. Opposite the place where the victims were precipitated into its depths by the smooth-floored chute, there was an arched opening, a tunnel of about six paces width and somewhat lower than it was wide. Although the radiance cast from his eyes was waning, Gord could still see well enough to manage a rapid exploration of the passage. There were rooms on either side of the tunnel, and behind a heavy grill the young adventurer spied several wooden shapes that could only be ladders.

The lock of the iron grating was easily dealt with, and in no time at all Gord was dragging a thick-timbered ladder back along the way he had just come. He slid the thing over the lip of the well, guided its end to the floor below, and then ran back up the tunnel once again, returning with a second ladder. This he placed beside the first, then slid down it to the bottom of the pit.

“I have placed these two ladders at as gentle an angle as possible,” Gord said to Smokemane. “You and your mates must use them to get out of this place, placing half of your weight on each. Go up the incline, and when the uppermost portion of the ladder is reached, it will be necessary to use your forepaws to draw yourselves over the rim. Don’t worry-the stone there is rough and cracked.” Gord looked into first Smokemane’s big eyes, then Hotbreath’s. “Can you and the lionesses do that?”

Before either male could growl in reply, a sleek female shot past them, leaped upon the pair of sloped ladders, and clambered up. “Yes,” she growled, and then gave a scrabbling leap and was atop the pit’s edge, peering down with feline hauteur. While Gord watched, all the remainder of the lionesses then climbed upward and out. The great males followed, with the wood groaning and bending under their weight, but not breaking despite the strain each of them placed upon the timbers. Finally Gord scampered up, doing so as easily as if he were serenely ascending a flight of broad steps.

“It might be beneficial to be a changeling, going from decent form to that of a hairless ape whenever the need arose,” the first lioness to climb free of the pit growled in droll, feline fashion as Gord sprang nimbly atop the well’s edge. He made no reply, but thought how nice it would be if he could become a great cat at will!

Soon enough the party of man and lions reached the terminus of the passage. A foul stench warned them of something ahead, and in the square chamber at the end of the passage was the source of the terrible odor-a dozen huge yeth hounds, lying almost dormant.

This place was certainly more than a Snuffdark lain it must be Imprimus’ main headquarters. Its pack of watchdogs, the yeth, were by no means active now, however. Snuffdark had brought all to a languid and torpid state. Under other circumstances, these creatures probably would have been roaming the tunnel, baying their fearsome cries whenever an intruder appeared. At the sight of the lions, though, the hounds were up and snarling. One threw its head back and began a mournful howling, a note that began in the low register and rose quickly beyond human hearing.

The sound made Cord’s hair stand on end, and he almost dropped his sword and dagger. At the first baying the lions responded with a chorus of coughing roars. The deep roars reverberated and echoed deafeningly in the enclosed, underground environment. In fact, the lions’ challenge to the monstrous yeth was so loud that the canines instantly left off their howling and attacked with bared fangs.

While the big cats were weakened by Snuffdark, they were not so reliant on shadowy light as were the mastifflike yeth. The dogs never had a chance because of this. While Gord fought for his life, fending off a pair of male yeth nearly as high at the shoulder as Gord was tall, the ten lions literally tore up the remainder of the evil pack of night-black monsters.

“I owe you for that,” Gord said, panting. Hotbreath had just taken care of the last yeth as the hound had been about to close its massive jaws on the young thief’s throat. The short sword and dagger were good blades, but definitely not the best things to use against these huge dogs.

“And you, lord, brought all of us safely from the pit,” the big male said, cleaning the dark blood from his paws and jowl. “Ferragh!” the lion growled in disgust. “There is no debt for my service in killing the yeth-you owe me a fat kill so I can get the vile taste of hounds’ blood from my mouth.”

“Consider it done! I will find some source of light for us, and then we must press on. The hidey-hole of Imprimus must be near.” Hotbreath went to the others to pass along the information, and Gord began a search of the large, square chamber. His light-vision was continuing to fade, and soon they would be in utter blackness again unless he could do something.

Three doors led from the kennel chamber. Each was set into the middle of one of the walls, and each of the heavy wooden panels was flanked by a pair of cressets. None were alight, but an examination revealed that there was a residue of oil in each. Using hunks of cloth and old weapon shafts that littered the hounds’ kennel, Gord soon had constructed three torches, their rag-topped heads soaked with the fuel taken from the cressets. By plying the tip of his dagger against the stone wall, he created a spark and thus ignited one of the rag-poles.

“Now, friend lions, I shall have to rely upon you entirely for my defense,” he said to the cats as he held the flame aloft. “With this torch now our only source of light, there will be little I can do but hold fast to it.” The thing cast only a dull illumination. In the realm of shadow, flames normally burned with a pearly, dove-gray radiance. During this season of absolute blackness, the oppression of Snuffdark caused even the hottest of fires to burn a drab and pallid gray. The sooty smoke of the torch rose from flame of dun, and a penumbral circle of light barely made visible objects that were but a dozen feet distant.

“We understand,” Smokemane answered for all. “Lead us to the way we’re to take, and leave the rest to us…” The huge male’s growled reply came loudly in the chamber, the last part trailing off into a snarl that indicated just how the lion contemplated handling his share of the expedition.

“There,” Gord responded, pointing to the left of the passage that led to the pit. His keen eyes had seen the dingy hair of the yeth hounds on and around the right-hand portal. That indicated a high probability that behind was nothing more than a storage room, the place the dead hounds’ food had been kept in all likelihood, and in any event a way seldom if ever used by the masters of the place. Otherwise, no accumulation of the beasts’ shed coats would be there. Similarly, the center door showed minute traces of corrosion on ring and hinges. These, and the fact that it was the only one of the three portals that opened outward, made Gord highly suspicious of it. He was willing to wager that it was a cleverly trapped device to catch and slay unwary intruders. “We go through that way. It is the only portal which sees regular use.” he added unnecessarily; lions care little for such reasoning, after all.

The door was pushed open easily enough. Behind it was a short landing and a long, worn flight of steps leading down. As the sputtering torch cast its scant, almost brown illumination, Gord went down the rough-hewn stone stairs, Hotbreath padding before him and the nine other great cats filing after. All were moving quickly, for soon the time of absolute dark would be over. Snuffdark would not recede gradually the way Twilight had waxed. The blackness came instantly at the final waning of the brightness, and it disappeared as quickly. When Snuffdark’s grim time was finished, Shadowrealm regained its usual pallor of shadowy silvers, manifold grays, deep blacks, until Mool waxed and the oppression followed again-a year’s span, as time was measured on the Plane of Shadow.

When they finally reached the bottom of the long stairway, Gord saw that they had arrived at what must be the very heart of the gloams’ stronghold. Above were the places for guards, hounds, and the rest. Down here were the workrooms, laboratories, and libraries of those who sought to usurp the rule of this plane for themselves.

Gord’s rapid exploration of the chambers that opened onto the gallery at the bottom of the steps revealed all this. It also provided him and his escort of lions with better light, for in one alchemical study he discovered an oddly fashioned lamp. It was enclosed in a crystal-sided box, making it almost a lantern. The fuel inside it was unidentifiable, but it had what was clearly a wick, and when the nearly exhausted torch was applied to it a healthy flame sprang forth. From this lamp came a misty light of luminous gray. The radiance spread into the hemisphere ahead of the lamp, casting its strange illumination a distance of almost twenty paces. Now the group was far better prepared to see and search.

Although this seemed the nerve center, there were certainly other places that had to be found. During Snuffdark, the gloams would be bolted closed in their personal chambers-unless they were of the same sort as Imprimus. Gord knew that fiend would be entombed in his casket or sarcophagus, awaiting the return of shadows upon the plane, at which time his powers would again be restored and waxing.

When he had attempted to get Shadowfire from Gord, the gloam-lich had been constrained by the power of the approach of Twilight. The brightest and darkest times of Shadowrealm were the only ones when Imprimus’ powers were diminished. The brightness of Twilight would certainly slay the vampiric lich if he were not safely hidden from it. The total gloom of Snuffdark made Imprimus very weak and without his full range of powers. It did not harm him physically, as the radiance of Twilight would; Snuffdark made the gloam subject to attack, however, through causing him great weakness. That, Gord hoped, would prove as fatal as the full face of Mool in its single period of glory.

“Gord! I smell bad smells. This way.” The rumbling communication came from Hotbreath. His body was in rigid point as he glared toward a dim recess of the subterranean library. With the guidance given by the big male lion, Gord quickly located a secret exit from the place, a door concealed by a shelf of ancient librams and scrolls. Again steps were discovered, and the young adventurer headed down them immediately, bringing a tail often lions after him.

There was a charnel reek arising from the narrow stairwell. Even Gord’s human hearing could also detect sounds coming from below. Then the light of the lamp shone on the gray pallor of shadow-bones. It was evident that the ghouls and corpse-eaters of the material plane had counterparts dwelling in Shadowrealm, for mingled with the stench of death were the unmistakable odors of those foul creatures who dined upon corpses and delighted in decay.

“What lurks below, friends,” Gord said softly, “is such which I can fight but poorly, bearing as I do our light.”

“Eaters of dead humans,” Smokemane nearly roared in reply. “We have encountered them once or twice, for such things will contest with us over our kills if they have not other flesh to feed on.” Gord noted that the cat made no distinction between human folk, such as found on Oerth, and the phantom folk of this plane. The phantoms were, in fact, the parallel of humans, their equivalent in Shadowrealm. But the gloams were something else, something unnatural, as inimical to the phantoms as to all other clean forms of life. The two big males squeezed past Gord and bounded downward. After them went the lionesses, and the battle was on.

Light held high, Gord hastened down the stairs immediately after the last female had shot past him. Snarls and roars were intermingled with the horrible shrieks and yapping of the ghouls and their even worse and more foul cousins, the ghulaz, as they sought to defend themselves from the lions’ ferocity. As reflections of the undead of the material plane, these eaters of corpses were severely afflicted by the time of total lightlessness. Although all creatures of Shadowrealm were affected by the gloom of Snuff-dark, lions being among the roster of animals, the great cats were by no means as weakened as the ghulaz and ghouls. The slowly moving, lethargic creatures were fighting desperately to save themselves, but their defense was not strong enough either to give serious injury to their attackers or give themselves hope of prevailing. The evil undead quickly understood this fact and sought to retreat.