Come Endless Darkness (21 page)

It took only an instant for Sigildark to assess the situation. There were two spell-workers ignoring the melee. Both were seeking a means of ascending to where Gravestone lurked. Good! That one should have to bear his share of the peril, Sigildark thought. Of the remainder, one was knocked senseless, and three others now confronted the black-hearted mage. The one with a glittering, false eye was about to strike Krung again. That one had been responsible for the netherfiend's ghastly back wound. Close to him, a rotund fellow of half-elven sort was jabbing with a narrow-bladed spear; thus, both were likely to be engaged in combating the fiend for a bit of time yet.

That left only one opponent for Sigildark. He was a tall and brawny warrior armed with a massive battle-axe. No doubt a barbarian of some sort — one long on muscle and short on brains, but dangerous as a wild animal!

Truce, comrade!" the wizard shouted to the advancing axeman. "The daemon is our mutual enemy." The statements were loaded with a heavy dweomer of persuasiveness. Let the fool but join the attack upon the netherfiend, and he, Sigildark, would strike the lot with such a casting as would fry them all and send them to their doom!

Chert was brought up abruptly by the call. He shook his head, hesitated a split-second, then replied, "Aye, I ken your meaning, mage!" Without further ado, the giant hefted his axe and fell upon the embattled Krung, Brool buzzing and then striking home with a meaty thud as punctuation to its drone.

Left unmolested, Sigildark fairly crooned in glee as he began conjuring the spell that would strike his foes dead with an awful blast of fire and force. The bard engaged against the daemon was singing some sort of magical verse, and the pale dweomer was causing Krung to be hacked to bits. Song, spell, combat — none of that disturbed Sigildark in his own casting. A parchment "hand" filled with the material of the spell he was working flew into the air as he gestured. Only a few more syllables now, and the thing would be done.

Many magicians could bring forth fireballs, but Sigildark's evil spell wrought a clinging, purplish flame coupled with a gaseous explosion that was of far greater bane to those within its fell radius. Even opponents as powerful, as mightily protected by enchantments and magical equipage, as the three locked in melee with Krung would have no chance to survive the thunderfire he was about to bring down upon them. Krung would be slain too, of course, but that was of no import.

After the thunderfire had struck, he would take time for one quick slash across the throat of the one the netherfiend had stunned, and then Sigildark would creep up behind the pair of dolts who sought their demise at Gravestone's hand. One corner of the dark wizard's mind wondered about the possibility of those two managing to kill the priest-wizard. Most unlikely. Another corner of Sigildark's mind nagged him about something else, but the spell was too close to completion, so the mage simply shoved the worrying voice back. It would have been better for him to have not done so.

"Death!" Gord shouted, a second before he plied both his longsword and his terrible dagger against the spell-caster's unsuspecting back. Normally, the young thief would have struck silently. But in order to disrupt the magic that Sigildark was in the midst of working, in order to do his utmost to prevent the dweomer from striking his three friends, Gord cried aloud just as he attacked.

The great shout did break Sigildark's concentration, but the brief warning it gave him did not enable the evil wizard to avoid being struck by the enchanted blades thrust into him. The sooty length of Blackheartseeker failed to find Sigildark's wicked heart, however. It glanced off a rib and cut a fiery track along the dweomercraefter's side instead. The long dagger did much better, sinking well into his lower back.

"Ahhh! No!" The screech came unbidden from his lips, as the dark wizard felt pain far worse than the wrenching of his mind as the casting was broken uncompleted. He tried to turn, to use his magic against the one who had so sorely harmed him. Then that part of Sigildark's brain that had been trying to warn him burst forth into his consciousness: "Fool, fool, fool!" The prone man had not been where he should have been when the thunderfire calling began! These thoughts were a most unfortunate distraction for the mage. Sigildark should have been fleeing for his life.

Gord released his hold on the imbedded dagger in order to use both hands to grip the longsword. With the double grasp, he brought the blade up and down so quickly that he caught the mage in half-turn. Charm, spell, amulet, enchantment, talisman — none of the protections worn, carried, or placed upon his person were proof against that attack.

The dull ebon of the sword's blade scythed to cut through cloak and robe and girdle. It cut skin and flesh and innards, too. Sigildark grabbed at his stomach, pushing back the sausagelike things that tried to slide forth through the awful wound. Standing thus, partially bent and unaware of all else, Gord struck and delivered the coup de grace to the malign spell-binder, cleaving his head from his body, and Sigildark's rotten soul went from him that instant. Although Gord didn't know it, Infestix did soon enough, and even that one quailed despite his glee at having such a prize.

There was a hooting, a whining behind him, so Gord brought his sword up and spun, ready to defend himself. He was in time to witness the demise of Krung, albeit only the death of the netherfiend's material form used to convey the monster on this plane. As If by whim alone, the young champion who opposed Tharizdun and all his vile servitors came to stand beside the netherfiend as it slowly expired. The thing seemed to recognize Gord. It spat a weak glob of disgusting spittle and stuck out its obscene tongue.

"I tasted your blood, little man," Krung rasped in a high pitch, the voice hardly strong enough to carry now. "It was as good as that of your friends aboard
Silver Seeker...
but not their eyeballs!" And with that Krung trailed off with a hideous babbling laugh In the highest register. It was similar to the cry of a hyena, but more hideous, insane. Til be back one day for you," the fiend added with a gasp.

"Will you, now?" Gord asked, bringing the tip of Blackheartseeker out to touch the monster's hideous snout.

As if suddenly energized, the dying netherfiend found strength to draw back from the sword, eyes gleaming, fearful. "No, Masterful One. I lied. Forgive me, please! I will be yours to command — I will do anything!"

"Don't you like to be near the weapon of a 'Masterful One'?"

"It is too wonderful to bear," Krung responded. Meanwhile it was slowly bringing its left hand to a place where it could tear out its own throat and finish its quasi-death here.

Gord saw the motion and struck. Krung's arm, severed at the elbow, flopped and writhed with clenching fingers before the fiend's eyes. "And no need to worry, vile thing! Let your fear be sure and certain. I know what you are, what you did, who you serve. Better still, for me, netherfiend, I know what this blade will do to you!"

Krung's eyes bulged and its mouth gaped to make some utterance, but Blackheartseeker struck too quickly. The dull black of its blade glowed with a purplish sheen for an instant as it drew into itself the force that was Krung; then the sword was dead ebon again.

"Gods!" Chert spat, seeing the very form of the monstrous horror from the pits shrink and wither before his gaze. The sword's power had drained the vital forces from the netherfiend, leaving a withered husk that a mere touch turned into dry dust. "Its soul?" he asked shakily, looking at Gord with uncertainty.

"Annihilated," Gord replied emotionlessly. "It is as if it... Krung... that's what it called itself, you know... never existed. That thing has no being anywhere now — here, the pits, or in the endless spheres of probability. It is nothing!" The latter was uttered with vehemence, for the young thief recalled his slain friends Barrel, Dohojar, and the rest as he spoke. Gord had now had satisfaction upon the slave involved in the matter. Now he wanted the master. Gravestone. Turning to look at Gellor, Gord asked, "Where are Timmil and Allton?"

Chert replied, wiping sweat from his brow as he spoke, for he had fought against the netherfiend fiercely and bore a number of bruises and wounds to prove it. The mage told me they were going above," the hillman rumbled, "to seek out the hand of Nerull who has been the one behind all this."

All four sets of eyes turned to look at the great disc that loomed high above their heads. Gellor's enchanted eye, though, saw more than even the young champion's supernatural vision could discern. "That place fairly dances with evil and throbs with the power of the magical traps and defenses which protect it — and the one whose lair it is!"

"I see neither the priest nor Allton," Greenleaf interjected. "They too must have seen the dangers."

"They should have bided until we had done with those two," Gord said flatly, glancing at what remained of Krung and the decapitated body of Sigildark. "Now our force is divided, and the enemy has a prime opportunity to deal with us piecemeal. Shit! How do we hasten above to join them?"

Chert looked blank, and the druid was silent, pondering. Gellor, however, spoke up again. "My sight of things shows that our companions must have ventured up that spiral there," he told Gord, pointing to a faintly visible staircase about a hundred paces distant. Its darkly luminous steps appeared to twist upward as it hung on thin air. "The aura I see would indicate that the dweomer and malign wardings there have been neutralized to some extent. Can you manage what remains, Curley?"

Greenleaf looked uncertain, but Gord interjected at this point. "I have sufficient imbued energy to resist an accursed spell which might lie in wait for us along the path, my friends. Come on; follow closely. We must find Timmil and Allton before they come to grief!"

The four made a grim picture as they headed for the helix of stone slabs that was their chosen means to ascend to the suspended platform above. Bristling with magical weaponry and enchantments to enhance their innate abilities, few evil opponents, indeed, would readily step forth to confront them. Although already somewhat bloodied by the foes that had tried to stand in their way, these four brave ones seemed quite unaware of their wounds, undaunted by what terrible enemies still lay ahead.

"Were we but in the natural world," Greenleaf said by way of apology to his young friend. "I would be of more service with my castings, Gord — Gellor, too, I think," he added, giving a sideways glance at the troubador.

"True, Curley," Gellor confirmed. "Our muscular giant there would find it more to his taste, too!"

Chert laughed softly and swung Brool to make the great axe sing. "I like the clean air and open land, true; but Brool has no objection to slaying demons or devils wherever they are found." The big hillman laughed again.

Setting foot on the first step, Gord signaled the other three to silence. Without a further word, they ascended the weird stairway.

Chapter 10

IT WAS NIGHT. Worse: dark as a tomb. No, worse than that: the ultimate lightlessness. "I am blinded." Gord announced matter-of-factly, keeping the apprehension he felt from showing in his tone.

Chert jostled him from behind. "I too, comrade," he rumbled.

"Perhaps I can cast a spell to bring us some illumination," Greenleaf ventured.

"Hold!" The command from Gellor stopped everyone in mid-step. "I can see with the aid of my dweomered ocular," he told his companions. "We stand on a little table atop a pinnacle which vanishes in the distance below. Make no move!"

"Pinnacle?" Gord asked uncertainly.

"Aye. Around is a void which seems bottomless. Far, far below I see a dim, black vortex. At the hazard of supposition, that could well be an opening to the anti-plane," the bard told them, referring to the total negative, that place where they would be annihilated in an Instant.

"You are right, Gellor. My dark sword tingles in my grasp as it brings such force to itself. That, at least, is a boon to us."

"Turd-snacking wizard's trap!" Chert grated angrily, hating the absolute powerlessness he felt in his blind state. "At least whatever comes hereafter will be a lesser challenge."

Greenleaf spoke agreement to that, but then added, "Are we trapped with no place to go — ahead or back?"

"Behind there is nothing," Gellor informed them all. "But I see another transparent pinnacle ahead. It is about ten feet distant and almost a man's height higher than the place we stand upon now."

"I can shift-shape," Gord volunteered, "and make so small a leap with ease."

"Not so fast, my young friend," Gellor said, grabbing Gord by his sinewy shoulder. "The place where you must land upon is small and smooth... probably slippery. It is I who must try—"

"I think not," Gord said with a snap of his fingers. "I have a rope which will solve our dilemma." He slipped a coil of what appeared to be braided horsehair from inside his girdle. "This can be made into a lariat and used to encircle the opposite pinnacle."

"Yes, I think so. Let me try." Gellor quickly fashioned a running noose and after several misses managed to loop it around the crystalline finger. "There, I've got it! What now?"

"Place the line in my hand," Gord told the bard and thrust out his left hand in Gellor's direction. When the rope was in his palm, Gord closed his hand and spoke softly, his words strange and alien. The braided Gord seemed to come alive, and as would a python, its loop moved and visibly constricted, almost cutting into the transparent stuff it was encircling.

"Now, Gellor, take this piton and see if it won't hold here." As he said that, Gord sat on the small stone atop their perch and drew out his magical dagger. Straining, he forced the dweomered metal point into the rock, making a hole that was narrow but several inches deep. The troubador took up the steel spike and placed its tip into the opening, pounding with the pommel of his own dagger to drive it down as far as possible.

Gord felt, found the piton's eye, and threaded the rope through the opening, again speaking to the enchanted line as he worked. The rope drew itself into a twisting series of wrappings and knots, and then was stretched taut from one pinnacle to the other.