Depths of Madness (4 page)

judging, deciding, and dismissing. Twilight made a note of it. She had already guessed the answer. “He’s a goliath.”

Gargan nodded and bowed his head slightly. “Kuli gumatha goli kanakath.”

Twilight extended her hand, and the goliath looked down at it, curious.

“What was that?” Liet whispered.

“I’ve no idea,” Twilight said through a clenched smile.

In less than a quarter bell, the prisoners were assembled in the guard chamber, as far from Tlork as they could manage. Each waited in his or her distinct fashion.

Gargan the goliath leaned against the back corner of the room, arms folded. He had spoken no more since being released, a fact that did not surprise Twilight. She had heard of the goliath race, but had never heard them called verbose. At his feet lay the locked chest, carried from Tlork’s chamber through the application of stony muscles.

Liet paced, shivering and casting wary glances around. When he saw Twilight looking at him, he visibly relaxed, but she wouldn’t give him that. She looked away, letting him grow progressively more nervous.

Taslin and Asson stood together in a different corner, the woman protectively in front of her companion. Taslin had enough strength for both of them. “How long?” she questioned. “Soon,” Twilight said. “I need all of us together.” No sooner had she spoken than Slip entered. The uneasy look on the halfling’s face, even before Twilight saw the cowled figure that walked behind her, told her that she should reconsider gathering all the prisoners.

“I brought the one from the wizard cell.” Slip bit her lip. “He’s got himself a nasty streak, this one. Beware!”

Slowly, Twilight nodded. She’d sensed evil in that cell, and she’d been right.

“Spare me this runt’s drivel,” the man snapped. “Who among you speaks sense?”

Taslin stepped forward. “Who are you?” she asked, defiant, shoulders back.

Twilight cursed. That a champion of the Seldarine could sense what she herself had felt failed to surprise her. She was entirely too familiar with the devout.

The cowled man shot his dark eyes over them all and a glittering sneer of sharp teeth appeared in the depths of the cowl. The air around his hands shimmered, and ruby energy crackled to life in his palms. The prisoners stepped back, all but Twilight, who palmed the iron shard. Her eyes went to the locked chest— perhaps she should have opened it before releasing the others, but she couldn’t have carried it without Gargan.

“I am the warlock Davoren Hellsheart,” the cowled man said. “And from now on, you will speak only when I speak to you, yellow whore.” He accentuated the point with a glare that promised swift, magical death. “You as well, whitebeard.”

Taslin’s face went white. “In Corellon’s name—”

Twilight stopped her with a hand on her arm and a sharp look, at which Taslin frowned. She looked away. “Well met, Davoren,” Twilight said pointedly.

The warlock’s eyes flicked to her and he paused, cruel mouth twisted. His gaze was chill. “Indeed,” he said. “You know my name, and I—”

“Fox-at-Twilight,” she said, cutting him off. “And I say we waste no more time.”

Davoren pulled back his hood, revealing surprisingly well-groomed, yellow-white hair and a brush of grayish stubble across his chin and throat. The features were not ugly in and of themselves, but the whole was hideous. His dusky skin was odd—as though it were made of something other than human flesh.

“What do you propose, Fox-at-Twilight?” Davoren said.

“Simple—we choose a leader for this band, then get the Hells out of this place.”

“Band?” The warlock scoffed. He gestured at the other six. “All I see are huddled weaklings.”

“None of us know what’s beyond the troll,” Twilight said. “And none of us can make it alone. We either work together to escape, or we stay here and rot.” Though she didn’t say it, she realized that second option would likely involve bloodshed.

“Right!” piped up Slip. “And in this here band, we should all rule over each other, and have equal voice, and… and be best companions!”

“Equal voice?” Davoren laughed. “Spare me.”

Everyone but Slip glared at him. “Why not equal?” she asked, blinking.

“Equality is the crutch the weak impose on the strong.” Though he spoke to Slip, Davoren’s eyes remained on Twilight. “Thus do rabble rule where they have no business doing so. If you wish to indulge in such narcissistic tripe, leave my sight.”

“You may be gone,” said Taslin. “We have no need of arrog—”

Twilight spoke over her. “I’m not going to impose anything on you.” She disdained the implications of those words; he’d twisted her into calling herself weak. “Ordinarily, I’d say every elf for herself, but we will die if we can’t work together.”

In the silence that followed, heads began to nod, and even Davoren’s scowl gradually faded. Twilight felt she was right— none of them knew what they faced, but all of them knew they could not face it alone. Even the warlock.

To a point. “I see no reason why we should have equal voice. Our voice should be weighted based on our relevance, or whether we exist only for comedy and amusement.”

Slip blinked. “Why’s everyone looking at me?”

“And you are to judge this?” Taslin asked, stepping forward again.

“As though you would be better, spellbegger.” At that, Asson brought his hand up as though to shape a spell.

In response, Davoren clenched his fist and narrowed his eyes. “Suddenly grown a backbone, whitebeard?” Crimson

eldritch energy swirled around his forearm. “Let us see who is stronger.” He grinned. “Especially without your precious powders and trinkets.”

“Enough!” snapped Twilight. She stepped between the two and stared Davoren in the eye. “We can stand here arguing until the Abyss gleams with holy light, or we can establish a leader and get out of here while that troll yet sleeps.”

The warlock smiled cruelly. “Very well, she-elf,” he said. “I knew you’d come around to my way of thinking. As my first command…”

A rumble vibrated the room. It took all the adventurers a full breath to realize that it had come from the mottled giant of a man who sat behind them. It was the second time Gargan had spoken. Though Twilight did not understand his words, she understood the meaning of his finger well enough, pointing at her. Taslin nodded, almost imperceptibly. Could she understand the goliath somehow?

Davoren’s face contorted in indignation. “Speak a civil tongue,” he snapped. “Then perhaps we might consider your input, monster.”

“Twilight,” said Liet. “It’s got to be Twilight.”

Silence fell. Davoren stared, dumbfounded and furious, at Liet. The youth receded, as though shrinking back into the shadows under that gaze. Twilight might have interposed herself, but she had a feeling that would anger the warlock more.

Finally, Taslin stepped toward Liet. “Say on, lad,” she bid.

“Well…” Liet scratched the back of his head. “Slip’s too loud of mouth, Gargan too soft. Asson’s too old, and Taslin favors him too much. We need someone who represents us all.” The priestess stiffened, but bowed in concession. “Davoren’s too divisive”—Davoren scoffed at that—”and I… I’m too young.” He spread his hands. “Who’s left but Twilight?”

In the pause that followed, Twilight kept her silence and her eyes on Liet, weighing and watching.

“So it’s Twilight,” said Taslin. “Objections?”

“Indeed,” said Davoren. “I’ve one.” He raised a fist, which

crackled with spinning energy. “What’s to keep me from smiting your leader right now and taking her place?”

Then he raised his other fist, and the energy arced between them.

“And a second—a corollary, if you will.” He furrowed his brow, as though thoughtful. “What’s to keep me from smiting all of you right now? It seems to me that none of us are armed, and I need no weapo—”

As the words snapped out of his mouth, Twilight exploded into motion. She dived into a roll, came up inside the circle of Davoren’s arms, and whipped the metal shard, which she had concealed behind her arm, against his throat.

The warlock chuckled. “Meaningless,” he said. “My powers are of the Nine Hells, and in my veins pumps the blood of demons—no mere metal can bite my skin.”

“Yes, but I’m willing to wager that if you’ve a demon’s blood, you’ve a demon’s weakness,” Twilight said. “And this, if you hadn’t noticed, is cold-wrought iron.”

Davoren did not move or blink, but the rage in his eyes said enough.

During the standoff, both poised to slay the other in a single flick of the wrist, the other prisoners watched, awestruck. No one spoke.

Then, of all assembled, Asson stepped forward. “Davoren, Twilight,” he said, the trepidation clear in his voice. “This gets us nowhere. That troll won’t sleep forever.” Down the corridor, the room having gone silent, they could hear its snores.

Neither moved, but the tension slowly dissolved between them. Or, more appropriately, reality intruded and forced some of their rancor aside.

Some.

“Very well.” Davoren lowered his hands. “I shall accept the fiUiken’s leadership.” Taslin and Asson cringed at the words in Elvish for “skirt” and “open,” combined with Davoren’s tone. “For now.”

The elf smiled only slightly and drew her blade away. “Very well,” she said.

Slowly, hot anger subsided into cold anxiety. Torches flickered where they lit the chamber, and the trolls hacking snores did not reassure Twilight. Who knew what other dangers might be in the darkness?

But she wouldn’t think about it. She picked at her damp chemise and eyed the frayed cloaks and robes they all wore. Then she looked at the chest and the ring of keys.

I hope this isn’t a jest, she thought. I’m near dead for some decent clothes.

Exactly three hundred heartbeats later, Davoren snarled for the sixth time, startling Liet. “I thought our waiting was for a purpose,” he said. “Was I mistaken?”

“Patience is not your specialty, then,” Taslin said. She kept watch at his side, gazing down the corridor and waiting for any sign of the troll, or other horror.

“No,” Davoren said. “But rampant destruction… that I do quite well.”

Liet knelt next to a wall, his arms around his knees. He tried not to think about the darkness, or the cold, or the troll he could still hear snoring, or… then he caught himself, stopped, and shivered. He felt awkward—alone, even surrounded by the others.

He glanced at Twilight. The elf had tried every key and was now working on that black chest with her shard of iron. She’d shushed him when he’d tried to talk to her. The intensity in her eyes when she focused on a task disturbed him.

“Here!” Slip shouted from where she perched atop Gargan’s shoulder. Her loud voice caused half of them to jump and the others to hiss at her in warning.

If Slip noticed, she made no sign. Fingers traced a crease in the stone. “Found it!”

“Found what?” Liet asked, allowing himself to hope. “A way out?”

He looked, and sure enough, she pointed to a line in the stone, a crack like the edge of a trapdoor. Slip knocked on one

side of the groove, which gave off a stony thump, then upon the other, which produced a metallic ring.

Setting the halfling down gently, eliciting a giggle from the little creature, Gargan put his hands to the ceiling, only a head above him. The goliath pushed, gently at first, then with greater effort. With a scrape, the metal plate rose a good thumb’s breadth. A trace of dust filtered down. The goliath pushed— slowly, so as not to produce noise, and revealed a disk of metal, like a trapdoor, which he shifted out of the way.

“From the lack of dust, ‘tis a well-used portal, by my estimation,” Asson said near Liet’s side, startling him. The old man was surprisingly quick and silent.

“Estimation? I’m surprised you can even see it, old one,” Davoren said. Taslin glared, but the warlock merely shrugged. ” ‘Tis no great slight to call an old man old.”

Taslin drew back, but Asson laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. The priestess looked away from Davoren and gave her husband a gentle smile.

Then the chest clicked, and Liet turned back to Twilight. The lithe elf perched over the strongbox, a wide smile on her face. “Happy Naming Day, all.”

“Gold is meant to help us?” the warlock asked.

The elf snapped open the lock and flung back the cover, revealing weapons, armor, and gear. Eyes lit up around the room, and the adventurers fell upon it.

From the chest, Taslin claimed a mithral long sword. Liet chose a paired thrusting sword and dagger, and Gargan took a great battle-axe. Deep in the chest, Liet saw a dusky old rapier.

“Betrayal,” Twilight whispered as she lifted it.

“What?” Liet started.

Twilight didn’t seem to hear. Her eyes locked on a certain blue gem medallion wrapped around the blade’s hilt. Unobtrusively, she untangled it and secured the chain around her throat, leaving the pendant to hang beneath her torn chemise. Liet stared at her, curious, until Twilight returned the gaze. He looked away, balancing his sword.

“You know how to use one of those, then?” Twilight asked

in his ear, and he whirled. He almost hit her in the face with the blade, and if she hadn’t moved her rapier to parry, he would have slashed her. He thought he saw sparks.

“Well, uh, yes,” Liet said. “The point, anyway.”

“Well,” Twilight said. She brought a hand up to her cheek and flicked the blade wide with a wink. “See that you mind it well.”

Liet didn’t know what she meant, but the way she said it made him flush.

Asson declined a weapon in favor of his staff. One item remained for Davoren and Slip to dispute—a small mace that would have been a weighty bludgeon in the halfling’s hands.

“I care not,” Davoren said. “My gifts are all the weapons I need.” As if to reinforce the point, flames danced in his eyes. Liet shuddered.

Farther into the chest came further spoils, including a suit of golden mail fitted for Taslin, a pair of vambraces too large for any but Gargan, and a shield Liet himself claimed. Built of stout wood, with a sheath on its reverse for a dagger, the shield pleased him greatly.

Asson laid claim to a pouch seemingly of spellcasting ingredients. Twilight discovered a black belt holding lockpicks, tiny crossbow quarrels, and myriad small devices. Beneath these lay a pair of black gauntlets decorated with snarling devils that no one would claim except Davoren. The chest held a further collection of mixed equipment, including empty waterskins, rope, and a grappling hook. Slip seized a largely empty sack that seemed to contain scraps of cloth and a strand or two of rope. Taslin’s eyes lit up when she removed a cloth-wrapped bundle, and she handed it to Asson reverently.