The
Iron Legion
Chapter 6
Sunder drew his sword in a reverse grip. Unfolding the Fan cut an arc through the air. The Serpent Bites Its Tail drew continuous circles in front of him, forming a great horizontal figure eight. The black adamantite sword could somehow injure the mist's thin tendrils. The gleaming edges and the single rune inscribed into the blade began to glow golden-red, as if hot from the forge. Sparks and embers flew off as Taragarth the Quencher bit deep into the fog.
More tendrils rose to replace those chopped off. This defense would not work unless they could strike at the heart of this thing, Sunder thought grimly. He tried to look for something in the mist, something to attack. He had seen a pair of glowing eyes. He was certain he had seen them. There!
"Lotheneser, Asharak, Durlan, shoot arrows at those hellish eyes!" Sunder barked out the orders in desperation. Durlan was beside him, and Asharak was off to the side somewhere. He had lost sight of Lotheneser. The fog surrounded the Company on all flanks. Screams of rage and fear arose on all sides as the Company of the Raven fought for their lives. We have to advance into the Palace, Sunder thought, face this thing on only one front.
"Quickly, lads, form a shield wall! Advance towards the Palace! " Dark shapes appeared, as the men approached to join the formation. This has to work, Sunder's stomach clenched in fear. Not at the horror before them, but at the prospect of failing these men. A red light revealed Keras' form spinning and twirling his staff, flames cutting into the fog.
-----o-----
Keras swung the staff over his head, spinning in a tight circle, trying to keep the silvery fog at bay. Upon first contact with the fog, the black staff had burst into deep blood-red flames. Keras had nearly dropped it then, but had recovered swiftly when the flames did not hurt his hands. The fog recoiled and advanced like the tide.
Beside him, freeman Durlan of the Yeomanry fought with a bronzewood staff. His arrows had proven useless against the foul mist. An accomplished warrior, Durlan was equally adept with bow, sword or staff. Since his weapons were not magical, the staff proved to be more effective in dispersing the deadly fog before it could strike him. The enchanted breastplate he had chosen also provided some protection from the burning touch of the fog. His attacks proved futile, though.
Asharak of the Chakyik fought like a madman, tulwar flashing in the darkness. The superstitious barbarian had refused sorcerous weapons at the armory, trusting only to his prowess in battle. His attacks also proved to be in vain, as the mist seemed to flow around his sharp blade.
The dwarves fought in a tight group, protecting Elder Brok. Thane Ghallar swung his powerful warhammer, dissipating the ethereal tentacles, and Agni's axe clove the mists beside him.
-----o-----
Lotheneser slashed at the diaphanous tendrils clutching at him from all sides. The basket-hilted broadsword swung in vain. The misty tentacles merely swirled momentarily as the steel blade passed through them, only to reform and resume their attack. The skin on the half-elf's arms burned as if from a dozen bee stings. Angry red welts arose where the tendrils touched him.
Lotheneser backed away, aware of Jaryd's fate in the arms of this thing. But if he were to die, he would do so with a fight. Sheathing his sword, Lotheneser charged forward as he had in the days of his youth.
Growing up in Irongate had taught him a lesson or two on facing desperate odds. The rogues there had not taken kindly to the young half-breed among them. Cries of "Half-man" and "fairy boy" had usually preceded a massive beating by a streetgang. Until he had learned to take care of himself.
More than once he had taught them a lesson. One spindly youth wielding twin daggers against six men. He had earned their respect, and the ones who had once cried cruel words now competed to carouse at his side. For Lotheneser became known as an accomplished fighter, a merry companion and ladies' man, as well as an exceptional thief. His elven heritage provided him with an advantage over his human peers. His keen sight and lightness of step became the means to amass enormous amounts of wealth, which he would then waste on frivolities with his friends. A generous soul and merry companion indeed.
But that time was past. Only now mattered.
Lachluin burst into cobalt flames in Lotheneser's right hand; Tarngrim flared with emerald light on his left. The human-forged dagger cut through the tendrils reaching for him, this time chopping them off. The pieces fell like gray clots of blood upon the cobbled courtyard. Lachluin's flame seemed to hold the thing back, recoiling from the elven-blade's presence. Its azure flames bit deep into the mist, burning it away as a fire consumes dry leaves.
The mist seemed to gain more substance before his eyes. It was as if a veil had been raised and his golden eyes could now perceive his enemy better. Lotheneser could now see a reddish glow flowing from the tentacles attacking the Company; a trail of blood leading straight to the heart of the demon.
Lotheneser of the sharp eyes flipped over the elven blade in his right hand and drew it back. The blue flames did not harm his skin. With the calm grace and cool confidence of the accomplished marksman, he sent the silvery missile spinning towards his target.
-----o-----
Arngrim One-Eye howled in grief. Golden haired Jord lay soaked in blood, the skin on his arms and face welted and torn by the thing's dreadful tendrils. Arngrim wept openly over his cousin's dead body, crying to Kord in the Suel tongue.
The mist drew forward once more. Arngrim snarled and drew a broad-bladed dirk. He cut the long braid of red golden hair that hung at his back and laid it upon his fallen cousin's chest. He dropped his broken sword and gripped the enchanted axe claimed by Jord at the dwarven armory.
The battle dirge of the Fruztii rose in a deep baritone as Arngrim One-Eye swung the double bitted axe with one powerful arm. A white mist was given off by the sorcerous blade. Sueloise runes spelled the name of Vatun, the God of Winter, upon the double blades. Mighty Khelek Kor, the Cold Axe, severed the fog with its icy touch.
-----o-----
Violet light flared as the azure flame struck the crimson glow. With a hideous shriek, the mist seemed to collapse upon itself. The tendrils lost their coherence as the fog faded into a thin mist. Lotheneser sprinted forward and swiftly snatched the elven dagger from where it had fallen. His eyes swept back and forth, ready for a new attack. With the magical sight provided by the Unveiler, Lotheneser watched the crimson tendrils retreating into the darkness. The thing was not dead. Not yet, he thought grimly.
-----o-----
Sunder shifted into a ready stance when the fog receded. He surveyed the damage anxiously. Jord's smile would never shine upon them again. Aldwynn of Rel Astra and Branmor of Rauxes, old members of the Company, were also slain. Most of the Ratikans, whose names he did not even know, were also gone. Only three remained. Those he knew. Jerem of Marner, Justyn of Ratikhill and Artur of... someplace he could not remember.
Too many, too many. How many more will I lose? he thought. Command was a heavy burden, but his duty was clear. He would see the Company out of this accursed place.
-----o-----
"That thing is not dead, Sunder," Keras heard the carefully controlled tone of Lotheneser's voice. A statement of fact, in such a way as to avoid causing a panic. The men were hardened soldiers, yet this horror was unlike anything they had faced before. Had this been a battle against a mortal foe, Keras would have raised the Raven Banner to rally their spirits. Durlan's battle hymns would have banished their fears and his tales of the Company of the Raven would have inspired the mercenaries. But in this dark, forsaken place, the chill touch of fear clutched their hearts and lined their eyes.
"Up the stairs. Swiftly!" came Sunder's order. Keras eased back slowly, whirling his staff in wide circles, eyes roaming the empty plaza, covering the Company's rear guard.
-----o-----
Statues of warriors, twice the size of the dwarves who had carved them from stone, lined the entrance to the palace. Many more stood in ordered ranks in the large hallway. Past crumbling murals and the tattered remains of once fine tapestries the Company sped. The thin mist permeated the floor of the ancient palace, strewn with hundreds of broken skeletons, but no new attack came. Lotheneser scouted ahead of the main group, emerald dagger aflame on his left hand. Tarngrim the Unveiler lent him a sorcerous sight, yet no signs of the enemy were evident.
"This way to the throne room," Brok signaled. The Company turned and followed the Elder's directions, and eventually found themselves facing a large pair of double doors, gilded and carved with ancient runes.
"Carefully now, lads," Durlan warned them. Sunder nodded, signaling Asharak and Eliazar to open the doors.
The doors swung open with a loud creaking sound. Lachluin burst into flame on Lotheneser's right hand. Evil lurked within the dark chamber before them.
Fog billowed forth from the open doors, like a wave breaking upon the shore, and covered their feet. The men clutched their weapons, warily eyeing the silvery glow that surrounded the mist.
"Stand ready, lads," Sunder whispered. "Stand ready." The Company silently advanced.
-----o-----
One of the men coughed as clouds of dust were kicked up into the stale air of the darkened throne room.
Perhaps two dozen statues of dwarven warriors, identical to those that lined the hallways of the palace lay strewn in a seemingly haphazard fashion inside the great chamber. The colored lights of the Company's enchanted weapons illuminated the statues' grim faces, casting unearthly shadows in the eldritch light. Thick layers of dust, which permeated the tiled floors, also coated the statues.
The men moved forward, weaving back and forth between the statues, weapons drawn and ready. Ancient dwarven skeletons, dressed in the tattered remains of once fine clothes, lay scattered throughout the chamber.
A moaning sound rose once more, but louder this time. And now, the deep voice formed words.
"<Who?>" The ancient dwarven words echoed through the vast hall, resonating with the unholy overtones of the mournful howling heard throughout the city. "<Who dares profane Gyrth Orom, my city?>"
The fog seemed to thicken and solidify, taking the shape of an enormous dwarf, bearing an ornate crown. The thing's eyes flashed with the same unearthly light seen in the courtyard.
"<Yorel-Who-Has-No-Fathers!>" Brok cried defiantly. "<The sons of the Lyrkeram have returned to the City of Bronze. Begone, foul shade! Thou hast betrayed thy people and thy god! Accursed art thou, and forsaken in the eyes of the Soul Forger!>" Fury shone in his eyes, as he spoke in the ancient tongue of the dwur. "<Begone, begone Oath-Breaker! The light of Moradin no longer shines upon thee!>"
Agni and Ghallar shouted in unison the ancient Oath of the Dwurs: "Azak-Morad, Kor Morad, Hâl Durin Khûn Moradin!" Heart of Moradin, might of Moradin. Hail Durin, Son of Moradin. The great Oath of Azak Morad, resting place of Durin, father of the dwurs, upon whose grave had this oath of unity and fraternity been sworn by his seven children, founders of the Great Clans. The affirmation of dwarven culture and belief. Betrayed by a godless king, for whose sin the city had been cast in darkness and this horror had been loosed upon the world.
The thing howled in rage at the reminder of its past and burst into a rolling wave of fog, deadly tendrils stretching out to grasp the intruders.
Not one more shall fall to this foul thing, Sunder's thoughts raced. "No more!" he cried. "Ravens! Ravens!!" Taragarth the Quencher sprang from its sheath, fiery rune and edges blazing, ringing and moaning as it cut through the mists.
The others took up the cry. Arngrim, with murder in his eyes, swung the axe back and forth, slicing off tentacles, which fell frozen into misshapen icicles. Keras moved in a blur, staff whirling and spinning with blood red flames, burning off the fog wherever it passed. Lotheneser fought with vicious rage, daggers flashing in the darkness.
This time, the fog seemed powerless against them. Tendrils were slashed off, or dissipated as enchanted weapons struck them. The Company of the Raven fought with fury and passion.
But the mist would not relent, and the warriors would soon tire. Lotheneser scanned the room frantically, eyes searching for the red glow marking the thing's dark heart.
"There!" he shouted triumphantly. "Upon yon dark throne. The skeleton. Its heart lies upon the skeleton!" The men were confused by the half-elf's words. Only Lotheneser could discern the ethereal substance revealed by the eldritch light of his dagger: Tarngrim the Unveiler.
Upon a raised dais stood the stone throne of Gyrth Orom. An ancient skeleton, the remains of Yorel-Who-Has-No-Fathers, lay crumpled upon the seat, gilded crown askew atop its head. The red glow of the demonic mist's heart beat in the skeleton's chest.
Lotheneser released the dagger Lachluin once more. A deadly missile, the Blue Flame of the elves, cast to pierce the crimson heart of darkness. The skeleton raised a bony hand and deflected the spinning dagger. Cursing loudly, Lotheneser shifted his grip in preparation to send Tarngrim sailing through the air to complete the task.
"Brom Kadar!" cried Ghallar, releasing the Trollhammer, the ancient weapon he had claimed at the armory of Grimrock. The heavy warhammer sped swiftly towards its target. The skeleton raised both hands to deflect the ancient missile.
The enchanted warhammer shattered the skeleton's arms and ribcage into dust. Lotheneser, with Tarngrim raised high and poised for throwing, witnessed the impact of the dwur hammer upon the pulsating glow. With a clap of thunder, the red glow faded and the mist collapsed. The enchanted hammer flew back into its wielder's hand.
-----o-----
The fighting ceased. For a moment, silence filled the ancient hall. Then the Company burst into cheers.
Sunder breathed a sigh of relief. No losses, he thought. Praised be Hextor and Heironeous!
The men rejoiced. Weapons were sheathed and the dwarves sang their victory with deep, rumbling voices. Arngrim raised his axe in a silent salute to his fallen kinsman. Asharak shouted in his barbaric tongue and danced in celebration.
Only Lotheneser did not join the rejoicing. The blue flames of Lachluin had receded, but had not been extinguished. Danger was not imminent, but it was not gone either. The magical vision granted to him by the enchanted blade revealed reddish tendrils scattered throughout the room, slithering and regrouping, albeit slowly. The monster could yet return.
Lotheneser quietly reported his findings to Sunder and Keras.
"A god's curse is a thing not easily lifted," Keras said wryly. As I should well know, he added silently to himself, lips twisting into a self-mocking smile. Atonement carries a great price.
Ghallar, who had heard Lotheneser's grim words, replied in a halting voice.
"Aye, perhaps when priests to Gyrth Orom returning, kill they can this curse." His words were spoken hesitantly, and his syntax was yet crude, but the lessons on the common speech of the Flanaess given by the barbarians were undoubtedly paying off. The dwarven thane had proven to be a quick study.
Agni drew forward. "<The King's treasury lies not far beyond. Perhaps the prize we seek lies there.>"
-----o-----
