Richard Baker: Easy Betrayals

Rings automatically turned and put his back to the tall warrior, guarding his flank. At the fringe of his vision he saw them now, brown and withered figures that approached in fluttering tatters of cloth and flesh. They were long dead, of course, silent phantoms with cruel talons and eyes that burned like witch fire. Rings balanced his fighting axe in his right hand and crouched, ready to strike. "How many on your side?" he asked.

"Enough," Jacob answered. "And you?"

"More than enough," Rings answered. The first mummy reached him, clubbing its knotted fists down at his head. He twisted aside and took the corpse's leg off at the knee with one swift stroke, then ducked under the swing of a rust-flaked sword that broke on the wall beside him. He hewed the ancient warrior's arm from its body, then stumbled to the ground as the first one he'd felled tripped him with its grappling talons. Cold, bony claws raked deep into the flesh of his thigh, and Rings gagged in pain and revulsion. He smashed the creature's skull with one blow of his axe and pried its talons from his leg while the next one advanced to attack. "Jacob!" he called.

There was no reply. Rings staggered back a step, drove off the next dead one with a flurry of slashes, then risked a glance over his shoulder. Half a dozen of the ancient dead lay in the sand, hacked limb from limb, and in the swirling darkness he thought he saw a gleam of white movement as the Tyrian warrior danced and spun among the relentless horde, blade flashing. "Jacob! Stay close!" Rings shouted. Then he had to turn back to defend himself from an ancient priest-thing that attacked him with a heavy bronze sceptre. When next he looked, he could see nothing of Jacob at all.

More of the dead warriors closed in on him, forcing him to turn constantly, defending his flank and back. Rings howled a challenge that was swept away by the voiceless wind, smashed a hulking warrior to the ground, then turned again to put the stone of the old wall to his shoulders. His outstretched fingers felt nothing but emptiness behind him; there was a breach in the wall, and no foes in the gloom beyond.

Rings didn't waste a moment; he turned and ran for his life, hoping that there was nothing worse in the gloom than the horror of walking dead he'd left behind him. He floundered past blank stone and hissing sand, scratched and clawed in a dozen places. "Belgin! Miltiades! Jacob!" he called, staggering through the ruins. "Belgin!"

There was no reply.

The paladin and the sharper advanced cautiously into the Netherese palace, tendrils of sand shifting and dancing around their feet as the wind howled through the doorway and clutched at their cloaks. The room beyond was a shallow portico, with tall columns carved into the image of ancient warriors supporting a low ceiling of heavy stone block. Three passageways led into the building, dark and dusty in the deepening gloom.

"Which way?" asked Belgin.

Miltiades turned his head from side to side, concentrating. "Straight ahead," he replied. They moved down a long hall decorated with ancient frescoes that still held a hint of their color, showing cryptic scenes of bronze-skinned people in cotton kilts. Some fought in great battles; others worked in broad fields of grain; a few stood above the others conjuring mighty spells out of the air. The passage came to an abrupt end at an archway framed by rough-dressed stone. A narrow flight of steps ran down into the darkness beyond. "She's down there somewhere."

"Great," muttered Belgin. "Another dungeon, or crypt, or subterranean hall of horrors. Why don't creatures of irredeemable evil ever set up house in some pleasant, sunny spot?"

"You wouldn't take them seriously if they did," Miltiades replied.

Hammer at the ready, he advanced down the stair, crouching to avoid striking his head on the low ceiling. Belgin followed, trailing his free hand along the wall. After twenty or thirty steps, the passage opened in a broad hall lined with rows of plain stone columns. Around the perimeter of the room dozens of blank stone archways were evely spaced along the wall, each surrounded by an intricate ring of rune-etched stone. The long, low chamber extended into the darkness.

"These look familiar," breathed Belgin quietly.

"Aye. More portals," Miltiades agreed. "Where do they all go?"

The sharper moved closer to the nearest portal and carefully brushed the dust from its circle of runes. He traced the inscription with one finger, whispering under his breath, then stepped back. "This one goes to Chessenta, I think. Or an old Mulhorese ruin that I've heard of that lies in that land." He moved over to the next one, scrutinizing it carefully. "Here's one that goes to a place called Myth Drannor. Ever hear of it?"

"Don't open it!" Miltiades barked quickly. "It wouldn't make things any better."

I’m not sure I could even if I wanted to. Gates such as these often need very specific keys to open. Unless the builders of these archways were kind enough to hide the activating phrase in these inscriptions…" The sharper turned back to study the archway.

Miltiades watched Belgin for a long moment. The ancient hieroglyphs meant nothing to him, preceding the ancient days in which he'd led his first life by thousands of years. His eyes narrowed in suspicion as Belgin moved to the next archway and softly traced the stone carving. "Hold, scoundrel!" he cried, darting forward to catch the sharper by the wrist. "You worked magic to comprehend these runes!"

"Tyr has no problem with the practice of magic, does he?" Belgin answered angrily, pulling his hand from Miltiades's grasp. "How could I read this gibberish otherwise?"

"Tyr takes no offense at the working of magic, but he does have a problem with deception," grated the paladin. "Who are you, pirate? What are you doing here? Explain yourself!"

Belgin straightened and drew back his shoulders, a scowl settling over his round face. "What do you care?" he said sharply. "I'm exactly what you see-a pirate, a cutthroat, a dandy and a sharp. I take from those too weak or too stupid to defend themselves. I've stolen from kings and from beggars. I've killed good men and bad. I've reneged on my bargains, lied to those who trusted me, turned my back on those in need. Sometimes I've dared a deed worthy of a song, and more often I've murdered a song before it was born. That's who I am, paladin. If you don't like it, keep your judgments to yourself."

"You have led an unjust life," said Miltiades.

"Well, life's been unjust to me."

"You feel remorse," the paladin said.

"What does it matter if I do? It's a vanity of mine."

"No, it's not vanity. I know evil when I see it, Belgin. That's the weight and the gift of paladinhood. And whatever you think, evil isn't in your heart."

You've got to be kidding me. Belgin almost laughed, but his damaged lungs could only manage a shallow wheeze. "It's a bit late to save me, paladin, although I'm sure my mother'd thank you for trying."

Miltiades laughed quietly. "Fine. So how much do you know of magic?"

"Only a smattering. I've knowledge of about a dozen spells, none suitable for battling a creature such as Eidola. Most of my magic is in illusion and charms."

"How did a pirate come to learn the wizard's art?"

Belgin straightened, a grimace of pain flitting across his face. "You'd be surprised at how far a little illusion magic goes at the card table, or at what a swindler can do with a simple charm." How's that for irony? he thought. I can't even take a shill without cheating somehow. He laughed again, his strength returning. "Besides, I wasn't always a pirate. I learned what I know years before I came aboard the Kissing Shark." Suddenly the pirate straightened, looking back toward the passage they'd descended. Something dragged softly on the stone steps above.