Thomas Reid - The Gossamer Plain

At last, Myshik reached the peak of the stronghold. He found a great winding staircase leading upward into the stone ceiling. Above, he thought he could hear the ring of steel on steel, the telltale sounds of furious battle. He hesitated for a moment, questioning the stability of the path and what he might encounter at the top. When yet another reverberation made him stumble and sent a large wall tumbling down to spill debris in his direction, the half-dragon began running up the steps two at a time.

The staircase twisted up and up. The sounds of fighting grew louder, more distinct. Myshik gripped his battle-axe firmly, expecting to hoist it at any moment. The stone around him continued to grumble and groan, and the steps beneath his feet shuddered and bounced.

At last the stairway ended, rising up from the depths into another great chamber. A columned cupola had once stood over the opening of the stairway, which lay in the midst of a subterranean plaza. The stonework of the cupola had tumbled down around the opening, though whether the destruction had happened moments or centuries before, the half-dragon was not certain.

Ancient buildings lined three sides of the plaza. The fourth faced what Myshik suspected must be the source of the magma which had nearly sent him plummeting to his death. A great river of it flowed on the far side of the chamber. The lava churned and sloshed, spilling over the sides of its natural channel, oozing across the floor.

Between Myshik and the expanding lake of lava, a great battle raged between a paltry force of dwarves and a swarming, snarling horde of orcs. Myshik blinked, for he had never seen orcs like them before. Unlike the filthy creatures Clan Morueme routinely battled on the surface, along the slopes of the Nether Mountains overhead, the creatures attacking the dwarves were diabolical in nature, more fiendish in their aspect.

Myshik decided they must be part of the army that served Kaanyr Vhok, the cambion his father had spoken of. He had found the object of his quest at last. With a grin, Myshik hefted high his war axe, stolen from a dwarven tomb long centuries before, and charged into the fray with an eager cry. Several dwarves turned to face the charging half-dragon.

Dread filled their eyes.

Vhok stepped over the fallen Lysalis, straddling her, thrusting and feinting with his blade. The dwarf gave the cambion's ancient elven sword a wary eye and parried each stroke and thrust with both shield and axe. Vhok's quickness gave him pause, even though the cambion had to remain in place to defend his injured companion.

The dwarf shifted tactics, circling around Vhok more rapidly, using his parries to knock Burnblood to the side. Vhok realized what his foe's intentions were. He was trying to force the cambion off balance by making him spin in place while mindful of stepping on Lysalis. The dwarf had no interest in getting in close and engaging his foe. He merely wanted to tire the half-fiend and force him into a deadly error.

Time to end this, Vhok decided after another parry from the dwarf whipped his sword arm out to one side.

The cambion feigned a stagger, as though he had overbalanced and tripped on the fey'ri's writhing form. When the dwarf saw the stumble, he charged forward, ready to deliver a killing blow with his axe.

Vhok freed his scepter from his belt with his other hand. With a mighty swing, he smashed the magical rod hard against the shield. There was a roaring burst of sound, and Vhok felt the satisfying crack of a sundered shield beneath his blow.

The dwarf staggered back and fell on his rump. Vhok maneuvered to avoid stumbling over Lysalis. By the time he stepped free of the fey'ri sorceress, the dwarf was up on one knee. Vhok expected him to flee, but at that moment, his eyes flickered toward something behind the cambion. Vhok risked a glance back. What he saw made him groan in exasperation.

A full dozen or so additional dwarves poured from the same tunnel that had disgorged the initial group. They trotted toward the demonic lord, their armor and weapons clanking rhythmically.

Damn them and their stubborn ways! And damn me for thinking how clever it would be to lure them all in here! I should be careful what I wish for.

Vhok growled to himself and turned his gaze to the dwarf with the sundered shield. The stout fellow seemed to have recovered his wits. He held a second hand axe in place of the ruined shield and came at the cambion again. Vhok let his foe make one sweeping slash. Without the hindrance of standing over Lysalis, he could maneuver much more easily. He sidestepped the attack and counterthrust with his blade in a single fluid motion. The strike penetrated the dwarf's armor right at the armpit, slipping through the gap in the metal plates. The dwarf grunted as Vhok shoved the blade deeper, a sound that turned into a wet gurgle as the half-demon punctured a lung. Before the humanoid dropped to the floor, Vhok had yanked his blade free and turned.

The dozen oncoming dwarves were still thirty paces away. Though they moved tirelessly, their short legs and heavy armor prevented them from gaining much speed. Vhok decided he could outrun them, even with the burden of his compatriot, noting that he was near the lava sluice. He could feel the heat radiating from where molten rock had overflowed the channel. It hissed and steamed as it cooled in great, gooey piles on either side. Acrid smoke wafted past him from the sizzling, bubbling liquid stone.

The cambion bent down and scooped up Lysalis, who was panting and gasping, her skin turning a sickly gray color. Slinging the petite fey'ri over his shoulder, he began to trot toward the promontory of rock.

"Zasian will heal you," he said to the sorceress as he loped along. If he ever gets here, the cambion added silently. We could use his help right now.

"Hurry!" Lysalis gasped. "It burns!"

The dwarves, seeing Vhok's intention to flee, picked up their pace, too. Despite their difficulties in moving quickly, Vhok could see that they were going to cut him off from his destination. Lysalis slowed Vhok too much to outrun them. He slowed as he realized it was fruitless to continue. He eased her off his shoulders and let her settle at his feet once more.

Blast and damn, he seethed. He began to consider that he might have to leave her in order to save himself.

Cursed Vigilant! he silently oathed. Their name suits them only too well.

The dwarves fanned out and formed two semicircular lines as they moved to surround the pair. The first rank presented their shields. They were too few in number to form a proper shield wall, but they created a practical barrier. Vhok might have been able to force his way between them, but at great cost. Behind the shields, a second line cocked heavy crossbows. The stout folk intended to keep their targets pinned down, unable to escape, while they remained at a distance from their enemies and the heat, then wear the intruders down with missile fire.

Desperately, Vhok muttered the chant of one of the handful of spells he knew. He felt a large magical disk of force wink into existence in front of him, even though he couldn't see it. As the magical shield materialized, the dwarves fired their first volley. Though most of the missiles struck the magical barrier and bounced harmlessly away, one of the projectiles grazed his shoulder, creasing his skin and causing a thin line of blood to well there. He clamped his mouth shut to stifle an angry outburst, not wanting to give his enemies the satisfaction of knowing they'd bloodied him.

As the dwarves reloaded, Vhok swore again and peered around. Behind him stood the churning, overflowing lava sluice. He could feel the great heat emanating from it, a nice deterrent against the dwarves coming any closer. But there was no way he could get through the molten muck and up to the top of the sluice wall, especially while carrying the wounded sorceress. Though the heat didn't trouble him, it would be nigh impossible to clamber through something the consistency of thick porridge. Even with the benefit of his magical shield, the dwarves would fill him with crossbow bolts before he ever slipped away, if the stuff didn't harden around his legs and trap him there.