T Lain - Return of the Damned

Regdar returned to the man he’d pulled up. “Let’s hope they’re not checking tattoos at the door.”

“Yeah,” said Tasca. “Let’s also hope we don’t end up as sacrifices to the god of destruction.”

“Cultists of Hextor don’t sacrifice elves,” said Whitman, putting on the first part of his stolen armor.

“Why not?” asked Tasca.

The dwarf smiled. “Waste of a good meal.”

Newly outfitted in at least some pieces of black scale mail, Regdar and crew came hesitantly back to the edge of the clearing. Standing so near the tower nearly drove Regdar mad. Here he was, outside, while inside, he felt sure Naull was being tortured or worse. As far as he was concerned, they couldn’t get inside fast enough.

“Do you think this is going to work?” asked Tasca.

Regdar shrugged. “Do you have a better idea?”

“Yeah,” said Whitman. “We stop all this sneaking around and bust in.”

“After you then.” Regdar checked the hilt of his sword. “But no busting anything until I say the word. Remember, we want them to think we’re on their side for now.”

“Right,” replied Whitman with a snort.

The dwarf marched toward the tower, and Clemf fell into step beside him. Regdar and Tasca followed close behind. The path they had been following led right up to the front gate. Heavy, wooden doors were held open by movable iron spikes along the entranceway. The pointy, sharpened ends of a portcullis hung above. Below that, a heavy darkness descended, as if light itself were afraid to enter such a place.

“Here we go,” whispered Tasca.

Regdar only nodded.

As they crossed the threshold, the man’s eyes adjusted to the dim hallway. A handful of sconces holding dimly flickering torches lined the walls, which were made from the same black stone as the outside. The floor was covered in fine stone tiles alternating in dark and light shades, forming a checkerboard pattern.

The room they entered was long and wide, a grand foyer. It reminded Regdar of the duke’s reception chamber or the entryway in the Church of Pelor back in New Koratia. It was the same, but different—designed for greeting newly arrived dignitaries but tainted with darkness. It seemed almost to mock itself, as if the whole room were simply a joke, a parody of good corrupted by evil.

There were no guards on duty, no reception party, and Whitman and Clemf continued on toward the wall at the far end of the long room. Regdar followed behind, focused on every detail, his senses aware of the light draft blowing in through the open door behind him and even the slight smell of swamp gas he’d all but grown accustomed to over the past few hours.

“I don’t like this,” he whispered. “Too easy.”

Whitman nodded.

Tasca pulled out his bow.

A loud, skull-splitting, clanging sound echoed down the chamber. Regdar yanked his enchanted sword from its sheath and spun around.

Wrapped around a wooden wheel to the right of the chamber, a heavy chain was unwinding, and quickly. The portcullis thundered down to seal the entryway. Tasca took two quick steps toward the open door. Regdar flinched, knowing the elf would never make it through the gate in time.

As if the elf heard Regdar’s thoughts, Tasca skidded to a stop. The portcullis hit the ground with a crash. Tiles cracked where the gate’s sharp points slammed into them, and chips of stone were thrown in every direction.

“What have you done, elf?” shouted Whitman, his hammer already braced and ready for battle.

Tasca nocked an arrow to his bowstring, his eyes scanning every brick of the hall. “I followed your bumbling ass into a trap.”

“Stop it,” interrupted Regdar. “The disguises didn’t work. Clemf, you’re with me. Tasca and Whitman, stay together.”

They nodded and paired off.

“And Whitman,” said Regdar.

“Yeah?” replied the dwarf.

“Bust whatever you want.”

“Right.”

A grinding noise, sounding like stone on stone, echoed down the chamber. The wall at the far end parted. Regdar watched in amazement as the bricks slid back and disappeared into darkness. When the grinding stopped, the sound of heavy, marching boots filled the room.

Regdar looked to the other men. Whitman slapped his hammer against his hand with obvious impatience. Tasca sighted down his drawn arrow, watching the far wall. Clemf stood with his longsword held casually at his side, his eyes intently focused, his knees bent and ready to charge.

Regdar tested his grip on his greatsword and whispered a prayer under his breath. “Grant me the strength to vanquish my foes and carry my brethren through to safety,” he said, stretching his neck to one side, then the other. “Woe be to those who oppose Pelor.”

The darkness stirred, and from out of the newly formed portal in the wall poured a flood of black-clad soldiers.

Tasca let his arrow fly, and the first man to step into the flickering torchlight fell dead. Whipping his hand over his shoulder, he drew another arrow and fired again, dropping a second soldier.

The rushing enemy barely paused, however, and the room continued filling with black-armored warriors, like water gushing into a sinking boat. They marched uncaringly over their fallen comrades, flowing constantly forward.

“Whatever you do,” shouted Regdar, “don’t let them get behind us.”

The others only had time to nod before the wall of black-armored soldiers came crashing down.

Whitman’s hammer sent a clang echoing off the stone walls, disrupting the metered sound of the soldiers’ marching. Tasca stood just behind the stalwart dwarf, firing arrows over his shoulder into the crowd of enemies.

Regdar and Clemf raised their swords over their shoulders and simultaneously cut into the line of men before them. The sound of metal against metal was followed by metal tearing flesh. Blood drenched the floor, and the swarm pushed forward.

Regdar ducked under a swing to his head then jammed the tip of his greatsword into his attacker’s gut. The man grunted once, dropped his sword, and grabbed for his wound. looking past the injured man, Regdar estimated the size of the small army he and his men faced. They were outnumbered easily four, maybe even five, to one.

Clemf slightly improved their odds when he connected with a two-handed swing. His blade plunged between the shoulder piece and helm of the man before him. The soldier’s head slipped from his separated neck with a sickening pop. The headless body stood upright for a moment more, but Clemf never paused. His follow-through collided with another man’s sword arm, slicing it off at the elbow.

The amputated body parts rolled on the floor, being trampled underfoot. Regdar saw a soldier step on the head. Its helm collapsed under the weight, and the skull made a loud cracking sound. The soldier lost his balance as the head caved in, and his other foot slipped on the gory flagstones.

Regdar’s reverie was cut short by a slash to his leg. A pair of soldiers lunged at him from the side. There were so many he was having a hard time keeping track of them. One blade clanged harmlessly off his armor. The other cut into his muscle. The wound burned and made Regdar angry.

The big fighter rolled his hands over, bringing his enchanted blade to bear on the offending soldier. The weapon opened a large slice across the man’s chest, cutting through metal, leather, and flesh alike.

The man hissed at the cut but stood his ground. His sword pulled back for another strike. Regdar stepped into the opening. He jabbed his elbow into the cut on the man’s chest, scraping his jagged armor against the wound. The soldier shouted and fell to his knees, releasing his sword.

Regdar, smashed his knee into the man’s face. The kneeling man reeled backward, swayed momentarily like a hypnotized snake, then collapsed.