T Lain - Return of the Damned

A tremendous, warbling cry arose from the fiery magic wall. It echoed off the worked stone and overtopped every sound in the room. The unnerving shout was followed by a twirling ball that shot straight out of the fire. The ball twisted and tumbled, arcing through the air.

Out of the tangle emerged a flaming, very pissed-off dwarf.

Whitman’s beard was singed, and the ends were still alight. His lip curled up in a terrible sneer, and his eyes blazed with hatred. The sight sent a chill down Tasca’s spine.

“You overgrown mephit,” roared Whitman. “Your days of roasting dwarves are over.”

Shouting out the power word for his boots, Whitman accelerated. Hammer and dwarf gained momentum as they charged the efreeti, then the head of the magical silver hammer impacted its target. A skull-rattling boom shook dust from the ceiling. It was as if Whitman were a bolt of lightning instead of an angry, mortal dwarf.

The efreeti stumbled back, obviously shaken by the blow, and the fiery wall behind it dropped away into nothingness. The room became much darker, lit only by the glowing outline of the outsider.

Tasca trained another arrow on the monster and let fly. His well-placed shot struck the efreeti in the forehead. The beast recoiled another step.

Clemf and Regdar seized the opportunity to rain stabs and slashes against the creature. More flaming pitch oozed from wounds on the efreeti’s tremendous body.

The magical being shook its head as if to clear it, stepped forward, and sliced its falchion down in a flailing, two-handed strike. The weapon struck Regdar in the chest, knocking him backward.

Regdar’s arms flew outward, and his legs left the ground. With a riotous clang, he landed on his seat and skidded across the floor. He remained upright for a moment more, then he crashed to his back, spread-eagle on the floor.

Regdar had watched the efreeti’s falchion hit him squarely in the chest. He felt himself lifted from the ground. Now he was on his back and not sure how he’d gotten there. His chest hurt, but that was nothing new. His chest had hurt since the day he’d lost Naull in the City of Fire.

That pain had dulled a little over time, but seeing her again brought it back, stronger than he remembered it ever being. It burned with new fury as he watched Lindroos kiss and caress her. Under other circumstances, he might have enjoyed that kiss, but now, it hurt like hell.

He looked down at himself. There’s blood on my armor, he thought. He looked up. The room wavered and swirled. Was that another of the efreeti’s tricks? The efreeti was gone from his vision, and he could no longer focus on anything. He heard the back of his helmet hit the floor before blacking out.

Hollering with what must have been all the air in his lungs, Whitman hurled his hammer at the efreeti. The toss lifted the little man off his feet. In the dwarf’s ears, the room was silent except for the whooshing sound of the hammer rotating end over end as it flew toward the monster. That sound was followed by a heart-dropping clap and grind as the hilt struck the floor, and the weapon skidded harmlessly away from its target.

The efreeti laughed and stepped toward Whitman, leering down from nearly twice the dwarf’s height.

“I’ll roast who I choose, little morsel,” it thundered.

Tasca pulled a single, blue-tipped arrow from his quiver and nocked it to his bow. “Not today.”

Sighting down the bow, the elf whispered a single word. Magical light flashed out over the arrow, forming tiny, blue crystals along its shaft, tipped in a frosty white. He released the string.

The arrow jumped across the room like a thunderbolt. The head of the projectile impacted against the efreeti’s chest, and an explosion of light surrounded the monster. Bits of ice and flakes of snow swirled in a magical pool of mixed purples and blues, and the room went suddenly cold.

Fingers of crystallized ice reached out and wrapped themselves around the efreeti, squeezing it like a giant hand. The fingers grew as they cascaded over the monster’s shoulders and chest. The efreeti squirmed, and dropped its blade. As the icy cold enveloped its head, it let out a terrific howl that echoed and re-echoed until the room vibrated with the intensity of it.

Tasca lowered his bow. The efreeti was entirely encased in a glistening sarcophagus of blue-white ice. Its features were frozen and distorted—the face was still fearsome, but the eyes were frozen in a terrified stare.

The room was now almost completely dark, lit only by the barely flickering flame of Regdar’s discarded torch. The three men looked at the frozen giant for a moment more before Whitman—the flames in his beard now extinguished—bolted over to Regdar, lying prone on the floor. Tasca crossed over as well, while still keeping one wary eye on the efreeti.

Regdar lay motionless on his back with a large wound across his chest. Even though his arms were flung straight out to his sides, he had managed to keep a grip on his greatsword.

Whitman knelt beside him.

Clemf rubbed his hand over his face. “Is he alive?”

Whitman put his hand to Regdar’s throat. The dwarf cocked his head to the side, almost as if he were listening for something.

“Well?” asked Tasca.

Whitman remained quiet for a long moment.

Tasca kicked the dwarf in the back. “Hey, you little oaf, I asked you a question. Did that fire burn out your tongue along with your beard?”

“No,” replied Whitman.

Clemf’s sword clattered to the ground.

For the second time since they had opened the door to this room, Tasca felt his heart miss a beat. He lowered his head.

“No,” repeated Whitman, “he’s not ‘well’. Give me a potion.”

A thrill ran down Tasca’s spine. Dropping everything, the elf flung his pack from his back and dug frantically inside for a healing potion. Flasks clanked together as he fished around. Pulling out a vial, the elf shoved it at the dwarf.

Whitman uncorked the bottle, cradled up Regdar’s head from the floor, and poured the magical liquid down his throat. Halfway through the bottle, the human fighter coughed and gagged. His arms came to life, flailing around like a drowning sailor’s. Whitman pulled back, keeping the rest of the potion in the bottle, as Regdar gasped for air.

Clemf picked up his sword, then walked over next to Whitman. He leaned down, putting his face right next to the dwarf’s.

“I don’t claim to understand the little games you and the elf play,” he said. “Sometimes the two of you even amuse me with your constant bickering.” He leaned in even closer, his nose touching Whitman’s. “But if you ever again joke like that about someone dying, I’ll cut your beard off—and maybe I’ll leave it attached to your face.”

Whitman swallowed hard but remained silent.

Tasca held his breath, not quite sure what to make of the exchange.

“So we understand each other?” asked Clemf.

Whitman raised his eyebrows and nodded.

“Good.” Clemf leaned back, slapped the dwarf on the shoulder, and broke out laughing.

Tasca sighed and chuckled. “For a quiet guy, you’re pretty funny.”

Clemf smiled. “You think so?”

“Yeah,” interjected Whitman, “a real riot.”

Regdar woke up coughing.

Whitman stood over him with an uncorked vial in his hand. Clemf stood over the dwarf, saying something into his face.

Regdar gagged and gulped for air. The other three were laughing.

“Oh,” said Regdar between gasps, “so when I die, it’s funny?”

Whitman shook his head and handed Regdar the half-full flask. “I’m going to poke around.” The dwarf left the room, headed back down the corridor.

Regdar downed the rest of the healing potion, then fished in his pack for another one.