T Lain - Return of the Damned

Whitman cartwheeled to his right, kicking away from the falling fighter and spinning gracefully through the air. He reached out and caught hold of one of the sconces. Regdar fell underneath the acrobatic dwarf, clanging and crashing as he slid back toward the elf.

Tasca bent his knees and jumped forward, diving over the tumbling fighter toward the top of the chute. His midsection cleared Regdar, but his feet smacked into the back of the falling man’s head. Landing on his stomach on the smooth chute, Tasca reached for the top lip where the end of the last stair used to be. His fingertips grazed the landing, but he slid backward with the tilt of the steep slope.

Regdar felt Tasca’s feet hit the back of his head, and his arms flailed wide, reaching for anything that might stop his descent. He caught nothing, and he fell backward.

Clemf continued running forward, his feet slipping with every step. His body was in motion, but he made no progress, managing only to stay in place.

Regdar landed on his shoulders and struck his head against the ramp. His feet tumbled up and back over his twisted body. He somersaulted out of control backward down the chute. He saw the black stone ceiling, then his feet, then Clemf’s comical, stationary run. When Regdar’s feet collided with the tattooed human’s chest, the two tangled up in a heap.

Limbs flailed. Armor crashed and clanked. All of the air in Regdar’s lungs rushed out in a groaning whisper each time his back smacked against the floor. Clemf cursed in several languages.

At the bottom of the chute, both men tumbled out of the secret chamber, shooting through the illusion and smashing into the opposite wall. Regdar lay on the ground with his back bent against the stone. Clemf rested on his belly, unmoving.

A moment later the illusionary wall wavered, and Tasca flew out. He too landed facedown. He whimpered softly, then let himself collapse completely to the floor.

Regdar took stock of his body. His hands and forearms were scraped up pretty badly, and his head hurt. He felt around and discovered a number of bruises, but nothing seemed broken, and his injuries were minor. Lifting himself up on his haunches, he got to his feet.

By then, Clemf and Tasca were beginning to move. Both men moaned as they struggled to get up.

“Nice work, Regdar,” spat Clemf as he checked himself out.

“And you would have known to avoid that step?” quipped Tasca. “We’re lucky it was just a trap and not an ambush.”

“Listen, Clemf,” Regdar held his hands out, pleading, “I—”

“Save it,” snapped the tattooed man, biting off his words as he stuck his upraised index finger in Regdar’s face. “There’s nothing you can say that’s going to make me forgive you, so just keep out of my way, and for Pelor’s sake, don’t talk at me.” Clemf spun around and limped back through the illusion.

“That went well,” said Tasca.

Regdar wrinkled his forehead. “How come you’re not mad at me?”

“I am,” said the elf. “Eventually you’ll have to sleep.” Tasca smiled then turned and followed Clemf out of the hallway.

“Great.” Regdar shook his head. He took a few moments to finish his personal examination before joining the others at the base of what used to be the stairway.

When he crossed through the illusion, Clemf was kneeling down and scratching at the stones on the floor. Tasca stood over him, looking up the chute.

“Whitman,” Tasca whispered the dwarf’s name. Receiving no answer, he repeated it a bit louder. He turned around and shrugged. “I don’t think it’s such a good idea to start yelling, but the last I saw, Whitman was hanging on to a torch sconce.”

Regdar nodded toward the chute. “Do you think you could climb it?”

The elf nodded. “Yes, but not fast.” Tasca looked down at Clemf. “Any luck?”

The tattooed fighter shook his head. “Just rocks. No lever.” He stood up.

“Mechanism’s probably at the top.” Tasca scratched his chin. “Where the hell is Whitman.”

A slapping sound echoed down the chute. All three men readied their weapons in a blink, and they stood, anxiously watching for whatever was coming down at them.

The noise grew louder, and Regdar squeezed the hilt of his sword. A shadow tumbled into view, skewed by the flickering torches. Regdar could hear the other men suck in their breath, then a long, brown, serpentine object unraveled at their feet.

Clemf lunged forward, smashing the thing with his sharp blade. His attack hit its mark, slicing right through. Sparks flew off the stone. A piece of the creature before them came off.

It wasn’t a creature.

Tasca lowered his rapier. “It’s a rope.”

Clemf’s cheeks flushed, and he sheathed his longsword. He opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it and closed it again.

“Hurry up, will you,” came Whitman’s voice from down the chute. “We don’t have all year.”

Tasca sheathed his blade and grabbed the rope. He climbed up hand over fist, jamming the toe of his boot into the corner where the wall met the floor. In a few steps, he disappeared from view.

Regdar held his hand out and bowed his head. “After you.”

Clemf glared up the twisting passage for a moment before grabbing hold of the rope and pulling himself up.

Regdar followed a few moments later, and shortly the entire group was reunited at the top. Whitman wound up his rope, shoved it in his pack, and slapped Regdar on the arm.

“This time, I’ll lead.” He smiled.

The dwarf led the party down another narrow, well-lit hallway. They took their time, examining the floor and the walls meticulously as they went. Though they were careful, they found nothing except a door at the end of the passage.

Unlike the dark hallway they explored below, this one didn’t afford them the luxury of spreading out and taking cover while they opened the door.

“How does this go again?” asked Whitman, hefting his hammer to his shoulder. “Kick down the door, take the treasure, and kill the monster?”

“You got the door part right,” said Tasca, nocking an arrow to his bowstring, “but you have to kill the monster first, then you take its treasure.”

The dwarf smiled. “Maybe that’s how you do it.” Then he turned and kicked the door with all of his substantial might.

The wood and iron slammed away from the group, hinges protesting as it swung. Inside, a large, lighted room greeted them. At the back, a spiral, blackened-iron staircase wound up through a round hole in the ceiling. On the stairs stood a gnarled, hunched-over man wearing a green robe. His hands were curled around a long, wooden staff almost as gnarled as he. A narrow, purple bruise crossed his forehead. He was smiling, showing the few yellow and black teeth left in his head.

In front of the robed man stood five more black-clad cultists, each carrying a battle axe at the ready. The moment the door burst open, the soldiers bolted forward. Metal rang on metal as Whitman and Clemf took the charge.

Tasca’s bow twanged, and his arrow shot over the heads of the advancing soldiers, winging through the air toward the gnarled man. It struck its mark, piercing the man in his breast. As soon as the projectile hit, however, it vanished, seeming to disappear without any fanfare into thin air.

The robed man rubbed his twisted fingers over the polished surface of his staff. He seemed to be caressing the gnarled length of wood with as much care and attention as he might lavish on a beautiful woman. Looking down at the group from his perch on the spiraling stairs, he pointed the head of the staff at Tasca and nodded once, whispering something into the air. A ghostly white pair of magical manacles shot out, tracing back along the exact path traveled by the elf’s arrow.