T Lain - Return of the Damned

Regdar slowed to a walk as he crossed over the bridge. They were close—close enough that he needed to catch his breath before the fighting began again. Two city blocks past the end of the bridge, the tall walls of the ducal palace rose imposingly into the air.

The fighter waved the group toward the northern corner. “There’s a door to the courtyard there,” he explained. “Going around to the front gate will take too long.”

Tasca and Whitman nodded, heading for the portal they’d used so often. Jozan, Alhandra, and her remaining holy avenger followed close behind.

Naull stepped up close to Regdar. “Here,” she said.

Reaching up and wrapping her hands behind his head, the wizard lifted herself up on her tiptoes and kissed the big fighter. After lingering on his lips for a long moment, she finally pulled away and spoke an arcane word. Her hands buzzed with power, and Regdar felt suddenly stronger.

“For luck,” she said smiling.

Regdar curled his fist up toward his head. His biceps bulged. “Thanks,” he said, smiling. “Now if you could only make that permanent.”

“For that,” replied Naull, “you’ll have to stick around for a while.”

The big fighter blushed. “Maybe I will.”

“See that you do.”

The rest of the group had already passed through the door. The clash of weapons drifted over the wall to the two lovers.

“Trouble,” said Regdar, and he took off at a run, with Naull following close behind.

Inside the courtyard, Whitman and Jozan battled two jann. Alhandra and her holy avenger were trying to get into flanking positions, and Tasca stood in the rear, patiently waiting his turn to get at either of the outsiders.

As Regdar closed in, he watched Jozan take a step back and level his hands at one of the janni.

“Flee,” he yelled, his voice booming above all other noise in the courtyard.

The janni dropped its weapon and jumped into the air, flying straight away from the cleric as fast and as directly as it could.

Lindroos looked down on Duke Christo Ramas. She kicked him in the face, and he sprawled across an elegantly woven rug.

She shook her head. “You have a nice room, Duke,” she said, circling around him and sheathing her sword. “You live surrounded by such beautiful things. I can’t believe you’d sacrifice all of this for a lousy bottle… that you don’t even know how to use.”

The duke struggled to his knees, and Lindroos kicked him again in the ribs. He coughed and collapsed to the floor, spewing blood and mucus.

The blackguard continued pacing around the room. “You have lovely paintings… nice furniture too.” She stopped and feigned surprise. “And would you look at that,” she said, pointing into an adjoining room. “Your bed is all the way over there, in a whole separate room of its own! Well I’ll be.”

Christo rolled onto his back. His face was bruised and badly swollen from the beatings. Rivulets of blood crisscrossed his face, both dried and fresh. He struggled to hold himself upright enough to see Lindroos as she paced around him.

“It must be nice to live amid all this luxury. So I’ll tell you what,” she said. “I’ll let you keep living, and you can even keep all of these wonderful possessions, if you just tell me where that bottle is.”

Christo coughed again, struggling to breathe, spitting blood and goo onto his soiled shirt. When he regained his composure, he glared up into her eyes and slowly shook his head.

“No,” he said with a raspy voice.

Lindroos knelt in front of him. She grabbed the duke by his collar and lifted him to her face. “I’ve been more than patient with you, Ramas,” she said in a cool, metered voice. “But this is the last time I will ask you.” She pulled a dagger from her boot and held it against his throat. “Last chance now. Where… is…my… bottle?”

Christo looked up at the blackguard with hatred plain on his face. He held her stare for a moment, then he shifted his gaze, breaking eye contact. His expression softened, and he dropped his head.

“You win,” he said. “It’s in the next room, behind a false wall, behind the bed.” He pointed with his chin.

Lindroos smiled wide and dropped the duke to the floor. “It’s about time,” she said, turning and heading into the adjoining room.

Regdar pulled his greatsword out of the last janni. The creature convulsed then fell silent.

Waving his hand over his shoulder, he led the way into the palace. They wound through a series of long, stone hallways, then up a flight of stairs. Deep in the center of the palace, taking up almost a quarter of the second floor, they came to the duke’s personal chambers.

Regdar slipped quietly through the open door with Alhandra close behind him and the others behind her. Inside, a huge, canopied bed dominated the floor. A painting of King Ramas hung behind it. At its foot, a set of double doors opened into a second room. Regdar heard a voice, and he held his finger up to his lips, further silencing the already quiet crowd.

Peeking around the corner of the open double doors, the big fighter saw the duke lying on his back—his face bloodied and bruised, his eyes swollen and narrow. Next to him knelt Lindroos. She held him by his collar.

“I’ve been more than patient with you, Ramas,” she said. “But this is the last time I will ask you.” She pulled a dagger from her boot and held it against his throat. “Last chance now. Where…is… my… bottle?”

The duke looked up at her, then he looked away. Regdar leaned out a little farther, catching the duke’s gaze. When they made eye contact, the big fighter nodded.

The duke’s eyes widened for a flash, then he dropped his head.

“You win,” he said to Lindroos. “It’s in the next room, behind a false wall, behind the bed.”

Lindroos let go of the duke and stood up.

Regdar pulled back, hiding himself behind the doorframe. Alhandra stood right behind him, and he nudged her in the ribs, looking over his shoulder to give her a nod.

“It’s about time,” said the blackguard.

Regdar held his sword over his head, the tip pointed to the ground, both hands wrapped around the hilt. He took a deep breath and waited. His heart was pounding so loud in his ears he couldn’t hear anything else.

A flash of black crossed into his field of view. Regdar heaved downward with every bit of magically enhanced strength he could muster. He heard himself roar as his greatsword descended. The tip hit metal and punched right through. He forced more strength behind the strike, and his feet lifted off the ground with the force of the blow.

Regdar’s attack knocked Lindroos to the floor. His sword stabbed right through the blackguard’s shoulder and into the wooden planking, pinning her to the floor like a giant bug.

Alhandra sidestepped Regdar and lifted her holy blade into the air.

“Heironeous, grant me the power to smite the wicked!” she shouted, and her blade sliced down on Lindroos’s neck.

The blackguard’s helm clanked on the ground as her head rolled free of her shoulders.

Alhandra stared down at the body of her dead sister. “And may you see it in your heart to have pity on those who have fallen from grace,” she said, finishing her prayer.

Regdar, Tasca, and Whitman stood at attention outside the duke’s office. The heavy doors creaked open, and a short, bald, heavyset man with glasses came out.

“The duke will see you now,” he said, and he held the door open for the soldiers.

Inside, Duke Christo Ramas, now fully healed after several days, rest and the ministrations of at least five clerics, sat behind his desk. He glared at the men as they walked in.

Regdar stopped several paces from the edge of the desk and saluted. The dwarf and the elf did the same.