T Lain - City of Fire

Kark led the gnoll pack through the torchlit hall and down into the room. They found the tattered remains of the creatures that attacked the party, but did not know what to make of them. A few of the younger gnolls squabbled over the gemstones they found until Kark growled fiercely and they fell back into line. One of the scouts lifted a piece of leather and sniffed.

“Blood,” he said.

“Whose?”

The young gnoll sniffed again, then tasted the dark red liquid.

“Human,” he answered.

“Half-orc,” another said from off to one side.

There were several specks of blood in the room, and many of the pieces of fabric looked torn or ripped as if by sword or dagger. A few of the gnolls yipped with pleasure.

Kark snarled, “You don’t see any bodies, do you? Save your laughter for when we have our quarry by the throat. Now—up the stairs!”

The younger gnolls whined and shied. Kark commanded them only by Grawltak’s loaned authority, and even though it was less than an hour since their leader had sent them out, Kark could sense resistance. Gnoll packs followed one pack-master, and that leader ruled by strength and strength alone. The young gnolls saw an old curiosity before them—a live ex-pack-master. It was something they’d never seen before, nor likely would again.

Seizing the nearest gnoll, Kark drew the surprised scout in close, his claws digging into the creature’s shoulder. The younger gnoll yelped in surprise and pain as Kark bit the back of his neck and tore a hunk of flesh and fur away. Before the scout could use his youthful strength to break free, Kark pushed him away and leaped toward the rest. Blood dripped from his lower jaw.

“Grawltak says we follow, so we follow!” he barked. “Until our pack-master rejoins us, I lead!”

He glared at the gnolls and knew they’d been cowed, at least for a time. The injured scout gripped his wound in pain, but dipped his head as meekly as the others.

“Now—up the stairs!”

The gnoll pack came out of the stairs and into the bright light far more reluctantly than the adventurers had. Kark had them in charge, but the light was so bright it burned their eyes. They shuffled and whined, snuffling at the ground for some scent, but the shifting sand made it difficult to find any trail.

Kark shielded his eyes and looked around. He could not see the archway—gnoll vision wasn’t good in bright light—but fortune aided him. A few dozen steps away from the stairway he saw a rag half-buried in the sand. He loped over to it, the rest of the pack following. It was a discarded end of a bandage, with some blood still fresh on it. It gave him a direction and he led his pack that way. They moved slowly across the sand, not daring to miss another sign.

“Regdar,” Naull whispered. Krusk and Alhandra were out in front again. “I’ve got to ask you a question.”

“What?” Regdar replied. He was looking around again, this time not in wonder, but worry.

“Have you seen—”

“Things moving in the shadows?” the fighter interrupted.

Naull nearly jumped. “What? No… I was going to point out all the gemstones. This place is rich!” But now she looked around apprehensively. “What do you see?”

“At first I thought it was just the flames—shadows flickering and all that, but I’m sure—there!”

Regdar pointed and Naull whirled. She thought she saw something move between one of the buildings.

“Alhandra! Krusk! We’ve got trouble,” Regdar said. He drew his big sword from its back-sheath. “What’ve you got, Naull?”

“Not much,” the wizard said grimly, mentally adding like always: “Maybe a surprise or two.”

The adventurers stood in a square, back to the middle, as more shapes moved around them. Some were shadowy, but others looked as if they were made of fire. Knowing that the adventurers clearly saw them, they seemed less interested in stealth. At least a score of the figures closed in or darted among the buildings and spires.

“Get ready,” Regdar said, without much hope.

Most of the figures were small, but he’d gotten a good look at a few of them. Several were made of fire, others of smoke. The few that were humanoid were naked and wreathed in fire or smoke and had a distinctly devilish appearance. Slowly they closed in.

“Now!” the fighter shouted, stepping forward to swing at the nearest creature.

“Stop!”

The gnolls sniffed at the archway suspiciously. They saw the city and the street beyond, but none of the pack crossed the threshold. All of them panted in the heat, desperately uncomfortable.

Kark, too, sniffed at the arch again and stared at the gem gleaming on the top. The adventurers went through it, he had no doubt.

Grawltak’s orders were to follow their quarry and capture them if possible. The mistress, however, hadn’t wanted Kark or the others to know about the city, and he didn’t think she’d be pleased if they entered without their leader. He did not know what to do, and he’d been thinking about it since reaching the arch nearly a half-hour before.

Where is Grawltak? he thought.

In that thought, Kark decided—I follow my pack-master, not a soft-skin.

He feared the mistress, but he was loyal to the gnoll who spared and healed him. He knew no other gnoll, except perhaps Grawltak himself, would make the same choice, but he knew what he had to do.

“Come!” he snarled.

The other gnolls looked at him in surprise and concern, but a quick bark had them stepping through the archway and prowling the city’s streets.

Grawltak remained below. His mistress set off down the passage on his heels but she stopped several times, as if unsure of something. When they reached the room at the end of the hallway she did not say a word, but he watched as she drew a wand from her robe and gestured around the area. She frowned and stood still for several minutes.

The gnoll pack-master didn’t dare disturb his mistress—not for ten minutes, then not for twenty. When thirty passed he made a soft barking sound, as if clearing his throat.

The black knight looked up suddenly, her dark eyes glaring as her hair tossed behind her. He could not think of her as a soft-skin when she looked at him like that. He feared his fangs would break if he ever even tried biting her.

“What is it?” she snapped.

“Mistress, they went up,” he said, pointing at the stairs.

“I know! I know, but if they entered the city…” She shook her head, then said in a low voice, “No, they do not know its secrets. They cannot use its power, not yet. It is useless to delay.”

But she continued to hesitate. Grawltak shifted uneasily, his claws scraping on the floor. Was his mistress afraid? He shook his head and growled at the thought. What she feared did not bear thinking about.

“All right!” she said suddenly, but not to him. “I will go.”

Without a glance in his direction, the black knight stepped onto the stairs and Grawltak hurried after her.

The power of command resonated in that voice. Regdar halted in his tracks with Naull’s hand pausing halfway to a spell pouch. Krusk and Alhandra looked up and saw someone standing on one of the lower building’s flat roofs.

“Stop,” the voice rumbled again.

The dancing, fiery figures on either side of the road continued flickering but they stayed as still as flames ever could, in a ring around the adventurers.

The voice came from a short, stocky figure. He looked like a well-muscled dwarf but his skin shone as if it were made of brass. Instead of hair and a beard, orange flame wreathed his face and swirled up from his head. He wore a kilt made of some coppery metal and a surcoat woven of thin wire and studded with many gemstones.

“Disperse.” Smoke rose from the creature’s bright eyes as he spoke again.