Victor Milan - War In Tethys

It gave onto a landing perhaps ten feet by ten. Around its edges was open air—a cavern, so huge its ceiling and sides were only hinted at by reflected glints of the red glare cast by a river of molten lava that flowed past the foot of the stairs, a hundred yards below.

Zaranda shook her head. "Lava?" she asked, incredu-lously. "Who'd expect to find live lava flowing beneath Zazesspur?"

"Look!" Chen called, and pointed. Barely visible for distance, dimness, and eye-watering fumes, the king and Tatrina were running away from them along the lava river.

Without a glance back to where her old friend was conducting what was almost certainly his final stand, Zaranda started down the stairs.

Taking time to aim, Stillhawk shot down three more archers. He was struck four times in return. He backed toward the doorway, hoping to shoot from its cover.

An arrow laid open the right side of his forehead. He reached the door, slipped around and out of the line of fire. At once he discovered that he stood on a tiny plat-form in a great cavern, and that he was out of arrows.

He plucked one from his breast, nocked it, and swung out into the doorway. Guardsmen ran toward him. He shot the foremost, pulled another arrow from his body. As if to replace it, several more hit him.

He shot two more blue-and-bronzes. The survivors got smart and went to one knee to improve their aim.

Hit half a dozen more times, Stillhawk had to lurch back.

His legs were rubbery, head light from loss of blood. Only the pain and his fierce determination not to let Zaranda down kept him alert. He tore yet another arrow from his flesh, nocked it, drew back the string, and swung out into the entryway once more.

A sword whistled right to left and chopped the elven longbow in half.

A small and ugly man confronted him. He had ginger mustachios, bandy legs, and a prominent, fleshy nose. Crackletongue hung in his heavily gloved hand, and the curved blade glowed as if white-hot, signifying the nearness of evil.

Stillhawk dropped the useless halves of his bow and drew his long sword.

"So you're the ranger," the shorter man said in a sneering voice. "You look more like a pincushion to me."

He advanced. Stillhawk backed away slowly, warily, till a foot came down with the heel on emptiness.

"Nowhere left to run," the flamboyantly mustached man said. "Shall we try blades, or will you just jump?"

Giving the ranger no chance to answer, the man thrust at his right eye. Stillhawk's wrist twitched. Long sword caught saber and knocked it aside.

Shaveli Sword-Master raised his eyebrows and took a step back. "Not bad," he said, and pressed the attack again.

He was devilishly quick. Crackletongue darted like a blue-white flame, but Stillhawk, wounded nigh death as he was, knew how to parry by the slightest rolls of his powerful wrist. He kept the crackling blade away from his flesh.

At last Shaveli snarled in exasperation, "Have done! I have no more time for you!" He feinted for Stillhawk's knee, then thrust again for the eyes. When the ranger knocked his blade up, he reached forward, grabbed a handful of the arrows still jutting from Stillhawk's chest, and twisted.

Stillhawk cried out in pain. Shaveli ran him through the heart. For a moment the ranger glared defiance at his tormentor. Then the light went out of his eyes, and his head lolled loose upon his neck.

Gently—so that the larger man would not slip over the edge, carrying the magic blade with him—Shaveli low-ered Stillhawk's corpse to the platform. He braced a foot against the ranger's rib cage and pulled his weapon free.

"Friend Shaveli," a familiar voice called from the far side of the door, "bide a moment."

The Sword-Master spun, and his eyes grew wide.

Gasping from exertion and fumes, the two women reached the bottom of the many-switchbacked stair. Lava bubbled almost at their feet. The blazing heat from it seared the exposed skin of the faces and hands.

"There." Chen pointed ahead. Smoke streamers coiled through the air before them, half-visible, making their presence known mostly by the way they stung the eyes. "A little door, perhaps a hundred paces on.

It's open."

"You must be able to see in the dark like a gnome," Zaranda said, coughing.

The girl smiled hugely and nodded. "I always do well at night," she said. "Darkness doesn't bother me."

Heat and brimstone made Zaranda's head spin, and her stomach sloshed with nausea. Her legs were as un-steady as dandelion stalks. Raising her boots from the black stone floor, polished to glassy smoothness by unguessable generations of feet, was like trying to lift the planet Glyph, rings and all. Her arms obeyed no less reluctantly, as though she were trying to move un-derwater—no, through a medium much denser than water. ...

"Zaranda," Chen said, voice rising toward panic. "I can't move!"

Zaranda forced her head around. It felt like trying to turn the head of the famed Fallen Idol, which lay in the river at the bottom of the gorge to which it gave its name.

The monster that called itself Armenides stood on the last switchback, thirty feet above. Its eyes glowed yellow. Its bull head grinned at them despite the hideous smoking gash across the left side of its face. Many of its limbs were cropped or missing, but it seemed in small danger of running out of them.

"Zaranda," it said, "dear Zaranda. Always more pre-sumptuous than wise. Did you really think to pit your-self against the will of L'yafv-Afvonn? He’s what lies behind that door: the One Below, the Whisperer in Darkness—the nexus of the crisis, and the origin of storms. He is the One who rules the night; he has brought forth the darkling hordes of his own substance. He has made hideous the dreams of the miserable wretches who infest Zazesspur, and soon he shall make their realities even more so. I am as an ant beside his power and malice. And you—you are less than ants to me."

He laughed, and the sound of his laughter filled the cavern and made the lava seethe and pop with

redou-bled fury. Zaranda fought to move, to fling her sword at him, or even a defiant gesture. But she could no more control her body than she could that of Elminster in his tower half a continent away. She and Chen were trapped inside the monster's will.

Shield of Innocence could not move his legs. That was all right. His arms were more than strong enough to drag him along the floor. And lying on his belly kept his viscera inside. Mostly.

The stink of brimstone tore at nostrils more sensi-tive than any human's. He ignored it, as he ignored the pain and growing weakness. His small blue eyes shone with the purity of his purpose.

A shape lay sprawled before him on the tiny square of stone poised above fire and blackness: Stillhawk the ranger, dead.

Shield's eyes brimmed with tears. "O Torm," he gasped, "grant that I have not come too late!"

Gently he lifted the forester's head and cradled it against his ruined breast.

"Well," Armenides said, still in that horribly cheerful voice, "it seems I control the two of you. What shall it amuse me to do?"

Shaveli and nine or ten short-bow-armed guardsmen stood ranked on the stairs above the false Ao priest—well above, for even they feared to approach so mon-strous a being. To perfect her misery,

Zaranda saw Crackletongue's distinctive blaze sprouting from the Sword-Master's fist. Contact with the magic sword should have inflicted painful injury on a man as de-voted to evil as the torturer. Evidently his black leather gauntlets insulated him from harm. He saw her eyes fix on him, stuck out his tongue obscenely far, and wiggled the tip.

"I know," the fiend declared. "I shall make you walk into the lava, one by one. Now, whom shall I do first? Ahh, but of course—the redheaded chit!"