The tentacles dripped with a gummy elixir that numbed its enemies. Dram, his left arm dangling uselessly, lunged with his own blade, but the dwarf had to fall back as more tendrils flailed in his direction. One of those stroked the back of his hand, and the dwarf cursed, stumbling back.
Most of the carrion crawler’s body remained in the pipe, where the man and dwarf could not reach it with their weapons. Only its forequarters were in the sewer, its head and tentacles weaving wildly. Dram, collapsing against a side of the pipe, could no longer hold onto his weapon. The blade dropped from his nerveless fingers, vanishing into the brown muck. His knees buckled slowly until the dwarf was half-squatting in the slimy liquid. His mouth opened and closed, but no sound emerged.
The carrion crawler now whirled toward the warrior and spilled the rest of its clawing legs and undulating body out of the drainage pipe. The man quickly sheathed his knife and pulled out his small crossbow. He shot a steel dart into the blur of tentacles. The carrion crawlers shrieked eerily, accelerating its charge. Angrily the man pulled out a second crossbow and fired that dart right into the monster’s mouth-still it bore down upon him.
The warrior drew his dagger again and retreated, slashing back and forth, cutting several more of the grasping tentacles, but the knife was too short to strike the crawler’s hateful head.
The big sword strapped to his back was a nuisance, restricting his mobility. He couldn’t draw or swing the prized weapon down here. The warrior glanced at the dwarf, all but useless. Clenching his teeth, the man retreated before the lashing tendrils. The circular maw pulsed hungrily, the creature’s sharp teeth flexing outward before retracting with each snap.
Holding the lamp in his left hand, the warrior managed to parry the creature’s relentless attack, even though he was against the walls. Dram was motionless, half-lying in the stagnant water, his eyes wide and staring. He could only watch the battle. The warrior cast his eyes around, looking for something, anything, that would help him in this fight.
He stepped on something slippery, an eel-like fish that shot away from him, thrashing frantically through the shallow water. The carrion crawler lunged at him as the man lost his footing, and, recoiling, he tripped backwards, almost dropping the lamp. Tentacles lashed out to touch, almost gently, the side of his leather boot, and in that touch came the icy chill of paralysis.
He felt the effects instantly. In a second the tingling had spread into his calf. He kicked out viciously with his other foot, and the creature hesitated, its tendrils waving, just beneath one of the bricked archways that supported the sewer pipe.
The warrior had seconds, at the most, before more tentacles engulfed him. He hurled the ceramic lamp at the bricks just above the carrion crawler’s head. The clay jar broke and the wick flamed the oil. The warrior threw up his hands, shielding himself from the explosive blast of heat as the burning liquid spilled over the front of the monster’s segmented body.
The creature thrashed convulsively, bending and twisting, slashing its tentacles wildly. Hissing and clacking, it churned in the mucky liquid. With the last of his strength the human pushed himself away, his numbed foot a soggy leaden weight. The flames were quickly dying-smothered by the muck.
He collapsed onto the monster’s hard-shelled, twisting body. Spotting a gap between the segments, right above the carrion crawler’s mouth, he reached and drove his long dagger home with a powerful stab. In its dying frenzy the monster whipped its tentacles across the warrior, striking his hand. Bringing his left hand around, he seized the hilt of his knife and wrenched it back and forth, driving it deeper into the monster’s small brain. With a final hiss and a shudder, the carrion crawler died.
The paralysis spread quickly through the human’s body. He used the last of his strength to push himself off the disgusting corpse, tumbling to the sewer floor, onto his back. Moments later he was utterly helpless, though his face was above the ooze.
He didn’t know how long he lay there, but he was fully conscious the whole time-and utterly incapable of moving a muscle. At last he heard someone or something approaching. The water rippled softly, lapping against his cheeks. Though he exerted every shred of his will, he could not turn his head to look around. Instead, he heard the sloshing sounds come closer and closer.
“What you sleep for?” He heard the voice, and allowed himself a small wave of relieve. A second later a strong hand grabbed his shoulder, pulled him out of the water, and dropped him unceremoniously onto some bricks. He couldn’t see anything but vague shadows in the darkness of the sewer, but he caught a whiff of something that smelled even worse than the rank sewer.
The voice clucked again, critically. “Strange place to take nap. Get eaten, prob’ly-or I not Highbulp of all Caergoth.”
CHAPTER TEN
The man wore the robes of a duke yet prostrated himself on the floor, face pressed to the paving stones, like the most miserable servant. He bowed before one even greater than himself, one who was his master, his overseer, his lord… his very god.
“O Prince of Lies,” intoned the man. “Weaken mine enemies, who are thine own enemies as well. Make my words your daggers, my desires your will. May the minds of thine enemies be clouded by their own greed, that greed you foster and foment with such mastery.”
The Prince of Lies was Hiddukel, the god of greed and corruption. In this luxuriously appointed chamber he was represented by a merchant’s scale placed on a table, the table draped with a red silk cloth. The scale was broken, one half of the balance lying on the silken covering, the other suspended in the air-mysteriously suspended, for with the broken cross-piece no counterweight was apparent on the other side of the device. The scale seemed nearly to quiver, as if eager, poised, and waiting for some weight of great value to rest upon its gleaming surface.
Now the Nightmaster stepped forward. The high priest was robed from his head to his feet in crimson, rippling cloth. His face was concealed, his hands folded into the front of his flowing garment. Stopping before the praying man, the Nightmaster looked down and asked the ritual questions.
“Are you truly a devoted servant of our most illustrious prince?” the crimson-robed priest demanded.
“I swear it upon my blood and the blood of all my kin,” replied the lord, lifting his face from the floor.
“Have your efforts earned profit on our lord’s behalf?”
“I have gained treasure, much treasure, for the prince’s altar. This year I have turned two new souls toward his corrupt perfection.” The lord was on his knees now, his posture otherwise rigid.
“How do you prove this to the Prince of Lies-for he knows the falsehood of all words, the deceit of all mortal intentions.”
“I offer my own blood as proof, as sustenance for my lord.” The man did not flinch. He reached up with both hands, tore away his tunic, and bared his pale, nearly hairless chest.
The Nightmaster prayed, head bowed, soft murmurs emerging from the mask of red silk. Finally he spoke aloud. “Your prayer has been heard and accepted.”
One hand emerged from the red silk robe, carrying a short-bladed dagger, a knife with a blade so thin it resembled an icepick. With a sudden, precise stab the priest plunged that blade into the man’s chest, through the flabby flesh and directly into his heart.
The stricken worshiper gasped from the pain, his face growing first slack, then taut. His hands never wavered from their grasp on his garment, pulling the material back, exposing his flesh. The Nightmaster pulled the blade out and reached out his other hand with a golden cup against the wound in the man’s chest.
Blood-crimson, life-giving blood from the heart-poured out of the duke, spurting and swirling into the cup. Its torrent caused the man to sway, though still he bared his skin to the instruments of his religion. In five seconds the vessel was full, and the Nightmaster, who had tucked his dagger back within his robe, touched the wound and murmured an invocation, a humble plea to the healing power of his dark lord.