Miltiades and his ivory steed were ready, as always. The paladin had prepared his armor and sword the night before. Without the need for food or sleep, he now waited calmly as the others checked their gear.
As Miltiades waited, he meditated and prayed to Tyr. He no longer prayed to gain courage, but to show acceptance of his fate. His spirit was growing tired after its lengthy wait for Tyr's call, and he longed for this chance for eternal peace. The undead paladin made one last vow to prove his worth and devotion.
"Tyr," he whispered, bowing his head, "your servant is grateful for this quest. My soul is dedicated to you. Know that I go forth this day to honor your name. I can be victorious only through your guidance, but my failure is my own. Accept the struggles of this humble servant as testimony to his devotion to you." The paladin silently continued his mediation as his companions finished readying themselves.
Evaine and Andoralson inventoried their spell components one final time. The druid chose a patch of grass away from the others, then knelt in prayer to Silvanus. Evaine settled crosslegged on her bedroll and began a ritual of meditation and concentration that would help her focus her magical powers.
Rising from his prayers, Andoralson planted one last ring of magical oak trees, knowing this might be his final chance to leave a mark of good in the world. As he concentrated on the magic, he could sense the other nineteen groves growing tall and strong. The druid would leave a small legacy behind, even if the battle ahead proved to be his last.
Gamaliel was ready for action, tensely pacing the camp in cat form. He started at every rustle of the wind and at every leaf that tumbled into the clearing. His eyes were deeply golden; his pink nose never stopped twitching at the wind. Twice the fur on his tail fluffed out as if a black dragon had swooped into camp.
The cat informed his mistress that he smelled creatures of evil all around them, within a few miles of the perimeter. Both knew they would meet the horrid minions soon enough.
Evaine felt fully prepared, both mentally and physically, for the battle ahead, but she was still wrought with anxiety. Pools of darkness were unpredictable things, and what worked to destroy one might not destroy another. Yet her hatred for the evil waters outweighed her nervousness and stirred her determination.
The sorceress pondered the problem of the pit fiend. She had faced fiends before, but never one of this kind. She knew them to be vastly powerful and resistant to many types of magic. As she loaded her saddlebags, she drew out a slim, silver case containing four large darts wrought from dragon talons. Opening the case, she checked to see that the tip of each was coated with a brown, sticky substance.
"Ren, are you skilled in the use of darts?"
The ranger stopped his pacing long enough to answer. "I've used various types of darts. But when I need a missile weapon, I prefer the bow. Why do you ask?"
"The fiend we're going to face will probably be resistant to magic. I have four darts made from dragon talons. Their tips are harder than tempered steel, and they're coated with a sap that causes paralysis, at least in humans. I'd like you to carry one in case you can get a shot at the fiend. It may weaken the creature and allow my magic to work. If it's paralyzed or even slowed, it will improve all our chances of success." Evaine held out the dart.
The ranger ignored her, leading Stolen out of the grass and mounting the huge horse. Without so much as a glance at the wizard, he answered indignantly, "You're talking about using poison. I don't work that way."
Evaine's answer was equally tense. "I'm talking about using poison on a fiend from the pits of the Nine Hells, not on an opponent in a bar brawl. We're going to need every advantage we can get. If you can land a dart on the monster but I can't, it could mean the difference in this battle."
Ren stared at the dart for a moment, then spurred Stolen forward and took the small missile from Evaine's hand. It was handsomely weighted and the tip was razor-sharp. The image of Tarl and Shal that sprang to mind told him he was doing the right thing. He wondered briefly whether the wizard had planted the thought in his brain.
Evaine and Andoralson mounted their horses, as Gamaliel blurred and transformed into a barbarian. Riding rather than walking would conserve his energy.
The five companions set out through the woods toward the red tower. The evil aura emanating from the structure was like a beacon drawing the group to their fates.
An hour of steady riding brought the travelers to a low rise. As they topped it, they could see the red tower of Marcus in the distance, huge stormclouds swirling around it. Marcus had laid out the welcome mat in the form of a cyclone of pure fire, nearly as tall as the tower. It was speeding up the hill toward Evaine and the others.
Miltiades spoke up. "Fire elemental! The rest of you ride back down the hill the way we came. I can take care of this beast. It'll do less harm to my fleshless body." The paladin was gripping his sword, maneuvering his horse for a charge.
"You'll do no such thing!" Evaine called out. "Your idea is noble, but suicidal. The only way we're going to win this battle is to stick together and fight. We can't let Marcus's pets kill us one by one."
Now it was Andoralson's turn. "That stormcloud will aid us. Prepare yourselves to fight, but don't do anything until we see if this spell has any effect."
The druid began to chant, crushing berries of mistletoe in his palm. Thunder and lightning crashed overhead as the eighty-foot wall of flame sped toward the top of the hill. In moments, the skies had opened and torrents of rain were pouring forth, flooding the hillside. An unearthly cloud of steam arose around the creature. As Andoralson continued to chant, a bolt of lightning leaped from the sky and blasted the cone of flame. The monster wavered, but still came up the hill. Three more bolts of lightning struck it. The writhing blaze shrank to the size of a small hut. As the rain swept down, the creature drowned in the waters the druid had summoned. The last tongue of flame was extinguished only thirty feet from the hilltop.
Ren cheered as the creature dissolved into the mud. The companions waited under the trees for the rain to end. Evaine took advantage of the pause to cast a spell rendering them all invisible, then the group began the trek down the hill.
As the five approached the tower, Evaine announced her observation that the structure appeared to have no doors. But four paths worn through the grass betrayed the possible locations of the entrances. Even as a human, Gamaliel's sensitive nose was able to choose a path tainted with the scents of men and monsters. A simple spell revealed the tall, golden doors Marcus had concealed. Evaine went to work on opening the magically locked entry.
Three times the door glowed green, but three times the door refused to yield. Ren fished out his lockpicking tools and busied himself with the lock, but the mechanism refused to budge.
"I've got one more spell I can try," Evaine suggested.
Ren scowled at the door, then looked at the others. "Save your energy, Evaine. We're going to need it later. Everybody stand back. I've got an idea."
The ranger mounted Stolen and rode back up the path. After perhaps fifty yards, he turned and ordered the war-horse into a charge straight for the tower. As the beast neared the portal, it reared up on massive haunches and pounded down on the door with powerful forehooves.