Lowering his sword in his left hand, Regdar balled his right hand into a fist and punched the wizard square in the face. His gauntlet clanked against the robed man's mouth. The wizard's head snapped back from the impact, and pieces of broken teeth clattered across the tiled floor.
The wizard collapsed to his knees.
Regdar rested his sword blade at the base of the wizard's neck. "Surrender."
The dark-robed man sat on the floor, probing the bloody holes in his smile with his finger. He looked up at Regdar, shrugged, then put his hands into his robe.
"Keep those where I can see them," threatened Regdar, and he applied some downward pressure on the blade.
The wizard smiled. Blood dripped from holes in his gums and ran down his chin. He withdrew his hands from his robes, but he held a small, pink ball of goo between two fingers. The substance flashed then disintegrated. Regdar squinted involuntarily to protect his eyes. The wizard lisped out two quick words, and he disappeared.
Shaking his head, Regdar growled. The sound echoed off the walls of the old bathhouse. Too late, the fighter sliced with his sword where the wizard had been kneeling. His greatsword struck nothing but the floor.
Regdar looked to Whitman. The dwarf shrugged, and both men scanned the room, their weapons at the ready.
In the corner, a cluster of glowing, blue-white orbs appeared. They floated in mid-air, casting an eerie glow on the darkened chamber. Both fighters stepped forward before the magical missiles lifted from where they hovered and streaked toward them. The lights swirled and blurred, then smashed into the human and the dwarf.
Regdar heard a short yelp escape his hps as the skin on his chest sizzled and popped. Despite the pain, the fighter charged toward the corner, his eyes trained on the apparently empty spot where the orbs had appeared.
In his mind, Regdar imagined the hooded man standing before him, casting the spell and dodging away. Lunging to his left as he reached the corner, the big fighter leaned into his strike, praying his hunch was correct.
His greatsword met resistance in what looked like thin air, then a flood of bright-red blood gushed across the blade.
Whitman, only a step behind, zeroed in on the freshly opened wound and swung his hammer in a flat arc. The head of the weapon connected with something that made a sickening crunch. Regdar's sword was pulled sideways by an invisible force. More blood gushed down the blade, then the wizard materialized in a heap on the floor.
Regdar pulled his sword free and wiped the blade on the dead man's robe. "So many bad men, so little time."
Then the big fighter sheathed his sword and walked into the darkness at the other side of the room.
Whitman balanced his hammer on his shoulder and looked down at the fallen wizard. He shook his head.
"Sweet gifts of Pelor," shouted Regdar. "Come take a look at this." He pulled off his helmet and let it drop. Loosening his backpack, he flung it to the floor in front of him and dropped to his knees in a pile of gold coins, gems, and books.
"Would you look at this," he said, picking up handfuls of coins and letting them slip through his fingers. The cascading treasure made a pleasant, jingling sound as it landed on the jumbled pile. "This guy and his umber hulks must have cleaned out most of the ruins."
Whitman lowered himself to the floor beside Regdar and began scooping swag into his backpack. He smiled and slapped his friend on the shoulder.
Regdar did the same, packing as much as he could carry. Between scoops of gold coins and huge jewels, the fighter lifted a rather plain-looking amulet with a single, archaic rune inscribed on its surface. Shrugging, he looped its leather band over his head and let the amulet hang from his neck. He smiled down at it momentarily, then resumed filling his backpack.
Several handfuls into the pile, Regdar uncovered a jewel-encrusted flask. He lifted it up to get a better look. Holding it out into one of the few beams of light that penetrated this far into the ruins, he examined the vessel. The opening at its top was sealed with red wax. Along its edges, embedded gems formed pictures of beasts and men, all fighting against each other. The scenes entranced Regdar, and he stared at the flask as if concentrating intently.
The bottle felt strange in his hand. It was heavy, much heavier than any potion the fighter had held. It wasn't the weight that concerned him. It was more of an impulse. Regdar felt as if the bottle might burst open at any moment, as if whatever was inside the flask was too big to be contained in such a small flagon, and if it stayed there much longer, the sides might just crack apart.
Regdar put his hand on top of the flask. The pressure inside the bottle seemed so great, Regdar thought the cork might pop out on its own. He grabbed hold of it with his thumb and forefinger.
Whitman dropped his fleshy palm on his friend's shoulder. "Perhaps we should leave that for the duke to deal with," he said.
Regdar shook his head, then looked down at the bottle again. "Yes," he said. "I think that would be best." He looked back up at the dwarf and smiled. "I don't know what got into me."
Shaking his head, Regdar shoved the flask into his backpack.
Six months earlier…
The blackguard stood at the edge of her arena. In the middle, two tattooed men fought. Both were stripped to the waist, barefoot, and bleeding. Each had a short sword and a buckler. They were winded from fighting for nearly an hour.
On their chests, heaving up and down with each exaggerated breath, were three words written in the infernal language of the Abyss-and the symbol of Hextor himself. The god of battle had smiled upon them, and these men, in turn, had dedicated their lives to him, showing their devotion by tattooing their bodies with the image of their god.
The blackguard read those words to herself now: war; conflict; destruction. They were words she could take to heart.
In the arena, a sword clanked off a buckler, and one of the warriors fell to the ground with a blade in his gut.
The stands erupted in cheers. The blackguard smiled as she looked out at nearly a thousand men, each shirtless, each carrying the mark of Hextor on his chest.
The victorious warrior stood over his wounded victim, looking to the blackguard, waiting patiently for a sign.
The crowd chanted, "Finish him! Finish him! Finish him!"
The blackguard slipped her sword from its sheath. The chamber went silent. This was her favorite part. Lifting the blade high in the air, she looked at the warriors in the middle-one bleeding, one wanting blood.
"Send him to Hextor," she said, and she lowered her blade.
The poised warrior did not hesitate before plunging the end of his short sword into the man and ending his life.
The blackguard turned and walked back to her throne. Sitting down, she watched two more men drag the corpse to the edge of the chasm and push it over. Then they returned to the center of the arena, nodded to each other, and began fighting.
A robed man stepped from behind the throne and prostrated himself before the woman seated on it, his face touching the ground.
"Mistress," he said with a lisp, "we have located the bottle."
The blackguard nearly stood up. "Where?"
"In the duchy of New Koratia," answered the robed man, "in some ruined catacombs off the River Delnir."
"The Herald of Hell has smiled upon us," she said, looking over her shoulder at the fist of Hextor.
"Yes, my mistress." The man kept his face to the dirt. "What is your desire?"
Behind him, one of the cultist's swords caught the other man under the chin, taking his head off in a single stroke.
The blackguard templed her fingers. "It is time to move the cult to the duchy of New Koratia," she said. "I want you to personally undertake the retrieval of the bottle."