“I think we chose the wrong corridor, Bakal,” a high-pitched voice piped up.
Swearing, the battle-worn veteran felt around. Enough of a gap existed for them to slide past poor Garon. “All right, I’ll go first this time! Everyone stay close and listen carefully for anything out of the ordinary!”
With trepidation, the survivors backtracked once more. Much to Bakal’s relief, though, the trek back proved devoid of other traps. Even so, no one relaxed in the least. There was no telling what might lie farther ahead.
The party gathered in the intersection, more than willing to take a pause. While they did, Bakal considered the other corridors again. He still favored the one on his right, but his last choice had resulted in the death of Garon. Of course, Bakal had no way of knowing if the left corridor were any better.
“Right it is, then.” Bakal cursed the eccentric Knight who had built this place and wondered if perhaps the Solamnic had been exiled to Atriun because of his insanity. Certainly that would explain much.
Calling an end to the rest, Bakal led the others single file into the new corridor. He reached out with the intention of again using the wall to guide him and was suddenly greeted by dim emerald light.
“Praise be!” a voice called from among his band.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” he snapped, then, calmer, “but it could mean we’ve got the right one this time.”
They had journeyed well down the new corridor when Bakal suddenly noticed something different in the gloom ahead. “Rapp! Where are you?”
“Right behind you, Bakal.”
“Rapp, peek around me. Is that a door I see at the far end?”
“A door?” The kender shoved forward eagerly. “Where?”
The captain pointed at a dark spot far ahead. “You’ve got better eyes, I think. Isn’t that a door?”
“I think so … yes, it is. Do you want me to go open it?”
He had to restrain the wiry figure from racing down the corridor. “Easy, boy. We don’t know what other traps might be down this way.”
“Traps!” His eyes grew wider. “You really think so?”
“Just … let’s be careful.”
Slowly they edged their way down the hall. Once, Bakal thought he heard a click, but as no one died, he assumed his imagination had just played with him. At last they reached the door, a simple but sturdy wooden thing that looked as if it could withstand the strength of a charging bull.
Disappointed that they hadn’t found any new traps along the way, the kender put his hopes now on the door. “Is it locked, Bakal? Do you want me to open it? I’m good with doors, just like Uncle Trapspringer was! Did I tell you how he got that name? You see, he was-”
“Another time, boy.” Bakal tested the door. Locked, of course. Nothing could be easy. “All yours.”
From out of his topknot, Rapp produced a lockpick. Bakal knew that kender could carry more than two dozen picks on their person and improvise if those were taken from them.
“It’s rusted,” Rapp murmured. “And it’s a Solamnic lock! They’re fun! They make different designs that look the same on the outside, and opening one sometimes takes hours, even days.”
The thought of staying down here for days while Rapp entertained himself with the lock did not at all suit Bakal. He opened his mouth with the intention of encouraging the kender to speed matters up, but a click from the door halted him in mid breath.
“Oh, that was an easy one! I hoped it would be one of the imperial models! They can take-”
“It’s open, then?”
“Oh, sure, Bakal!” Rapp took hold and swung both himself and the door aside. “See?”
The captain did see. He saw that the door opened into a much wider corridor, one that clearly led to the central sections of the castle. He also saw something else, and that something saw him as well.
The gargoyle opened wide his toothy jaws.
Bakal stumbled back, trying to ready his weapon.
The gargoyle shook his head, then raised one clawed hand toward Bakal and rumbled, “I speak for Stooone.…”
* * * * *
Tyros woke, nightmares of ghostly mages and his own feet and hands turning to crystal still haunting him. That the first image he saw turned out to be the horrific countenance of the three-horned gargoyle peering at him through strong iron bars did not at all ease his spirits.
Seeing the prisoner was awake, the gargoyle hissed, then hurried off. Tyros tried to move, only to find his hands manacled. Further inspection revealed that he lay in a small, dust-ridden cell that smelled as if it hadn’t been aired out since Castle Atriun had been built.
He didn’t remember falling unconscious, but clearly it had happened. He also didn’t know what had happened to Serene. The thought of her at the mercy of the gargoyles, especially the more brutish, triple-horned one, left him cold. Tyros had to escape so that he could find her.
Clearing his thoughts, the red wizard concentrated on his remaining spells. Finding one that would release him from his confinement would be no trouble whatso-
A horrible throbbing filled Tyros’s head, nearly causing him to black out again. Tyros forgot all about spells, Serene, gargoyles, and flying citadels. All he wanted was for the pain to cease.
It did.
The cessation of pain came so suddenly that the captive mage could only blink. He exhaled in relief, praying never to feel such agony again. Now Tyros could begin once more to concentrate on a spell that would-
Again, the pain ripped through his head, this time even worse. Everything pounded, harder and harder. He lost track of his spell, lost track of everything. Tyros’s world became agony …
And just as quickly reverted to normal.
He groaned, trying to put the pieces of his mind back together. Twice now the throbbing had nearly sent him to oblivion, both times as he had been trying to put together a spell. In fact, even thinking of spells made his head pound a little.
“By the Tower,” Tyros muttered. He did not need a third test to know that if he tried a spell, his head would threaten to explode again. Someone had magicked him, made certain that any attempt to use his powers would strike him down. Cunning and not a little sadistic. For a mage not to think of spells was nearly the same as a starving man not allowed to eat food placed around him. Wizards lived and breathed their work.
Tyros suddenly noticed he had company. A shiver ran through him as two murky figures nearly identical to ghostly Kendilious stood before his cage.
They floated-no better word described it-toward him, as if under the robes they no longer had feet. One touched the door to his cell, opening it. The pair flanked him, then each lifted a white, bony hand to his manacles. A simple touch and the bracelets fell away.
He tried to jump up, but despite their emaciated appearance, they gripped his shoulders and held him fast.
“What do you want? Who are you?”
Neither looked at him directly, but one pointed forward, indicating he should leave the cell. The ghastly figures continued to grip his shoulders as he walked. Devoid of his wizard’s staff and dagger, Tyros considered his options. In truth, he had only his physical strength left, which seemed little enough against these strong ghouls.
Yet not to try …
Acting on instinct, Tyros brought his elbows into his guards’ midsections. Unfortunately, striking the phantoms was like striking rock. His elbows felt as if they had shattered. Worse, the ghouls’ grip on his shoulders tightened painfully, a punishment for his actions. He fell to his knees, nearly blacking out from agony.
“All right,” Tyros gasped. “All right! I’ll behave myself!”
The pressure eased, enabling him to stand. They led Tyros down a corridor, then up a lengthy flight of steps. From there, they marched down another long corridor before finally stopping at a brass door with the mark of the kingfisher emblazoned upon it. The captive mage found it ironic that the home of a Solamnic Knight should become a sanctum of destruction.