Vaddi motioned the company to a halt. “Erethindel,” he whispered, and the word hovered in the air like a spell. “Below us.”
“There is a huge chamber, carved from the rock,” said Fallarond.
“The horn is there,” said Vaddi, hand tightly gripping the haft of his elf blade. He felt Zemella’s fingers take his left hand. He held them tightly, praying that she could not feel his fear, his dread of this place.
“Stay together,” said Fallarond. “As a unit.”
The Deathguard lifted their bows, arrows nocked. Slowly, inch by inch, the company lowered themselves down the wide stairs, each one as tall as a wall, yet cloaked in shadow. Below them they saw an open doorway, some thirty feet tall with thick columns on either side, wreathed in demonic art, gargoyle faces that leered, their eyes gleaming in the torchlight from the massive chamber beyond. At these columns the company halted, studying the bizarre scene below them.
In the chamber, lit by scores of tall braziers, the statues of a distant age reared up into the hidden distance of the dome, it was so vast as to seem like the open night sky, shrouded in cloud and darkness. Opposite the company, a huge circular wall, framed by stone blocks, rose up between two of the statues, whose stone arms and claws seemed to cling to it. Though cut from naked bedrock, they were disturbingly life-like, as if no more than a whispered spell would shake them into frightful life. The stone face of the circular wall shimmered in the ethereal glow, more like the surface of a deep pool than rock.
Vaddi drew back a step, sensing the animate nature of that wall. It was no more than a curtain, draped over some primeval pit, but his attention was snared by what stood in the centre of the chamber a hundred paces away. It was a single column, no higher than his waist, bathed in the protective green glow of sorcery. On the flat top of the column was the Crimson Talisman.
Is it to be this easy? Do we just cross the chamber and snatch it? He looked at his companions and could sense that they were asking themselves the same questions. This must be a trap, yet.
Fallarond nodded toward the horn. Time froze for a moment and then Vaddi nodded. Still gripping Zemella’s hand, he led the rush into the chamber. The company remained banded together, those on its wings aiming their bows at shadows in preparation. They had crossed a third of the distance to the column when the shadows surrounding them came to life.
From all around the chamber, out of the cover of the huge statues, warriors erupted, hundreds of them. Whether they were men or demons, no one could say, for their armor completely shielded them and their helmets covered their heads, only their eyes visible. They carried broadswords and pikes, maces and axes, and they bore down upon the company in a circle that they meant to close like a fist.
Fallarond’s Deathguard had been trained to fight such opponents and had been ready since the moment they entered Azzahareb. They loosed the first wave of arrows and without exception they tore through the armor of the attackers. As quickly as the first wave died, a second followed, and within the space of a few moments the Deathguard had unleashed a dozen arrows each, hardly one failing to bring down a target, but vast numbers of the enemy were massed here. They closed the circle.
Fallarond shouted a command and his warriors stung their bows over their shoulders and drew their blades. The air hummed with spells as they flashed, their light mingling with and crackling against the powers in the glow from the braziers. The company met the onslaught with a unified roar, and for the first few moments of the battle they repulsed the attackers, their weapons slicing through sword, metal and bone with sickening ease. A mound of dead cluttered the chamber, impeding the progress of the assailants.
In the resulting chaos, the company was able to move closer to the column and the horn. Vaddi cut again and again with his weapon, seeing in the faces of the enemy a kind of dementia, wild eyes that blazed like the feral eyes of the inhuman, as alien as any of the horrors he had encountered on his journey from his native land. He felt the upsurge of his own bloodlust, needing to loose it, but wary of Zemella’s warning. Whether these creatures were undead or otherwise cursed by necromantic power, he could not say, but it was as though he fought against slavering wolves, more beast than man. They were careless of pain or death, cutting and thrusting like automatons.
It is not my death they want, though. Not one has tried to kill me.
Vaddi relaxed his defense, allowing the warrior facing him to swing an axe at him. Vaddi was right. The blow passed by him and the axe bit into the floor, sparks showering his feet, but he knew that the others were not protected, and he could see the ferocity with which the enemy attacked them. Already some of the Deathguard had fallen.
The carnage was dreadful, for countless scores of warriors, heedless of death, choked the floor of the chamber, their blood pooling, slippery and dangerous underfoot. Vaddi was trying to get a view of the talisman when he felt a tremendous blow strike him across the lower forearm. His sword fell from his hand, which felt suddenly very cold, as if it had been dipped into the ice water of a glacier. He bent to retrieve the weapon at once, but something crashed into the side of his head, knocking him sideways. He felt Zemella’s fingers torn from his grasp. He heaved himself to his feet, other blades spinning a defensive web around him.
He saw through dazed eyes a huge warrior, the man who had struck him, beating back the blades of the Deathguard. But in those eyes, Vaddi saw a grim hint of amusement. This was no undead, no vampire. He was human. His broadsword, which had numbed his arm and almost knocked him senseless, was of a familiar cast. It was a northern blade. Karrnath! How could that be?
Zemella! his mind cried. He twisted and turned amid the growing press of bodies, for the conflict had become ever more constricted. He could not see her, but he felt her. She was somewhere behind the huge warrior, who was himself easing back into the mass of his warriors, broadsword cleaving the air before him, warding off the Deathguard who tried vainly to break through his powerful defense. Vaddi saw Nyam make it to his side.
“Who is that?” Vaddi asked.
Nyam, parrying the onslaught of another attack, cursed under his breath. “He’s Karrn.” He warded off another cutting blow. “Warriors from … all … over.”
“Where’s Zemella?”
Nyam had no time to reply as a huge wedge of the enemy drove in between Vaddi and the warrior from Karrnath. Almost at once the attack halted.
The Deathguard, whose numbers had been cut in half, formed a defensive wall around Vaddi and Nyam, their chests heaving, their arms dropping with exhaustion. In spite of the immense damage they had done to the warriors, countless scores stilt surrounded them, ready to close in, for the kill. Instead they eased back, stepping over the mangled corpses of the numerous slain.
“Vaddi d’Orien,” said a voice. From out of the press, the huge warrior from Karrnath stepped forward, bloody sword pointed toward the youth. “You are a credit to your father. You fight as well as any man who ever wore the Orien unicorn.” He removed his war helm.
Nyam gasped. “Kazzerand.”
“Indeed.” The warrior grinned. “And you, peddler, have fought nobly. But we have no need of you or these Aereni.”
“Where is Zemella?” said Vaddi.
“Alive and unharmed,” said Kazzerand. “She is in safe keeping.”
He pointed with his blade, indicating the balcony opposite the circular wall, high up and overlooking the carnage below. Vaddi saw at once that Zemella was a captive there. Two black-armored warriors gripped her arms, preventing her from casting a spell, but it was the tall figure beside them that drew his attention. This must be Zuharrin. He was dressed in a flowing robe the color of night, which shimmered and rippled, uncomfortable to look at. His head, elongated, seemed almost insect-like, the eyes even from here like the orbs of a demon. Whatever powers this being trafficked in had long since drawn him into their influences. Whatever Zuharrin had once been, he was no longer human.