“Baron Ryseleth,” Duvan said, “what a charming home you have. I presume you won’t mind me taking a souvenir or two.”
It looked to Duvan as though about half of the original citadel had fallen away, but as the central tower remained, he figured their chances were good. He would just have to find Ryseleth’s own offices. The rest of the treasure hunters slid to the ledge beside him.
“Come on,” Duvan said, creeping across the courtyard to the archway that led into the crumbling tower. Ivy formed a disorganized crisscross weave up the side of the tower, blackening the large blocks where the vines had anchored themselves.
Behind him came the sound of stone grinding against stone. Turning, he saw Beaugrat and Seerah stumble offbalance as the flagstone under them loosened and shifted. Seerah leapt lightly to the side and landed on a more solid flagstone, but there was nothing agile about Beaugrat. He fell to his knees and waited for the rock to stop shifting.
Duvan looked up at the tower, leaning precariously out over the abyss. “You’d better hang back here, Beaugrat,” he said. “Seerah, you stay with him. The sorcerer and I will explore the tower.” To Duvan’s disappointment, the other man merely nodded, showing none of his earlier eagerness.
Pausing just outside the entrance, Duvan listened for the sounds of the manticore or other creatures whose intentions would be less than charitable. He also took a moment to check the masonry for the telltale signs of embedded traps. This building hadn’t been created as a vault, but checking for snares and triggers had saved him from pain or death on numerous occasions.
Even though Duvan did not fear dying, he was afraid of pain. Oblivion was far preferable than torture.
No danger here. Duvan slipped inside and waited in silence and darkness for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. When they had, he and the sorcerer made a quick tour of the four rooms at the base of the citadel.
One of the many things Tyrangal had taught him was how to make a quick assessment of the value of things. Duvan’s mentor and benefactor, Tyrangal was an unusual, copper-skinned woman of remarkable influence in the city of Ormpetarr. It was at her behest he had traveled across the Vilhon Wilds to the Underchasm, in search of Baron Ryseleth’s citadel.
“Let’s head up,” he said, finding nothing of value in these rooms. He sprinted up the spiraling stone steps, coming to an abrupt halt when he came across a hole in the wall where a chunk of the tower had fallen away to reveal a fathomless drop into darkness below.
Duvan made sure the sorcerer had caught up before deftly skirting the opening and showing the man how it could be done. Up and up they went, until they found what must have been the baron’s offices. “We must be nearly to the top,” he said. “We’re looking for anything of value, but particularly any tomes or scrolls.”
The remains of purple velvet curtains still hung on the walls, tattered and moth-eaten. A quick scan of the remaining desk revealed nothing more than rusted styli and mold-eaten parchments. No books or scrolls of value here.
A sudden roar from outside sent a shiver up Duvan’s back. The manticore, from the sound of it, about two hundred yards to the south and slightly above them, likely riding a thermal out of the Underchasm. Duvan just hoped it wasn’t headed for this ledge.
“This place is cleaned out,” the sorcerer said. “Ransacked years ago, probably before it fell into the chasm.”
“Unfortunately true.” Tyrangal had been wrong. Still, if the book was going to be anywhere, this was the room it’d be in.
Duvan decided to make a thorough check for secret compartments and hidden doors the baron might have kept his treasures in. He ran his fingertips along the stone walls, ceiling, and floor, searching by touch and by sight. There was a window that looked toward the cliff face and through which shone the midday sun. A thorough search would take some time, especially since decay and time had cracked and crumbled the stones and masonry to the point that any unusual feature might just be a product of age and not design.
Outside the manticore roared again, closer this time. Too close.
Abruptly, the sky darkened as the great winged creature filled the window. Immediately, Duvan signaled to the sorcerer to hide, and while the man cast a quick spell, Duvan slid into the shadows of the tilted room.
As the mage faded from sight, Duvan fought against the natural instinct to panic. His heart leaped into his throat, but he focused on calming it and on taking steady, silent breaths. In moments, his calm returned, and he was hidden from sight. Both of them were hidden.
The creature was too large to fit through the opening, even folding its huge batlike wings. Spotted brown and black fur covered its great catlike body. Black spikes protruded from its spine and, most dangerously, from the stinger bulb at the tip of its tail. The creature bent its neck and stuck its head through the window.
Duvan had seen live manticores from a distance before, and Tyrangal had shown him a preserved head once. That one was larger than the one in the window here, but all things equal, Duvan preferred the dead one.
The head was hideous; its vaguely human face and eyes made all the more monstrous by the flat snout and the wide mouth full of dagger-sharp teeth. Head swaying to and fro, it sniffed the air.
Then, just as abruptly as it had appeared, the creature took flight, and with three heavy beats of its dragon wings, was gone. Duvan held perfectly still, his senses alert against the possibility that the creature would return.
Crouching silently in the shadows, straining for any telltale signs of movement, Duvan caught the impression of a panel in the corner of the long-deposed baron’s office. Something odd in the curve of the rock floor, an ever-so-slight deviation in the smoothness of the stone, drew his keen attention.
He ran his fingers over the stone. There was an indentation there-too even to be a product of nature. He probed the edges. Definitely artificial. He pressed down on the small panel.
The panel slid down into a recessed compartment, revealing a hollow space beneath. Duvan peered inside, checking for spring-loaded traps and symbols that would indicate magical warding. There was nothing … except a rusting iron handle embedded in the wall of the compartment.
“You had best remain hidden,” he whispered to the still-invisible sorcerer. “Just in case that beast returns.”
He tugged on the handle. In front of Duvan, a large stone shifted from the wall with a horrible screech, leaving about a three-finger-wide opening. He pulled the prybar from his pack and expanded the gap. The stone was on some sort of rail system, but the iron had long been rusted and yielded begrudgingly. But finally, Duvan could see what was behind-a hidden cache, undiscovered and filled with treasures.
Resting on top of a pile of ancient coins rested a heavy tome-a thick book covered in tough leather that looked like wyvern hide. Gilt Elvish script and platinum filigree decorated the cover. It matched Tyrangal’s description perfectly.
As he slipped the tome into his pack, the tower shook violently, knocking him over.
Behind him, the manticore slammed into the window arch, sending rocks flying into the room. The floor beneath him lurched as the tower groaned from the extra weight. The sun went dark again as the creature hit the wall once more, trying to dislodge the rocks around the window. Their chances of killing a creature of such size and power were slim to none.
Most of the time, Duvan preferred to be alone; everything was just better that way. But now he wished he’d brought more help. This was exactly the situation where a group of minions would come in handy. But alas, it was not going to happen. All he and the invisible sorcerer could do now was run and hope to not die.
“Run!” he called out. “Back down.”
With no cleric in sight, death held an uncomfortable degree of finality to it. Never his first choice.