Temple Hill Page 22

  The brackish mist crawled down Corin’s throat and seared his lungs, but Corin hardly noticed as he struggled to keep from blacking out. He reached out with his left hand and seized Fendel’s ankle, gagging and choking on the fumes as he dragged both himself and Fendel down the tunnel, back the way they had come.

  In the thick haze, he couldn’t even seen three feet ahead. He had no idea how far the cloud extended back down the tunnel. Realizing his vision was useless anyway, Corin clenched his eyes against the acrid smoke and continued to pull himself along. He felt his skin blistering from the corrosive cloud. His chest heaved as it tried to expel the contaminated air filling his lungs. Corin fought against the urge, knowing even the poisonous air in his lungs was far safer than the thickening fog that enveloped him now.

  Two minutes later—limbs shaking, muscles crying out for air—Corin could hold out no longer. The trapped air in his lungs vomited forth in a stinging spew, and his rebellious body took a long, deep breath. Instead of the agony of more poison slithering down his throat, Corin tasted only the cool, damp air of the tunnel.

  With great gasps he swallowed the dank air, flooding his burning lungs and feeding his starving muscles with stale oxygen. He rolled onto his side, opened his eyes, and glanced back over his shoulder. Fendel’s glowing staff still lay on the ground behind them—he could just make out the pinpoint of its light through the brown cloud. Corin had managed to drag himself and Fendel only a short distance beyond the edge of the deadly fog, but the magic that had conjured the mist kept it tightly concentrated, and there were no signs that the vapors would spread any farther.

  Hopefully it wasn’t too late. Like Corin, Fendel’s exposed skin was red, raw, and festering with sores. The warrior checked his smaller companion for some sign of breath and was relieved to find a steady rhythm of air coming in and out. He rolled the gnome onto his stomach and began to pound him on the back. After a few quick strikes the gnome wretched, hacking up long strings of black, sticky phlegm before going into a prolonged coughing fit. The warrior waited patiently for the fit to pass, grateful his guide was still alive.

  “Are you all right?” Corin asked once Fendel had regained his composure. His voice was hoarse and rasping, his throat ragged and swollen from the effects of the gas.

  “I’ll … I’ll be all right,” the gnome answered, rubbing his own throat.

  Corin rose to his feet and helped the wrinkled little man stand up as well.

  “So, how do we get by this?” The billowing cloud showed no signs of dissipating.

  “I can handle it,” Fendel assured him. “Just give me a moment to catch my breath.”

  The gnome cleared his throat, wincing at the pain as he did so. He spat out another glob of the dark phlegm, then spoke in the arcane, indecipherable language of spellcasters.

  As the magic gathered, Corin first felt, then heard, the rushing wind. It grew from a whispering zephyr to a roaring crescendo in mere seconds, the currents so strong they nearly ripped the clothes from Corin’s back as they whipped through the tunnel.

  Corin’s ears popped continuously with the changing pressure in the tunnel as the force of the tempest rose, tearing great holes in the cloud, rending the fabric of the mist like the garments of a grieving mourner. The wall of fog disintegrated into mere wisps and puffs before being swept away altogether. As suddenly as it had risen, the storm broke.

  The gnome stood with his hands braced on his hips, his hair tousled and tangled from the winds, his face breaking into a broad grin as the last vestiges of his spell dissolved away.

  He caught Corin’s eye and gave the warrior a grin.

  “I love that spell,” he said before going over and retrieving his glowing staff.

  The injuries of both men were minor—a few quick healing spells from Fendel and their skin was restored to a healthy, pink-hued glow. They continued on.

  “If my calculations are correct,” the gnome said after another twenty minutes of cautious, trap-free advancement, “we’re almost there. I suspect there’ll be another surprise before we get to the end, though.”

  Corin’s grip on his twin swords tightened. Traps were well and good, but the warrior knew the best protection was a living, thinking guardian—whether man or beast. If they were close to their goal, his instincts said, the last hurdle would have to be something he could fight. Trusting his instincts, Corin squinted into the shadows ahead, searching out the foe he knew was awaiting them.

  They heard the guardian long before they saw it.

  It began with what sounded like conversation, dozens of voices speaking simultaneously, their nonsensical chatter overlapping and merging into a single, incoherent whole. The incomprehensible din quickly rose to a deafening cacophony, reverberating throughout the narrow tunnel.

  The very thoughts in Corin’s mind were pushed out of his skull by the babbling chaos. The noise grew louder as the creature approached, but Corin was incapable of cogent action. He stood slack jawed, arms dangling at his sides, staring mindlessly into the abyss from which the creature would emerge.

  “Corin!” someone nearby shouted, but the name held no urgency for the enthralled warrior, its meaning swallowed up by the pandemonium emanating from the darkness.

  The beast emerged from the shadows, an oozing, amorphous slime of eyes and teeth enmeshed in a squirming jelly of mushy, formless flesh. It crept across the cavern floor by extending gooey pseudopods and sticky tendrils from its amoeboid body, then pulling the rest of its gelatinous form forward. Hundreds of eyes twisted and swayed atop stalks protruding from the viscous puddle. Within the shapeless, quivering mass of runny flesh countless maws of tiny razors gnashed and wailed, producing the horrible commotion overpowering Corin’s senses.

  Corin’s body took a reflexive step back. Even in his dulled and deadened state it recoiled from the repulsive, advancing specimen.

  “Corin!” he heard again, yet he remained oblivious. The sharp pain of a hard slap to his cheek snapped him from his stupor. He shook his head to clear the confusion from his mind and gave a nod to Fendel to let the gnome know the stinging blow had brought him back to his senses.

  “Fall back,” the gnome shouted above the clamoring uproar. “Let me take care of this!”

  Corin hesitated. If combat was imminent, he should face their adversary, not the little gnome. Then he took another look at the gibbering, babbling mass of mucous-like matter. He imagined a host of the slimy protrusions snaking out toward him if he got in close enough to use his swords, engulfing his legs, wrapping around his arms, dragging him helplessly to the ground. He shuddered as his mind summoned the unbidden image of his own body immobilized by the gummy tentacles while the mass of mouths and eyes enveloped his form and devoured him alive.

  He grunted at his lack of mental discipline, as he snapped out of his reverie. Attacking the horror would be a foolish proposition, he realized. How could he possibly engage it in combat? It had no arms or legs, no obvious vital organs. Slicing the thing in half might actually create a pair of independent beings, forcing him to deal with not one but two alien, unfamiliar opponents. Recognizing his own talents were useless in this situation, the soldier assented to Fendel’s order and retreated—leaving the wizened mage to his own devices.

  Fendel’s hastily cast incantation conjured a wheel of burning flame, its diameter nearly as tall as the gnome himself. The wheel stood upright on the surface of the tunnel floor. With a mere point of his finger, Fendel started the wheel rolling toward the hideous entity.

  A tentacle of dripping slime shot out from the thing’s center and wrapped itself around the blazing wheel. The gooey substance of the tentacle instantly melted into bubbling liquid. The stench of searing sludge assailed Corin’s nostrils, making him retch.

  The chaotic babble rose to the pitch of a scream and the creature’s form raised itself up into an oozing pillar, dozens of mouths spewing spittle and bile at the burning wheel rolling relentlessly forward. Wherever the spray struck the rock, it
exploded in a burst of flashing, white-hot light, nearly blinding Corin.

  But the spray from the many mouths couldn’t quench the magical flames of Fendel’s burning wheel. The monster slid backward, tendrils and pseudopods groping behind it in an effort to escape the heat. The thing was slow, much slower than the gnome’s fiery juggernaut.

  The wheel rolled over the center of the creature’s mass, its viscous body beginning to seethe and boil from the heat. The gibbering babble became shrieking screams as the creature was consumed by the fire. Fendel’s concentration never wavered. He rolled the wheel back and forth across the dying monstrosity until the only sound left was the crackle of the flames and the soft, wet explosions of popping bubbles from its cooking flesh.

  “I suspect the way from here on in will be clear,” Fendel observed calmly, plugging his nose to keep out the foul stink of the steaming corpse.

  Plugging his nose against the smell, Corin could only hope the gnome was right.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  This is it,” Fendel said, running his hands over the ceiling a few feet from the stone wall blocking their path. “We’ll be coming in through the floor near the south wall, if memory serves.”

  If Corin didn’t know better he would have assumed they had somehow gotten lost and run into a dead end, but by now he had learned to trust the gnome’s sense of direction.

  He didn’t know how Fendel had been able to guide him so easily through the sub-tunnels without even looking at a map, or how the gnome had unerringly chosen the right path at every fork and branch. Maybe magic unlocked the small man’s long-forgotten memories of his old hideout, or maybe Fendel had spent so much time down there he had never really forgotten the layout. To Corin, the explanation was unimportant. The only thing that mattered was that Fendel had delivered on his promise: He had brought them through the labyrinth to Xiliath’s treasure room.

  “Assuming that lizard-worshiping wizard’s information is accurate, there’re bound to be a few guards up above,” Fendel cautioned. “But they won’t be watching for us to come in this way. They’ll be watching the main entrance to the north. If we act fast, maybe we can take them out before they set off any alarms.”

  “Do you have any spells that would do the trick?”

  “No. Most of my spells are designed to protect, or hinder. I never got the knack of those quick-killing incantations. I can maybe slow them down, but I can’t keep them from setting off an alarm.”

  “Leave the guards to me then,” Corin said. “You just find Lhasha and use that potion to set her right.”

  “Fair enough,” the gnome replied, pulling out the iron stakes and a heavy hammer he’d stashed in his magical bag earlier that evening. “But before I look for Lhasha, I’ll have to wedge this trapdoor open. If it shuts behind us, I don’t think we’ll be able to open it from the other side. It won’t do Lhasha any good if we rescue her and don’t have a way out.”

  In less trying circumstances, Corin would have grinned at the methodical, organized, and ever practical functioning of Fendel’s mind. As it was, he was simply grateful he had agreed to let the gnome come along. Already the little man’s cautious preparation and forethought had saved his life countless times.

  “Are you ready to do your thing?” the gnome asked.

  Corin nodded.

  Fendel flipped the trigger, and the trapdoor above their heads swung open with a groan.

  With a boost from his larger companion, the gnome quickly scrambled up through the hole above them, and a second later Corin had pulled himself up and through it as well.

  The cavern was huge, easily large enough to fit any of the buildings from the warehouse district inside. Set into the wall at regular intervals were burning torches, casting a dim glow about the entire room. The west side of the cavern was filled with wooden crates and barrels—like the Cult of the Dragon, much of Xiliath’s operation was financed by smuggling contraband into the city. In the southwest corner were racks of weapons and stacks of armor. A cache large enough to equip a small army. In the southeast corner was the hooded, motionless figure of the medusa.

  As the wizard had promised, the cave was full of statues—victims of the medusa’s gaze. Forty, maybe fifty in all, were scattered about the room. In the dim light it was impossible to get an exact count—and impossible to pick Lhasha out from the bunch. Corin realized their chance of a quick in-and-out mission was very remote.

  The only entrance to the great cavern, besides Fendel’s secret door, was a wide arch in the north wall, guarded by four heavily armed soldiers. But instead of facing out into the approaching hall, as Corin had hoped, they were all looking back into the room, their attention drawn by the incriminating moan of the secret door’s long neglected hinges.

  Corin’s battle cry rang through the chamber as he leaped through the door and charged across the cavern to attack, hoping all four of his opponents would enter the fray. Three of the soldiers did rush to meet Corin, but the fourth turned and disappeared through the arch and into the network of tunnels beyond. Within minutes, Corin knew, the lone guard would return with a platoon of troops to bolster the room’s defenders.

  One of the men running toward Corin easily outdistanced his two companions, and met the metal-armed warrior in the very center of the cavern. His fleetness of foot was rewarded with the honor of being the first to fall before Corin’s twin blades.

  The metal arm dealt the first blow, a lightning quick thrust to the midsection. The sword was true to the mark, gouging a deep wound in the guard’s side. That alone might have been enough to finish him, but even as the first blade was inflicting potentially lethal damage, the second slashed at the guard’s thigh. The edge of Fendel’s enchanted sword, which Corin now wielded in his left hand, cut to the bone, severing the man’s artery.

  Corin went into a spin to keep his momentum moving forward as he wrenched the blades free and brought them both to bear again. The soldier collapsed. Beneath him, one of Corin’s swords hacked at the dying man’s chest as he fell, the other carving a ragged gash across his throat to insure only a corpse would hit the floor.

  The other two men came into range and engaged Corin simultaneously. He easily fended off their initial thrusts, the twin blades allowing him to deflect their coordinated attacks. He turned the dual fury of his swords on the man to his left, using one weapon to open up the guard’s defenses, allowing the other blade to strike unimpeded.

  The merciless slaughter of his mates broke the third guard’s morale. He dropped his sword and tried to run, but Corin hacked him down before he had taken three steps, the point of Fendel’s sword slipping between the rings of his mail shirt with the screech of metal on metal. Stabbing an unarmed foe in the back didn’t bother Corin in the least. The White Shields believed in an honorable code of conduct, but only a fool extended his chivalry to the battlefield. Any enemy stupid enough to turn his back on an armed foe deserved to die.

  During the brief but bloody battle, Corin had caught the heavy sounds of Fendel’s hammer, pounding stakes in place to make sure the trapdoor stayed open. He glanced back at his companion to see the gnome had finished securing their escape route and was now darting about the room, moving from statue to statue, seeking out his young ward’s petrified body among the stone silhouettes barely visible in the shadows of the torchlight.

  Corin joined in the search. With reinforcements already on the way, their only hope was to find Lhasha and get out before the second wave of Xiliath’s army reached the room. However, like Fendel, he could do little but run haphazardly from stone figure to stone figure, changing course only when he got close enough to recognize a particular statue was too tall or too wide to be Lhasha.

  A deep, growling voice echoed from the roof and walls of the cavern, pulling Corin up short.

  “We meet again, White Shield!”

  Graal stood in the archway of the main entrance, halfway across the room. He was flanked by four guards on either side. Immediately to his left was
an ancient man in a gray robe, his white beard hanging down to his belt as he leaned heavily upon a staff to support his age-withered bones. Even from across the room, Corin could see a brightly glowing ring on the old mage’s hand.

  Corin knew he was overmatched, without even accounting for the mage’s magic. His new-found skill with two weapons was no match for the overwhelming numbers ready to oppose him. From the hallway behind Graal he could hear the footsteps of many more soldiers approaching. Victory was impossible, but maybe he could buy Fendel some time, or at least keep the gnome from being noticed.

  “Do you have the courage to face me alone,” Corin taunted the towering orog, “or do you need your lackeys by your side to defeat me?”

  The orog replied with a roar of laughter. “Why would I be stupid enough to duel you one on one when I have an entire army at my disposal?” He turned to the old wizard at his side. “Unleash the medusa. Turn this fool to stone.” Graal pointed a huge paw toward Fendel, who was trying to creep away into the shadows on the far side of the room while he still searched for Lhasha. “Don’t forget the other one.”

  The wizard raised a trembling fist into the air, the glowing ring intensifying in brightness. The medusa responded by taking a slow step forward. Her hood remained in place. Corin put his head down and barged across the room toward the orog and his soldiers.

  If the warrior’s time was at hand, it would end on the point of a sword, falling in battle the way a White Shield was supposed to die, not trapped in some hellish limbo of eternal stone.

  The force of the sudden explosion from the east wall knocked Graal’s men to the ground, including the frail wizard—the old man’s staff was sent careening across the cavern floor. Even the orog’s giant frame was sent reeling backward by the devastating concussion that rocked the cavern.