The Howling Delve

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Aazen tensed when he heard the distant howls. He raised a hand to halt the party, surveying what resources he had left.

Isslun and Aliyea were still above, probably slain. Tershus was there too. Falling rock had obscured Aazen’s last glimpse of the halfling. The rest of his party had either been slain by Kall’s group or separated by the journey through the portal. Aazen had only five left with him. One of them, Kiliren’s apprentice, had to be half-carried due to his wounds. If he didn’t succumb, Aazen was tempted to leave the man, especially in light of what he intended to do.

“Straight ahead, torches low unless absolutely necessary,” he said. “Kall is nearby.”

“Whatever’s down here’s killing them already,” said Bardie, shifting his weight against the man supporting him. “We should wait to see if any survive.”

“If they do, we may never find them again in these tunnels,” said Aazen. “We could wander down here until we starve, or until whatever made that noise finds us. Kall—or one of his group—had to have come through the main portal. To find the way out, we go to him.”

Bardie laughed, drawing uneasy glances from the men standing near him, but the apprentice’s eyes were wide, delirious with pain and blood loss. “You’re a fool, Kortrun. You want to find your friend. Balram knew you wouldn’t be able to kill him.”

Aazen stopped, his expression frozen. Slowly, he turned and walked back to the man. He lifted his sagging head by the hair. “What an interesting observation. Please enlighten me. What is my father planning?”

Bardie coughed and tried to shake his head, but Aazen held him firmly.

“Very well.” Aazen removed his hand and pressed his knuckles into one of Bardie’s open wounds. The apprentice howled and thrashed, but Aazen pressed him back with his other forearm. “What is his plan?”

“Another party,” Bardie choked out. “I overheard my… master speaking of it. He was communicating with Daen magically. If you betrayed us, he was to send word to the other party.”

“Thank you.” Aazen removed his hand, wiping his bloody fingers on Bardie’s robes. The apprentice collapsed against the tunnel wall, sliding down to the floor.

Aazen’s thoughts raced, but his eyes stayed on the men surrounding him. They kept their faces averted, their expressions schooled to reveal nothing of their thoughts. And why should they? They were well trained and knew that Aazen, traitor or not, was the best hope they had of getting out of the caverns alive. But how many of them had known? How many of his “family” plotted against him?

“We go on,” he said at last. When one of the men moved to lift Bardie from the floor, Aazen shook his head. “Leave him. He’ll slow us down. Scout ahead, but do not be seen. We follow Kall’s party.” he paused, looking at each of them, making them meet his eyes. “Unless anyone else has objections they’d like to voice?”

They had none. The scout started to move away down the tunnel. He turned a corner, and Aazen saw him stop and take a jerky step to the side, as if he’d lost his footing. The man behind him moved forward to steady him.

“Wait!” shouted Aazen.

The scout fell sideways. A triple line of gashes ran vertically from his chest to his bowels. The ribs and organs in between were mauled. The scout had died before he knew what killed him. The man behind him cried out as he was yanked forward, around the corner into the darkness. This time Aazen heard the swish of claws passing through air and smelled the unnatural fire reek.

Grabbing the man nearest him, Aazen dived into one of the narrower tunnels off the main route, one they’d decided not to take for fear it would dead-end or become impassable. He heard the screams of his men, of Bardie trying to remember the words to a spell as the horror overcame him.

“Keep moving,” Aazen snapped to the man he’d saved. He did not look back.

Cesira lay on the floor, her vision encompassing all of an inch-tall gap between the storeroom door and the ground. Her forked tongue passed over her fangs, touching wood and tasting dust. At last, she saw the shadows of feet approaching. The lock rattled, and the footsteps retreated. Scant breaths later, a loud crack echoed in the dark space as a foot connected with the door, busting the old lock and splintering the doorframe.

A man poked his blade in among the stacks of linens, searching for a place a human woman might hide. He failed to notice the snake lying parallel to the threshold.

Cesira struck once, and then again, sinking her fangs into the flesh behind his knee. The man cried out, falling forward into the closet.

The black snake slithered away as the man’s legs, sticking out into the dimly lit hall, began to twitch from the poison.

“Meisha once told me Varan believed the Delve to be an outpost of Deep Shanatar,” said Kall. He looked out over the vast expanse of cavern. “I suppose this confirms it.”

But the dwarf shook his head. “This is Deep Shanatar, lad.”

Kall lifted an eyebrow. “I don’t believe your memory for maps has failed you,” he said. “So I don’t have to remind you that we are not where Deep Shanatar should be.”

“Who says so?” argued Garavin. “I’m telling ye—and having studied far longer than ye’ve been alive, I should know—we’re in Shanatar, and I’m guessing a part of it that’s never been known. An outpost, maybe, but a grander one I’ve never seen.”

“Kept a secret, even from Iltkazar?” Kall asked, naming heretofore the only known surviving kingdom of Deep Shanatar. Garavin had told him stories of the place long ago. “Why does one build a secret outpost?” he asked. “Unless they’re doing something other folk might not approve of?” Garavin looked at him. “Yer point?”

“You dig strongholds for people who have secrets or who want to protect knowledge. Is it possible the dwarves did the same here, with magic? Did the Howlings, and by extension, Varan, stumble upon that work?”

“If they did, it was all tainted by the Howlings’ greed when they turned to Abbathor.” Garavin said, shaking his head sadly.

“Why are Abbathor and Dumathoin fighting over such a small group of souls?” Kall asked.

“Because the Howlings are fighting,” Garavin replied. “These gods of the Morndin Samman, our pantheon, are forever locked in struggle. The Howlings are olorns, stories that become symbols. Whichever side wins in this will gain more than souls.”

“They gain a victory in lore,” said Kall, understanding. “Your stories will reflect the redemption of the Howlings from their greed. Dumathoin’s power grows.”

“And his children would rejoice,” said Garavin.

“Are the Howlings powerless in this? If they seek redemption, why do they not renounce Abbathor and ask Dumathoin’s forgiveness?”

“Because they made a pact with the god of greed and accepted his blessings and aid. That gives Abbathor power over the Howlings that isn’t easy to forsake. Dumathoin can only intervene so far as to hold them between life and death. For the rest, they must atone.”

“But Meisha’s master disrupted that process,” said Kall. “So her message—the dwarf’s warning—was also a cry for help.”

“Issued to one who might carry and keep a dangerous secret,” Garavin affirmed, “and risk everything for the sake of a friend. Meisha was wise to seek ye out.”

Kall did not voice his doubts on that score. “And do you think it’s a coincidence that I count among my friends a devout servant of Dumathoin?” he asked instead.

Garavin smiled. “Little in this world is a coincidence, lad.” He nodded up and down the abyss. “Which door?”

“I don’t think it matters,” said Kall, “but whichever we choose, we can’t lose track of these doors.” He looked back at the open portal. “That’s our way back to the surface.”

“The Shadow Thieves are sure to block it,” Garavin pointed out. “If they haven’t already. Might be we’ll have to find a different exit.”

Kall didn’t need to tell the dwarf how monumental a task that would be. Their odds of surviving long enough to collect the others and find the way out seemed slim indeed at the moment.

“We could call out,” he said finally, “from the bridge. The echo will carry down at least a dozen of these tunnels. If they’re nearby, one of them might hear us.”

“As could any number of beasties foraging in the tunnels,” Garavin said.

Kall nodded. “Better to encounter them in the open than a bottleneck in a tunnel, where traps may be waiting to spring.”

“Agreed,” said the dwarf. He drew his maul out and cradled it in both hands.

Kall strode to the center of the bridge. His bootsteps echoed in the vast chamber.

Thousands of feet must have trodden these bridges, Kall reflected, a testament to the forgotten legacy of the dwarves, and far grander than all the merchants of Amn above. The enormity of such a lost existence humbled Kall.

He raised a hand to the side of his mouth. “Meisha!” he shouted. The Harper’s name carried far down the cavern in either direction. “Laerin! Morgan!”

He shouted until his lungs ached. Nothing stirred in the vastness.

Kall turned back to Garavin, seeking a new suggestion, when Borl began to bark furiously. The dog pushed his head between the stone slats of the bridge.

Kall looked down. Thirty feet below, Talal ran from a tunnel in the opposite wall onto a bridge, so fast and stumbling so much that he nearly toppled over the edge. Sheer luck kept him upright as he plowed across.

“Morgan!” Kall yelled as the tall man came out behind Talal. “Up here!”

Neither slowed. Morgan flung his head back and hollered, “Stay there!” Spinning, he flung a dagger at the tunnel mouth. The throw broke his stride, and the normally graceful thief fell sprawling on the bridge.

Kall saw Morgan’s dagger stick to the hilt, and his eyes traveled upward in horror to see the demon. The beast stalked onto the bridge, his four legs spread to block any possible retreat. Blood ran from his mouth all the way to the stone. Crouching down, the demon leaped into the air, springing toward Morgan.

The Howlings’ penance—Meisha’s beast, with blood-soaked claws—and Kall’s friend, lying helpless on the bridge without Laerin to back him up.

“No! Gods of stone damn you!” Kall shouted. He vaulted over the rail and dropped, curling his body and praying he could hit the beast in mid-spring. If nothing else, he would take the demon over the side with him.

They collided in the air. Kall felt the heat, the blast of brimstone, before he even touched the demon’s hide. He landed flat on the beast’s back, surprising him and driving him aside of his intended target. The demon’s claws raked for balance; his hindquarters fishtailed back and forth on the bridge, trying to shake Kall off.

Kall felt blood on his hands. They were covered with small wounds ripped open on the spines sprouting from the demon’s back. And he burned. He felt slick blisters form on his palms and remembered the sickening smell of his campfire burns. If the nerves in his hands hadn’t been dulled, he wouldn’t have been able to withstand the pain.

The demon reared onto his hind legs. Kall slid off his back to the walkway. He no longer needed to worry about taking the attention off Morgan. The demon’s smoldering, malevolent gaze was firmly fixed on Kall. The beast lunged at him, his claws poised to rake whatever exposed flesh they could find.

Kall had no space to maneuver or dodge on the bridge. Without really considering it, he jumped over the rail and off the bridge, plunging straight down again. Reaching out, he caught the bridge’s stone ledge. The sudden, snapping weight jarred his shoulder, nearly wrenching it from its socket. Kall gritted his teeth and reached up with his other hand.

The demon hit the bridge where Kall had stood and turned, coming back for another attack.

In his peripheral vision Kall saw Morgan on his feet, climbing a rope Garavin had tied onto the upper walkway. The dwarf fired his crossbow at the demon. Dangling from the rope, Morgan threw another dagger.

The demon hardly seemed to feel the stings. The beast shook out his long, red mane and stalked Kall. Up close, Kall could see a fresh piercing wound had rent his abdomen, but the maimed socket where his eye had once been was an old wound. Hatred emanated from the orb that still functioned. Kall felt it as a creeping fear that worked its way up his spine, threatening to paralyze him.

The beast was playing with him, trying to shake him loose from his perch without an effort. Blood dripped from his fangs onto Kall’s face. When Kall didn’t move, the beast stepped back, and a veil of darkness descended around them.

Agony exploded in Kall’s injured hands. Sickeningly, he realized the demon had sunk his jaws into the backs of them.

With a shout of pain, Kall let go, and found to his horror that his hands were impaled, tangled in the thing’s mouth. Curling his legs, Kall kicked out against the bridge, away from the demon’s face. The demon’s hot breath was a furnace of filth and rot. He pulled his hands free, and then he was falling.

He passed out of the globe of darkness in time to see a shower of magical bolts streak above him, into the sphere. Kall prayed the magic came from Dantane, that the wizard would be able to save the others.

He looked beneath him, but all the bridges were out of reach. He plummeted past the last one and down into another, greater darkness. His vision failed as the light from above faded. His ears filled with rushing air, then suddenly, nothing. His descent came to an abrupt halt.

Kall waited for his bones to shatter against the stone. His chin struck his chest, mashing his tongue between his teeth, but other than that small pain, he felt whole.

Groaning, Kall rolled to his stomach. A wave of vertigo swept over him as he realized he was staring into the bottomless chasm, suspended by some invisible string. Pumping his legs, he felt the fly spell propel him upward.

Dantane, he thought, or Meisha. Could it be she survived? Trepidation warred with giddy relief that the Harper might still be alive.

Kall put his boot against the cavern wall and pushed off, hurling himself back to the battle.

When he emerged into the light, his suspicion was confirmed. Meisha and Dantane stood on the bridge with Talal between them. Meisha saw Kall coming and motioned to the demon, which stalked cautiously down the walkway toward the group. The globe of darkness had gone, and Dantane continued to hurl spells, but the demon kept coming, measuring the wizard’s strength.

Kall flew up from beneath, his sword leading. He slashed along the demons flank and kept going, up out of his reach. On the bridge, the advantage was temporarily theirs. As long as they could stay out of the demon’s reach and resist his aura, they could fight. If he managed to herd them back into the tunnels, they were mice in the snake hole.

A massive, clawed paw struck out at Kall’s face. He flipped over backward and came from beneath with his blade out straight. He stabbed for the demons chest, but he dodged away.

Kall pulled out of the roll and floundered, losing precious time as he righted himself. His grasp of the flight spell was tenuous at best. He took a claw to his shoulder for his mistake, a wound that burned down the length of his arm.

Kall circled under the bridge and came up in a burst of speed, hoping for surprise, but the demon was gone. Weary of the wizard pricking at him, the beast chose to charge down the bridge to the spellcasters and Talal.

Dantane threw out a hand as though to ward off an attack. In response, a wall of thick stone sprouted from the bridge, growing like a blunt spike to intercept the demon’s charge. The demon slammed into the wall, shaking the entire bridge, but the spell held firm.

“The rope!” Kall yelled up to Garavin. He grabbed the dangling end and flew over the wall. The demon continued to pound and claw against the barrier. He would wear it down quickly, Kall knew.

He floated down, putting the rope in Talal’s hands as Garavin retied it from above. Meisha flew beside him, helping the boy scramble to the relative safety of the upper bridge.

“He’s breaking through,” said Dantane. The wizard weaved on his feet, drained by the force of all the released Art.

“You have to keep him on the bridge,” said a new voice.

Kall reacted instantly. He swung his sword with all his strength.

Aazen’s blade caught it. Steel sang loudly in the cavern.

Kall cursed. Now they were pinned from both sides.

Aazen lowered his weapon, motioning the man behind him to stay back. “I’m not going to kill you at the moment, Kall,” he said.

“A pleasant fact to know,” Kall remarked, keeping his sword raised.

“At least not until the demon is dead. Get to the other bridge,” Aazen said, addressing his man.

“No. Over there.” Kall pointed to the closest walkway below, well out of range of his friends above.

Aazen nodded, and the thief tossed a grappling hook out over the chasm. Aazen remained with Kall and Dantane.

“I will guard the wizard,” he offered.

This elicited a sardonic laugh from Kall. “How generous of you.”

Aazen waved a hand impatiently. “We have no time to argue. Fly and work that sword while you have the opportunity.”

“He’s right,” said Dantane unexpectedly. “Go.”

Kall shook his head. “Don’t trust him.”

“I do not,” Dantane snapped. “I’m not as blind as you. But he has it aright. Go, while you can.”

Kall’s gaze remained on Aazen, silently promising what would happen if he betrayed them. He stepped off the walkway, allowing himself to float in the air. He turned, flying toward the disintegrating wall.

He landed on the top in a skid. Using the spell to aid his balance, Kall slid down the opposite side. He brought his sword down vertically just as the demon came at the wall again. This time the demon couldn’t dodge, and his blade sheared into the beast’s ribs. Kall twisted aside, expecting an immediate retaliation, but the demon fell back, surprised, favoring his side.

Kall pressed, stabbing him in the haunch, anywhere he could reach, using his sword as leverage to propel himself back into flight.

Recovering, the demon followed and struck out, snagging Kall’s leg with a massive claw. The demon dragged him back down to the ground. Kall felt the claws penetrate his boots, burning, adding to his other wounds.

Not enough, Kall thought as he felt himself rolled onto his stomach, his arms trapped beneath his body. He would run out of fight—they all would—long before the demon was finished.

“Keeper of knowledge—sever the link.”

Garavin turned from the battle at the sound of the voice, compelled by a force impossible to resist.

The ghost of one of the long-dead Howlings stood before him, spilling silver light from the sockets of his vacant eyes. Garavin looked involuntarily at the light, and the symbol at his throat began to burn. He heard the voices of the others, screaming at Kall, screaming for Garavin to help him, but the dwarf stood frozen. Couldn’t they see him? Even Borl wasn’t reacting. How could they not see?

“Dumathoin,” Garavin spoke, in a voice rigid with awe. He slid to his knees. “Lord Under Mountain, we cannot defeat the demon. Aid us, please.”

The god’s essence spoke through the ghost. “Secret keeper, call to him.” The avatar reached out to touch his forehead. “Show him.”

Tears spilled from Garavin’s eyes, hissing as they touched Dumathoin’s holy symbol. He felt the power grow inside him, and he knew what form it would have to take. “I understand, Lord Under Mountain. I obey.”

Kall felt Dantane’s energy spells reverberate through the demon’s claw, knocking the beast off balance. Whether it had any effect other than to incense the creature, Kall didn’t know, but he used the distraction to crawl out from under the demons bloody paw and free his sword. Gripping the blade, he realized the vibration wasn’t coming from the demon.

The magic came from his sword.

No more than a tremor at first, the sensation grew, until Kall had to hold the weapon with both hands. The empty space where the Morel emerald had been was filled with a silver light that outlined the blade. Accompanying the light, the vibrating hum sounded like music. Then he heard, within the song, Garavin’s voice.

“Banish the demon, Kall.”

The dwarf’s voice pierced his temples. Kall shook his head to clear it and to deny him. “You have to get out of here, back through the portal. If we stay, he’ll slaughter us all,” he said.

“Listen to me, lad.” Garavin’s voice shook him, unrelenting. “Ye can wound the thing a thousand times, but his link to this world has to be severed. He’s holding onto it desperately. As long as he’s sure it’s safe, he can kill us all at his leisure. By Dumathoin’s will, Kall.”

“Kall!” This time it was Meisha, shouting to him from the bridge. “The eye, Kall! The empty eye!” the Harper cried.

Kall swung his sword around. It seemed to have grown heavier with the weight of Garavin’s voice coursing through the blade. He flew into the demon’s path, angling to its left. The jarilith didn’t need eyes to find him, but the beast turned anyway, running alongside Kall, using the points of his spines as defensive weapons.

Kall pulled back, sucking in his gut. He didn’t trust his armor to hold, and wasn’t surprised when he heard cloth and chain rip. His cloak, caught against his flank, tore into two ragged slits.

My hands are already ruined, Kall thought, so …

Reaching out, Kall grabbed a handful of red and black mane and pulled, hoping to wrench the beasts head around.

He might as well have tried to turn a statue’s head.

The demon jumped straight up, pulling Kall with him. His grip shaken, Kall fell onto his back on the walkway. He managed to hold onto his sword, but the weapon still vibrated painfully in his hands. Its guard wedged against the stone bridge, allowing him to see the silver light clearly. Movement reflected within it like a mirror, showing the demon as he turned and jumped again, intending to finish his prey while he was out of the air.

Bringing his arms and legs in close to his body, Kall swung the humming blade around until the demon filled the reflective surface, and all he could feel was heat, a great waterfall of it coming down on him. The blade’s edge crossed his center of vision then thrust back, deep into the demon’s empty socket.

His sword ripped out of his grasp, and the last thing Kall heard before the fire buried him was the demon’s roar, a scream that sounded almost human.

Varan screamed, clawing at the punctured eyeball. He tore it out of its socket and cast it aside. The Shadow Thief guarding him skittered back a step in revulsion.

Crying, the wizard flopped onto his back. His breath hissed erratically in and out of his lungs. Blood that was not his own ran from his ruined eye socket. After a moment, he raised his hands to wipe the moisture away—blood from one eye, tears from the other. He began to laugh, a relieved, hysterical sound that echoed through the caves and brought the other thieves running.

“What happened?” asked Geroll.

“Don’t know,” said the guard, taking another step back just to be safe. “He just started screaming, then pulled out his own eye. Crazy bastard looks almost happy about it.”