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Unwilling to Acquiesce – Part 25


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#1 Guest_No One of Consequence_*

Posted 24 June 2003 - 06:21 AM

“Well, they’re eating it,” says Yoshimo quietly, returning from the rough hewn pit where the umber hulks are now eating the dog stew. He wipes his sweaty hands on his vest, screwing up his face as he does so. “It feels as though I might never get rid of this smell.”

“Not by wiping it on your clothes you won’t,” comments Jaheira.

“Let us hope that they remain distracted with eating for some time,” says Anomen.

“We’ll deal with the hulks later,” says Adamant. “For now, our priority is rescuing Nalia’s father.” Everyone nods in agreement with this sentiment, but behind their eyes is the unspoken fear that they are almost certainly too late; it has taken them too long just to come this far.

“I’ve checked all the other cellars,” says Nalia. “There’s only one place left that they could have taken him, that’s the family crypts.”

“Ominous,” Yoshi says, not thinking what he’s saying. Jaheira, Adamant and Anomen all glare at him, delivering unspoken rebukes. He shrugs in apology as he realises the insensitivity of his comments.

“Show us the way to the crypts,” Adamant orders Nalia. With downcast eyes, she leads the party through a storeroom, past the castle’s root cellar and rows of broken wine racks. Clearly the castle’s invaders have been living high on the pleasures of the De’Arnise family cellar. At last they come to an iron bound door set in a wall of natural stone. A heavy brass handle, ornately cast in the likeness of a eagle with its wings spread wide, is set into the middle of the door. There are deep grooves in the metal, under one of the wings and the metal in the grooves is bright and shiny; it appears that someone has recently tried to prise the knocker off the door but failed in the attempt.

Nalia runs her fingers over the elegant metal wings. Now that she stands on the threshold, a fear grips her. She does not wish to open the door, for beyond are the creatures who have imprisoned and tortured her father and in all likelihood, her father’s dead body. He might be alive yet, but probably isn’t; however, while the door is not yet open, she doesn’t know for certain. While the door is still closed, her father is still alive. Fear of the future clutches her in a velvet covered grip of fear and unrealised dread. She would rescue her father but cannot escape the lateness of the hour.

Nalia is thankful that her new friends are here with her, for their business like approach breaks her away from the grip of fear. With practiced competence they prepare for the battle that lies beyond the door.

“Ready yourself,” commands Adamant, routinely checking the straps of his armour and the condition of the Chaos Blade’s hilt. He knows what every soldier knows, that the fear of possibility can paralyse inexperienced warriors on the threshold of battle. At times like this the best leaders are firm and resolute, giving orders to keep soldiers busy, to keep their minds away from fear. The technique saved Adamant many times in his early skirmishes and now he uses it to carry Nalia through this difficult time.

Yoshimo resets his bowstring and checks that the flametip arrows are readily available in his quiver. There is the sound of spell casting from both Anomen and Jaheira. Anomen’s invocation of his god’s blessing suddenly cloaks them all in a mystic radiance. Jaheira completes her spell and her skin wrinkles and hardens. At first it looks as though she is aging suddenly, but the process continues much further than age could ever go and soon her flesh has the roughened texture of tree bark.

“I can do one better,” says Nalia and she intones a rapid spell. For a moment it seems as if the flagstones have reached upward and swallowed her in a cocoon of stone. Then the rock falls away and a statue of Nalia remains, its perfectly formed skin more subtly carved than any mortal hand could frame. The statue opens its granite eyelids and Nalia’s pretty eyes look out; as Jaheira’s skin has turned to bark, so Nalia’s has changed to stone. She too checks her bow and arrows.

“Are we ready?” asks Adamant. Everyone nods. “The let’s go.”

Anomen and Adamant stand next to one another at the door, with Jaheira between and behind them. With a heave, the two men push the door open and the three warriors charge into the crypt. They move in swiftly, forming a rough line several paces inside the doorway. Behind them come Yoshi and Nalia, one with bow drawn, the other ready with her magic.

The crypt vault is a high arched chamber cut from the native stone. It is close to fifty paces long and twenty wide. Tombs line the walls, their stone covers carved with the names and epitaphs of Nalia’s ancestors. Some of the covers have been smashed, stone fragments lying on the floor, amidst the bones that had been resting within. At the far end of the crypt can be seen the defilers of the site’s sanctity. Two heavy set, green skinned trolls, led by a third, monstrous member of their race, apparently their leader. On the floor at their feet lies the body of a dead man; by the colour of his hair, it is probably Nalia’s father. The three monsters absently kick at the body as they argue over something.

“We never find flaily now,” says one.

“We find it or master kill us,” contends another.

“No,” says the big one. “Master kills you, ‘cause you killed the ‘ooman lord’! Torgal not take the blame!” The three beasts seem about to come to blows when Nalia’s voice rings across the chamber.

“Who is this master you all refer to? Why does he send you to plague my family? Who are we to him?” Seeing her father dead has steeled Nalia in a way she never expected it to. Though this is the sight that she has feared for weeks, now that it is upon her she finds a kind of dark relief and a space to feel another emotion, furious anger. The trolls turn at her question and surprise plays across their faces.

“Oo ‘re you?” asks the biggest one, Torgal, echoing Nalia’s question. “What you doing ‘ere?”

“We want to know who this master of yours is,” says Yoshimo.

“Then we will kill you,” says Anomen tersely, a barely restrained fury unmistakable in his tone. “And him.”

“You not kill Torgal,” declares the mighty troll, thumping himself upon the chest proudly. “Me kill you. Then take you to master and you’ll see oo ‘e is!” The other two trolls with Torgal are a little puzzled by this statement.

“Ow can dey know oo da master is if dey’s dead from us killing ‘em?” asks one, scratching his head.

“Shut up!” orders Torgal, cuffing the dissenter. “Get ‘em lads!”

The three trolls charge forward, taloned hands flailing in monstrous hate. The smell of their hideous flesh and breath surges with them in a surprising tide of befouled air. Nonetheless, the companions are ready for this battle and the trolls charge into a crashing wave of battle. With deft fingers, Yoshi plucks and looses shaft after flaming shaft at the charging beasts. Nalia too sends flame to the monsters, magically launching her ball of fire spell at their feet. The pumpkin sized orb explodes in an earshattering conflagration, which leaves all three trolls burning, but they charge on regardless. Standing next to Adamant, Anomen cries out to his god.

“Great Helm, let the defiled dead avenge themselves,” he calls. Even as his words still echo through the chamber, the scattered bones of the De’Arnise ancestors gather together and knit themselves again, forming whole skeletons. The fleshless fingers take up rusted maces, daggers and shields; the honour weapons with which they were buried. Animated, though not alive, by the intervention of divine power, Nalia’s ancestors move with jerks and awkward steps to engage the trolls in battle. The animated bones break easily under the powerful blows of the long limbed trolls, but they feel no pain, nor fear and their presence slows the trolls somewhat.

With a wordless cry, Adamant and Jaheira charge forward and join the skeletons in assaulting the green skinned invaders. Anomen is with them in a moment, while Nalia and Yoshi fire arrows over their comrades’ heads. The trolls fight wildly, relying on their ferocious strength. They give no thought to defensive techniques however, trusting as always to their supernatural powers of healing to protect them from permanent injury. But in this battle they are more heavily beset than usual and the wounds suffered from flame will not heal. The trolls do much damage, scoring brutal hits against all three of the companions in hand-to-hand combat, as well as sending all of the risen dead back to their graves, but in the end even the mighty Torgal goes down.

In the silence after the battle there is a crackling sound as Jaheira’s skin returns to normal. Covered in the gore of combat, she and Anomen tend to each other’s wounds, and Adamant’s as well. Adamant manages a smile which seems somehow too grim with all the troll blood covering his armour. From the far end of the crypt comes a loud gasp of anguish. All turn to see Nalia kneeling at her father’s side, her hands gently stroking his broken form.

“Oh father,” she whispers. “I’m so sorry. I was too late.” Soft tears run down her face, tears of one too tired of sadness to wail any longer; the tears of deep mourning.

“He died as he lived, my lady,” says Anomen, standing at her side. “Defending his family and his honour.” He places an object on the dead Lord De’Arnise’ chest, a solid piece of blue coloured metal; a flail head. “It seems that Torgal had tortured him into revealing the location of one piece of your family’s heirloom. He resisted though, even to death, rather than reveal the other locations.”

“My family’s heirloom?” Nalia takes up the heavy flail head, examining it sadly. “It’s just a thing! What do I want with this thing? It cost me my father!” She pulls her hand back so as to throw the flail head away, but Adamant catches her arm before she is able.

“Do not disdain your heritage,” he urges. “Your father loved this heirloom for what it symbolised, his family. While it was safe, some part of the De’Arnise was untouchable. It was his connection to his ancestors; and it can be yours. Your connection…to him.”

Nalia’s angry expression softens and she examines the flail head again, seeing new meaning in it. She nods with a renewed resolve. “You are right,” she says. “Let’s go and reforge this with its partners. I think it would please my father’s spirit to know that the De’Arnise tradition has survived. Perhaps he will rest a little easier. And Anomen?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Will you pray a benediction for my father, that his soul might find its rest?”

Anomen nods warmly. “I would be proud to, Lady Nalia De’Arnise.”




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