Shadows stretched and loomed away from the oncoming
company and their hefted torches. The heavy, metallic scraping of armor boots
and greaves filled the air, and the dust they kicked up clung to the hundreds
of small cobwebs all around the company. The air available to them ran
dangerously low, though none yet felt the fatigue or onset of oxygen
deprivation. At the front of the group, a young Elven man, brilliant crimson
hair flowing halfway down his back and covering a healthy portion of the plate
armor, ducked his head low to avoid striking his forehead against a brick set
too low in the ceiling.
“Careful there, lads,” he said, speaking over his
shoulder to the Knights and Clerics who joined him on this expedition.
“What is this place, lord Reynaldi?” one of the
Knights, a pale Human gentleman in silver chain mail, asked from behind two or
three of the higher-ranking Knights ahead of him.
“Not entirely certain, young Townshend.” The Elf
turned to face his company.
To say that the Elven Paladin was handsome would
have come as a severe understatement, particularly to those Human women who had
fallen for his dashing appearance. His cheeks sloped along his face smoothly,
in the genetic tradition of deep forest Elves, and his eyes hosted a limpid, alluring
quality all their own. His smile shot straight and sure across his face,
slightly raising the boyish dimples that could barely be seen except by a close
observer or long-time acquaintance of the Paladin.
His silver full plate armor gleamed with polish and
lack of use, for each time Archibald Reynaldi, High Exorcist of the Order of
Oun, went into the realm of Tamalaria to perform his duties, he took with him a
completely new set of armor. Each commissioned suit had to be blessed
individually, depending upon the circumstances of his quest. After all, a set
of plate armor enchanted against vampiric powers would do him precious little
good against a Lich Lord.
For his current quest, he had received reports from
a nomadic tribe of wandering merchants, known as Wayfarers, that strange noises
had issued from the earth near a hill in the southwest. The report had been
taken by a Knight in Fort Flag, rebuilt since the time of the War of Vandross,
and summarily sent on to Fort Annassi, where Reynaldi served during the second
half of each year. The descriptions of the noises and sights led him to one
conclusion—Gheists.
Now that his party had arrived, he sensed no such
undead spirits or creatures. “Gentlemen, I am at a loss. Do any of you detect
anything sinister within this tomb?”
The Clerics, devout believers in the wisdom of Oun,
could normally detect undead spirits for miles in all directions.
“We sense nothing, my lord,” Father Flauri, one of
the Clerics, said quietly. “However, something does seem off about this place.”
“Explain, Father.” Reynaldi set his torch in a handy
bracket on the wall.
“Well, lordship, as you have just demonstrated, this
place was clearly once used by people like you and I. For what purpose, I know
not. We have not come across any rooms or corridors with anything more than
barren floors and cobwebs. Yet, something remains in this place. A spirit, or
an object, or some great power.”
“An artifact, perhaps?” asked the highest-ranking
officer, a Knight by the name of Charles Hayes, one of three sons born to James
Hayes, a member of Byron of Sidius’s entourage. “Tombs like these often hold
artifacts from another age, imbued in part with the spirits of those who last
wielded them. My father once wielded an artifact weapon of just such a nature.”
He lit a fresh torch—one of the rapidly diminishing stock. They had been
scouring the man-made structure for hours without discovering any source for
the Wayfarers’ claims.
“It is possible,” said Reynaldi. “However, all we
have yet to search is the room we could not enter. There was no handle or knob,
just a thin slot.”
“I still say you should have let me tear that door
down.” The brash young Jaft, Helios Warik had never had much use for puzzles.
This whole damned place looked and smelled like a puzzle to him.
“Now, now, Helios. You must learn the Third Guiding
Principle of the Order of Oun: ‘Patience is key, despite being difficult to
attain.’ If you ever wish to pass the trials and become a Paladin of Oun, you
must remember your lessons.” The handsome Elven man turned to lead the company
back to the door with no handle.
Small rodents and insects scurried once again at
their approach, their tiny tracks and those of the intruding exorcists the only
indications that anyone, or anything had been through this place in centuries.
Here and there, traces of former occupants could be barely detected; under an
inch-thick layer of dust, a crumbled bone. Stuck in a decaying chunk of
concrete, a strange coin of some sort, eroded to a translucent state.
Once again standing before the door with no handle
or knob, they saw another sign of some sort—a partially preserved corpse,
wrapped in rotting leather armor, rusted and ruined thief’s tools in a belt
around its waist.
At first glance, one could assume with some
certainty what had happened. A tomb raider had come down about fifty years
earlier, tried to get into the chamber beyond this slotted door, and suffered
some grizzly fate that involved a sharp blow to the head. The enormous
cleaver-shaped hole in the skull suggested nothing less.
But Archibald, returning for the third time now to
this odd door, realized that the corpse was facing away from the door. Not only
that, but no tools had been in the thief’s hands at the time of death. Instead,
a shattered short sword, still relatively unfazed by the ravages of time, lay
just outside of its grasp. The sword appeared to be mythril, a very sturdy and
lightweight material that could withstand any amount of time. However, only a
few other metals in all of Tamalaria, or elsewhere, could destroy mythril.
Whoever had access to that sort of weapon had intruded, and this corpse had
failed to guard the door.
“My lord, you may want to take a look at this,” said
Father Flauri.
Reynaldi turned away from the corpse to see what the
Cleric wanted.
The older Human gentleman swiped at a set of letters
etched into the stone with a small brush, one that Father Flauri kept for these
expeditions into the ruins of a time gone past. Always, always, always,
he would think as he prepared for the journey, there’s some set of vital
information carved into a stone or a piece of wood, and nobody will find it
except for me, because nobody thinks to bring a small brush for just such a
situation! “These markings are an old language of some sort, clearly used
by the former inhabitants of this stronghold. With a little time and Father
Revas’s help, we may be able to decipher this message.” He looked into
Reynaldi’s eyes.
Ye gods, Flauri thought. He’s already approved. Such a
patient man. “It may even have something to do with how to open this door.”
“Do it.” Reynaldi moved away, setting yet another
torch in a wall bracket. “All right everybody, let’s take a quick count of how
many torches we have left.”
Everyone in the company settled in, seating themselves
along the corridor walls and taking a look at their supplies.
“We have six torches, my lord.” Charles Hayes
delivered the report to their leader.
The faint whisperings of the Clerics behind him gave
Hayes pause, but he continued on with his report. He felt a drop of sweat
running down his forehead, and his lungs began to slightly cramp. “We are most
likely running out of fresh air, my lord. We shall have to abandon this place
soon if we make no discovery, my lord.”
Reynaldi looked up at the corridor ceiling some ten
feet over his head.
“I know, Charley, I know. My chest is starting to
hurt, too.” He lowered his gaze to find his armored hands, clenching them into
fists. “But you heard Father Flauri. There’s something down here, something
that doesn’t sit well with him. I trust his instincts, Charley.”
“As do I, my lord, but we are low on torches, food,
water, and air. We have a few hours, that’s—” Hayes never got the chance to
finish his objection. A loud, grinding, clattering noise swept out from the
Clerics, who presently tore at a section of the concrete wall with their
metal-tipped staffs.
“Here, lordship,” Flauri cried over the din of his
own efforts. “The trigger to open the door is behind this section of wall.”
Helios Warik smiled wickedly at his commander.
Reynaldi nodded and rolled his left hand in a ‘go
ahead’ motion.
The Jaft Knight calmly placed a hand on each
Cleric’s shoulder, moving them easily aside. Warik cracked his neck, the sound
of popping bones filling the air like rapid drum roll beats. A moment later, as
his right hand crashed into the wall panel that Father Flauri had identified.
The stench of concrete dust mixed with the acrid
aroma of his Jaft flesh to give everyone a vague feeling of nausea. He’d
removed his glove to throw the killer blow, a technique he’d learned years
before joining the Order, and his odor had been released with the removal of
the glove. Lord Reynaldi respected his skills, but found his odor too offensive
for words. The enchanted glove had been an effective measure to keep him along.
Still, Reynaldi thought as he peered at the red lever
behind the hole in the wall, he has his uses.
Grasping the handle, the Elven Paladin pulled it
toward himself. To his surprise, the handle came easily enough. The door that
previously could not be opened slowly began to slide into the wall to its left.
Shortly thereafter, the grinding of stone on stone ceased and the entire
stronghold sat silent.
Archibald Reynaldi stepped over to the doorway and
peered into the hollow chamber beyond.
In the middle of the chamber, an altar sat in a
depression in the floor.
There appeared to be no guards, no traps, but the
Elven Paladin knew better than to walk in blindly. “Father Flauri, do you sense
any magic protections here?” His eyes fell on the object atop the altar. It
appeared to be a simple glove, constructed partially of leather and partially
of metal. But he knew it could be no ordinary glove to be so heavily guarded,
and to remain intact after decades or centuries.
“No, lordship,” the Human Cleric whispered next to
him. “I sense no magic, or spirits here. There is, however, something coming
from that glove. It is an artifact, of that there is no doubt, but its intended
uses, its powers and abilities, are presently beyond my ken. I would have to
get closer to it to identify it.”
“Your knowledge of artifacts is well appreciated,
Father.” Reynaldi inched into the chamber. He held his hand behind him to stay
his allies in their position. The room had been checked by the old Cleric, but
if there were a problem, he would not sacrifice those in his command. “Stay
well back, gentlemen, until the nature of this object is known.”
Finally, he stood before the strange glove, and
sensed what it must be.
A small smile of triumph worked its way across his
face as he snatched the glove off of the pedestal, and placed it swiftly in his
rucksack.
Smiling to himself, Archibald Reynaldi returned to
the doorway and his waiting crew.
“What is it?” Father Flauri’s voice was a
reverential whisper.
The Elven Paladin looked down into the cleric’s
wizened face, and leaned forward slightly, speaking in a whisper of his own.
“Good father, what we have found here this day shall
be taken to a safe place, until I find a way to destroy it.”
Flauri eyeballed him quizzically for a long moment.
“Father Flauri, we have found the Glove of Shadows!”
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