Fallen Legacy

Sweat poured down every slave's face; they were terribly gaunt and emaciated, whatever was left of their attire when they had been first captured was not fit to clothe the poorest beggar now. Many suffered burns to the feet from the searing rock floor, their footwear having been taken by their cruel overseers. Each slave was the epitome of misery; they worked mindlessly, hacking at walls in the desperate hope of discovering a new vein of valuable ore, all shreds of defiance and self-will long since ground to dust from months of similarly hard work and brutal beatings. While they had learned to ignore the searing heat, they still flinched from the crack of the whip, which lashed about at random regardless of the quality of work being done.

Survival in the service of such callous masters was a bleak uncertainty. Lumbering trolls two heads taller than the average man and lanky, lithe gray goblins watched over the smattering of slaves like hawks, armed with whips and cudgels to remind their miserable pawns who was in charge. The overseers gained a vile sort of sadistic pleasure from inflicting pain on the slaves, often whipping them just to hear a scream. Sometimes a slave fell from the blow, his final reserves of strength exhausted, and a horde of goblins would proceed to beat him to a bloody pulp with their cudgels as punishment for 'laziness'. As if the overseers had had nothing to do with the slaves' overwhelming fatigue in the first place. Lack of food and rest meant the dwindling of strength, but the goblin and troll slave drivers would accept no excuse, heedlessly striking out with extreme prejudice and brutality.

Tyball was not concerned in the least about the condition of his labour force. He saw them as mere pawns on a chessboard, expendable for the greater objective in sight. Watching from a high ledge, Tyball smiled coldly at the cacophony of pickaxes striking rock and whips striking flesh. It was all part of progress. His eyes glowed with a tint of red, and it wasn't a reflection of the fires below.

The fools below were mining for orb rock, although they did not know its purpose. Better they did not. That substance would be vital for his plans down here. The demon known as the Slasher of Veils had been summoned and now resided at the core of the volcano, temporarily bound and trapped. The impregnable giant doors to the Chamber of Virtue would hold for a while yet, although when the demon eventually broke his bonds, not even they would hinder his escape. It had been a miracle the creature had not broken free and caused devastation during the actual summoning itself, especially when Garamon had interfered. Being the benevolent altruistic brother he was, he naturally proved to be a bothersome pest bent on unravelling everything he had worked so hard to achieve to this point.

Well, he was actually more than a bothersome pest. He was equal in power to Tyball, if not more so, though it irked him to admit this even to himself. Fortunately, Garamon now lay in Tyball's quarters, which had formerly been the quarters of that virtuous fool Sir Cabirus, quite incapacitated. He wondered what course of action he should take pertaining to his brother when a goblin interrupted.

Boragosh was the contemptible creature's name, an arrogant gray who believed he would gain more in Tyball's service than Tyball ever intended to give. As Captain of the Guard, he wore a medallion around his neck, green and etched with a leering skull with two swords crossing blades in the background.

"Milord," the goblin croaked in an accent that vaguely annoyed the red robed mage. "Outpost report. A band of knights attacked but an hour ago. We repulsed them utterly, and now three of their number are our prisoners!" The goblin seemed excited by this achievement. Tyball merely snorted. Slightly nonplussed, Boragosh continued after several uneasy moments of silence, "Two survivors escaped to flee to the above levels. They have sought refuge in the domain of the magic-users, where we dare not tread."

Tyball sighed, although it came out as a hideous rasp. Boragosh started, red cat's eyes widening fearfully as the mage turned to face him. A smile was on his face. A smile that was devoid of all mirth. Briefly Tyball considered killing the fool as an example to his fellows to maintain a superior vigil next time, but then decided against it. The defences of his domain were not fully completed yet, and neither was the dungeon. They would not be constructed for quite some time. He needed every lackey he could spare should the pestilent knights mount another assault.

The seers themselves on the level above would not interfere; they were somewhat occupied with holding their own domain against the likes of Vilus and the rampaging beasts that had desecrated their precious Academy. He wondered whether the doddering old fools would be driven to violence against him had they know it was he who had had a hand in summoning the myriad of monsters that had made the Academy their new home. Once enough orb rock had been gathered, Tyball could begin the next phase of his plan, which would render all Seers powerless to stop him and give him the magical energy he needed to see his machinations come to fruition.

There was so much to do and so little time to do it all in. Briskly, he drew out a book from a hidden pocket called, 'Dungeon Design and Construction', whistling a perverted version of 'Stones' with an undeniably more malevolent tune to it as he flicked through the yellowed pages that were sketched with drawings of the finest dungeons ever created. Once his dungeon was completed, no prisoners would escape. He was fortunate that the legends of the ancient tombs drew enough unsuspecting treasure-seeking fools into his midst, otherwise he might not have nay prisoners, and on prisoners meant no one to mine the materials he so desperately needed. He was roughly aware of the location of the ancient dwarven tombs, and his magically honed senses could detect a darker presence lurking within those sealed off corridors, powerful and loathing of all things that lived. He would have to investigate that later, when he had the time.

Pocketing the book, Tyball returned his piercing fiery-eyed gaze to Boragosh, the goblin anxiously bowing his head in penitence, apprehensive.

"Good work, Captain." Tyball said, although he smiled no longer. "Put the newfound prisoners to work in the mines. Fresh, strong backs means a faster payload of mining dividends. Also, why don't you make yourself useful and select a 'volunteer' from our current ragged stock of slaves for a session in the experimentation chambers?"

"Yes, milord mage!" Boragosh said all too quickly and strode off into the midst of the mine, keen on making as much distance between himself and the vicinity of Tyball as possible.

Tyball no longer concerned himself with Boragosh's reservations. He was eagerly anticipating another session in the experimentation chambers, where he would test his already abundant powers on a hapless 'volunteer'. How he enjoyed twisting them with his potent magic, torturing them, transforming them, reshaping them like soft clay. He would relish the screams, as he always did.

Sir Nolan himself had once been a noble Knight of the Order Crux Ansata, the guardians of the Colony of the Abyss, and had earned the rightful reputation of a warrior who strictly adhered to the Eight Virtues and vehemently upheld Justice, Valour, and Honour. But in the post days of Sir Cabirus's tragic death, which had only served to worsen the discord and in-fighting between the colonists, the Abyss had plunged into corruption, and Sir Nolan had seemingly plunged with it. He forswore all fealty to the Virtues, the very foundation of the Abyssal Colony and, more importantly, of Britannia, to leave on his own quest for avarice and immorality. His decadence had begun insidiously at first, furtively thieving possessions of others that he so coveted and becoming brusque in manner, even to his fellow knights! With this degradation of moral values festered arrogance and contempt for all others, dragging on for months to the point where he actually had begun to openly accost others for their items and scarce wealth. The young aspiring Endicott, boisterous and full of life despite the collapse of the colony around him, a boy with such great potential, had caught him in the act of murdering another and valiantly engaged him in combat. Alas, Nolan's vastly superior years of experience outmatched Endicott's by volumes, and he had slain the lad in cold blood.

It was then that Nolan was ostracized from the Order, knights being dispatched to hunt down the fleeing renegade. And hunt him down they did. The very knights who had slain him were the ones conducting the funeral procession right now, solemnly watching as a message was engraved above the door by one of their number, Kyle: 'He murdered the young Endicott in cold blood.'

Vitalar could still hear the maddened ranting of the fugitive as they cornered him and prepared to deliver the final justice of death.

"Fools! Thou art all fools!" Nolan had cried as he lashed out at his hunters like a savage caged animal. "Fools to uphold the Virtues! Fools to settle in this forsaken pit of all places! Fools to pool together all the races with all the reason to hate each other! Thou hast made thyselves a rattrap from which thou canst not escape! We shall stew, the races shall, oh, they shall, succumbing to the evils of the Abyss as I have! 'Tis inevitable! No Virtues can save thee here! The Virtues are meaningless now!" It had been Vitalar who had delivered the maiming blow, slicing the madman's belly and sending him to the ground. When Nolan had looked up to see Vitalar raise his sword to end his wretched life, the man had actually smiled and ceased his ranting, tranquility relaxing his ragged visage and welcoming what was to come. "Thou dost grant me mercy by slaying me. 'Twould be best if thou didst likewise to thyselves." A single thrust in the chest had silenced the man forever.

The memory was still bitter, and rightfully so, for it was only several hours old. Some said that the Abyss itself worked to degrade the quality of a man's character, although Sir Cabirus had regarded this as sheer superstition. Vitalar was beginning to wonder whether the dark rumours of the Abyss's more sinister nature held credence after all.

Five of them stood there in the small rough-hewn walled chamber, illuminated by a spell of light. Dorna Ironfist, esteemed leader of the Order, Kyle, Cecil, the seer Milius, and Vitalar himself. In the hours following Nolan's death, they had dragged his corpse through the narrow winding tunnels to this insular chamber and hastily buried him, leaving only a gold coffer with his few remaining possessions (probably thieved from some other poor soul) behind his gravestone. He deserved that much honour at least.

Dorna assumed position before the steel door, in front of the small party. His eyes were teetering on the edge of despondency, his weathered, bearded face a grim mask that divulged nothing but the dismal tale of the falling of the once proud Abyssal Colony.

"So Justice has been served to one who was honourless." he said, voice taut with solemnity. "And Justice has been done in the memory of Endicott, whose ever-smiling countenance we shall not forget."

How ominously reminiscent this scene was of Sir Cabirus's own funeral, held more than a year ago in the tombs to the north on this very level. That day had been a mournful one, for Cabirus was truly the driving force that inspired the colonists to progress as a united whole. His death had been untimely -- and had heralded a new period of civil war and strife in the Abyss. Old prejudices that had been suppressed resurfaced between the races, the bickering over the Eight Talismans of Sir Cabirus, each supposedly imbued with a particular Virtue, only serving as incentive to shed blood. Hence the loss of many of the Talismans. Even Cabirus's grave had been desecrated by colonists hungry for treasure.

"However far the Abyss had fallen, our duty as Knights of the Order Crux Ansata remains, and it always shall…till the end." Dorna spoke gravely, looking at each of them. Vitalar did not favour either the pause or the last word too highly. "Our bringing of Nolan to Justice is indicative of this. Do not stray from the path of Virtue, or meet his fate thou shalt."

So Dorna led them out of the stifling and eerie chamber, and all were more than eager to follow. there was something distantly unsettling about burial sites, and the fact that it was one of an evil man made the feeling only worse. The chamber was closed off by means of a heavy iron portcullis, locked by Cecil, who subsequently threwe the key inside. Above another message was hastily scrawled: 'Herein lies one no longer amongst the living. Enter not unless thou dost wish to join him.'

Vitalar certainly had no wish to come here again. He bade the portcullis one last baleful look before trailing after the party into the uninviting labyrinth that was the Abyss.

Deeming a skirmish with the ghouls unnecessary, Dorna led the party through a series of twisting passages leading away from the den of ravenous knaves -- the scum had moved next to the tombs for a reason. Vitalar could have almost thanked the mysterious mage who was said to have hidden the entrance to the tombs -- at least the ghouls wouldn't be feeding on the honoured dead anymore.

Milius's light spell travelled down the length of the passages with his presence, and the knights dutifully followed him and their leader. This level of the Abyss had never been used for living quarters, only state chambers, and the portions they were moving in were undeveloped, hence their narrow labyrinthine nature. They also proved to be a prowling ground for beasts like vermin, giants spiders and the like. The bones, human bones, that lay strewn across the ground were warning enough to all of them to keep vigilant.

The knights' armour gleamed in the magical light of Milius's 'In Lor' spell. Each wore hauberks of chainmail and leggings of plate. As was customary of Knights of the Crux Ansata, they wore horned helms of plate. Their ankh tabards were old and torn, stained with the blood of countless foes, evidence enough of the severity of the plight the underworld colony was in. They had quite literally dug themselves a pit they could not get out of.

On second thought, as Vitalar saw it, mentioning that particular pun to any Abyssal colonist would more likely than not earn oneself a knife in the ribs.

The knights instinctively kept a hand on the hilts of their swords, in a perpetual state of tension for any ambush. The elderly seer himself gripped his oak wood staff anxiously, the light globe hovering above his head and revealing the path lain before them. No words were spoken. Sound travelled easily in the Abyss and attracted unwanted attention. The grim silence was deafening.

They entered a chamber with several other passages leading in different directions. A battered sack lay in one corner atop a pile of an unfortunate's bones.

"I believe the way out of this maze is in that direction." Milius pointed at the passage heading west. He paused as his light globe began to flicker, dimming for a moment before regaining its full glory. "That is strange, the spell is still stable --" He started suddenly, gripping his staff with both hands, eyes narrowing and briskly scanning every shadow. "Undead!" he hissed.

The rasp of steel as the knights drew swords from scabbards echoed down the passages. A faint deathly moan responded, growing in loudness with each passing second. A foul wind seemed to blow down the passages and channel into the chamber.

Vitalar's skin prickled. He had known that eerie feeling before, and it was far from natural. He squinted when he spotted a shadow moving along the wall, detaching and floating into the centre of the room. Wreathed in darkness, this ghost was, and it was no ordinary disgruntled spirit at that. Gleaming yellow eyes regarded the living intruders malevolently -- dire ghosts were not known to be amiable and ranked among the most deadly foes of the Abyssal environs. The Seers theorized that they were the remnants of slain monsters that manifested themselves through their potent malignancy and hatred, hence the reason for their extreme lethality.

The dark spectre's hue made it difficult to track, for it could make itself ostensibly one with shadow. Kyle lashed at it, steel striking the insubstantial blackness, and with a howl the wraith pulled back, eyes burning balefully. Specters did not like the touch of metal; enough sword blows would either vanquish their essence or drive them off. Dire ghosts, however, always fought to the death; they did not care if they died, or to be pedantic, 'died again', so full of hate for the living were they.

The wraith retaliated, eyes burning fiercely, and Kyle cried out as if struck, falling to his knees. In close proximity, the ghost was draining him of his life force to feed its own implacable desire for death. Dorna suddenly leaped in, striking the undead again and again, joined by Cecil and Vitalar. The ghost howled and turned on them, but they leaped back, Dorna hauling Kyle away as the irate apparition floated menacingly towards them.

With the path clear, Milius bellowed 'Ort Grav', and from his finger tips he unleashed a near blinding bright blue lightning bolt of arcane energy, striking the wraith in the face, a gloomy visage so oddly devoid of features. It drew back, and another lightning bolt struck. Milius was relentless in his attack, for he knew from experience that anyone who showed mercy to a ghost or undead corpse usually ended up a corpse themselves.

"Por Flam!" Milius intoned, hurling a fireball into the intangible mass of the creature.

A ghastly, almost mournful cry escaped its darkly translucent lips, then it faded, its essence quenched forever.

"May it find final peace." Milius said, unusually solemn.

At least that was how Vitalar saw it. He didn't mourn the passing of any wraith. Anything that posed a threat to the denizens of the Abyss was better off destroyed.

Cecil was tending to Kyle, who was trying to stand on wobbly legs.

"I'll be fine." he said, tone tinged with weariness. Such were the repercussions of having a wraith drain your life energies. "Thank thee."

"This place grows more evil by the day." Dorna said grimly, looking down the tunnels askance. "No one could survive down here for long."

"Perhaps we should mount another undead cleansing campaign on this level." Cecil suggested.

Dorna looked at him questioningly, then shook his head. "We must hold our own against the trolls."

That, and the fact that the last undead cleansing campaign had gone horribly wrong. Two of their finest knights, Gringhis and Laman, had disappeared in these tunnels, never heard from again. What good had it done? The undead were as abundant as the vermin, and the ghouls…technically, they weren't undead, but that didn't make them any less foul. The corpse-eaters repulsed Vitalar. He would have rather fell into a pit of fickle wolf spiders than even reside on the same level as the ghouls.

"As Officer of Troll Watching, you should be aware of just how thinly our resources are stretched." Dorna told Cecil, slightly berating. "I will not waste men on futile quests, only ones with foreseeable gains to be made."

Cecil gave obeisance, though he was acquiescent.

"We must move." Milius interrupted, warily eyeing their surroundings. "I fear that we as living are a beacon to any undead that roam these passages."

Dorna nodded in acknowledgment. "Let's move."

The party travelled down the west passage with all due haste, eager to leave the haunted maze. It opened up into a wider hall that appeared to have been left uncompleted; the floor for half a dozen or so paces and ended in a sudden drop of more than twelve feet. A rope had been grappled onto the ledge; it was by this way they had first entered the maze in their hunt for Sir Nolan, unwilling to risk the alternative stairway that led directly into the ghouls' lair.

Each man descended, tautly gripping the rope while their feet pushed against the wall, until only Milius stood on the ledge above. Casting the spell of Slow Fall, he jumped and came floating down as slowly and serenely as a feather. Adjusting his blue robe when he hit the ground, he used telekinesis to yank the grapple out of the ledge, allowing it to land with a clatter. Cecil picked up the valuable piece of equipment up, wrapping it into a coil and stuffing it inside his pack.

Vitalar surveyed the subterranean 'landscape'. They were in a massive cavern, partially constructed and shaped by the dwarves as evidenced by the brickwork and pitted marble floor. Through the middle of the cavern ran a deep river of lava, one they would be forced to jump across to reach the hallway and their destination. A number of unfinished wooden platforms raised twice again the height of a man stood around them, their purpose to serve as a bridge from whence they had come to another entrance high on the adjacent wall. Vitalar believed that if a man were dexterous and determined enough he could jump from platform to platform to get to where he wanted. The risk of broken bones was not worth it, however. Being badly injured in the nether regions of the Abyss was an invitation for the myriad of beasts here to visit for dinner.

The width of the river of molten rock was only five feet or so, and the only person liable to have trouble making such a large jump would be Milius. He had his magic to support him. The lava below bubbled and belched, patterned erratically with shades of light yellow and darker orange, searing with withering heat.

A colony in the midst of an angry volcano! What a brilliant idea! Vitalar stamped upon the bitter though as quickly as it had come, reprimanding himself for his doubt. Doubt caused disillusionment, the same cruel fate that had seized Sir Nolan. And look where it had led him! Vitalar would not end up like that, to go down in the annals as a once noble knight turned rogue.

Vehemenly placing his faith in the Virtues, Vitalar took a running start and vaulted effortlessly across the river, clearing the distance and landing with a grunt on the other side. There was crunch of dirt, and Vitalar's sword whipped out of its scabbard to take a headless lurking behind one of the unfinished bridge platforms, slaying it in a fountain of its own blood.

The others made the jump, including Milius, the old mage having to aid himself with a spell of Leap. The knights turned to face the sound of scuffling feet, and from the entrance of the next hallway, a massive passage with a ceiling that loomed metres above into darkness, and out came rushing a pack of five headless driven by the insatiable desire to kill all bipedal creatures with heads.

The knights met their attack with finesse; they had dealt with such rabble before and knew all too well that the blade was more than a match for bare hands. Within minutes, the vile creatures were slain, Cecil putting to the sword any that lay maimed. There would be no mercy with the pestilent savages of the Abyss.

The party progressed through the grand hall of sandstone, ever vigilant as they entered the chamber that ringed around the volcano's main shaft. It had been walled off, but a window provided a view of distant crimson in the depths below. The bowels of the volcano were stirring. This did not bode well for the colonists.

Milius guided them to the main council chamber; previously when they had come through here, the place had been infested with deadly poisonous bloodworms. They had exterminated the vile vermaforms, for the worms were more dangerous than their size belied. Now the chamber was clear, but still dilapidated. It tore at Vitalar's soul to see the conference table, where once grand meetings had been held between the most influential nobles of the realm, in such a pathetic condition, the chairs smashed by rampaging colonists and worse.

They entered the connecting hall, which ran for some length and twisted sharply to the east to meet the Great Stair, a valiant attempt by a dwarven stonecutter, named Korianus, who had dreams to build a stairway travelling from the very top of the Abyss to the lowest levels. The dream had ended in a terrible collapse of the stairway, courtesy of the increasingly violent quakes that shook the region, and the builder's unfortunate death. The Abyss brought only misfortune its inhabitants, it seemed.

Not too far a distance were two doors in parallel across the hall form one another. It was here that they met Knight Ferwyn, who leaned against the wall, gripping his left arm in pain. It had been rapped in a bloody bandage.

"Ferwyn! What hast happened?" Dorna demanded, concerned for his fellow's well-being as he analyzed the wound.

Ferwyn's face was covered with a sheen of sweat, and he grit his teeth as if merely standing was a great effort of will. Vitalar thought that strange for only a cut across the arm, unless…

"Thou hast been poisoned." Vitalar said. It was a statement, not question.

Ferwyn nodded haggardly. "Attacked by skeletons while scouting the hall." he grated, as if the weariness of old age had suddenly pounced upon him. He certainly wasn't old enough for that to happen yet by any natural means. "One struck me with a tainted…blade, it doth seem."

"Allow me to help thee." Milius said, stepping towards the ailing knight.

"No!" he said, somewhat too forcefully, for the old seer withdrew slightly, taken aback. "Save thy mana for the task at hand."

The task at hand was infinitely more important than the slaying of Nolan. Ferwyn handed the mage an ordinary-looking iron ring. Everyone present knew what it was.

The Ring of Humility, one of the scarce few of Cabirus's Talismans left in the Order's possession. It had been thought lost when a lone vagabond had stolen it from under the knights' noses, but Ferwyn had obviously done well enough to track down the knave and reclaim their rightful property. That Ferwyn had managed to accomplish the task so quickly and arrive here at the rendezvous point ahead of schedule was testament to his Valour and prowess as a knight. He did the Order proud.

"The thief is now carrion for the giant rats, Dorna Ironfist." Ferwyn said, then gasped when his muscles cramped and forced him to his knees. "Go! Do it quickly!" he said, then cried out as the poison advanced through his bloodstream like fire. He hit the floor, comatose.

"Cecil, drag him inside!" Dorna snapped hastily. To the others he said, "Come! We must make haste!"

They entered the chambers, a small garrison with a stairway leading up to the higher levels. The floor was littered with bones and broken weapons. Whoever had fought here had done so valiantly, even though the battle must have been half a year old at least. Last in was Cecil, dragging with him the limp form of Ferwyn. He closed the door behind him.

There was an adjacent room, smaller than this one, with a stone pedestal upon which Milius placed the ring. The decision to hide the Ring of Humility had not been come to easily, but its attempted theft and the universal avarice of the colonists as a whole provided abundant incentive to acquiesce to Milius's plan. The others stepped back and watched reticently as Milius pulled out the essential runes from his runebag. Raising both hands, left hand possessing the runes, he began to intone the spell.

"Vas Sanct Lor!" his voice boomed, its aged demeanour replaced by the fierce power of the concentration of the flows of magic the seer was directing at the ring.

The ring flickered out of existence, then reappeared, teetering between the real world and the realm of the unseen.

"Vas Rel Por!" Milius intoned.

The crackling of energies could be heard, tendrils of arcane power flowing from the mage's fingertips and surrounding the ring in a bright yellow nimbus. The pedestal glowed with power. Several more incantations followed, accompanied by a distinct keening sound that grew in pitch with each passing moment. Then, when Vitalar thought his eardrums would burst, the keening abruptly stopped, the nimbus fading. Milius lay with his back slumped against the pedestal, looking more haggard than his age should have allowed. The ring was gone.

"There…'tis done." Milius said faintly. The amount of power he had used had been taxing, especially for one of his age, Seventh Circle mage or not. "The Ring of Humility has been sent from the realm of Britannia…to safety." Weakly, he raised a gnarled hand and pointed it at one of the four switches on each wall of the room. "Only the correct combination can reverse the spell and return the ring to the realm of men. Only Derek knows it."

That made sense. It had been Derek who had helped construct the pedestal and the switches in the first place, even though his skill lay primarily in gemcutting. He was talented at carving stone, despite his modesty pertaining to his artisan abilities. It was fitting for the man to be keeper of the only code that could recall the Ring of Humility. The knight had become a guardian of sorts.

Dorna Ironfist sighed, a heavy weight lifted from his shoulders.

Vitalar eyed him solemnly. So the Ring of Humility was now safe from the madness that had engulfed the Abyss. Vitalar wondered where it was.

The pedestal stood silently, revealing no secrets.

Vitalar looked up from brooding at the reflection in his mug of ale, fixing his attention on the block-jawed fighter standing across the table from him. Raltiir’s stubble-face was dark tanned from many years fighting aboveworld, crisscrossed with many scars. He head the strength of a bull and the deadly swiftness of a snake. A good combination when it came to the art of sword fighting, at which the man was master.

Another man, a fair-haired knight who appeared to be approaching his middle years, nearly snorted with contempt. “More like he has fled, the coward.” Eador was his name, a good soldier, but oft times possessing too fickle a temper. “Good riddance, I say. I could not stand his mewling.”

Vitalar took a bite of his bread. It was as brittle as brick, and tasted stale. It taste moldy too. Virtues, even his ale tasted stale. The Order had not received a fresh stock of food in months, ever since the Great Door had been sealed. Even the mages could not ferry through any supplies, cut off as they were by their own predicament.

Vitalar’s bitter thoughts turned to Baron Almric, the one who had ordered the door closed. Not for the first time he cursed his name. The man had always been a presumptuous, impetuous oaf, lacking the foresight to anticipate the repercussions of his actions. Rumour held that he was now using the Abyss as a dumping ground for criminals; little wonder there were so many bandits roaming the upper levels.

“What canst though expect from a piteous scribe who had donned a sword just for show?” Raltiir said contemptuously. “He could not even use it! Waved it like a flag, he did! At least he’d make a terrific bannerman!”

Raltiir and Eador laughed a shade too scornfully for Vitalar’s liking. Granted, Corby had become more another mouth to feed in the months following Cabirus’s death with his depressive pessimistic preaching of doom for the colonists of the Abyss, but the man had lost a benevolent master. One shouldn’t have blamed him for losing heart.

“Thou dost sully the man’s name for his actions?” Meredith, a dark-skinned knight who sat in a stool in the corner, interrupted icily. She was rubbing a whetstone along the flat length of his blade, as if the rasp were to emphasize his cold tone. “He has been through worse than thee. He placed his fiath in one man, and when that man died, he lost all hope.”

“He was a fool then!” Raltiir snapped. He was not a knight and did not grant members of the Order with the expected measure of respect. A brusque man from all accounts. “And so was Cabirus, to establish a colony here of all places!”

There was a unanimous intake of breath from the others in the mess hall. If Meredith’s gaze had been cold before, it was now cold enough to freeze a blazing forge.

“Pray that Rees does not hear thy slander, or he would kill thee where thy stood.” Meredith said, biting off every word with disdain.

“Bah!” Raltiir snorted. “I’ll skewer him like a rat for dinner, the idealistic fool!”

Vitalar winced. If their food supplies were not replenished soon, they would be eating skewered rat.

Meredith’s face became stony. “Thou hast obviously forgotten who pulled thee from the gallows and gave thee a new life.”

Raltiir tensed and reached for his sword, eyes flaming. Eador raised an eyebrow, but Meredith’s smooth expression did not change.

Vitalar had heard the tale of Raltiir’s past life, and it had not been a good one. Apparently, he had been a notorious highwayman that had terrorized the vicinity around the Great Forest, killing many innocent road travellers for their possessions. He had been caught by the Yew militia and was about to be hanged when Cabirus came along with his entourage of candidates for settlement in the Abyss. Upon interviewing the hardened killer, Sir Cabirus had seen some sort of redemption and willingness to change in the man, and thus had allowed him pardon and bade him join his contingent of settlers dedicated to the upholding of the Virtues.

Raltiir’s lips curled back in a menacing snarl, but no scathing words came out. Instead, he turned on his heel and stormed out of the mess hall.

Vitalar shook his head disappointedly. He did not trust that one. He was a brute. But he acknowledged him as a worthy warrior, for he was very good at what he did.

“May the Virtues rest good Cabirus’s soul,” Eador said softly, with a touch of solemnity that irked Vitalar somewhat.

He too rose and left the hall, rather briskly.

Vitalar sighed and took a pull of his ale. It still tasted stale.

On the ragged parchment that was the map a rough sketch had been made of the seventh level of the Abyss, what little was known of it, which was scarce to begin with. There was little doubt that the lower levels had been altered a great deal, with the violent seismic activity occurring in recent months.

A number of esteemed knights were present, including Vitalar, Simmond, Eador, and Rodrick. Vitalar frowned in Rodrick’s direction. The lad was young to be a knight and had always been a hothead, possessing an insufferable nature that made all others shy away from him. Vitalar did not understand why such a tinderbox temperament knight was present at such a meeting of imperative importance.

There were others present who were not of the Order. Raltiir returned Vitalar’s studying gaze with a warning scowl of his own. His pride was almost as severe as Rodrick’s. A tall woman in chainmail and plate that glinted in the flickering firelight held her attention on Dorna, gloved hand instinctively lingering near the hilt of her jewelled sword. Saloria was her name, a paladin from Trinsic, the City of Honour. She had been serving by the side of the knights for the past several months in their incessant interdictions against the trolls and had proven herself to be a fine warrior. She was virtually the last of her kind in the Abyss; all others had been slain or driven off. Most had been slain, since a paladin’s sense of honour stood fast like a fortified wall.

Across from her a short figure leaned against the table with an elbow almost languidly, reaching barely over four feet. A mountainman from King Goldthirst demesne, Davarius was a gruff, oft times impatient fellow, but he was a good soldier. At his thick leather belt hung his hand axe, especially made for mountainfolk hands, and strapped to his back was his mighty two-handed battle axe. Both half-moon blades gleamed in the red-yellow light and were honed to hair splitting integrity. Vitalar knew for a fact that Davarius was as lethal as a daemon with either axe in his hands; he had seen him hew ravenous trolls and goblins to deadly effect a number of times.

Finally, there was the lithe and vaguely lanky green clad man who fingered the lax string of his bow. A ranger he was, from the deep woodlands surrounding Yew, named Banin. He appeared complacent as he watched Dorna, but that was a mere deception. Banin was ever alert as he was taciturn, and could strike a rotworm in dim light at more than fifty paces. The shortsword hanging by his left thigh was not just for intimidation either; he could wield it as well as any knight, if not better.

“Knight Trevane has not returned from his mission on the seventh level.” Dorna spoke, voice as steady as rock as he looked each person at the table in the eye. “As we should all know, there is a mad wizard down there terrorizing the region. This can be allowed to go no further. The Seers report that he is strengthening his holdings by constructing new passages and barring old ones, and that he is ever increasing his ranks of trolls and goblins.” Dorna studied the map for a moment, then resumed the briefing, “Trevane and his group have been lost for a week. It is more than likely he has been slain.”

“And thou dost wish us to send a new party down there? Art thou mad?” Rodrick interjected indignantly, eyes flaring with challenge as he stared at the leader of the Order.

Dorna returned his stare, face as if carved from stone. When he addressed Rodrick, he did so like scolding a recalcitrant child, “Yes, Sir Rodrick.” He put considerable emphasis on the word ‘sir’. Although his bearded face appeared impassive, his words were spoken with acidic sting. “’Tis our duty as Knights of the Crux Ansata. Thou shouldst know that well, Rodrick. If thou dost not, thou hast better relearn our doctrine before your title becomes forfeit.”

Rodrick almost sneered. “’Twas our duty when the colony was whole. Since it no longer is we should stop wasting our time on other people’s problems and start focusing on our own.” He spread his hands, a smile of condescension on his face. “Let the Seers deal with the mad mage. As I understand it, he was a part of their cabal. They should know best how to handle him and his lackeys.”

A hoarse growl, low and menacing, escaped Dorna’s lips. Saloria looked at Rodrick as if he had gone mad.

“Hast thou no honour?” she demanded angrily. “Thou dost know thy duty! Thou shouldst! I hold thee to the oath thou didst make when knighted! To serve thy sovereign, Lord British, and uphold the Virtues!”

Rodrick smirked as he openly appraised her satisfying physical appearance. “Oh? And where is Lord British now, when we need him most? He is as base as Baron Almric! He has abandoned us to our fate! And the Virtues…they won’t help us. In this pit, they are meaningless.” He leered at her suggestively.

Vitalar winced. That sounded uncomfortable similar to Sir Nolan’s anguished words preceding his death. Were they all becoming decadent?

Saloria’s hand was now gripped firmly around the hilt of her sword, grimace transforming like quicksilver into a mask of contorted rage.

Rodrick’s obscene grin only grew wider. “Thou dost look beautiful when thou art angry.”

Vitalar groaned almost imperceptibly. This was going to dissolve into a fracas soon.

Dorna’s face now betrayed a hint of potent anger, seeping slowly but surely through his controlled visage. “You speak blasphemy, Rodrick.”

“What wilt thou do about it? Banish me to the lower levels?” Rodrick snapped back.

Dorna shook his head slowly, even though Saloria nodded hers vehemently. “I cannot spare the men for my wrath alone. The sake of the Abyss is of too much import.”

Rodrick smiled victoriously. “I am too valuable to lose. Of course.”

Vitalar scowled. From pride to arrogance young Rodrick was leaping, and like Nolan, he did not think the end result would be very benign either for him or the rest of the Order.

“Thou art too insufferable to keep.” Saloria grumbled quietly, so that it only came across to Rodrick as a disgruntled murmur.

Rodrick looked at her innocently. Innocence didn’t suit him very much.

Vitalar glanced at Dorna, whose frown had deepened into a scowl as he regarded Rodrick. Nevertheless, he continued with the briefing. “The time to strike at the wizard’s lair is now, while his defences are still incomplete. His minions number many, but they are merely goblins and trolls, witless adversaries.”

Eador and Raltiir snorted almost in unison, with Eador adding, “Contemptible creatures.”

“A team of knights shall be sent below to dispatch the mage and his minions. A larger force than before. Focus on sowing chaos among his lackeys first.” Dorna callused finger pointed to a steel door that marked an entrance on the map. “This is the first door thou shalt encounter.” He gestured to Banin with his other hand. “As it is incomplete, it shalt be easier to take. We have a ranged attack now, unlike previously, so as to combat the enemy’s sling stones.”

Banin bowed. “I am honoured to be a part of this quest.” he said coolly, voice seemingly indifferent to his selection. “I can strike five foes down in a matter of seconds without missing a shot.” Strangely enough, he didn’t sound like he was boasting, just stating a fact.

Dorna gave a shallow nod in agreement. “Thy tracking skills and sense of direction will also prove invaluable.” His gaze returned to the map. “Seizing the front gate should alert the mad mage. We believe he has placed wards throughout his domain to detect intruders. Thy interdiction should divert a good portion of his forces away from their other guard posts, which is why thy must use all due haste and head down to the prison levels.”

“Well, there is one easy way to get into the prisons…” Rodrick said, leaving the thought unfinished as he rolled his eyes upward.

Saloria snorted.

Dorna gave him a brief withering gaze, returning to the map after Rodrick’s defiance drained away and he could no longer stare his master in the eye. “From the prisons, you will take the route across the bridge to the hall near the Shrine. The quakes have caused a great deal of damage there, so don’t be surprised if it appears different to what you remember.”

“Won’t we be freeing the prisoners?” the knight Simmond asked.

“No time. Thou hast two key aims here. Sow as much havoc among the goblins and trolls as thou canst and kill the wizard.” Dorna replied. “I shalt provide thee with a map of what we know about the seventh level. Knight Vitalar will be in command.”

Vitalar looked at Dorna, vaguely surprised. Then again, he should have seen it coming. Vitalar was among the first knights to settle in the Abyss and his explorations were noted even in the Chronicles of Sir Cabirus. His years of experience, both before and after his subterranean settlement, made him an invaluable source of wisdom. The Knights of Crux Ansata - those that had survived the anarchy that had ensued after Cabirus’s death - looked to him for advice. They saw him as a repository of underworld knowledge, a warrior who had studied and fought the creatures of the Abyss for many years - well, all except for Rodrick did. That young one believed he knew everything and was as obstinate as the Serpent Spine. His deadly effectiveness with the sword mixed with his impetuous, rebellious nature made a volatile combination.

“Saloria, thou art a renowned paladin, a worthy personification of Honour and a representative of Trinsic.” Dorna continued, speaking to the fiery-tempered warrioress. She nodded her head in acknowledgment, green eyes scintillating in the light. “Your prowess with sword and skill with magic is vital to our mission.”

“I am honoured to serve under one as worthy as Sir Vitalar.” Saloria replied, bowing slightly to both Dorna and Vitalar.

Rodrick arched his eyebrow dubiously, regarding Vitalar with thinly veiled disdain.

“Simmond, thy steadfastness and sturdy ability make you an ideal candidate for second-in-command.” Dorna said.

The giant, dark-skinned knight bowed his head. Vitalar respected the man as a warrior. He was deft with his broadsword and always followed orders. He did not talk much but was an epitome of stoicism in the most heated of melees.

“Eador, you will join them. Your blade dances well.” Dorna swivelled his head to face Raltiir. “Strength of arms is required on this quest to cleave the skulls of many goblins and trolls.”

Raltiir smiled grimly. “I shall not fail, captain. Many of those scum will be cloven.”

“Davarius, sturdy and tenacious, thine axe is honed well, I trust?” Dorna asked the mountainman.

Davarius nodded. “Aye, sharp enough to hew tough troll hide and gangrel goblin limbs.” he said gruffly.

Dorna smiled. “Good. Your knowledge of the terrain on the lower levels is also invaluable to the party.”

“’Tis said that our ancestors made many of the passages in the Underworld. I canna guarantee that there have not been any alterations to the catacombs beneath, but I do have a reputable sense o’ direction.” the mountainman replied.

Dorna’s discerning gaze settled on Rodrick. “Thou, Rodrick, thou wilt also accompany them on this quest. Our numbers dwindle and this quest has need of as many skilled swordsmen as possible. Thou wilt show the proper deference to Vitalar and carry out his orders to the best of thine ability.” Dorna’s tone left no room for misinterpretation. “Is that clear?”

“Aye, Captain.” Rodrick answered, bowing slightly, although even that show of obeisance seemed vaguely mocking.

Saloria snorted, eyeing Rodrick askance. For that matter, so was Simmond. Vitalar himself watched the young hothead warily. Banin’s disconcertingly indifferent gaze viewed the exchange as he absently plucked at his bowstring.

“Sir Ferwyn will also be coming along.” Dorna added at the last.

Ferwyn had recovered rapidly from the poisoning after being administered a potion of Cure. Vitalar would appreciate his presence on this journey. He was a good soldier, one that he could trust in both prowess and loyalty. Scanning those at the table, Vitalar wondered who else he could trust.

Simmond most certainly he could. The man was honourable and had carved out a reputation for himself in the Abyss from the hides of countless dark beasts; he would do well as second-in-command. Saloria he did not know so well, but had seen her in battle on a number of occasions. She had a fiery temper to match her lethality with the sword, but Vitalar believed he could trust her. Ferwyn would blind him, for he would focus only on those things practical and necessary. Davarius, as gruff and brisk as he was, would do the job assigned to him efficiently.

It was the other four that concerned Vitalar. Eador was a knight renowned for his glorious inroads against the beasts of the Abyss, particularly the trolls, almost as greatly as he was known for his stubborn and sarcastic nature. Would he follow orders to the letter, or would he be presumptuous enough to go on his own quest for blood regardless of the consequences?

Raltiir was another worry. As far as Vitalar could tell, the fighter still held on to his insolence and contempt for all others who could not wield a weapon, preferably the sword. He often though his way was best, that being kill everything first and ask questions later, and woe to anyone who disagreed with him.

Rodrick was the weakest link in this delicate chain that made the party. While he an excellent sword fighter, arguably the best in the entire Order - and he knew it too - he was even more arrogant and impudent than the rest. Worse, he was beginning to show signs of contempt for all others that he deemed unworthy of his time, which was just about everybody. Vitalar feared that Rodrick’s unreliability in combat would make him more a liability than anything else.

Then there was Banin. Here it wasn’t a matter of presumptuousness or arrogance. Vitalar simply didn’t know the man well enough to endow him with his trust. Granted, he had seen the ranger fight on several occasions with a finesse that could make a knight proud, and he did not doubt his myriad of other skills, but who was the man? Taciturn, reticent, furtive - such words could be used to describe the ranger from Yew. Banin was stoic at all times, and on occasion possessed an indifferent countenance - like now - that irked Vitalar somewhat. Even stranger, or at least how Vitalar saw it, was the ranger’s adamant refusal to drink anything remotely alcoholic. In this vile mire of despair that was the Abyss, most would retreat to the bottle to escape their sorrows from time to time, but not Banin. He would head out beyond the guard outposts day after day, each time returning with a troll’s pelt or the head of a mongbat, seemingly none the worse for wear.

“All but Sir Vitalar and Sir Simmond are dismissed.” Dorna’s deep, assertive voice brought Vitalar out of his musing.

As the others filed out of the chamber, Vitalar and Simmond approached Dorna. There they discussed the finer points of the mission long into the night, if it really was night aboveworld. Eternal night was synonymous with the Stygian Abyss. Vitalar found himself thinking of the creatures of the night even as Dorna’s voice droned onward.

Their features became more distinct as the light of Simmond’s lantern revealed them, the green-clad ranger and the chainmail-and-plate encumbered knight. Banin moved lightly, while Eador stomped about heedless of the footsteps and ringing armour echoing down the corridors. When Banin stood before Vitalar, it seemed that his manner was tinged with annoyance, although it simply could have been a trick of the light.

“You should have sent me ahead alone. Your knight makes enough noise to wake the dead.” Banin said wryly.

Indignation crossed Eador’s face and he gave a sour grunt. “Without me those trolls we encountered would have split you in two regardless of your pea shooter.” he said with palpable acerbity.

It was Banin’s turn to snort although he did not retort.

“Trolls?” Vitalar said, his heart sinking. They were still on the fourth level and already the party had run into complications. A bad omen.

Banin nodded while Eador sneered.

“A pack of ten have moved into the banquet hall. Dark trolls.” Banin said.

Dark trolls. A splinter group from the main troll community of the Abyss. The creatures were more rabid than a feral troll and were possessed of greater strength. Sighing, Vitalar realized that merely descending to the next level was not going to be easy.

“We slew three of the rebel scum before retreating.” Eador said triumphantly.

Vitalar glowered at him. “Thou wert told not to reveal yourself to any potential enemy. Now they will know we are coming!” His voice was level, even though inside he raged.

“Only because Sir Eador knocked a loose stone off the descending ramp.” Banin said dryly.

Eador looked at the ranger ruefully. “Bah! So what if they know if we’re coming? They’re rabble. We now have them disoriented. We can take them if we charge-”

“Eador!” Vitalar snapped, although not too loudly, as sound carried far in the Abyss and they did not want to attract any unwanted attention. “Hast thou brain become addled? Use thy senses!”

Eador’s eyes smouldered and he grimaced, but he held his tongue at Vitalar’s scathing reprimand. The others merely watched, Rodrick the most intently. The young knight had the beginnings of a contemptuous smile on his face.

“They shouldn’t be too difficult to dispatch, Sir Vitalar.” Banin interceded, referring to the trolls. “They are disorganized, testament to their reversion to their savage and primitive nature. Even now they are most probably feasting on their dead.

Raltiir spat in repugnance, while Davarius muttered something about “cannibalistic brutes with clubs”.

“Most probably?” Vitalar repeated skeptically. More likely than not that was what the trolls were doing, as his long years of experience fighting such beasts reminded him, but a commander did not risk his men on uncertainties unless he absolutely had to.

Vitalar did not want to take the stairway down to the ghouls’ abode - the wretches would react badly to such an appearance of armed warriors in their home, and the winding passages that followed would take too long to get through filled with undead as they were.

The party was well provisioned, each member, with the exception of Banin, wearing a backpack loaded with supplies. Rations, torches, oil flasks, candles, leeches, even a fishing pole and some gold. Banin had opted to carry only his bow, quiver, and shortsword, occasionally feeding off some dried meat portions stored in the puches hitched to his belt. Vitalar was dubious as to whether he wished to know where that meat came from; it did not look like it had come from the stores in the headquarters of the Order.

Well-provisioned or not, Vitalar was unwilling to challenge that which was unnecessary. It was either a choice between running through the ghouls or running through the trolls. He chose the trolls.

“Saloria, canst thou use thy magic in some way to conjure up a distraction?” Vitalar asked. A diversion would be necessary if the trolls were smart enough to prepare an ambush at the entrance at the banquet hall.

Saloria nodded her head slowly. “Perhaps.” she replied with a vagueness that irked Vitalar.

The old knight sighed. A ‘perhaps’ was better than nothing at all, he supposed. Directing his men ahead, the party progressed down the odious hall with ample caution, each member eyeing the shadows around them askance, their vigilance almost tangible. The silence only seemed to magnify the sinister nature of the Abyss. An incessant drip at regular intervals echoed down the tunnels, or the scraping of feet - more likely paws - that would sometimes scratch nearby.

Davarius grumbled something nearly inaudible in the tongue of the mountain folk. Raltiir scanned the hall ahead in scornful amusement. Rodrick was as tense as a startled cat.

The lantern’s light banished the shadows around them, only to reclaim what was rightfully theirs in this realm of eternal darkness when the party passed. The entrance to the banquet hall appeared ahead, eight paces wide and higher than two men, one standing on the other’s shoulders. As they came closer, what lay beyond was illuminated, but not without a tenacious struggle from the darkness. Here Vitalar stopped them a number of paces from the entrance, unsheathing his longsword. The others revealed their own blades, while Davarius grabbed the battle axe strapped to his back and Banin nocked an arrow, drawing the bowstring tight.

From the runebag hanging at her belt, Saloria pulled two obsidian black runestones, marred and chipped near the edges. She warily approached the entrance, softly intoning, “Wis Mani.” Her brow creased, and her eyes subsequently narrowed as she regarded either side of the entrance.

Turning to Vitalar, she performed as series of complex flickering with her fingers, emphasizing her point by jerking her head towards the entrance corners. At least two trolls were lurking around the corner.

Exchanging the runes in her hand for another pair, she faced the entrance and intoned, louder this time. “Ort Grav.”

A bolt of lightning gathered energy in her out-thrust hand, launching forward with a crackle. The bolt struck one side of the entrance, the blue tendrils of energy creeping around the corner, sizzling the air. There was a deep-throated howl as the tendrils met something unseen, and the sickly sweet aroma of burning flesh wafted on the air to their nostrils.

A troll stumbled into the open, tall and sloop of shoulder, one arm as thick as a tree trunk trailing steam where the bolt had burned the flesh. When it saw the intruders, its black-pupil eyes widened and its fanged maw opened to shout, but another lightning bolt took it in the chest, scorching fur and the leathery skin beneath. It stumbled back and fell into darkness surrounding the walkway it had stood on.

Another troll leaped from around the corner, a club - little more than a plank of wood with a nail shoved through - brandished in a meaty hand. Banin’s arrow took it in the eye, and before it even hit the ground Rodrick charge forward without Vitalar’s command, jumping off the walkway to face whatever was below.

Exhaling an exasperating sigh, Vitalar waved the others forward. They proceeded with little more prudence, rushing in with roars of bloodlust. Only Simmond and Ferwyn kept their wits, following Vitalar into the hall at a brisk but careful pace.

The banquet hall was a great chamber, the ceiling rising above beyond the lantern’s light. A stone walkway ringed the banquet hall, a ramp descending towards the central platform where magnificent feasts had been held. Now only debris lay strewn there, mixed with bones of dead. And the warring melee of trolls and humans, of course.

The ring of clashing metal and the distinctive whooshing thud of clubs had shattered the eerie silence of the Abyss. Rodrick twirled his silver blade, warding off trolls and cutting into thick hide while at hteh same time nimbly evading blows that were potent enough to concuss a man. From his mouth came taunts foul enough to shame even the most grizzled veteran.

Eador was fast and lethal in his forms of duelling, fluidly shifting from one stance to the other as smoothly as quicksilver, his sword already stained with blood and spraying more as it slashed and hacked. Raltiir was at his back, substituting speed with brute force and endurance. He showed the enemy no mercy.

Davarius’s stout figure belied his surprising swiftness and agility as he hewed through troll hide, sanguine-stained mangled bits of meat flying this way and that as the half-moon axe blade fed ravenously. Saloria danced with the trolls in her own pocket of the platform, deftly agile with her jewelled sword. It struck with unerring precision, slaying the beast forms like a scythe cut down wheat.

As Vitalar descended the ramp, he realized that there were considerably more trolls than Banin had reported. His sword flicked out almost instinctively, striking a blow to the side of one troll’s head and splitting its skull.

Shadows danced along the paved floor and walls as Simmond eluded the swings of voracious trolls and riposted with fatal efficiency. Ferwyn warded him; Simmond was their only source of light in this Virtue-forsaken hole, and if he were to be struck down they would lose a significant advantage. Trolls were more adept at seeing in the dark than humans, as they were born in dark caves and skulked in blackness.

Vitalar waded through the fight, senses honed in their alertness as they always were in the heat of battle. A troll rose before him, cudgel raised overhead to cave in the knight’s skull regardless of steel helm. Vitalar brought his sword up to parry when the troll suddenly jerked and froze, an arrowhead tip protruding from its throat and dripping crimson. With a groan the troll fell flat on its face, never stirring again, the feathered arrow stuck in the back of its neck.

Upon the walkway did Banin furtively creep, shifting through shadow’s the lantern could not chase away, drawing his bow and firing at another lumbering troll below. His head suddenly swivelled to one side and in the next instant his shortsword was in hand to combat a troll that had attempted to take him from behind. Speed won over brute strength, and in moments the beast fell form the walkway onto the paving stones below, disembowelled.

“How do ye like fine mountainfolk steel, ye beast?” Davarius yelled as he beheaded another troll with frightening ease, whirling around to bury the blade in a hairy belly. “Har! This is much more fun than slaying goblins!” He ripped out the axe none too gently, letting the mortally wounded troll fall to its knees, crying out in agony in its own guttural tongue. The cleavage of its skull put it out of its misery soon enough.

Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. All the trolls lay dead, a good fourteen of them, dark trolls everyone. No casualties had been taken, although Eador nursed a bruise on one arm and a torn portion of chainmail where the club blow had fallen. Saloria aided the stricken knight with a Heal spell, and the nasty purple faded away as if it had never been.

“That was exhilarating.” Rodrick said, an unnerving smile playing across his lips, complementing a feral light in his eyes. “They were only trolls, but nonetheless…” He gestured at the grotesquely sprawled bodies on the paving stones with his bloodstained sword.

“Dark troll scum.” Raltiir sneered at the bodies and spat. “Not much more challenging than a feral or…civilized one.” His tongue did not favour the word ‘civilized’ too highly. “Best if their whole kind was obliterated.”

Rodrick’s eyes were now on Saloria’s jewelled sword, the paladin sheathing it with a rasp of metal on hard leather. “That is a mighty sword.” he remarked.

Saloria’s frown came perilously close to a scowl as she regarded the knight suspiciously.

“’Tis the Sword of Accuracy, and don’t thou forget it.” she replied acidly.

Vitalar understood now. The sword’s deadly precision was not only orchestrated by Saloria’s skill but by the nature of its enchantment as well. He did not like the way Rodrick eyed the weapon. His gaze seemed covetous. Vitalar reassessed that initial observation, for now Rodrick’s gaze took in both the sword and Saloria. He coveted more than one thing, that was for certain.

Vitalar gathered his men at the centre of the hall where four pedestal stood, towering above into darkness to support the weight of the ceiling. Banin was the last to arrive, stepping lightly down the ramp all the while warily observing his surroundings. His bow was still in hand, shortsword resting in the scabbard by his thigh.

“We must move with haste.” Vitalar told his men. “Judging from this engagement, the dark trolls are migrating once more. There is no telling how many more are coming.”

“If they are coming at all.” Rodrick said pointedly. “Our thrashing we gave them is not one to be forgotten.”

“Quiet, upstart, and let Vitalar speak.” Raltiir said, surprising the old knight with his spontaneous intervention.

Rodrick sneered at him. “Go waylay a beggar, brigand.” he retorted smugly.

“Cur! I shalt make thee eat thine armour!” Raltiir snarled, lunging for the young knight with hands clawed.

Ferwyn stepped between them, frowning in disapproval. “Listen to thyselves! We must not bicker! The mission outweighs all other prejudices!” he said, voice stern and concerned at the same time.

Raltiir grumbled acquiescence and stepped back. Rodrick gave a small smile of triumph. Vitalar eyed the man disgustedly. His arrogance was going to cause more trouble than he initially anticipated. He had to assume control now, before his followers lost faith in his command abilities.

“Rodrick, that’s enough from you.” he said reprovingly, black eyes as hard as flint.

Rodrick glared at him as if to propose challenge, then gave a sullen look and forced down the insult on the tip of his tongue. Saloria sniffed in satisfaction.

Vitalar pointed to the small chasm that separated the wall and the platform. Another ramp twined around the platform like a snake and led into the black depths. Two stairways resided there, hence it was the path they would take.

Vitalar took them down the ramp, Simmond’s lamp lighting the way. Things crackled beneath their boots - bones, most likely - and they entered the chasm. Here too the walls were made of equally sized white brick, constructed with an impressive veteran’s touch.

“Among the finest achievements of the mountainfolk of the Abyss.” Davarius said, smiling solemnly as he regarded the narrow hall ahead. “Our ken of building is unmatched anywhere in Britannia. A shame that all that lurks these finely crafted corridors now is vermin.” His handaxe whipped out of its belt loop to hew through the abdomen of a venomous wolf spider that was lying in wait on the wall. The overgrown arachnid slammed onto the paving stones, thrashing and screeching as green slime poured from its rent, bloated body. Its eight spindly legs stopped flailing a few moments later, the light dying from its green eyes.

They passed over its body regardless, Davarius hitching the axe back to his belt. Eador marvelled at the smooth masonry of the hall, lifthing his head as the walls rose into darkness.

“Dwarves can certainly build.” he remarked.

Davarius eyed him disdainfully. “That’s mountainfolk to you!” he said sharply.

Eador’s face actually reddened. “Humbly do I apologize noble, mountainman.” Despite his typical sarcasm and cruel wit, there was no mocking tone evident. He actually sounded sincere.

Davarius snorted discontentedly.

Rodrick smirked. “A dwarf is a dwarf no matter what they say.” he mumbled.

Davarius’s acute hearing, honed over years of his race’s dwelling in and under the mountains, easily caught Rodrick’s disrespectful murmur. The party halted as the mountainman rounded on him.

“Ye be lookin’ for some conflict now, laddie?” he demanded.

Rodrick shrugged indifferently. “Thou dost do poorly at intimidation, dwarf.”

Davarius’s hand reached for the handle of his hand axe, teeth bared.

“Davarius.” Vitalar said, tone as hard and firm as hewn stone. “Davarius. Let go of the axe.” His voice left no room for argument.”

Davarius complied, hand reluctantly releasing his axe, but not without giving Rodrick one last baleful glare before turning around. Raltiir and Eador watched the altercation, unimpressed with Rodrick’s behaviour. Rodrick gave another arrogant smile, and it only broadened under Saloria’s disapproving stare. Ferwyn’s look was pure murder, while Simmond remained as impassive as a mountain. Banin’s attention was on the enveloping darkness to the rear of the party.

Vitalar had had enough of this. Approaching Rodrick with a cool calm surety, he looked him in the insolent eye. “It would appear more than a reprimand is necessary to get my point across.”

Rodrick snorted. “Thou old f-”

The mighty right swing took Rodrick entirely by surprise, sending him to the cold stones. He looked up, one cheek red and bearing the mark of Vitalar’s gauntleted fist. It would become a bruise enough.

“Thou shouldst know that the Order will inflict pain on those recalcitrant enough.” Vitalar said, looking down his nose at the knight leaning on his side. He almost seemed regal.

A hoarse roar from above interrupted all other thoughts of discipline.

“Dark trolls.” Banin said quietly, eyes fixed on the wall of blackness behind them. “There is a ramp some distance ahead as well. They can come from both directions.” He looked at Vitalar gravely. “Haste is imperative.”

“Let us go!” Vitalar commanded, leaving Rodrick on the ground and returning to the head of the group.

Ferwyn dragged Rodrick to his feet by his soiled tabard, none too gently either.

They pressed on with due haste, entering a passage that branched off into two different directions, each one leading to a descending stairway. Down the stone stairs they went, descending what seemed leagues as the way twisted and turned. Finally it spat them into the same barracks chamber near the place Vitalar had helped conceal the Ring of Humility a number of days ago.

The place was empty and destitute. A toadstool and a cluster of green mushrooms grew here and there amidst the rubbish of dilapidation. Leaving the barracks to enter the great hall, Banin and Eador fanned out to investigate the vicinity, while Ferwyn scouted the council chamber. When they returned, they reported the areas clear of any danger.

The party passed through the council chamber with haste, loath to be reminded of the colony’s former glory. Entering the central shaft chamber, they followed the corridor to another hall, this one’s walls incomplete and indicative of ancient workmanship.

Davarius felt the hewn rock wall of the cavern, running callused fingers along the grooves wehre the uneven round stones met.

“This is ancient mountainfolk work for certain.” he muttered to himself. “Old kin, where did ye go? To settle in this pit was madness. Dead are ye now for coming here so long ago. Dead am I now for following Goldthirst.” He hung is head and sighed. Vitalar wasn’t certain, but he believed he saw a tear trail down the mountainman’s cheek to disappear in his thick red beard.

Ahead was another descending stairway, and further down the hall was a pair of caved-in passages. It was here that the party made camp. Simmond set the lantern down and assisted Eador and Ferwyn in making a campfire. Saloria helped Raltiir unpack bedrolls and rations. Rodrick stood some distant away, absently fingering the darkening bruise on his cheek and scowling at Vitalar’s back. Davarius warily eyed the descending stairway, battle axe prepared.

They sat around the campfire to eat, but the food was meagre fare. Days-old meat, hard bread, some cheese. Only a few gulps of water could be taken from the few waterskins they had. Water would be hard enough to find in the scorched demesne below. Banin did not partake from the party’s rations. Instead, he left without light source into the darkness around them, to ‘hunt’ he said, although hunt what in this cavernous network of privation Vitalar did not know. He wondered whether it was wise to let him go alone, but then again, the ranger hunted best alone.

Simmond, Ferwyn, and Saloria were set up on watch while the others slept, although Vitalar could not sleep. He sat upright upon his laid out bedroll, watching the dancing flames and listening to them crackle. He hadn’t even taken off his armour; none of his members had. Sleeping without armour in the Abyss was sentencing oneself to death.

Simmond sat a number of paces away, his backpack and lantern set aside while he maintained his vigil. Vitalar rose and made his way past the sleeping forms of his men, some shifting in their bedrolls and mumbling in their sleep.

“Burning eyes in darkness…crystal splinters…treasure and evils beyond…” Davarius murmured.

What nightmares could he be having? Vitalar wondered as he stepped over his body.

A short distance to his side lay the sleeping form of Rodrick. He seemed tranquil in his sleep, oddly enough. Perhaps the onerous nature of the Abyss suited his own dark streak. For Vitalar - and many others it seemed - the Abyss only brought troubled sleep in the form of ominous nightmares. The Underworld itself seemed alive and vindictive in its malevolence towards the intruders that had come into its depths.

Vitalar sat by Simmond’s side, the giant man acknowledging his presence with an inclination of the head to one side. “How goes it, brother knight?” he asked.

“Mostly quiet.” Simmond replied, eyes fixed on the darkness, the limits of the campfire’s light. “Things prowl in the night, as always. This hole of eternal night.”

Something was eating at Vitalar’s soul. Doubt. Festering doubt in faith and righteousness. What was the logic of this quest? Kill a mad mage? So then another crisis could rear its ugly head to replace the predecessor? By how far could they mitigate their predicament? For how long could they prevent the inevitable?

“Sir Simmond…” Vitalar began, beating down lingering hesitation. “Dost thou still have…faith in the Virtues?”

Simmond allowed a second for his eyes to shift to one side to regard Vitalar, then they returned to their vigil of the darkness. “In these harsh times, it can be difficult. We have been abandoned by Baron Almric…perhaps by even Lord British.”

Vitalar could not help but wince at that last suggestion. But what other realistic explanation was there?

For a moment, Simmond’s usually impassive face betrayed a hint of bitterness, then it returned to its stony countenance. “I hear our own brothers lose faith. A waning of Spirituality. I see it. Sir Nolan, for one, and others begin to show the signs of his corruption.” He cocked his head pointedly towards the mound that was Rodrick’s bedroll. “The Abyss appears to scorn the Virtues and strip them from those that are Virtuous. There is no more Compassion between the colonists. Honesty is naught but a spurned dream now. Justice and Honour have fallen to the midden for desperation and avarice. Valour is scorned for cowardice. None Sacrifice for the greater good, seeking only their own gain. Humility is stomped down by arrogance and condescension.” Again, Simmond cocked his head towards sleeping Rodrick, and for a moment it seemed he would do the same for Raltiir. “The Colony of the Abyss has strayed far from the path of Virtue. Perhaps we have deserved such a fate.” Simmond looked at Vitalar solemnly, dark eyes grim. “As for my own faith, I believe that the Virtues is the only path I have left. To uphold them in this place of all places, where only evil resides…’tis a purpose, as I see it. ‘Twas the original purpose of the Colony, and without it, look what it has become. The Virtues are my only purpose in life now, for without them, I will be broken like the rest of the colony. To be bereft of the Virtues…to have Vices instead of Virtues is a fate worse than death. I will be happier dying to uphold the Virtues than knowing I was too spineless to follow them.”

Vitalar nodded slowly. He could not help but feel pride for this man, a true knight who stood only for Virtue. Yet he could not shake his own doubts. Could he find such purpose?

The blackness ahead seemed to move as a figure emerged from the insubstantial stygian curtain. Simmond was on his feet in an instant with broadsword in hand, Vitalar close behind. A presence behind him indicated that Ferwyn was also prepared.

The approaching figure turned out to be Banin, bow slung over his shoulder and as calm as the placid surface of a cottage pond. From his belt hung three small swarthy masses. Bats. The ranger walked past them, settling by one side of the fire where he was relatively alone. He nonchalantly unhitched a bat from his belt, drew his knife, and began skinning it.

While Simmond and Vitalar sat down, Ferwyn arched an eyebrow as he watched Banin’s activities.

“What art thou doing with those bats?” he asked the ranger.

“Sustenance.” Banin replied without looking. “Cave bats make good fare, although the vampire bats have more inherent flavour.”

Ferwyn went green.

Banin stopped skinning for a moment to look at him. There was a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. “What dost thou think Dorna Ironfist hast been feeding thee for the past month? Beggars can’t be choosers.”

Ferwyn made a sound in his throat and almost doubled over. Banin resumed his gory work.

An hour or so later - Vitalar could not tell in this infernal dungeon - found the old knight staring at the flames. He still could not sleep. The watch had changed. Raltiir and Rodrick replaced Simmond and Ferwyn, while Saloria vehemently insisted on remaining awake. She could be as stubborn as an oxe, that one.

Some time before, Banin had requested to study the map after roast bat. The ranger’s good sense of direction coupled with an awareness of his surroundings could only benefit the party, he saw a glint of gold in his hand. A small circle of gold. A ring perhaps? The glint was gone as quickly as it had come, the object in question disappearing into a pocket. The ranger returned to intently studying the ragged map.

Several minutes passed when Banin rose and returned the map to Vitalar. As the ranger stood looking down at the knight, his black eyes seemed to swallow the light of the campfire, black pools of foreboding.

“Done studying?” Vitalar asked, trying to sound as congenial as possible.

“I have committed it to memory.” Banin replied stoically.

Vitalar waited for him to elaborate. Moments passed, yet still Banin merely looked down at him. Suppressing a sigh, he realized that the taciturn man would not budge unless questioned directly.

“What difficulties dost thou foresee?” he asked the ranger.

Banin’s eyes twinkled for a moment. “The prisons, while incomplete, may be an impediment.”

An impediment? Possibly more than a dozen goblins and trolls stationed there, and he called it an impediment?

“Long-range attack to dispatch forward sentries and any goblin sling wielders should give us significant advantage, while thine knights and warriors deal with the strength of the trolls.” Banin continued.

Vitalar was mildly exasperated by the way the ranger put emphasis on ‘thine’. Didn’t he consider himself a true member of the party? His tenaciously aloof nature was beginning to cause irritation. The old knight unrolled the map and bade Banin to point out the trouble spot.

Banin’s finger came to rest on a bridge that led away from the prison guard chamber, spanning across a deep and wide gorge called the Chasm of Fire. Across the bridge was a hall and an incomplete section that linked to a myriad of passages and smaller chambers, most of which had been caved in or had never been finished by the mountainfolk builders. The ranger’s finger traced along the bridge and into the middle of the hall. Vitalar was interested in the fact that a Shrine was present, but the ranger interrupted his thoughts.

“’Tis the hall that concerns me.” he said. “Milius informed me that before the Seers’scrying was interrupted by the mad mage’s own negating powers, this hall was relatively free of sentries. I suspect habitation by less than mellow beast in any number of these chambers. A number of passages lead in various directions, although with the quakes who can say how many have been blocked? The goblins and trolls may also have set ambush platoons near this stairway - which I believe leads to the infamous mines - and at this passage to what is purported to be the mage’s quarters, old Sir Cabirus’s demesne.” His finger circled the black mark that represented the descending stairway and the entrance to the passage, both in close proximity to each other.

“We take the passage.” Vitalar said.

Banin’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Sir Vitalar, while it may be the faster route, it is more than likely to be heavily guarded. I believe we should take the stairway down and go through the mines. A stairway somewhere there can take us up to the mad mage’s experimenting chambers - ” He paused distastefully on the word “ - and straight to the heart of his domain.”

“And face the mine overseers?” Vitalar asked him incredulously. “Art thou stupid?”

Banin nearly sighed. “The mines are large and labyrinthine. Not all parts of it are guarded. We could easily slip by under my guidance, killing any sentries in our path.”

Vitalar shook his head. “No. Too dangerous. We take the passage.”

Banin’s lips thinned tightly, but he said nothing, nodding in acquiescent.

Vitalar’s finger came to a blank section of the map that was the route to the prisons. “Do we know anything about this?”

Banin shrugged almost imperceptibly. “’Tis said dread spiders dig pit-traps there. I know little more.”

Vitalar dismissed him. Frankly, the ranger’s aloofness seemed like some sort of defiance towards him and the purpose of the party. What lurked behind those dark eyes? A concern for later.

Weariness soon caught up with Vitalar, jaws cracking as he yawned. He lay down on his bedroll and assumed as comfortable a position as was possible - not easy on a surface covered with rocks and debris - closing his eyes and falling into a deep sleep.

It was not a pleasant one either. It was plagued with troublesome nightmares of demons of fire and creatures from hell, cackling mages of dubious sanity and beasts of shadow who lived for the blood of others. Who could derive their true meaning, so wreathed in mystery were they?

Vitalar decided to investigate. He approached Simmond and Saloria.

“Saloria, calm down.” Simmond said, patting her shoulder, but the paladin would have none of it.

“That lecher made a pass at me!” she hissed furiously, giving Rodrick a sidelong glare. “Canst thou believe the temerity of the man? I wilt not be looked at or treated like a piece of meat! If he gives me another one of those foul looks, he will be a knight minus his manhood!”

Vitalar nearly smiled. So that was where Rodrick’s black eye had come from.

Simmond gave up his attempts at pacifying the thoroughly piqued Saloria when he noticed Vitalar. He half turned to meet him, and the look in his eyes foretold of bad news.

“Someone has taken the oil flasks.” he stated simply.

Vitalar looked down at the lantern by the great knight’s feet, fearful for their light source. The fire within still burned brightly, but without oil who could say how long it would last?

“When didst thou discover this?” he asked.

“Nigh six minutes ago.” Simmond said. He had a penchant for being precise, and if that ideal could not be achieved, approximations would do just fine.

“And I’ll bet I can say who pilfered them.” Saloria grumbled, emphasizing her point by squinting at Rodrick.

The hothead glowered in her direction for a moment, but upon seeing her glare at him, quickly averted his gaze, having suddenly taken an interest in the dirt floor.

“That lubricious so won’t be bedding any maiden once I’m through with him.” she growled lowly, teeth clenched.

“How long will the lantern last without additional oil?” queried Vitalar.

“Perhaps another hour.” Simmond replied. “We will be passing the enclave of the mages on our way to the seventh level, will we not? We can barter for more oil there, should they prove to be uncharitable. The lantern should last long enough for us to reach their demesne.”

Virtues knew, desperation and privation made most denizens of the Abyss as uncharitable as a corsair out of Buccaneer’s Den - as just as vicious to boot - hence, he would not be surprised to learn the same avaricious frame of mind had befallen the seers. Disappointed, yes, but not surprised.

“On the lower levels lanterns more often than not will be unnecessary.” Banin’s voice made Vitalar start.

Glaring at the man who had suddenly appeared as if from nowhere - he was like a damn wisp at times - Vitalar harrumphed in disgruntlement. Banin noted the stares of the others with his trademark dispassionate disposition.

“How kind of thee to drop in unannounced, Banin.” Vitalar said irritably.

Banin gave a slight shrug. “Stealth must be second nature if one is to roam the Great Forest safely. Or the Abyss, for that matter.” he added with a touch of distaste. “Lava is hot enough to glow, Sir Vitalar. I only foresee the use of the lantern in a few places, if the map is to be believed.” He sounded like he was lecturing children. “Of course, should the seers prove avaricious for whatever reason, we could always ‘borrow’ the oil we need.”

Vitalar’s worn visage darkened, but it was Saloria who spoke, all acerbic in her tone, “Oh, and thank thee for allowing us to drink from thine fountain of wisdom, ranger. I suppose thou dost also know the identity of the culprit who thieved the flasks?”

The ranger’s dark eyes regarded her for a split-second before he responded, “I have but two suspects. Rodrick and Raltiir. The former is a rogue approaching imminent rebellion, while the latter…well, needless to say, never trust a man who was once a ruthless brigand.” With that, he turned on his heel and left them to their business.

“Never trust a man with virtually no past.” Saloria muttered under her breath, glaring at the ranger’s retreating back.

“In my line of experience, the ranger has always proven to be a trump.” Simmond said, glancing at her sidelong.

Saloria gave a most un-womanlike grunt. “I wouldn’t stake thy honour on it, knight.”

She stalked off in a huff, purposely passing Rodrick at a perilously close distance, who did his best to assiduously study his boots.

“Should we search packs, Sir Vitalar?” Simmond asked, neither expectant nor demanding.

“And spread distrust and dissention among the party?” Vitalar said. “No. This party is close enough to splintering apart as it is. One loose word of this incident and we’ll be lucky enough to reach the seers in one piece.”

Simmond appeared vaguely skeptical. “Thou dost propose something else then?”

“Aye.” replied Vitalar with a nod. “I believe we have a lit fuse in the make-up of this group. I begin to rethink my trust of the others. We need a close circle of only the most trustworthy to watch the actions of our companions. In this way, we may even find the thief, among other things.”

Simmond’s brow arched. “I take it that I am a member of this close circle since thou art discussing such a clandestine arrangement with me?” he said dryly.

“Indeed. You are on of the few I know I can rely on. Ferwyn shall too be a member of this circle.” Vitalar said.

“And what of Sir Eador?”

“No. He is becoming too friendly towards Raltiir for my liking.” Vitalar replied curtly.

“So be it then.” Simmond said, seemingly unfazed by Vitalar’s sudden distrust of the majority of his comrades. “I will let Ferwyn know of the circumstances.”

“Be furtive about it.” Vitalar warned him.

Simmond bowed his head and turned away to inform Ferwyn of his newfound ‘close circle’ membership.

In the subsequent minutes, the party had readied themselves to resume the journey and quickly broke camp, heading down the long and gloomy stairway. Vitalar made certain that he did not keep both Simmond and Ferwyn too close to him so as to allay any possible suspicions of their secret council, rotating them throughout different positions in the group. Eador held the lantern at his side this time, Raltiir and Ferwyn behind them while the others took the rear further back. The stairway’s descent was straight and steep, the steps and their constituent paving stones missing in places, testament to their incomplete status.

On the walls were scrawled strange runes, barely readable. Of those they could regard as legible, the words were certainly no source of inspiration, saying things such as, ‘Hell down below! Go back or die!’, ‘Vilus’s reign is one of blood and torture’, and ‘All who venture here of good intent are doomed to become prey of a malcontent!’ to name a sordid few.

They came into a twisting corridor that led into a greater hall, and it was then that the intense heat maligned them. Everyone instantly began to sweat from every pore in earnest, though none opted to remove their armour. The lower into the Abyss one plunged the more deadly the myriad of foes to be encountered.

If Vitalar recalled correctly, a large central chamber with the sealed off volcano shaft should have lain ahead, at which three main halls - one of which they were currently in - met. A fourth path led from the meeting chamber to the domain of the seers.

It was at this point that Banin took the lead - under Vitalar’s command, of course - quickening the pace of the party and entering the shaft chamber. It was here they had to be careful of step, for rivulets of lava had somehow found their way onto the scarred and pitted marble floor, flowing at a leisurely, almost languid speed that belied their deadliness. The chamber itself was surrounded by a nearly entirely encompassing trench between the walls and the floor where a stream of lava had cut into. Off to one side cascaded a lava fall, the source of the infernal heat.

“Even my kinsfolk would have been hard pressed to make anything admirable out of this hell.” Davarius said, wiping his sweaty brow with the back of his hand.

“It only gets worse the deeper you go.” Eador said.

He had blown out the lantern ever since first crossing over into the shaft chamber, as the fiery red glow of the lava around them provided ample illumination.

Banin pointed ahead. The sign of Sir Cabirus, the purple tapestry of the ankh, hung on a wall flanked by two entrances into what appeared to be a network of further corridors. This was the enclave of the Ancient Illuminated Seers of the Moonstone.

At last, they had made it a safe haven. It did not help to assuage Vitalar’s diffidence to know that this would be the last true secure reprieve before they plunged into the deepest nightmare of the Underworld.

“A band of brothers this size I have not seen for many months, not since Cabirus’s death, Void rest his soul.” Shelinor said, his voice a stereotypical combination of archaic story teller and enlightened scholar. Such was the nature of the Seers. “Thou art brothers-in-arms, as it were. On some noble quest, I’d wager?”

“Not all are brothers!” Saloria interjected rather indignantly. “This band of adventurers has a sister as well!”

“And one I’d not like to tangle with.” said Davarius. “She be as a capricious as the north seas, and as beautiful as an ocean nymph.”

Some of the party laughed, with the exception of Rodrick and Banin. Saloria actually went beet red.

Shelinor smiled. “’Tis a good thing to still find mirth in a place as mirthless as the Abyss.” His discerning gaze fell on Vitalar, whom he rightly determined as the leader. “How can I help thee, sir knight?”

“We seek temporary shelter before we move on to the lower levels.” Vitalar replied.

“’Tis good to see there are those still fight for the Virtues here. Why, not too long ago five knights of the Order of the Crux Ansata came here to vanquish the dire forcing coalescing below. A valiant platoon of men if ever I saw one.” Shelinor’s brow furrowed. “Alas, their quest did not end in success. The red mage decimated them, I hear, in near entirety. Only two survived to return to the enclave.”

Vitalar’s eyes widened. A trace amount of hope found its way into his heart, and he eagerly began to pump the seer for information. “Knight Trevane’s party? Canst thou take us to him?”

“Aye, but of course.” Shelinor answered amicably.

The yellow-robed and cloaked mage led them into a series of twisting marble corridors, passing by a number of cramped sages’ quarters and closed doors. The dilapidation of the Abyss was slowly creeping into the Seers’ domain as well it seemed, as seen in the odd pile of garbage or item strewn here and there in their path. It was common knowledge that mages were very busy bees, to the extent of forgetting about performing menial tasks - like sanitation - but Vitalar could see that ruin and taint were inexorably seeping here too.

As if reading his charge’s thoughts, Shelinor spoke, “I do sincerely apologize about the current state of our abode, but our peers are rather occupied with their own studies and the sorry condition of this pest-ridden region at the moment. Most of our dependants fled in the post days of Cabirus’s death.” The old seer shrugged apologetically.

Vitalar was amazed the seers could so devotedly continue to pursue their studies in such dreary conditions as these. Unbearable heat, the constant threat of attack by prowling predators - it was then that Vitalar realized that he no longer felt any heat. Unusual, especially since they had just passed a wide gap in the wall that revealed a lake of bubbling lava below. Magic was at work here.

Again, Shelinor amazed the veteran knight with his astute observation. Lifting a grizzled eyebrow at Vitalar’s tinge of perplexity and said, “’Tis a spell one of our more promising mages, Vilus, created. Unfortunately, he went mad and did not deign to tell his fellow seers of the runic combination, and hence we only have a scarce few enchanted Frost spells left. Alas.” He added the last word rather unenthusiastically.

Other seers passed them by, impassive in both countenance and demeanour, moving about the enclave with a nonchalance that bordered almost on complacence. They seemed oblivious to the visitors passing through their domain, concerned only with their own tasks. Most wore red, yellow, or blue cloaks, trimmed at the bottom so as not to impede the feet.

At last they reached an open chamber, many paces long and wide, a mess hall of sorts where at a single elongated table sat a dejected looking warrior in beaten plate and torn chainmail. His head was wrapped in a bloody bandage, the weathered face focused on the blatant surface of the wooden table.

Vitalar knew who this was. Sir Trevane! But where was the second knight Shelinor had mentioned?

Shelinor himself seemed to frown upon seeing the knight, as if having noticed him for the first time. “Well, there thou art. I am sorry for my brusqueness, but I have to resume my thankless task of vigil at the main entrance. I will make certain that someone comes soon to see to thy needs. Perhaps we may even talk later. Thou dost have tidings of happenings above, I am sure.”

And with that, Shelinor left them with unprecedented haste.

By this point, Trevane was regarding the newcomers. He had a bleak look in his eyes, as if having drank all the foulness of the world and now spewing it out in the manifestation of despondency.

The look in his eyes frightened Vitalar. It was the look of a man who no longer had any care left in his being, a worse blend of cynicism and the backlash of some horrible revelation, a stony visage that told of a once proud warrior who now wanted naught but death. The cruelest part of this debacle of character was that Trevane had been one of the staunchest believers in the Virtues. But that was a long time ago. Was the same fate that had stolen Sir Nolan and so many others beginning to taint him too?

“So, Vitalar, thou hast come at last.” Trevane said, the words coming out like a croak. “Is Dorna with thee?”

“Nay.” Vitalar replied. He came closer, but carefully, as if approaching an agitated giant tan rat. “Trevane, how goes it? Where is the other survivor?”

Trevane didn’t appear to be listening. His eyes had taken an absent glaze, staring right through the party as if they didn’t exist.

“Trevane? Answer, please!” No response. “Trevane!”

“We struck them hard, oh how we struck them hard…but all for naught.” Trevane mumbled, oblivious to his surroundings. “There were too many. Too many. Gray goblins. Trolls, both dark and great. My men, they fought, oh they did, valiantly as befits a Knight of the Order. But naught did it avail…naught…” He paused, tears glistening in his pale blue eyes. “Koraci, Telmun, Fersgin…all gone…all gone down…” And silently the knight began to weep, cupping his forehead as his shoulders trembled and heaved with reticent sobs that never escaped his hoarse throat.

Koraci, Telmun, and Fersgin - in Trevane’s absent-minded grief he had given Vitalar the names of those who had died below. Prior to embarking on the quest, he had made certain to memorize the names of the members of the ill-fated party that had preceded them. If only two survived, as Shelinor said, that left Trevane here and another called Gustaro.

“Trevane, where is Gustaro?” Vitalar demanded more forcefully this time. There was too little time to deal with those stricken with compunction.

Trevane looked him squarely in the eye now, scrubbing away tears with the back of a scarred and callused hand. “He is gone. Left to fight the golem.”

Rodrick snorted while Eador exclaimed, “Is he crazy? He’s just received the routing of his life and then he goes off to fight a golem?!”

“Got a death wish has he, I’d wager.” Raltiir grunted dourly.

“Nobody has ever won against that creature before.” Ferwyn said. “He is a dead man if the golem decides against sparing his life.”

Vitalar turned for the doorway. “I must rescue him then. ‘Tis my duty.” He still remembered the way to the island in the lake of lava, near the shrine.

In an instant the controversy burst from a mere ember to a fully-fledged conflagration. Everybody seemed to be spluttering something at once. Banin actually reached out and grasped his shoulder.

“Commander, we have no time for this.” he whispered urgently into his ear, pressing close. “The red mage’s forces grow ever stronger. We have only a limited window of opportunity!”

“I am - no, we are honour-bound to help him! He is making a grave misjudgment by facing this golem in his current state.” Vitalar retorted aloud. The cacophony of arguing voices grew louder. “I seek to save as many of my Order as I can!”

Banin began to whisper something rapidly to him in reply about Gustaro and a ‘lost cause’, but Raltiir’s bellowing drowned him out.

“I say we leave the glory-seeking idiot to his fate! Let him be smashed into a pulp! Only a fool would seek to trouble a golem anyway.” Raltiir grouched.

“But he is our brother!” argued Ferwyn. “We are obliged to assist him!”

“Audacious is what he is.” Eador interjected. “Besides, does not the law say that fighting the golem is a one-versus-one match only? We would be dishonouring him and ourselves by rendering aid!”

“Thou art callous!” Ferwyn snapped. “We are honour-bound to help him!”

“Honour-bound! Honour-bound! SQUAWK!” Rodrick snapped, performing a fair imitation of a parrot. “Bah! Hail, Ferwyn! I’ve noticed how thou dost mimic Vitalar all the time. Maybe thou shouldst start perching on his shoulder!” He burst out into scornful laughter, though no one else laughed with him.

“Honourless knave!” Saloria spat and confronted the rogue, adding a lurid imprecation of her own. “Thou dost not know the meaning of companionship!”

“I will show you companionship!” Rodrick leered suggestively, taking a step towards her. His insolence was back it seemed, black eye or not.

“Fiend! Prepare to face my blade!” Saloria snarled, smoothly drawing out the sword from her scabbard.

Rodrick’s smile only broadened, and he unsheathed his longsword almost casually, handling the hilt with obvious deftness and experience. “I would rather caress thee in manners other than with steel, but if you so wish it, so be it. I will try not to hurt thee too much, little duckling.”

Saloria roared and raised her blade. Rodrick deflected the first blow, but before the second could land, Vitalar’s sharp bellow ended all arguments.

“SILENCE!!!” he roared.

All stopped and looked at him, even Trevane. Rodrick and Saloria sheathed their swords at his baleful stare. The silence was deafening.

“We will be going after Gustaro, and that is final.” he said, leaving no room for ambiguity.

“Oh, I would not advise taking that course of action, good knight.” said a withered yet wise voice.

Through the doorway entered a red-cloaked mage, followed by another mage in blue. Both were aged but somehow regal in their bearing, for the full knowledge of their vast power in the mystic arts made them seem almost conceited.

“For I have seen the look in this Gustaro’s eyes, and it was one of absolute bleakness. He had a death wish, good sirs. He wanted to atone for his failure below and alleviate his dire compunctions with one last valiant battle.” said the mage in red. “He did not wish to return. Trying to convince him otherwise would have done naught but waste thine breath.” He regarded the band of warriors before him solemnly. “Even if the golem decided to spare him, he had no intention of coming back alive.”

“Regardless, mage, I intend to recover his remains at the very least.” Vitalar said.

“Thou wilt not find much. This is what is left of him.”

The blue mage threw down a sword hilt onto the floor, a piece of jagged blade still protruding out of the pommel itself.

“Woe is me!” Trevane suddenly exclaimed. He seemed livelier in his sordid grief than ever. “’Tis Gustaro’s sword! Now only I am left…all alone…no one left…” His maundering trailed off.

“He fell head first into the lava surrounding the island. A shame, really.” said the blue mage.

“Alas.” Rodrick said, dripping with insincerity.

Saloria and Ferwyn both gave him looks that could have withered steel.

“I am Morlock.” the red mage said. “And my companion here is known as Dominus.” He gestured towards his blue friend.

“Well met.” Vitalar nodded in his direction.

Saloria had begun to regard to seers with no small amount of suspicion. She wasn’t willing to let the matter of Gustaro’s death drop so easily. “know thou didst not do Gustaro in thyself?” she demanded.

Morlock’s countenance was cool as he replied, “And for what gain, might I ask, would I wish to kill him for? We seers have long been allies of the Order of the Crux Ansata, even from the inception of the Colony. We seek no conflict, especially when we have enough troubles of our own.”

Dominus stepped in. “I was in the vicinity of the island cataloguing pests and various items when I sighted him duelling the golem. A riveting battle it was, but the golem was a creation of the seers that can not be destroyed.”

“Saloria, let the matter lie.” Vitalar told her sternly. “He has gone to the Void now. Let him rest.”

Saloria stubbornly bit her lip, but kept silent.

Dominus’s eyes fell on her jewelled sword. “Thou hast come across many strange and arcane items indeed. That is the Sword of Accuracy, I believe.”

Saloria was nonplussed at the mage’s sudden and spontaneous identification of her precious weapon.

Dominus’s discerning gaze then drifted to Banin’s bow, slung across the lithe ranger’s back. “Ah, a jewelled bow. Now that is a rarity if ever I saw one.”

Vitalar frowned and studied Banin’s bow hard; the mage was right, it was jewelled! A single crimson gem adorned its central section where the hand was to hold it. Strange that he had never noticed it before. The ranger himself started; now that was a rarity.

“If I recall correctly, it comes from a nomadic race that hail from a distant desert realm called -”

“Yes, it is a very fine weapon. The bowstring has not needed replacing once.” Banin said hastily. He wasn’t so stoic now.

Dominus looked a little piqued to be interrupted so, but Morlock rolled on nonetheless. “Well, I hear thy party seeks to go to the nether levels below. Thy choice, of course, but be warned that the denizens there are not very hospitable towards visitors.”

“We seek to destroy the despotic Tyball and eradicate his followers once and for all.” said Vitalar assuredly.

“Not any easy task.” Morlock replied. “Tyball was one of our most skilled mages. He trained the likes of mages like Vilus and the twin seers Sulor and Belor. It comes as little surprise that all three went mad in search of their own daunting quests, what with Vilus delving ever more into the darker arts and the twins seeking to find and harness the purported powers of the Key of Courage, wherever that may be. Tyball himself was something of a maverick, adamantly refusing to conform to our laws - set for good reason, mind you - and incessantly seeking out greater power, no matter how corrupt. He left us months ago, he and his brother Garamon setting up camp on the level below us in order to investigate supposed disturbances in the barrier fabric between dimensions. We believe it was somewhere there he lost his sanity, rallying all sorts of forces to his banner for reasons unknown. Of his brother’s fate we know nothing. It is said that Tyball discovered the ability to teleport in and out of the Underworld at whim, even without the aid of moonstones.”

“Zounds!” cried Rodrick quite sarcastically. “He should have taken his medicine, methinks.”

“Keep thy mouth shut.” Raltiir warned him menacingly.

“Yew Security anyone?” Rodrick retorted snidely.

“Whelp!” Raltiir snapped.

“What art thou going to do? Waylay me?” Rodrick snapped. “Ho! Here’s a good tale I’ve heard! Raltiir could cross any rural bridge he wanted, even if trolls lived beneath! It was he who demanded a fare from the trolls!” He chuckled smugly. “No, wait! Raltiir is a troll! Ha! Ha!”

“Thou dost attempt to taint my honour?” Raltiir growled. “Thou hadst better take that back, while thou still have teeth.”

With a wave of his hand, Morlock’s mysterious arts made it so that sound no longer came from the two antagonist’s mouths even though they mouthed the words. It took them a while to realize this, and very comical did they appear. To their great chagrin, the others were smirking at their newfound disability.

“Now that that slightly annoying altercation is muted, let us continue.” Morlock said. “Dost thou require anything from us before you move on to your daunting task?”

“Only a few hours rest and some light sources. Oil, perhaps?” Vitalar said.

“Rest you may have, for we will both benefit if you succeed.” Morlock placed unnerving emphasis on ‘if’. “As for oil, we have little to spare. We can offer you some used torches, but that is all.”

“Good enough.” Vitalar answered.

Discussion of events occurring above ensued over the next half hour, covering the increased presence of bandits and pests, the perpetual war between the Order and the trolls, and a number of other aspects of the breakdown of the Abyss. It was rather disturbing that absolutely nothing good and mirthful was brought up during the conversation.

Upon Vitalar’s request, Knight Trevane had agreed to join the group, despondent even as he was.

“What does it matter? I’ll die anyway, sooner or later…” he had said dejectedly while picking up his notched longsword.

The Seers didn’t bother to see them off as they descended the long and gloomy stairway. Their footsteps echoed down it, bouncing off the gray brick walls. The ceiling sloped down in tandem with the steps, set uncomfortably low so that Simmond’s head nearly brushed it.

This stairway was even longer than the one they had descended much earlier in the day, and at points became so narrow that one man could barely fit through. Oddly enough, the deeper down they went, the more moisture was tangible. It was becoming dank. A stark contrast to the fiery conditions above.

“We are approaching an underground river.” Banin reported.

The stairway had once again become wide enough for two men to walk abreast with comfortable leeway for room.

Vitalar recalled tales from the days of Blackthorn, told by legendary warriors like Sentri and Maxwell, where the Abyss had spanned beneath the earth to reach out and touch the bellies of other despicable dungeons, and that massive subterranean lakes and rivers had been abound back then. Perhaps the river they were approaching was the remnant of one of those ancient waterways. Much had changed over the years since then, with quakes reshaping the underworld and destroying many of the vast vaults and galleries while cutting off the access routes to the other dungeon complexes. Vitalar wasn’t entirely sure that all the tunnels linking to the dungeons were entirely collapsed.

After what seemed a long time, they entered a chamber, one that appeared to be an up-thrust, broad pinnacle of rock connected to the cavern wall. A short distance off was a deep chasm where a river flowed, its current deceptively placid.

Davarius stood on the edge of the precipice, looking down at the river below. “Well, there’s more than enough water for everyone to drink should thirst ever become an issue. Unless, of course, Tyball’s used his magics to taint it somehow…” He left the morbid thought float on their minds.

“It appears peaceful.” Eador said, approaching the edge. “A good place to cool off.”

He picked up a stone and threw it into the chasm. It broke into the river’s surface with a splash, and suddenly a plethora of dark greenish tentacles burst from the water and viciously thrashed the location where the stone had hit.

“Deep lurkers.” Banin elaborated with him. “Very dangerous. Very aggressive.”

“I can see that.” Eador said dryly.

Across the chasm was a landing of shorter height, where a bridge connecting from an adjacent passage linked two platforms.

“It is there we wish to go.” Banin pointed across the chasm. “Near the mines that are said to be haunted.”

Vitalar ordered his underlings to secure the vicinity. Beyond a square column of brick was another passage that twisted off to the right.

Left from the stairway was another passage that led into darkness. He had Saloria and Davarius ignite another torch and investigate the leftmost passage while the rest of the party remained, keeping vigilant. They returned a few minutes later reporting nothing but a mossy-stoned chamber, empty and devoid of any interest.

“According to the map and my memory,” Banin began as the party prepared to take off, “there is a small goblin outpost beyond the passage ahead. I have a plan for how to deal with them quickly.”

“Go on.” Vitalar said, arms folded beneath his chest.

“We will need somebody to distract them, for there are a scarce few humans who serve Tyball. They will demand for me to show a medallion.” Banin explained.

“Send Rodrick. He’ll make good bait.” Raltiir said.

“I’ll tell thee what, Raltiir. Why don’t thou goest find thyself a sword…and throw thyself on it!” Rodrick retorted.

“I’ll throw thee on mine in a moment if thou dost not-”

“Quiet, you two!” Vitalar snapped.

“I will go.” Banin volunteered. “I have dealt with goblins before - they are none too bright.”

“I’ll second that notion.” Davarius grunted.

“No torchlight. They have their own at the outpost, and once they see a party of ten armed men they will rightfully assume that an assault is underway. I will need thee in shadow. I will talk with the guards for a few moments, and when I kill the leader, that will be the signal to charge. I will need Saloria to use her magic to confuse the enemy.”

The paladin nodded in acknowledgment, face grim.

When all was set, they snuffed the torch and, guided by what dim light there was present, headed for the passage. At the sharp turn the rest of the party stayed behind in a shadowy corner while Banin went on ahead to the outpost. A campfire illuminated the place, as did flaming brands in sconces on the walls, where at least six goblins resided. Most wore rotting leather vests and beaten ringmail, armed with scimitars and cudgels. One stood at a massive iron door, sling in hand. A sorry, sordid lot indeed.

The leader, a slouched, pockmarked face gray with gleaming red eyes was the first to notice the approaching intruder. His horned helm of iron nearly fell off his head when he started up suddenly, drawing a notched scimitar. His brisk action refuelled the vigilance of the others, their untrusting eyes all focused on Banin.

“Hey! Who you?” the leader demanded gruffly.

“One of Tyball’s spies from the upper levels.” Banin replied smoothly, stopping three paces away as the goblin pointed his sword at him.

“That’s close enough, man scum!” the goblin snapped. “You say you spy, eh? We get a few spies lately. Like some knights a couple days ago. Kill them did we.” The goblin started laughing and gestured towards an armoured corpse a few feet away. It was the remains of a knight.

Banin merely glanced at the body for a moment, then returned his unwavering gaze to the goblin captain.

“Yes, but they did not have ranger from you with them, did they?” Banin said coolly.

Half a second later, the goblin’s wrist was in Banin’s lithe hand that belied his strength so well. With a twist, he spun the goblin’s back to his face and put his other arm around the creature’s neck, manipulating his prisoner’s sword arm to cut down the first goblin that leapt into action. Reversing the blade and shoving it into the captain’s belly, he released his body as the other party members joined the fray. A sling stone flew by his cheek - the goblin at the door was frantically reloading his projectile weapon.

Fluidly did Banin draw his bow, nocking an arrow and taking aim before even the fumbling sling thrower could prepare himself. The clothyard shaft took the creature through the throat and it fell in a spraying fountain of his own sanguinity.

Vitalar roared as he waded into battle, his blade meeting with the scimitar of a sentinel. He spat profanities at him in his own hoarse tongue, pressing the attack with prejudice. What it lacked in skill it made up for in ardent aggression, and Vitalar found himself backed up to the wall on a desperate offensive.

“Vas An Wis!” Saloria’s strange blend of melodious and vindictive voice rose above the cries of battle.

Suddenly, Vitalar’s enemy blinked in confusion and began to stumble, swinging his blade at other targets in a desultory fashion without any hope of striking anything. His two companions did the same, and as such the outpost was quickly overwhelmed.

Injuries to the party were almost non-existent. Raltiir had suffered a graze to his left temple from a passing sling stone. Saloria’s ‘Mani’ spell was ample treatment for it. As they assembled before the iron door, adrenaline and the thrill of battle still coursing through their veins, Vitalar noticed Trevane lingering around the corpse of the nameless knight.

“Koraci…I’m sorry, old friend. I have no right to be living when you are dead.” he mumbled mournfully, hanging his head.

“Trevane! We must hurry!” Vitalar yelled.

The dismal knight started as if shaken out of a deep sleep, slowly plodding over to the group. Banin tugged on the pull chain and the door swung open.

A goblin gasped in surprise, but did not have a chance to cry out as Ferwyn’s sword took it through the heart. In the party stormed, down a corridor and around a corner till they found themselves on the bridge. It bent towards the left, kissing the edge of the next precipice. Across they went, barging into a main hall and coming tot blows with another band of gray goblins who had been busy guarding the construction of a portcullis some distance down.

Blood sprayed as the invaders struck with a vengeance, mercilessly slaying the stunned sentinels. Rodrick cut a swath with his wickedly fast blade, dodging crippling blows and riposting with deadly efficiency. Simmond lumbered in, Raltiir and Eador guarding his flanks, and together they hewed the resistance.

Ferwyn frantically warded off circling goblins, longsword in hand, striking his attackers with cold steel. It was not a pleasant experience, as indicated by the goblins cries of pain.

Vitalar ran to his aid, a sling stone bouncing off his horned plate helm, an arrow streaking over his shoulder in response and burrowing into the sling wielder’s chest. Vitalar exhaled a relieved breath and leapt into the action, cutting through a goblin’s spine with a vicious swing, jerking the blade out to seek another victim. Another goblin turned to face him, only to be impaled through the back with Ferwyn’s sword. Vitalar disembowelled the last goblin that had been harrying his fellow knight and together they plunged into the thicker melee.

Saloria was pressing forward, zealous in her virtual massacre of the goblins. Here blade was caked with coagulating blood, and it sprayed kegs’ worth more with its unnerving precision. Rodrick was the furthermost ahead, right near the entrance where the portcullis was being built, resolutely slicing a sentinel’s throat and thrusting his sword through another. An arrow took a second sling wielding goblin a few paces to his left, skewering him through the eye.

Vitalar ducked as a goblin swung a cudgel for his head, launching himself up and stabbing him in the crotch with little tenderness. His enemy went down with a horrible cry, but Vitalar ignored him and strode purposefully towards the gate.

The sentinels were close to being annihilated when finally the trolls came. At least two heads taller than the average man, the trolls - the feral kind from the looks of them - marched in without co-ordination, armed with heavy wooden clubs with rusty, twisted nails shoved through. They wore nothing but rags around their nether regions, their reddish-brown leathery hide serving as natural armour. Four of the looming beats, whose fangs dripped saliva and breath reverberated off the stone walls.

“Defilers!” Davarius roared, hefting his bloody axe threateningly. “Dare to spoil the beauty of the stonework of me folk with yer foul presence? I’ll show ye!”

He charged, shouting curses in his own alien tongue, and the others joined him. Simmond and Saloria, Rodrick and Raltiir, Eador and Ferwyn, Banin from far off, all of them plunging into battle against the trolls. Their giant adversaries were slow but nonetheless possessed of far more strength, using innate brawn to lend fearsome deadliness to their swinging clubs.

Davarius, as zealous as he was, scored a graze across one troll’s arm, but was struck in the chest and sent a number of paces back for his audacity. He rolled away with a grunt as the same troll crushed the stones of the position he had just vacated, quickly rising to his feet to tenaciously rejoin the fray.

Vitalar, positioned further back, met the attack of a goblin sentry, easily dispatching him with a slash across the chest. He saw Trevane cut down a sentry with a bloodthirsty scream, then freeze and turn to stare down the gaping maw of the entrance of what the map indicated to be the haunted mines. It was an ominous black in there, a hungry darkness that threatened to swallow all who were foolish enough to tread there.

“Trevane!” Vitalar called out.

Trevane wasn’t listening. His stare never wavered from the blackness of the entrance to the mines. His eyes were vacant.

“I hear them…my comrades. They are calling me…” he moaned. “I hear thee, brothers. I’m coming!”

With a mournful shriek, he dropped his sword and ran into the mines, quickly enveloped by the blackness.

“Trevane! No!” Vitalar cried.

He tried to give chase, but something grabbed his legs and tripped him, so that he fell flat on his face, losing his sword.

“I will eat you, nasty knight!” a goblin rasped behind him, crawling upon his back.

Vitalar could see nothing but the stone floor, but he heard the ring of the knife as it was hastily drawn out of its sheath. He awaited the painful stab in the back or cut across the throat, but all the goblin did was give a watery cry and suddenly a weight was lifted from the small of his back. Vitalar quickly rose to see Banin step away from the goblin, shortsword. The creature’s throat had been sliced open. It still convulsed on the ground, blood pooling around its head.

“Thank thee.” Vitalar said to Banin.

The ranger merely nodded as if it had been nothing and returned to the fighting. Once Vitalar had picked up his sword again, he saw that three of the trolls were down. The other was being driven into a corner by his companions, howling as it was repeatedly slashed.

Finally, with a furious roar Davarius brought down his battle axe upon its large skull, cleaving it in two. The monster slumped to the ground and moved no more.

The battle appeared at an end. Of the party, none appeared seriously injured, only tired, with the exception of Raltiir, who had had the wind knocked out of him by one of the trolls. Although dazed, he would recover quickly enough. Rodrick had disappeared for a while, but it soon turned out that he had gone on a reckless foray inside the outpost. He returned with the blood splatters to prove it.

The others ignored his obnoxious boasting. Vitalar’s eyes were focused on the mine entrance where Trevane had fled.

“He isn’t coming back.” Banin said.

“I must agree with Banin.” Simmond interjected. “We are at a critical point in our quest. To stop now and search or even wait for Trevane is folly.”

“In Morlock’s own words, he had the ‘look’ in his eyes.” Eador muttered ominously.

“Good riddance.” Raltiir grumbled, wincing as he touched the tender spot where his rib had been hit beneath his hauberk. “No need for a madman in this valiant band of adventurers.” He added the last with no small amount of sarcasm.

Vitalar gave acquiescence, although he felt that Trevane’s loss was his responsibility. That was one less knight of the Order of the Crux Ansata. They were being eradicated like vermin, and the annihilation was only gaining momentum. It was a not a very pleasant thought at all.

“Let us depart from here while the red mage’s forces are still unaware of their situation.” Vitalar commanded.