Another heavy wooden door secured the far side of the smugglers’ lair. The bolt, fortunately, was on their side. With Torgul in the lead and Sarah holding the silver hand, the party again moved off. The passage beyond was wide and smooth. It was obviously the route by which the casks of uisge were hauled to the storage area.
Thurmond sidled up next to Sarah, still feeling the embarrassing sting of his confession. He attempted to ease into a conversation by stating the obvious.
“Can you imagine what it must have been like for those guys we found, living in there with a chained-up troll?”
The young witch’s response was cool.
“From what you told me, I think you would be able to imagine it far more readily than I.”
She was not, he could see, going to make things easy for him. He would try flattery next. Everyone likes a nice compliment.
“Say—that was pretty smart, shooting that first fireball so it struck the wall next to the troll’s head. You got him to drop me so you could let him have one right in the face. Well done—and thanks.”
But Sarah remained aloof, refusing his overture.
“If you must know, I wasn’t aiming at the wall. I couldn’t control the spell properly and the fireball went astray. I tried to send it right between that terrible creature’s eyes.”
That did it! Enough was enough! He deserved better treatment than this!
“God’s lungs, Sarah—I told you I didn’t know what they were going to do with the hand. But maybe I would have brought it to them even if I did. They promised to train me with weapons and give me armor—that was all I could think about in those days. Wouldn’t you have done something foolish if someone promised to teach you magic?”
This touched her. Indeed, she had done something foolish for that very reason. She had trusted a lying thief called Gavin, and it had nearly cost both her and Thurmond their lives. Yet Thurmond had stuck by her through it all—and without remonstrance.
“I’m sorry. You’re right, of course. I’m just a little distracted at the moment. I mean, we’re down in a very dangerous spot, we just fought a troll, and who knows what we’ll run into next. I was just a little worked up.”
They continued down the passageway, following the silver hand. After a number of twists and turns, something changed in the quality of the air. Roscoe voiced what they all knew.
“Smell that—that’s the river. I’d know that smell in my sleep, so I would.”
The tunnel abruptly opened into a natural cavern so immense that the far walls were lost in the gloom. Huge stalactites hung above them like the fangs of an ancient, calcified giant. Water poured in steady streams from fissures somewhere overhead, feeding an underground lake that looked as black as tar.
Roscoe spoke again.
“We’re beneath the river now, that’s it passin’ over our heads at this very moment.”
That was a sobering thought. Uncountable tons of water and who-knows-how-many slithering river monsters were being held aloft by a ceiling that, from the look of the myriad fissures, was ready to crumble at any moment.
Sensing his friends’ dismay, Roscoe sought to lighten the mood.
“No need for worry. If these walls have held the river up this long, they’ll do it a mite longer while we’re down here. We’re not so important as to make everythin’ come crashin’ down on our heads just for spite.”
They kept going, following a narrow shelf that curved along the lake’s edge. It came to an abrupt end where a wide spot, stacked with empty casks, served as a natural wharf. A small flat-bottomed barge was tied to an iron ring set into a rock. Again, it was Roscoe who assessed the situation.
“Do you see what’s goin’ on here? Instead of movin’ the goods across the river up above, the smugglers have found themselves an easier way across this placid bit of lake. More private, too. The weapons and empty casks go west, the full casks come east. A right jolly arrangement, so it is.”
Torgul was not so positive.
“Right jolly for them smugglers, but not so good for us if they find us down here. They won’t want nobody knowin’ about this place.”
Roscoe nodded.
“Aye—you’ve the right of it, for a fact. Let’s conclude our business and get out. The path ends here, so unless someone’s minded to take that barge and go explorin’ the other side, there ain’t no further to go. There still ain’t no sign of our quarry—but look!—the wee silver hand is pointin’ straight at that stack of casks. Thurmond, you’ve got experience dealin’ with troll hands. Take a look-see at what’s behind em.”
The young man dutifully drew his sword and began to prod among the casks. At first there was no sign of movement, but then a weird scuttling creature burst from a dark crevice, ran between Thurmond’s legs, and attempted to dodge its way through the rest of the adventure party.
It would likely have made it, too, for their natural inclination was to flinch back from the loathsome little entity. But Torgul was in no mood for sport. He brought his heavy boot down as it attempted to scurry past, pinning it to the stone pathway. Seizing it by what seemed to be a boneless section of forearm, he held it up for Thurmond’s inspection.
“Is this what we’re looking for?”
Thurmond stepped closer, but not too close, for he feared the thing, which continued to flop and twist in the grip of the dwarf.
“Aye! That’s it, though strangely changed. It looks bigger now—bloated. And it was cut off clean at the wrist, without that part you’re hanging onto. The skin was different then, too. It was smooth with small, fine scales like a snake’s. Now it’s all rough and ragged, a lot nastier than it was before. But I’m certain it’s the same hand.”
Roscoe seemed fascinated by the squirming horror. He leaned close to have a look.
“Must be the same one—surely there can’t be two such hideous creatures crawlin’ about. Let’s get it stowed and be on our way.”
The troll hand was secured in a stout leather rucksack that was then given to Thurmond to carry. He could feel it writhing against his back, reminding him of how he had previously carried it over his shoulder in a cloth sack. When its claws had begun to penetrate the fabric, he had been forced to bind the fingers into a fist with twine made from blades of grass.
The adventure party was just starting back along the lakeside when, to their dismay, they saw light flooding from the tunnel mouth from which they had recently emerged. Torches! Voices! Someone was approaching. They hurried forward so as not be trapped on the narrow path along the water, but it was too late. A large group of armed men hove into view.
Roscoe gave voice to what they were all thinking.
“Shite on a stick—smugglers!”
The smugglers saw the Adventurers as well, for they gave a shout and came hurrying forward. There was a least a score, perhaps more. Too many to fight, trapped as they were along the water’s edge.
The archers, bringing up the rear, immediately fell back. Thurmond assumed they were running away, most likely attempting to escape in the tethered barge while their erstwhile companions held off the attack. Damn their livers, the cowards!
But he was in error, for they retreated only until the curve of the path afforded them a clear shot at the oncoming smugglers. With cool professionalism, the trio began to unleash arrows. A shrill scream and an outraged yelp from the smugglers testified to their accuracy, yet their efforts counted for little. There were just too many smugglers, and the arrow fire only seemed to goad them forward.
There was no way to escape. In front, the first of the smugglers were now on the curving path. Behind, there was only ink-black water. The barge was too small to accommodate them all, and the smugglers would be upon them long before they could untie it and climb aboard. Swimming was not an option—not one of them had ever learned that art, and in any case, their heavy armor would surely drag them to the bottom.
The attackers had closed half the distance when a most unlikely event occurred. A gigantic lamprey with a maw as wide as a church door suddenly launched itself from the water and engulfed the foremost smuggler in a single bite.
So shocked were the smugglers at the unexpected appearance of such a vile and deadly creature that they stood frozen in shock. The lamprey raised itself well above the heads of the men, waggled the barbels surrounding its jawless mouth, and struck again. Another smuggler went down its gullet.
The others could stand no more. They turned and fled back the way they had come, their weapons falling from nerveless fingers. Their torches, also discarded, rolled into the water, plunging their end of the cavern into darkness.
The Adventurers drew together, all the while praying that the lamprey’s appetite had been satisfied. Thurmond reached out for Sarah, and to his utter surprise, found her stretched prone on the ground in a swoon.
He whispered urgently in her ear.
“Sarah! Sarah! Can you hear me? What’s wrong with you? What happened?”
She groaned softly and began to regain her senses.
“Illusion—it’s only illusion—that monster—I made it.”
Thurmond felt a huge surge of relief wash through him, for he truly hated the idea of being eaten by a giant lamprey.
“You did that? That was just a spell?”
“Aye—just a spell, but a big one. It took all my energy. I feel so weak. Sick, too. Help me to up, okay?”
Just as movement required physical energy, magical powers drew on psychic energy. An over-expenditure of energy left a magic user nauseous and exhausted. Sarah, a relative novice, had a very limited reserve of such power.
Thurmond helped her up, then turned to Roscoe and Torgul.
“Did you hear what she said? That monster was just an illusion. It can’t hurt us.”
They had indeed heard the young witch’s words. Roscoe, still shaken, peered doubtfully into the water.
“If that was just a vision, lassie, what became of them poor buggers what got swallowed? Are they dead for real or no?”
Sarah’s voice was strained—talking was still difficult.
“Not sure. They could be, if their belief was strong enough.”
“Could your monster hurt us?”
“Nay—absolutely not. It faded as soon as I ran out of energy.”
Torgul started back toward the tunnel mouth.
“We need to move along while the smugglers are still runnin’ scared.”
Thurmond peered closely at Sarah. She looked worn out.
“Are you able to stand?”
“Aye—just help me to my feet. I’ll be fine. Torgul’s right—we best get going.”
Thurmond caught her around the waist with one arm and steadied her as she rose. As they followed Torgul around the lake, the path was littered with the smugglers’ swords and spears. They passed a dead man lying face up with an arrow in his neck. Two more floated face down in the water, the lamprey’s victims.
Thurmond was puzzled.
“Sarah—if that monster was just an illusion, what killed those two?”
“Hard to say. Illusions are only as effective as your belief in them. If those two truly believed they were being eaten by a monster, perhaps they really were—at least until the spell faded. Or maybe they just fell in the water and drowned.”
“Or maybe they were scared to death? Is that possible?”
“I guess anything is possible, Thurmond. Nothing is certain about magic.”
Thurmond found such ambiguity frustrating. When Sarah spoke of the occult, there were never any firm answers, just a lot of unanswerable questions.
The adventure party retraced their steps until they reached the chamber in which they had encountered the troll. The heavy wooden door that they had left ajar was now shut against them. The smugglers had, in their headlong flight, paused at least long enough to close and bar it. Torgul motioned for the others to stand back and remain silent. He pressed his ear to the portal’s planks, listened briefly, then returned to his comrades.
“Couldn’t make out the words, but they’re in there all right. Sounds like they’re havin’ an argument.”
Roscoe considered a moment and then spoke.
“Sarah’s monster took the man at the head of their group. He mighta been the leader, probably was. Right now, those boyos ain’t got anyone makin’ their decisions for ‘em. They’re arguin’ cause none of ‘em knows what to do next.”
Thurmond spoke up.
“Well, you’re our leader, Roscoe. Tell us, what should we do next. Our way out leads through that door.”
The old Adventurer scratched his bearded chin.
“Even if we could cut through the door, there’s too many of ‘em for us to fight. We’d never make it. Let’s try that passage that branched off a wee ways back. It’s gotta lead somewheres—doesn’t it?”
This did not seem like a particularly brilliant suggestion, for it would mean wandering at random through the Catacombs’ measureless and perilous depths. Still—none of the others could think of a better plan.
Their encounters in that dismal world were weird and disturbing. Chambers in which human bones were stacked to the ceiling, the heaped skulls laughing in sardonic glee at the Adventurers’ futile effort to find their way out. A room filled with the broken and rusted remains of what were once the hideous instruments of torture. Another in which a great yellow serpent coiled in one corner. Disturbed by the intruders, it raised its wedge-shaped head, and warned them away with a menacing hiss.
The most frightening thing of all was that they were completely lost in this hellish subterranean labyrinth. They might well be doomed to traipse aimlessly until they died of exhaustion, thirst, or hunger—or perhaps from sheer despair. They could only push forward in the fading hope of stumbling blindly upon a way out.