UNTIL DEATH DO US PART
“Do you truly believe that this duergar threat is real?” said King Tenzivel to Lord Malvegil as they walked through the Fister Mansion's halls, guards in front, Duke Harringgold, Grim Fischer, and more guards behind them.
“The dwarves of Darendor believe them,” said Malvegil. “And they're no friends of the svart. Bornyth Trollsbane told me himself that he'd seen them.””
“But do you believe them?”
Malvegil chose his words carefully. He didn't want to speak of the incident that happened twenty-five years prior, but he had to. He couldn't take the chance that Tenzivel would disbelieve the svarts and not support preparations to deal with the duergar. “Many years ago, I encountered creatures in the Dead Fens that walked when they should have been dead. They were just as the svarts describe. We had no name for them at the time, but duergar is as good as any. So yes, I believe them. The threat is real.” Stoub turned and eyed him. He'd served as Malvegil's chief bodyguard for many years, but hadn't heard that story. Few had.
“Unfortunate timing, then,” said Tenzivel as they approached the rear door of the Fister. “Fighting on more than one front will make things much more complicated. I want to hear everything about your previous encounter with these things.”
Guards were massed at the Fister's exit; many more than when they had come in. Whoever set up the security wasn't taking any chances.
Captain Korvalan shouted in alarm and drew his sword. “Assassins!”
Malvegil saw a flurry of motion as the door guards reacted. Many crossbows fired. In front of him. And behind.
Bolts pincushioned several of the guards that walked in front of Malvegil and the king. At such close range, their armor was useless. They went down.
Malvegil reached for his sword.
A bolt slammed into Tenzivel's chest. Then a second. The king's eyes were wide; his mouth open in shock as he slumped down, his chest spurting blood. “Dead gods, save the Republic,” he said as he fell, grasping at Malvegil's arm.
Stoub turned and shoved Malvegil to the side. Two bolts hit Stoub in the back, then a third; he went down clinging to Malvegil, half atop him. Malvegil looked into his eyes for the briefest of moments as life left them. Two more bolts struck Stoub's back as Malvegil pulled himself free.
Swords clanked behind Malvegil. More attackers from the rear. He heard Fischer cursing them.
The exit guards moved to the side, lowering the crossbows they had fired on the group. They were Black Hand — they had to be. In through the doorway charged a band of howling mercenaries, sword, axe, and spear — foreigners by their look —— men of the Southron Isles, reavers and cutthroats, paid killers. A score of them at the least. They dashed past The Hand assassins and made directly for Malvegil and those few that still stood with him.
Korvalan and Malvegil and a couple of other guards braced to meet their charge. Two bolts were already embedded in the Dramadeen commander's torso, though he paid them little heed. Malvegil raised his sword, but then his back exploded in pain. He felt the bolt sink in and hit his spine. They shot him from behind, the cowards. As he fell, he didn't feel anything. In her chambers in Dor Malvegil, Lady Landolyn screamed.
The guards behind Harringgold grunted as crossbow bolts struck them in their backs.
“The Hand!” shouted Fischer from Harringgold's side. The Duke drew his sword as he spun around. A bolt slammed into his left shoulder. Fischer barreled into him and knocked him to the ground as more bolts flew over them. The Duke banged his head when he hit the floor. He felt Fischer grab him by the arm and drag him into a side passage. How the gnome had the strength to move him, he didn't understand. Harringgold shook the cobwebs from his head and pulled himself to a sitting position. Three men turned into the passage, crossbows in their hands. Grim flung a dagger at one man and while it was still in flight, he threw another at the second man. The first dagger hit its victim's throat. He immediately fell, gurgling and sputtering blood. The second dagger hit its target in the belly. That man staggered back and dropped his crossbow. One of Harringgold's guardsmen cut him down from behind.
The third assassin fired his crossbow, but his shot went wide. He drew a sword and charged. Grim met his charge head on, though the man was almost three feet taller than he and probably half again his weight.
The Hand swordsman was skilled. Very skilled. His sword danced like death. The man dodged and parried and spun. He threw elbows and kicks as often as he swung his sword.
Grim Fischer was better. Ten seconds of dueling and the assassin was done, sliced and stabbed in half a dozen places. Grim finished him with a stab through the chest.
“Get up,” yelled Grim to Harringgold. The sound of fighting still thick in main passage. “We've got to get you out of here.””
“The king?” said Harringgold. “The king!”
“We can't help him. There are too many of them.”
Several more assassins poured into the corridor. A lone House Harringgold guardsman tried to hold them back.
“We're moving,” said Grim as he dragged Harringgold to his feet. Blood soaked the Duke's shirt and ran down his arm and torso. Even his pants were wet with blood.
When they rounded the next corner, Grim pulled a sconce on the wall, then pressed the wall at a certain spot. A small hidden door swung open. They squeezed through and closed the door behind them, Grim checking that no blood trail stopped at the hidden door. With the hidden door closed, no light entered the space. Wherever they were was pitch black.
A light appeared in Grim's hand and softly illuminated the area directly around them. It wasn't much, but it was enough to see a bit. They were in a narrow corridor of masonry walls, cobwebs, and stone floor. The stone looked newer than the rest of the construction; added no doubt, over old, creaky wooden floors to permit silent passage.
“Where are we going?” said Harringgold as they raced down the corridor as fast as the Duke could move.
“We can get back to the meeting room from here,” said Fischer. “If the wizards are still there, they can help.””
Several turns and one staircase, all within the hidden corridor, brought them to a small door, much like the one through which they entered. Fischer carefully popped open the panel and peeked out. It put them in the anteroom outside the meeting hall. Several guards still lounged about the place. Harringgold didn't recognize them, but Fischer did.
The guards were alarmed when the panel opened but relaxed when they saw that it was Fischer and the Duke.
The sounds of the battle hadn't reached that deeply into the large building, so the guards had no idea about what happened.
“They still in there?” said Fischer.
“Aye,” said the door guard as he wrapped on the meeting room door.
“Get a tourniquet around the Duke's shoulder and fast,” said Grim.
Two other guardsmen rushed over to aid Harringgold.
Pipkorn opened the door, an annoyed look on his face, Mardack and Spugnoir behind him.
“The Hand hit us by the exit,” said Grim. “A score of them, maybe more, and a squadron of mercs.””
The wizards looked shocked.
“The King?” said Pipkorn.
“I don't know,” said Grim. “It was a wild melee. I lost track of him from the start.”
Pipkorn stared over toward Harringgold.
“He'll live if we can get the bleeding stopped,” said Fischer.
“Master Spugnoir, see the good Duke home, will you?” said Pipkorn. “Now let's find the king.””
Two corridors down, four men turned into their corridor, running toward them.
“That's them,” shouted Fischer as the assassins aimed their crossbows.
Pipkorn extended his arms toward them. Twelve-inch diameter spheres of translucent yellow erupted from the wizard's palms and shot toward the assassins. The first two assassins dodged to the side, but the spheres changed course and struck them both in the head. The third man dived to the floor, but the sphere hit him as well. The fourth dodged back around the corner, but the fourth sphere followed him. When the spheres hit, they enveloped the men's heads and stayed there. They sat on their heads like transparent helmets. The men clawed at the spheres in a panic, trying to pull them off, but their hands passed through them as if they weren't even there. In moments, it was clear that the assassins couldn't breathe. They were suffocating under those tiny domes.
“Impressive,” said Mardack.
The assassins thrashed about to no good end. One ran at Pipkorn, but Fischer threw a dagger that dropped him in his tracks.
“You men,” said Pipkorn as he pointed to four of the guards that had accompanied them from the meeting hall. “Restrain those two. Fast. I need to drop this spell before it kills them or we won't be able to question them. You go on ahead,” he said to Mardack, Fischer, and the remaining guards. “I'll be just behind you.”
By the time that Fischer and Mardack arrived near the Fister's rear exit, the battle was over. Bodies filled the corridor. Here and there a man groaned or called for help, some life still left in them. They found Tenzivel slumped against the wall; two crossbow bolts in his chest. Fischer checked him. He was dead. The king was dead.
Torbin Malvegil's body was face down near the king; a bolt sticking out of the middle of his back. A few feet away, Captain Korvalan was on his knees, facing the exit, leaning on his sword. His eyes were closed. Half a dozen bolts were stuck in him and he had many other wounds, his armor torn and battered. Blood pooled around him. He too was dead. The corpses of a dozen mercenaries and several brethren of The Black Hand were heaped about him. A dozen more mercenaries lay dead about the foyer, along with several Dramadeen and House Harringgold guardsmen.
“He held them back,” said a voice. One of the Dramadeen officers, Korvalan's second in command — a hulking brute called Mavron, stepped from the shadows, a bolt sticking from his shoulder, multiple cuts and bruises about his body, his sword drenched in blood. “He kept them off the king, though it did no good,” he said pointing to the king's body. “They wanted the king’s body, the devils. But he wouldn’t let them take him. He wouldn't die until he killed them all. Not until he killed them all. He was my captain.”
“It seems you did you part as well,” said Mardack.
“Not like him,” said Mavron. “He was my captain. He was a hero.”
Mardack searched around, looking for something. “Do you see the box — the box that Malvegil carried?”
“No,” said Grim. “One of his guardsmen had it. This one,” he said pointing to a dead soldier. “He carried it.” They looked all about, but it was nowhere to be found.
Pipkorn dashed down the corridor breathing heavily.
“The King is dead,” said Mardack to Pipkorn. “And The Hand has the Seer Stone.”