MARAGON – WAREHOUSE DISTRICT, PORT CHANDREX, KLYDOR
9TH KENNOVASHAE, SPRING 845 PBM
Maragon eyes swept the interior of old warehouse. He was supposed to be meeting three of the Saranti Seven outside this same warehouse, one that supposedly was holding smuggled Kestrel artifacts. And if their information was correct, this cache may also have included a Kestrel sword that the Seven had been seeking for quite some time. Having found no trace of the other three outside, they had been forced to investigate inside the warehouse.
As he moved through the shadows, his thoughts turned briefly to Mitchell. He hoped the boy had safely reached Port Chandrex. From what he could divine magically, the boy was fine, but the same magick that he had used to make sure others could not divine the location of Mitchell was also preventing him from doing the same. He had dispatched a friend of the Seven to find Mitchell, and then to keep him safe once he reached Port Chandrex. He had also given that friend something to be used as a contingency plan.
‘Contingency Plans. You should always have them. Precisely because you never know when you will need them.’
Rounding a piled series of crates, a large section of the warehouse opened up to his view. In front of him, lying on the ground about twenty feet away he could see what appeared to be the form of Turin, the old Barovian Priest of Faylen. In the poor light he could not tell if he was breathing or not.
He looked to the two warriors beside him and motioned for them to fan out to either side and see what they could find. Ragnar, a massive warrior from the ice-lands to the north, went left, his wicked Battle Axe held ready to swing. Balinor Brevin, a Klydorian Knight, went right, his shield bearing the Griffin sigil of Chandrilar, both the founder of his empire and his God, raised protectively in front of him.
“Where on Driax are Javelin and Samtha?” Maragon scowled under his breath.
Javelin, an aging Drasnian spy - or rogue as he preferred, was the one who had alerted them to the warehouse and its possible contents in the first place. Samtha was a bard, and the youngest member of the seven. However she had spent way too many years with Javelin, and these days was almost as accomplished a rogue as he was. It was definitely possible they were hidden away in here somewhere.
Maragon cast an enchantment that would allow him to sense the build-up of magickal energies in the area around him, which should warn him of any attempt to cast a spell or use magick either near him or directed at him. He definitely did not want to be surprised in here.
“Turin?” he called out, as loudly as he dared. But if the priest could hear him, he was apparently unable to respond. Maragon needed to see if his friend was alive, and each second may have been the difference between saving him and not. He cast another spell, this one bending the light around him in such a way that he would appear invisible to all those around him, and he began to move towards his stricken friend.
‘I dislike Illusions. They are dishonourable. Let me and my foe see each other and deal with our differences in honourable combat. But I doubt I will find much in the way of honourable foes this night.’
The loud clash of steel on steel to the left drew his attention, and he turned to see Ragnar engaging three armed men, although it was quickly down to two before he could blink, as one unfortunate fellow had his head cleaved from his shoulders by Ragnar’s battle-axe. Only seconds later another battle erupted to the right as Balinor also engaged more of their would-be ambushers.
Moving quickly, Maragon reached his friend and checked for a pulse, but instead found a small crossbow quarrel embedded in poor Turin’s neck. From the discolouration of the surrounding skin, if the quarrel had not killed him, the poison surely would have. With grim determination he stood and strode further into the room.
‘Someone shall pay dearly for this’. He began to slowly pull in magickal energy in the expectation of needing it imminently.
With their trap springing shut, more and more figures were now rushing from their concealed hiding spots into the room. The majority of them appeared to be nothing more than armed mercenaries. While they certainly had a numerical advantage, Maragon doubted that would be enough.
Drawing on his mastery of the elemental powers and his already built up magickal energy, Maragon quickly channelled a great ball of flame. This he flung into the middle of the eight figures now rushing to overwhelm his companions. A huge fireball exploded in their midst, instantly killing all of them, and scattering pieces of wood, crate and charred body part all over the rear of the warehouse. The sound of the explosion reverberated throughout the warehouse and left a ringing in his ears.
‘You want carnage. I will give you carnage.’
He drew his sword and began to move further forward, aware that his casting of that spell would have ended his invisibility enchantment. He cast another enchantment to sharpen his mind to the intricacies of battle, which would accelerate his reflexes, and give him flashes of the future just before they happened.
He would exact more revenge on those responsible for killing Turin, and maybe Samtha and Javelin as well. As he came into view of the fighting on both flanks, he was surprised to see Ragnar already lying on the ground, surrounded by two other figures, and Samtha trying in vain to fight her way past three more men to get to him.
One of those nearest Ragnar raised his sword, apparently intent on finishing the big Northman warrior. Maragon brought his hand up to cast a spell, but in his mind, he knew it would never be quick enough.
An arrow embedded itself into the man’s chest, and he fell face forwards to land on top of the stricken northman. Maragon was about to move towards the other man when a second arrow embedded itself in his chest too. Maragon knew that these arrows would belong to Rivas Sciandria, an elven Ranger from the woodland realms to the south of Klydor. An ally with a penchant for finding the higher ground in any battle – in this case the roof.
He glanced up to thank his companion for the help, but what he saw froze him in his tracks.
Etched into the roof of the warehouse was the largest summoning circle Maragon had ever seen. Whatever was coming through that particular gate was massive indeed. And when the sigils started to light up, Maragon did not even need to feel the huge build-up of magickal energy all around him to know that apparently its arrival was imminent.
He calmed himself and prepared to launch a counter-spell, hoping to disrupt or destroy the spell before it could be completed. He could feel the power of his own spell building around him and rising up to contest the spell going on overhead.
With his Combat Mind enchantment now in full effect, he was aware of everything going on around him, even while he focused so intently on stopping the massive spell above his head. He was aware of Balinor fighting against a great many men. A battle he had almost no chance of winning. He was aware of the figures now rushing out towards himself. He was aware of the torrent of arrows from above that were even now cutting down the figures as they tried to reach him.
But he was powerless to intervene, with his concentration locked onto the shimmering portal of energy now gathering above him. He felt many different casters contributing their combined might to complete the complex spell.
‘So I have to overcome many of you, do I? Challenge accepted. Let us see if you have the stamina and willpower to match it with one of Cthrag Merlo’s finest War Wizards.’
THE SHADOW
What Maragon was not aware of was the dark clad figure perched high up in the rafters pointing a poisoned hand crossbow at him. Already he had used the mercenaries below as a distraction that had allowed him to strike down three of the much-vaunted Saranti Seven. And now he was about to shoot the one they needed the most, the Merlo wizard named Maragon.
‘Careful now. Do not reveal yourself to the archer on the roof. He has no idea I am in the rafters on the inside of the same roof.’
The Shadow reposition slightly to ensure he could not be seen from any of the openings in the roof. Like many who could channel, The Shadow could often feel when magick was being used in the area around him. His instinct was not nearly as informative as a Sense Channelling enchantment, which could tell you what sphere of magick was being cast and the power level of the spell. But it had saved his life on more than one occasion. And it triggered now with the sudden, powerful build-up of magical energy in the air around him.
He immediately saw Maragon begin to start trying to counter the spell.
‘These Seven have honour. But alas, I do not take sides based on honour. My honour, and that of the clan is dependent on honouring the contract.’
The Shadow quickly confirmed his crossbow was loaded with sleep poison, and took aim at Maragon.
‘You are lucky wizard. Few survive an encounter with me. But I have been paid well to ensure you are delivered alive. And I never fail to fulfil my contract.’
MARAGON
Maragon had begun his arcane duel to try and disrupt the spell. He could tell the spell was being led by a powerful caster, perhaps one even as powerful as himself. But that source seemed distant. The focal point was much closer. It seemed the main caster was being supported by at least another three lesser casters, maybe more.
‘One on many. That will be a mighty challenge for any single person. Let us find those in the room and end them. If all the focal points here are killed, then the ritual will fail.’
Maragon had spent his entire life mastering many different aspects of magick. He was the best the Ashar had to offer. If the Ashar were the torchbearers of human magick, then he was their vanguard. Even now, he could feel the spell faltering as the lesser casters were starting to fail under the duress of his counter-spell.
Focusing in on the magickal channelling he could feel in the room, he was able to sense the acolytes as brighter pinpricks of magickal energy. He continued to fight the ritual, gesturing at times with both hands, and sometimes with only one, while uttering the disruptive phrases of his spell.
‘Five of them. One nearby. Probably laid out in a star pattern to maximise the power of the ritual.’
Following the source, Maragon rounded a corner and found an acolyte standing on an innate circular sigil, shielded by boxes from all sides except for a narrow passage that lead from Maragon to the acolyte.
‘You are trapped.’
The acolyte saw Maragon, and immediately dropped her participation in the larger ritual and prepared to defend herself. She began drawing in Fire energy.
Likely going for the biggest spell you know. Understandable, you are badly outmatched, even as I try to disrupt your ritual.
Maragon ran his right hand across the bottom of his waterskin and drew in just a small amount of water energy. Feeling the small amount of water across his skin he threw the drops towards the acolyte.
“Per mandatum meum, aqua ad Ice”
(By my command, water to ice)
“Et per manum meam proicio te”
(And by my hand, I throw thee)
The water turned into a large shard of ice which flew rapidly towards the acolyte, impaling her through the chest and against the wooden box. Her tendrils of flame energy blinked out as harmless sparks as she died, and the spell failed.
‘One down, four to go.’
But then he felt the sharp pain in his neck. Immediately his limbs felt as though they were made of stone, and he could feel the poison sapping both his strength and his wits. He tried to call-out, or even to curse his unknown attacker, but the best he could manage was a quiet moan as he collapsed to the ground.
Lying motionless on the ground, unable to move, Maragon was forced to watch as the great summoning spell completed. The outline of a huge winged beast began to take form in the portal that was opening above. Maragon already knew what it was – a Lord of Battle. A great demon of the Blood God which revelled in battle and bloodshed. It was in many ways the perfect killing machine. Not even the mighty Ragnar could stand against it alone and win.
‘The Seven have not suffered a catastrophic loss in over 200 years. May the Gods grant us mercy this night. Rebuilding would take years, and that is time I fear Driax does not have.’
As the portal flared and blinked out, the 9 foot tall behemoth descended to the ground, its huge wings controlling its descent. It landed with its huge legs on either side of the prone wizard, but Maragon knew he was quite safe. The Lord of Battle would pay him little attention as long as there was real battle to join.
Balinor was now surrounded by bodies, and those few left standing around him were clearly reluctant to rejoin the fray. While there were numerous wounds covering the great knight, his thick plate-mail had stopped any of them from being mortal. His sword and shield were more than ready to send more of the ambushers off to meet a god of their choosing.
Even the serpent-gauntleted figure barking orders at his men was having little effect at this point. While Maragon had no idea who this figure was, he could see clearly he was their leader, and it brought him a small amount of satisfaction to see the blood seeping from several wounds on his chest and legs. Oddly, the man also had fresh bandages wrapped around his head.
Any chance this man had of getting his men back into the fight evaporated the moment the big demon touched down. Half of his men immediately turned to flee anyway they could, while the others stood frozen in fear as their minds refused to accept this nightmare that had suddenly appeared before them.
Its face was that of a monstrous dog, with an elongated muzzle full of blood-dripping razor-sharp teeth, and it had evil glowing red eyes that were attuned to seek out any warm-blooded creatures in the room. Its body was humanoid, but far larger than any human could ever be, with powerful muscles that rippled as it walked. It had four massive arms, two on each side, and two huge bat-like wings which extended from its shoulder blades. It was encased in a heavy suit of blood-red armour made up of rune-engraved metal plates so thick that no human could wear it without being crushed under its weight. In its massive upper arms it wielded a double handed axe that was itself larger than any of the demon’s potential opponents in the room. And it held a shield and wicked throwing axe in its slightly smaller lower arms.
LORD OF BATTLE
The demon looked at the pathetic creatures wailing in fear in front of it, knowing it could easily smash the life out of them where they stood.
‘Where is the challenge in that? There is no real combat in slaying someone frozen in fear. No, the Blood God demands the glory of killing these creatures in battle.’
With a flick of its finger the demon motioned for the two nearest creatures to attack, using its ability to influence their pitiful little minds and incite a blood rage that would override their fear, and compel them to attack. Immediately their looks of terror were gone, and both men charged the massive demon.
With a broad sweep of its great axe both men were smashed aside, their torsos crushed and shattered. With another flick of its fingers two more men began rushing in. But their fates would be no different. One was smashed aside with the giant axe. The other had his sword strike easily parried with the shield, and the smaller axe was smashed fatally into his chest.
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‘Somewhere in this room, may the Blood God grant me a worthy opponent. Or a Wizard. I love killing wizards as they pitifully cast their feeble magicks against me.’
GERARD
Gerard saw the demon begin to cut a path of destruction through his remaining men. He desperately wanted to finish his battle with the knight, eager to stand victorious over the proud and arrogant Klydorian symbol of virtue and honour.
‘But there is no way I am fighting this demon.’
Its arrival was as much a surprise to Gerard as it had been to the Saranti Seven. Gerard in truth, cared little for the life of his men when put in the context of endangering himself, but he would not have thrown them away needlessly in a futile battle such as this.
When Balinor took his eyes from Gerard and turned toward the demon for just a moment, Gerard turned and fled from the warehouse. He made a silent vow that Josak would have to compensate him handsomely for this. Being used as bait was not part of their agreement.
BALINOR
Unfortunately for Balinor he did not have fleeing as an option. Around him he knew at least three of the Saranti Seven lay on the ground, and Javelin was as yet unaccounted for. As he turned towards the monstrous demon now bearing down on him, he called upon the power of his God, Chandrilar, using a prayer to bless his armour to stand resolute against the almighty blows of the Lord of Battle. Holy light flared around him, and his armour and shield now glowed with a white-yellow translucent light.
That prayer was immediately put to the test as the demon’s huge Axe slammed into his shield. The force of the blow sent a numbing pain all the way up Balinor’s left arm, and he felt the entire frame of the shield bend and warp. But it withstood the mighty blow.
Balinor very much doubted it would survive many more.
Summoning all his courage he stepped inside the demon’s reach and slashed with his sword at the demon’s torso. His magick blade, an heirloom of his father and father before him, held an edge sharper than any normal sword. Yet it barely scratched the surface of the beast’s huge, armoured plating. Balinor ducked and stepped back out of range as the massive axe sailed through the space his head had just been. As he locked gaze with the huge demon’s glowing red orbs, the beast roared its approval.
Finally, it had found a worthy opponent.
THE SHADOW
Even the Shadow felt his heart skip a beat as the monstrous red demon fell from the ceiling. And he had known it was coming.
He watched as the demon began to carve up all those around it. He had a scroll that would supposedly seize control of the demon for a short time, and then banish it back to its own plane of existence. But he was quite slow and deliberate in retrieving it from its scroll case on his belt.
‘No need to hurry things. The demon is doing a wonderful job of thinning out the numbers.’
‘The merchant captain, Gerard, flees. The wise action, but he sacrifices his men to the beast and makes no effort to save any of them.’
‘The knight they call Balinor is impressive. He stands and faces an opponent that means his almost certain death. The tales of Klydorian knights are clearly not all myth and legend.’
But then the time for watching was over. The Shadow carefully uttered the incantations on the scroll, making sure to get the inflections of each word right, and carefully channelling the magick he could feel building within him into a spell.
He felt disturbances in the magick energy he was building. Only minor variations, but enough that the Shadow was convinced someone not very powerful had tried to disrupt his spell. Had that person been as capable as Josak or Maragon he knew the spell would have failed, or perhaps even been stolen. The fact the disruption had done nothing indicated to the Shadow that some of Josak’s acolytes were still alive down there.
‘I would not wish to be those acolytes if the Blood God demon finds them. The Blood God hates channellers, and his demons revel in their slaughter. It would be a mercy if I find them first.’
‘Would be fun too.’ The Shadow took more joy in killing magick-users.
‘Most are so impressed with their magick powers they have no idea how truly vulnerable they are.’
But that was for later. His present focus was the scroll, and as he finished the last section he felt the surge of magick lance out towards the massive demon below him. For a few seconds the demon stopped in its tracks, giving Balinor time to pick himself up out of the pile of crates into which he had been smashed, and for the archer who was hiding on the roof somewhere to fire another pointless arrow into the massive, armoured hide of the creature.
And then he felt the conduit connection between himself and the demon, and he could almost sense the hatred and rage of that foul entity flooding into him. The Shadow felt a sudden desire for blood, and he wanted to drop down to the floor and slay his prey in an orgy of melee combat. For precious seconds he considered it. He almost did it.
But his mind was strong, and sanity returned.
‘No wonder most sane wizards think demon magick to be a fool’s errand. But I must now be very careful. If that demon breaks free of this spell it will seek me out and deal out untold misery upon me for this most egregious affront.’
He tested his control on the monster.
“Kill the archer on the roof”
Immediately the demon jumped into the air, where his huge bat-like wings began to beat frantically, and his monstrous form began to climb upwards. Another arrow slammed into the demon’s chest, but that did little more than provide a tracer for the demon to work out where the archer was hiding. His ascent accelerated as it surged for the displaced roof timbers behind which Rivas was firing.
Without slowing it swept its huge axe up through the roof and with a shower of splinters and shattered timbers it landed atop the roof of the warehouse. The archer had dived aside as the demon broke through the roof, and both shouldered his bow and drawn both curved swords in a little more than a heartbeat.
The demon looked at the small, slender figure in front of him. The elf had single slash scars across both cheeks, which ran up through both eye sockets. He also had scars on both hands, where he seemed to be missing both index fingers. The demon laughed. This was a fight this little elf was ill-equipped to win.
RIVAS
The demon smashed through the roof and landed only 16 paces away.
‘Probably 11 of its paces.’
His mind calculated the odds of the battle instantly, although a lesser mind probably would have got to the same conclusion.
‘Armour is too thick for my light blades. And even my armour-piercing arrows have failed to do much trying to go through those plates of armour. That leaves precision strikes to the eyes, maw, armpits or back of the knees. That means getting him to focus on something else or getting well inside the reach of that axe. Which means getting killed.’
‘Need another plan.’
Rivas Sciandria called upon the Earthmother to assist him, casting a quick spell, and preparing to run.
‘This spell usually completes within 7 paces of your average foe. This demon looks strong more than fast.’
The big demon began to stride towards him.
He mouthed the words to the prayer silently, as he was not physically able to say the words.
“Sit terra matrem meam vocationem”
(May the Earth-mother heed my call)
“Da mihi liberis tuis auxilium”
(Lend me the aid of your children)
“Hunc inimicum naturae alligant”
(May they bind this enemy of nature)
The Earthmother answered his prayers. His being a mute did not matter to her.
The roof buckled and threatened to give way under the demon’s immense weight, even before the spell completed. That slowed it a touch as the demon reconsidered its movement. Then the wood buckled more as Rivas’ enchantment affected the wooden boards of the roof and they started to move. Planks of wood started to behave like wide flat tentacles and began to wrap themselves around the legs of the demon.
Rivas turned and ran.
The demon smashed its axe down on the planks trying to entrap it, but that just caused that section of the roof to break and collapse inwards. The demon briefly started to fall inwards with it, but then its massive wings started to beat, and it leaped up into the air meaning to fly. The timbers around its legs attempted to retain control and pull the demon back down. But the demon was simply too strong, and its huge legs tore the wooden planks apart and they tumbled back down, both onto the roof, and through the hole to the warehouse floor below.
Freed of its temporary prison, the demon flew after the running elf. Lords of Battle were not the most graceful of flyers, but they built up speed well enough in a straight line. Its maw drooled in anticipation of the kill, and the flesh it would consume afterwards.
Rivas could sense it was getting nearer. He was nearing the end of the roof and what was essentially the end of the line. The warehouse was too high to safely jump, and the nearest buildings were another warehouse, and a large water tower, but both were no closer than 40 feet, which was too far to jump.
‘Odds of dying from fall: 67%. Odds of Serious injury: the remaining 33%. Demon following up injury with death: 100%. Eliminate this plan option.’
‘Odds of out-running demon: 4%, Odds of beating demon in a fight: 1%. Eliminate both of those options.’
‘Only one thing left. It is both crazy and unpredictable. Chance of success: 35%.’
As Rivas approached the end of the roof he slowed and turned as though he was preparing to make a last stand. He could see the demon’s maw turn up in what he took to be a sick grin. He raised his blades to defend. The left quite high and wide compared to more conventional stances.
‘The demon likely cares little for what stance it’s foe is in. It has such long reach with its axe, that it can fell most foes before they even get within reach to swing.’
The demon pulled the great axe back and prepared to strike. It was vaguely watching that oddly positioned left hand, expecting that to be where the strike would come from.
Rivas began to back-pedal to the very edge of the roof. The demon held the strike until there was no way the axe could miss without the elf falling from the roof.
The demon swung.
Rivas dropped off the roof. And fired the special grapple on his left forearm at the water tower. The axe found its target, and bit into his chest as he fell. But the blow was far less than it would have been. The demon had not anticipated this action.
‘Tower is now 32 feet. Grapple has a 40 foot range. Based on its speed of trajectory and the speed of the winch, my feet should miss the ground by about 5 inches.’
‘Unless the grapple doesn’t take hold. Then I die.’
The portable winch and tow line was an ingenious invention and gift from the gnomish engineer, Gibblik Wondersmith. It was a reward for the Seven having rescued his family when the Northmen conquered Port Finbar. Within moments the spike slammed into the water tower superstructure, and the magick in the winch fired and started reeling Rivas in.
The demon bellowed in rage as its axe only partially found the mark, and now its target started to be pulled quickly out of harm’s way. The demon altered course and was beginning to fly after the elf and finish him.
As the ground came closer, Rivas pulled his knees up as high as he could. With inches to spare, the rope pulled taut enough and he began to be pulled upwards again, towards the top of the water tower. He crashed into the tower, only partially absorbing the impact with his legs, which sent sharp pain through his injured side. As the grapple fully rewound, Rivas slumped over a rail and collapsed on a flat section of the tower superstructure about two thirds of the way up.
‘It was the best option available. But when the demon arrives, the chance of death is 100%.’
Then the demon suddenly stopped, and dived back into the warehouse.
JAVELIN
Perched between the edge of consciousness and the precipice of death, Javelin could feel his life force slipping away. While he could still feel the pain of the small crossbow quarrel in his back, it was the sharp burning sensation working its way through his body that was causing him the most discomfort.
‘There is an Assassin in the warehouse somewhere, most likely in the roof shadows. Judging from the aim of his shot, and the quick manner in which the poison has disabled me, he is almost definitely a Drasak. And one of their best too.’
Unfortunately for the assassin, Javelin had over the years developed an immunity to most of the more common poisons by carefully subjecting himself to them. In his line of work it had seemed like a prudent course of action, and now he was being rewarded with an acute sense of pain rather than the oblivion of death.
He took the small vial of anti-poison he had in his tunic pocket and poured its contents down his throat. While a general antidote such as this would unlikely stop the poison entirely, Javelin hoped it would slow the effects enough to allow him to alter the events of tonight.
‘I am getting too old for this. My judgement is not what it once was. My mistake has led my lifelong companions into a trap, and it has cost at least a couple of them their lives. But I am not done yet.’
Ignoring the pain he dragged himself further into the shadows of the crate by which he had fallen, and recovered the special hand crossbow that had earlier tumbled from his grasp when he fell.
He saw Samtha make a familiar clutching motion at her neck, and then watched helpless as she slumped to the ground. He saw Balinor looking in vane for the shooter when a black and red robed acolyte made the mistake of stepping into view.
Balinor incorrectly assumed the acolyte was the shooter and immediately moved towards him, sword poised to strike. The young follower of Razilin-Tera was only halfway through a prayer to save himself when the Klydorian knight’s sword impaled his chest, symbolically stabbing through the head of the red dragon symbol on the front of his robe.
Javelin started to scan the roof but could not see where the assassin was concealed.
‘I have to find him soon. I am running out of time. Both for the Seven and for myself.’
Then he saw Balinor stumble, and topple to the floor, his sword and shield both clattering to the ground. While he suspected the assassin had another victim, Balinor was covered in so much blood he could not really be sure if this was just a natural succumbing to his wounds. Not knowing annoyed him. Javelin hated being unsure of anything.
His mind’s fervent need to solve all puzzles and find answers to everything is what had enabled him to become the eyes and ears of the Seven.
Now he had multiple issues. The three remaining acolytes were now coming out of hiding and heading for the fallen figures of Ragnar, Balinor, Maragon and Samtha. Their wicked curved daggers left little doubt as to their intention.
‘Firing means giving myself away to the assassin above. Not firing means they all die and then it won’t matter what the assassin does.’
He waited until the very last moment, but when the first of the acolytes bent over Samtha’s crumpled form and raised the dagger his hand was forced. He raised his crossbow, a special gift from Gibblik Wondersmith, the gnomish engineer, and with a simple pull of the trigger-pin, the quarrel shot out and embedded itself deeply in the chest of the acolyte. Years of experience told Javelin the man was likely dead before he hit the ground.
But it was not the hitting power that made his weapon marvellous. A series of gears on the side of the crossbow’s frame clanked and turned, loading another quarrel from the small magazine of three that sat out to the side of the weapon, and returning the string to a second firing position with only slightly less firing power than the first.
Before the first target had finished slumping over backwards, a second had a quarrel hit him in the forehead just as he crouched over the prone and vulnerable Klydorian knight. His 3rd shot was a little low, and took its intended target in the abdomen, slowing him, but certainly not killing him quickly enough to stop him ending the life of Maragon. Javelin was aiming his final shot and had just pulled the trigger when he was beaten to the punch and a quarrel from above slammed into the back of the acolyte’s skull. The acolyte wilted, and fell forwards, partially covering Maragon’s form.
Javelin was trying in vain to reload his weapon fast enough to be able to use it again when he heard the massive beating wings pass narrowly overhead. He struggled to his feet and looked up just in time to see the huge nine-foot-tall demon touch down only five feet in front of him.
The demon bellowed at Javelin, bringing its face to no more than a yard from his own. It then raised its giant axe and prepared for the crushing blow. In a final act of defiance Javelin threw the crossbow at the demon. But all that did was make a slightly metallic sound as it bounced harmlessly off the massive armour plates that covered the Lord of Battle’s chest.
The next sound was the movement of air as the axe swung downwards, and it was the last thing Javelin ever heard.
THE SHADOW
The Shadow was feeling quite pleased with himself.
‘So far I have managed to take nearly all of the Saranti Seven alive using a Mantak spider poison that will incapacitate rather than kill. Horrific creature as it prefers to eat its victims while they are alive. But its venom is amongst the most powerful toxins known to the Assassin Guilds, and I have not yet encountered anyone who can resist it.’
Only the priest and the rogue had been shot with a lethal poison, an obscure, but quite fatal Scorpion venom. The priest called Turin had been killed as per his orders. The rogue, Javelin, had nearly spoilt the whole trap when he saw the circle of runes on the roof. Fortunately the Shadow had been here to see him come in through the roof. He had been forced to act before he could load another vial with the spider poison, so he went with what he already had loaded, his lethal Scorpion venom. And one shot to the neck ended that threat.
Now he watched as Josak’s acolytes emerged from hiding, ready to send the souls of the Seven to meet with RazilinTera using their wicked sacrificial daggers.
‘This is a problem. A crossbow does not have the rate of fire to take out all of the acolytes before they reach their targets. But I do not wish to reveal myself by dropping to the floor. I must concentrate on saving Maragon. The rest of the Seven will need to ask their Gods for protection.’
The Shadow was as surprised as the acolyte when the first crossbow quarrel had struck home, ending the threat to Samtha. At first the Shadow thought maybe one of the four figures he could see on the ground had saved her, but then the second shot took out the figure over Balinor. No, there was another shooter down there, and Shadow knew it was not the archer who had been on the roof. He was almost certainly already dead. Lords of Battle tended to be very good at that.
His eyes being far more accustomed to dark than most, the Shadow peered into the shadows more intently. He could just make out the form of Javelin lying next to some of the boxes below.
“Impressive! And appreciated. You will be rewarded with a swift death.”
He recalled the demon, instructing it to kill the surprisingly hardy old rogue. He then took aim and finished the acolyte that was beginning to endanger his main prize. With only one target left the Shadow risked using another spell, and simply let go of the roof beams that were holding him. With three short words and a gesture the spell was completed, and he descended to the ground harmlessly, and more importantly, silently, landing only inches from the final acolyte.
The demon’s huge frame prevented him from seeing the killing blow on Javelin. But with one short and sharp stabbing action of his own, he ended both the life of the last acolyte and the threat to the Seven. He looked down and saw Javelin’s elaborate crossbow on the ground.
‘Very ingenuitive.’
He picked it up and admired the craftsmanship. The reloading mechanism was indeed a marvellous device. And like his own crossbow, he could see it was designed to apply poison to the heads of the quarrels. This would be a keepsake he would cherish. A most suitable memento for the occasion.
He could feel the hatred and anger wash over him as the demon sought out new targets, and could not find any. Not wanting to test if the demon could over-ride his control and make him the next one, he quickly ended the spell that was holding the creature here. The demon’s form dispersed back into the plane from which it came, first turning to what looked like a red, misty form of itself, and then vanishing altogether.
He felt a release of pressure in his mind, as for the first time since he first read from the scroll, his mind was not being assaulted by the primal emotions of the Lord of Battle.
‘Perhaps we don’t ever do that again. Controlling greater demons is too risky for my sanity. But otherwise, a job to be congratulated. A well-prepared plan, carried out with precision. And now the Saranti Seven are dealt with. Anders should be pleased. Very pleased.’