City of Krinrith
The ratfolk opened his eyes.
Kaylor was waiting.
The prisoner tried to move and discovered that his wrists and ankles had been bound. The ropes ran around one of the stable posts, preventing him from rising more than a few inches from the hay.
Three of his companions lay dead nearby.
The heroes had dragged the bodies inside and closed the stable doors, but blood still marked the path across the floorboards.
The ratfolk looked at the six strangers surrounding him.
Then he looked at Kaylor.
“No,” Kaylor said.
The ratfolk blinked.
“I have not said anything.”
“You were about to lie.”
“I was about to ask where I am.”
“You know where you are.”
The ratfolk examined the stalls, the hay, and the familiar walls.
“That is true.”
Nethnarel crouched beside him.
Gygax sat in her palm.
The tiny mouse twitched its whiskers directly in front of the ratfolk’s nose.
The prisoner stared at it.
Gygax squeaked.
The ratfolk recoiled.
“What is that?”
Nethnarel looked at the mouse.
“A reliable judge of character.”
Gygax squeaked again.
Isamu leaned against one of the stalls.
“What did she say?”
“Nothing flattering.”
Kaylor raised one hand.
Divine magic settled over the stable.
The air tightened.
The ratfolk felt it immediately. His expression changed as the spell closed around him.
“Zone of Truth,” Kaylor said. “You may refuse to answer. You may speak carefully. But if you speak, you will not lie.”
The prisoner swallowed.
Kaylor leaned closer.
“Tell us about this place.”
The ratfolk struggled against the bindings once, discovered that the ropes were not going to loosen, and stopped.
“The warehouse belongs to Mayhem.”
“Who is Mayhem?”
“The one who runs it.”
“That was not an answer.”
“It is the answer I have.”
The spell held.
Kaylor felt no deception.
The ratfolk continued.
“The warehouse moves goods that respectable merchants prefer not to admit exist. Stolen property. Contraband. Weapons. People, sometimes.”
Grazim’s expression hardened.
“Slaves?”
“Sometimes.”
“And you help?”
“I take care of the animals.”
The truth forced him to continue.
“And I go on jobs when I am ordered.”
“What kind of jobs?”
“Deliveries. Guard work. Collections.”
“Abductions?”
The ratfolk said nothing.
Silence was permitted inside the spell.
Kaylor’s eyes narrowed.
Nethnarel lifted Gygax slightly closer to the prisoner’s face.
The ratfolk looked at the mouse.
Then away.
Kaylor changed the question.
“Does the name Craven mean anything to you?”
“No.”
“Ishgar?”
“No.”
“The Sanctum of Serenity?”
The ratfolk hesitated.
“Everyone in Krinrith knows the Sanctum.”
“Does Mayhem work with anyone inside it?”
“I do not know.”
Again, the spell confirmed the answer.
Fendor moved through the stable, checking the walls.
“How many people are inside the warehouse?”
“Thirty. Sometimes fifty.”
Isamu looked toward Kaylor.
“That is only eight or nine each.”
Kaylor looked at him.
“We are not killing everyone in the building.”
“I did not say we were.”
“You calculated it.”
“I enjoy being prepared.”
The ratfolk stared between them.
Kaylor returned his attention to the prisoner.
“Where is Mayhem?”
“I have not seen him recently.”
“When did you last see him?”
“I do not remember. He does not speak with people like me unless a job requires it.”
“What is he?”
The ratfolk looked confused.
“A criminal?”
“His people.”
The prisoner understood.
“Aasimar.”
One of the celestial-blooded people of this age.
That explained nothing.
Nethnarel stood and took out the Wand of Secrets.
She moved along the stable walls, invoking it at intervals.
The wand found nothing.
No concealed door.
No hidden mechanism.
No passage into the main warehouse.
Fendor finished his own inspection and came to the same conclusion.
“The stable is exactly what it appears to be.”
“That is disappointing,” Nethnarel said.
“Only because you expected a secret door.”
“I always expect a secret door.”
Hexen had remained near the stable entrance.
He suddenly raised one hand.
Everyone became quiet.
Something moved outside.
Not one person.
Many.
Soft feet crossed nearby roofs. Shapes shifted through alleys. Wood creaked beneath weight that was trying not to be heard.
Kaylor looked toward Hexen.
“How many?”
“Enough.”
The ratfolk smiled despite his injuries.
“They know.”
Kaylor struck him.
Not with a weapon.
The blow was controlled, measured, and delivered with enough force to return the prisoner to unconsciousness without killing him.
The ratfolk sagged against the ropes.
Isamu examined him.
“Still alive.”
“For now,” Kaylor said.
A woman’s voice passed through the walls.
It was calm.
Pleasant.
And far too loud to have come from an ordinary throat.
“We know you are inside.”
The heroes looked toward the stable doors.
“Come out,” the woman called. “You have entered our house. You should at least meet your hosts.”
Nethnarel glanced at Kaylor.
“Friendly.”
“No,” Kaylor said.
“Polite, then.”
“That is not the same thing.”
The voice came again.
“Please. Be our guests.”
Isamu leaned toward the door.
“No one is here.”
Silence followed.
Then the woman laughed.
Not mockingly.
Almost appreciatively.
Kaylor opened one stable door far enough to look outside.
The plaza appeared empty.
Moonlight covered the stones. Low buildings surrounded the warehouse. A few small trees rose between them, their branches shifting in the night wind.
Nothing moved.
Kaylor opened the door wider and stepped out.
Hexen followed with his wolves.
The animals growled immediately.
Their heads turned toward a nearby roof.
A woman stood upon its corner.
She had not been there a moment before.
Silver-gold light seemed to live beneath her skin. Her features carried the unnatural beauty of celestial ancestry, but nothing about her posture was gentle.
Figures appeared around her.
Ratfolk emerged from behind chimneys, rooflines, low walls, and trees.
Bows were already drawn.
More shapes moved behind the heroes.
They were surrounded.
Kaylor extended his divine senses.
The woman shone within them.
Celestial blood.
Not proof of goodness.
Only origin.
She smiled at him.
“You are the one in command.”
Kaylor did not correct her.
Nethnarel stepped forward.
“What do you want?”
The woman looked at her.
“Silence.”
Fire immediately curled across Nethnarel’s shoulders.
The flames did not harm her.
They rose from her skin, ran along her horns, and gathered around her hands.
More bows appeared on the roofs.
The woman returned her attention to Kaylor as though nothing had happened.
“Why have you entered our warehouse?”
“We walked through an open door,” Isamu said.
The woman ignored him.
“We found your people waiting above it,” Kaylor said.
“And now several of them are dead.”
“They attacked first.”
“That is often what survivors say.”
Kaylor looked at the archers.
“Are you Mayhem?”
“No.”
“Then who are you?”
“My name is not important.”
“Names are usually important.”
“Not tonight.”
She gestured slightly.
The drawn bows tightened.
“I have an offer.”
Kaylor did not lower his hand from his weapon.
“Speak.”
The woman studied him.
“First, tell me why you came.”
“We are searching for information.”
“About?”
Kaylor considered how much to reveal.
“Craven.”
Nothing changed in the woman’s expression.
No surprise.
No recognition.
No fear.
If the name meant something to her, she concealed it perfectly.
“I know no one by that name,” she said. “But Mayhem may.”
“Where is he?”
“Joraya Prison.”
Kaylor knew the place.
An island stood in the bay beyond Krinrith’s southern harbor. The currents around it were violent, the stone sides nearly sheer, and watchtowers covered every approach.
The prison was small.
It did not need to be large.
Joraya was not where ordinary thieves were sent.
It held prisoners the city considered especially dangerous, politically inconvenient, or too valuable to risk inside the walls.
The woman continued.
“Mayhem was taken by the authorities. He is scheduled to die two days from now at noon.”
“You want us to free him.”
“If you do, he will answer your questions.”
“Will he?”
“He will if he wishes to continue breathing.”
Nethnarel let the fire around her hands rise higher.
“You are offering information we do not know he possesses in exchange for attacking one of the most secure prisons in the city.”
The woman’s gaze shifted toward her.
“Does this one speak for you?”
The flames around Nethnarel brightened.
Kaylor raised one hand before she could answer.
“She speaks for herself.”
“Then control her.”
“No.”
The woman’s smile faded.
Kaylor took one step forward.
Every bow released.
Twenty-six arrows struck the stones around his boots.
None touched him.
The points formed a rough circle.
Kaylor looked down.
Then back at the woman.
His expression did not change.
Behind him, ten tiny meteors of flame appeared around Nethnarel and began circling her head.
The ratfolk archers drew again.
The woman’s voice remained calm.
“Your deaths are of no concern to me.”
“Your threats do not concern me,” Kaylor said.
“That may be why you are still alive.”
They stared at one another across the plaza.
Kaylor understood the choice.
They could fight.
They might even win.
But defeating the warehouse guards would give them nothing. Mayhem would still be inside Joraya. Craven would still sit at the head of the Sanctum. And every authority in Krinrith would begin hunting the impossible strangers who had appeared from nowhere.
“We will speak privately,” Kaylor said.
The woman gestured toward the stable.
“Take whatever time remains useful to you.”
The heroes went inside.
The unconscious ratfolk still hung from his bindings.
Isamu looked at the stone wall separating the stable from the warehouse.
“We could make another door.”
“We could,” Nethnarel said.
Hexen touched the stone.
“Or go through it.”
Kaylor looked at them.
“And then what?”
“Kill thirty to fifty criminals,” Isamu said.
“We are not doing that.”
“You keep saying that as though someone is arguing.”
“You keep counting them.”
Grazim stood beside Kaylor.
“The offer is meant to lead us somewhere.”
“Yes.”
“That does not mean it is honest.”
“No.”
Fendor looked toward the roof.
“We cannot leave without their permission. Not quietly.”
“We could fight our way out,” Hexen said.
“And gain nothing,” Kaylor replied.
He looked at the unconscious prisoner.
Then toward the direction of the Sanctum.
His order upheld the laws of Krinrith.
Joraya held convicted criminals.
Whatever Mayhem had done, Kaylor had no reason to believe the sentence unjust.
Yet Craven led the Sanctum.
Craven had hidden torture chambers beneath this city.
Craven’s crimes had survived untouched for a thousand years.
The law had already failed.
Kaylor hated how easily that thought came.
“We free Mayhem,” he said.
Grazim watched him carefully.
“And then?”
“We question him.”
“And if he is guilty?”
“Then he does not walk free.”
The others waited.
Kaylor looked at them.
“I will not trade one criminal’s freedom for another criminal’s secrets. We get what he knows. After that, he answers for what he has done.”
Isamu nodded.
“That sounds almost reasonable.”
Kaylor opened the door.
They returned to the plaza.
“We accept,” he said.
The woman lowered one hand.
The archers relaxed slightly.
“Mayhem dies at noon two days from now.”
“Tell us about the prison.”
“It stands in the bay. Ravenfolk guard the outer island. Watchtowers overlook the water. The walls above the cliffs are patrolled day and night.”
“How many attempts have you made?”
“Enough.”
“How many returned?”
“None.”
Hexen looked toward the dark line of the bay.
“Strong current?”
“Yes.”
“Underwater approach?”
“Watched.”
“Flight?”
“Watched.”
“Boat?”
“Watched.”
Nethnarel folded her arms.
“You have been very thorough in discovering what does not work.”
The woman ignored her.
“Bring Mayhem back alive.”
Kaylor stared at her.
“We will bring him out.”
“That was not what I said.”
“No.”
For the first time, the woman looked uncertain.
Only for a moment.
Then she smiled.
“Two days.”
The figures on the roofs began disappearing.
One by one, the bows vanished into shadow.
When Kaylor looked toward the corner where the woman had stood, she was gone.
The way out of the plaza was open.
The heroes left the warehouse behind.
They did not return immediately to the Sanctum.
Going to Ishgar for permission to visit Joraya would place their entire plan in Craven’s hands. Even approaching Viran carried risk. They did not know how deeply the corruption reached.
Instead, they went toward the harbor.
Information collected around prisons.
Guards drank.
Former prisoners lied.
Smugglers traded rumors as readily as stolen goods.
By the time they entered a crowded tavern near the southern districts, they had heard one story repeated often enough to matter.
Someone had escaped Joraya.
Not recently.
Not cleanly.
But alive.
They found him drinking alone in a shadowed corner.
He was aasimar, though little of the celestial remained visible beneath the worn cloak, unshaven face, and several empty bottles on his table.
Isamu approached first.
The stranger watched him come.
Isamu stopped beside the table.
“My name is Isamu Fogson.”
The aasimar’s hand disappeared beneath his cloak and closed around a weapon.
“That is unfortunate.”
Isamu looked back at the others.
“He is not impressed.”
Nethnarel joined him.
She allowed her cloak to slip slightly from one shoulder, revealing just enough fire-touched skin to hold the man’s attention.
His hand left the weapon.
Nethnarel smiled.
“We were hoping to buy you a drink.”
The aasimar stared.
“I have never seen anyone like you.”
“That is usually the idea.”
He waved Isamu away without looking at him.
“Sit.”
Isamu returned to the others.
“I had already introduced myself.”
Nethnarel took the empty chair.
The aasimar summoned the ratfolk bartender.
“Bring your hottest mead.”
Nethnarel leaned forward.
“I hope it is hot enough.”
The man smiled.
Several cups later, his name emerged.
Gavasani.
Several more produced the claim that he was the only person ever to escape Joraya Prison.
The story grew with each drink.
He had outwitted guards.
Slipped through locked doors.
Evaded a prison guardian.
Crossed ancient catacombs filled with the dead.
At one point, he implied that he had been imprisoned for stealing jewels belonging to the queen mother herself.
Nethnarel suspected the jewels improved in number and size every time his cup was refilled.
But the prison story remained consistent.
Then two city guards entered the tavern.
The room quieted.
Gavasani saw them immediately.
His drunkenness disappeared.
“You must excuse me.”
He rose and moved toward a rear window.
The guards spoke with the bartender.
Their description matched Gavasani.
Fendor noticed something else.
The uniforms did not fit correctly.
Dark armor showed beneath one guard’s cloak. A symbol had been hidden beneath the city colors. The men wore the appearance of authority without belonging to it.
“They are not guards,” Fendor said.
Gavasani reached the window.
Nethnarel followed him.
Isamu moved after her.
Someone at another table stood abruptly and knocked it over.
Cups, plates, and food crashed across the floor.
Every head turned.
Gavasani slipped through the window.
Nethnarel went after him.
Outside, he ran.
Dark figures appeared from the alleys.
One moved directly behind him.
Another raised an unholy symbol.
Power struck Gavasani.
The fleeing aasimar froze in the street.
“Gav!” Nethnarel shouted.
The attackers turned toward her.
Nethnarel raised both hands.
Eight bolts of force crossed the street and hammered into the spellcaster.
His concentration broke.
Gavasani stumbled forward as movement returned to him.
Hexen came through the window next.
Wolves appeared around him.
The pack rushed the nearest attacker and brought him down beneath snapping jaws.
Fendor followed with the Oathbow already drawn.
An arrow struck one of the false guards.
A second followed before the first had stopped moving.
The tavern erupted behind them.
The remaining heroes ran for the window.
Outside, more attackers emerged.
They were aasimar, or something close enough to wear the same celestial features. Some carried knives. Others bore unholy symbols. None tried to explain why they wanted Gavasani alive.
Hexen raised one hand.
A Wall of Fire erupted across the street.
Four attackers vanished behind the flames.
Then Hexen changed.
His body became living fire.
The fire elemental charged through the wall and through the men trapped behind it, igniting clothing and flesh as it passed.
One collapsed.
The others stumbled from the blaze.
Nethnarel sent a Fireball after them.
The explosion filled the alley.
One attacker disappeared inside it.
Two more emerged burning.
Isamu struck the nearest with the torture-room whip he still refused to consider his weapon.
The lash wrapped around the man’s arm.
Isamu pulled him off balance, closed the distance, and drove a fist into a nerve point.
The attacker froze.
Isamu hit him again.
And again.
Fendor continued firing from the window.
Each arrow found someone trying to circle behind the others.
Grazim came through next, shield first, and saw the false uniforms for what they were.
Kaylor arrived last.
He did not climb through the window.
He jumped.
Full plate cleared the sill.
The dragonborn turned once in the air, landed hard enough to crack the stones, and came upright directly in front of a stunned attacker.
For a moment, everyone stared.
Kaylor struck twice.
The attacker fell.
Isamu looked at him.
“Show-off.”
“I was delayed.”
“That does not explain the turn.”
One enemy ran.
Another tried to follow.
Fendor dropped the first.
Nethnarel extended one hand toward the second.
Stone erupted from the street.
An enormous earthen hand closed around the fleeing man’s legs and dragged him down.
He struck the ground.
The stone fingers tightened.
“Keep that one alive,” Grazim said.
The final attackers died beneath arrows, wolves, steel, and flame.
The street became quiet.
Too quiet.
The Wall of Fire still burned.
Smoke rose over the buildings.
Someone in Krinrith would investigate.
Soon.
Gavasani stood beside the wolves, staring at the heroes.
Nethnarel approached him.
“Come with us.”
Gavasani looked at the bodies.
Then at the fire elemental that had been Hexen.
Then at Kaylor’s bloodied sword.
“No.”
He began backing away.
Nethnarel let her cloak slip again.
Gavasani stopped.
“Come with me.”
His expression softened immediately.
“Quickly,” he said. “I know somewhere safe.”
The others knocked the captured attacker unconscious and carried him with them.
Gavasani led them through alleys, across narrow courtyards, and between buildings that seemed to have been constructed specifically to hide people from pursuit.
At last, he reached a small tavern with no sign above its door.
He knocked in a particular rhythm.
The door opened.
A clockwork woman stood behind it.
She saw Gavasani, saw the blood, and immediately ushered them inside.
The door was barred.
Curtains closed.
Candles were extinguished until only one dim lamp remained.
Gavasani ordered drinks.
The clockwork woman looked at the seven thousand pounds of armor, weapons, wolves, blood, and unconscious prisoner now occupying her tavern.
Then she served them.
The captured attacker woke beneath the weight of the Immovable Rod.
They had placed it across him and activated it, pinning him to the floor without crushing him.
At first, he refused to answer.
Grazim tried reason.
Kaylor tried authority.
Nethnarel reminded him that she could set most of the room on fire without approaching him.
Isamu demonstrated how close the whip could strike without touching his face.
Eventually, the prisoner spoke.
There was a bounty on Gavasani.
He did not know who had placed it.
His group had been ordered to capture the escaped thief alive.
They might have been working for another guild.
They might have been acting for Mayhem’s organization.
They might have been trying to reach Joraya before the execution for reasons of their own.
He did not know.
Or knew nothing the heroes could force from him.
The mysterious woman at Hunter’s Landing meant nothing to him. He was an operative, not a leader.
They secured him in the hidden tavern.
Then Nethnarel returned to Gavasani.
“I need something from you.”
The aasimar lifted his cup.
“Anything.”
“We need to enter Joraya.”
His confidence faltered.
Only slightly.
Then the drinks and Nethnarel’s attention restored it.
“I escaped Joraya.”
“So you have said.”
“I am the only one.”
“So you have also said.”
“I can take you to the way beneath it.”
The others became quiet.
Gavasani drew them closer.
At South Point Harbor stood a small fishing shack.
Beneath it was a stair descending into an old tunnel.
The passage ran under the bay and eventually reached catacombs beneath Joraya Island.
“The prison was built over something older,” Gavasani said. “Burial chambers. Tunnels. Sewers. I do not know.”
“What lives there?” Hexen asked.
Gavasani drank.
“The dead.”
“That is not specific.”
“They moved.”
“More specific.”
“I did not remain to introduce myself.”
The truth beneath his boasting finally appeared.
Gavasani had not defeated the things below Joraya.
He had run from them.
He had escaped because he was fast, quiet, desperate, and extremely lucky.
Once inside the prison, the tunnel ended beneath a guard chamber. The opening had been hidden below loose floorboards near a heavy table.
Beyond that room stood at least one enormous armored guardian.
Gavasani described a construct shaped like a towering suit of iron armor.
He had seen three celestial guards inside the prison and more ravenfolk outside.
He remembered seven or eight groups of cells, though fear and darkness had not encouraged careful counting.
“It is not a large prison,” he said. “It does not need to be.”
“And Mayhem?” Kaylor asked.
“If he is important enough, they may have emptied the other cells.”
“Where will he be?”
“I do not know.”
Kaylor considered the rough map Gavasani scratched onto the table.
Guard room.
Corridor.
Guardian.
Cells.
Possible dining chamber.
A path built from memory, panic, and several cups of mead.
“We all go through the tunnels,” Kaylor said.
Fendor nodded.
“No splitting the party.”
“Once we find Mayhem, Hexen changes him into something small.”
“A mouse,” Nethnarel said.
Hexen looked at her.
“Why always a mouse?”
“Because we already understand mice.”
Gygax squeaked from her shoulder.
Isamu looked at the rough map.
“And the guards?”
“We avoid killing them,” Kaylor said.
“What if they try to kill us?”
“We stop them.”
“That was not my question.”
“It is my answer.”
Kaylor looked around the table.
“We do not know whether the guards serve Craven. We do not know whether they know anything. They may simply be doing their duty.”
Grazim watched him.
“And Mayhem?”
“We question him.”
“And then?”
“If he belongs in prison, he returns to one.”
Gavasani stared at Kaylor.
“You are planning to break someone out of prison so you can put him back in prison?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Kaylor looked toward the distant Sanctum.
“Because I need the truth more than I need this to make sense.”
They rested inside the hidden tavern.
One night remained before Mayhem’s final day.
Before morning, Gavasani led them to South Point Harbor.
The fishing shack looked abandoned.
Nets lay in heaps beside rotting barrels. The door leaned crookedly. The smell of old fish covered almost everything.
Almost.
Beneath it waited the damp breath of something underground.
Gavasani moved a stack of broken crates and revealed the stair.
It descended farther than expected.
Thirty feet.
Forty.
Then the steps opened into a long tunnel nearly twenty feet across.
Water dripped from the ceiling.
The passage sloped beneath the bay.
The farther they traveled, the worse the smell became.
Gavasani moved with the caution of someone who remembered exactly how afraid he had been the first time.
He kept close to Nethnarel.
Isamu watched him.
Gavasani noticed.
“You do not trust me.”
“No.”
“I escaped this place.”
“You ran.”
“I escaped while running.”
“That is more accurate.”
The tunnel continued.
Eventually, it opened into a round chamber.
An ascending passage stood on the far side, partly choked with debris.
In the center of the floor waited a trapdoor.
Gavasani stopped.
“What is that?” Fendor asked.
“I do not know.”
“You passed through this chamber.”
“Quickly.”
Isamu walked to the trapdoor.
Gavasani backed away.
“There is nothing beneath it.”
“You just said you did not know.”
“There is nothing worth knowing.”
Isamu crouched.
Kaylor looked at him.
“Careful.”
Isamu opened the trapdoor.
Bones came out.
Not a skeleton.
A mass.
Ribs, skulls, arms, spines, and jaws had been forced together into a creature with no shape except hunger. It heaved itself upward through the opening.
Fendor had already drawn.
His first arrow struck before the thing cleared the floor.
The second buried itself beside it.
Kaylor’s Dancing Sword moved independently as he brought his frost-rimed axe down against the creature.
Divine radiance followed.
The bone mass shuddered.
Then the chamber walls opened.
Skeletons tore themselves free from the stone.
They had been built into it.
Bones formed the masonry. Bodies had been buried inside the structure as though prisoners had been worked to death digging the tunnels and then used to complete them.
Short swords appeared in dead hands.
The blades dripped acid.
One struck Kaylor through a joint in his armor.
Pain burned through the wound.
Another attacked Nethnarel.
Isamu’s bracers turned a blade that should have opened his arm.
The bone mass expanded.
Fragments erupted from it.
A storm of sharpened bones filled the chamber.
Kaylor raised his shield too late.
Nethnarel twisted away from the worst of it.
Hexen protected his face.
Isamu moved through the storm with impossible precision, allowing the fragments to pass around him.
Gavasani screamed.
The sound retreated rapidly down the tunnel.
“He left,” Fendor said.
“No,” Isamu replied. “He escaped while running.”
More dead emerged from the walls.
Grazim raised his holy symbol.
Radiant spirits formed around him.
They swept through the chamber, forcing several of the skeletal creatures back into the walls from which they had emerged.
Nethnarel answered acid with fire.
Hellish flame consumed the skeleton nearest her.
The creature burned far faster than ordinary bone should have burned.
Nethnarel saw it.
“Fire.”
She released the meteors circling her head.
They struck among the dead without touching Kaylor.
Flame exploded.
Skeletons came apart in burning pieces.
Hexen attacked with both spears.
The Spear of Death entered one creature.
The Spear of Life followed.
Nothing returned to him.
No healing.
No warmth.
The dead possessed nothing for the weapon to steal.
The great bone creature opened a mouth that had not existed a moment before.
It closed around Hexen.
Jaws made from dozens of smaller jaws engulfed half his body.
The druid screamed.
Venomous slime entered the wounds.
Hexen tore himself free, but his movements immediately became slower.
Unsteady.
Poison spread through him.
“I may have made a mistake,” Isamu said.
Hexen looked at him.
“You opened the door.”
“Yes.”
“You definitely made a mistake.”
Kaylor struck the bone mass again.
The Dancing Sword cut through one side.
The axe hit from the other.
Divine power exploded through the dead.
Fendor abandoned the bow when the chamber became too crowded.
He drew a longsword and shield and met one of the skeletal creatures at close range.
Two controlled strikes broke it apart.
Isamu’s whip wrapped around another.
He pulled it forward into a barrage of fists and elbows.
The skeleton collapsed.
Then Isamu turned and attacked the great bone mass with a flurry of blows.
Each strike damaged it.
None felt as effective as they should have.
It was not one body.
There was no single place to break.
Nethnarel’s fire did what fists could not.
Another cluster of meteors struck.
The mass burned.
Parts of it tried to crawl away from the flames.
Grazim’s radiant spirits forced them back.
Kaylor’s weapon shattered the largest remaining section.
Fendor’s blade destroyed another skeleton.
Isamu broke one apart with the whip and his bare hands.
The final creature reached Grazim.
The war-priest raised the Warhammer of Disruption.
One blow ended it.
Silence returned.
Bones covered the floor.
Hexen leaned against the wall, pale beneath the poison.
Kaylor crossed to him and placed one hand over the wound.
Divine power entered the druid.
The poison burned away.
Hexen drew a full breath.
“Better?”
“Yes.”
From somewhere down the tunnel came cautious footsteps.
Gavasani returned.
He entered the chamber slowly, looked at the destroyed undead, and climbed onto the largest fallen carcass.
He placed one foot upon it.
“I told you I could defeat them.”
Everyone stared at him.
Gavasani lowered his arms.
“Escape them.”
“You screamed,” Fendor said.
“A battle cry.”
“It moved away from us.”
“A tactical battle cry.”
They searched the trapdoor.
More than seven thousand nine hundred copper pieces lay inside the hidden cavity, far too much weight to carry easily without the Bag of Holding Leonidas had taken with him.
Among the coins they found a small mirror with a painted wooden frame.
Magic radiated from it, but Nethnarel could not identify its purpose.
A pouch held a large gold bracelet, two potions of greater healing, and a potion that would cause its drinker to grow to enormous size.
The bracelet was worth perhaps two hundred fifty gold pieces.
The copper was worth less than the trouble of carrying it.
They took what they could.
Then Fendor approached the ascending passage.
He stopped after only a few steps.
Nothing stood before him.
Nothing could be seen.
Yet the way forward was blocked.
Fendor placed one hand against the empty air.
A solid barrier pressed back.
Nethnarel sent Gygax forward.
The mouse dug beneath the edge.
The barrier continued downward.
Gygax moved sideways.
It extended into the walls.
Kaylor looked upward.
Somewhere beyond that invisible wall stood Joraya Prison.
Somewhere inside it, Mayhem waited for an execution less than a day away.
Behind the heroes stretched the tunnel beneath Krinrith Bay.
Before them stood a wall no one could see.
Gavasani looked at the barrier.
“That was not here before.”
Kaylor placed his hand against it.
“Then they know someone escaped.”
“No,” Nethnarel said.
She studied the invisible surface.
“Or someone knows we are coming.”