Large rock shards punched up from the ground in such a haphazard way to make travel across it almost impossible, the result of evil magic that had been performed there centuries ago.
"Some say I'm a bit off," Gizznad said, his voice traveling down the damp stone halls, where little hairy creatures scurried about in the darkness. "Do you?"
Crogg turned to face the warlock and peered into eyes that were as dark as the hall from which he had come. The bottoms of his feet had begun to itch and he wished he had never left the relative comfort of the Greensville Monastery, where he had discovered the scroll behind a panel in the wine celler. A secret that should have remained there, unseen by human eyes.
"Ah, Master," Crogg started slowly, "There are many definitions one could use to describe your brilliance--"
"Silence, you blabbering idiot!"
Crogg forced himself not to shudder as Gizznad paced back and forth. The warlock's dark robes seemed to flow around his frail body as if alive with snakes. This wasn't the result of a breeze; windows were few in the dusty sanctuary, and Crogg knew from experience that the warlock's garments were, in fact, swarming with the enchanted souls of captured dragons.
The beasts in question swarmed about outside like the undead, hauling large stones strapped on their backs. They worked feverishly. Some died of exhaustion, their bodies left to the elements.
"One has escaped," Gizznad said. "Why has my magic failed me?"
"Master, you are spending an awful lot of your power shielding the tower from prying eyes," observed Crogg. "And dragons are very powerful creatures in their own right--"
"Dragons have no rights!" bellowed Gizznad. Thin rivulets of dark smoke began to stream from his eyes and ears as he spoke. "What about my rights? When I was a child, my village was ravaged by dragons. Many homes and fields were burned, including my own! The villagers were sent fleeing in terror before these beasts and I swore that one day I would have my revenge!"
Crogg remained silent. He'd heard this all before and he knew that the dragons had been retaliating against the villagers for killing their young for the skins. The warlock did not seem to realize this, or if he did, he did not seem to care.
"I can hear the escaped dragon's last words even now," Gizznad said slowly, his eyes distant. "It tells the Kingdom of my exploits as it dies. King Kiliverous will send a Hero."
"I doubt anyone would be fool enough," Crogg replied regrettably to himself.
The warlock casually shrugged. "But he and his fellow travelers will die."
The sound of Gizznad's words stuck into Crogg's soul like ice shards. It wasn't what the mage said that terrified Crogg. Everything Gizznad said terrified him. The wizard could have said he was going to buy a bunch of puppy dogs and hand them out to poor kids and Crogg would still have cringed in fear.
"Very good, Sir."
"See to it," Gizznad said.
Crogg paused for a bit.
"How shall I 'see to it,' Master--"
Crogg suddenly felt something heavy in his hand. He looked down and realized he gripped the hilt of a sword. But this wasn't just any sword. This was a grand weapon, encased in the bleakest jewels Crogg had ever seen. They didn't even sparkle in the dim light. It was like they didn't want to.
Let's go out and kill things, the sword had said. Well, not said exactly. It was more of a feeling, and Crogg found he liked it. He smiled and at the warlock and had the strangest sensation of displacement. The thoughts of the monastery and the secret he had discovered there had buried themselves somewhere in his mind.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gizznad make a motion with his hands. Crogg turned to observe this only to realize he was no longer surrounded by dingy walls. He now stood on a rocky trail that he knew led back to the tower. You couldn't see the tower, of course, but it was there. You had to be at least within twenty yards of its entrance to see it, and no one usually traveled these damned lands anyway.
The sword spoke to him again and Crogg took cover behind some of the ugliest rocks he had ever seen. They were the kind of rocks that needed to be put back in the ground for another thousand years. They resembled squashed insects, sort of, and Crogg swore he could hear them crackling. The Ruptured Desert was like this, all screwed up geologically, with just about every land formation bastardized in some way.
After a few minutes he heard three distinct voices as they approached. They were arguing about something it seemed.
You know what to do, the sword said, and Crogg nodded.
Lore the Barbarian grunted and suddenly stopped cold in his tracks. He sniffed the air and what seemed to be a small, hairless rabbit scappered behind a rock.
"Why must you always make that sound?" Sir Zock asked. He had almost tripped over a rupture in the ground. There were many of such fissures in the desert trail. Some very wide and deep, some small and shallow. But they always had little pairs of what appeared to be eyes peering up from within them. "Is that all you know how to say? That's all you did back at the castle. Grunt this and grunt that. It's no wonder the King's Daughter won't have anything thing to do with you. Obviously she is a woman of taste."
Herald, the greatest swordsman ever, observed this exchange silently. Since he had been born with two sets of arms, he was able to scratch his head and back and stomach at the same time. It was rather unnerving. His free hand, which ever one happened to be available at the time, was always on the hilt of one of his swords. Always.
Lore shifted his eyes to see Sir Zock without moving his head. "It's all I need to say."
"Well I think it's just dreadful," Sir Zock spat, and Lore could feel spittle raining on his shoulder. Not a good thing.
"Certainly a self-proclaimed warrior of your stature would know some manners." Zock mercilessly continued. "We've been traveling down this awful road to nowhere for three days now and your grunting is getting on my nerves. It's positively horrid! Not to mention the other lovely sounds you tend make."
Lore couldn't help a grunt or two.
Sir Zock huffed.
Herald chuckled under his breath.
"You haven't done anything but complain," Herald retorted with a snort. He pointed all four index fingers at the silly harp Zock had strapped on his back. "I bet you don't even know how to play that thing! You charlatan!"
I should break both their legs, Lore thought and prepared to do just that when a crazy guy jumped out from behind some rocks. He thumped on Lore's wide chest and fell helplessly to the hard ground, where he lay still. He wore the drab robes of a monk.
"Friend of yours?" Herald asked, and retrieved one of his many swords. His favorite one, in fact, with the shiny green hilt. He poked at the unconscious man with the tip. "Look at his weapon. Interesting."
"That's the ugliest thing I've ever seen," Sir Zock said. There were a bunch of black jewels mounted in it. Gems of all shapes and sizes traveled up full length of it. He bent down to touch it.
"Leave it!" Herald shouted and knocked Zock on the back with the hilt of his sword. It stuck the large wooden harp. It let out a really annoying hollow cry that filled Lore's ears. When they were done and the Red Dragons freed, Lore decided, he was going to have to bash their heads in. Probably more than once.
"That is an evil sword," Herald said slowly. He cautiously kicked the weapon into the bushes as if it was a nasty spider with big fangs. "I have seen its kind before. It is one of the Bleak Swords. I've seen them used at the battle of Sartok. Wasn't pretty, I tell you."
"So you're going to just leave it here for some little kid to find, are you?" Sir Zock spat, clearly disgusted. "That's very rude."
"I'll show you rude." Herald moved quickly, perhaps a little too quickly. A second later Sir Zock was lying on the ground clutching his manhood in pain.
"Shall we?" Herald said. He pointed a few free hands at the dazed monk. "Think we should ask him what he is doing here?"
Lore grunted his approval. He snatched the man up and shook him until he regained consciousness.
"Whaaa," the monk said.
"Speak." Lore rattled him a bit longer. Crogg's legs dangled mere inches above the ground. "Where hides warlock?"
"It...it wasn't my f-fault," the monk babbled. "Gizznad lied to me. He p-promised me my own mones--"
A few more shakes maybe, Lore thought.
"T-that way," the monk said, his eyes spinning in their sockets. He pointed farther down the trail. "It's there, beyond that last hill. Keep walking a few more hours and you'll see it."
"I don't see anything," Sir Zock said. He strained his eyes to the horizon. The sun just hung there, unwilling to set.
"The tower is shrouded with lies." Crogg said. "What's there isn't, and what isn't there is."
"I think you shook him a bit too hard," Sir Zock added. "You obviously made him crazy."
"Find the scroll," the monk went on. "Find the scroll and burn it. Gizznad's power over the dragons will fade with it. The scroll is in the--"
The monk disappeared. He just dissolved from out of Lore's grasp like melting snow.
"What did you do to him?" Sir Zock asked, all huffy. "You are a real subtle guy, Lore. And what is this nonsense about a scroll?"
Lore peered at his hands. They were a bit warm and felt as if they had a swarm of ants crawling all over them. He cletched them into fists and the sensation faded.
"We go now," Lore said.
Herald nodded and took a swig of water from a leather pouch. His other three hands briefly took inventory. Small money bag, weapons of verious types, and assorted food stuffs were all accounted for.
Herald had been the only five-year-old in Greensville with four arms. His father had had him in the fields planting crops most of the time. Herald could sort out the best seeds, dig, plant and water at the same time. When the other children saw him, they would throw rocks and dirt at him. Herald didn't blame them really. Herald knew that these acts of cruelty had probably toughened him up, made him the warrior he was today.
Then, at the age of fourteen, he noticed girls. They wouldn't have anything to do with him at first. They laughed and giggled when he would walk by. But after a time, when the females in the village were old enough to appreciate Herald's unique deformities, he had suddenly become very popular.
"What happened to Sir Zock," Herald asked.
"Does it matter?" Lore responed and began to walk up the trail towards the hill.
"Ah--" Herald raised an eyebrow.
"I shall kill you now," Sir Zock screached. He raised the Bleak Sword over his head and charged at Lore, who grunted impatiently and easily side-stepped the attack.
"What did I tell you?" Herald said with all four hands on his hips. "That is a bad, bad sword!"
"Aarrgghh!" Sir Zock replied as Lore grabbed him by the back of his neck. With his free hand, Lore reached around and grabbed Zock's wrist and crunched it until he dropped the weapon.
"Thanks," Zock said after a deep breath. "I'll be okay now."
Lore kicked the sword into a small cavity in the trail. He heard a hollow clank! echo a second later. The weapon apparently has a new home in some dark cave. Satisfied, Lore threw Zock to the ground and continued on his way back up the path. Herald shrugged and followed in releative silence.
"By the Gods, now I've seen everything." Herald said to himself.
Lore creaked his neck up as far as it would go and it still wasn't enough. The tower seemed to stretch on forever. Why they couldn't see it until they were practically at the threshold Lore didn't know.
"The monk spoke the truth," Herald said. "The tower is enchanted. Some kind of brain-fog spell or something."
Lore stepped back a few feet. The tower evaporated into the air. The Jagged Mountains were clearly visible in the horizon, the view unimpaired. He stepped forward and the massive building re-materialized.
The monolith pierced the sky like a giant stone saber tooth. Some parts of it weren't done yet, Lore saw. Flying creatures swarmed around the unfinished sections, and if Lore strained his eyes, he could see the missing pieces filling themselves in, with the forced help of the dragons.
The Red Dragons, possibly thousands of them, worked like frantic bees. Lore felt outraged. The long black hairs on his back stood up in anger. No creature should be treated in such a cruel way. He smacked Herald in the back of head to get him going.
"We attack now," Lore said.
"Okay," Herald shrugged.
The sound of many swords being retrieved from their scabbards filled the humid air. Lore had to stand back to avoid being unintentionally stabbed as Herald ran towards the base of the tower like farm machinery gone wild.
At what seemed to be the front door, they both gazed at each other.
"Should we knock?" Herald wondered. The door appeared to be solid metal, so it was unlikely they would be able to force their way in.
"I've got a better idea," Sir Zock said. He limped across the treacherous terrain toward them. He was cradling his broken harp in his arms. There was a big gaping scratch down the side it. Several strings had popped out and flopped around as he hurried.
Lore looked and Herald and raised a bushy eyebrow.
Herald grunted.
Crogg heard a knock at the door. Which was strange since no one ever came to visit. The Ruptured Desert wasn't high on the 'most visited places' list. In fact, it wasn't even on it. Or if it ever was, it would have been promptly erased.
"Ah--," Crogg started to say. He peered around for the warlock, but knew he'd be up at the top of the tower making preparations to reach the Gods. Which was a good thing, since Crogg failed in his mission to kill the so-called heroes. He had re-materialized back in the tower, and the only thing he remembered was this big barbarian guy. They always send in the barbarians. "Who's there?"
Urgent, muffled whispers streamed from the other side of the door. Crogg pressed an ear up to it. Then he heard the most revolting music that had ever raped his ears. He cupped his hands over them and opened the door with his foot.
"My Gods, please stop that--"
The next thing Crogg knew, he was lying on the floor again with a musical instrument forced over his head. The world around him spun and waved. He could still hear the off-key notes echo in his ears like drunk birds.
"Where is scroll," the barbarian asked, and not very nicely.
Crogg cringed at the sight of the man drawing his sword. The sound the metal blade made as it escaped from its leather scabbard seemed to last forever.
"Better tell him," Herald warned. "He is a man of little patience."
"And few words," Sir Zock added, doing his best to mimick one of Lore's grunts, but only managed a weak nasel snort.
Crogg peered up the length of Lore's weapon. It quivered mere millimeters from his nose. Lore seemed so distant at the other end.
Doesn't matter now, Crogg thought. Or was that Gizznad's words in his mind again? Crogg wasn't sure anymore.
"Th-that way," Crogg babbled and pointed down a short corridor to his left. "It is now at the top of the tower."
"If the scroll's so powerfull," Herald asked, "why doesn't the wizard have it on him. I'd never let it out of my sight."
"Gizznad cannot physically touch it," Crogg replied. "He can only read from it. Why do you think he's let me live this long?"
"Why doesn't he just put some levitation spell on it or something?" Sir zock asked as he retrieved his harp from around Crogg's shoulders. Many strings were broken on the instrument.
"If evil magic is placed upon the scroll," Crogg added, "It will cease to exist."
"Why haven't you destroyed it, then." Sir Zock peered down at Crogg and sneared at him.
"I'm at Gizznad's mercy," Crogg sniveled. That damn secret! Locked in the wine cellar of the monestary all those years. The scroll had waited for him to find it so it could ruin his life. Crogg forced himself to sit up. His head spun like the wooden tops his grandfather used to build, and he knew he would be vomiting soon. He drew his knees up to his chest and shivered. "I might as well have sold my soul to the Devil Himself."
Sir Zock huffed.
Lore replaced his sword in its scabbard and started down the corridor. As Crogg watched Herald and Sir Zock follow Lore into the dark passageway, he reached into his robe. Crogg then slowly reteived the scroll. It was a bit tattered around the edges and smelled of old wine.
It is time, Gizznad said in Crogg's mind. My revenge is nearly completed.
And mine has just begun, Crogg thought as he felt the tingle of Gizznad's magic flutter inside his belly. He knew he would be seeing the top of the tower in a matter of seconds.
For the first time in what has seemed like ages, he smiled.
"Master," Crogg said and instantly began to feel lightheaded. Being instantly transported from one place to another all the time was giving him a headache. They stood on the top of the tower, and strong winds threatened to rip the scroll out of his hands. Maybe that was the idea, he thought.
"Bring it to me," Gizznad ordered. "Hold it up so I can see it. I must read the last spell. Then, my feeble friend, I will have the power to rupture the Hall of the Gods!"
The laughter that followed grated on Crogg's nerves.
"Yes, Master," Crogg said silently. He focused his eyes on Gizznad and saw the mage for who he really was: an angry old man with too much hate in him.
"Hurry!" Gizznad shrieked. "The last brick is almost in place!"
"Yes, Master," Crogg softly said as he drove the scroll into Gizznad's chest. A moment of unnatural silence followed. Even the wind seemed to die down. Gizznad peered at Crogg and then to his own chest. For a breif insane second Crogg found it hard to believe that an old rolled up peice of paper could penetrate flesh like a sword.
As Crogg stood back, fire burst from the exposed end of the scroll in torrents. But there was no heat. Crogg felt a wave of cold air wash over his face. A closer look revealed that there were shapes in the fire. Shapes with wings and long flowing tails. Hundereds of them screamed from the scroll and into the air.
Gizznad fell to his knees, his power over the dragons and the tower draining from his chest like molten rock through a waterpipe. A second later the scroll was nothing more than a black smudge.
"Well this is nice," Sir Zock said.
They all stood in the middle of massive, dark spiral staircase that, they supposed, reached the top of the tower. Miles and miles of it, in fact. It was so high that it had its own cloud layer.
Herald decided to go ahead and get it over with. Lore watched the man calmly bend down and puke on his own boots.
"Shall we fly up?" Sir Zock flapped his arms mockingly. "I don't know about you, but if the mage we seek is up there, we are in for a long walk. We'd probably die of old age first."
Lore contemplated this and did the only thing that could be done.
"Stand back," he said and clutched the hilt of his mighty sword.
"You're not--," Sir Zock trembled. "...serious."
"I think he is," Herald replied and ran out.
With one powerful swing, Lore took out the first stairwell support closest to him. Obviously, they must have been magically reinforced to support all the tons and tons of weight. But when the mage designed this, he did not take into account the swing of a razor sharp sword. Lore didn't stop until all the supports he laid his eyes on were severed.
He stood back, a bit out of breath. He smiled the slimmest of smiles.
Nothing happened. For the first few seconds, at least. Then all hell broke loose.
The tower rumbled from the inside. It was a giant that had too much to eat. Dust filled Crogg's lungs. He hacked up gunk as the structure fell in on itself. One section at a time, each one falling into the larger one under it. Great plumes of grey powder erupted into the air in gushes as each part tumbled down.
Oddly, great relief filled Crogg. He started to weep as a swarm of dragons flew off with renewed vitality.
Except for a few.
They lingered behind as their buddies returned to where ever they came from. They dived toward Crogg as if he was a garden snake.
"Forgive me," he whispered as the stone floor fell out from beneath him.
The warlock peered up at the barbarian. There was the biggest sword Gizznad had ever seen in his face. By all rights the warlock should be dead, piled under tons and tons of rubble. But he was a warlock, after all.
"Why?" The barbarian asked rather emotionlessly. Gizznad could respect the simple way the brute had of getting things done.
"Why not?" Gizznad cursed Crogg under his breath for selling him an imperfect spells to entrance dragons. He cursed himself for buying it. "Haven't you ever wondered if the Gods exist at all? And if they do, have you ever wanted to ask 'why me'? Why does my village get destroyed and your family's crops burnt to cinders? I wanted to ask them that, is all. Why did the dragons pick my home to burn."
"Why don't you ask them yourself," the barbarian said and grabbed Gizznad up by his cloak. He draped him over his shoulder and headed out from the middle of huge piles of stone and brick.
"Lore?" Sir Zock tugged on Lore's tunic sleeve and pointed up. A mass of dragons, a couple dozen or so, where zeroing in on them. "Do you think we should drop him and leave this damned place?"
"For once I agree with him," Herald affirmed and stood back. Way back. "Let them have him I say."
Lore gripped the warlock by the shoulders. It was like sticking his hands in running water, but the mage's robes were not wet. The garments seemed to have their own undercurrents, and Lore's hands tingled.
When the dragons touched down he stood tall and proud. Here he is, he thought, your captor.
"Take him," Lore said.
One of the dragons peered at Lore and roared. Being mere inches away, he could feel the intense heat on his face and knew his eyebrows were probably now gone. Lore had the feeling that the hearty roar was the equivalent of a angry dragon saying thanks, now go away.
"Take me to the Gods," Gizznad whispered, and lowered his head.
The beast easily snatched the warlock out of Lore's grasp with its great claws and darted up into the sky. The others followed, and none of them looked back.
"Well, that's it then." Sir Zock said. "Let's go home. I need to change my pants."
The courtyard was filled with the loud, ear wrenching sound of clanging music and the babble of peasants. Someone should teach Sir Zock how to play that thing, Herald thought.
He played the harp like someone who had his fingers tied together. They need to be tied behind his back, was more like it.
Herald held four cups of ale, one in each hand, and he downed them in the order they were poured. He let the liquid work it magic in his brain and smiled.
Lore and the King's Daughter danced together off to the side. Funny thing, Herald thought, that she didn't have a name. Well, she did actually have a name, Herald knew, but to utter it in passion would mean a one-way trip to the gallows.
The King was a real tight ass, Herald thought, and turned his attention back to Sir Zock and his merciless out-of-key style of singing.
"We defeated the warlock," Sir Zock sang softly, "...and the dragons took him away-hey-hey! Yeah!"
The crowed cheered and laughed and drank. They spoke of rewards and heroes. Lore had been given his own land to rule. The King's architechs where planning a new additon to the Kingdom for Sir Zock. This would include a music school and his own theater where he may play his appalling music for the villagers. As for Herald, the King's wizards were working on a way to reverse his condition. In a way, Herald will miss the extra set of arms. They have served him well on the ba ttlefield, but his desire to be normal was stronger than having the advantage. His father had once told him that it was more important to fight battles with your mind first, fists second, and that would not make him any less of a man.
Herald peered back at Sir Zock and wondered what would make an honored and respected Knight turn into a really, really terrible lounge singer. What happened to the man? Why is he up there howling away when he should be wielding his sword for the King? But that was, Herald considered as he went to go get a few more mugs of ale, another story.
Bio:Mark currently is manager of a hardware store in San Francisco.
E-mail: kntrdr2k@compuserve.com
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