The Pit (Kroom & Tobias)

[Kroom]

The second half of the story of "Sneaks & Snakes." (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?26329-Sneaks-and-Snakes)

Previously:


Jak felt ice embrace his spine as the other two men snapped quick glances backwards, both spitting curses when they realized that Isstar had disappeared. Even from the middle of the line, he had vanished without a sound or a trace. Haggor looked about wildly, bewildered. Every ounce of attention was drawn forward, however, when there came a slow grinding sound, as of stone on stone. A creaking voice, bringing memories of dead wood and dust and stiff leather, whispered so loudly that none could mistake it.

"My servants have returned. My time has come again."

A faint blue light began to suffuse the far end of the chamber, giving hints of a seated figure chained to its throne. Before it were four coffins, as Jak had feared. These were open. A skeletal hand gripped the edge of one, and it was pulling a body upright.

Jak swallowed a mouth as dry as the Alerian desert, and fingered the fletching of his arrow.

The three mercenaries, backed by a pickpocket and a dwarf, swore silently as they realized just how thoroughly above their level this situation was. They were simple sellswords; damn good ones, for sure, but sellswords nonetheless. Nothing special, not even tied to a proper corps like the Crimson Hands or the old Leatherhides. They couldn't even claim to be like one of the famous freelancer mercenaries; Randall Bluecloak, Torn-Sky the Skavian, or Arvos Draen. They were nobodies, no powers or prestige or special skills, and now they were staring down four undead champions and their necromancer king. Their doom was almost certain.

So naturally, they attacked. What else could they do?

Mathes was first into the fray, launching a flurry of blows against a helmed corpse armed with sword and shield. It croaked, matching the mercenary stroke for stroke. Togan was close behind, but quickly found himself equally stymied by the second corpse's battleaxe. They could not advance, but refused to retreat and allow the other two undead to play - yet Jak's arrows were not free to fly, with his friends in the field. The battle became a deadlock within the first minute. For all their fearsome aspect, however, the dead warriors were only as clever as the dead mage commanding them.

Mathes and Togan both side-stepped expertly, opening a window through which their two warriors stumbled. One was promptly pincushioned with two of Jak's arrows, while the other squawked dully when Haggor's axe crushed its skull. It made no sound at all when the second blow shattered its chest. There was a gasp of magic about that one, and the bones scattered across the floor. The mage howled. Taking the clue, Jak leapt forward and knocked his man - if you could call it that - to the ground, rending it limb from limb with savage hacks of his shortsword. It too gasped and fell to pieces.

The odds now more favorably balanced, and markedly less fearsome, the four mercenaries attacked. Skilled and awful as they may have been in life, in undeath, the necromancer's champions were not up to the task, and served little more than to put a much-mourned chip in Togan's saber. The necromancer shrieked in rage, but chained to his throne as he was, he was helpless. Haggor hefted his axe and stepped forward.

"What's dead ought stay dead," he rumbled, winding the weapon back for a tremendous blow to the corpse's collarbone. It was Jak's shout that stopped him.

The smith had dealt taken one of the arms off the last deathless warrior and kicked it away, watching it meet a dusty end on the stone floor. The mage's shriek didn't faze him - if he hadn't thrown any magic about yet, he wasn't likely to now. The thick black chains on his wrists seemed to be the source of his impotence. The mercenary found himself absurdly relaxed, almost euphoric, battle-joy flooding his veins and mingling with the relief of finding a fearsome opponent to be far less than. He was glancing at one of the fallen ancient weapons, wondering if it would be better than his own steel, or if it might fetch some coin at market, when he heard the scuffle at the foot of the stair and a muffled cry.

Isstar Maloch had stepped from a wreath of shadow and pressed a knife to Tobias' throat, grinning darkly. Rage flooded the smith; rage that all his suspicions had been confirmed, rage at being deceived, rage at Isstar's threat, and rage at having the joy of his victory corrupted in this instant. Fear immediately tangled with the rage, and Jak shouted a warning threat even as he poised to throw his knife and bloody Isstar's eye.

[Tobias Stalt]

A creaky howl of rage tore free of the gaps in the Lich's exposed ribcage as it crunched beneath a boot. Defiance bleed through the cracks in the room's foundation and the dank, dark walls shook as ancient power rocked them. Before the blue flames were finally snuffed, they burned with cold hatred on the triumphant from of Jak, son of Tom. His voice creaked from beyond the grave as he called to Jak across time. Nander-Thay echoed in the minds of every man there, but to Jak himself, the whisper was a promise.

"You will understand," it rasped, "what it is to be unmade."

Jak snorted. "A lesson you've just learned well enough." The haunted echo dissolved from the room in a flash of green and blue, which left the group illuminated by weak torches. Jak had wasted no time twisting his body and his shout warned Isstar off of any rash movement. "Never trust a bloody merchant," the Smith growled. Tobias grunted loudly when Isstar took hold of him, but he knew better than to squirm. Writhing only sent the blade home and the victim to hell.

"Ah-ah!" came the serpentine lull of a man who had lied about his true purpose, "throw your blade and the boy dies," Maloch promised insidiously. The knife prodded closer to accentuate the truth in his words. A ruby tear welled up at the tip of the blade and wept its way to the floor. "He bleeds so deliciously," Maloch chortled, "perhaps he would make a fitting sacrifice to bind the Necromancer's wisdom to my own."

Jak watched in silence as Isstar led Tobias slowly toward the chains that had once bound Nander-Thay's mind, body, and soul to the world of the living. Slow scratches of leather against stone echoed through the vast antechamber as neither Togan or Matthes dared to speak a word. They trained weapons on Maloch, but no one had the gall to let fly. "I will have the power that is by rights mine," Isstar hissed venomously.

The merchant let out a tiny gasp of surprise. Jak watched as the foul wretch staggered backward from Tobias and his knife clattered to the floor. Isstar slowly placed a hand on his abdomen and pulled it away stained crimson. "Y-you..." he stared hatefully into the thief's golden gaze as a wry smirk crept across the youth's face. "You..."

Tobias lifted his right hand slowly and twirled a dripping blade between two fingers absently. "Quick hands," Tobias remarked. "Isn't that why you hired me, Isstar Maloch?"

The Merchant took two paces toward Tobias and reached toward him with an open hand. "I'm so close," he seethed vehemently, "I will not die now," his petulance waxed, "I cannot die now. I will be one with Nander-Thay!" His hand shook violently as he came within inches of Tobias. He parted his lips to speak, but only a garbled, choked wail came from his lips.

Jak ripped his blade out of the Merchant's throat, and a fountain of blood gushed free from the wound. Viscera pooled at their feet, and Tobias gulped. "Maybe we should go," he suggested, urgency in his voice. Maloch slumped to the ground in a pile, the light faded from his eyes. "I despise all of this magery and mystical nonsense."

"You're in a world full of it, lad," Jak reminded him. "Best get used to being the only normal man in a room."

[Kroom]

The crypt had been quiet for all of ten seconds after Isstar gurgled out his last breath. Jak realized he'd been holding his breath and let it out with a slow, silent whistle. Tobias, shaking slightly, stepped towards the other mercenaries.

Then Togan screamed, body writhing as he was suddenly suffused in a dim glow of light. His jaw cracked as it was forced open, eyes bugging out. His soul fled, as quickly and easily as smoke from a candle. This snake of battle, a man who had never lost a contest of arms, was unmanned in an instant by a burst of necrous power. Spinning, eyes alight with a glow of undeath, he slashed Haggor from throat to bowels in one fluid motion. A rasping voice choked from his broken mouth.

"A new vessel."

A shell of what had once been their friend now leapt at them, rushing for Tobias - but Mathes was quicker. It had always been his virtue; where other men were stronger, or quicker, or more skilled, Mathes had a gift for short bursts of speed and an ingenuity for killing swiftly that sometimes left Jak staggered. Togan was the graceful one, certainly, but Mathes had always been the dangerous one of their trio.

It wasn't Togan crossing blades with Mathes in that nightmarish crypt, Jak knew that, but the corpse retained its former owner's skill. Undead and living traded blows with the ferocity of thunder gods. The din of the two clashing swords was deafening din to Jak's ears, and the dim glinting of naked blades in the chamber's suffusive sorcerous light seemed a lightning storm, awful to the smith's eyes. He saw Tobias shrink away, though for fear of harm or some other motive he could not tell.

Within instants that seemed as years, the contest ended. Togan's body lay spilling blood from a dozen wounds, and Mathes stood victorious, stony-eyed and breathing heavily. Jak found his voice.

"He might take one of us next." All three turned and fled, leaving the corpses behind.

[Tobias Stalt]

"Can't take what's not dead," Tobias hissed as he gasped for air between lengthy strides. "Let's not give him the opportunity, eh?" The trio dashed along turgid, melted snow and slid as the hellish cackle of an otherworldly entity resonated throughout the cavern in their wake. Terrified, the young thief felt his heart leap into his throat to stifle his urge to scream. Power beyond imagination compelled bones to tremble along their path and skeletal appendages tore up out of the ground.

"Fuck!" called Mathes, who swatted at a rotted arm and sent it across the ice in a spiral. A forest of undeath blossomed all around them and threatened to embrace them in the fold.

"Had to be Necromancy," Jak spat as he followed suit, and a healthy heap of hands littered their path. Tobias continued his hasty sprint, unable to contribute verbally. His eyes raced over the evil scene and his breathing escalated to a rapid crescendo. He reached the cave mouth before the others, but never turned to look back.

Daylight blinded him as he gasped for clean air, but a sharp pain ripped though his shoulder. The boy toppled with wide eyes and let out a pathetic yelp as his hand tightly clutched the vicious black shaft. Blurred vision from a multitude of stressors slowly revealed a number of men, both mounted and on foot, clad in black robes and one man in pure white, a scowl set on his features. "Do not move, heretic," came the lilting voice with melodic notes. He spoke with a practiced pattern that seemed almost soothing. "The magic in this place festers, and you reek of it."

Blood spewed from his wound as Tobias knelt powerless on the ground, and Mathes and Jak barreled into the light just in time for the archer to notch another arrow. "Gods below," Jak cursed.

[Kroom]

Jak's eyes streamed with tears, red and swollen. From the hollow surrounding, they heard the stamping of hooves. Mathes looked up, wiped drivel from his mouth, and spat with dull fury. A score of men-at-arms aimed horse-bows, and leading them was a harsh-looking man, mounted on a grey horse and wearing the white surcoat and emblem of a Sway inquisitor. Behind him rode a rather fat man, obviously a cleric of the Sway. Tobias swore under his breath, gritting his teeth against the pain.

"I arrest you," he declared imperiously, "in the name of the Church of the Ethereal Sway, Saint Denebriel, and in the name of the King, for unauthorized sorcerous activity." His horse whinnied and started slightly. It seemed dramatically appropriate. His narrow eyes, set too far apart in his head, scanned the three men. "Where is the sorcerer, Isstar Maloch?" This time Jak and Mathes spat together, and Jak answered.

"Dead."

The Inquisitor narrowed his slashed eyes even further. "And you - who are you?"

"Jak Roth Rute."
"Mathes Gofare." Jak had never heard Mathes' full name before.
"Tobias Stalt."
"What was your business here?"
"Maloch hired us as bodyguards," Mathes answered. All three knew that wasn't all the lying merchant had wanted, but what business had this bastard to know that?
"Very well," he said with a sort of clipped victory in his voice, "I arrest you all for collaboration with a rogue sorcerer. Come quietly or die here in this gully." A wave of her hand sent a half-dozen men-at-arms forward, manacles in hand. Jak tasted something bitter in his mouth, and could not help but grin mirthlessly. Of course, after everything they'd just seen, this would be their fate. Arrested and tried for heresy by the goddamn Sway, all because they'd been duped by some silver-tongued merchant with a hard-on for the dead. Of course. The gods were just hilarious with their control of destiny.

Jak watched dully as Mathes stood, ready to be handcuffed. At the last instant he snarled.

"Fuck off."

With a flash of steel, three guards were dead, and Mathes was advancing at a dead sprint for the Inquisitor. Jak would remember, for the rest of his days, the shameful immobility which cemented his feet to the stone, which barred him from aiding his friend. Which saved his life.

A half-dozen arrows decorated Mathes' corpse, one buried in his cheek and marring the snarling grin which was his death mask.

Jak and Tobias submitted quietly when the Inquistor swore and demanded, "And you? Do you care to die today?"