The Ogre's Pendant & The Rat in the Pit

Lycundar's Bane I

Lycundar's Bane I

Schnk.

A silver blade thrust into the acolytes back, sliding cleanly through his ribs and deep into his beating heart. His blood-choked gasp alerted his companion, and the alarmed man whirled toward the dying acolyte and held up his oil lamp. He had no chance to cry out.

Rrrrrrrrrp!

Massive feline claws swiped the side of his head, tearing free his mask - and most of the face beneath - and ripping open his neck. As both men slumped to the stone, a short, olive skinned woman and a titanic sabre toothed-tiger looked toward a crossroad of tunnels. The guttering light from the flaming oil of the acolytes dropped lamp created writhing shadows across the open mouths of the caves ahead.

Sniff.

Wurhi wiped her blade on one of the mens robes as her nostrils flared.

Thats six dead. This way. She nodded to the leftmost tunnel.

The cats eyes shone, and it turned toward one of the opposite tunnels, letting loose a low, rumbling growl. The scent of wolf drifted from the centre passage, and Wurhi watched it tense in anticipation of vengeance.

Later, later! she whispered. First well set the others free.

The tiger eyed her before letting out a grunt of acknowledgement and following, to her relief. The great cat had proven a strange comfort as they had weaved through the pathways of the mountain. Its eerie silence and eerier sapience had made it a fine ambush partner to stalk with, soundlessly, through the dark.

They had fallen upon lone acolytes or those travelling in pairs, silencing them by silver and fang, while hiding from those that moved in packs. These larger groups had grown more frequent, and the mountain tunnels seemed to teem with cultists - all making their way toward one place.

Thm. Thm. Thm.

A sinister drumming resounded through the bowels of the mountain, calling forth the servants of the wolf god. Their chanting had swelled, seemingly roaring from every stone, and stiffening the hairs on the back of Wurhis neck. Her hand tightened upon her sword.

The air seemed to thrum with anticipation as the chanting and drumming mounted in fervour, toward a dark purpose; Wurhi recalled Milos mention of welcoming more acolytes into their vile gods embrace. From the direction of the sound - though it was difficult to be sure in these tunnels - they were congregating within their blood-stained arena.

Thankfully, that was not where her destination lay.

Not yet.

Though she had no knowledge of the paths through the mountain, her goal could not hide from her nose. The pits into which she had been thrown upon arrival spewed a vile rot that she could scarce forget, and in wandering the passages, her nose soon caught that familiar stench.

It grew stronger as they moved forward, combining with the musk of beasts and unwashed bodies of captives and slaves. The Rat and the cat slipped around a corner into a well-lit hall. The foul odour of the pits was overwhelming. Muffled voices sounded from the tunnels ahead - both the grumble of caged beasts and the moans of prisoners in misery.

She hoped Merrick the Hawk would be somewhere among their number. It was time to fulfil the truce they had struck when they were first imprisoned. She had found escape first, and she would now share it. Wurhi threw a glance to the vast, beautiful predator stalking at her side.

Her mouth split in a tight grin.

She couldnt wait to show the Laexondaelic thief what she had found.

What do you mean you cannot find him? Milos frowned.

Berard scratched his thick, black beard. A reddened bandage pressed against the wound he had struck into his own face. Thats just it, Sacred Alpha. I had some of the acolytes search through the nearby tunnels, but we cannot find a hair of the beast.

And the scent?

His past trails through the tunnels confounds tracking him by smell: I followed it as best I could, but lost it many times. What would you like me to do, Sacred Alpha?

Milos grunted, puzzling after the whereabouts of his beast-man. The creature had departed his chambers in low spirits - he had treated it coldly - but in the past when he had shown it displeasure, it had always sulked nearby. This behaviour was strange.

Of course, it had never lost a hand before.

Leave it for now, Berard. The cult leader rose from beside the roaring fire. The light danced across the heads of the wolf god. Lycundar calls to us, and we must answer.

St. Cristabel mounted the stairs with slow and deliberate movement, concealing the sound of her armour as best she could. Valkyrie-forged as it was, its magics dulled any noise unlike armour forged by simple skill and craft, but clumsy or hurried motion would still sound like a collapsing smithy.

Perhaps Amitiyah had smiled upon their quest. Wind and snow had whipped into gusts cutting down visibility. The punishing winds bothered her little: as a child she had always been fine with the cold and - after passing through the gates into the afterworld and back - even winters harshest bite could touch her no longer.

The howling of the wind served her well: masking the sound of her approach. With visor raised, she sought to listen through it. Snippets of voices undulated, caught within the whistle of the gale. Ahead, upon the mountain stair, the wan light of a watch fire flickered beside a shelter perhaps some fifteen paces ahead. The voices were low, but she caught the odd word rising and falling: ceremony, cold, new comers.

She cared little for their conversation.

Falling to one knee, she set her broad shield at her side and lay her massive blade across her armour-clad thigh.

Bowing her head, she closed her eyes.

Oh, beloved Amitiyah, she prayed. Your humble servant calls upon you. Know that the deeds I do now are done in your name. May our enemies gazes draw to me so that Kyembe may be safe. May their ire draw to me so that Wurhi may be safe. May your blessing fall upon me and mine, and may your glory spread across the land and choke the vile Stheno and her treacherous servants.

In response, the warmth of Amitiyahs Tears poured down her form.

Argh! Whats that light?! came the cry from ahead.

It begins, she rose, opening her eyes. Golden light refracted upon the snow around her, extending its blaze across the mountain.

Clnk.

She slammed down her visor and charged up the steps.

The Traemeans powerful bounding put her among her hapless foes in a breath. They gasped as she loomed out of the snows - the golden light of Amitiyahs Tears shining upon the dark sapphire surface of her armour. The golden mammoth upon her shield glared at them.

Surrender or die! she roared.

They answered by lifting their spears. One of the robed men placed a horn to his lips.

Woooooooor!

A wan note - like a diseased wolfs howl - writhed up out of their shelter and into the night. Cristabel smiled as other horns and cries answered from up the mountain.

A mistake, she told them. But one I had hoped you would make. Have at you, blackguards!

The knight charged into them, her bearing sword - broad, heavy and longer than she was tall - striking with impossible speed.

Whoosh! Chp! Crunch! Hssss!

It cleaved a crimson arc through the cultists - splitting them into bloody heaps that the Tears of Amitiyah burned - and dipped down to strike the watchfire. The impact blasted the embers into the masked faces of the remaining cultists.

Whoosh!

Another swing tore them into red ruin while they recoiled and her shield punched out.

Crnch.

The lasts chest crumbled upon the heavy, enchanted metal.

The knight spun and charged up the stairs, bellowing as she did. Come, villains! The Solidblade Knight comes to battle you tonight! Meet my challenge!

Boom!

Her blade struck the side of her shield, and both rang like the toll of an executioners bell. Come and meet your doom!