CHAPTER EIGHT--Queen's Gambit

.

Though he wore a crown, Nostre-Dame--or Nostradamus, as the rest of Islay called him--was no true king. And though he sat upon a throne, there was nothing regal nor noble in his bearing for Nostradamus had long since left behind the world of men to embrace the world of shadows and darkness.

For over seven centuries of time, as men counted it, he had sat upon the throne of Serpen atop the First School of Sorcery. Unlike those who made up his Conclave--themselves Liches of great power-- Nostradamus had never consciously turned to Sorcery as a means to pass from life into unlife; the Sorcery itself had, of its own accord, turned him into what he was. He had welcomed and embraced the power of Hell beneath and the throne and crown which were tied to it, allowing Hell’s power to flow into him, becoming one with it, inhaling it and bending it to his will before finally breathing it out again. Yet even as he had sought to subjugate that power to his will, that power in turn crafted him into its own image. Where once had been a man there remained but the grotesque, skeletal remnants of a human now able to sustain life only through the power of death. Eyes that might once have been able to look upon others with love or mercy now burned with anger, hatred, envy, and every other emotion of evil, all of which grew, century after century as its existence lingered while its humanity was left further behind in the mists of its memories.

So far behind it was the Light that the Liche had long since passed the point where it could even make a choice to turn from the Darkness. Now, only hatred powered the creature, and the degree of good will one might have had with the Liche varied with the degree of hatred he felt toward him. Those he favored--if the word favored could be used--he may have felt no more than disdain or resentment toward, tempered by their usefulness to him. But his enemies--to them was reserved an implacable hatred and thirst for vengeance that only Hell could produce, for hatred drove Nostradamus. Hatred tormented Nostradamus. Hatred strengthened Nostradamus. Nostradamus hated everything and everyone--starting with the Lord of Darkness who had given him the “life” he now knew. Where in his youth he had served Asmodeus with zeal as he sought his aid to climb above his many fellows, he now hated him with as much fervor as he had ever served him with.

The favor and power of Asmodeus had granted him sovereignty over both the School and Hocwrath--but now, after having served him century after century, Nostradamus’ kingdom comprised no more than the central tower of the School. Only here, in his Throne room, was he at his full power. Outside it his powers quickly began to weaken to those no greater than that of a mighty human Wizard. Beyond the central complex of the Upper School, normally open only to himself and his Conclave, death awaited for only the strongest level of power flowing through the Throne room out to the remainder of the School could now keep the monster’s body from collapsing to dust.

Thus it was, that the most powerful being in Hocwrath rotted, waited and sought some means apart from Hell’s mocking mercy to prolong its existence no matter how empty that existence was.

Thirty seasons or so past, the Liche nearly had its chance. Into its life had come a man of mystery--a man named Baltar Revenwood, or so he called himself--who somehow knew what ten thousand years of Schoolmasters did not: the true fate both of Goth and his master Serpen, and the possible resting place of his Mind Sapphire, that portable focus of the School which permitted the original Lord of Hocwrath to carry with him the full power of Hell that flowed through the two Schools he had crafted with the aid of Asmodeus.

A team of skilled Adventurers, led by Revenwood, had been procured to seek it deep inside the Land of Shadows, the deadly region of mystery beyond the inhabited lands of Hocwrath. And but for the youthful capriciousness of one of them, the Mind Sapphire would have been his. But the half-elf, Cormorant TenTolliver, had found and secreted the precious device on his person, and by so doing Nostradamus lost his chance at immortality. If he could have but donned the necklace of the golden cobra and the large sapphire inset into it, the Talisman would have preserved him for as long as the life energy of those slain by the possessor lasted. Not only could he have left the tower--but he could have left the School itself. Not only could he have left the School--but with the power of both the Crown and the Sapphire, his Sorcery would have been amplified tenfold....or perhaps a hundred fold--there was no way to know. He suspected it all depended entirely on how much life energy stored in the device that the wielder chose to direct into his spells.

He would have eagerly experimented, for life energy was cheap to come by--and Nostradamus could have found untold numbers of victims whose souls could power the device.

But he would never get the chance to experiment, for the young half-Elf had stolen the Talisman. And though Nostradamus had sent a Leviathan to slay and loot the group as they left for their home lands, somehow that boy and a young Dwarf had escaped the clutches of the monster though no one realized it.

In time, the half-elf activated the most basic powers of the device when he slew some nameless person. From that point, he became the man known as Nightshadow, and the Sapphire became bound to him, protecting him in battle and making him all but invulnerable. Today he was feared as the most powerful swordsman in Islay--and Nostradamus had made that possible.

That was the fruit of the mistake, but now, perhaps, this was about to change. Through the vanity of an important relative of the half-Elf, he would be given a second chance. In her own desperate quest for eternal youth she would soon come to him--and she would bring Nightshadow with her, for only with him at her side could she have hope of standing against the Lord of the First School. Then what should have been his would be his! And once it was, all Islay would fall to him starting with Throckmorton, the thorn who had been in his side for centuries.

Master of the Second School--Goth’s original School--Throckmorton was nearly equal in power to himself. Much younger but a Liche of the normal sort, Throckmorton’s School was almost a duplicate of the First School. Both Liches had armies of equal size quartered in the outer wings of the Schools but neither relied on these to keep them in power; they were only for enforcing the joint edicts both were forced to agree upon when circumstances called for it, or to keep the Schools of Disdoma--the other great city in Hocwrath--in subjection to Serpenalik. Otherwise these mercenaries--whose loyalty varied with how much they were paid, or how much they were afraid--served no true purpose.

No, it was the sheer numbers of Wizards and Necromancers in both Schools that held steady the delicate scales of balance between the two opposing forces. Throckmorton could never defeat the more powerful Nostradamus, but neither could Nostradamus defeat the Second School without weakening his own so much that he would be at the mercy of Hocwrath’s remaining Schools. This gave Lord Draconerius, master of the Third School, a relatively safe position as a neutral third party in the city.

Heading a School nowhere near as powerful as the two great Schools, Draconerius was too little of a threat for the other two Liches to bother with as all their attention was devoted to out maneuvering each other. Thus, Draconerius--and all of Islay--was spared the wrath of the Liches as each dwelt together in acrimonious harmony with the other, ever watching, ever planning, ever hoping for the other to make the one mistake...the one false move...the one miscalculation that would give his eager enemy the advantage that could spell his opponent’s doom at an acceptable cost.

The opportunity had never come, but now, Nostradamus sensed as the two Gypsies approached his Throne room more quickly than usual, the time may be at hand.

.

There was nothing that Magda and Sonja hated more than being in the presence of Nostradamus each dawn and each dusk to report the results of their divinations. Each day, the message was the same: Not yet. But this night, as dusk was falling, their message would be different. With luck, this would be their final meeting with the Liche before they would be free to return with their caravan to Sarvia--this time with the wealth that would buy them their freedom once and for all from the Boyars and Cossacks.

Together, they hurried across the great causeway above the Pit, toward the two great doors of engraved gold that sealed off the Liche’s Throne room from the rest of his huge basalt tower at the center of the First School of Sorcery. They opened of their own accord for the Liche knew they were coming--he always knew--and the two Gypsies, one old, the other much younger, their heads lowered, entered into the shadowed gallery beyond, lit only by the glowing runes upon the huge onyx throne atop a dais at the other end of the chamber. Neither dared look up to see the two pinpoints of red light staring back at them from the recess of the throne which also hid the half skeletal/half non-corporeal body of the shade seated in it.

The two women dropped to their knees before the throne and leaned forward to touch their heads to the ground in an act of ultimate obeisance.

“She approaches even now, Lord,” Magda, the older Gypsy, said in a thick Sarvian accent, without looking up.”

“And?” came the hoarse response from the throne.

“We see death, Lord--obviously hers.”

“Do you think me stupid that you must explain that to me?” the irritated sibilation questioned.

Neither woman spoke, but they merely shook in unison, knowing that the slightest thing said in error spelt instant death.

The fact that the most powerful Wizard in ten thousand years had to lower himself to seek counsel from Gypsies was loathsome. But, detestable as that fact was, none could deny they possessed a unique gift in being able to divine the future. This acquiescence to utilizing them, however much he loathed it, would pay off by the destruction of all his foes through their advance warning of his enemies’ movements.

How ironic, thought the Liche, that with all he had been able to accomplish, and with his growing power over time itself, he had to rely on these two women. But now the end had come; they had served their purpose. His enemies had been over a year in planning their attack--and he had been over a year in planning his defense. He knew the day soon approached when they would come--but the precise day he could not know of his own accord. But now, with the Gypsies’ warning, his would be the first move.

They would come through the tunnels, of course--just as that other Witch had done a few years previously. These enemies would fare better, naturally, and he expected them to reach the catacombs at the bottom of the Lower School. Most of them would undoubtedly die there and it was a matter of speculation just how many of the rest would actually manage to reach the Upper School where his main defenses awaited.

Not that the plan was ever to slay the intruders outright--that would have been simple, of course. The power of the Liche and his School could lay waste to any number of Witches and warriors who managed to infiltrate the complex. Had he wanted, most of them--from the Witch on down--would be piles of ash before they had taken their twentieth step inside the School.

But that would have left Nightshadow alive, and with everyone else dead--he would simply leave, and no one could stop him. That or lay waste to the School with everyone in it powerless to stop him.

No, the plan was to draw the invaders deeper into the web, weakening them a step at a time--weakening all of them, but particularly Nightshadow himself. In the end, as they neared the very center of the web where the spider awaited--deceived into thinking they were advancing toward victory--Nightshadow would finally be vulnerable. Then the black Queen would enter the game and finish them.

All these musings had taken but a moment of time in the Liche's mind, and just as quickly as he had rebuked Magda he was again speaking to her.

“What do your tea leaves say about Throckmorton?” the Liche now demanded.

“The leaves say Throckmorton will not attack you. There will be no battle between the two Schools tonight.”

The Liche’s eyes exploded in color and blood burst out of every pore of the old Gypsy. Screaming, the old woman writhed in agony for several moments until she finally lay still, a large pool of blood beneath her.

The eyes now turned toward the other Gypsy.

“What do your cards say about tonight, Gypsy?” the Liche now asked the younger Sonja.

Nearly unable to function, Sonja raised a single tarot card. Despite the fact the card was vibrating in unison with her trembling hand, the Liche easily discerned the picture of a tower being destroyed by lightning. Satisfied, he now debated whether to slay the Gypsy for the temerity of using her wits to try and prolong her life by saying nothing and letting him draw his own conclusions. However, it was closest thing to humor that he’d experienced in decades so he willed to let the Gypsy live until morning when he'd be certain her skills were no longer needed.

“Yours is the correct interpretation,” he finally said. “If she is coming now then she has already sought alliance with Throckmorton. He has rejected it, naturally, and now waits to see how she will fare. He knows she has little chance to defeat me, but if she does--or if she weakens me sufficiently and escapes--he plans to launch his own attack. In the meantime he makes no direct preparations lest he arouse my suspicions or risk my retribution for failing to warn me of her plans. If I do defeat her he knows he can never overcome me, thus he does nothing to kindle my ire beforehand lest he need me to show mercy once I place him in a position where he never can be a threat to me. The Fool! I will destroy him simply because he is no threat. So indeed there will be battle between the Schools tonight regardless, and his School shall fall to me! Your mother should have been more careful with her interpretation.”

She wasn’t really my mother, Sonja thought, and thank you for getting her out of the way. Now if we can just finish this and leave for home in the morning....

Reading her mind, the Liche nearly chuckled.

“Precopius,” Nostradamus then called.

Silently, a second Liche moved out of a darkened alcove to the side of the dais and bowed its head.

“Only you are to know of my plans for Throckmorton. Martial our forces. Order all Masters, Acolytes and Apprentices capable of summoning to bring forth every Nether creature they can. As Revenwood is gone, Nabonidus is to place our forces in defensive positions around the lower levels and inform the commanders they are to be on specific guard against a possible attack by the Second School of Sorcery. We will let Throckmorton’s spies amongst us believe our position is only one of defense. Then you are to place the Conclave in position and assure they know that if any of the burglars survive to reach the Gallery, they best not pass the Gallery unless each of the Conclave is a pile of dust on the floor.”

The second Liche bowed.

“And, Precopius--that goes for you as well.”

Precopius froze for a moment. He no longer had enough muscles left to show any emotion on his facial features, but the displeasure showed in his eyes, whose pinpoints of light narrowed at the comment.

Nostradamus paid it no mind.

“Once our burglars are slain and I have retrieved the Mind Sapphire off Nightshadow,” he continued, “I will personally lead our remaining forces against the Second School and we will destroy it and Throckmorton once and for all. You and the Conclave will remain behind, of course.”

The Liche turned his glance to the quivering, silent Gypsy.

“Why are you still here? Leave the scrolls you’ve managed to make for me and get out. Assemble your assassins and pray they do not fail me or I will show you more shed Gypsy blood in one night than she has spilt in her entire life. And do not hurt that Bard if she is with them!”

Keeping her head lowered, Sonja removed a sack from beneath her cloak and placed it on the ground. Then she arose and hurried away--not too fast, lest the Liche be offended, and not too slowly lest he think she was dawdling.

“This chess game is over,” the Liche hissed as she departed. “In one night, I achieve immortality, the destruction of Throckmorton and his School, and the death of Nightshadow and Raven TenTolliver. So,” the Liche said to the air, “hasten to my welcome embrace--little Witch!”

The last comment was made with such venomous hatred that Sonja almost felt sorry for Raven’s having to endure whatever the Liche had in store from her. Behind, the two portals slammed shut and thankfully Sonja was left alive and alone.

.

All too quickly, the sun was gone and night overspread its shadowy wings upon the world, bringing with it a disquieting fear to the Bard. Somehow, with the sun out, she felt far safer than she did as the shadows fell, for night was the realm of the Undead.

The Widow took no notice and used the darkness to her own advantage, continuing unseen with her lamps out. Soon the mist began and dew started to form on the surfaces of the vessel as a heavy Spring fog settled over the coast. The stars were the first to vanish, hidden by the haze, then the sea below was lost in a carpet of mist and in a few moments the bow of the ship began fading from view as the fog thickened.

All of a sudden it was as if they had passed into the Ethers for in moments the fog became as thick as one might find on the dreariest night upon a Torrencian moor. Doremi had been in those before--when they were this bad all you could do was stop where you were at until it burned off the next day--that or wander off to your death in a pit you couldn’t see or a bog you couldn’t detect until you were knee deep in quicksand. The last thing you’d do is try and make your way out of it.

Cyllindrethifl broke the eerie silence. “I see the coast,” she spoke. “You’ll hear the surf soon.”

“Me’re glad you’re able to see that!” Fosmo exclaimed, squinting. “Can’t see me hand in front of me face!”

Raven chuckled. “That was part of our plan. The fogs in April are thick to start with and Cyllindrethifl researched a spell to make the mist twice as bad as it is even normally. She’s stuck the mountains surrounding the First School in a pea soup so thick--”

“Will we be able to take a boat to shore without wrecking in fog this bad?” Romulus broke in.

“Actually...we’re not taking a boat, Romulus,” Raven replied. “In fact, we’re not coming up through the tunnels at all.”

Her words hit them all like a blow from a mace as they realized precisely what she meant.

“You mean we’re going to fly this whole ship into the School?!” Doremi gasped.

“Precisely,” Espidreen answered.

Romulus opened his mouth to gripe; then halted and instead let out a breath. “Why not?” he finally exclaimed. “It’s no madder than any other part of this plan.”

“Is that even possible?” Doremi asked. “Won’t the enchantments make the ship fall out of the sky when it passes over the School?”

“We already tested the wheel last year,” answered Cyllindrethifl, glancing over to her. “We put it on a boat and flew right over the Upper School with no problems. The wheel’s enchantment is greater than that of the School. The ship can fly straight in.”

“Wi’ the fog a-hidin’ us, eh?” Mac Tavish spoke with a grin. “I like it. This plan’s good as a Highlanderr made it up!”

“Cyl,” Raven now spoke, leaning in toward the Elf, “swing to the southwest and come up through the bay. I want to come at the School from the west, flying over the city, not approach from the back of the School.”

Cyllindrethifl quickly looked back to Raven. “Raven, that will take us too close to the Second School, and Throckmorton! The east way is the quickest and will give us the best chance of surprise. That was our plan.”

“Just do it.”

“But I centered the fog spell so that it would screen the sea east of the First School--there may be insufficient fog over the bay to hide our presence from the city!”

“No argument, Cyl,” Raven spoke calmly, “--come in from the west.”

What is she doing, Doremi wondered? The body language of most of the rest of the fellowship showed they were equally apprehensive at the Elf’s comments. But Nightshadow and Thor, she could see, showed no concern--suspiciously so, she thought. Perhaps they knew something she didn’t about this.

As ordered, the Elf spun the wheel and the Black Widow turned to port, veering away from the School, still invisible in the fog. Quickly, the fog began to thin and after a few minutes Doremi could see all the way to the forecastle as they departed the nearly impenetrable bank of fog from Cyllindrethifl’s spell and traveled on through the normal Spring mist off Serpenalik. The group at the stern remained lost in their thoughts, the only sounds coming from the quiet creaks of the ship’s timbers as they sailed forward.

It took about a quarter hour to reach the bay of Serpenalik. As they flew, every so often Cyllindrethifl glanced over to Thor who stood next to her. The Elf had apparently never seen a Scandian and found his stature and appearance of interest. She made several furtive glances, trying not to stare, but finally she fixed her eyes upon the Scandian, who, when he became aware of it, returned her gaze.

“I have heard,”Cyllindrethifl spoke to him, “that the Barbarians drink the blood of the wolf in the belief they will gain its speed and stamina.”

Unblinking, she kept her eyes upon Thor, apparently awaiting an answer.

Fosmo burst out laughing. “That’s why they call ‘em barbarians!” he said, grinning at his own joke.

Thor’s scowl cut him off and the thief fell silent. Then the huge Norseman turned back to the Elf and leaned--way down--until his face was scant inches from her own.

“I wouldn’t know,” he answered quietly. “I’m a Viking, not a Barbarian!”

The Elf froze for a moment, blinked, and then turned back to the wheel, a look of puzzlement on her face.

A few more minutes passed before Cyllindrethifl swung the ship round to starboard, and it began flying toward the city, still invisible in the distance. Everyone could also feel the ship rising now as the Elf lifted her high above the surface of the sea.

“Cyl,” Raven spoke again, “I want to avoid most of the city. Approach from the west, near the Second School since it’s on the outskirts of Serpenalik. We’ll go north from there, cross into the mountains and swing around to come in from northwest. Keep us no higher than three hundred feet or so. But bring us in along the south side of the Second School. If we can’t see it, let me know as soon as it’s off our port beam.”

Cyllindrethifl’s look said it all, but obediently she complied and adjusted course. Fortunately, the fog, though not magical, was still relatively thick and since they couldn’t see anything Doremi was certain nothing could see them either. Several times the Elf altered course, directing the vessel as Raven had ordered.

“We’re passing the School,” the Elf soon whispered. “There are ramparts about a hundred feet to our left. Everyone stay quiet lest they hear us.”

Raven stepped forward and took hold of one of the ivory spokes. “Give me the wheel.”

Cyllindrethifl looked at her; then stepped aside as Raven moved into position.

“Everyone hang onto something,” Raven now ordered.

Hands quickly reached for taffrails, stanchions, ratlines or some sort of support, and a moment later Raven spun the wheel with all her strength to the right until the helm was hard over. In concert with the movement, the stern swung sharply in the same direction as the wheel as the bow snapped to port. Everyone was thrown off balance for a moment as the ship heeled to its left, but just as quickly Raven snapped the wheel to port and, centering the helm, concentrated on stopping the vessel. The Black Widow lurched back to starboard and lost forward momentum but still she drifted north from the initial maneuver.

Espidreen took a quick glance over the side of the ship. “Raven, the fog’s thinning!” she whispered.

Cyllindrethifl, who was obviously under a spell allowing her to see perfectly through any sort of smoke or fog, understood even more clearly the predicament the ship was facing.

“You’re drifting straight toward the central tower!” she exclaimed, quickly looking back and forth.

Romulus stepped toward Raven. “Risking our lives against one Liche isn’t enough that you have to flaunt our presence in the face of the other?” he asked nervously. “If Throckmorton sees us flying over his School, he’ll blast us out of the sky and we’ll never even reach Nostradamus!”

“Raven,” Cyllindrethifl whispered frantically, “they’re going to see us!”

“Arre y’ all too daft to ken she wants ‘em t’ see us?” whispered the Highlander from the transom.

Raven remained silent, concentrating on maintaining altitude.

Doremi, holding onto a rail along the portside weather deck, peered over and down. The fog had indeed thinned and she could make out the dim shapes of spires and towers below, some of which she could almost have stepped out onto now that they were passing the ramparts of the Central School.

The Highlander had to be right--the Hocwrathians would have to be blind not to see a hundred-and-fifty- foot ship flying above them.

And see them they did. The Black Widow had now drifted over the top of one of the School’s temples, where five of what Doremi presumed were priests were gathered in its courts. One of the group, facing toward the ship, lifted a hand, pointing, and the others turned. They remained frozen in astonishment, staring at a sight none could believe.

“They’ve seen us!” Espidreen exclaimed.

Immediately, Raven concentrated on moving the ship gently forward and the Black Widow vanished into the mist heading northeast, leaving the Second School behind. She then looked over to Cyllindrethifl and nodded for her to take the wheel.

“Now, Liche,” Raven muttered as she stepped back, “do exactly what I expect you to and total victory is ours!”

.

It was Friday night, and as was his wont, Throckmorton was in weekly council with the Masters of the Second School. His Council of Masters, skilled in Necromancy and Sorcery, were thirty-seven in number compared to Nostradamus’ Conclave of twelve, but the twelve that made up that Conclave were Liches of the highest order not only equal or even surpassing in skill to his own Masters, but in their state they possessed all the benefits enjoyed by those who dwelt in the realm of the Undead with few of the weaknesses.

Unfortunately, that Conclave, which, for all practical purposes made the School invincible to outside attack, could not leave its confines unlike Throckmorton’s subordinates. This gave Throckmorton, as Lord of the Second School, more versatility than that enjoyed by his counterpart who often had to employ outsiders in some of his more nefarious tasks when he didn’t wish to risk any of his other Masters down in the Lower School. Even so, the power of the First School was unquestionable and any thought of outright defiance an unthinkable act that could only result in the destruction of both Schools as one side initiated conflict with the other through some overt action born solely of pride.

.

“Master Paracelsus,” Throckmorton was saying from the recess of that huge ebony throne crafted in the form of a skull emblazoned with its ancient glowing sigils of power, “on to you.”

Most of the Liche was visible in the huge throne which crowned a dais of thirteen steps. Unlike Nostradamus, who was clothed only in the remnants of a black sorcerer’s robe, Throckmorton, still fully solid, reclined in a magnificent robe of scarlet and gold looking every bit, from a distance, like a king. Yet the form of the throne permitted his head to remain in shadow inside the recess of the skull, his burning red eyes and the glowing ruby of his crown alone faintly illuminating the rotted visage within.

A gray-haired mage attired in a robe of black embroidered with symbols of alchemy drew near from the group and bowed, the pentagram inscribed upon his silver skullcap glistening from atop his hairless cranium.

“I cannot recall the last time this School produced a new potion or elixir,” the Liche spoke. “This is entirely unacceptable. You are to undertake to produce something useful. Cull your students for worthwhile ideas. Concentrate especially on the younger students. Oftentimes the Young, in their zeal, are more creative, if less skilled, than older students. Entice them with a reward. Allow that the student who produces the most useful item shall become your second apprentice. I want some preliminary ideas by next week.”

The Wizard bowed once again and stepped back into the crowd.

“Now,” continued the Liche, “on to Master Necros. You were to report on the results of your new spell dealing with---”

Suddenly, the Liche halted and looked up. He concentrated and the room was filled with a rumbling sound as the two great doors at the rear of the Throne room, both fashioned from the bones of one of the most powerful dragons of the First Age, began sliding open. Two acolytes and an officer from his Guard rushed forward past the two halves of the dragon’s skull as it parted to allow passage.

Murmurs arose from the assemblage; such disturbances were unheard of and the three rushed through the crowd to fall on their faces before the throne.

“Why do you come, unbidden, into this kahal?” the Liche demanded--quietly, yet firmly.

“Sire,” one of the acolytes spoke, “something was just seen. A flying vessel passed over the School!”

“A what?!" the Liche exclaimed.

“True, Lord,” the other acolyte confirmed. “It was a flying sailing ship--a huge ship! It flew over the central complex despite the enchantments. It vanished in the fog, moving northeast.”

“Toward the First School,” muttered Throckmorton. “Now the game starts.” The Liche’s head wheeled to the left where, inset into the lower jaw of the skull, was a huge ball of crystal nearly three feet across. It lit up as the Liche concentrated and he was looking down over Sepenalik through the fog. Throckmorton concentrated again and the fog vanished from his sight. Now he saw the ship clearly--moving directly toward the First School.

“So that’s how she’s doing it--a flying ship!” exclaimed the Liche. “Marvelous! Yet how, I wonder, could the enchantments upon it permit flying over the School? Is it possible its enchantment is greater than twenty-fifth level? That would mean a God must be responsible. Certainly the Pirate didn’t do it! Something to ponder....”

The vision moved closer to the vessel and Throckmorton began to scan the stern of the vessel.

“Let us see whom she has brought,” he muttered. “The Elfin Witch, as expected. Hmm--that must be her standing behind. And next to her--ah! Nightshadow! Just as I intended. Good. Whom else? Some more Witches, apparently, and some warriors. And--by the Gods--a Northman! Look at the size of him! That brute could battle an army by himself! No wonder his ancestors laid waste to us in the First Age. Even so, you should have brought more power,” the Liche observed. “It will be interesting to see how far you get. Nightshadow will survive but I wonder how the rest of you will fare.”

Throckmorton turned away from his crystal ball and was in thought for several moments, stroking his chin from long habit. Then his arm lashed out and a bolt of energy streaked forward and struck Evo, one of the assembled Masters. The force of the bolt threw the man backwards and he crumpled to the ground, stunned for a moment as a path instantly formed around him while the others scattered, leaving the hapless Wizard to whatever fate, for whatever cause, that the Lord of the Second School had for him.

“Seize and gag him!” the Liche commanded.

Just as quickly, several Masters rushed back to obey and the man’s mouth was gagged with a turban as he was dragged back to his feet, still stunned from the blow of the magic dart.

“Did your master think me so stupid that his lackey could deceive one such as I?” the Liche roared. “Incompetent fool--I knew from the first week you were here that you were a spy for Nostradamus!”

Frantically, Evo began to shake his head, begging to be heard.

“Why do you think you advanced with us so steadily and so speedily?” the Liche continued. “Because of your skills as a Necromancer? Nay--but the closer you got to me, the less likely your imbecile of a master would send other spies to infiltrate us, some of which I may not have uncovered as easily as you. And with you as a member of my Council I assured that Nostradamus would be sufficiently satisfied to send no other spies.”

As he was speaking, a red-robed acolyte rushed through the portal into the chamber. “Master!” he cried.

The Liche directed his gaze to the new intruder. “What is it now?”

The bearded acolyte came and bowed before the throne. “A familiar from one of our spies at the First School has flown here with a message,” he said, keeping his gaze downward. “Nostradamus has brought the First School to alert, anticipating an attack from us,” he read from a small parchment.

The Liche waved him back and directed his attention to Evo. “I know not if this will be Nostradamus’ last night,” he spoke, “but this I do know--it will be yours!”

The Liche’s voice now rose so that all heard him clearly. “Against my warning, the Guild of Freeport is launching an attack against Nostradamus,” he announced. “You are to go to your stations and assure that no actions are undertaken that give him leave to suspect any complicity on the part of the School in this. Do not bring the School to alert! We will intervene only if events warrant it. For the present, I will monitor the incursion from here. You are not to disturb me for any reason. Now--get out, all of you, and cast that dog down the Pit as you go!”

Desperately, Master Evo struggled against the grasp of three Masters who began dragging him toward the back of the Throne room as the Liche returned to his crystal ball.

After the Liche was left alone with its thoughts it began to wonder.

Throckmorton leaned forward slightly and reached up, removing the crown from his brow. It was the first time in centuries it had left his head and as he removed it the Liche felt the power drain from him, leaving behind the emptiness of unlife. He had forgotten what it was like for a “normal” Liche, despite its own intrinsic sorcerous powers. What a feeling of utter destitution and hopelessness.

But that was unimportant.

What mattered, was the inscription upon the golden rim of the inside of the crown. Slowly the Liche ran his fingers, bony with their leathery skin stretched tightly over them like a parchment, upon the age-old letters.

There was no longer any true feeling left in Throckmorton’s touch; his fingers always felt numb. But still he could perceive the indentations and ridges of what was written therein. Ancient, and tracing itself to some nameless Master early in the Second Age if not to Goth himself, the words were written in the oldest tongue of Hocwrath. Over the last ten thousand years none but the hundred and sixty-eight Schoolmasters preceding him had ever seen what it Proclaimed:

.

When flies the raven overhead,

And the fury of the Northmen return to the land,

The age between comes at last to its end,

The School of Serpen put to the ban.

Serpen’s throne overthrown,

Yet the West again shall rise,

Restoring again the power old,

For the throne of Goth survives.

.

“Prophecy being fulfilled?” wondered the Liche aloud to himself. Then he returned the crown to his rotted head and the power surged through him once more, the only substitute left for actual life.

“No, little Pirate,” he spoke with contempt as he turned again to watch the ship nearing the First School, “I’ll not be manipulated by you. You’ll not use my pawns in your Gambit; you’ll use your own pieces. Only after you’ve used up all your own pieces will I consider entering the game and then only if you play well enough to make it worthwhile to me. But I shall wish you luck, for you may indeed have been born for such a moment as this--to give my School ultimate power and myself immortality!”

With a maniacal laughter, the Liche extinguished all light in his chamber and settled back to watch.

.

They had left the city behind and were swinging around in an arc to approach from the fog-shrouded mountains above Serpenalik. It was a matter of minutes now.

“Angelique,” Raven spoke quietly.

The Witch stepped forward to her mistress, awaiting orders.

“Get into the hold and make sure those portals are still working,” Raven ordered, leaning back to speak to her without turning. “At the first sign of any attack on us we’ll try to get the ship out of here, but if we can’t we’ll leave through them. If there’s no attack on us when we reach it then we’ll know we’ve succeeded.”

Nodding back, the Witch looked over to a pair of deck hands nervously standing around, their crossbows in hand.

“You and you with me,” she commanded. Angelique then made her way from the weather deck, the crewmen in tow.

Fosmo watched the three leave and then he moved to Raven. “You don’t think they might let us land and ambush us somewhere inside the School, assuming they know?” he whispered, brushing a lock of his hair out of his eyes.

Raven slowly shook her head, saying nothing.

Overhearing his question, Espidreen took in a breath. “Not in his personality as I told you before,” she answered. “In Nostradamus’ way of thinking, the way you meet an attack is to respond with overwhelming force as quickly as you can. Oh, he might indeed plot and wait twenty years before striking his own enemy, having considered every aspect of his own strategy, but if someone attacks him--the response is swift and severe with no thought of strategy or tactics. It’s kill your enemy before he kills you.”

The Witch nodded to herself. “If they know we’re coming, we’ll know in a few moments, Burglar, because they’ll attack us!”

“Aye,” spoke the Knight, unsheathing his sword in readiness. “If I knew Nightshadow be sallying forth to strike against mine own stronghold, an army would I have set to meet him, and attack I would, the moment I could. Only a fool alloweth an enemy inside his own house in hope of trapping him within his own chambers when first he could set ambushments outside and perchance ensnare him there. Thus my sword be ready for battle now, not later.”

“Yeah, maybe so,” Fosmo muttered, cautiously slipping a dagger out of its scabbard and readying it for a fast throw.

The Knight’s words seemed to hold wisdom and most of the rest of those gathered near the helm likewise prepared themselves, readying weapons. Only Romulus stood out as unconcerned, arms folded against his chest, waiting to see what would happen. Nightshadow, too, waited patiently, his swords still tucked into his belt sash.

Doremi noticed Nazier slip the lever of his crossbow into the rapid-fire position, and she gave him a you sure you want to do that? look.

He winked back. “Maybe I’ll be lucky and this’ll be one of the times it’ll work.”

Onward they continued, and after a minute or so the ship heard the School, for the sound of its drums and the clamor of its population penetrated the thick fog even if one couldn’t see through it. It was different, Doremi noted, than the quiet of the Second School. Perhaps suspiciously so.

But Raven paid no attention, focused only on completing the most harrowing portion of the journey. The next few moments would tell whether or not her plans had been known by Nostradamus.

Then, all at once, the bow emerged from the fog like passing through a curtain--into a clear night sky.

They were no longer hidden and the Upper School was right in front of them!

“Fog’s gone!” Fosmo exclaimed.

“They do know!” Romulus added, his calm a thing of the past as he drew his gladius.

Raven raised a hand to calm them. “The Upper School has a spell around it that keeps out fog and clouds. We expected this. Nightshadow--go!”

The Rogue nodded and now Doremi watched as again he began to fade into the Ethers, his cloak fluttering in an Ethereal wind. Then, wraithlike, he was lifting above the deck and went flying out before the vessel towards the School ahead.

“Now listen, the rest of you,” Raven spoke firmly. “Once we’re in that School, not one word about this ship! Not one word about the Scandians! Understand? Don’t mention them! Don’t think about them!”

As she spoke, the ship was bearing down on the gigantic edifice Romulus had pointed out at the council. It loomed before them, a massive rectangular structure of brown basalt fronted by a gaping black aperture outlined by an ornate frame of gold leaf, if not solid gold, on its three sides. It was eerily beautiful to behold, but Doremi was more in awe of how ancient this fortress was. It was old beyond comprehension. That and its size. Now that they were actually here, those who had never seen it realized just how big the Upper School was. No wonder Raven would be so bold as to take an entire ship into this place, for the Black Widow was easily dwarfed by the immense scale of the Upper School. Battlements, crenellated turrets projecting forth from great curtain walls, barbicans, cornices, iron gates, bridges connecting buildings with towers, sculpted stone corbels, dormers looking out over courtyards, stone arches set upon huge pilasters that framed enormous windows of stained glass gleaming in the silver moonlight--the scope of the place was staggering. And above it all loomed the tower at the very back of the complex, crowning the mountain upon which the School was built. A featureless dark cube pointing to the sky like some great fist shaking itself in defiance of the very heavens.

But for all its size there was not so much as a sign of life in the place. Where there were windows in the walls or within towers, no lights gleamed, suggesting warmth and occupation--only an inky blackness, darker than the blackness of night, hinted at what creatures made this place their home for this place was a home of the dead....a place where life was the invader, where humanity was unwelcome, where goodness was the ultimate enemy.

Doremi’s thoughts faded away as she felt the ship slowing to a crawl while the Elf guided her toward the waiting aperture.

They were obviously going to enter.

Raven looked up and then quickly down to the ship, trying to compare the height of the aperture with the vessel’s masts.

It would be close.

“Careful of our masts with that overhang, Cyl,” she warned.

Cyllindrethifl was confident of her judgment, yet to oblige Raven she concentrated and the ship dropped a few feet as it prow started to penetrate the darkness. Doremi took one final glance up as the mainmast slowly passed into the entry several feet below the upper lip of the doorway, its skull and crossbones gently fluttering as they went.

Then they were inside. The Bard couldn’t see a thing for the darkness, though some light made its way in from the outside, bathing the floor of the great chamber in a faint blue haze. Dimly, she could just make out large shapes scattered haphazardly within the vault, though what they actually were wasn’t apparent.

The ship now drew to a halt and Cyllindrethifl held her steady as if awaiting orders.

They were silent for a few moments; then Nightshadow appeared, flying back to them through an opening of equal size at the other end of the chamber. His flight over, the Rogue glided to the stern, passing through the ship’s masts as he went, and began to solidify until he was standing on the deck once more.

“Empty,” he announced, once he was back in his physical form. “No one’s outside or near the stairs that I could see. If there’s an ambush it’s waiting inside the tower. Something prevented me, even in Ethereal form, from penetrating the walls of the buildings--but there’s no light from anywhere, no sound from anything--this place is, pardon the expression, dead as a tomb, Raven.”

Espidreen relaxed and expelled the breath she’d been holding. “No one waiting for us. We’ve done it,” she whispered, a note of actual surprise in her voice.

Raven now reached under her blouse and came up with a locket that she opened up to reveal a glowing jewel within. A soft glow emanated from it, akin to the light of a torch, and she hung the locket upon her blouse, providing some illumination.

“Espy, hand out some of these,” she answered the Witch. “I’ll be back in a moment. Cyl, keep us where we are.”

With that, Raven draped her left arm down to protect her swords so they didn’t get caught on anything and she was off, hurrying toward the hold.

Down below, Angelique and the two hands were waiting. The three panels Doremi had seen Nazier removing a tarp from had been set up in a triangle, one on each side of the hull with a third set forward. The surfaces of each were faintly glowing, providing just enough light to see by.

Finishing her descent, Raven moved forward, a smile spreading across her face as she caught sight of the panels. Grinning herself, Angelique swept her hands back to the three teleportals.

“All ready, Raven,” she spoke.

“I knew it would work,” Raven whispered, awed at her own success. “It’s the one thing they couldn’t protect against--someone like us bringing in our own teleportals!”

Tentatively she reached out and a hand began vanishing through the enchanted portal. Raven nearly giggled. “We’re going to succeed--I know it!”

Then she regained her composure, becoming serious again. Raven took her glance from the portals to Angelique’s eyes and she leaned forward, placing her hands upon the Witch’s shoulders.

“Angelique, it’s all been to bring us to this point in time,” she spoke. “The moment of our triumph is at hand and you’re the linchpin--it all hinges on you. For the next ten hours, you need to be perfect!”

Angelique nodded in response. “I understand, Raven,” she replied. “You can count on me.”

“I know I can. Now--off with you. We’ll see you in a few hours.”

Raven then released her grip and the Witch mouthed a farewell, vanishing into the forward portal, leaving the three alone.

The Mistress of Freeport then let out a breath and looked over to her crewmen. “You two stay down here until our reinforcements come through. till then, no talking, and defend these with your lives, all right?”

.

Espidreen’s pack held a sack of the enchanted necklaces, and quickly the Assault Team placed them around their necks. Now that there was better light, the interior of the vault could be seen more clearly. To either side of the vesse, great chains, their links thick as a man’s middle, were anchored to giant iron loops driven into the walls or the floor. Studded bronze collars, green with patination from age, lay scattered about the chamber, restraints so large that a half dozen large men could comfortably stand within them.

“By the Gods,” spoke the Highlander leaning out over the side of the ship to gaze down, “wha’ sorrt a beasties need chains like that t’ hold ‘em?!”

“Dragons, Clansman,” Espidreen answered as she swung her pack back onto her shoulders. “In the First Age, they kept dragons here. This was the dragon stable.”

“And, at times since, they have housed pterodactyls, although not for some centuries,” Cyllindrethifl added from the helm.

“Doremi,” Raven called out as she re-mounted the stairs up to the weather deck.

The Bard looked around to her.

“If we walk from here to the tower, how long will it take for you to lead us to the third story of its base?” she wanted to know as she approached.

“If we move fast...a bit less than an hour,” Doremi answered. “Slower if we creep and move carefully.”

Raven thought for a moment. “Too much time,” she concluded. “Cyl, get us moving--we’re going to fly up to the third story of the tower complex and break in through a window. Doremi knows of a chamber we can be sure no one will be at.”

The Knight took a step forward. “Lady, be that wise?” he asked. “A fellowship of ten, moving by stealth, be harder to see than a big vessel that flieth through the air.”

“No, Raven is right,” Cyllindrethifl spoke up, still grasping the spokes of the wheel. “Even if we walk in the nighttime darkness, moving from shadow to shadow, our life force would stand out to an undead like a torch would to us. We cannot hide from them and the longer we’re out in the open the better a chance that one of the Liches might spot ten living beings in their courtyard. We would do better to fly to the tower and disembark quickly as possible. Remember--we’re not dealing with mortal beings. Our strategy must be tailored to what we’re facing.”

Anything lowering their chances of being spotted by Liches sounded like a good idea so the tension at Raven’s bold suggestion quickly subsided.

“All right, get us moving, Cyl,” Raven ordered.

“Douse our lights,” Espidreen spoke, snapping closed her locket.

The Black Widow was plunged into darkness once more as the Team complied, and the Druid guided the ship forward. It took but a moment to pass from the stable into the great court of the Upper School and then they were out in the open once more. On either side of the stables they could just see the large stairways, thrice as wide as a man’s height, that led down into the lower levels of the School--the same stairs Thor’s Vikings would be called upon to guard. Then these were gone, left behind in the night.

Shadows darker than the night crouched in every corner of the ancient citadel. Stairways stretched upward to floors or catwalks of the outer complex, marked off by vaulted windows at each level up to the third. Beyond that only cold stone walls with bricked-up windows made up the last hundred feet or so to the top battlements. Innumerable carved gargoyles or other figures of evil leered down from every corner of the structures at the vessel as it turned to make its way around towers or buildings rising from the floor of the court, and Doremi wouldn’t have been shocked if every one of them suddenly animated and flew in for the attack. But thankfully the guardians remained silent and dead, taking no notice of the intruders.

Then they came upon the statue.

It rose up over a hundred feet in height from the flagstones of the courtyard, set before the final complex of the Upper School. A lone figure crowned with a twisted diadem emblazoned with coiled cobras, its flowing robes hiding any true features of the creature that filled them, standing as one last sentinel over the School.

A pair of gauntleted hands, sprouting from the sleeves of the robe, were brought together before it, resting upon the handle of a huge mace that stood from the being’s feet to its waist. The statue was frightening at a distance just as it was, but most terrifying was the horrid emptiness behind its empty cowl for not even something so human as a head looked out upon those who dared approach--only an empty, featureless void.

“So that was Serpen,” Raven muttered, gazing out to it. “Second Lord of the Triad...First Lord of the First School of Sorcery...the one who destroyed the Dwarves of the west and nearly destroyed the Elves....”

Cyllindrethifl slowed, porting the vessel to pass around the monolith, and everyone took a good look at the horrid idol.

“Raven, look,” Espidreen spoke as she pointed, “--Nightshadow’s Mind Sapphire.”

Sure enough, there it was, depending from a chain that emerged from beneath the cowl of the being: the Mind Sapphire. Identical in form to the true Talisman worn by Nightshadow the fanged cobra, tall as a man, looked out upon the invaders as if hissing its challenge to anyone who would provoke this place.

“Espy, why did they call it the ‘Mind Sapphire’?” asked Raven. “That seems like an odd name for such a talisman.”

“Unknown, Raven.” The Witch looked over to the helm. “Cyllindrethifl?”

The Elf likewise shook her head.

Reluctant to move her eyes from the statue, Raven momentarily glanced past Doremi to the Rogue. “Nightshadow, have you ever noticed it granting you any--mental powers or anything like that?” she inquired.

“No,” came the curt reply.

It was then that Doremi spoke up, saying, “What an evil, horrible monster he must have been. Look--they didn’t even give him a face.”

Nightshadow, standing to her left, slowly turned his head to the Bard. “I, too, have no face,” he said quietly.

Then he turned back to glare at his predecessor who had first owned the Talisman he now bore.

At his words, silence fell upon the deck and no one said a thing.

.

The Black Widow swung round the left side of the monolith and then she was covering the last short distance to the tower complex. It spread out before them atop a stone court reached by a short but wide stairway leading up from the main court below, a great square building, nearly the size of the Raven’s Inn, lined with soaring lancet windows upon the four floors of its three exposed sides, their innumerable diamond-shaped panes glistening in the moonlight.

“Doremi, where’s that Music Library again, that you said we could count on to be empty?” Raven asked for Cyllindrethifl’s benefit.

The Bard pointed to the southwest corner of the structure. “It’s the corner room at the third level there.”

Cyllindrethifl nodded and concentrated, swinging the bow to port and gaining altitude. It was now that Doremi finally noticed she wasn’t spinning the wheel but simply willing the ship to move as she wanted.

“How come she isn’t turning the wheel but the ship still turns?” she asked Raven.

“You don’t have to turn it, Doremi,” came Raven’s reply. “It responds to mental commands, but turning the wheel I find helps one’s mind focus in on what it expects the ship to do, and thus it follows suit. But you don’t have to do it that way.”

Silent as a ghost, the Black Widow glided up to the edge of the building and slowed to a crawl as the Druid now brought her alongside the structure. Porridge was nearly covered by its white clouds tonight and it gave off a brilliant white light that bathed much of the structure in an eerie glow. Rising in the east, it was positioned in such a way that the complex cast a great shadow that hid them as they made their final approach. Still they were unseen, for not so much as a stir came from any part of the School they could see. It was as if this place was totally abandoned.

With a final creak of her rigging and timbers, the ship drew to a stop alongside the building and floated silently in the darkness.

“Doremi,” Raven asked, “will those windows open, or do we have to bust in?”

The Bard leaned forward to answer quietly, “They can open--there’s a catch on them if they’re like the ones in the Karnaki room next to it.”

“Good! Okay, team,” Raven loudly whispered, “let’s get moving!”

Silently the Fellowship began moving down the stairs to the main deck as Cyllindrethifl turned the helm over to Nazier.

“Nazier,” Raven spoke, “once we’re inside, get back to the stable and stay in there. “We’ll foot it back there once we’re done or else send a message for you to pick us up.”

The mariner nodded, laying his crossbow aside and grasping the spokes.

“Oh, Doremi,” Raven now spoke as she began following the rest down, “I left my bow and arrows on Nazier’s bunk--would you go fetch them for me?”

“Okay,” answered the Bard, falling in behind. She hurried over to the door into the cabin and slipped inside. Spotting the bow and belt quiver, she walked over to grab them, but then she heard a squawk.

“Avast!” came a voice.

A talking bird, the Bard realized with a jump!

Forgetting the bow, she moved, transfixed, to the stand upon which the beautiful green and blue creature was perched, squawking and whistling. So colorful it was, that it almost seemed as if someone had taken the sky and a rainbow, and gave them feathers and wings.

“Hello,” she spoke. “My name’s Doremi. Can you talk?!”

“Pretty bird,” it squawked in response.

“Yes, you are!” she exclaimed, trying to reach out and pet the bird, but it hunched down and retreated to the edge of its perch. “Are you someone’s familiar?” she then asked.

“Port tack! Port tack!” the parrot repeated. “Pretty bird!”

Doremi would have loved to spend more time with the bird, but time was of the essence, and so reluctantly she left Pete behind and retrieved the arms for Raven.

Outside, as the swung closed the door behind her, she observed that a gangplank had been let out from the side of the ship to the ledge below the window and the group were preparing to cross. The Bard took in a breath and then stepped forward, knowing the time had come.

.

Nostradamus had been reclining in his throne, focusing his consciousness to be one with his School, and the moment the plank touched the ledge, he knew it.

They’re here, he exclaimed to himself, but not in the catacombs! Then his consciousness was outside the tower, looking down upon the vessel.

A flying ship. Interesting.

Forgetting any question of how one might come possess such a marvel, the Lord of the First School directed his attention to looking over his opposition, a feeling of satisfaction coming over him as his gaze fell upon Nightshadow. It had all been for this, and, just as he had planned, his enemy was walking straight into his trap, bringing the Mind Sapphire right to his waiting grasp. That was all he cared about--the others were of no consequence.

The Liche restrained himself from the pleasure of materializing on the roof of the tower and blowing the ship in half with an energy blast, watching as it would fall to the courtyard in flames, killing most of those aboard. No, he had to show patience and let the burglars think their plan was working. Time enough later to slay them and take their flying vessel for his own....

.

“Think you can remember how to jimmy open a window, Fosmo?” Raven was asking.

The thief flashed a big grin and rushed across the gangplank to the vaulted windows, reaching into his pouch for his set of lock-picks. Even in the dark he was able to select just the right tool for the job: a thin, hard piece of steel that he wedged in between the two halves of the window. He tapped the bottom of the tool with his palm and with a quick lift the catch gave way so the burglar could swing open the window. He peered in, then replaced his tools in his belt pouch and pushed himself up with his hands against the bottom frame of the window. In one move, Fosmo swung his legs up and over, then vanished into the darkened room. Taking a moment to satisfy himself there was nothing harmful awaiting them, he returned to the window and gave a thumbs up for the rest to follow.

“Wait,” Raven spoke. “Pull in that gangplank.”

Two crewmen stepped lively as Raven bolted partially up the stairs to the weather deck. “Up three or four feet,” she whispered out to Nazier, her head just above the deck level.

Nazier nodded and the ship began lifting. When the ship was high enough, Raven waved at him to stop, and Nazier held the vessel in place.

She jumped back to the main deck and nodded for the crew to reset the gangplank in the window for an easier ingress. It took only a moment, then Nightshadow moved out to enter the building followed by Thor. Raven then retrieved her bow from Doremi, strapped on the quiver, and hurried across next as the Bard followed right behind.

“Me was worried you were all leaving,” Fosmo spoke to Raven as he helped Doremi enter the darkened chamber.

“We thought about it,” came the reply as Raven looked around to verify Thor and Nightshadow were positioned at the door, keeping watch.

Now the two Witches were coming in, and, last of all, the three remaining warriors.

Once they were all in, Raven waved to the ship and the gangplank was withdrawn. Immediately, the Widow was gliding off, turning about to retreat back into the courtyard on its way to the stables.

Raven watched the ship go, holding her breath. This was the last test of their strategy: if Nostradamus knew they were here, now would be his last and greatest chance for killing or capturing them. If that ship wasn’t blown out of the sky right now there was no question they had succeeded and ingress was theirs.

Moments passed and the ship was lost to sight. Still not a sound came to her ears, and after a few more moments when she was certain the ship was safe, Raven released her breath and carefully latched closed the window.

“Okay,” she whispered, “we’ve done it!”

For the first time, Doremi actually noticed the trace of a smile pass across Espidreen’s face at Raven’s words.

“Everyone get their gear ready and let’s move out,” Raven continued. “Doremi, you’re going to be our guide. Just tell us which way to get to the upper levels.”

The Bard shrugged. “I’ll do the best I can.”

Mac Tavish checked that his axe was securely strapped across his back, hefted his shield and unsheathed his claymore. “What about lights?” he asked, looking around. “We usin’ torrches orr them magic stones y’ gave us?”

“The lockets for now,” Raven answered. “Liches may be able to see in the dark, but we can’t. If we’re going to have light at all, we may as well have some good light.”

The darkness vanished as the light necklaces came out and now they could see they were in a room some twenty feet square. At least at first glance it didn’t seem as if there would be much of interest here, for there were only three bookcases, each half filled with various old tomes or stacks of music, with a small desk before the set of windows they had entered by. Certainly not what one might have expected for the world’s greatest repository of magic to possess on the entire field of Bardic magic.

Naturally, Doremi headed straight for one of the bookcases and removed the first volume her eyes fell upon: a small, simple little tome with a green leather cover that was probably nothing more than some simple poetry.

“Sure isn’t much of a Library,” observed Raven, glancing around. “Desmore’s book shop is at least five times its size.”

“The School would consider Bardic and Gypsy magic unworthy of serious study, Raven,” answered Espidreen as she readied her mace. “This was probably a few basic materials they had stored here.”

“Umm, whatever. Okay,” Raven now spoke up, “here’s going to be our marching order: Thor and Nightshadow in front, followed by Giles and Mac Tavish. Next, Espy and I will be behind, and behind us Doremi and Cyllindrethifl. Bringing up the rear are Fosmo and Romulus. If anything from behind attacks us, Giles and Mac Tavish fall back to reinforce Romulus. Fosmo, since Doremi’s coming along, you’ll be her guardian. Keep an eye on her the way Romulus and Mac Tavish will for Cyl and Espy.”

“Aye,” the Cutpurse answered, winking at the Bard.

But Doremi wasn’t paying attention. Her eyes were opening wider and wider as she read the preface to the small book she held:

.

Bard/Elementalist

A translation from the Avalonian of a work,

“Diatesseron of Dellenthar”

--Being a treatise on affecting elements with sound.

Usefulness: Low/Nil. Makes repeated reference to 19-stringed instrument, a “Torban”, with 9 bass and ten treble strings.

Unable to duplicate claimed effects with 19-stringed Arwinian rhubab or with 15-stringed lute.

.

Slowly her mouth opened wide with each moment she read; then finally she squealed, taking in deep gasps of air like she was having some sort of fit. “The Lost Chord! the Lost Chord!” she squealed.

Raven leaned around Cyllindrethifl to glare at the Bard. “What’s the matter with you?” she demanded.

Doremi, hardly aware of the question, blinked and shook the book at her. “That rotten, lying Nabonidus!” she exclaimed. “I asked him if they had a copy of the Diatesseron, and he said they had nothing but a few basic manuscripts in here--and it’s the first thing on the shelf! Oh, that liar! These may all be priceless,” she muttered, looking over the manuscripts as she ran her left hand gently along the row of books.

Raven marched over to her and grasped her arm, pulling her away from the bookshelf.

“Doremi, we do not have time for you to be looking through books!” she said sharply. “You can grab some of these on the way out if you want, but first things first.”

The Bard knew she was right, but this was absolutely one of the hardest things she’d ever had to do--turn away from what might possibly be one of the greatest Libraries of Music on Islay if what she suspected was true. But turn away she did, gritting her teeth. Then she stood there, hands locked about the book in a death grip, unsure where the safest place would be to keep it. One thing she knew--it was coming with her. Period.

“Now what’s the matter?” Raven exclaimed.

“I’m not sure where to keep this where it won’t get hurt,” Doremi answered, standing there, looking confused.

“Put it in your pack.”

“But what if I lose my pack?”

“What if? What if?” Raven repeated. Then she snatched the book from the Bard’s grasp.

“Hey!” Doremi started to say, trying to take it back.

Raven held it up and away with her left hand, out of Doremi’s frustrated reach. “If this book is that important to you, I’ll keep it tucked safely in a pocket of my cloak. Unless I die, it’ll be just fine.”

“But...what if you do die?” she asked.

“Doremi, between you and me, whom do you think is more likely to survive this place?”

The Bard hemmed and hawed for a moment. “Well...I guess you,” she finally said.

Raven nodded. “Thank you. Now that you’re calmed down, you want the book back so you can worry about it all night, or would you like to leave it safe here, where we can pick it up on the way out, or would you like to leave it with me where it has the best chance of surviving?”

“Give it to me!”

Raven acquiesced and tossed the book back to Doremi’s eager grasp, and off came her knapsack as the Bard knelt down and shoved the tome at the very bottom, where it would be safest from harm. Then she removed her lute, which had been placed within and covered by a burlap sack, and began hooking a strap to it so she could wear it without fear it would drop from her grasp. That done, she made sure her flute was safely tucked into her belt, and then she was ready.

Catching sight of the instrument, Raven looked down to the lute and then back to the Bard. “You think you’ve got enough strings on that thing?” she asked. “I’ve never seen a lute with so many strings! How many are on there?!”

“Nine bass courses--or, eighteen bass strings tuned to double octaves, with ten treble strings! Twenty-eight total!” Doremi boasted as she stood up.

Raven ran her hand lightly along the polished neck of the lute. “Is that good?”

“Yes! Normal lutes have fifteen strings. This gives you quite a range, though I still don’t tune anything above G to above middle C.”

“That thing must have the most strings of any instrument on Islay other than a full-size harp!”

“Actually, Raven, there’s a zither in Arwin called a santur with a hundred and twenty-six strings- -or so I’ve heard.”

The Elf likewise found the instrument of interest. “What range do you sing in?” Cyllindrethifl now inquired.

“Well, on a good day I have a five octave range, but my voice cracks some in high soprano.”

Raven squinted. “I have no idea what any of that meant--how good is all that?”

“It’s very good, Raven,” Cyllindrethifl answered. “About what an Elf can do.”

“Well...bard away, then.” Having spoken that, Raven began moving for the door as Cyllindrethifl stepped up to look over the instrument.

“Splendid,” she spoke, looking down at it. “I have never seen such a beautiful lute. Is it Elven?”

“No,” Doremi replied, taking it off and offering it to her. “It’s ancient Avalonian. From the First Age.”

“Hmm.” Cyllindrethifl accepted the opportunity and tested the instrument. She clearly knew how to play, Doremi realized.

“Its name is Faire-chlaidh-ceol,” added the Bard.

The Elf thought for a moment and looked up. “Gravesinger?” she asked, cocking her head to the left.

“Um, yeah--that’d be one way to translate it. I think it belonged to Dellenthar; I found it in his tomb and was allowed to keep it.”

“Really!” Satisfied, Cyllindrethifl returned the lute to Doremi. “You’re fortunate. Thank you for letting me handle it.”

The others now had the door open and were filing out into the hall as they readied their weapons. Cyllindrethifl and the Bard followed, and as she exited the chamber Doremi caught sight of Raven opening up the door to the Karnaki Library next to them and peering in.

“So that’s their Karnaki Library, huh?” she asked as Doremi approached.

The Bard looked over her shoulder into the darkened chamber. “Yeah, that’s it.”

The Library itself was of comparable size to the Music Library but held quite a bit more, for its shelves and bookcases were stuffed with scroll cases holding parchments or papyri and the journals Doremi had scribed containing translations of what they said.

“It was a pretty good experience being here,” she told Raven. “Here and there, they had some real old Hocwrathian spell books that had a few hieroglyphs listed with some translations of what they said, and it helped me learn some things I didn’t know. The most important thing was, they actually had a translation of an ancient Karnaki funeral song. Between that and the spells, I was able to basically complete learning what I needed to know, not only about the language, but the way they wrote music.”

Doremi’s comment seemed to generate a bit of interest on Raven’s part. “So the School knows some ancient Karnaki spells, then?” she asked.

“Not that I know of, Raven. From what I could surmise by the books, Karnaki spells can’t be cast anymore. The Wizards who wrote them expressed a puzzlement as to why, and the general theory was that the Karnaki Gods were all dead by their time, and so the magic won’t work for that reason.”

Raven’s eyes narrowed as she looked to the Bard. “I hope that’s not true,” she spoke, a note of concern on her voice.

Doremi shook her head. “I don’t think it is; I think they just don’t have the right translations or else they didn’t know how to pronounce the words correctly. As you know, if you don’t pronounce magic words just right, they won’t work.”

“Which is what makes Witchery so superior to Sorcery,” spoke Espidreen from a few feet away as she listened in on the conversation. “We need only to learn the simple prose and focus the power placed within ourselves by our Goddess to do our magic, whereas these accursed Sorcerers need to master some poly-syllabic language given them by demons ages ago that releases the power within the words themselves. Witchery is thus vastly superior.”

“Well said, Espidreen,” Cyllindrethifl agreed.

It was about then the Bard caught sight of something upon the desk, and she pushed past Raven to enter the chamber.

“How odd!” she exclaimed as she stepped to the desk.

Raven followed her gaze and observed that upon the cherrywood desk, next to a silver candlestick covered with the wax from a burnt-out candle that had flowed down its shaft, was a piece of parchment tied into a roll with a red silk ribbon.

Doremi held up the parchment. “This was the note I left them when I finished. It looks like they never even read it. It’s like they don’t even know I’m gone.”

Raven seemed to be considering her words, looking for an explanation. “Probably they didn’t really care about your work, Doremi,” she finally concluded. “They may only have wanted them translated just for the sake of formality.”

The Bard shrugged. “I guess. Strange, though.”

Thor now stepped up to the doorway, his hammer in his right hand and his huge red shield in his left. “We going to be here all night?” he asked, leaning in. “Let’s go!”

He didn’t see it, but Raven rolled her eyes at the comment before stepping back out into the hallway. “Doremi, which direction?” she asked.

The Bard put the scroll down and retreated back to the group. She then lifted a finger, indicating north. “There’s a hallway about halfway down that leads east. That takes you to the stairways. One of them will lead to the fourth story, and maybe one even leads into the tower.”

“Thor?” Raven spoke, nodding in the direction Doremi pointed.

The Viking nodded back; then he and Nightshadow began trudging down the darkened hall, their footfalls muffled by the thick carpet that ran like a blood red stream from one end to the other.

The hall varied little in its appearance, with carved stone archways set every twenty feet or so between the barrel-vaulted roof and the walls. To their right, the walls bore no entryways but were covered with old tapestries every few feet to break up the monotony of the smooth stone walls, but the left side of the corridor featured doorways to other small Libraries spaced every twenty or thirty feet apart. These they ignored and in a short time they were at the branch Doremi had spoken of. Thor took a quick right upon a floor of smooth white marble and now they were moving east. It took but a minute or so and then they emerged into a great landing that stretched nearly a hundred feet in both directions.

Here the Fellowship halted, stunned at what lay before them.

.

The Grand Stairway

.

Stairs. And not just one set. Not just ten sets. But more than twenty sets branching off into every possible direction, creating an eerie maze of stairways twisting and turning and rising and falling like some great maze ready to drive mad anyone seeking to navigate its many pathways.

From the ten foot wide platform they were on, some stairs swept upward, disappearing into the shadows where the hint of other landings was suggested by the light from their lockets reaching the outer perimeter of their range. Other staircases stretched or wound their way downward to different chambers or perhaps to the two lower levels.

There were broad staircases. There were narrow staircases. There were large staircases. There were small staircases. There were circular staircases. There were straight staircases. There were staircases of every form and size beckoning the Fellowship to come explore if they dared.

Some staircases led directly into darkened chambers while others reached alcoves that split off into two or more sets of stairs leading off to different areas. Most confusing of all, however, was the fact that from the landing one could clearly see stairs leading up or down to at least seven different levels--and this was only a five-story building!

“What is with all these stairs?!” Raven muttered in shock as her head looked back and forth, trying to take in the scene.

Then a gloved finger stretched back over her shoulder and beckoned.

Assuming it was for her, Doremi obediently stepped up.

“Please tell me,” Raven spoke without turning, “that you know which of these stairs will eventually take us to the tower.”

“Sorry, Raven,” came the answer. “I’ve never gone beyond right here. Any of those stairs could be the ones--except, of course, those ones there,” she added, pointing to a set leading down some thirty feet. “Those lead down to the second level. The others lead all sorts of places, and, like I said, it’s like a maze in here. Sometimes you even have to go down before you can go up, or up before you can go down.”

Raven still wasn’t getting it. “But why are there so many different sets of stairs?” she asked. “It looks like there are seven or eight levels to this place, and we know it’s only got five stories. I don’t understand.”

“Like I said, this place is a maze, Raven. Not just lengthwise--but heightwise.”

Then it began to sink in, and the Mistress of Freeport blinked.

“Are you telling me this place has levels inside of levels?!” Raven demanded.

Doremi nodded. “Yes,” she replied. “That’s a great way of putting it. Each actual level is fifty feet tall or so, but within it you could have areas where five whole floors of ten-foot-tall rooms might be stacked on top of each other, making five sub-levels on the one main level. So you actually have, here and there, way more than just five levels here in the base complex. I can’t even guess what the tower itself is laid out like.”

Almost as if on cue, the group expunged a collective sigh.

“Why didn’t you tell us this before?!” Espidreen angrily exclaimed as she glared at Doremi.

The Bard turned right to her and placed her hands on her hips. “I tried to, remember? You guys just cut me off and went on about how it made no difference because Fosmo could just scale the Pit and you’d save time that way!”

Doremi then thought she heard Raven muttering something about ravens and heaven under her breath, and then the Mistress of Freeport let out a sigh.

“Irrelevant. We will simply deal with the problem, and overcome,” Raven spoke calmly. “Thor--any chance your tracking skills can pick up where the heaviest traffic up is?”

But the Viking was already down on one knee, looking for any indications of travel. His eyes to the ground, he scanned for any signs that might indicate what stairs were most traveled upon. Everyone waited in silence as he moved up and down the platform, checking for any tell tale evidence. But finally he walked back and his look spoke before he did.

“Not so much as a speck of disturbed dust, scratches on the stone, or worn pathway from ten thousand seasons of foot travel,” he uttered, shaking his head. “It’s like this place is brand new.”

Raven took a look up and down the platform. At the south end, the platform seemed to turn into a corridor leading someplace east.

“Do we split up?” asked the Highlander, anticipating her thoughts.

Raven, continuing her scan of the area, nodded. “Yeah,” she said quietly.

“Bad idea in a dungeon, Raven,” Espidreen warned from behind.

“Let’s just be careful,” Raven added, ignoring her advice. “Nightshadow,” she said, pointing east, “see where that corridor down there goes. Follow it down as far as you feel comfortable. Thor--just pick some stairs that look good to you and see if you get lucky and find a way up to the fourth story.”

Raven then pointed to a landing directly above them. “Fosmo--up onto the landing there. See if anything leads off it that might go up to the fourth story. Romulus and Mac Tavish, you two check out those stairs there,” she ordered, pointing to what seemed to be the highest set, though, as Doremi had pointed out, there was no guarantee it would lead where they needed to go.

Espidreen raised her mace toward a broad set of stairs. “Those stairs there seem a bit wider than the others, Raven.”

“Except they only go up about ten feet, Espy.”

“Still, we should check them.”

“The rest of you do that, and Doremi and I will take some other set. No one go too far, and for goodness’ sake be careful! Beat feet back here at any sign of trouble! Oh, and by the way--let me know if you spot a garderobe or piscina.”

Doremi looked over to her. “Need to find a water closet?” she asked.

Raven scowled back. “Not for me--a garderobe may have a cess hole leading down into the Pit! If it’s big enough we might be able to go down it!”

Doremi grimaced. The idea sounded none too appealing.

Fosmo was no happier. “Me thought me sewer-crawling days was over, eh.”

“Apparently you were wrong, Burglar,” Espidreen spoke to him.

“D’ y’ rreally think they’d build a sewerr overr the head of Asmodeus?” Mac Tavish asked.

Cyllindrethifl’s face showed surprise at the Highlander’s casual use of the name so close to the Pit. “I wouldn’t speak that name too loudly here,” she cautioned.

“I’ll speak that name,” broke in the Knight as he raised his blade, “and speak it with an oath, too! And if he care to defend it, my sword be ready to give satisfaction!”

“Who knows, Mac Tavish,” Raven answered the Highlander, ignoring Giles’ comment, “--it’s just a stab in the dark. Let’s go!”

That said, the Fellowship now began splitting off. Nightshadow, moving at a fast limp, hustled south, disappearing around the corner while Fosmo reached up for the railing from the landing above and, in one move, pulled himself up, vanishing from the group’s view as he swung his legs over.

Raven and Doremi made their way up a stone stairway to a small round platform that split off in three directions. Quickly, Raven was drawn forward toward a dark recess another ten feet above them, and she slung her bow, unsheathing the smaller of her two swords. Only Doremi’s trained ears noticed a ringing as the blade was drawn forth. High-pitched, it resonated for several moments as Raven positioned the sword close in to her body before starting forward toward the recess.

The Bard was impressed--the steel the sword was made from must have been near perfect in its alloys and form to ring with such a musical tone.

“You’re really gonna use that funny scimitar, huh?” Doremi spoke from behind as Raven’s eyes scanned forward for the first sign of danger.

“The only thing funny about this sword,” came the reply, “is the look on its victim’s face as it tears out his throat about the same time he realizes he was disemboweled a moment before. And it’s not a scimitar; it’s called a wakizashi. The bigger one is a katana.”

“I’m no expert on swords, but it seems to me a good longsword would be much better since it’s a heavier weapon that you can also thrust, unlike your wakizashi which obviously isn't made for thrusting like a regular sword is.”

“Like you said, Doremi--you’re no expert on swords,” Raven muttered. “Now quiet down.”

They were nearly to the alcove and Raven slowed to a creep as she now began moving the last few feet in an almost sideways gate, keeping her weight on her right leg. Doremi surmised she was prepared to pivot to the left and bring down the sword down toward her in one fast slash against any enemy that showed itself, an unusual stance for a warrior.

Then they were at opening, and enough light penetrated within to reveal it was nothing more than an octagonal-shaped alcove piled high with stacks of dusty old tomes. Again showing caution, Raven paused just beyond the opening, scanned left and right to assure herself nothing dangerous was within, then quickly ducked her head in and out, looking up to the roof. Nothing was there either and so she stepped in for a fast look, looking about the chamber for anything of special interest.

Doremi leaned in for her own look. “I like your caution,” she mentioned to Raven as she braced herself against the two sides of the entry and glanced around. “You can’t be too careful in a dungeon.”

“My feelings exactly,” Raven agreed.

“I hope we do find a water closet somewhere along the line, though.”

Raven gave her a look.

“I have a weak bladder--I can’t help it!” Doremi exclaimed in response.

The Mistress of Freeport shook her head. “Just find some corner and go,” she suggested.

“You mean on the floor?! Isn’t that rather rude?”

“Afraid of offending the Liches, are you? We’re going to do a lot worse to this place before we’re done tonight!”

Shaking her head, Raven then made her way past the Bard, looked around at the maze, and then started up a different set of stairs. This one led up to a small chamber with another steep set of stairs heading somewhere down. They ignored this chamber, turning back for the landing.

The others, save for Nightshadow, were also returning and emerging from their brief explorations.

Raven paused, looking across to Fosmo, who had returned to the landing he’d climbed up to. The Burglar shook his head and extended his palms. “There’s chambers behind here and some have stairs going up, but how do we know they go up to where we wanna be?” he exclaimed.

From below, Espidreen stepped into view and looked up to the pair. “We found something interesting, Raven,” she spoke, raising her mace back toward the chamber they’d just emerged from. “A zoo.”

“They’ve got a zoo in here?!”

“Not one with living animals, Raven,” Cyllindrethifl explained from behind the Witch. “These stairs lead into a large chamber with many stuffed creatures, including some I have never seen before.”

“And at the far end is a double stairway leading up--possibly to the fourth level,” added Espidreen. “We didn’t go beyond the chamber itself to check it.”

“I suppose that’s as good a place to start as any, then,” Raven spoke, continuing down. “Let’s wait on the landing for the rest.”

It took only a few more minutes for everyone else to return, and none bore any better news than the two Witches. There simply was no way to know, without simply picking a direction and exploring it completely, which path would lead to the next level.

Last of all, Nightshadow emerged from the hall he’d explored and made his way to the group. His arms, holding both scimitars, were swinging in somewhat exaggerated movements to control his balance as he approached, and his limp was very obvious. Apparently his left leg was giving him some problems.

“Anything?” Raven asked him.

“Something interesting, at least,” he replied.

Raven nodded to him, encouraging him to explain.

“That hall goes down to the very end of the building, where it seems to end in an area of natural rock. I’m guessing it’s where the mountain is, behind the complex. Down at the end of the hall is a huge bronze grate blocking the way to someplace behind the building. I tried to go Ethereal to move through it, but something prevented the Talisman from allowing me to shift into the Ethers.”

“Natural rock...the Pit, maybe?” Raven wondered.

The Rogue shrugged. “Don’t know. There are lots of doors, along with other corridors branching off north, undoubtedly leading at least toward the Pit. But as to whether the Pit is behind that wall, I can’t say. I can tell you there’s no obvious way to move it. I couldn’t even budge it with my strength.”

Raven looked about to the others in the group. “What about with the help of the other men? I’ve got to believe we’ve got enough stallions in this party to lift anything.”

“Maybe,” Nightshadow said with a nod. “Thor’s strength added to mine, and with the other men here, might be enough to force it up. Even if we can’t get it open we won’t be wasting a whole lot of time and can always come back here to look for another way up.”

Raven turned to have a brief council with her two Witches, and Fosmo drifted over to Nightshadow.

“Leg giving ya problems, Mate?” he asked.

“It always gives me problems,” came the somber reply.

“What’s wrong with it, eh?”

Nightshadow’s gaze dropped for a moment to his left leg. “Dragon crushed my heel years ago.”

“Snap dragon?” asked the Cutpurse, looking down to the Rogue’s boot.

“Dragon dragon,” came his response.

“Ya mean a real dragon?” he asked in shock.

The masked visage nodded.

“‘Thought there wasn’t no more true dragons in Islay!”

“There aren’t--now.”

Fosmo then glanced to the Mind Sapphire for a moment, then looked into Nighsthadow’s eyes. “Don’t yer Talisman heal ya up?”

Nightshadow shook his head. “It happened before the Mind Sapphire activated,” he explained. “They splinted it up, but it never healed rightly. Ever since, every time I put any weight on my left heel it’s like a knife. It wasn’t so bad at first, but as the years have passed it hurts more and more. Most of the time I can deal with it; other times it’s quite a bother. Right now it fells like someone’s pounding on it with a mace--and of course it had to pick tonight, of all nights, to act up! I’ll be fine, though.”

“Okay,” Raven now spoke up, turning back to the Rogue. “Let’s give Nightshadow’s grate a try. If we’re lucky, it’ll get us into the Pit and we can make our way straight up to the Throne room.”

The Gladiator glanced back and forth between Raven and her cousin. “You’ve mentioned that a couple of times now,” he spoke. “I’m still not picturing it--just how is this Pit thing laid out?”

“Let me answer that, Raven,” Espidreen broke in.

The Witch locked her eyes with those of the Gladiator. “At the very top and roughly center of the tower should be located Nostradamus’ Throne room,” she explained. “It’s directly over the center of the Pit so that the power of Hell below flows up through the throne and keeps the Liche alive. We assume it’s built fundamentally the same as Throckmorton’s own Throne room. That Throne room is likewise centered over the Pit at his own School, and a bridge leads to it from other areas of what would correspond to the tower complex here. By scaling the sides of the Pit, or using a moon rope spell, we presumably can reach the bridge and gain ingress to the Throne room.”

“How do you know there’s a bridge even up there, and that it’s laid out the same?” Romulus now questioned. “It’s always possible all that’s up there is the bottom of the floor of the top level, right?”

“We know,” spoke Raven, “because the Schoolmasters are famous for throwing people down the Pit. There must be an opening for Nostradamus just as there is for Throckmorton,” Raven added. “Even if not, we’ll simply break through the floor using brute force or Cyl’s magic, and get in that way.”

That seemed to satisfy the Gladiator and he fell silent.

“I think we should definitely have a map in this place, Raven,” Cyllindrethifl suggested.

“Good idea, Cyl,” her mistress agreed. “Doremi, why don’t you handle that? You’ve got some paper and a piece of charcoal, I assume?”

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that, Raven,” Doremi responded. “I have a perfect memory. We don’t need a map because I can remember ever twist or turn we make--even in this place.”

Raven cocked her head to the right and stared back at the Bard. “And what if you die, Doremi?” she asked. “How do those of us with lesser memories find our way back?”

The Bard grinned. “Guess you’ll just have to keep me alive, huh?”

No one else seemed to appreciate the humor of the statement, so Doremi’s smile faded. “Fine--I’ll make a map, then,” she spoke.

“Thank you. In fact, I want you to make two maps. Just copy a second when we take a break from walking or something, and that will be fine.”

“Why two maps?”

“How about, so if we split up again, both groups have their own map? Is that a good enough reason for you, Doremi?”

“You don’t have to snap at me; I was just asking, Raven!”

“Lead on,” Raven now ordered, ignoring the Bard’s irritation, and silently the group began falling in behind Nightshadow and Thor as they marched to the southern end of the platform.

.

The Black Powder

.

Anyone who knows, will tell you the most dangerous part of a School of Sorcery is its alchemical laboratories. It’s here that all Wizards must spend a considerable amount of time in training, mastering the art of brewing potions and elixirs, for even so much as a slight imperfection in their preparation can result in disaster. One can easily imagine, for instance, the tragedy that can befall a person if an elixir of detoxification fails to work, and work immediately when swallowed.

Yet aside from the demands of general potion and elixir manufacture, the true danger posed by the laboratories arises from the experimentation the alchemists may undertake in researching new potions or elixirs. This can be very dangerous, for the process of trial and error can produce everything from poisonous compounds which may do precisely the opposite of what the Wizard hopes, to fires or explosions that can burn down not just the lab but the whole School if not properly dealt with. Because of this, the laboratories are usually set in an out-of-the-way place where the harm to other persons or property can be minimized; and also, for this reason, it’s rare that any truly new alchemical discoveries are made. Those who do experiment with producing new compounds invariably do so at great risk.

.

They wasted no time in moving eastward down the passage as the glow from their enchanted lockets brought light into a place where darkness usually ruled, chasing away the shadows for a moment before they swept back in to reclaim their place. Though no one spoke and their footfalls were muffled by thick throw rugs upon the floor, it seemed to Doremi they were loud as a marching army, as the sepulchral silence of the complex was broken by the sound of armor clanking and robes rustling. Unsettling as that was, even worse was the feeling she couldn’t shake: that they were being watched.

The feeling was understandable, for it was eerie to be penetrating, at their apparent leisure, one of the most forbidden areas in all Islay, but no opposition to their invasion showed itself as they moved past darkened alcoves, closed doors, or hallways branching north to unknown places. The one truly bad thing was that nothing before or behind them could possibly fail to see them because of their lights. Thus, their chances of actually surprising anything were nil. Any enemies who did happen to be in this place would undoubtedly have a first strike at them, something that could prove deadly for whomever was the recipient of that attack.

Yet when the first threat came, it was not by surprise, but with plenty of warning, for they all heard it before they ever saw it.

The group were nearing the end of the long hall with Nightshadow and Thor twenty feet ahead of the rest, when the pair began to pass yet another corridor branching north. It was then they heard the steps--a slow, heavy shuffling of something beyond the range of their locket lamps, drawing nearer each moment.

Both men halted, knowing it was impossible to hide, and immediately Thor reacted, leaping into the hallway on guard against whatever it was as the rest hurried up behind, ready for trouble.

The huge Viking seemed to fill half the entryway as he stood there, muscles visibly taut through his leather jerkin as he tightly gripped his hammer, prepared to rear back and hurl it. Nightshadow, meanwhile, took his place next to him, both scimitars positioned up and to his right, ready to slash out at the foe as soon as it got close enough.

But Raven wasn’t waiting for the enemy to get any closer. Thinking quickly, she shifted the bow to her left hand, then reached down with her right and slid open one of the doors of the metal can upon her belt. Out popped a small ceramic marble she hurled down the hall into the darkness. As it hit the flagstones, the thin ceramic shell broke, releasing a pellet upon which had been cast a spell of light similar to that upon the lockets.

The added light revealed the creature advancing toward them: it had the form of something that might have been seen in Krella, for it resembled a warrior in greaves, breastplate and skirt, with an open helm upon its head. Yet this was no warrior of flesh, but a construct of reddish-brown metal about ten feet tall, slowly advancing toward them, its heavy footfalls loudly thudding against the stone floor of the corridor.

“Iron golem!” Espidreen realized.

“Darts!” Raven instantly ordered.

The golem seemed to take no notice and continued advancing toward them with the same slow gate, leaning from side to side so that its jointless limbs could be lifted enough to shuffle forward in a jerky five-foot stride.

Espidreen was first to strike the creature with a magic dart as she pulled a silver stud from her belt and threw it. The glowing dart had streaked out, impacting the chest of the golem with a small explosion when it was still twenty feet from Thor and Nightshadow.

Cyllindrethifl’s own dart hit its shoulder and the construct seemed to flinch, though it continued on, unbothered. Finally, Raven pulled a silver pellet from her belt pouch and hurled it. The dart hit the golem’s face, halting it for a moment as it was nearly thrown backward from the force of the spell. Then it slowly leaned back upright and once again began moving forward.

“Front rank, finish him off, but don’t throw the hammer, Thor--too much noise” Raven spoke.

The two warriors rushed forward to engage the creature and now it halted and raised its two fists, focusing on Nightshadow. Thor was first to reach it, bringing his hammer around in a powerful swing to strike the golem’s upper leg as he held his shield up, ready to block any punch.

The hammer connected with a solid thud against the construct’s thigh, but the golem ignored the blow and swung both fists at Nightshadow. Realizing he was the target, the Rogue stopped in his tracks, instinctively leaning backward and twisting to his left with surprising agility despite his less-than-trim physique, and the blows missed. Then the Rogue jumped forward, swinging twice against the iron form’s right arm while bringing in his left scimitar for a slash against its leg.

Sparks rained out from where the blows struck, and then the golem was rearing back and raising its arms for another attack.

Thor, directly against the monster, leaned back and snapped forward, driving the hammer against the golem’s hip. The Viking struck so hard that even he gave a shudder from the sting in his hand as the unyielding iron form of the construct took the full impact of a blow that would have killed any normal man.

Still the golem paid him no notice, but again brought its fists down on Nightshadow. This time, the Rogue was too close to dodge and the golem’s right fist struck him full in the left shoulder. There was actually a crunching sound as his shoulder was crushed, almost driving him to the ground as Dellendryll, the scimitar in his left hand, flew from his grasp.

Sensing the golem was fixed upon his comrade, Thor dropped all defense, stepping forward and making a roundhouse blow against the golem’s kneecap, its weakest point. A tremendous clang rang out as the blow struck home, yet the golem seemed unstymied as it stayed on its original target.

As soon as the huge fist broke Nightshadow’s shoulder, the Mind Sapphire healed its bearer, the power flowing through him and repairing the crushed bone and torn cartilage. Even so, the masked warrior felt the ghastly pain for a moment as he nearly went to the ground from the force of the strike. Then he retaliated, swinging his remaining scimitar for two quick slashes against the golem’s arm and leg.

Thor now dropped his shield and grasped the hammer with both hands for extra power, windmilling it, over and over into the knee of the golem. The blows were beginning to bear fruit, for the knee of the construct began flattening out of shape with each hit as the golem, totally ignoring the threat to his left, seemed fixed on trying to strike the smaller target to its right.

The golem now made a backhanded swing that connected with Nightshadow’s upper body, and the Rogue was driven into the wall, nearly knocking him senseless. Yet again the Talisman did its work, and the warrior recovered, instinctively slashing out with Brigit, his remaining blade.

The others were holding their breath in the hallway, a few yards in front of the battle, transfixed on the battle. Everyone was focused on the fight, but Mac Tavish was fidgeting nervously at seeing the beating Nightshadow was taking. Finally, he glanced over to Raven. She glanced back and forth between he and the fight, and then nodded her permission. Quickly, the Highlander sheathed his claymore and laid down his shield. Reaching back for the massive axe strapped across his back, Mac Tavish slowly moved forward, ready to attack.

By now, Thor had maneuvered behind the golem and was striking again and again at the rear of the creature’s knee while Nightshadow focused on dodging and getting in a swing when it was safe to try.

As the Highlander approached, Nightshadow ducked to his right as one of the iron fists missed, passing through where his head had been a moment earlier. This was what Mac Tavish had waited for: as the golem pivoted round to its left, the Highlander timed his own blow perfectly, bringing his powerful arms back and up in a great circle, and whipping the two-handed axe in for a massive blow against the iron body.

The axe struck dead center in the golem’s belly with so much force that the corridor rang out with a loud clang as the enchanted blade broke through the golem’s shell. The creature nearly staggered back from the force of the blow, but then a hissing sound was heard as the blade struck, and as the Highlander wrenched it free for another strike, a cloud of green gas shot out the crack just opened by the axe blade.

Instantly, Mac Tavish was enveloped by the gas and the axe dropped from his hands as he brought his hands up to his face, choking as he tried to back away.

“Poison gas!” Espidreen shouted, backing up the corridor as the cloud slowly expanded toward them.

“Cyl, finish it off!” Raven screamed.

The Elf immediately thrust a hand into a pocket of her cloak, withdrawing a small black pearl. Without even waiting to see its effects before retreating to a safer position away from the noxious cloud, she cast it forward.

In flew the black pearl straight at the golem like it was a magic dart. The creature didn’t even try to dodge--and probably couldn’t have even if it had wanted to. The ether ball struck it full in the chest, and for a moment the space around the construct seemed to contract and distort in a sphere several feet in diameter. Despite its tremendous mass, with the sphere’s appearance the golem seemed to fold back in half, contract, and was instantly sucked into the portal with a loud WHOOSH.

Then the sphere was gone, leaving behind the cloud of gas and the three warriors.

The Highlander, meanwhile, was choking as he stumbled backward; then Nightshadow reached out to pull him back to the hallway as Raven fumbled in her pouch for an elixir. Thor, apparently able to hold his breath before the gas affected him, grabbed Mac Tavish’s other arm to drag him out of the corridor as quickly as possible. They laid him down on a carpet as Raven popped the stopper and knelt down, trying to pour the concoction down Mac Tavish’s throat, but he simply spit it up as he continued choking.

His contorted face was covered with a green film, and several sets of hands were trying to help wipe the thick goo off, but amidst all of it he seemed unable to swallow or take in a breath--he just kept exhaling even though he had no air left. It was as if whatever poison he’d been affected by was forcing him to choke up his very lungs!

“He can’t swallow!” Raven exclaimed frantically, looking around. “Cyl--cast on him!”

The Druid knelt down next to him, fumbling in her pouch for some herbs; then she waved them over the fallen warrior, intoning some words in Elvish.

Mac Tavish’s face was now a beet red and he shook in his death throes, no longer exhaling but still unable to inhale. The warrior was starting to pass out as he began to slip toward death, but then the Druid’s spell started taking effect. The Highlander’s body jumped and he started gasping, wheezing in deep breaths as he writhed on the ground. After a few moments, the writhing stopped as his burning lungs began to relax and his breathing became more normal.

Raven had maneuvered behind him, cradling the warrior’s upper body as the strength returned to his limbs. At last, he took a deep breath and looked around.

“I’m arright now,” he muttered.

“Just sit there for a moment,” Raven ordered, releasing him and regaining her feet.

Romulus leaned over to Cyllindrethifl as she stood up. “Good thing you had that memorized,” he remarked. “If it’d be me, I’d have relied on elixirs and memorized something else in its place.”

“That’s why you’re a Gladiator and not a Witch,” remarked Espidreen from a few feet away. “Smart Witches always plan for the unexpected.”

Mac Tavish held his hand up and Thor reached down and helped pull him to his feet. The Viking winked and slapped the Highlander’s arm with a nod. Mac Tavish nodded back and was shaky for a few moments, but then he nodded he was recovered enough to continue.

Raven looked up and down the hall. “Seems like our luck is still holding--no one seems to have heard the fight.”

“It may well be the Liches are either in the tower itself or in the other buildings, Raven,” Espidreen replied.

“Let’s hope, Espy. Other than that, I wish I knew what that poison was the golem used on Mac Tavish. It’s got to be some of the nastiest stuff I’ve ever seen. I’m not even sure our ruby dust is as good!”

“Do golems normally have poison like that?” asked Doremi.

“If you enchant them to,” Cyllindrethifl answered, clasping her hands behind her back and standing there demurely. “Golems can be enchanted to do any number of things. This one, it seems, had been crafted with a chamber containing the poison gas. Very cunning, if I may say so.”

“Well, we were wondering what sort of guardians they might have had up here. Now we know,” Espidreen added.

“Doremi,” Raven now spoke, “have you ever seen any golems here before?” she asked the Bard.

The Bard shook her head. “Not when I was here,” she answered.

“They could be something new, Raven,” Espidreen commented. “Or perhaps they limit their patrol to only critical areas.”

“A wise choice on their part to use golems,” Cyllindrethifl remarked. “Golems work twenty hours a day without rest, they can walk about the whole level, and if they meet anything they have a good chance of killing it.”

Raven looked to the Bard. “Did you by chance ever do much exploring in the tower where you would be able to speculate if these would actually be a new addition?”

“No, I didn’t set foot outside the limited area they assigned to me. I took some walks in the courtyard, but that was it.”

“I see.”

Doremi caught the tone, so she added, “Of course, if they had led me to believe I did have the run of the place, then I would have looked around!”

Raven picked the bow up from where she’d dropped it as Nightshadow moved down the corridor to retrieve the other dropped items. “This brings up the question about how to handle them,” she spoke as she nocked an arrow. “If we’re going to be meeting more of these, and if they have a poison that deadly inside them--do we rely only on spells to kill them, or do we fight them and hope for the best?”

“The only spell that will guarantee an instant kill is an ether ball, Raven,” Cyllindrethifl answered. “And we need them for the Liches.”

“Well, fortunately Espidreen has brought along some extra ether ball scrolls. How many you got, Espy?”

“Five, Raven,” answered the Witch, patting a pouch that hung from her belt.

“Well...keep them ready. If we run into any more of these, we’ll hit them with those unless we decide we can risk fighting.”

With the Highlander able to walk again, the group continued east, soon arriving at the grate discovered by Nightshadow as the hallway reached its end and turned north. As he’d indicated, it was a massive portal, crafted of beaten bronze reinforced with girders bolted to it by rivets with heads big as fists, some twenty feet wide and three-quarters as tall. It sealed off the hall from some other area, but the means by which it might be raised to permit ingress was unknown.

Fosmo quickly moved up and began tapping and pressing the stonework, hunting for some hidden switch or secret panel, but quickly he concluded either there was none or else it was hidden awfully good, and he shook his head to the Fellowship.

Espidreen reached out and ran her hand along the stonework, observing where it turned from finished stone into natural limestone a few inches before the portal.

“The Pit, you think?” asked Raven.

She shook her head slowly. “I don’t know, Raven. Possibly. But we’re awfully far from the center of the complex. Unless it leads around part of the complex to the eastern side of the Pit.... Raven, I just don’t know,” she concluded. “This may be part of the mountain’s caverns...it may be some sort of mine....”

The Witch turned away from the wall to look at her mistress. “We won’t know unless we get through,” she spoke as she turned now to view the portal itself. “But as to how to do that....”

“Want us to try and lift it?” Nightshadow asked.

Raven nodded to the western wall. “There’s something on the other side of this wall. Let’s backtrack to the last hallway and try to find out what it is. We may find a windlass or something. If not...we’ll see what brute strength can do.”

The last corridor was only fifty feet behind them and so it took only moments to retreat up the hallway and turn north, where a wide old oaken door, inset between two pillars of stone to the sides of an archway, beckoned.

Thor reached out and tried the handle. It came as no shock it was locked.

“Check it, Fosmo,” Raven ordered, and the Cutpurse quickly examined the lock mechanism and the doorway itself, scanning for some sort of trap.

He shook his head and plunged a pick into the lock. “She’s fine, methinks.”

Fosmo seemed as good as his reputation--it took no longer than if he’d had the key for the lock for them to hear the tumbler move into place, and then the handle turned freely.

The Cutpurse stepped away and swept his hand back to the door, inviting Thor to open it.

Holding his hammer in his left hand with the shield, the Scandian turned the knob and pushed the door open, quickly shifting the hammer back to his right hand as he peered in, prepared to fight whatever might await them within.

But no creatures met anyone’s gaze. Behind the door loomed only a darkened chamber vaguely revealing sets of tables and shelves of pots and beakers from the light of the group’s lockets.

The Viking stepped in and the group began following. Everyone but Raven, that is. As the others moved in, she retreated to the corridor, listening, then held up her locket, peering back down the way they’d come. Thankfully, no sounds met her ears, nor did anything show itself.

Satisfied they were still unnoticed, she followed the others into the chamber.

“An alchemical lab,” Espidreen spoke as she entered. “No windlass, though.”

Sure enough, Raven saw it was a large work space for the manufacture of some sort of magical concoctions. Large mortars and pestles lay upon tables at the center of the chamber while other parts of the room were stacked with barrels, shelving, or had work benches and nooks placed against the walls. Northward, thirty feet or so down, the room looked as if turned left, extending west.

Cyllindrethifl, standing near a stack of small kegs, was prying off the top of one with a dagger and then looked inside. She reached in and withdrew her hand, allowing a stream of black granules to fall back in.

“Some sort of powder, Raven. I don’t recognize it.”

Espidreen stepped over to the Elf and took her own look, rubbing some of the powder between her fingers.

“Espy?” Raven asked.

“Don’t know, Raven,” she concluded.

CLICK.

“We gots some stuff over here in these big barrels, Raven.” Fosmo spoke from the eastern side of the chamber, pointing to several large barrels behind him. “Smells like sulfur, looks like charcoal or fireplace soot, and resembles some kind of crystals...like salt or something.”

“Whatever the crystals are, don’t get any on your hands, Fosmo--probably kill you,” Raven warned.

“Gimme some credit, Raven--me’ve been known to be stupid at times, but never bloody stupid!”

Intrigued by mention of crystals, Cyllindrethifl wandered over to Fosmo as Raven joined Espidreen.

“I’ve seen crystals like this before,” spoke the Elf as she looked down into the barrel. “Looks like the ones you see in bat caves.”

Raven was looking down into the keg next to Espidreen when a thought struck her, and she spoke out, “Anybody got a torch? I wanna see if this stuff burns.”

“Got one in me pack, Raven,” Fosmo answered up as he removed his pack and began rummaging through it.

“Not a good idea, Raven,” Espidreen cautioned. “Could be dangerous to just throw a torch into this stuff.

CLICK.

“I’m just gonna test out a handful of it, Espy,” Raven answered as she reached into the barrel for a small handful of powder. Then she looked round for a handy spot, and spread the powder upon a table.

Fosmo quickly had a torch out and was striking some jasper and steel to light it; then he headed over to Raven with it.

“Okay, stand back and hold your breath in case it gives off a gas or something,” Raven spoke as she took the torch from Fosmo. That said, she held her breath and tossed the torch on the table as she twisted and ducked away. The powder instantly vanished with a loud WHOOSH, leaving behind an acrid smell and a small cloud of gray smoke.

“Hmm,” was Raven’s conclusion.

Fosmo waited for a moment to make sure it was safe; then retrieved the torch and stamped it out.

“Well...it burns...sort of,” Espidreen spoke.

CLICK.

For the third time Raven now heard the sound.

“Who’s making tha--Doremi, what are you doing over there?!”

The Bard, standing by a work bench against the western side of the wall, looked over her shoulder. “Nothing--I’m just looking at this fire-starter thing.”

Raven walked forward. “What fire-starter thing?” she wanted to know.

Doremi held it up, and whatever it was, it was beautiful. The Bard’s first thought had been that it was an instrument of some sort, for it bore a tube of steel, ornately engraved with knot work and spirals, that flared out at its end like a flute or wind instrument might. It was set in a walnut stock that curved down at its end into a silver pommel of sorts that was fashioned in the form of a skull.

The curious part was that it had a trigger, and if you pulled back a fitting on the side that held a piece of flint sandwiched in between two small jaws, it would snap forward and make some sparks when it came into contact with another metal fitting before it.

Raven grasped the device by the tube, and examined it.

“Some kind of mace? Club?” she wondered as she pounded the skull into her left palm.

“No, I think it makes fire,” Doremi insisted. “It sparks, and if you hold it by a torch, it will probably light it.”

Raven now withdrew a metal ramrod set beneath the metal tube and stared at it.

“Then why’s it got this plunger?”

The other two Witches were intrigued by now and headed over to examine the queer object for themselves.

There were actually a number of similar contrivances, though decorated differently--some with pommels at the bottom of the stock, and some without--set upon shelves as if waiting to be used. Cyllindrethifl reached out and took one up.

“I don’t know, Raven,” answered Doremi. “I have no idea what the plunger is for.”

Several times, Cyllindrethifl pulled back the flint-fitting and tugged on the trigger, producing sparks. Then she looked upon the work bench and observed a number of nooks holding parts corresponding to those upon the device, and a few others that did not, which notably were filled with some silver pellets.

“Since these are here in the same room with the black powder, Raven,” the Elf spoke, “it could indicate that they go together.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Raven responded. “In fact, I think I know what this does!”

Raven grasped a small keg of the black powder and poured it down the tube until it was almost to the top. “First you pour in the powder,” she spoke.

“Okay,” Doremi said, watching. “Then what?”

“Well...then you take one of these pellets,” Raven continued, wedging one into the top of the tube, “and stuff it in with the plunger to cork it off.” This she did. Then she pulled the flint fitting back into position and held the device with the tube pointed upwards. “Then you pull the trigger...and you throw it,” she speculated, imitating the move. “And it will explode, doing some damage.”

Cyllindrethifl squinted, unconvinced. “Seems like an awful lot of trouble to go through, Raven. Wouldn’t you think a bottle of oil would do just as good?”

“You’d think,” Raven agreed.

“It has to do something else, Raven,” Cyllindrethifl spoke.

“I’m open to enlightenment, Cyl.”

Espidreen, meanwhile was wandering down a few feet when she came upon a rack holding a dozen more of the odd devices.

“Raven, look at this,” the Witch spoke, leaning down and coming up with one twice as long. “This one is bigger, and looks like a crossbow!”

Sure enough, the device was longer, with a brass tube over a foot and a half long that flared out almost like a trumpet at its end--but its short stock, rather than designed to be held in the hand, resembled something more like a crossbow’s, for it was flat and could be held up to one’s shoulder, although it would be somewhat cumbersome to do so and a person would be in an odd position with their right arm bent out sideways as they grasped the trigger while their left arm reached across to hold onto the wooden stock beneath the brass tube.

“Must be made for a Wighead,” Raven spoke. “A normal person couldn’t hold that comfortably.”

Espidreen experimented with the positioning of the device, finally concluding that wedging it against her hip was the best place to hold it.

Doremi stepped over to the Witch and watched for a moment, then noticed a row of even longer versions of the device, about as long as a broom, set into their own rack.

“This one looks more comfortable to use,” she spoke as she took one up and raised it to her shoulder. “You know, it does remind me of how one handles a crossbow, although it’s a couple feet longer, obviously.”

It was then she pulled the trigger and the device made a flash of smoke and exploded with a tremendous report, the like of which she had never heard before! Just as quickly, something went banging around and off the walls of the chamber, ricocheting about the room as everyone stood frozen in shock. Finally, the pellet struck Thor’s helmet, making a scratch, and bounced off.

The Viking bent over and picked up the flattened silver pellet; then dropped it back down.

The device, meanwhile, clattered to the floor from the shocked Bard who let go like it was a snake.

“Why’d it do that?!” she gasped.

Intrigued, Raven walked over and picked up the device, running her hand upon it, trying to draw a conclusion about the gadget’s purpose.

“Either the Bard did something wrong or else it is meant to do whatever just happened, Raven,” Espidreen concluded.

“Sounded like thunder,” Thor observed, repositioning his helmet. “I don’t think I like it, whatever that thing is.”

“Perhaps it’s a weapon,” Espidreen speculated.

“Can’t be much of one,” Raven answered, laying the device aside. “A pellet that small isn’t going to hurt something bigger than a rabbit. It didn’t even scratch Thor, and it hit him in the head! Of course,” she noted with a wink, “you do have a hard head, Thor.”

The Viking grinned.

“That’s what his wife says, too,” Nightshadow spoke, looking over to the Viking. “In fact, I think she’s going to remind him of that when he gets home!”

Thor groaned and shook his head. “Had to remind me, didn’t you? Well, maybe I’ll b