Scoundrel's Answer Ch. 15

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Into the tower for the final confrontation.
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Part 15 of the 17 part series

Updated 09/22/2022
Created 05/19/2013
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It took almost an hour to cross the softly swaying grass and into the eaves of the forest once more. These trees lacked the corruption rampant around Pinwood, and instead bore an almost equally oppressive weight of years. Twisted and gnarled branches stretched high overhead, and the thick canopy, untouched by the hand of man for many a year, cast a perpetual twilight on the soft, spongy ground beneath. Thick, corded roots wound their way here and there, snaking from trunks so thick it would take two or three grown men to circle them with their arms, only to plunge into the earth. The brisk wind which had picked up earlier showed no signs of slowing, and whispered amongst the foliage with a cooling caress and a soft rustling.

The walk was rather pleasant, and would have been enjoyable if not for the circumstances. The forest was deceptively peaceful, and even as they approached the sinister spire which they knew lay before them, birds still fluttered overhead, and Alan could see the occasional flash of a deer darting away through the trees.

In time, they finally did arrive at the tower, where its obsidian facade rose abruptly from amongst ancient trees that hardly looked to have been disturbed in decades. Alan remembered the entire place laying in ruins, with blackened stumps and stripped logs strewn about like many toothpicks. None of that remained, and the trees appeared to have never been touched. It was undoubtedly some manner of sorcery which repaired both forest and structure.

The ground immediately about the base of the Startower was more gravel than earth, though this occurred only in a narrow band, a few feet across at most. There was no break in the trees, they came right up to the outer reach of that narrow band, and above, the branches came right up to press against the tower's obsidian shod walls, maintaining that shield from the morning's brightness all the way to the tower proper.

Great double doors of polished bronze stood fast before the four adventurers, surrounded by a frame of carved white stone that stood out starkly from the surrounding obsidian. The frame was carved to resemble great tentacles reaching up from the earth, only to wrap about an odd black orb where the keystone should be. However, rather than individual blocks of masonry, the whole of the door frame seemed carved of a single continuous stone. The doors themselves were forged with a bas-relief depicting many men and women writhing together, beneath an elevated, empty throne.

Alan didn't recognize any of the imagery, it was all new to him. He had only been to the tower a few times when it originally stood, and he was fairly certain that he would remember anything that distinct. The glittering black orb atop the door especially resembled the Nightmare Orb. It certainly did not bode well for Miena's mental state.

As they stood there, the orb above the door began to shine, and Miena's voice drifted down from above, projected by some unseen magic, "Well it seems as though my visitors have arrived. Alan, bringing Windhawk and Vick to visit me? You shouldn't have." There was a pause, before she spoke in a sterner tone, "I mean that. You shouldn't have. I suppose I'll have to eliminate them as well. And what's that, a gnome? I thought you found them annoying."

The last statement caused Alan to wince. It was completely correct, and he realized that this entire expedition, Faringalia had been making a painfully conscious effort to tone back the very chatterbox nature that made her kind grate on his nerves so. She'd done a more than admirable job of it, and he'd found her company almost pleasant as a result. Still, he couldn't miss the hurt look which lingered on her little face after hearing that announcement.

"Faringalia is different. She's one of us now," He quickly addressed the door, "She's your replacement, and has been true to our cause. I wish I could say the same of you, Miena."

While his quick defense seemed to cheer the illusionist, it was met merely by a scoffing exhalation from that projected voice. "Please, don't make me laugh. She's an illusionist. She can no more replace me than a crippled beggar could replace Vick. And what cause do you speak of, Alan? Since when did the Reavers of Aethwin have a cause other than their own profit?"

Alan scowled at that. His retort was immediate, "You know damn well they have another cause. Each other. The Reavers stick together. If you injure one of us, you shall feel the wrath of all of us. And you, you've crossed a line. Miena, we are going to come in there and take Lizzy back. And then we're going to end you, once and for all!" He sounded more eager than he felt.

"Oh dear, how valiant. You almost sounded like a real hero there, Alan. Have you been taking notes from the dwarf? Please. The Reavers of Aethwin, charging into battle with a dark wizard yet again. You and I both know how this story usually ends, and this time you don't have me to counter the spells that inevitably claim you. You don't have Garthur to patch you back together."

The mocking tone of that disembodied voice grated on Alan's nerves, and he pointed up to the orb shimmering over the doorway. "Break that."

"With pleasure," Vick and Windhawk spoke together, then stepped forward. Windhawk selected a particular, blunted arrow from her quiver, while Vick lifted the Black Blade in both hands. Windhawk's bow sang, and her arrow zipped forth. The tip impacted the orb with a sharp sound, and a narrow little crack began to spread over the orb's surface. Vick's blade then swung up. It was an awkward, overhanded swing, but there was quite a bit of power in it. The edge of his sword found that new crack, and with an echoing crash, cleaved deep into it.

The orb shattered and exploded outward, scattering broken shards of smoldering stone over the group. Slowly, the doors beneath it began to sag in their frames. Whatever magic had kept them bound had fled with the destruction of the orb. Alan stepped forth and dug his fingers into the edge of one of the doors, and slowly, he pried it outward. He only opened the door wide enough to allow Vick to squeeze through. One by one, they slipped through and into the wizard's lair.

The chamber beyond, the grand foyer of the Startower, was well lit by a white glow that seemed to emit from the very stones of the ceiling above. The floor was polished granite, the walls were white marble. Hanging about the hall were five tapestries, depicting each of the original Reavers of Aethwin in some feat of daring from their past. A set of stairs spiraled up from the right, and up along the inner wall of the circular tower. In the middle, a grand statue of a woman stood some eight feet high, arms outstretched. It took a moment for Alan to realize the statue was supposed to be Miena, so idealized was that representation.

The tower itself was roughly circular, and fairly modest from the outside, despite the grandeur of its obsidian facade. On the inside, however, it was immediately clear that considerations of basic geometry were thrown out the window. That interior room had three archways leading off to wings that were not actually present from the outside, and interspersed amongst the tapestries hanging from the high, arching ceiling were windows that should rightly have been well below the only ones visible from the outside. Even if they were merely unseen, they should have been below the canopy of the woods, in the shade of the forest. Instead, they allowed sunlight to flow in unhindered, to join the luminous shine of the enchanted masonry.

Vick whistled as he turned his eyes around the interior. "Damn, I kind of feel like the palace back in Aethwin is inadequate now. Maybe I should have some workers remodel it."

"Madame Pryce is probably already doing so," Alan's comment brought a scowl from the Count, then a chuckle.

"Probably," he ruefully agreed.

Windhawk readied another arrow as she skulked forward, while Faringalia gazed up in awe at each of the tapestries. The gnome woman was staying a little far from them, when Alan hustled to herd her back near to Vick.

"Can't risk being split up this early in the game. Stick near Vick, he'll protect you."

The illusionist smiled up to Alan, "Yeah, thanks. Sorry, it's just so... different than what I was expecting. Are those tapestries true? Are they showing stuff that actually happened?"

The old thief turned his own eyes up to study each one in turn. He finally nodded. "Yeah, for the most part." Although he was uncertain, now. Why would she have kept such images about, if she simply intended to betray them.

Windhawk circled the room with bow drawn, and squinted down each of the corridors. Her soft soled boots made little sound as she completed her circuit, which only served to highlight how quiet the place really was. Alan wasn't certain what he expected, some sort of ambush, a chamber of horrors, rows of slaves being readied for some dark mine. He strained to hear anything, any hint of noise within the still, silent air. It was all for naught, all he heard was the faint patter of the elf's footsteps and the group's breathing.

With a final step, the ranger leaned in toward the rest of the group. "It seems clear. Quiet as a tomb."

"That's what's getting to me. At the very least, we know one person should be here." Either Lizzy or Miena, Alan would settle for getting his hands on either, for various reasons. He glanced toward the stairs, musing to himself. "Let's get to the top of this place. I have a hunch that Miena will be up top."

"A hunch, huh?" Vick's voice rumbled forth with some amusement. "So we're not doing a room by room search for your precious beloved, just following your random guess?"

Alan scowled at the warrior, though he did have a point. Another glance was given to those stairs, before he nodded. "Yeah. Miena wants me, for whatever reason. Whether to keep me or kill me, it doesn't matter. She'll be in the most obvious place imaginable. Which in the case of a tower would be the very top."

Vick shrugged, "Alright Tinsley. This is your mission." Shouldering his massive blade, the warrior strode over toward Alan, with Faringalia tagging behind, almost like some frightened child.

Alan took the lead this time, and moved slowly. He kept his eyes sweeping over his surroundings, seeking any signs of traps or other surprises. There was nothing to be caught, however, and soon he began leading them up that winding stairway.

They hadn't got more than a few feet, however, before a piercing scream sounded from one of the corridors below. It was quickly followed by another, and then a feminine voice pleading for help. Although it was no one Alan recognized, she sounded as if she were in a great deal of pain.

Vick was already starting back down the stairs when Alan called down to him, "It's not her."

The warrior, and the gnome who now followed on his heels at every movement, both looked up to the rogue incredulously. "So we're just supposed to abandon some woman because we don't know who she is?" Vick's voice boomed upward, as if it were some great offense.

Alan was fairly certain that if it had been a man's screams, Vick wouldn't have cared less.

There was a moment's more hesitation, then Alan cursed. He began to head back down the stairs, with Windhawk at his side. As Vick and Faringalia reached the bottom, however, another cry sounded. This one drifted down from above, and Alan certainly knew this voice.

"Lizzy!" He spun about, then managed to ascend a few steps, before he realized Vick wasn't following him. He looked over his shoulder, then sighed. Alan waved one hand to the warrior, "Go after the other woman, then come back up after you've ended whatever is hurting her."

Vick chuckled softly, "Sure thing. Good luck, Tinsley."

The old rogue nodded, even as he cursed himself for what he was doing. Splitting the party had already resulted in one death, but there was little he could do in this instance. He was just grateful when Windhawk fell into step beside him. Faringalia was with Vick, and if everyone was careful, they should be able to handle whatever they came across.

As he ascended to the second floor landing, however, Alan wasn't so certain of that. Before him, another round room stretched out, another staircase gracefully curved upward to the next floor, opposite of where his own head peeked up past the safety railing along the edge of the landing. This room was more dimly lit than the last. No grand windows offered lighting, only a single, central orb similar to the one they had shattered above the front door offered any sort of illumination. A flickering, purple radiance shone down from where thick ropes supported the large, dark sphere overhead.

Beside the odd lighting arrangement, the chamber appeared to be some sort of mad laboratory. Rows of sturdy wooden shelves and cabinets circled the room, with the shelves containing a mix of books, jars, and vials of strange materials. Across the center of the room were spread several tables, each one a sturdy, polished stone slab over thick, squat wooden legs. Leather restraints were bolted into the sides of each of the slabs, allowing whoever might be upon the table to be easily secured.

Amongst those tables stalked a pair of monstrosities. Unsettling to behold, each one was vaguely humanoid, with bone white skin and no hair. They stood close to nine feet tall, but were gaunt, looking stretched out, with long legs, spindly arms, and an elongated torso. Empty black eyes were fixed upon the work each of the two creatures was performing, with a look of great concentration. Loose black fabric hung in wispy sheets from about their torsos, leaving their pale arms free. Those arms ended in long fingered hands, which moved quickly in their horrendous work.

Lizzy was there, or rather, it appeared there were several Elizabeths. Upon each table was secured a copy of Alan's wife. Each of them was nude, bound spread eagle. But not all of them were whole. The horrid creatures moving between the tables performed unspeakable surgeries upon the carious copies of Elizabeth, as her various forms shrieked or sobbed.

Scalpels cut and needles stitched. Tubes snaked from various containers and plunged into bodies, while other forms were twisted by magic or past modifications into oddly artistic abominations. Alan knew that not all of them could be his real wife. He hoped none of them were, but the thought that any one of those cruelly tormented lookalikes might be the real thing was a knife to his heart. He could do little but stumble forward over the last step, and let forth a gurgled, terrified cry.

An arrow whistled past his shoulder, and struck one of the tall, gaunt figures in the chest. The impact forced it to stagger back from the blow. For a moment, the second one did nothing, and then another arrow joined the first, planting itself deeply within that injured being's flesh. Only then did the second creature turn, and swivel its deep, inky eyes toward the two.

"Alan! What are you doing?! Get going!" Windhawk near shouted, and Alan tore his eyes from the horror show before him.

He looked back to the elf, and managed to stammer out, "Don't you see what's in there?!"

"Yeah, and I have no idea what they are, but there's only two of them." She near growled the words as she strung another arrow, and let it loose. It zipped across the room toward that one creature she had been hammering.

Alan reluctantly turned back toward the room, only to find the scene changed. No more did images of his wife writhe and wail from every table. They were all empty. Only the two gaunt, tall, long limbed monstrosities remained. One was much nearer than he recalled, while the other was still trying to recover from taking those shots from Windhawk's bow. Another arrow streaked forth, but this one missed, skittering back and shattering against the far wall of the chamber.

With a curse, the thief drew his own blade, and ran forth. He had no idea what these creatures were, he'd never seen anything of their sort before, but if Windhawk's arrows could injure them, so could his blade. He dashed forward toward the first, but as its long, gangly arms raised to reach toward him, he ducked and skidded across the polished floor of the chamber. His progress took him under a nearby table, then out the other side. He rose to his feet and charged toward the creature Windhawk had been systematically turning into a pincushion. The sweep of the long arms of the figure he'd bypassed could be felt across the nape of his neck, but it didn't manage to grab onto him. His blood ran cold at the close call, and he inwardly damned their reach.

Sweeping his blade upward, Alan held the leather wrapped grip in both hands. He put his whole weight into the slash, drawing the relatively short, sharp blade through the horror's abdomen. The tall creature began to teeter over, but those long arms, tipped with wriggling, twig-like fingers, began to descend on Alan.

Another arrow saved the thief's life, as it plugged into the thing's chest with the others. Alan yanked his blade out sideways, tearing the strange, inhuman being's flesh asunder. Thick, black-red blood hissed out of the wound, and it toppled over without so much as a cry.

Indeed, neither of the beings had made a sound during the entire confrontation. It was eerie, unnatural, like fighting mute marionettes. The remaining creature swiveled at the waist to face him, then advanced upon him with a disjointed, uneven gait. At least, if it was pursuing him, Windhawk would have free reign with her bow. In that short time, it had closed a huge amount of distance. With long limbs and terrifying speed, the thing would be hard to avoid. As it closed in, however, Alan could see more of it. Those long fingers ended in scalpel like talons, while the thing's face was utterly inhuman. Large, empty black eyes were the sole feature that stood out. There was nothing in the way of ears, nor a nose, just little holes where nostrils should be. Its mouth was a lipless slit, its features undefined.

As the remaining creature snapped one arm out, Alan recoiled. He raised his blade, but it was too late. Those fingers wrapped about his throat, and drew him bodily up from the ground. His air was cut off by its grip, and it showed no sign of strain as it raised him as easily as if he were a pillow. Its flesh felt clammy, moist and cool against his own skin, and he grabbed at its wrist with one hand.

An arrow impacted the being's side, and though it stumbled a half step, it was unrelenting in its grip on Alan's neck. The next arrow to strike was equally futile, though thick blood seeped from the wounds. With no leverage at his height, Alan could think to do only one thing. He brought his blade upward in an awkward slash, toward the arm that held him.

The first blow hacked deeply into its strange flesh, and the subsequent jostling put more pressure on his bruised throat. He gritted his teeth as he raised that sword for another blow. The second severed the arm just below the elbow, and he went tumbling down from the silent creature, landing hard upon one of the stone topped tables. For a moment after it was severed, that hand retained its strength and its grip on Alan's neck, before it finally fell away.

Two more arrows sprouted from the thing's torso, and the thing lurched forward, as if it were about to fall on Alan. The rogue had little time to get out of its way, so after taking a quick, gasping breath, he rolled to one side immediately, and off the edge of the table. The creature's knees buckled, and it finally toppled down onto that tabletop.

The wooden legs creaked under the combined weight of the stone slab and the unnatural creature upon it. Alan sprung to his feet, and though he didn't have the best footing, he brought his blade down as quickly as he could, aiming for the thing's neck. A single blow was all it took, and the battle was over. Both of the otherworldly creatures lay still.

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