Scoundrel's Answer Ch. 11

Alan was still mentally numb as they crashed through through the trees of Pinwood. He didn't even remember how they had ascended the steep slope to the ridge above, save by the sheer force of panic-driven flight. Garthur and Daphne carried the limp, bloodied form of Vick between them. He was so much dead weight, but Garthur had enhanced his own strength with a prayer, to match Daphne's unnatural power.

Ahead of them, Windhawk hissed back in a whisper, "Here! Quickly now!"

Faringalia turned upon hearing that, and waved her hands at the woods. Nothing seemed to happen, but Alan figured whatever illusion she had cast was not meant for them. He crashed through a tangle of thorny, twisted vines and into a clearing. Broken flagstones lay long overgrown with weeds and roots, while the shattered remains of ancient stone walls rose like broken teeth against an evening sky from which stars just barely started to peer forth.

He knew this place, at least. Pinroot Keep. On more than one occasion, the original Reavers had descended into its corridors to chase their fortune. Now, they sought that same, yawning entrance to shelter from the horrors that chased them. It was a little more ruined than it had been in decades past, but the structures had been so crumbled by the passing of centuries before that a few more loose stones here and there was hardly enough to make him lose his way. Soon he found it, the arched passage and worn stone steps that descended into the darkness.

Alan paused long enough to motion the others in. Windhawk plunged down into the depths, relying on her elven sight to find their way, and soon Daphne and Garthur followed, with their burden held between them. Faringalia was the last to pass, and Alan reached to take her hand, letting the gnome girl lead him into depths where the inky black couldn't sustain human sight. He didn't want to light a torch until he was certain that their pursuers were not going to follow.

"He's bleeding bad," Garthur's voice rumbled from the darkness once they finally reached the ancient floor so far below.

"Do what you can," Alan whispered back, his own gaze fixed on the entrance above, just a dim outline of a slightly less dark patch to mark where the sky was. He certainly couldn't hear the two sisters around, but only time would tell. With a sigh, he leaned against the wall to catch his breath.

As the dwarven priest began to tend to the wounded Count, Alan tried to piece together everything in his mind. It wasn't so much any degree of complexity in the events of their flight, but simply the shock of what had been exposed when Faringalia stripped away the illusions.

Slowly, fragments of what he had seen crept in from his scattered thoughts. The eyes had caught him first. The sclera were coal black, the iris a hideous yellow. Despite how those eyes stared, her lids were thick and puffy, giving an almost sleepy look, while her skin was a sickly, slick looking green, and riddled with bumps and pustules. Her hair was the color of rotted wood, and hung about her head in loose, limp, and wet strands. Patches of her bare scalp were visible here and there. To complete the visage, under a hooked and pointed nose that was substantially longer than in her human guise, her mouth was a broad gash that opened almost from ear to ear, showing rows upon rows of black, crooked teeth. It was like gazing down a pipe lined with bent and rusted iron nails.

The creature that was Tam was as tall as ever, but gaunt and hungry looking, almost waifishly thin. Her arms were long and ended in sharp, black talons. The black fabric of her top was still there, but it covered just as little as it did before the revolting reveal. Her breasts hung with little support within the fabric, misshapen and distended.

She was a hag. Not merely an old crone, but a vicious magical beast that preyed on human men. He'd never encountered one himself, but had heard tales of men being taken in by their facades, only to be slaughtered and eaten once they were unable to sate the creatures' unnatural lusts. She was in the process of lunging forward when Daphne's twin blades penetrated her to either side of her spine. Those black and yellow eyes widened as blood began to pour forth from her mouth. In a single blow, the assassin had done her work, leaving the monstrosity gurgling and thrashing against the edge of the table.

Relief at the quick dispatch of the beast before them was short lived, however, for Vick's wails were suddenly punctuated by the sounds of claws tearing through flesh, and a wet, choking gurgle. The shadows cast on the curtains from the fire pit that back-lit the scene were unforgiving. The other two sisters were clearly monsters as well. Where the first had been almost terribly gaunt, the two silhouettes looming over Vick's were bloated and swollen, one with a crooked spine. Vick was laying within their grasp, twitching and spasming. Blood splattered the fabric of the curtain, beginning to soak through.

Windhawk sheathed her blade and quickly whipped her own bow up, but by then, Alan was already leaping onto the table. His soft soled boots carried him up and over the obstacle in just a few paces. The wood surface creaked under his shifting weight, then the dead hag wheezed a useless breath out when he planted one foot firmly between the corpse's shoulder blades, and leaped over Daphne, toward the curtain.

With a woosh, the whirling weight of Jhernyr ripped through the air, right past Alan's head. It impacted the curtains and tore them from their moorings, before continuing on and striking one of the beasts beyond solidly. There was a solid sounding crunch, but the figure revealed did little more than recoil. An inhuman shriek once more rose, though this one was higher pitched, and filled with rage rather than terror.

The scene revealed by the tumbling fabric was almost enough to kill Alan's forward momentum. There, Vick lay basically nude, only his unfastened leather breeches still on. His eyes were beginning to glaze, and though he still moved, it was weak. His great chest and ponderous belly were torn open, blood poured forth to soak over his attackers and the sheets of the bed below. His armor was scattered about in pieces, having been hastily removed earlier, and one thick fingered hand was grasping weakly toward where his great black blade lay sheathed, not more than a foot out of his grasp.

He was flanked by the sisters of the thing that they had killed, and their hideousness was easily an equal to her. Stringy black hair hung from patchy scalps, and their skin was green, coated with a thick, slimy perspiration that made them glisten in the firelight. Where one had a grossly bulbous nose that resembled little more than a fist stapled to her features, the other had almost no nose at all, just a recessed, skull-like cavity. Their eyes were as yellow and black as the previous hag's. Both were nude, and ponderously fat. Their bulk made even Vick seem positively svelte. Massive, low hanging breasts were bared, and might have been a saving grace in some men's eyes, save for their nature. Covered with weeping sores and angry red pustules, one of the hags had a nipple missing, and instead a yawning, puckered hole offered a dark entrance into her frame. Both of them were covered with his friend's blood.

One of the hags, it was impossible to tell which sister was which at this point, still straddled Vick. She was near crushing him with her renewed weight. Her thighs enveloped his hips, and he was likely still inside her. This was the one that had been struck by Garthur's hammer, and she was cradling one thick arm, rubbing the claws of her other up and down her own flesh. The second beast, free to turn to the onrushing rogue, swept one long arm out. While the claws failed to penetrate the old rogue's enchanted leathers, the impact was incredible. Her unnatural strength shocked through his chest where that mere glancing blow had landed, and sent white hot lances of pain through his only recently healed wounds. It was enough to stop his advance in its tracks.

Jhernyr tried to return to the dwarf on its usual trajectory, but the hag who had been struck hastily gripped at the curtains that still wrapped about it. She struggled to keep hold with one arm, but when her sister let out a shriek of absolute rage, she turned her own sickly yellow eyes over. Those eyes followed the other hag's gaze along toward where Daphne was drawing her blades from the corpse of the hag that had been Tam.

"Sister!" The two shrill voices rose in unison, "They killed our sister!"

Rage contorted features that were already difficult to look at, and both of the nude hags hoisted themselves upward, standing unsteadily on the bed. Their heads barely cleared the low ceiling, but their claws could easily reach half the room. Their actions left Vick lolling back on the bed with a groan, one arm crossed over his torso to try to keep his innards in, the other kept scrambling blindly for his sword.

"Alan!" Garthur's voice rang out from behind, "You gotta get Vick away from them!"

The old rogue eyed his friend dubiously. Even with the adrenaline coursing through his system, he wasn't sure he could move the mountain of a man, but he could definitely try. In that moment, however, the two hags seized the initiative, and cackled madly.

"So you want to save the fat man's life?" As one, both of the hags bent, their claws descended to rake at Vick. The weakened Count rolled away from one, but the other three hands caught him, at his arm, at his face, and at his already gored belly. Their talons shredded through his flesh and he screamed in agony.

The release of the curtain, however, allowed that hammer to whip free. It swung back around to be caught by Garthur, who immediately flung it at the other, nearer hag this time. At that same moment, Windhawk released her first arrow, which sailed over Alan's shoulder. Hammer and arrow impacted the same hag, simultaneously. Her flesh rippled from the dual impacts, and she stumbled back, the shaft of the arrow jutting out of one breast.

Alan reached down to grab Vick by one arm, only to find Daphne at his side, grabbing at the Count's other arm. He nodded to her, and both began to haul upon him. Vick cried out in agony again as those vicious nails dragged along his form with the movement. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, and he went limp. Another arrow from Windhawk's bow whistled over Daphne's shoulders, striking the hag that had been straddling Vick. The force of the impact sent her back a step, but the monster merely looked more enraged.

Out of the corner of his eye, Alan caught sight of the gnome running in to grab Vick's sword, then retreat to the door. Garthur strode forward, and snatched his hammer out of the air. His other hand lifted in supplication, and the dwarf's body glowed for a moment.

"We gotta get out of here boy, we can't take these two with Vick down. Here, lemme have him." The dwarf-lord came up under Alan's side, and shouldered the wounded man's weight with an unnatural strength.

"Cover us," Daphne shot back to Alan, and she and Garthur began to drag the bleeding man to the door.

Alan and Windhawk closed ranks, but it was clear that they couldn't stay long. With arrows still jutting out of their bodies, the two monstrous women lurched forth from the bed, their coarse, weighty forms jiggling and swaying. Rage clouded their eyes as they rushed forward. Those talons were outstretched, there was no pretense of using any form of magical abilities. Conscious of the sheer strength of the hags, Alan deftly danced backwards, as did Windhawk. The two concentrated on avoiding those blows until they heard their friends shove that heavy wooden door open.

Out before the cave, the fire beneath the cauldron was in full blaze, and a pair of skeletal claws peeked over the top. An undead mockery began to rise from the iron pot, a human skeleton with signs of having had its flesh removed by knives or claws. Each bone was scraped and scratched in many places. The abomination didn't last long, for in mid stride, with one arm still around the wounded fighter, Garthur lifted the symbol of the earthen father upward. A blaze of white light engulfed the skeleton, which clattered back into the pot, lifeless once more. Whatever delay the undead thing was supposed to provide was gone in a moment. Daphne cursed and shifted to drag Vick along, and it was all the dwarf could do to keep up with his end.

Within, Windhawk loosed one more arrow, which skipped off of the slimy skin of one of the hags as if it were hardened leather. She then turned to retreat, leaving Alan to cover her. Alan focused on parrying their claw swipes madly with his own blade as he backed into the door frame. Just as he turned to disengage, however, each of the hideous women dragged a sharp talon along his back, shredding his leathers and gouging into his flesh. Biting back a scream, he just broke into a sprint, to catch up to the rest of the group.

He was still impressed they had escaped, even if it was into the pitch darkness of unknown tunnels. A low groan finally broke the master thief from his reverie, and he turned his head toward where Vick was being treated. Not that it was any use. All that met his human eyes was pitch darkness. His own wounds still bled, and he was afraid to look at the damage, but now that the numbness of the ghastly hags' revelation and the subsequent terrified flight wore off, pain began to flare along his own back.

"D...did we win?" Vick's voice was weak, but it was there, a welcome sign of his recovery.

"We got away, lad, that's the best we could hope for. Afraid we had to leave most of your stuff behind. Your belt, your armor-"

"And the Black Blade?" The Count seemed to be taking Garthur's news fairly well, though there was an edge in his tone when he asked about his trademark sword.

"I got it for you, sir!" Faringalia chimed up, "But I'm afraid I couldn't get anything else.

There was shifting in the darkness, as the gnome handed over a blade that was more than twice her height and almost half her weight. Vick chuckled dryly, "At least I won't be totally useless then."

There was a spark and a flare as Windhawk lit a torch at last. "They're gone," The elven ranger spoke with a certainty that none dared question. They were all there, and all safe, it seemed.

Garthur's blessings had done wonders on Vick's wounds. He no longer gaped open, though his chest and abdomen were now a mass of scars. A few deep cuts remained, but Garthur was in the process of wrapping those with bandages. The light, however, also revealed the glimmer of blood on the wall behind Alan, and the dwarven priest shot him a look.

"I'll get to you in a minute, boy. And I won't be taking no for an answer."

Considering Garthur's statement for a moment, Alan finally nodded weakly. He was in no shape to refuse. The dwarf motioned for Windhawk to take over bandaging Vick, and she handed the torch to little Faringalia in turn. As the cleric moved toward him with a resounding jingling, Alan turned his gaze back over the tunnel they were in.

The ruins of Pinroot Keep were as drab and dingy as ever. It was old masonry for the most part, with broad granite flagstones paving the floor, and a vaulted ceiling some ten feet upward, supported every dozen feet or so by carved stone archways. Other tunnels intersected here and there, and ancient portals opened into side rooms, where once wooden doors barred the way. A few such doors remained intact, though were swollen and stuck on their hinges. Here and there, stones were cracked or missing, exposing packed dirt and clay behind the walls, or allowing the occasional root to dangle down from above.

The floor was covered with a fine layer of dust, and was littered here and there with debris. Fallen chunks of masonry from where age had claimed the walls. Bones of animals and men lay amongst broken remnants of furniture and decorations from a bygone age. Here and there, the signs of confrontations long passed remained, although most of the valuable goods had been scavenged. There was still a faded chalk mark on the wall where, decades ago, Alan had marked which way they were going within, so they could find their way out. Other such marks were scattered here and there, in various states of preservation.

As the healing warmth of Garthur's spell began to knit his flesh together, Alan winced at the sting. His gaze drifted toward the two elven women, who were staring at one another with an almost identically strange expression, then scowled at Vick when he caught the Count smirking at him.

"Oh come on, man," Vick rumbled out, "It's not like you got your belly torn open." The big man laughed, but caught himself midway, cringing at the still present pain.

Alan sighed and shook his head, otherwise holding still for the dwarf's treatment. "We wouldn't have been in such a precarious situation if you hadn't been such a skirt chaser. You're engaged to be married for all decency's sake."

Vick guffawed despite the pain, "Yeah, to a whore! And you're one to talk, old man. Don't think I haven't noticed the way you were stripping them with your eyes, and many more before! And you've actually gone through and tied the knot thoroughly."

Alan closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, "I never claimed to be a saint. I spent my entire life with the idea that if I see something I want, I take it."

"As long as you don't get caught."

"As long as I don't get caught, right. At least with Lizzy, with Lizzy I try. I try so hard."

Vick rolled his eyes, but Garthur just paused his work to pat Alan's shoulder, "We all gotta start somewhere, boy. When I first met you, you were a right lying, thieving bastard. Who knows, in another thirty years you might be halfway respectable."

Sir Tinsley scowled at the dwarf's chiding, but could do little but murmur, "In another thirty years I'll likely be dead."

Daphne finally turned her lovely eyes from the other elven woman's, and approached Alan with a sway of leather clad hips. Now they were in the darkness, she had removed her mask and her goggles, as well as her gloves. One slender hand descended to caress Alan's cheek, and tilted his head up so she could gaze into his eyes. "I like your inconstancy, I find unpredictability exhilarating."

Windhawk frowned deeply, "Take your hands off him, abomination."

The vampire just stroked her cool thumb along Alan's cheek, and turned to fix her gaze on the other elven woman. "Now now, cousin. If I hadn't taken out that green hag when I did, you'd probably still be picking bits of yourself out of their cooking pot. And speaking of pots, why didn't you notice the skeleton in their cauldron?" Both of her brows raised in question.

The ranger turned her gaze away and down the hall. She tugged one of the bandages she was fixing a little too tight, causing Vick to yelp. There was no move made to correct it. "Maybe your own undead stench was too overwhelming." Windhawk's insult actually brought a frown to the vampire's features, which caused her own expression to brighten.

"Enough." Garthur growled, then moved to stand, having finished tending to Alan's wounds. "We've got a long way to go yet, two men still wounded, one of which almost died, and I've got limited reserves to patch people up, so we need get our act together. No more mistakes." The dwarf's stoney tone was commanding, and caught all of their attention.

"Vick, can you move?"

After a moment of shifting and testing his limbs, Vick nodded and struggled to his feet, bracing himself on his sword. Once up, he took the blade in both hands and swung it experimentally, an act which sent Windhawk ducking out of his way. Without the benefit of his enchanted belt, the toll of years of generous living was evident in his swing. Still, it seemed he could wield it well enough.