Scoundrel's Answer Ch. 12

Garthur clapped Alan on the back. "Don't worry boy, we're the Reavers. We won't get wiped out so easily."

Completely outvoted, Alan could do little but trudge onward with care. There, under a particular grotesque mural of a bat winged woman tearing a lady in noble clothing in half with her bare hands, he turned instead to study the wall. It was just beside the statue which marked the presence of their cache. He ran his fingertips along the seams, then drew a dagger out. Running the blade between the joints of the masonry, he carefully loosened one massive stone block. Only then did he urge Vick and Garthur to begin to shift it.

While Windhawk and Daphne watched that yawning archway so nearby, the three men shifted the massive stone block. The sound of grinding stone upon stone resonated down the corridor, and decades of foul smelling dust took to the air as it was disturbed. The shifting stone was impossible to remove, but moving it outward widened a heretofore unseen gap in the niche behind the statue which stood before them.

The statue itself, of an armored warrior, was heavy as well, but this time it only took Vick shifting his weight against it to give it the half turn necessary. Alan wriggled in through the gap between statue and stone, and crouched behind it. He warily slipped his hand into the darkness, and groped along the old stone hidden beyond. After a moment, his fingers caught onto the edge of an old burlap sack. A sigh of relief escaped him, and he nodded to the rest.

When the clank of metal on metal sounded while Alan wrestled the bulky sack out of the crevice, visible relief washed over Vick's features. Extracting the old sack from its hiding place took a while, but when the rogue finally escaped the niche's closed confines, he couldn't help his excitement. From the old bag, stashed so long ago in hopes that they'd be able to sell its contents for a good penny at a later date, spilled forth pieces of armor, a few fair quality swords, and two metal shields. The clanging of metal against stone filled the hall, and immediately the group fell silent, straining to hear if the noise had roused anything near or far.

As the last ringing echoes died down, nothing stirred around them. With a shared sigh of relief, Vick and Garthur began to pick through the objects. Their enchantments had preserved them against the passage of time, and it didn't take long to assemble a suit of plate armor from the pieces. It certainly didn't appear able to fit Vick, but as Alan and Garthur began to help him into the steel, it seemed to stretch and shift under their hands. The magical metal sized itself to handle the Count's bulk, and by the time they had him clad in the armor, it appeared to all outward examination to have been crafted for him.

After Vick was fitted with that new armor, and the full range of his movement was verified, Garthur stooped back to the debris and picked up one of the stout looking kite shields. For her part, Daphne scooped up one of the swords, and gave the blade a few practice swings. It was all fair quality stuff, all enchanted, but of less relative use than what they had owned so many years ago. Still, when compared to having nothing at all, it was an improvement. And an enchanted suit of plate of any caliber was a prize worthy of a prince.

With arms and armament bolstered by their find, the six travelers cast their gaze as one toward that yawning archway before them. Vick let out a heavy sigh, then rested his great sword upon his shoulder. He advanced toward that archway with a light scrape and clank of that as yet unoiled armor. Garthur hastened to join him, shield in one hand, his hammer in the other.

"So we're still doing this, hmm?" Alan asked in a defeated tone.

The lone response was a weary grunt from the dwarf, as the two armored figures moved toward the passage. Daphne rested a slender hand on Alan's shoulder, then moved to join them. Soon enough, the rest of the group fell in, with Windhawk and Faringalia taking up the rear behind Alan. This wasn't entirely helpful positioning, for the torchlight cast through the figures before the gnome caused mad shadows to dance up over the ancient marble walls.

Stepping beyond the archway was stepping into another world, another age. The walls were a mix of fine marble and decorative tiles, with more ornate columns carved into the sides of the passage. Ten feet of hall split to either side around a facing wall with the ancient symbol of the church of the Ascendant carved in relief, and coated with a fine layer of golden paint. To either side the corridor proceeded only another ten feet before turning once more, likely to meet in whatever chamber lay beyond. Fine, if ancient urns settled in each corner, filled with dust that may once have been earth and plants long ago. A fine layer of dust settled over everything, in fact, and the air held a scent that was a strange combination of mildew and rare spice.

The way the torchlight danced over polished marble walls, it was clear that if anything remained within, surprise would definitely not be on their side. Vick pointed to Alan and Faringalia, then to the left passage, while Garthur beckoned the two elven women to follow him to the right. Ideally, this would allow them to have one team who could see in the dark make for any threats that the torch failed to revealed, while using those who needed that flickering light as bait.

Alan just prayed that Daphne and Windhawk could put their quarrels aside long enough to cooperate at this critical juncture.

The pale yellow torchlight licked along the marbled walls, and into a grander chamber beyond. As they crept along that brief turn in the corridor, Alan ducked to conceal himself behind Vick's sheer bulk. Peering around his friend's side, he squinted against the shadows, and gradually more of the room beyond came into view.

The walls opened out into a room at least fifty feet wide. Between a short set of broad steps and a suddenly vaulted ceiling, the volume of the chamber was a welcome void compared to the sometimes claustrophobic corridors the group had been traveling through. The marble walls and high pillars were well decorated with art and symbols of faith from an earlier age. The faces of ancient saints shone from stained glass decorations in various niches, catching and reflecting the torchlight in a faint ghost of their former glory.

All was not pristine within the subterranean church, however. Great wooden pews that had once stood in neat rows now lay stacked haphazardly into two piles, one on each side of the great room. Three withered corpses mouldered away on the steps, two in armor, one in robes. It was difficult to tell how long they had been there. The armor and clothing still looked relatively new, while the bodies themselves were twisted and desiccated, as if all vitality had been drained from them.

Most terrible of all, however, was the scene in the center of the room. An ancient wooden throne stood incongruously in the middle of the chamber, surrounded by a ring of sparkling silver dust on the floor. Faint chalk writing from ages past inscribed a circle of words of power around that silver ring. Seated upon the throne, a vision of crimson and alabaster regarded the three visible in the torchlight with a cold expression.

Where the murals in the hall outside depicted some monstrous, violent winged woman, the truth of her appearance was stunning. Clad in a long, red silk gown, the skirt cascaded down from the seat of the throne, to pool near her feet. A split up to above the knee revealed much of her crossed legs, from those bare feet and their delicate toes, nails painted a glossy red, upward. Shapely calves and glistening white skin, as smooth as the polished marble which surrounded them. Above the knee, just a glimpse of her upper thigh was revealed by the split of the silk.

The fabric caressed her form, the flare of her hips below narrow waist. Her breasts were modest, but well formed, while the gown itself left her arms and upper back bared. Those lean limbs rested on each armrest of the throne, while sharp, red nails drummed a slow, methodical rhythm against wood that was well worn under the impact of untold strikes of those fingertips. Her features were noble, her hair a glossy black. It descended in waves past the slender column of her neck, disappearing down her back. Her eyes, even through thick lashes, were distinctly red. Those blood red eyes fixed upon Vick intently, while behind her, black leathery bat wings shifted against the throne, rustling restlessly. This had to be her. The Lost Queen of Pinroot.

Vick's steps faltered as she gazed upon him, and Alan very nearly collided with his back. The thief rested one hand on the old warrior's armored back, while he held his sword at the ready. For a long, tense moment, no one acted.

And then, she rose elegantly from her throne.

Whatever barrier the silver circle about that aged seat might have posed at one time, it was clear that it no longer held the strength it once did. Her bare feet crossed the threshold effortlessly, and she strode toward Vick with a purposeful stride. Her great wings unfurled behind her back, then folded neatly, and a smile curled her crimson lips. Whatever charm the expression might have had was ruined, however, when her speech revealed rows of sharp, triangular teeth, gleaming like metal in the light.

"Well, well, well. Do we have new toys come to visit? Two groups in just a week's time. Just the thing to alleviate my loneliness."

There was something off about her words, and it took Alan a moment to put his finger on it. Finally, it hit him. She was speaking, yes, but the movement of her lips didn't match up to the syllables crossing them. Instead, her voice snaked its insidious way directly into his mind, a mental broadcast of allure and meaning rather than any mortal tongue. There was something primal about her presence. Their entire journey through the tunnels, a certain oppressive atmosphere had born down upon Alan's will. But here, in this chamber, the darkness of this woman's presence was palpable. Her very being was unnatural despite her unearthly beauty, a manifestation of wrongness that demanded rejection.

Although he couldn't see the rest of their party, he could hear the faint jingling of Garthur's mail, moving further into the room. Certainly they were going to try to flank the woman. She had yet to do anything directly threatening, but with something born of a demon's blood every word was an assault. Before him, Vick shifted his sword in both hands, readying the Black Blade into a combat stance. Alan had to back up a pace or two to give him room.

The Lost Queen closed her eyes, sparing them the unease of those crimson orbs for but a moment. Her laughter, however, more than compensated for that slight respite. "Mmm, Varonne. Count Varonne," she let his name roll off of a tongue that appeared slightly forked. "I can see it, in your memories. A beautiful city, where once only a few savage barbarians dwelt. The world has changed much since I last beheld it."

The taunting tone of her voice, the knowledge that this horrible woman could peer into their thoughts, it was too much for Alan. Yet he wasn't going to charge her alone. His gaze drifted off to the shadows beyond the woman.

It didn't take long, however, for Vick to make up his own mind. With a shout, the armored man charged forward, his infamous magical blade in hand. Vick in full charge was a fearsome sight. Alan darted to the side as soon as the way was clear, and ducked into a roll. He had to get behind her.

Vick's arcing blade was arrested in mid slash, however, as before him stood not the demon blooded queen, but Margaret Pryce. Or at least, Margaret as she had appeared in her twenties. Still with exaggerated, whorish curves, her face bore a mix of innocence and mischief.

"Vick?" The voice was a certain match as well, "What are you doing?" Her words caused the fat man to stumble, staring in confusion.

"Damn it all!" Garthur's gruff voice called out from near the throne, and the dwarf just stepped into the edge of the torchlight. "These wards are dead. Magic went out of 'em ages ago. If you get her back in the circle, I can seal 'em up again right as rain."

It was easier said than done, truly. As Vick stepped back, trying to recover himself, Alan darted forward. Blade in hand, he dropped to his knees, letting his momentum carry him forward as he slid across the smooth floor. He aimed that deadly point just above Maggie's hip, but something changed.

Just as that point dug into flesh, Elizabeth's scream sounded through the room. Alan's eyes snapped upward. His gaze met not the Lost Queen's cold red eyes, not Madame Pryce's smoldering gaze, but rather the shock, betrayal, and pain of his wife's emerald hues.

"Why? Why did you do this, Alan? Is ... is it because I have been with others?"

He knew, logically, that no matter what her form, it was still the demon woman. The vision she presented, however, struck him as if a physical forth. So perfect was her face, the way his wife's voice sounded. The very choice of her words felt like a fist to his gut.

The moment's hesitation was all that was necessary. A pale foot, with red painted nails slammed with inhuman force under Alan's chin. The kick sent him skidding backward, and the Lost Queen laughed coldly. The image of Elizabeth was gone, leaving just the crimson clad woman standing there, wings unfurled and spread, hair writhing in some unseen wind. Her long nailed hand reached down to gather up her own blood from the shallow gash where Alan's blade had bit. She looked right at him as she took her own bloody fingers between lush lips, licking them clean with a forked tongue.

Daphne's shadowy form streaked in toward the Lost Queen's back, but a great, leathery wing slammed into her form without so much as a turn of the demon blooded monstrosity's head. The vampire was swept up from the force of the blow and sent flying toward a stack of broken pews.

She didn't bother changing forms this time, not yet at least. Rather, she shot over her shoulder, in Alan's voice, "Stupid, worthless abomination. I don't see why we haven't staked you and left you for dead yet." The tone in those words was more hateful than anything the old rogue thought he could ever muster, yet sounded so real.

Vick had recovered by then, but before he could charge, two arrows zipped from the darkness. Both sank into the Lost Queen's torso. They bit deeply into Daphne's flesh, or at least, what appeared to be Daphne. Gone was the feral look of the vampire, as the tanned elven woman turned her gaze toward Windhawk.

"Cousin, I'm free. You don't have to hate me any more." Her words were soft, somewhat pained. There was no sign of fangs between those lips, though tears welled within her eyes.

"Gods damn you!" Vick roared out, and began his charge again, leveling his blade at the shifting demon spawn's midriff. This time, the Black Blade sank home.

Into the very pregnant belly of a now properly aged Margaret Pryce. Her wail was heart rending, and Vick Varonne stared for a long moment at how his sword bit into that soft flesh. He lifted his gaze as tears began to well forth.

Once again, it was all the hesitation the Lost Queen needed. She gripped Vick by the throat, and bodily lifted the massive man upward. Her form shifted fluidly back to that dark haired, dark winged beauty, with eyes filled with rage.

"Weak fools. I am power and promise. I am love and lust. I am want and regret. To gaze upon me is to know your heart's true desire. To assail me is to witness harm to those you hold dear."

Faringalia cleared her throat. It was easy to hear in the relative quiet of the room, interrupted only by Garthur's faint chanting and Vick's gurgled choking. The tall, alabaster skinned monster turned her fearsome eyes down toward the gnome. Her crimson lips twisted into a toothy snarl.

And then she froze. She dropped Vick, who clanged and clattered to the ground heavily. The sword wounds still visible on the Lost Queen's body were closing, healing before their very eyes, but she did nothing but stare down at Faringalia, slack jawed. Alan dusted himself off as he began to stagger back toward the battle.

He couldn't see anything going on, at first. The Lost Queen stood stock still, Faringalia as well. The gnome girl was surrounded, however, by a strange kaleidoscope of barely-visible color, just drifting in a circle about her form. She dropped the torch, letting the burning embers fall to the ground. It cast eerie shadows up against the ceiling from its new position.

"No." The Lost Queen took a step back. Panic began to edge into her voice, "What- who are you?"

Faringalia, a look of concentration on her features, took a single small step forward. This sent the Lost Queen stumbling backward. Pale flesh and red silk tumbled backward as she fell onto the floor hard. Her eyes, however, never left the gnome woman's.

"Wait, no. Don't come closer! I'm warning you!"

Her voice was a hectic, shrill cry this time, a mixture of terror and rage. But as the illusionist stepped closer, pace by pace, the demon blooded woman simply scrambled backward. Whatever she was seeing, there was no outward indication. It was all in her own mind.

Sweat beaded on Faringalia's brow as she continued forward, hands outstretched. Her fingers wriggled as if moving a puppet, and occasionally her movements provoked shrieks and screams from the Lost Queen. By that point, the wounds inflicted by the party's weapons had all but healed.

Alan closed ranks with Windhawk and Daphne, while Vick struggled to his feet, his face still red. They watched in awe as the diminutive magic user backed the woman who had given them such trouble toward the throne, all by herself.

There was a sudden blaze of light as Garthur raised his hands. A shimmering field sprang up, surrounding the terrified Queen of Pinroot and her throne. A moment more, Faringalia kept up what she was doing, and then suddenly, the little gnome fainted.

Alan dashed forward, and caught her just as Daphne skidded in beside him. The rogue looked down to the little woman in his arms with a new sense of respect, then slowly gazed back up to the trapped demon spawn.

Fear began to fade from her eyes, only to be replaced with rage. "No!" She shouted out. "Not again! You can't do this to me!" She raised her hands and pounded against the barrier of light. Visible burns spread over her hands, as the impact produced a shower of sparks.

Garthur struggled to hold the barrier, then shook his head. He looked back to Alan. "Sorry boy, but I'm going to have to stay here."

"What? Why?"

As the raging demon within the barrier began to intensify her assault on the blessings that so kept her pinned, her face twisted into a mask of rage. That beauty was still there, but its impact was lost amidst the emotion. She genuinely resembled the monstrous facades in the murals from the hall outside.

The dwarven priest shook his head grimly. "It'll take me the better part of a day to get this barrier sealed properly, and set so it won't just collapse in the near future."

"We can wait," Alan began, but he really knew they couldn't.

"Bah, I'll be fine boy. You need to get your wife though. You go fetch her, by the time you come around to the tunnel entrance, I'll have sealed this wench up, then bricked her in again for another few centuries."

Alan frowned deeply. He didn't want to leave the dwarf there. Aside from the danger he might face alone, the group needed the only one who could patch up their wounds. Still, time was of the essence, and they had already fallen so far behind.

"Look, promise you'll be careful. We should catch up to this bastard and Lizzy some time in the next day. When we come back, we'll wait at the exit to the escape tunnel for you."