The Shadow's Tower

Or he might go higher? Perhaps from the roof he could grab or jump onto a tree branch and climb down from there? It seemed a dangerous path to tread, but every moment he lingered in this stairwell, waiting for the door guards to doze off or wander away risked recapture. Apliss is on my side this night, he thought. I should be bold.

He began climbing to the roof.

The second floor of the keep was quiet and still. He passed the opening of the stairwell and heard nothing but snoring. As he ascended to the third floor, he heard something behind him. He turned his head on the spiraling staircase and saw a shadow on the wall, flickering in the torchlight. The icy hand of fear closed itself around his heart.

He climbed faster, his footsteps growing painfully loud on the stairs as he hurried his pace. He cast another glance over his shoulder, but saw nothing this time. He turned his gaze forward, but ran smack into a man's chest as he did. Stunned, he looked up into the glowering visage of Mace, the warlock's first lieutenant.

"Going somewhere, prisoner?" Mace hissed and his big hands closed around Praden's shoulders. Praden had no reply. Apliss had deserted him. The Lady of Fortune's favor was fickle indeed.

"Curse that lazy fool, Jonden," Mace growled. Tightening his grip until Praden cried out in pain he continued, "Let's go then, back to your cell."

Praden headbutted him in the face. Goddess' favor or not, I am leaving here tonight! He told himself. Mace staggered back, but did not release his grip. Looking down at Praden as blood began to drip from his battered nose, he snarled in anger. "That was a mistake, little brat. I'll open you up myself."

Something came flying from behind the bandit and struck him in the back. He released his grip and fell to the floor with a loud thud. Praden looked down at him and saw a brass-hilted dagger sticking out the back of his neck. In the shadows higher up in the stairwell stood a man. No, Praden realized, not a man but an elf. His bare head showed two pointed ears, clearly silhouetted against the torchlight. A pair of steely blue eyes looked down at him.

"You are the merchant Praden?"

Praden nodded stiffly, still unsure of whether fortune was on his side. He lifted his left hand, showing a bronze signet ring embossed with his family signet, a swan swimming among the reeds.

"Your father hired me. Come quickly, while the keep still sleeps." The elf held out a hand. Praden still stood in stunned silence for a moment, then stepped over Mace's body and hurried up the stairs.

But fortune turned on him again. As he passed the opening of the stairwell, another bandit emerged from his quarters. Spotting the escaped Praden and Mace's body in the doorway, he shouted an alarm.

"Quickly, then!" the elf called, drawing a pair of pistols from his belt. Praden scrambled up the stairs as the whole keep stirred to life.

Aranthir let the young man scurry past him as he trained his pistols on the doorway to the stairwell. With the keep alerted, his escape became dramatically more complicated. The merchant reached the next floor, where Lutharis waited, and tried to keep climbing. Instead, Lutharis stopped him and pointed down the hallway through the floor.

"These stairs are broken and don't reach the roof here, we're going to have to go through," the mercenary explained. Praden looked down the hallway, where Aigon, Callia and Yvande stood guard. The hallway lined with doors, each one leading to a bandit's bedroom and anyone of them could spill into the hallway without warning. Below them bandits clamoring to arm and rally themselves. One peered into the stairwell and there was a thunderous crack as Aranthir shot him dead.

Lutharis gave the merchant a little shove. "Run," he commanded, and the young man ran as best he could down the hall to reach Yvande by the next stairwell.

Aranthir replaced the expended pistol with another and backed up the stairs to Lutharis.

"I left a fine dagger behind," Aranthir groused to his old friend.

"Then let's get this man to his family and collect the reward," Lutharis replied as they moved off the stairs. "If we get what we're owed, you can afford another."

As they reached the middle of the hall, a door swung open and out charged a bandit, his eyes still showing the signs of his sleep and his chest bare. He lunged at Aranthir with a knife extended and the half-elf dodged skillfully aside. Aranthir leveled a pistol and fired at short range. In the narrow hallway, the pistol's report was deafening, but the effect on bare flesh was worse. The bandit died standing and hit the floor dead, shaking the old timbers with the impact.

Their trouble was just beginning. In quick succession, the other doors of the halls swung open and more bandits descended on them. Lutharis' breastplate defeated a killing stroke, while Yvande took a wound in the arm. Aranthir expended his other pistol but missed in the swirling, cramped melee. He struck a foe across the temple with the butt of an empty pistol and then stabbed the man to death with the poignard.

A dwarf, his thick black beard thrust into his gilt leather belt, attacked Callia with a broad knife. He came at her in a frenzy and his knife became tangled in her rough tunic. They were bowled over by a dying bandit who staggered away from Aigon's bloody blade. As they fell to the floor, there was a loud ripping sound and Callia's shirt was torn open. She stood up, her torn tunic exposing her stomach and pale, white breasts. The dwarf had noticed it too, and instead of continuing his assault, he leered at her chest and licked his lips.

"That's a nice pair of tits you've got there, girl," he growled, "I want my mouth on them and my cock in you!" he lunged at her, knife in hand, and it was all she could do to keep him and bay. The dwarf knocked her down again, clutching at her throat. Her knife fell from her hand and clattered across the floor. As if animated by the legendary lust of dwarves for women, the half-naked bandit's breeches slid down around his waist and the dwarf's cock poked out, stiff and searching.

Aranthir was on the pair in a heartbeat, sending his reliable poignard through the dwarf's neck. The bandit spasmed and then lay still in his pooling blood. He extended a helping hand to the huntress. Aranthir found his gaze drawn to her chest and the girl's small, shapely breasts. Noticing his gaze as he helped her to her feet, Callia pulled her green cloak around herself, retrieved her knife and made for the stairs to the roof. At the opposite end of the hall, a pair of bandits emerged from the descending stairwell, swords drawn. Aranthir drew his second brace of pistols and fired both at the newcomers. Both shots struck the leading man, but his companion thought the better of attacking and ran back down the stairs. For a brief moment, the hallway was quiet and still.

Aranthir used the opportunity to run for the roof, where he found Aigon helping to fit the merchant with a makeshift harness for the descent. Lutharis barred the door to the roof with a discarded musket. Aranthir looked to Callia, trying to sort out the mess the dwarf's knife had made of her tunic. The ruined halves were more like a vest, and flapped in the wind. Frustrated by their disconcerting motion, Callia doffed her tunic and stood topless under her cloak.

Lutharis cast a bemused look over her bare breasts and she glared back at him. Aranthir cut past them and helped the merchant over the edge as Aigon and Yvande guided him down. Once persuaded that the young man was in good hands, Aranthir turned to reloading his four pistols.

The bandits in the tower made only one attempt to reach the roof by hacking down the door with hatchets, which they abandoned once Lutharis fired through a rent in the door with his musket, killing the man behind it. After that, they were assumed a defensive posture, preventing the party from fighting their way into the keep.

Unmolested, the party quickly descended the ropes down the keep and cliff to the forest floor, where Limonn had lit torches to light their way out. Aranthir descended from the tower last. Once they had all stepped off the rope, Rora set it aflame to deny any pursuit. Callia pulled her cloak tight around her bare chest and held a lit torch over her head.

"We should head downhill to the lower loop of the trail," she called out. "They will take the long way around and we can get ahead of them."

Aranthir handed her the reins to Deite's horse and gestured for her to take the lead. Behind him, Rora's shooters kept their weapons trained on the keep as shouting sounded throughout it and the adjoining courtyard.

"Follow Callia downhill and be careful of roots and vines," Limonn told his men. "Make for the waystation at the last trail junction. We will hold out there until morning. With luck, some other travelers will be there to help."

Aranthir thought to set an ambush to persuade his pursuers to take their progress more slowly, but disliked the thought of leaving anyone behind. The company would have to douse their torches to set the ambush, which would leave them blind in the dark while falling back. In any case, the burning matchcords of their muskets would be likely to give them away. Instead, they picked their way through the forest as best they could, all while the bandits in the keep roused themselves and saddled their horses.

Atarr was deep in a trance when the fighting broke out. He heard the pistol shots outside his quarters through a haze of spice and incense smoke, interrupting his dream. The voice whispered to him in seductive tones and showed him a vision of himself atop a mountain of gold, having ascended stairs made of gold ingots. The sounds of battle echoed faintly in the distance and only through repetition did he become aware that they were not part of this dream. The dreams of battle were different, never the same as the dreams of gold, power or women.

By the time he broke his reverie and returned to the waking world, the intruders were gone. Someone was pounding on his door. Atarr groggily rose from the circle of candles and moved to the door. He opened it to see Sorj on the other side.

"Chief, the mercenaries from earlier came back. They took the prisoner."

Atarr snarled. He needed that prisoner.

"Get the men together. All of them," he commanded. "I promised that wool trader to my patron and I will not break out pact." It would be a fatal failure, he said to himself alone. He would not admit that part. There is no need to admit the consequences of failure, for I will not fail.

"The lads are already saddling the horses. They won't get far. I wager we'll find a few on the trail with broken legs or necks. These narrow tracks can be treacherous in the daylight, I expect them to be murderous in the dark."

"Take the lead of the column and bring torches," Atarr said, pocketing a pouch of indigo spice. "I will take the rearguard. The order is to bring back the prisoner and kill the rest."

Sorj nodded and hefted a blunderbuss onto his shoulder. "They have a girl with them," he said hesitantly, "I would like her for myself."

"If you can capture her, you can have her. All I need is the prisoner, you and the men can sort out the rest of the loot."

"Thank you, Chief." Sorj turned and headed down the stairs. Atarr collected his weapons and donned his armor.

"The sacrifice slips away," the voice in his head hissed suddenly. "Our pact is soon to be broken."

"It will not be, Master," Atarr replied. "I will return the wayward whelp to you and you will have your offering in two days' time. There is nothing to fear."

"So you say. The price of failure is nothing less than your immortal soul. I will be watching and waiting." Then it was gone again, leaving Atarr alone in an emptying tower.

"I will not fail," Atarr declared to an empty room.

After reaching the lower loop of the trail, Aranthir and his party mounted their horses and rode quickly down the trail. It was three miles to the waystation at the crossroads, to be crossed under a waning moon. They traveled at a canter, with Yvande leading the way and Aranthir bringing up their rear. He carried no torch but kept his keen elven senses on guard for pursuers. He allowed himself to fall behind the party so that his ears were not as clouded by the sound of their hooves.

Soon, he came up on Callia, who had fallen behind the pack while struggling to control her horse. She sat awkwardly in the saddle, her green cloak thrown wide to reveal her bare chest, her supple young breasts bouncing with each step her horse took. Aranthir brushed the hypnotic sight of them from his mind and reached over.

"Here, girl, let me show you." He corrected her posture with a few gentle touches and soothed her horse. "You've never ridden a horse before, have you?"

Thanks to his elf eyes, he could see her blushing in the dark.

"I am a simple huntress," she fought back, "and a horse is a great expense."

"I mean no offense," Aranthir said easily, "it is no great shame to be new in the saddle."

Callia said nothing, but instead spurred her horse forward to rejoin the pack. Aranthir cast a look up the trail and saw a distant line of lights, bobbing up and down as they wound their way along the trail.

"Here they come!" he shouted and galloped after Callia. They charged down the trail for three miles until the sole lantern outside the waystation came into view. Lutharis pulled his horse up in front and dismounted.

"Yvande, Aigon, take the horses into the stable and bar the gates. Rora, emplace your shooter along the wall. Limonn, you and yours will command the reserve."

Aranthir reached them and helped Callia down from her horse. "Lutharis, come with me and bring all the pistols you can." He drew his own pair from the saddle and thrust them into his belt.

"What am I to do?" asked Callia.

"Our agreement is ended. You can melt away into the woods if you wish," Aranthir replied.

"Or go inside and wake up the station master," Lutharis suggested. "He'll get right up when he sees those." He pointed to her chest. She scowled and pulled her cloak around her tighter.

"Have you ever fired a pistol before?" Aranthir asked. "We can always use another hand and it's quick to learn."

Atarr rode at the head of his company, his sword drawn and a blazing torch held aloft. He had seen the torches of his prey stop and douse themselves at the waystation and knew the hunt was soon at an end. With a wild war whoop, he spurred his horse onwards.

"Surround the waystation and let none escape!" he commanded. "Throw torches through the windows to flush them out! Sorj, you will take your men around the back. Jonden, prepare an assault squad---"

He cut off as he noticed someone in the brush to the side of the road. Someone aiming a pistol at him. Stunned, he pulled sharply on the horse's reins and the animal reared up, just in time to save his life. There was a crack of thunder and flame. Blood sprayed across his face and, for a moment, he thought he was dead. More shots sounded, his men screamed and his men died. His horse tumbled to the ground and he just barely extricated his leg from the stirrup to avoid having it crushed under the bulk of the dead beast. But the fall knocked the wind from him and his torch went flying away.

Gasping for air, he could only listen as the ambush savaged his war party.

His last pistol expended, Aranthir gathered up the empty weapons and stowed them in his belt. Callia tossed her borrowed pistol to him and ran for the waystation. Lutharis had fired all four of his own pistols and now wielded a demi-lance. The three of them ran quickly from their ambush position two hundred yards from the waystation, hoping they had disordered the enemy enough to throw off a pursuit.

A lightning dash to the safety of the station's palisade brought them into range of Rora's shooters. Three bandits on horseback shook off the confusion fast enough and tried to ride them down, but were killed by fire from the waystation walls. Aranthir and his companions darted through the courtyard gate and Aigon slammed it behind them. A locking bar was dropped into place and Aranthir breathed a sigh of relief.

"How many?" Limonn asked from the second floor of the waystation.

Aranthir shrugged. "Hard to know. I killed at least one, I think I shot their leader."

"I killed two for sure," Lutharis declared.

"And the girl?" Limonn asked.

She simply shook her head.

"Well, however many it was, it wasn't enough," Rora called from the palisade. "Here they come."

Hefting his musket, Aranthir swung himself up onto the pile of crates that afforded the defenders a view over the palisade. Rora spoke true, the bandits had dismounted and split into two groups, aiming to encircle the waystation. Some of them carried burning bundles of grass and sticks.

"They mean to burn us out," he called out, "let none of them close enough to burn the waystation!" he swung his musket over the wall and took aim.

Atarr cursed to himself as Sorj's flanking group panicked and ran, dropping their torches as they did. The withering fire from the palisaded courtyard had proven too much for them. Atarr's own group had taken a position in the trees looking into the front of the waystation, where they were being fired upon from both the first and second floors.

Sorj came running to him through the trees, his side soaked in blood but seemingly unhurt.

"They have too much, chief," the other bandit gasped, "They hit us good. I saw one of us lost an arm, but I'm not sure who."

"Kick them into shape again," Atarr snapped. "Use the trees to your advantage and go without torches if you have to. Burn them out and get me my sacrifice back." He saw Sorj's expression and decided to incite him directly. "Remember the girl you wanted. She's waiting for you in there! Now go!"

He gave Sorj a shove to get moving and turned his attention back to the waystation. Someone inside was screaming in pain. He hoped it was not the sacrifice.

"He is to be mine," the voice hissed in his mind, "You promised."

"I did promise, and I will deliver!" Atarr shouted, drawing the concerned looks of his men. "If you would only cease pestering me, I will concentrate on this battle," he continued more calmly, though the demon was indeed beginning the grate on his nerves.

"Very well, try to avoid your fate," it went on. "It amuses me to see you struggle so. I will be watching."

Aranthir rushed inside to find the waystation master bent over one of Limonn's mercenaries, attempting to stop the man's bleeding. Praden sheltered in the back of the waystation, behind a study oaken chest. The half-elf cast an experienced eye over the wounded man.

"Tie a tourniquet around the leg," he instructed. "then feed him this." Aranthir handed over a small ceramic bottle stoppered with a cork. "Quickly, else he might lose the leg."

He hurried to one of the ground floor windows and peered out. The bandits had taken positions in the woods on the far side of the road and the periodic flashes of their shots were visible through the trees. That suited Aranthir just fine, they were unable to do much from outside and his group could stay holed up all night. He fired into the woods with his musket, keeping the pistols for if the enemy mounted another charge. Twice they attempted to charge the waystation but were beaten back by fire and the barred door.

After the second charge, the fire from the woods began to slacken.

"What's happening?" Lutharis demanded as he took a place at the window next to Aranthir. "Are they retreating?"

Aranthir handed over his musket and ran up the stairs to the waystation's loft. From there, he climbed a small ladder to the cupola and looked off into the darkened forest. The shooting from the forest and the rear of the waystation was beginning the die off. But, looking up the road, he could see no men retreating. The horses that the bandits had tied up along the road were still there.