A Dance of Fang and Claw: The Ranger Archives Volume 3, page 43
The wolf’s roar was malformed by the pain and it landed in a heap of limbs, rolling over itself until it struck the wall. It recovered in no more than a second, only now it knew fury. And it could still kill them all with one hand or the snap of its jaws.
“Hadavad!” Asher yelled, imploring the mage to bring his magic to the fight.
Lonan had got up first, though he appeared unsure where to insert himself. He hadn’t, however, run away, a credit something even the bravest of warriors could never guarantee. The ranger gestured with his short-sword for the man to edge round to the right, splitting their foe’s attention. The wolf was too quick for such a tactic and simply lashed out with one hand—knocking Lonan off his feet—before charging at Asher.
A strong thrust broke the monster’s stride and a second downward stroke scored a red line down its snout. Asher knew better than to employ his hands, feet or knees, for any one of his limbs could be snatched from the air and torn free with brute strength.
Its hand actively bleeding, the wolf roared in his face and swiped with its good hand, bringing five claws down the ranger’s cuirass. Two of the claws were able to pierce the hard leather above his hip, dragging him down to deliver a jolt of pain up through his knee. The Lycan then reversed its attack, sending a swift backhand up Asher’s face. White hot pain seared into his skin and the impact of solid knuckles knocked his head back and took his body with it.
Another jolt of pain racked his body, this time through his back where he landed on the cave floor. He could already feel blood running down one side of his face where the claws had gashed open his eyebrow and forehead. The taste of blood informed him his lip had been split, though his nose hurt so much he could have blood oozing from his nostrils. He might have made better sense of it all had he not felt so keenly as if his skull had been placed between an anvil and a dwarf’s hammer.
Only when the Werewolf towered over him, its amber eyes and drooling mouth bearing down on him, did the impending sense of death sharpen his focus. His right hand squeezed to grip the short-sword that was no longer there. It was to be death then. He could reach up and try to keep those jaws at bay, but he had sense enough to know that he would be crushed beneath the monster’s bulk. He chose instead to thrust his hand inside its mouth and choke the wretch before it could bite his arm off. At least he would have, had the wolf not been impacted by a blinding spell.
The ground shuddered as the beast rolled over itself, a smoking crater deforming one side of its ribs. Asher turned his head to see Hadavad slowly advancing. As the beast attempted to rise, the mage flicked his staff from low to high, expelling a wave of water and debris that crashed into the Lycan and twisted it up and round. Again, the ground shuddered upon the fiend’s impact.
For many monsters—and certainly any man—that would have been the end of the fight, but Werewolves were no ordinary creature. A low rumble escaped its throat as it rose and squared the mage in its sights, Asher forgotten. Its injured hand didn’t slow its explosive bolt forward. Hadavad let loose another spell and missed his target by inches, giving the beast all the time it needed to close the gap. It seemed beyond the old man’s responses but still he succeeded in raising a shield about him as the wolf rammed ahead.
Both were taken from the ranger’s view in the blink of an eye, the force of their collision sending both across the cavern. Trying to rise so he might aid the mage informed Asher that his head was dragging in ways he couldn’t define. Staggering back to the ground, he could only watch the battle out of the corner of his eye, though Hadavad’s spells often blinded him.
Merith…
He could see the Vorska clearly, the pale creature still within the light of the fallen torch. The ground shuddered again, but this time it wasn’t caused by the wolf. The tremor continued, rattling the small stones that lay scattered about the ranger.
It was when the ground itself began to move that Asher blinked, sure that he was hallucinating.
One by one, slab by slab, the ground dropped, descending even deeper into the mountain. It continued in this fashion, creating a rectangular hole all the way to the wall, where the arrow head had come to rest. Slowed by his knock to the head, Asher only realised after Merith had dropped from sight that the ground wasn’t falling away into a chasm but was, in fact, moulding itself into a set of wide steps.
Something of a war cry broke the ranger’s attention and turned him back to the fight, which Lonan had now thrown himself into. He hacked again and again at the monster’s muscled back, though it barely seemed to notice as it swiped at Hadavad. The mage deflected the claw with his staff and cast destructive spells in between, but the wolf’s erratic movements only put Lonan in harm’s way. One such spell nearly took the man’s head off, forcing him to duck and, subsequently, receive an accidental backhand from the beast.
As Lonan skidded across the cavern floor, Asher picked himself up and called on the power of the gem to make him whole again. Within seconds his wounds were a memory, if a painful one.
Scooping up his silvyr blade, the ranger immediately launched it overarm, his aim more instinct than anything else. The sword found its mark, despite the wolf having moved in the time the weapon crossed the gap. With a length of silvyr buried in its hip, the creature dropped and howled. The pain kept it still just long enough for Hadavad to point his staff and expel his devastating magic.
Something hotter than fire punched the Werewolf in the chest and melted through to its spine. Death was dealt and the beast left in a smoking heap. The mage sighed in relief and leant heavily on his staff for a moment.
“Lonan?” Asher called, seeing the man slowly rousing.
“I’m alive,” he reported wearily.
The ranger would have walked over and offered the man a hand, but their problems hadn’t ended so much as shifted. “Hadavad,” he addressed urgently, though the mage was already aware of Merith’s actions and was making his way towards the newly-forged steps.
“What new devilry is this?” Hadavad crouched at the top of the steps as he voiced his question.
Asher tilted his head but was forced to descend a few steps to see what the mage was talking about. The steps connected the cavern to a wide passage that was lined with blazing torches, their light revealing the back of Merith.
Groaning through his injuries, Lonan joined them, his sword handled in the manner of a walking stick. “What’s he doing?” the former captain asked, crouching beside Hadavad. “Why’s he just standing there?”
Asher frowned at the scene, his sixth sense telling him that something was very wrong. The ancient Vorska was as motionless as the stone around them, as if he had been carved from the rock in the middle of the passage.
“He’s not standing,” Hadavad pointed out.
Asher reassessed the scene and saw the truth of it—Merith was running. His left foot wasn’t even touching the floor and his white-blond hair was frozen in the air behind him. The Vorska’s stance wasn’t the only thing the ranger noticed now.
“Look at the torches,” he directed. “The flames.”
The others joined him in scrutinising the fires and soon realised that, like Merith, the flames weren’t moving despite casting light into the passage.
“What evil is this?” Lonan questioned, almost accusingly.
Hadavad remained quiet, though he did cautiously descend the steps and plant his feet on the flat stone of the passage. He stood there for a time, contemplating with his back to them. Only when Asher questioned him did the mage move to the wall on his left. He said nothing as he ran one hand over the stone, its surface as smooth as the one that had brought them to the cavern.
“What is it?” the ranger asked, one eye on Merith.
The mage turned around and stared up at him, his expression firm but unreadable. Again, he offered no response but, instead, retrieved one of the stones from the ground. He felt its edges with his fingers before tossing it into the passage, his aim projecting the stone at the Vorska. Asher was dumbfounded when the small rock began to slow mid-flight. Then it appeared to freeze altogether, just as the Vorska had.
“Hadavad?”
The mage’s attention appeared lost to the tunnel. “This magic,” he began, his speech protracted, “is not known to me. Nor any,” he muttered absently. “Come, look at this,” he bade.
Asher made his way down the final dozen steps and joined the mage, though he now felt very wary of how far away he was from the bottom step. Hadavad guided him to the wall on their left where the ranger could see that it was not as smooth as he had believed. From top to bottom, the stone had been engraved with glyphs he couldn’t hope to understand, not one belonging to a language he spoke, including elvish. The lines ran all the way along the passage, over the ceiling, and down the adjacent wall until they disappeared into the gloom.
“What is this?”
If Hadavad had been awed by the magic at work it was fleeting, for he now looked only disturbed. “This,” he replied, gesturing at the glyphs, “is the spell. It’s a net,” he likened. “Any who get caught in it get taken out of their time and frozen in a moment…” The mage trailed off, his eyes intent on the nearest torch planted in the ground. “No,” he mumbled. “Not frozen. Look.”
Asher had to watch the still flames for some time before noticing that they did move, if excruciatingly slowly. “He’s not frozen,” the ranger deduced.
“No,” Hadavad agreed. “He’s just moving very slowly. These torches have been burning for eight hundred years…” Again, the mage trailed off, his thoughts tumbling and darkening by the look in his eyes.
“What is it?” Asher demanded, seeing Hadavad’s mouth hanging ajar as he gazed into the passage. “Hadavad!” he thundered, slapping his right hand against the wall.
A great thoom resounded from deep inside the mountain, culminating in a torrent of wind rushing from the tunnel and blowing out Asher’s green cloak as it escaped up the steps. He shielded his eyes from the strong gust and turned his head away as the others did. Only in its wake did the ranger hear rapid footsteps growing ever distant.
“Merith!” Hadavad growled.
The Vorska was already disappearing round the corner of the passage, just as the mage’s thrown rock was tumbling across the ground.
“What was that?” Lonan exclaimed, picking himself up off the steps.
Hadavad swivelled on the spot to face Asher. He scrutinised the ranger, his gaze drifting down to his right hand, where the black gem remained hidden inside his fingerless glove. “I would say the spell was broken,” he explained, without actually explaining anything.
Asher subtly raised his hand and examined it as if he could see the hidden ring. The gem protected him from magic, he knew, but its ability to break spells was a revelation.
“Come!” Hadavad bade, an urgency about him. “We have a Vorska ahead of us and Werewolves behind us.”
Asher looked back just once to check that Lonan was still accompanying them. Proving himself the warrior, the former captain pushed through his wounds and did his best to match their jogging speed. They were soon rounding that same corner and following the torches, though the passage was shorter than the one that had brought them to the chamber. In less than a minute the trio stood on the threshold of a new and vast cavern, its true size hidden by clusters of deep shadow.
Shadow or not, there was no mistaking the cavern for what it was: a mage’s laboratory.
Small bridges, some of wood, others of stone, connected various parts of the cavern, criss-crossing to create a web. A surplus of ropes and chains hung from numerous pulley systems, including a makeshift lift in the far corner. Here and there, the natural walls and jutting stone had been hollowed out to create shelving units or tables, all layered with sundries, vials, and books. Veins of red Demetrium wormed through it all, some as wide as a man.
There was no missing the bodies, specimens to a mage perhaps.
Some were human, while others were something else altogether—creatures and horrifying amalgamations that Asher didn’t recognise. Most were hanging from hooks and chains while others rested horizontally, limbs and torsos strapped to large boards. They were all in various stages of decomposition and all had been cut open in some way, their insides exposed. Whoever and whatever they were, they were all from another time, their corpses having been trapped, like the flames, sealed away from true time for eight centuries.
Between them all were crates, chests, and barrels, their various labels suggesting they were filled with supplies, food, and water. Instinctively, Asher took cover behind a tall stack of crates, where he might assess the environment unseen. It was a pointless exercise, of course, when his quarry was a Vorska.
Merith’s voice, indistinct as it was, reverberated throughout the expanse. His individual words, however, were lost to its size, though they were enough to move Hadavad and Lonan behind cover.
“Can you see him?” Asher mouthed.
The mage peered out from behind the crates, his eyes searching high, before shaking his head. Lonan wasn’t even looking, his back to a stack of barrels. His face glistened thanks to the sheen of sweat that coated his skin and mingled with his cuts. He was gripping his sword in both hands and tightly so. He was fighting his fear as only a warrior could.
Another voice responded to Merith’s, stealing the breath from the sheltered trio.
“There’s someone else in here,” Lonan hissed.
The blood appeared to have drained from Hadavad’s face. “I think I know why Iskander left that key,” he uttered.
Asher tried to piece together what he knew but the machinations of mages were beyond him. So far, he had assumed the time spell was nothing more than a way of preserving the work. “It’s been a long day, Hadavad; speak plainly.”
The mage collected himself and gestured to the wall of glyphs, behind the ranger. “Kargon Iskander carved these,” he whispered. “Every single one! Where or how he discovered the magic is a mystery, but this must have taken him years to accomplish. It’s meticulous. Detailed. Beautiful in its own way.”
“Hadavad.” Asher’s impatience was growing by the second.
“Think like him,” Hadavad insisted. “Isn’t that what your masters taught you?”
Asher didn’t appreciate the call back to his former life, especially in front of Lonan, but his mind did begin to look at the situation from a different perspective, as if the dark mage was his prey.
If he had been Kargon Iskander, hunted by The Black Hand, he would need somewhere to hide. More so, he would need somewhere to hide and continue his work, work that he couldn’t give up. The logical conclusion was to wait out those who hunted him, but to do so would inevitably see him die before his work could be finished.
Unless...
Unless there was a way to slow down time.
The ranger moved closer to the glyphs, gleaning some truth behind their unreadable shapes. “Iskander didn’t want Merith to find his lab,” he breathed. “He wanted Merith to find him.”
Hadavad was watching him with a hard stare. “Kargon Iskander yet lives.”
Chapter 34
Under The Mountain
Three-headed Dread Serpent - If you’ve read about Hell Hags, you should have an idea how foul and ferocious they are. Hell Hags have nightmares about these serpents.
Dread Serpents will encroach on the swamp of any monster and make it their own. While it is good that they devour other monsters, they themselves are extremely hard to kill. While you might evade one or even two snapping jaws, few can avoid the bite of a third.
I myself shared the reward with a mage. She froze the swamp and I lopped off the heads. We could all do with learning a spell or two.
A Chronicle of Monsters: A Ranger’s Bestiary, 12th Edition, Page 333.
Jayms Mellor, Ranger.
Asher took the revelation in his stride—his survival demanding it.
Looking beyond the crates, he tried to spy the dark mage who had cheated death for hundreds of years. The ranger squeezed his right fist, feeling the ring within. The gem would protect him from direct spells, but Kargon Iskander was an unknown quantity, an assassin’s nightmare. Ultimately, the mage was a complication in what was already a precarious situation. And he would, of course, divert Hadavad’s attention—no meagre thing.
Requiring more information about this new adversary, the ranger crept around the crates and began to infiltrate the lab proper. Hadavad and Lonan naturally fell in behind him, each using the cadavers and workstations to remain concealed where possible.
An acrid smell attacked Asher’s nose, turning him to a table of multicoloured chemicals in glass vials. Among them was a severed hand and a decapitated head with the top half of the brain exposed. The ranger crouched to all fours and crawled under the table and out the other side, where a set of curving steps had been carved out of the rock. After a slow ascent, he came to rest before reaching the higher floor, flattening himself to the steps.
The voices now possessed a discernible clarity.
“How long has it been?” Iskander’s voice was like old wood creaking in the wind, though it retained an undertone of strength and superiority.
“I last saw you eight hundred and twenty-three years ago, Master.”
Asher’s view was skewed by his low angle, but he could just make out Merith’s back, the Vorska kneeling reverently before the mage.
“Eight hundred and twenty-three years…” Kargon echoed, his words dying off towards the end. “Eight years have passed for me. Eight years under this mountain, talking to myself lest I forget the sound of my own voice.”
“I thought you dead, Master.”
There was a pause between them, the tension building. “You should have found me sooner,” Iskander chastised, his tone sharp and clipped. “I taught you so much, gave you so much. I even granted you the power to make more like you. What have you accomplished with your immortality? With your strength and speed?”
