The man known as Shorty spoke little. He was the smallest and wore a rapier. Rhaslin was a big man and hard muscles rippled beneath his red tunic. His weapon was a massive broadsword too heavy for most men to swing. Durnlak was sour-faced, dark-haired and of average build. His eyes, so brown as to be almost black, were smoldering pits and he looked like he had little use for other people. Bealegar was the last, a blond-haired and jovial sort who whistled as he rode and showed less sign than the others of nervousness.

  Brand supposed they were all hiding fear. He knew he was. He was not only wary of what was to come, but also worried of adding to the danger by rash comments of his own. He was surrounded by strangers, each of them armed and of uncertain temperament.

  The morning wore away and they rode toward the sweeping expanse of Lake Alithorin. Felargin led them along a path so faint that Brand doubted anyone would have found it without him.

  The trail snaked back and forth, not seeming to head anywhere in particular, but it always took them deeper into tall stands of pine. It grew dark beneath them and the air was humid and filled with the smell of decomposition. Bright orange fungus flowered in lush growths on fallen trunks and lengths of gray-green moss trailed from overhead branches.

  The travelers slowed down. Here, in the dark amid the trees, it felt like another world.

  Shorty swayed to the left to avoid a low hanging trailer of moss. “This place gives me the shivers,” he said.

  Rhaslin laughed. “Are you scared of the woods, little man? Would you like to go back to Cardoroth and leave the treasure for the rest of us?”

  “The wild holds no fears for me – but there’s something different about this place,” Shorty said.

  “Woods are woods,” answered Rhaslin. “And there’s nothing in them that can’t be killed by my blade.”

  Brand listened to their exchange but kept his opinion to himself; it would only cause an argument. There was something about Rhaslin that he did not like. He was too sure of himself and had dismissed Shorty’s comment without thought. There was something unnerving about the woods.

  Felargin led them on, and soon they headed uphill and away from the lake. Fog drifted from the water and cast groping fingers through the trees. Moisture clung in a film over the pine leaves and dripped from their needle-like ends. It was quiet and they saw no wildlife. There was only the distant howl of a lone wolf.

  “How much further?” Durnlak asked.

  Felargin did not slow his horse but turned in the saddle and grinned. “Soon.”

  Brand thought his smile even less warm than in the tavern. Their surroundings were disturbing, but nothing worried him as much as that.

  The wolf howled again and Bealegar started. He looked at Brand and winked. “We’ll get there when we get there,” he said. “No point in getting worked up about things.”

  Brand nodded and the blond warrior whistled again, giving the impression he was merely strolling through Cardoroth’s gardens.

  Not long afterwards the trees thinned, and they faced rugged cliffs. The jagged overhang of the crags ensured the crannied surface ahead was shadowed. The path came to an end and the riders spread out around their now stationary guide.

  Felargin raised a gaunt arm and pointed with a bony finger.

  “I have led you truly. Behold! You see the resting place of treasures beyond your imagination. The wealth of kingdoms and the luster of gold lie within!”

  Durnlak turned dark eyes on the man. “I see nothing but a wall of rock,” he said bluntly.

  Brand studied the cliff-face. Though he had not seen it before there was a cave there; the entrance little more than a man-sized shadow. The others now saw it too. He wondered how deep it went and what lay within.

  Felargin dismounted and hitched his horse with a deft knot to a pine sapling. They all followed his lead.

  A musty smell came from the entrance, but Brand could not place the odor. Was it the scent of some beast?

  Rhaslin took a small lantern from his saddlebag and lit it. “Let’s go. There’s gold inside and little to fear.” The warrior drew his massive broadsword and stepped forward.

  Brand glanced at Felargin. He was smiling again; a visage no more appealing than the cave. He threw Shorty a look as they passed inside and read the same doubts on the little man’s face. Treachery was afoot, and Shorty knew it too.

  The Dust of Years

  They moved into the cave and the light from the lantern cast swinging shadows but revealed little. Felargin, coming behind, produced his own lantern and their surroundings sprang into view.

  The entrance was narrow but opened into a wide chamber with a sandy floor. Brand saw no tracks of man or beast, but the musty smell increased. The cave continued at a downward slope.

  The travelers went down and the walls grew damp. Brand guessed they were going below the level of the lake. The floor soon gave way to a vast pit, and though its bottom was invisible, rubble formed a natural stairway. Rhaslin moved down on cat’s feet and the others followed.

  The floor at the bottom was of mud and ankle deep in water. When they disturbed it a putrid stench rose from the sludge.

  Brand realized the walls were no longer natural but of chiseled stone. He did not doubt that the floor, had he been able to see it, was of flagstones. On the walls were the remnants of tapestries, long since rotted and spider-haunted. At some time in the past this room had been fashioned deep below the surface and later destroyed by earth tremors. Who had built it and why?

  Bealegar gave a low whistle. “Look at that,” the blond man said.

  Brand followed his gaze and saw a series of statues in the dimness. They were the lifelike images of men and women, their features stern and aloof. The men had the look of arrogant warriors and the women were beautiful but remote.

  Beyond the statues was a dais and upon it a throne. This was of black walnut and above the reach of the waters that periodically flooded the chamber. It was intact, the arms and legs embossed with scrollwork.

  Rhaslin stepped past the throne to the wall behind it. “Is this it then?” He swung on Felargin. “Statues and rotted tapestries are your treasure?” He kicked the throne and the dust of years rose into the air.

  Felargin was angry but swiftly regained his composure, for there was no trace of irritation when he spoke.

  “Look at the wall,” he said quietly. “It’s not what it seems.”

  Rhaslin ripped the tapestry away. The stone was chipped and smudged. The big warrior looked at it blankly until Felargin moved beside him. He ran his thin-fingered hands like scuttling spiders across the surface and a hidden mechanism clicked.

  “Push the wall,” he said. Rhaslin placed his hands against it, and a doorway gave way at his touch.

  The big warrior stepped through, holding his lantern high. Something within reflected the light. The others followed him, Brand and Shorty among them, spellbound by what they saw. The treasure of nations lay before them. Heaped carelessly across the floor were piles of gold and silver. Gems unnumbered winked the flickering light back at them. Weapons and armor hung on the walls, and Brand’s gaze leapt to a silver helmet. The Helm of the Duthenor! All about them was wealth even greater than Felargin had promised.

  Felargin! Where was he? Brand spun and noticed that Shorty was likewise moving to the door. Too late! It shut with a hollow boom.

  Trial of Fear

  “We’re trapped!” yelled the little man.

  “No need to worry,” Rhaslin said. “We’re sure to find a way to open it, and in the meantime the treasure is ours.”

  Brand’s stomach churned. For what purpose had Felargin locked them in? He must know that eventually they would find, or force, a way out. Unless he did not think there would be time to do so…

  He noticed now that scattered amongst the treasure were bones. Were they the remains of others that Felargin had led here? He glimpsed withered flesh and the moth-eaten remnants of clothing and shuddered.

  “The smell is getting worse,” Shorty said, and Brand knew that he was right. The air, which should have been still, was moving in slow eddies.

  “The lantern is going out!” yelled Durnlak.

  A chill gust blew across their faces, and grotesque shadows writhed over the treasure-strewn floor. With a hiss the light failed and darkness clutched them. They felt the primeval fear that had shadowed mankind since its rising from savagery to build fire and shelter against the night.

  “We’re in a tomb,” whispered Durnlak.

  Brand heard Rhaslin fumble to light the lantern but nothing worked. Then he sensed something in the chamber with them.

  He felt a surge of panic as it whispered past him in the dark.

  “Ahhhh,” a cold and remote voice sighed. “I sense the warmth of flesh.”

  “Who speaks!” demanded Rhaslin.

  The voice laughed, but there was no humor in the sound. It reminded Brand of Felargin’s smile.

  “Such arrogance. What meaning do names have? And yet once, when I walked the world of flesh, I had one.”

  “Shurilgar the Sorcerer,” guessed Brand.

  A moment later he cursed his rash words. It was foolish to draw attention to himself, for now he felt the weight of a vast intellect, steeped in arcane power, bear upon him.

  “That was me. Now, I am a haunter of men’s minds. Do you fear me?”

  Brand clenched his teeth and did not answer.

  The spirit’s attention moved elsewhere. “Once I was a sorcerer and Felargin my apprentice. He serves me still. It’s not easy for the dead to have power over the living, but there are ways. He brings me offerings, and in return I teach him secrets that would burn other minds. After your deaths, I’ll reveal to him yet more. He awaits outside.”

  “How do you intend to kill us? You’re only a spirit,” scoffed Rhaslin. “What power do you have over the living?”

  “What power? Shall I show you powers undreamed of? Shall I show you the truth even as death rends the flesh from your bones?”

  Brand’s heart skipped a beat as he heard the slow pad of feet. He tried to step back but could not move a muscle. Desperately he struggled to reach for his sword, but his body would not respond.

  The padding moved on and a growl, slow and menacing, filled the chamber.

  Durnlak screamed. Slavering jaws and moans of agony rent the air. The stench of an opened abdomen filled the chamber. Durnlak’s moaning grew low and pitiful before ceasing. The warrior was dead, but the ghost-beast had not finished. There was a sharp crack as it split bone between its jaws.

  Who would be next? Brand gave up reaching for his sword. It would be easier to move a mountain than shift his arm a few inches. He remembered Aranloth’s gift and struggled in vain to flex his thumb, to push it against the ring on his finger and remove it as Aranloth advised. Sweat broke out on his brow, but he could not do it.

  The padding sounded once more and the smell of dust rose from the floor. The beast stood before him. He felt its warm breath against his legs and the hair on the back of his neck rose, but the creature moved away.

  The voice of Rhaslin broke the silence. “Please. Take the others. I’ll serve you!” But there was no answer to his pleading. The big warrior sobbed. There was a ripping sound and he screamed, a high-pitched wail that surely carried through the door to Felargin. The big warrior moaned. “Help me,” he begged.

  But nobody could so much as turn their heads in his direction. Brand at last gained the slightest movement of his thumb and it twitched a hair’s breadth against the ring. Yet there was so much further to go and so little time. Rhaslin’s cries were now weak. The warrior who appeared to fear nothing turned out to be a coward. Maybe such a death would make cowards of them all.

  The dreaded padding began again. The creature stopped near Shorty and a deep growl rumbled in its throat. The little man made no noise and the creature moved on. Bealegar yelled. His voice rent the air in defiance.

  Brand strove madly against the unnatural force holding him. The ring moved on his finger, bit by bit, but even if he freed it what could it achieve?

  Bealegar groaned and the sound of the ghost-beast’s muffled breathing came to the others. It was snuffling, its snout buried deep in flesh.

  At length there was a rattle, the last breath of the blond warrior as he died in near silence. Would the ghost-beast come for him or Shorty? Desperately, Brand continued to twitch his thumb against the ring.

  The padding drew toward him. He felt the hot breath of the creature’s snout against his legs. Then it reared up, the claws of its heavy paws scratching his chest. Saliva dribbled on his neck, and the fetid stench of rank breath blew over his face. His instinct was to struggle and draw his sword, but he ignored that and continued twitching his thumb.

  The creature’s weight dropped from him and it moved toward Shorty. The little warrior laughed and the padding stopped. It seemed that Shorty was a bigger man than he looked, and Brand distantly sensed the weight of the ghost-beast’s vast intellect concentrate upon his companion.

  Suddenly Brand’s thumb twitched strongly and the ring fell. It hit the floor with a sound like a small bell but spun like a dropped coin.

  The creature gave an uncertain growl. The bell-like sound of the ring increased, and now there was faint light. It grew quickly and revealed once more the treasure-strewn floor. The ghost-beast vented a howl that turned Brand’s blood cold but was not in sight.

  A bright light spun up all around them, and Brand could see the ring was no more. In its place was a disk of light spinning quicker than the eye could follow, though it was already beginning to fade.

  “I can move!” Shorty said. Brand whipped his head around and scanned the chamber, but there was no sign of the creature anywhere.

  He looked at his companions who lay on the floor. They were dead, of that there was no doubt. And yet there were no marks upon their bodies; no blood or wounds. Maybe Rhaslin had been right after all: the dead had no power over the living. Was it possible though that Shurilgar had killed them by the power of suggestion alone?

  He scooped up the Helm of the Duthenor. Placing it on his head he drew his sword. Shorty snatched a handful of gold coins, and together they ran to the door.

  “Any ideas?” asked Shorty.

  Brand shook his head and studied the stone. “I can’t see anything, but I’d guess it can be opened from this side.”

  He ran his hands along the stone. Perhaps the mechanism could only be felt and not seen? The light flared brightly for a moment then suddenly died.

  It was pitch dark again and Brand felt dread encroach on his soul. The ghost-beast howled; a sound of pure hatred. He felt something give and the door sprang open. The two men leaped through. Felargin was there and scrambled to his feet leaving his lit lantern on the floor. He raised his arms, but whatever spell he was preparing to cast Brand was quicker. He knew now that he was a sorcerer and was taking no chances. His fist cracked into the traitor’s chin and Felargin stumbled but righted himself straight away. He was tougher than he looked!

  Shorty, who was free to run if he chose, instead drew his rapier and slashed at Felargin, but the sorcerer stepped nimbly aside and snapped a lightning kick at the little man’s head that knocked him down. Felargin raised his arms once more, but Brand was ready. He did not punch but shoulder-charged him. This was something Felargin had not expected and it sent him flying through the open door.

  Brand pulled it closed and heard a rush of padded feet. The door slammed and he felt a thud as something crashed into it from the other side.

  There was a muted scream. The ghost-beast had been deprived of its prey, but nothing would stay its hatred now. There was a noise that might have been sobbing and then silence.

  Shorty was pale as death, though he spoke with conviction. “Only what he deserved.” The little man was unsteady on his feet, and blood streamed from his nose.

  Brand nodded. “I underestimated him badly.” He adjusted the helm on his head.

  “That suits you,” Shorty said.

  “We both got something for our troubles – but it’s time to leave.”

  The cavern seemed calm and peaceful now, but he had learned not to rely on appearances. Was the ghost-beast restricted to the treasure-chamber, or could it roam free?

  Daylight and Danger

  “Let’s go,” agreed Shorty.

  Brand walked side by side with the little man and felt good. Not only had he found the Helm of the Duthenor, but a friend as well.

  They came out of the darkness into bright light. The joy they should have felt at surviving died in their hearts though. Four men waited near the cave entrance: silent, blades drawn and murder in their cold glance.

  The scarred man from the tavern was their leader, and Brand cursed himself. He could have avoided this. He made certain his hand was far from his sword’s hilt and attempted to talk his way out of the situation.

  “You’ve followed us for nothing, I’m afraid.” He opened up his hands and held them out. “As you can see, we salvaged nothing from the venture.”

  “You’d sure like us to believe that,” the scarred man said. “But you’re wearing a fancy helm now, and the runt beside you might have handfuls of gems in his pockets.”

  Shorty raised his eyebrows. “Name-calling is for the handsome, son. With a face like a bucket of fish guts, you should learn to keep quiet.”

  Brand gritted his teeth. There would be a fight now, and men would die. He searched for words to break the tension, but before he spoke a howl tortured the air, and a stench drifted from the cave entrance.

  The scarred man’s helpers looked at each other with pale faces. “What on earth is that?” asked one of them.

  Brand thought quickly. “Death for us all unless we ride!”

  He took a gamble and ran for his horse. He made no motion to draw his sword and sped right past the men as though he was more afraid of what was in the cave. The men saw this, and convinced by his actions more than his words, ran for their own horses.

 

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