masterghandalf

Chapter 19: The Vault

The great metal doors rumbled to a halt and lay still. The passage behind them sloped downwards on a moderate incline, leading down a smooth-sided tunnel and into shadow. Thyra let out a long, slow breath as she stared into that darkness, no longer mindful of how the cut on her hand stung. The sepulcher had opened. Within, or so she hoped, lay her salvation.

“Well, well,” Irinali said, sounding impressed in spite of herself. “The girl’s blood actually worked. I may have to apologize for treating her so harshly.”

“At last,” Ir’Sarrin breathed, stepping forward. “Acquiring the map and sending this expedition was not in vain – I shouldn’t have doubted. Soon, I will place whatever treasure lies within in the Queen’s hand myself.” He turned to his followers. “Get us some torches and send down four more skeletons!” he shouted. “Irinali and I going inside.”

“We should bring the girl as well, Kharvin,” the necromancer said thoughtfully. “There may be other doors or traps, and her blood may prove useful again.”

“Of course,” ir’Sarrin said, but his expression was distant; Thyra thought that his mind must be far away, already presenting the treasures he had found to this Queen of his. Irinali was right, of course, that there might be more traps or barriers within, but Taras hadn’t known anything about what lay beyond the sepulcher doors save that, somewhere down there, there was an artifact of great power. Thyra was already making plans to the extent she could to grab whatever that artifact and run; she had no intention of letting ir’Sarrin hand her over to his mistress as well.

But then, there were the mercenaries, still captive in Sarrin’s dungeon. There was a part of her that said to leave them, to save herself, but that part was overshadowed by another part, the girl who had spent her childhood and adolescence wanting nothing but to serve the Silver Flame. That part said that to leave them would be cowardice of the highest order. And, she had to admit, she’d actually liked them…

The sound of marching feet drew Thyra from her reverie; several more skeleton warriors were approaching, holding lit torches in their hands. The priest of the Blood of Vol was with them, as were Irinali’s apprentices. Ir’Sarrin looked them over and nodded approvingly.

“Very good,” he said. “I don’t know what waits for us inside, but I won’t lie and pretend there’s no possibility of it being dangerous. I think you for your loyalty in accompanying me, and if we should die, Karrnath will honor our memories someday. For Karrnath and the Claw!”

The priest and the apprentices echoed his shout; Irinali merely rolled her eyes, though there was a certain amount of affection in the gesture. Then ir’Sarrin turned and began to walk down the tunnel, two of the skeletons with torches taking up positions beside him to light his way. Irinali, the cleric, and the two younger necromancers followed; the other skeletons, including Thyra’s guard, took up the rear.

The tunnel was smooth and featureless, descending in a never wavering line. The small circle of light that was the door slowly dwindled behind them until at last it was gone, leaving the only light the skeletons’ torches. A silence fell across the entire group as they descended into the bowls of Eberron; Thyra kept glancing around herself, hoping for some writing or symbols on the walls she’d be able to read, but nothing – just smooth, curving stone.

“Fascinating,” Irinali said finally, rubbing one hand along the rock as she walked. “There are no markings here, but this can’t be natural. It’s too even, and there’s no wear on the walls or floor, or any side tunnels like you’d expect in a regular cave. Someone made this, and they must have used powerful magic to do it.”

“A good sign,” ir’Sarrin said. “Nobody would do something like this without a purpose. Very likely, there is something down here worth hiding.” Thyra didn’t speak, but privately, she agreed. The further they walked, the more she became certain that there was something waiting for them down at the bottom – what it might be, however, she had no real idea.

They walked in silence for another indeterminate span of time, and then finally ir’Sarrin stopped. “Wait,” he said. “There’s an opening up ahead. Be on your guard.” He drew his sword, and the skeleton warriors did the same; the priest rested a hand on the small mace that hung at his belt, and Irinali tightened her grip on her staff while her apprentices murmured what sounded like protective spells under the breath. After a moment, the warlord nodded and strode forward, the rest of the party close behind.

They emerged into a great domed chamber that was utterly unlike the drab, featureless tunnel. The walls were covered in elaborate carvings which depicted dragons locked in struggle with fiends in a dozen horrible shapes – but most common among them were what looked like men with the heads of tigers. Rakshsasas. My ancestors, Thyra thought, suppressing a shiver. Directly opposite the tunnel was a statue of a towering rakshasa robed like a king; his backward-facing hands were held before him, and in them rested a map. Thyra’s eyes widened when she saw it – was that Sarlona? In the northwestern corner of the ancient continent a dot had been marked, but she had no idea what it meant.

Before the statue’s feet was what was unmistakably an altar, and something that glittered rested upon it. Thyra’s eyes fell upon it, and with a sudden certainty she knew that this was what she’d sought, an ancient treasure of immense magical power. Ir’Sarrin’s eyes also gleamed in the torchlight, and Thyra knew that the same thoughts were passing through his mind.

But before the altar stood a pair of fearsome guardians – great dragons forged of black iron, their heads lowered as if to regard the intruders with harshly scrutinizing gazes. They didn’t move or react in any way, and it took Thyra a moment to realize that they were statues, not living creatures, so detailed were they. The merely stood silent, eternally watching, eternally disapproving guardians.

“How strange,” Irinali said. “The statue in the back indicates that this is a rakshasa place, but the guardians before the altar are dragons – their mortal enemies. Perhaps the fiends simply placed statues of the most fearsome thing they could think of to ward of intruders…” her voice trailed off, but her tone was troubled.

“No matter,” Ir’Sarrin said. “The rakshasas are gone. The dragons care nothing for this world any longer. This prize… it will be mine!” He strode forward, stepping between the dragons.

At once the statues’ eyes opened, revealing pools of red fire that lay within. They opened their mouths and steam poured forth in great waves. And then, as one, the constructs lowered their heads directly towards the Karrn warlord.

///

“What a terrible place!”

Len had lost count of how many times Ghazaan had said those words during their trek through the Mournland, but she found she couldn’t fault him for it. They were inadequate for the task of describing the sheer horror of what lay before them, but the captain couldn’t think of anything that might do a better job of it. If all the destruction wrought across the hundred years of the Last War could be written in the landscape, she thought, it would be here, in this place. Cyre. The Mournland. The world’s largest grave.

Their companions were all affected as well, of course. Havaktri’s eyes were as wide now as they had been ever since they first passed through the mist; the ageless, alien quality seemed to have been stripped from her, leaving only a frightened girl staring at the land around her in horror. Rinnean walked with a slouch, curiously subdued; only Yhani seemed outwardly unaffected, but Len knew her well enough to tell that even she was badly shaken under her stoic exterior. Harsk, of course, was affected the worst of all, with the lost expression of a man who had woken from a nightmare only to find that the evil dream had become reality – though he’d never truly become a druid, he remained heavily influenced by them, and the corruption of nature written in ever stone and blasted plain around them must surely cry out in offense to his very being.

Fortunately, it hadn’t hindered his skill as a tracker. It had been late last night when they’d crossed the river and entered the Mournland, and it hadn’t taken him long to located ir’Sarrin’s trail – the path of footprints of hooves that marked his part was unmistakable even to Len when they got close enough. Ever since, they’d been following it, though Harsk had made a point of always scouting forward or to the side of their group. He said he was watching for potential dangers; Len just thought he wanted to be alone.

No sooner had she finished that thought than the shifter appeared, hurrying over a nearby hill. “Captain!” he called, raising an arm. “There’s something over here I think you’d better see.”

“What is it?” Len called back.

“I’m not sure,” Harsk said. “But it doesn’t feel right.”

“I’ll come with you,” Valyria said, putting a hand on Len’s arm. “If it’s dangerous, you’ll want someone to watch your back.” Len almost said no, but practicality won out; whatever her feelings about the Inquisitor, Valyria did know her way around a fight. She and Pitar had been stoic and silent throughout today’s journey, a look of grim determination on both their faces. Len wondered if they were both imagining what they’d do if they ever got the chance to visit righteous judgment on whoever – or whatever- had caused the Mourning.

“All right,” the captain said, nodding. The others remained behind at ir’Sarrin’s trail while the two women followed Harsk over several more hills and came at last into a flat depression. A corpse lay there, a man with long, ragged hair in mismatched armor that had been marked with strange symbols. Around him lay scattered bits of what looked like more armor, but no sign of other bodies.

“What’s this?” Len asked, looking over the scene. “I don’t understand what happened here. Did someone kill this guy and just wander off and leave him?”

“No,” Harsk said, baring his sharp canines. “Look at the ground, captain. Lots of footprints; there was a skirmish here. They say bodies don’t rot in the Mournland, but based on the prints, I’d say this took place yesterday at the earliest. This is fresh.”

“So, was this man the only casualty?” Valyria asked. “Who was he fighting? And why did they leave their armor behind?”

Harsk laughed softly. “I know who he was fighting, Sister,” he said. “And they didn’t leave their armor. Look!” He gave a light kick to a nearby piece of metal, rolling it over. Len gasped as he did so, for what she had taken for a helmet was no such thing – it was a head. The metal head of a warforged.

“I’d heard rumors of some warforged warlord gathering followers in the Mournland,” Valyria said softly. “Could this have been one of his?”

“Don’t know,” Harsk said. “But I can guess what happened. These guys here ran into a bunch of warforged and they had it out. The ‘forged parts look like they’ve got burn marks on them, so I guess that the humans had a wizard or sorcerer with them who ended things pretty quickly, but not before one of them was killed. They left the body where it lay and went on to whatever it was they were doing out here. But that’s not the strange part. Take a look at this.” He walked over to the corpse and turned it over. Len saw that the man’s crude breastplate was decorated with more of the strange symbols; she couldn’t read them, but they looked vaguely familiar, some ancient language she’d never bothered to learn.

“I’ve seen these signs before,” Harsk said softly. “I know where this guy came from, and he shouldn’t have been here. This smells bad, captain. It’s not right.”

“All right, Harsk,” Len said impatiently, “speak plainly - no more Druid riddles. What is going on here?”

“I recognize some of those symbols too,” Valyria said, her voice strangely subdued. “This man was a barbarian from the Demon Wastes – a worshipper of the Lords of Dust. He was here, half a continent away from his homeland but only yards away from the trail we’ve been following, when he died. And you still think Thyra is innocent in all of this?” She turned to look at Len with fire in her eyes. “We need to get moving again. I don’t know what’s happening here, but time is assuredly running out.”

///

The dragon constructs lumbered forward, steam hissing from their mouths. Ir’Sarrin jumped backwards, sword poised to strike; as the closer construct slammed its forefoot down he dodged aside and swung hard against its limb. There was a sound of ringing metal as the blade connected, and it was knocked out of the warlord’s hand and sent spinning across the cavern floor. Ir’Sarrin yelled a battle-cry and drew a dagger from his belt, but the construct swept its foot out and struck him in the torso; he was sent flying across the chamber and slammed into the far wall. Sliding to the floor, he lay still, though his chest still rose and fell with breath; the priest rushed to his side, the words of a healing prayer already on his lips.

Irinali gave a great shout and gestured forward – the skeleton warriors drew their weapons and charged the constructs, save for the one which remained by Thyra’s side. The undead creatures struck their equally unliving opponents with a flurry of blows, some managing to gouge scores in the metal, others seizing their feet and holding tight; the constructs roared and bucked trying to free themselves.

“You two, stay here; don’t let the girl leave,” Irinali shouted at her apprentices, who saluted and seemed relieved at being told to stay out of the way; the elf necromancer herself began to make her way around the battle. The farther construct from Thyra had succeeded in knocking one of the skeletons aside, smashing the undead to pieces against the wall, but Irinali was able to slip behind it as it was distracted. Thyra could hear her intone words that made her skin crawl at the sound, and then she slammed the flat of her hand onto the constructs tail. The iron dragon gave a terrible screech and shook itself, but the damage was done; the creature’s body shivered and seemed to decay, its metal skin becoming corroded and pitted as if the effects of standing exposed to the elements for centuries had been inflicted on it in an instant.

By the wall, Ir’Sarrin rose unsteadily to his feet while the priest crouched at his side, murmuring spells and blessings under his breath. The warlord shook his head once and his strength seemed to return; grabbing his sword from where it lay, he yelled “For Karrnath!” and charged the constructed Irinali had blighted. The dragon-thing raised a paw to strike him, but as its blow fell he dodged out of the way and struck deep into the limb. Whether because Irinali had already weakened it, because the priest’s blessings had strengthened him, or a combination of the two, this time the blow fell true. The construct’s forefoot fell, neatly severed, to the ground; the creature threw back its head and howled in a close approximation of agony.

Ir’Sarrin raised his sword. “Fight on!” he called. “See, they are not invincible!” From where she stood in the back of the chamber Irinali returned his cry with a cold smile and raised her hand, preparing another incantation.

Thyra and the two apprentices watched this battle in horrified fascination; the sorceress could feel the bony hands of her skeleton keeper clutching her shoulder, a warning as to what would happen if she tried to move. Still, she considered acting, but indecision left her paralyzed. Ir’Sarrin and his people were her enemies, but did they really deserve to die down here, killed by these ancient things? And were they worth digging deep into the magic within her, knowing the potential costs?

She was torn from her thoughts by a terrible scream; the second construct, which she had almost forgotten, reared up on its hind legs and then slammed itself onto the ground, crushing the skeletons that had attacked it beneath its belly. Steam pouring from its mouth, the creature stalked forward, and the apprentices cowered and plastered themselves against the wall. Thyra could hear them murmuring the words to spells, but she knew it wouldn’t be enough – she didn’t think either of them had the power to harm this enemy. Her skeleton placed itself between her and the attacker and drew its sword; faster than Thyra could follow the dragon’s head shot down, seized the undead in its mouth, and threw it against the far wall, where it landed in a broken heap.

The construct lowered its head towards Thyra; now she had no choice. It was either act or die. Raising her hands before her, she prepared to cast a spell, the most powerful she knew, though what use it would be against this monstrosity of metal and steam she couldn’t say. The dragon lowered its head closer, opening its mouth wide, but before she could cast it stopped, bringing its snout close to her bloody palm. The construct seemed to sniff – if such a creature even breathed – and then it raised its head back, resumed the position in which it had been standing when they entered. Its eyes dimmed and it froze, once again seeming no more than a statue; across the room, its companion did the same.

“Blood of my ancestors!” Irinali gasped; Thyra thought the Aereni curse sounded strange coming from her mouth. “Is it over? What happened?”

“She stopped it!” the female apprentice – Ashlinn – said, pointing at Thyra. “That… that thing just sniffed her hand, and then it stopped.”

“They must be part of the same defenses as the doors,” Thyra said, still feeling her heart pounding against her chest. “For some reason, my blood shuts it all down.”

“I think we know what reason,” Ir’Sarrin said, regarding Thyra intently and weighing her with heavy scrutiny. “Now, let’s be about our business before these creatures wake up again. Irinali, Thyra, come with me. I want to see what’s on that altar.”

The three of them approached warily, but the constructs didn’t move. Up close, the altar was stone, covered in writing that Thyra had seen before but couldn’t read, and on its center rested – a sword. The blade was long and slender, made of some dark metal that reflected no light, giving it the appearance of a window into the void that had been cut into the shape of a blade; it made the sorceress faintly queasy to look at it. Its hilt was of a different, silvery metal, and beside it lay a scabbard – both the hilt and the scabbard were set with dark crystals. Khyber dragonshards, Thyra realized – magical conduits of great power and versatility.

“Pick it up, girl,” ir’Sarrin said softly. “I’d rather not set off any more traps the ancients may have left.”

“All right,” Thyra said softly, staring at the weapon. Could this really be what she had desired for so long? Could it have the power to free her from her ancestral curse? Slowly, hands trembling, she reached down and lifted both sword and scabbard from the altar; nothing happened as she did so, but she could feel the weapon thrum beneath her hands. There was power here – of that, there could be no doubt.

“I recognize some of these characters,” Irinali said, stepping forward to inspect the altar now that the sword was gone. “They’re Draconic, but of a very old dialect. I think it says something about this sword being a… lock? Key? It says it may bind any creature, mortal or… fiendish? maybe. But this is only a… piece? Shard? The rest of the… collection… rests elsewhere, scattered to the ends of Eberron, lest their power be abused.” Irinali scowled, then looked up at the map in the rakshasa statue’s hands, staring intently at the depiction of Sarlona. “I wonder…” she whispered.

Thyra’s heart, however, sank with every word the elf-woman spoke. This sword, this… key… didn’t sound like it had any powers that could help her, unless she wanted to bind herself away to keep the rest of the world safe from her. And if it wasn’t even complete, who knew whether it would even be capable of that? Would even a piece of an artifact be valuable? She sighed and slumped against the altar in defeat. She’d failed – Taras’s gamble had failed. Well, he at least might prophet from this – at the very least, he’d love to study this vault. That thought brought a slight smile to her face, but couldn’t raise her spirits.

Ir’Sarrin, however, appeared undaunted. “Even if this weapon is only part of a greater whole, surely the Queen can make use of it and the one who acquired it for us,” he said. “The quest was not in vain – and if I have to scour the world for the rest to give her, that I will do! We can do no more here – let us depart. And you,” he said to Thyra, “will give that to me. Though I appreciate your aid, you are not a member of my Order, and I cannot trust you with the Queen’s prize any longer.”

Thyra stood slowly, regarding the sheathed sword in her hand, gave a last, disappointed sigh, and then slowly held the weapon out to ir’Sarrin. The warlord took it carefully, smiling as he beheld it, and then hung it from his sword belt across from his regular weapon. Then he turned and marched back towards the tunnel, with Irinali, her apprentices, the priest, and the last functional skeleton warrior following. Thyra took up the rear, dreading the return to the surface, knowing that whatever fate awaited her there would not be a pleasant one.

The ascent was slow, and as uneventful as the descent had been. Thyra found herself relieved when she could finally see the light of the entrance again, despite knowing that it likely was nothing but a portent of her journey to the Queen of Death as a prize alongside the sword. But suddenly, ir’Sarrin stopped, a hand resting on his sword. The rest of the party halted immediately behind him; Thyra stood on her toes and craned her neck to see why, and her eyes widened in horror.

Four figures stood blocking the door. Three were human, with wild hair and dressed in ragged armor; swords were in their hands. The fourth… the fourth was a figure out of nightmare. Taller than a man, but of man shape, the creature was dressed like a great lord but was obviously nothing that had ever been human. It was covered in fur that was striped in silver and black, its hands were set backwards on the ends of the arms that it held folded across its chest, and its head was that of a great tiger that nonetheless regarded them with an intelligence far beyond any mere beast. Behind it, Thyra could just barely make out the sight of more of the human barbarians, who stood with swords held to the backs of ir’Sarrin’s expedition.

A rakshasa and his followers had come.

“So, you survived,” the fiend said in a surprisingly cultured voice, inclining his head to ir’Sarrin. “I’m impressed. Now, be a good mortal, and give the Key to me.”

///

Well, this was a pivotal chapter, and the beginning of our climax! Most of it is pretty self-explanatory, I think, though several pieces of foreshadowing come to a head here (and will be continued next time!) In any case, it appears that our true antagonist has been revealed, and he now has Thyra, Ir’Sarrin, and Irinali at his mercy. But of course, the mercenaries and Valyria and Pitar are on their way. We leave on a cliffhanger, but next time, it will be four factions, one artifact, and some very significant revelations about just what has been going on in this story. This is it!

-MasterGhandalf