Angeleyes' Story (For Roland and all)

[Occhidiangela]

"News From A Necromancer

The lean albino reached the top of the stairs and turned left down the dim, door lined hallway while the large metal man clunked along after him in short, measured steps. The leather clad woman followed the pair, a step behind the automaton, her concern for the strength of Atma's creaking floor boards competing with her apprehension at following this Priest of Rathma up into his 'suite.' If Atma's rooms were 'suites,' then Geglash the town drunk was a dancing bear!

The chance that she was sending the signal that she was as "easy to bed" to the other bar patrons, whose eyes she had felt burning into her shapely backside, was a risk she knew she could handle. She'd learned those tricks at Ogden's Tavern, a lifetime ago in Tristram. The risk that this dabbler in death magics was part of a trap whose bait was her younger brother, however, had her sixth sense screaming at her to draw her sword. As the man paused to retrieve his key and insert it beneath the door handle, she accepted the warnings of her inner voice and quietly slipped her rune sword from its leather sheath, the golem's bulk shielding her action from the Necromancer's view.

The door opened and he stepped through, followed by his creation. Angeleyes paused for a quick three count, then slid next to the door jamb and dropped to one knee before peering around its edge. She beheld a cramped room with a large, cloth covered straw mattress on a sturdy wooden bed frame beneath a modest rectangular window. Two wooden framed chairs, with canvas backs and seats, took up most of the remainder of the distance between the bed and the door. As she watched, the automaton maneuvered into the corner against the outer wall at the foot of the bed, facing the door. The albino turned with a small smile on his face that changed quickly into a puzzled frown when he did not see her walk into the room. Partly blocking her view of a tall wardrobe nestled into the corner at the head of the bed, he shrugged his shoulders and sat down in the nearest chair after adjusting it to face the doorway.

Satisfied that an ambush was not imminent, Angeleyes stood and stepped backed from the doorway before entering the room, her sword gripped gently yet firmly in her right hand. The naked blade earned her a raised eyebrow from the necromancer, and no other visible reaction, as well as a slight clank of movement from the golem as it stepped forward with one small stride.

"Do you usually enter a gentleman's chambers sword first, fair lady, or am I getting special treatment?" he asked dryly. His voice barely a covered a slight, dry, clacking sound to his right.

Raising her sword to parallel and gesturing toward the wardrobe, Angeleyes nodded.

"You get special treatment, my poison drinking friend. Skeletons in the closet, Whitey, or is Atma's tavern settling on its foundation?" The edge in her voice complemented the edge on her sword nicely. "I may look like a rube to you, pal, but I don't sit with my back to Iron Golems as a matter of principle. So if you don't mind, I am going to shut this door and conduct our business while standing, unless you intend to send your little toy out to help Atma with our food and drink." She nudged the door shut with her left elbow and placed her back to the wall, then lowered her sword to place its tip to the floor. The iron man clanked backward into its corner, just out of her sword's reach. The necromancer sighed and rubbed his forehead with his left hand.

"Feel free to rearrange these sumptuous furnishings as you wish, my dear. I am merely the bearer of news, not a threat to you." He reached out a long leg and hooked the empty chair with his fine black leather boot, then flicked his ankle. The chair turned and skidded across the floor to thump gently, back first, against the door.

"But please," he continued, "sit down. You may want to, as the news of OcchiOTemplar, Paladin of Westmarch and your brother, is dire." He frowned as she slid the chair out of the doorway and sat, placing her rune sword across her lap and setting her left hand on the door handle.

"Tell me your tidings, Whitey." Her voice was flat, yet her tone betrayed her apprehension.

"Temp is dead, and please call me Orthas, as my mother named me. Your hero of a brother, bane of the Lord of Terror, died defending his home from a host of lizard demons, led by a minotaur, raiding from the North. Your niece Emerald was killed, but her twin brother, your nephew Mikal, was saved by his mother. OcchiSonya fled with him, yet she returned to lead the villagers in a counterattack that destroyed the raiding party. It appears that she went mad with grief when she found that her husband and her little girl had not survived the attack." He gestured apologetically. "The demons were unkind to Temp’s corpse."

He sat back to watch the effect of his news on her, and saw little but the tightening of her jaw line and the glistening of her eyes as tears began to form.

"I arrived the following day, while travelling east from Kingsport on another errand. I was able to question the demon corpses through my art.” He leaned forward, hand on his knees. “The raid was not an attack on the village. It was an assassination party sent specifically to slay your brother and his wife. I am guessing you know who sent the killers." He stopped and watched the first two tears begin their journey from her gray green eyes toward her jaw, leaving a salty trail down her perfect cheek bones. She nodded slightly, indicating that he could continue.

"Your sister-in-law left your nephew with your mother, donned her armor, strung her bow, and shouldered her pike. Then she headed north. Your mother it was who helped me to find you.” He dug his hand into his belt and pulled forth two large and exquisitely cut emeralds mounted in gold. "She told me these are your earrings, and I promise you, it was the baubles that led me to you, with some small help of my guides."

Angeleyes sat forward and peered intently at the two earrings, frowning slightly. After a brief inspection, she was satisfied that the dowry she had left for her niece and nephew sat in Orthas' hands. Something was very wrong, however, as she was certain that her mother would never give these Emerald Earrings of the Heavens to a stranger. And what guide she wondered, could find her after she had left the Rogue Citadel, Kashaya and her politics having been the last straw, and journeyed north to learn her new occupation of Mage Slayer? She had been careful to cover her tracks and send letters home, via circuitous routing in Westmarch.

Her train of thought was interrupted by a firm knock at the door.

Pulling her left hand from the door handle, she took her right hand from her sword and looked under the bed, palms facing the ceiling, and whispered a single word.

"Umbrogliu."

The door opened to reveal Dernek carrying a tray laden with two large mugs and a plate of food, which promptly fell to the floor with a crash as Dernek staggered back, crying "Light save us!"

His surprise was understandable. When the door had opened, the iron golem had stepped forward, only to freeze in mid-stride at a slight gesture from Orthas. At the same time, a shadow had suddenly grown from underneath the bed to rapidly coalesce into a tall, black-haired, dark-eyed woman with a pair of razor sharp talons in her hands, talons that were quite suddenly poised on either side of the necromancer's pale throat. The shadow stood behind the necromancer, between him and the bed.

Orthas did not move a muscle, his calm acceptance of the deadly blades at his throat and this sudden turn of events, evidence that he still had an ace or two up his sleeve. Only his eyes moved as he spoke.

"Don't worry, good Dernek, everything is fine here. Please be so good as to get us a new round of drinks and something to clean this puddle of beer up with, that's a fine fellow. It looks nastier than it is, unlike the food at Elzix's tavern." Dernek's rapid footsteps receded before Orthas stopped speaking, as he set off to either take care of refreshments, or to alert the town guards.

Angeleyes sat like a statue, tears slowly forming and rolling down her cheeks, staring at the albino. They remained in this frozen tableau for an excruciatingly long interval before Orthas looked directly into her eyes as he calmly gestured up toward the shadow with his eyebrows.

"Do you think she could trim my hair while she has those blades out, my lady? I have already shaved today, thank you, but perhaps a haircut would be in order." His deadpan expression finally got through her self control.

"Save me your wisecracks, Whitey, or I'll break your jaw." She clamped her teeth together to bite back her next comment, then continued. "We're not going anywhere until you tell me how you really got your hands on my earrings. Then, death mage, you will tell me just what, by Haephasto's cursed hammer, you did to my mother to get those from her. Your little story has more holes than a suit of chain mail.” Her voice lowered into a sinister, soft tone laden with pure malice.

“You get a choice: start talking straight, or get used to a leaking neck." She paused to regrip her sword and pull a small, round metal disk with seven sharp points from her left belt pouch, which she proceeded to twirl with her fingertips.

"Let's start from the beginning, shall we?" She waited until he nodded slightly. "First, where is my mother, and second, is she still among the quick?"

His voice remained slightly ironic as he replied, "She is here in Lut Gholein, and while she is still among us, she is hardly fast. Considering her age, and her condition, I'd say she gets around with a certain stately grace." His tight grin betrayed more riddles, more evasion, and more smug self confidence.

"Right, keep it up, wise guy, and I'll add you to my collection of magicians the world could do without." In a movement that was barely discernable, one of the shadow’s talons twitched and the necromancer's earlobe began to bleed. The golem creaked forward only to stop at another slight gesture from its master's left hand.

He returned her stare without losing any of his composure, though a hint of annoyance entered his voice as he spoke.

"Next question, my dear, and please spare me the 'death of a thousand cuts' nonsense. I think we are both above that." He slowly reached his left hand into his tunic pocket and produced an emerald green silk kerchief. One smooth flick of his wrist later, it sailed gently into her lap. "And wipe your eyes, my lady, the tear stains mar your beauty."

The kerchief lay untouched on her leather clad thighs as she continued the interrogation.

"How was Temp buried, Orthas? Tell me about his grave."

Orthas mouth twisted slightly, as he replied simply. "He wasn't buried. There were . . . complications."

This earned him a glare of irritation from two gray green eyes. Angeleyes re-gripped her sword hilt and stood up slowly. She faced the iron golem and raised her left hand, then spoke with great force.

"Maulisai!"

The automaton was slammed backward into the wooden wall of the room, crashed through the old weak timber wall, and fell out into the street, leaving a large jagged hole behind him. A dull sonic echo of the invisible ball of force bounced off the inner wall, followed by the metallic crash and sharp screams of surprise from outside and below in the hot dusty street.

She took a short step forward and slowly lifted the point of her sword until it gently tickled Orthas' neck. With a slight nod, she motioned to her shadow, which promptly sat down on the bed, legs crossed, talons resting lightly on her knees. Angeleyes glanced quickly at the wardrobe, then back at the necromancer. The dry tear stains on her cheeks, untouched by the kerchief, framed her nose and mouth as she swore with vigor for a few brief seconds before once again addressing the white-haired man.

"You duplicitous, corpse screwing, poison drinking, cursed death mages make me sick." She spat vigorously down onto the green kerchief. "What kind of a greenhorn do you think I am, to fall for the old 'poison kerchief' trick?" She noted with satisfaction that his mouth moved in annoyance as his ruse evaporated. "I believe that Temp is dead, and I believe that Dream Eyes went north. My heart tells me that you speak truly of those tidbits, if nothing else." She choked back a sob that tried to force itself out.

"But I neither trust you, nor believe what you told me about the rest, other than Diablo's infernal brother, or Tal Rasha, sending a company of demons after my brother. I know full well about the revenge of demons, I can assure you." She slid to her left and slowly reached the tip of her sword to rest on the latch of the tall wardrobe. “What’s in the closet, Orthas? Or do I open it myself?” She paused to read his reaction.

His response was not encouraging.

“You know what, or who, is in there, I suspect, or I miss my guess entirely. Go ahead, open the door, my dear, I’m sure that as worldly a rogue as yourself can handle anything that comes her way.” The slight sneer in his voice told her everything she needed to know. Her right foot lashed out in a lightning sidekick that knocked the man from his chair and into the opposing wall. The dull thud of his head hitting the floor reconfirmed her aim: her heel had caught his jaw perfectly, snapping his head around and knocking him out, or at least dazing him, before he hit the floor.

She opened the door and staggered back, a strangled cry erupting from her lips.

Three figures stood cramped within the space of the wardrobe. A tall skeleton with a curved war sword in its hand, a bony white grinning face and hollow eye sockets facing her. The horror’s left arm half-embraced a slightly shorter skeleton wearing the blue checked dress that only a year previously she had bought and sent to her mother, as a Winterfest gift. The long white hair with auburn roots left the skeleton’s identity in no doubt: her mother still walked the earth, but she was hardly alive.

What clouded her eyes with red rage was the third figure. A small boy, mouth and hands bound in cloth, stood with stiff and staring vissage, the skeleton’s sword held against his neck. His wide, frightened green eyes and rigid posture told her what Mikal’s status was: hostage.

There was no mistaking the boy’s curly golden hair and deep complexion, or the sick and twisted evil that had led him on a journey from his home accompanied by his dead father and grandmother. Angeleyes gestured to her shadow. The dusky shadow woman stood up on the bed, facing the wardrobe, and flicked her writsts slightly. The two doors slammed shut, then an uproar and a clash of steel in the tavern below erupted, diverting her attention from the wardrobe.

From the sound of it, Angeleyes guessed that the mechanical man had found the front door to the tavern and was trying to get to the stairs, while either Atma’s bouncers or some off duty guardsmen tried to stop it. The shouts of pain told her that the men were encountering the golem’s throny self-protective features, as she had, not a good sign that they were going to stop its inexorable journey up the stairs. The little room was feeling more and more like a trap with every passing breath.

She looked to her shadow again, a plan quickly forming in her mind, and stepped next to the wardrobe’s side. Nodding to her shadow, she shifted the sword into her left hand, flexed her knees and drove her shoulder hard into the wood, rocking the wardrobe suddenly, while her dark servant ripped the door open and grabbed for the boy. The sharp cry of pain as the sword buried itself into the shadow’s ribs accompanied her own scream of “Mikal!” as she reached around and into the wardrobe to grab for him. Her right hand found flesh, so she gripped down hard and pulled with all her strength. Sharp claws of bone tore into the flesh of her forearm, though if it was her mother’s or brother’s hand that gripped her she would never know. A second tug tore Mikal loose and ripped three deep furrows of flesh from her arm, courtesy of the sharp bone fingers, as she tumbled back into the doorway with her nephew’s right shoulder gripped tightly in her hand. She rolled into the hallway and stood up, letting go of his shoulder and wrapping her arm around his small waist as he struggled frantically in obvious panic.

No time for tenderness, she thought, it’s time to run.

She leapt down the hall, the sounds of a struggle between her wounded servant and the two skeletons accented by a crash as the wardrobe fell to the floor. She did not look back, but turned the corner and started down the stairs in time to see a maimed guardsman falling onto the bottom steps, his throat ripped out.

An iron foot mounted the first step, followed by the head of the iron mechanical man which was now moving with considerable speed. She took one step forward and dove over the automaton’s head, then tucked into a roll as she fell toward the landing, her body curled protectively around her nephew. Over the golem she flew, a flaming stripe of pain streaking down her back as it reached for her and narrowly missed, its sharp claws slicing her leather shirt open, as well as some skin..

She hit heavily on her left shoulder and rolled out into the bar, sword flying from her grip. A bloody pile of flesh and armor stopped her momentum, remains of one of the golem’s victims. Rolling to her feet with pain shooting through her body from forearm, back, shoulder and now her left knee, she looked left, located her sword, and staggered the two strides to where it lay by an overturned table.

The sound of mechanical steps told her the golem was coming back into the room.

She cleared the table in a leaping stride and once more dove, this time through the open window and out into the dirty street. She tucked and tumbled and again hit hard, clumsily, then again lost her grip on her sword as she rolled left to take the impact. Scrambling to her feet and casting about for her sword, she had to dodge a small herd of people stampeding out from Atma’s doorway before she could get her hands on the sword’s hilt. Mikal’s squirming and kicking increased in urgency.

“Hold on, nephew, we still have to run for it,” she muttered as she tucked him under her armpit, arms and legs kicking crazily, and started to run north toward the guard command post. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a burst of flame falling from a hole in Atma’s second floor. She turned and beheld a city guard’s worst nightmare: a blazing creature of flame, which she guessed was a fire golem, had just jumped down into the street from the room whose wall she had recently damaged. Her focus shifted up to the new hole, revealing the grim, bruised visage of the white-haired Orthas, his bone wand outstretched, pointing directly at her. He was most certainly not smiling.

She turned and kept running, the sound of a long bone spear whistling past her ear and burying itself into the body of another running figure lending her a burst of energy. Cries of “Fire!” broke out behind her, but she did not turn to find out why. She ran, silently praying to the Sightless Eye that the next flying bone spear, which she was certain would be better aimed, did not hit her before she could put a building between her and the death mage on Atma's second floor.

Turning the corner past Drognan’s house, she barely saw the ash spear butt that slammed into her forehead, sending her sprawling and creating a nova of bright stars in her mind as she tumbled into darkness.

To be continued . . .