Angeleyes' Story (For Roland and all)

[Occhidiangela]

Part V is of course

Part V of Angeleyes

Part I:

The leather clad woman walked into the tavern, glad to be out of the hot sun. Pausing at the doorway to let her eyes readjust to the dim interior, she saw the usual crowd of drunks scattered across the half a dozen tables to her right, and a lone white haired man sitting at the short side of the bar to her left. Next to the man stood, unmoving, a large steel automaton of some sort. After a moment's thought, during which she absent mindedly fingered the rune sword at her hip, she glided across the floorboards to a barstool one removed from the slender albino and his mute companion. Behind the wooden bar, the balding, middle aged bartender put away the baked clay bowl he was cleaning and looked at her inquiringly.

"What will it be, Mistress . . .?" He paused, hoping she would supply her name.

"Dernek, a large flagon of ale for me, and get yourself a glass of wine. You need something to jar your memory loose. Don't you recognize me?" Her voice raised in mock disbelief as she leaned forward slightly on her elbows, her gray green eyes opened wide and a hint of a smile appearing at the corners of her mouth.

Dernek looked at her thoughtfully and rubbed his chin, obvuiosly using every brain cell at his disposal to solve the riddle this striking woman posed. The wide mouth was familiar, the gray green eyes, the prominent cheekbones . . . but the hair was all wrong. And, he realized, the rune sword had replaced the scimitar on her hip, and was not matched by a bow on her back, if this is who he thought it was.

A voice from behind him resolve the mystery.

"Is that you, Angeleyes? You've done something with your hair. What happened to those beautiful auburn tresses, dear? The short, dyed black, curly look is simply not you!"

Atma, the tavern's owner, pronounced the final piece of her fashion critique with a trace of humor in her tone. His speaking role usurped, Dernek turned to fill a tall earthen mug with ale from the barrel behind him, leaving the conversational field to Atma.

"But welcome back, rogue, it is good to see you again," she continued warmly. "How is your young brother and his brave bride, OcchiSonya?"

The expression on Angeleyes face froze, her mouth snapped shut, and she sat back, her posture stiff. She looked through Atma, at something not even in the room. In the moment that it took for her to gather herself to reply, the white haired man on her left looked up and glanced at her with sudden interest. Lifting his glass of absynthe to his lips, he held his gaze on her until she turned to stare at him with ill concealed hostility, leaving Atma's question unanswered.

"What business is it of yours, whitey, the fate of my brother and his bride? Go back to your green poison, or better yet, hit the road. You Necromancers are part of what's wrong with this crazy world in the first place, what with skeletons walking about at random all over the Tamoe Highland!" She pivoted on her barstool to face him, her hands falling gently to her hips, her right hovering over her sword's hilt with deliberate menace.

Atma stepped forward and reached across the bar to lay a restraining hand on a leather clad arm. "Easy there, Angeleyes, I'm not to keen on fisticuffs here. If you arrived with a chip on your shoulder, it is you who should leave, as you have given first offense. This gentleman is a good customer, and a model of civil behavior." The authority in her voice as publican was unmistakable, for all the good it did.

Angeleyes stood up and took one step toward the lean, white haired man. She let out her breath and put one hand on the metal figure standing behind him, then pulled her hand back quickly to her mouth, sucking the blood that blossomed on her finger tip as she bit back a short exclamation of pain.

"Please keep your hands off the golem, my dear, he is a bit thorny to the touch." Smiling grimly at his own private jest, he stood and bowed slightly. "If you are the rogue Occhidiangela, known as Angeleyes, it is you I have been seeking. I have news that won't wait, if you would care to listen to a nasty old Necromancer."

"News of what, Whitey? And from whom?" The anxiety in her voice betrayed her attempts to present a calm front.

"News of your brother, my lady, and of other subjects not suited to the ears of all and sundry."

Lifting his glass to his lips, he drained its remaining contents in a single swallow, then turned to the bartender with a nod indicating his desire for a refill as he put down his glass. In the same motion, he picked up her ale mug and offered it to her.

"I suggest you and I discuss these matter in my suite upstairs, where a modicum of privacy may be available." He paused to guage her reaction, then accepted his fresh glass of absynthe from Dernek. Turning to the bartender, he used his off hand to flip a gold coin through the air. "The lady's drinks are on me, Dernek, as long as she stays here at Atma's."

Occhidiangela took a step back and poured half the contents of her mug down her throat before lowering her drink and wiping her mouth on the back of her hand.

"Alright, mister albino, I'll hear your news. You are not quite what I had in mind after a long day in the hot sun, but I suppose 'out of the sun' is better than 'roasting in the street.'" She dropped her right hand down to her sword's hilt. "But be warned, pal, if you try any funny stuff I will gut you like a fish." She backed away slightly to allow him to lead her toward his 'suite,' then backed a step further as the mechanical man came to life and started clunking across the floor in the wake of its master's smoothe stride.

The Necromancer walked past her, golem in tow, then paused as he turned the corner where the bar bent at right angles. Eyebrow raised, he asked: "Coming?"

Occhidiangela, Sister of the Sightless Eye turned Mage Slayer, tilted her head back and poured the rest of her ale down her throat, then casually tossed the mug to a surprised Dernek, who gathered it in less than artfully.

"Nice catch, Dernek," she remarked. "You may as well send up a tray of hard bread, garlic, snake pate and oil, and two more mugs of that ale. I may be in conference for a while." She moved to follow the man and his golem, remembering what her Martial Arts instructor had drilled into her head.

"Expect the unexpected, young one, and you shall never be surprised." How many times had she heard that old saw?

"Right," she muttered under her breath, as she followed the bizarre pair to the stairway that led to the rooms above the tavern . . .

[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 . . .

[Occhidiangela]

The Joys of Jehryn's Dungeons"


First there was the throbbing, dull pain behind her forehead, then the chaffing and burning of her wrists and forearms. Gradually, she became aware of the cold, damp stone against the bare skin of her back and her heels, and the dull ache of her shoulders. The cool, dank air and the smell of rotting straw were a clue to her whereabouts, but the fur ball in her mind stood in the way of clear memory. Had she been struck blind by the blow from that spear butt? A spear butt flying into her field of view was the last thing she remembered seeing before the lights went out.

Angeleyes drew in a slow, deep cleansing breath to clear her head. The long exhalation seemed to help, so she took three more, rhythmically breathing while closing her eyes. She knew her eyes were closed by the sensation of her lids falling more than by any change in the lighting conditions. The darkness surrounding her was complete. There being no light, she took inventory by feel and reason, resulting in discoveries that did nothing to improve here spirits.

She was shackled above the ground, her bare feet told her when she wiggled her toes, to a damp stone wall, held by both wrists and ankles. The wall she presumed to be within a cell in Jehryn’s dungeon. Yes, that was right, she had been in Lut Gholein, searching for signs of Tal Rasha and drinking at Atma’s Tavern in a parley with a sardonic death mage. She shuddered as the rest of the memory returned, along with the grisly revelation of her brother’s walking corpse and her flight from the tavern. She returned to her inventory.

She felt no clothing touching her clammy, goose bump covered skin, so she assumed herself to have been stripped as a precaution by her captors, whom she guessed were Greiz sellswords and spear pullers. Had she captured a Mage Slayer, she mused, she might have taken similar precautions. Whatever else, the inconvenience of being unclothed meant that someone had also removed her sword, her boots, her black leather armor, her various equipment. Even the rings from her fingers had been taken. She gritted her teeth at the irritation of having to find her “kit” before she could payback whomever she owed this favor. Her arms and legs, as best she could tell, were fastened such that her body formed an X against the wall.

She sneezed. The accompanying body tremor sent a new wave of pain through her joints, stiff with their lack of use over the past - how long had she been here, anyway? Her body froze in terror.

Where was Mikal, her nephew? She’d been carrying him under her arm as she fled Atma’s when the blow fell across her head with a shower of black and gold stars. She fought the pulse of panic flaring up within her stomach, then reached mentally for her center, took another cleansing breath, and worked her way steadily and resolutely back to calm irritation at being someone’s, probably Jehryn’s, prisoner.

“Light blast them all to cinders,” she swore under her breath, “But save six to be gravediggers and pall bearers at the mass funeral.” Her father’s old multi-purpose curse came scratching out of her throat, sparking the realization that she was terribly thirsty. At least her last drink had been a Westmarch Bitter, so there was that to be thankful for. The return of her sense of humor cheered her up for a second or two.

Whatever escape plan she chose would have to wait, she realized, until someone came to her cell bearing light. Without shadow, she could not summon her Shadow as she had in Orthas’ room. And constrained as she was, she would need her Shadow to free her hands and feet. But she could at least get a better sense of her surroundings, and thus be as prepared as possible.

By wiggling her fingers she determined that they were free, albeit unable to ply their skills at lock picking since her locked wrists were at arm’s length apart from one another. One deep breath later, she arched her stomach forward, her shoulders and heels forced against the stone wall, and then slammed her lower back into the wall while snapping her hands downward at the wrist and exhaling a forceful “Maulisai!” She felt the force go out, away from her.

The echo of reflected force came back to buffet her, but the pain was worth hearing a rattle that could only be a door, or a latch, and a sense that the wall facing her was about two or three strides away. The rustling sound that accompanied the rattle resolved itself into a few shards of damp straw swirling across her cell to stick to her head, belly, and face. A few deep breaths later, she settled down to wait for the first victim of her growing anger, anger at being trussed up like some common thief.

She flushed in bitter memory as she thought how loudly Kashya would laugh to see her strung up and helpless like this. But that bit of politics was behind her now, she reminded herself, though she couldn’t help but wonder if any of her Sisters would help her, had they known of her present fate. Her change in occupation from traveling Sister to Mage Slayer had made her life more complicated, that much was for certain. Perhaps that bridge had been burned.

Her shoulders protested as she relaxed, further stretching the soft tissue, but as gravity was not willing to negotiate, she accepted their fresh messages of pain as the price of her eventual freedom. She closed her eyes, sought her center, found it, and calmly drifted into the half-waking, half-dreaming meditation she had learned from the psi-masters in the North. She drifted inward, to behold not her usual “place of peace” in the ordered rock garden she’d made as an apprentice Mage Slayer, but instead to the older vision from her earliest training: the view of a bright, softly glowing, Sightless Eye. She hung there, a trap ready to spring on her first visitor.

Footsteps brought her out of her trance.

Her ears, hyper tuned by her relaxed state, told her that one pair of feet were iron shod, another wore leather boots, and a third slippers. The voices were somewhat muffled by echoes and the door, but with concentration she could make out a muttered conversation.

“We’ll not enter the room, Mistress Zenovia, strict orders on that, but you can have a look to see if this is the woman what killed your boy in that tavern brawl.” She frowned, as she remembered running from, not fighting at, Atma’s. Then something opened and light entered her cell. She let her eyelids stay drooped as her head sagged, then inwardly rejoiced as she made out shadows against a red, flickering background of torchlight. Patience, Occhi, she said to herself, patience before payback.

“I can’t see her, Durga, not with your face pressed against the bar.” This voice from a woman who sounded middle aged, though the faint echoes out in the passageway made that uncertain. Keeping her head down, she cracked her eyelids open a bit further.

“Durga, back away!” came a short bark from another woman. Her tone brooked no discussion. “We are down here to identify a suspect, not for you to stare at the prisoner!” A slight shuffling of feet allowed more torchlight to leak into the cell for a moment, only to be partially blocked by another face, hooded and shrouded in shadow.

“I can’t see her face from out here, Sergeant Xandtia, with the light behind me and her head all slumped down like that.” The woman’s voice dropped into sarcasm. “For all I know, that’s one of Lord Jehryn’s concubines being punished for not being sufficiently grateful for his attentions.” A pause followed and the red light flickered.

“Is there anyway I can get you to push the torch into the chamber?” The shadow in front of the little window in the cell door withdrew and the red light flickered more brightly. Black and red shadows danced into the cell.

Angeleyes drew in a breath and reached her fingers to position her palms face up, her wrists screaming at her as their skin tore within the manacles. The torch poked into the window, forcing her eyes shut from the pain of new light, yet creating a new host of shadows that chased one another around what her brief glimpse revealed as a small cell.

“Umbrogliu!” she breathed out, and felt the energy channel out of her, leaving her weakened and slightly light headed.

“What’s that, wench, you sassing your betters?” Durga’s guttural growl echoed slightly in the passageway outside the door. “You keep it shut with that ‘pole you’ nonsense, or we’ll see what a few doses of the cat will do to your sass!” Angeleyes sensed the quickening of the shadows to her right, and decided to keep the attention on herself. She raised her head and slowly opened her eyes, squinting against the red torchlight that danced about. A mailed fist, thrust through the iron bars in the small window at the top of the door, held a burning torch. The face next to the torch was indistinguishable within its hood, but behind the cloak she could make out the reflected glow of golden hair, doubtless one of the two guards.

“You get your laughs from staring at chained women, lady?” she rasped, her voice cracking in her dry throat. The longer the shadows danced, the faster her summons would complete. “Well, gaze away, I’m not going anywhere at the moment.”

“You should have gagged her, you fool!” barked the louder female voice. “Shut the window!” The torch and the face disappeared as the opening slammed shut. Hints of red light leaked into the room under the door.

“Assassin, you hold your tongue behind your teeth!” The woman’s voice again, stern with the aura of command, though slightly muffled through the door. “No food or water for you until tomorrow. Murderers get no mercy, and no food, unless they keep a civil tongue in their mouth.”

“Murderer?” shrieked Angeleyes. “Murder is it? How about the son of a whore who stole my nephew, Mikal?” Her voice cracked but her fury forced her on. “You golden-haired twit, which of you bughumpers has my nephew? And who did I supposedly kill? I rescued my nephew from a death mage, you cat kissing bitch, before one of your drunken spear-pullers played cricket with my forehead!” She would have said more, but her throat burned and cracked from the lack of moisture, choking off her next words.

“Silence, murderess!” came the shouted command as the door slammed open to reveal a tall, blonde-haired woman dressed in chain mail and knee boots, long sword in a scabbard at her side. Even in the darkness and shadow, Angeleyes could see her golden hair bound up in the high “horsetail” favored by Amazon mercenaries, and the flash of the woman’s gray eyes as she took two quick strides into the cell to deliver a hard punch to the prisoner’s rather vulnerable stomach. The blow drove the wind from the Assassin’s lungs and brought stars to her eyes. Angeleyes writhed involuntarily as she gasped for breath that was suddenly impossible to find, so she barely saw the shadow erupt from the corner of the room.

With a jerk of the “horsetail” and a lightning quick slash of her wrist blade, Shadow ripped the Amazon’s throat open. Angeleyes heard the woman’s body fall and start thrashing about on the floor of the cell as the woman gurgled her dismay in a fountain of blood. A harsh exclamation of surprise from Durga was followed by the dull crack of leather on flesh and the ring of a metal helm against rock. A second blow cut off the beginnings of a woman’s scream as the guard’s heavy body fell to the ground.

Angeleyes slowly got her wind back, a fresh round of pain washing over her from bound extremities, as the shadow silently dragged the two bodies from the passageway into the cell. It left and returned with the still flickering torch, then shut the cell door to reveal a grisly scene.

The tall blond woman’s convulsions continued as she clasped her hands to her throat in a vain attempt to stop the red fountain of blood. The shadow stared down impassively as the Amazon went through her spasmodic death throes. The body of the hooded woman lay in a small heap in the left corner of the cell, while the large, spear wielding guard lay on his back in the other corner, the slight rise and fall of his chest indication that he’d been knocked out, not slain.

“Shadow, my manacles please?” the Mage Slayer asked when she could breath again.

The Shadow rifled through the guard’s pockets, producing a set of keys. After a few tries, it succeeded in unlocking the ankle bounds. The wrists manacles followed, which left Angeleyes to fall a stride to the floor in a heap, her pleasure at being unbound dampened by the new wave of pain erupting from most of her body, the injury to her left knee not having been improved by hanging on a wall. She spent a few minutes massaging her wrists and ankles and pondering how she would escape from the dungeon.

The guard stirred. Shadow stepped to him and knealt down, her blades at his throat when Angeleyes whispered “No, wait! I need his clothes!” A nod and a quick blow to the man’s head put him back to sleep. Angeleyes stood, awkwardly, and returned her attention to the dying Amazon. A bit tall, but it looked as though her armor and clothing would fit. Then inspiration struck her.

She sat down on the floor next to the other woman and removed her cloak. In the sputtering torchlight, she made out the features of the cook from Elzix’ tavern, Zenovia. The woman’s shoulder length, graying hair was just longer than her own, but she would have to do. Quickly removing the unconscious woman’s cloak and clothing, she dragged her to the manacles and motioned to Shadow. With a little help, Zenovia was soon shackled to the wall, her head hanging down to her chest, her shallow breath moving her shoulders. A quick tearing of cloth from Durga’s cloak provided a gag, which Shadow tied loosely into her mouth.

Angeleyes turned her attention to the guard and pulled the sword from the Amazon’s belt, the blond warrior’s form now lying still in a sizeable pool of her own blood. With a businesslike thrust, she drove the longsword through Durga’s ribs, slightly left of center, and pressed until the point emerged to touch the floor. The guard’s body flailed about for a few moments, then lay still. Pulling his scimitar from his belt, she made a couple of quick cuts across the Amazon’s cheeks, then embedded the blade into the already impressive gash in her throat, courtesy of the Shadow’s blade. She then rolled the man’s body on top of the Amazon, wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his scimitar, and then wrapped the Amazon’s fingers as best she could around the hilt of the long sword. With luck, whoever found them would assume they had killed one another, hopefully for long enough to confuse the search effort.

Donning Zenovia’s dress and cloak, she considered the amazon’s leather boots, but decided that missing footwear would expose the false “double murder” she had staged. Slippers would have to do. A search of Durga’s boot revealed a sharp knife. It was a start.

Her new wardrobe complete, she stood facing Zenovia and slapped the woman’s face briskly until she awoke. The chef’s eyes opened wide with fear when she saw Angeleyes and her dark Shadow standing before her in the red torchlight. A pitiful whimpering erupted from behind her gag.

Angeleyes put a finger to the chef’s lips.

“Quiet, you, or I’ll have to leave you dead in these manacles.” The eyes opened even wider as panic set in.

“Zenovia, consider the short time you are confined here as punishment for the quality of the swill you dish out at Elzix’ tavern.” The woman stiffened with surprise. “Yes, I recognize you, and suggest that when you get free, you find another occupation. You have been rotting Lut Gholein’s guts for far too long.”

Zenovia’s face relaxed as she realized she might survive.

“Now, chef, you can guarantee your own life if you answer me one question: who has my nephew Mikal?”

The woman shook her head and gurgled.

“OK, let me try this again: there was a young boy taken from me when I was captured. That boy is my nephew. He is rather unusual looking, as he has a deep reddish brown complexion and bright blond wavy hair, almost curly. He is 8 years old.” The woman’s eyes opened again and she nodded her head frantically. Angeleyes reached up and untied the gag.

“Please don’t kill me, Mistress Assassin!” The woman sobbed for breath. “The Necromancer Orthas it was who charged you with murder. My boy is in the town militia, and Orthas told Greiz that you killed him in a brawl at Atma’s!” She began to weep. “There was a little boy who looked like the one you describe in Orthas’ company at Elzix’ this morning, but I think they were leaving town. Headed north, if Elzix heard it right.”

Angeleyes’ jaw dropped in dismay. “Orthas still walks under the sun in Lut Gholein after his iron golem killed those people in Atma’s tavern? And after he let a fire golem loose on the streets of Lut Gholein?”

She felt dizzy for a moment, unable to comprehend the kind of cover story that could convince anyone with a working brain that she, not he, was the cause of the fire and death on the streets of the city that day. He must have something on Jehryn, she thought.

“Please let me go, please don’t kill me too!” The woman began to weep uncontrollably. Angeleyes slapped her with the back of her hand to shut her up.

“You will not die by my hand, Zenovia. I don’t know what that death mage did to confuse an entire guard force, not to mention dozens of-oh blast the light!--drunken witnesses.” She winced as she started to see part of the answer. “I can assure you that the boy is my nephew. He is Mikal, son of the Paladin OcchiOTemplar and his wife the battle maiden OcchiSonya. You may remember them from a few years ago, the two who slew The Wanderer, He Who Was the Lord of Terror reborn.” She watched the older woman’s eyes cloud in utter incomprehension, then spat on the floor. “Yeah, I thought so, you can’t see past the end of your nose.” She stepped back from the woman, then reached forward to replace the gag. Zenovia stared wildly at her, panic clear on her face.

“Why don’t you just hang around here and see who drops by, alright chef? I’m sure that eventually the guards, or Greiz’ mercenary scum, will wonder where these two lovebirds ran off to and come looking. You’ll be out of here faster than Warriv’s mule skinners regurgitate the food you cook.” With a theatrical bow and a flourish of her ‘borrowed’ cloak, Angeleyes backed out of the cell accompanied by her shadow, who closed and locked the door. The Mage Slayer took the key ring and mused aloud.

“I wonder what other doors these open, Shadow. Care to find out?” She turned to look at the dusky double of herself standing there in black leather, wrist blades held casually above her waist. Shadow’s impassive expression was, as usual, no help. Angeleyes began her slow walk up the passageway, her mind tearing through courses of action and rejecting them as fast as they emerged.

“My brother and mother are dead, my sister in law is off on a mad mission of vengeance, and my nephew is in the hands of a Priest of Rathma.” She shook her head and stopped. “And I am accused of murder in the one city where the lore exists to find Tal Rasha, the mage who has doomed us all.” She swore as she realized that she had added to her own problems. “Light burn my short temper, I’ve now done murder, havent’ I? Or, haven’t we?” She paused while she considered the riddle of her complicity in the death of the two guards. “Hell, Shadow, did you have to cut her throat? You left me few choices.”

Shadow said nothing as the Mage Slayer resumed her journey away from the dungeon, but merely carried the torch whose flickering light created a macabre, moving mosaic on the walls as the pair mounted the stairs to a landing before a large wooden door.

“I’m not in Lut Gholein, Shadow, I’m in a waking nightmare.” She stopped as she reached for the door’s heavy latch. “There’ll be Hell to pay before I’m done with the idiots of Lut Gholein, by the Light, and I’ll burn Jehryn’s palace to the ground if Mikal falls afoul of Necromancer magic!” Shadow remained impassive as it replaced the torch in a sconce to the left.

Durga’s boot knife in her right hand, Angeleyes reached for the door handle . . .

To be continued . . .

[Occhidiangela]

"Chapter 4: Through the Shadows, Darkly"


Angeleyes paused as she pushed the door handle down. She was unfamiliar with the layout of the Palace's dungeons, having never been given a tour, but the lack of light visible under the bottom of the door suggested another passageway. She whispered over her shoulder to Shadow.

"Stick to the left wall, move slow, leave the torch, and lock the door behind us." She handed the key ring back to her summoned double.

Crouching down, she pushed the bottom of the door forward slowly, paused, and then gradually swung it open all the way. The flickering torch in the wall sconce behind her provided enough light to reveal rows of neatly stacked wooden crates, a hanful of armor racks complete with suits of chainmail, stacks of shields and other armaments along one wall, and rows of barrels along the opposite wall. Stepping into the room, she heard the door click shut and was plunged back into near total darknesss. The faint glimmer of light ahead and to her right, up in the ceiling, hinted at a trap door. Stealth was once again in order.

With considerable care she moved along the wall to her left, groping out with her left hand to avoid tripping over the armor racks her brief inspection had taken in. Shadow disappeared from her side and was doubtless already at the crack in the door, a mere step away for a creature adept at shadow walking. Angeleyes had to climb over a few crates, in one case bumping her head on the cellar's ceiling beams, before reaching the far end of the room and the foot of a flight of stairs that led up to the faint crack of light. Crawling slowly up the steps, she sensed Shadow once again on her left. Feeling more naked without her arms and armor than she had felt hanging unclothed in the manacles, she grimaced in frustration, gripped Durga's boot knife a bit more firmly, and then slipped it gently into the crack to feel around.

A methodical search of the crack's track revealed it to be the hinged end of a trap door. Inspecting the rest of the door by feel and such light as leaked in through the thin crack, she found the ring, braced her feet against the middle step, and slowly pushed up with her legs.

The door budged slightly, then stopped as a bar or latch above resisted her attempt to raise the door. She whispered again to her shadow.

"Slowly through the crack, open the bolt, then melt." Shadow flowed by her and away.

A chill of apprehension shot through her spine as the upper latch slid out with a few creaks and small squeals, then she tried her shoulder again. The trapdoor mover up smoothely enough, revealing more barrels and boxes.

Now or never, thought Angeleyes to herself. She opened the trap further and then belly crawled out of the opening, catching the door on her toe before she curled back to gently lower the trapdoor silently into place. One slow breath later, she slipped the bar back into place with measured caution, grinning in satisfaction as it made no sound under her expert fingers.

She peered around the barrels to inspect the dimly lit surroundings, the source of illumination a grate high on the opposite wall through which a shaft of sunlight penetrated into what was yet another store room. Closing here eyes, she heard the faint sounds of shallow breathing, almost the same rhythm as a sleeper makes, and then sensed Shadow at her side once again.

Unmistakeably male voices started talking beyond a door to her right, though the rumbling tone and the muffling of wood and bronze made the words indecipherable. Moving swiftly across the room, her eyes acclimating to the massive increase in light, she nearly tripped over a small body curled up just behind the door.

A small body with a head full or curly blond hair lay napping. Her heart raced n anticipation. She gently took hold of the child's shoulder and turned his body. She gasped in relief as she beheld the sleeping features of her nephew, Mikal. Tears of joy sprung into her eyes as the boy stirred and then opened his eyes. His own eyes widened in surprise, then he tried to roll away from her. She quickly grabbed him but could not stop his plaintive squawk of frustration.

"No fair," he squealed, "You were supposed to count to one hundred before you came looking for me, no fair!" He stood up and then, as his head cleared the cobwebs of sleep, stared at her as the cloak fell back from her face to reveal her features. She smiled, hoping to reassure him of her identity.

Voices beyond the door broke up the reunion.

"Hah, I think I hear the little scamp," laughed a deep voiced man. "Sounds like him back there in the store room. Let's go roust him and set him to the task!"

The merry lilt in the man's voice was lost on Angeleyes as she dove behind a pair of barrels, determined to remain unseen. Shadow melted into the darkness behind the door, the edges of her blades barely discernable at her hips.

"Aunt Occhi, is that you?" queried Michael. "Are you playing hide and seek too?"

Confusion flooded into her brain as the door latch creaked open and a large bearded man in chainmail entered to let more daylight break into the room. A broad grin on his face, he turned to shout into the adjoining room.

"I found him, Jemali, standing here and talking to a shaft of sunlight!" A growling laugh burst out, followed by the stomp of iron shod boots as a second guard strode toward the small room.

Hide and seek with the guards? What in the Blazing Light was going on? She glanced in horror as she saw Shadow raise her left blade for a strike and blurted out a command, panic stricken that another dead body would foil her escape plan.

"Nolumo!"

The whole room went dark as the Shadow dissolved and grew into an enormous, spreading cloak of darkness that obscured the light from both the doorway and the grating. Angeleyes dove forward, over the nearest barrel, to Mikal's last position and was rewarded by his "Oof" of surprise as she tackled him. Curling into a ball, she rolled past the first guard's legs and out into the adjoining room as he exploded with invective.

"What in Greiz' name is this!!" He thundered

She felt a jarring physical contact as the second guard stumbled over her in a clash of metal and further cursing, then sprang to her feet, bumped into a desk, and hurtled to her right where she crashed through a door that opened outward. Her momentum carried her out and suddenly she was falling, tumbling, down a short flight of steps and landing with a dusty thump in the strangely shadowed streets of Lut Gholein, the buildings around her identifying the location she had just left.

Greiz command post stood behind her, now filling with a cacophony of cursing and the ringing of drawn swords, a host of voices expressing their surprise at the dousing of sunlight at mid day.

She picked up her nephew and ran, hurtling down the cobblestone street toward Fara's weapons shop, hoping beyond hope that the cloak of shadows would last long enough for her to get a few large bodies between her and the inevitable pursuit of yet more mercenaries . . .

To be continued