The Catacombs of Dharwataqan
Bruce Durham

"You can say 'ouch', you know."

"It doesn't hurt."

"Oh? Why the grimace?"

Moirya leaned back on her arms, fingers digging into the soft oasis sand, relishing the shade of the palms and the warm breeze blowing off the dunes.

Dalacroy hunched beside her, working with his knife at the tattoo on her ankle, applying a paste in the vain hope of disguising the telltale slaver's cross. He was having little success.

Finally, he flipped his blade into the sand and sighed. "I'm making it worse. This was a bad idea."

Moirya flexed her leg and sat straight to inspect the work. She giggled. "It looks like half a wheel. I think you should stick to fighting." She frowned. "It won't get infected, will it?"

He shrugged. "It shouldn't. I just pricked the skin."

She nodded and stretched, her tattered garment revealing more flesh that Dalacroy wished to see. Moirya smiled as he looked away. "Embarrassed? I hardly expected that from you."

He mumbled, "Not embarrassed. I think we should go. I don't want to risk an encounter."

She sighed and stood. "Very well. Let me wash my ankle. You've made it a mess."

Dalacroy nodded, watched her walk to the still water, admiring her tall, slender shape, gentle curves and long legs. He picked up his knife and cleaned it. He looked again.

Auburn hair hung shoulder-length and framed an oval face, accentuating high cheek bones and contrasting expressive green eyes. Her naturally bronzed skin was darkened from exposure to the sun and amply exposed through a torn white tunic--a fact Dalacroy found increasingly uncomfortable. He'd be happy when they reached her home town of Qialtl.

The days after the events in the haunted marsh of Qetzkol had been spent journeying north, traveling at night to escape the heat of the desert and roaming Yakuli nomads.

The oasis they stumbled across proved deserted, though crushed grass and churned sand spoke of frequent visitation by man and beast. They had hesitated for only a moment, deciding the need for water was worth a chance encounter.

A glint of metal in the sunlight alerted Dalacroy to danger, and the mercenary slid quickly behind a palm tree.

Two riders crested a dune, following the trail Dalacroy and Moirya had left the night before. The strangers paused to study the oasis, and then nudged their mounts forward. One drew a sword, while the other produced a bow.

Using the tree to block the riders, Dalacroy backed until he felt the waters of the oasis. He glanced at Moirya. She was alert; body poised to move. Good instincts, he thought.

"Remove your tunic," he said.

She stared. "Are you ser...

"Shhh, don't look at me. Just do it! Then go where the water's deepest." Dalacroy uprooted a shoot and trimmed it with his blade. He put the hollowed reed to his lips and drew air. Satisfied, he looked back.

Moirya was naked. She saw him watching and blushed. "This is embarrassing. You better know what you're doing." She entered the oasis and waded to the center. The water was chest high.

Dalacroy peered around the trees, saw the riders were close. He followed, drawing up behind her. He whispered, "Look worried!"

"Look?"

"We have to split them somehow. Try to entice one to join you. Act nervous or something!"

"Act? What if it doesn't work?"

"It'll work, trust me. Here they come." Her answer was muffled as Dalacroy slipped under the surface and put the reed to his lips. He waited, drawing air through the tiny hole, growing conscious of her muscled back, narrow waist and toned legs.

He heard a brief exchange, the water distorting the words. Moirya suddenly stepped forward, and then retreated, brushing against him. He heard a splash, saw a pair of clothed legs churning toward her.

Dalacroy stood, breaking the surface, quickly eyeing the intruders. They were Yakuli raiders. The archer waited at the oasis' edge; the other now mere feet from Moirya, mouth opening to shout a warning. Dalacroy threw the blade. It spun end over end, plunging deep into the archer's throat. The Yakuli clutched it and dropped to his knees, blood gushing through splayed fingers.

Moirya lunged at the swordsman, knocking the surprised raider off balance. They splashed hard into the water. Dalacroy swore and dove, reaching the pair in three strides. He kicked his legs, manoeuvred over the raider and grabbed his head in a tight grip. Twisting hard, the neck snapped; the body slumped lifeless.

Dalacroy and Moirya stood; each breathing heavily as water drained from their bodies. Dalacroy reached down to grab the lifeless nomad by his clothes. "Now we have weapons and horses."

Moirya laughed. "And don't forget their clothes. I'll dress before your heart gives out."

*

Dalacroy released the reins. His mount dropped her head to sniff a sparse patch of vegetation. Moirya manoeuvred her horse until she touched the mercenary leg to leg. She threw back her cowl, moved several strands of hair away from her eyes.

Dalacroy reached for a water skin and offered it. Moirya swallowed a mouthful and passed it back. He drank sparingly, the warm liquid passing over dry lips. Satiated, he placed his hands on the pommel, leaned forward to stroke the head of his mount, drawing a snort of appreciation from the dun beast.

Dharwataqan rose like a blemish on a granite hill, an ancient settlement of one story sandstone buildings and crumbling brick walls, pockmarked from centuries of desert wind. It was a way-point, a stop-over for caravans, merchants, and mercenaries.

Guards lazed at the gates, casually checking all travelers as they entered and departed.

Dalacroy and Moirya exchanged looks. He said, "You sure about this?"

She nodded. "We need food. Let's do it."

"Cover your face."

They rode toward the gate.

*

The merchant grunted. He was seated behind an oak table in a spacious antechamber; parchments scattered before him. He was immense, his girth straining a white, wine-stained tunic. Flabby arms ended in sausage-thick fingers; each finger adorned with a colorful ring. Obsidian eyes stared from a heavily jowled face. Thick lips curved down in a permanent frown.

He stared at the travelers, quickly dismissing Moirya to focus on Dalacroy. He scowled. "A northern sell sword with Yakuli weapons, no?"

Two guards stood to either side of the open exit. Two more were located behind the merchant. A small man watched from a shadowed corner, his shifty eyes narrowing as he studied the cloaked girl. A boy sat on a cushion, waving a fan over the merchant's head.

A guard looked out the door, said, "Yakuli horses and tack, too, my lord Mazaki."

Dalacroy jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Their owners don't need them any more." His hand rested on the hilt of his appropriated scimitar.

"Matters little to me," the merchant grumbled. "So, you want supplies, no? You have something to barter?"

The small man interrupted, his voice thin and reedy. "Barter, my lord? This northerner has something that belongs to me."

Mazaki turned, the fat roll banding his thick neck bunching. "Something to say, Chiaki?"

Dalacroy saw Moirya tense.

The shadowed man stepped into light. He was thin, head devoid of hair, a sharp nose hooked over a lipless mouth. He snapped his fingers. The guards quickly drew their weapons.

Chiaki said, "Keep your hands from your weapons. A word from me and the guards will kill you, slow." He stepped before Moirya, reached out, and stripped the robe to her feet. He touched the flimsy tunic, knelt to study her ankle. "Ah, for shame. You try to disguise my mark."

The merchant rapped his knuckles on the table. "What have you found, my friend? An escaped slave?"

"Indeed. I sold her in Antocona over two weeks past. She was for delivery to Megidan."

Dalacroy said, "Her caravan was destroyed by raiders. We survived, and I freed her."

Mazaki steepled his fingers. "You have papers authorising her freedom?"

"Papers? My word is good enough."

"Not here, northerner. I fear I side with Chiaki. With her present owner dead, status reverts to the previous owner."

The thin man bowed. "My lord is wise." He motioned to Moirya. "Come. First we will clean..."

Dalacroy stepped forward. The guards reacted, extending their blades within inches of his torso. He assessed the two before him, decided they were mildly competent. He growled, "Moirya is no slave. If paperwork is involved, then write me something."

The merchant pursed his thick lips. "And how do we compensate Chiaki for his loss, hmm?"

"Compensate? That dog's already sold her once! Enough!" Dalacroy darted to the left and grabbed an outreached sword arm, twisting violently. The man screamed and released the weapon. The mercenary snatched it mid air and parried a blow from a second blade. He smashed the sword hilt into the man's nose, shattering it, producing an eruption of blood. Spinning on his heel, he drew his knife and crouched, ready to throw.

Chiaki snapped, "Enough, northerner. Another move and the slave dies." The small slave-dealer held a razor thin blade to Moirya's throat.

Dalacroy growled, "Kill her and you all die." He glared at Chiaki. "Starting with you."

Silence ensued, except for groans from the injured guards.

Suddenly the fat merchant chuckled. "An impasse. Most entertaining. Northerner, you have skill and bravery. However, unlike you, I wish to live. So, we deal?"

Dalacroy kept his eyes on Chiaki. "Speak!"

"Retrieve an item for me and you can have the girl, her papers, and all the supplies you need."

"Retrieve?"

"Something important."

"Where?"

"In the catacombs, under your very feet."

"Keep talking."

"Dharwataqan was built over the remains of an ancient city. There are few known entrances, all believed sealed. However, I possess one--unsealed. A scholar in my employ discovered clues of a book--a priceless tome in a room filthy with riches."

"Why would you need me? Go get it yourself."

"I've tried, twice. The first party never returned, and a lone man survived the second. He was insane. The remainder of my men are somewhat... reluctant to try again." Half a dozen guards entered, including a giant near seven feet tall. "Ah. I would say the odds now favor me."

Dalacroy lowered his knife. "I don't know the way."

"So, you've agreed." The sausage fingers snatched a quill and wrote furiously on a parchment. Finished, he blew on it and offered it to Dalacroy. "To show good faith, northerner, these papers set the slave free."

Dalacroy tossed the scimitar to an injured man. "That's yours." He took the parchment and scanned it. "I can't read this. For all I know it's a death warrant."

The merchant waved at Chiaki. "Put that toy away and leave the girl be. Go fetch Lyman."

The slave dealer reluctantly complied and left the room. He returned moments later followed by a heavy set man.

Mazaki smiled. "My good Lyman. This is..." He waved a chubby hand.

"Dalacroy."

"This is Dalacroy. I gave him a parchment. Read it."

Lyman approached warily. "As you wish." He had a fleshy face and thinning hair. Close set eyes peered carefully from under grey eyebrows. Simple blue robes covered his overweight frame. He took the document. "It grants the freedom of a slave girl." Lyman glanced at Moirya. He handed the parchment to the merchant. "You forgot to add her name, my lord."

Mazaki passed it over to the slave-dealer. "Add it." He said to Lyman. "Dalacroy has graciously offered to retrieve the book."

The scholar's face brightened momentarily, and then he frowned. "Have you told him everything?"

"I mentioned the past failures."

Dalacroy took the amended parchment from Chiaki, passed it to Lyman. "Make sure the name reads Moirya." He looked at Mazaki. "I'll need a map."

Mazaki leaned back in his chair, the wood protesting with the strain. "Lyman will accompany you."

The scholar looked up, mouth falling open.

"I have decided. The other missions failed because of the unknown, yes? What they lacked was your knowledge of the catacombs. I won't repeat that mistake. You can have extra men if you don't trust the northerner." He spread his thick arms. "I'll triple the month's wages of anyone in this room who volunteers to go." He frowned at the injured guards. "Except you two. Report to the stables."

Dalacroy dropped his eyes to the parchment in Lyman's hands. The scholar nodded, handed it over. The mercenary tucked it away and crossed his arms. "The girl comes with me."

Moirya snapped, "I'm not the girl." She bent for the robe, tossed it about her shoulders.

Mazaki chuckled. "She has spirit. Take her. Of course, my men will see you keep the bargain, yes?"

Dalacroy shrugged. "Send an army if you want. Let's get this over with."

"Indeed. Lyman, show them to the storeroom. Take what you need."

After the trio departed, Mazaki wiggled a finger at the slave-dealer. The tiny man slid over. The merchant unrolled a parchment. An intricate drawing of a book was sketched on its brown surface. "This is what we seek. Once in your possession, kill the northerner and the scholar. The girl, of course, is yours. Take Shimburi."

Chiaki's eyes flicked to the giant. "At once, my lord Mazaki."

*

Dalacroy draped the scabbard over his shoulder and cinched the strap. He drew the blade to test its feel. Beside him, Moirya tightened a pair of leather sandals she had appropriated, along with a new tunic, leather jerkin, knife and short sword.

She frowned. "Why over the shoulder? Why not the back?"

Dalacroy tightened a bracer. "Less risk of injury. I've seen too many men break their spine taking a fall with a weapon draped that way." He nodded at the blade slung around her narrow hips. "You know how to use that?"

"Somewhat."

"Somewhat. Well, keep the pointed end away from me."

Lyman walked in, followed by a half dozen guards. The last to appear was the giant, Shimburi. A massive hammer rested across one shoulder. The scholar led the group to another building, where a guard unbolted a heavy gate. They entered a warehouse filled with supplies and dry goods. At the far end was a staircase. It led down to a thickly reinforced iron door.

Dalacroy asked, "The catacombs?"

"Yes." Lyman prepared torches, handed one to the mercenary and kept the other.

"Somebody went to a lot of trouble making sure no one breaks in."

The scholar raised a bushy eyebrow. "Or out. People have heard pounding on the doors... from the inside." He stepped back, allowed a guard to pass and unlock the door. The key turned heavy tumblers with a series of substantial clicks. Several men gathered to pull it open. The door moved slowly, squealing with age, expelling dust and a blast of stale air.

Dalacroy drew his sword and glanced at Moirya. "Stay with me." Leading with the torch, he stepped onto the landing of a stone staircase. It was musty, and deathly quiet.

The stairway spiralled down over two hundred feet and emptied into a massive hall. The flickering torchlight hinted at thick columns to either side, stretching to a ceiling lost in the dark. Shadowy statues rested in wide alcoves, their chiselled features captured by the dancing light.

Dalacroy asked, "Where to?"

Lyman and Chiaki moved beside him. The scholar pointed straight ahead. "An entrance at the end of the hall leads to the catacombs. Be prepared, the way is narrow."

Dalacroy jerked his thumb at the seven foot guard. "Tell him."

Chiaki said, "Shimburi will manage." He slipped back to stand with the giant.

Dalacroy led the party along the hall, their footsteps echoing sharply on the stone floor. They stopped at an entrance hewn from the earth. Beyond it stretched a tight corridor bricked with crumbling sandstone. Roughly cut niches, two high, lay on either side. Many held the remains of brittle skeletons, some still covered with rotted clothes. Others contained nothing more than a mound of residue. The ground was littered with broken bones and scattered debris. Closer inspection revealed recent footprints.

Lyman said, "The previous expeditions, no doubt." He paused, eyes glazing over. Suddenly, he said, "We follow this path to the first intersection and turn left."

"Let's not waste time," Dalacroy mumbled, pushing by the scholar.

Lyman's hand grazed the mercenary's knife. His eyes flared with surprise, though he quickly recovered. Lips pursed in thought, he quickly joined Dalacroy and whispered, "You are Coranthan."

Dalacroy grunted, kept his eyes on the waste-strewn floor.

The scholar continued, softly. "Your father gave you that knife the day you left. He regrets you were the second youngest of seven sons. He thought you were the best choice to run his wine business."

Dalacroy stopped and turned. "What are you babbling about? You know nothing about me." He searched the scholar's chubby face. How had this man known he was the second youngest of seven, that the knife was a gift, that his father owned a winery? His eyes narrowed. "You sure you're only a scholar?"

Lyman smiled. "I'll speak no more, except to say the power in that knife is strong."

Dalacroy glanced at the blade tucked in his belt. "What power?"

The scholar lowered his voice to a bare whisper. "You don't know what you possess?"

The mercenary shrugged. "A knife. Enough, Mazaki's dogs grow restless."

Lyman turned. Chiaki stood with the giant. Shimburi's hunched bulk blocked the corridor. "As you say. One last thing--beware of treachery."

Dalacroy nodded. "That goes without saying."

The party moved slowly, halting often as Lyman gathered his bearings in the maze-like corridors. The air grew oppressive. The torchlight accented dust motes kicked from the ground.

They stopped when they heard a distant sound, the echo of some thing beating on metal. The guards grumbled nervously.

Moirya, strands of auburn hair stuck to her forehead, asked, "What is that?"

Lyman's answer held a nervous edge. "Something we don't want to meet. It sounds far from here, but I suggest we move. We're close to our destination."

Three turns brought the party to a long corridor. Dalacroy raised his sword, signaling a stop. He whispered to Lyman, "Put the torch behind your back."

The scholar did so, Dalacroy did the same. The path ahead was cast into dark. Eyes adjusting, he saw a dim yellow glow spilling from a room fifty paces distant. Dalacroy looked at the scholar. "My eyes didn't deceive. Is that our destination?"

"Yes."

"What lies there?"

"Riches."

Moirya peered around the two men. "What are those on the ground? Bodies?"

Dalacroy squinted. "Aye." He looked at the scholar. "Is it safe to proceed?"

Lyman shrugged.

"That's a help." Dalacroy stepped forward, kept the torch to the side and his eyes adjusted to the dark. He stopped at the first shape. It was a soldier, long dead. The skull was smashed. Beyond lay another; recently killed. The lifeless eyes were wide, the mouth open in a silent scream. He missed an arm.

Moirya struggled to keep her voice steady. "Is that one of Mazaki's men?"

The closest guard edged forward. "That's Boku. By all that's..." His voice rose in panic. The men fed off his fear and backed away.

Chiaki growled, "Another step and Shimburi will crush your cowardly skulls."

Dalacroy, Moirya and Lyman waited until Mazaki's men settled. The scholar said, "I think he was with the second expedition. A lot of these men have been dead much longer."

Moirya frowned. "They were torn apart."

Dalacroy felt a rising fear in the pit of his stomach. "Let's get this over with."

They passed over two dozen bodies in various states of decomposition--every one mangled and twisted.

Finally they reached the room. Dalacroy stared. It was large, the walls decorated with faded motifs of long forgotten battles, pale tapestries and rotted banners. The marble floors were laden with open chests of silver, jewels and mounds of gold coin. Chalices and ancient artifacts sat on elaborate pedestals, books and intricate devices from a lost age rested on ivory chairs and stone tables.

Dalacroy entered, his foot prodding something soft. It was another body. So captivated by the wealth, he hadn't noticed the carnage within--shattered bodies, scattered weapons, pools of dried blood.

Mazaki's men pushed past, their fear of death forgotten as they spied the treasure. They set about looting, doffing helms and filling them to overflowing.

Chiaki remained at the entrance, placed a hand on Shimburi's chest. "Stay with me. Lyman, I see no guardian."

Dalacroy fingered a silver necklace. "It's probably out for a stroll. Could be the sound we heard earlier." He handed the necklace to Moirya.

Chiaki entered. The giant followed, stood to his full height. The slave-dealer asked, "Where's the book?"

Lyman scanned the chamber. He pointed. "There, on the table by the wall. I"ll get it."

"No," Chiaki snapped. He produced the drawing and followed the scholar's finger to a leather-bound tome. It stood upright, surrounded by jewellery, rings and necklaces. He studied the drawing a moment and nodded. "That's it. Shimburi, get it."

Dalacroy glanced at Moirya and motioned toward the entrance. They edged for it. He said, "There's nothing here to fight, Chiaki. You've got what you want. I led you here. Our bargain's complete."

The slave-dealer turned, shouted. "That's far enough. Guards! Disarm them!"

Dalacroy drew his sword and dropped to a crouch. "Come and die, then!"

Lyman touched the small man, his voice anxious. "Keep quiet! You'll attract a guardian."

Chiaki spun on the scholar; pulled his robe from Lyman's pudgy fingers. "Quiet yourself! Go join the northerner. You, slave, put up that sword and come over here." He glared at Dalacroy. "Drop it!" He waved at Mazaki's men. They had paused in their looting to watch the exchange. "You may be good, northerner, but you can't take them all."

Lyman backed toward Dalacroy, said to the slave-dealer, "It must have been terrible when your father used you for his personal pleasure, Chiaki. How many years did that last? Should I tell the men?"

The slave-dealer's face reddened in the golden glow of the chamber. "What? How did you..." His voice faded as the book sailed over his head, landing several paces away. "Shimburi! What are you... ahckkk!" A massive hand gripped his neck, closing around the throat. He was lifted effortlessly off the floor. His eyes bulged, mouth widening as he clutched at the hand, gasping for air.

It was Shimburi. The giant's skin had turned marble grey; a lattice of dark lines wove through the transformed flesh. Its mouth was open, frozen in a silent scream. Its grip tightened; the bones in Chiaki's throat grinding until the head slumped lifeless.

A guard shrieked and bolted for the entrance. The giant reacted quickly, dropping the body and moving with surprising speed. It reached the entrance and grabbed the guard by the arm. Fingers closed and bone snapped.

Dalacroy placed himself in front of Moirya, cried, "What in Nagirok's name..."

Lyman cut in. "It's a guardian. Whoever touches the book triggers a spell of transformation. They become a creature of stone with only one purpose: protect the book."

Mazaki's men, stunned by the sight, suddenly reacted with life-preserving panic. They attacked Shimburi and hacked at it with their weapons. The iron blades proved ineffective, chipping off flecks of stone, causing little damage. The giant seized a guard, raising him overhead. It bent its massive arms until the guard's spine snapped like dried wood. The body was tossed into a stack of chests. Shimburi grabbed another soldier and used him to sweep the others back, and then smashed the man against the wall.

Moirya held her sword in shaking hands. "What do we do?"

Lyman said, "We wait."

Her voice cracked. "For what?"

"Trust me. Northerner, your knife; be ready."

Dalacroy stared. "What'll my knife do against that?"

Lyman's voice hardened. "Do as I say, if you want to live."

Uncertain, Dalacroy nodded and drew the weapon.

Another scream rent the air as a guard was tossed aside with a broken back. Two remained. They retreated, splitting up. The giant remained at the door, unmoving.

Dalacroy said, "Now what?"

"It will remain there until we starve, or another comes."

"Another?"

"They don't die. They roam the catacombs."

Moirya said, "That's what we heard earlier, isn't it? That's what Mazaki's men heard at the entrance." Her eyes widened. "How many are there?"

Lyman shook his head. "I'm not certain. I would have to touch the book to find out, and that's something I'm not prepared to do."

Dalacroy's eyes narrowed. "You are more than a scholar, aren't you?"

There was a glint in Lyman's eye. "Somewhat." He paused, raised his hand. They heard distant noises coming from the corridor. He raised his voice. "Guards! More guardians come. Escape before they arrive." Lyman whispered to Dalacroy. "Now's your chance. The guardian is stone, except for the eyes. It has to see. Plunge the knife into an eye. It will strike the brain. That will kill it."

Dalacroy looked at the knife. "Wouldn't my sword..."

Lyman grabbed his shoulder. "Gods take you, man. That knife is magic. Do it, before it's only us and it."

The mercenary looked to Moirya, who shrugged. He sheathed his sword, signaled to the remaining guards. They nodded. He shouted, "Now!"

Dalacroy rushed as the guards attacked, angling his approach behind the giant. The guards darted in and back, hacking and slashing, their swords doing little damage. Shimburi grabbed a blade with one stone hand. He stretched past with the other to seize a wrist before the man could release the weapon. Bone snapped. The guard screamed.

Dalacroy leapt onto the giant's back, one arm gripping its neck while striking with the other. The knife missed, grazing off the thick brow. The guardian reacted swiftly, dropping the injured mercenary to clutch Dalacroy's arm. The fingers tightened; Dalacroy's eyes teared with pain. Bone grated.

The last guard attempted to slip past, but the giant spun to snare him by the neck of his armour. It released its grip on Dalacroy's arm. He clung on, his legs cracking against the granite wall from the force of Shimburi's turn. The guard was pulled from his feet, had his head rammed twice against the wall. He went limp, and was dropped to land in a heap on the floor. Shimburi seized Dalacroy's arm once more.

Dalacroy clenched his teeth and planted the knee of one leg into the giant's back. He leveraged his body upward, roaring with the effort. Using the momentum, he brought the knife arcing over Shimburi's massive head and sliced deep into the spongy mass of the guardian's eyeball. He pushed the blade in to the hilt.

The guardian stumbled and dropped to its knees, its stone skin ramming the marble floor with a spray of fragments. The grip loosened and Dalacroy tumbled off. A moment later the giant toppled, slamming face down on the chamber floor.

Moirya raced to Dalacroy's side and helped him sit. Her voice was deep with worry. "Tell me you're fine."

Lines creased his forehead. "I think so." He flexed his arm and grimaced. He moved his legs. "Yeah, I think so." He saw her concern and managed a quick smile. "Thank you." He turned and glared at the giant. "Help me roll it over. I want my knife. And where's that scholar?"

"Back there, somewhere. Said he needed something." She helped him turn the giant over.

Knife retrieved, Dalacroy and Moirya sat and waited. Finally, the scholar strode up; his heavy features apprehensive.

Dalacroy pointed at the book. "Don't forget that."

Lyman glanced over, his lip curling in disgust. "That? I don't want it."

"What?"

"It was a marker. The real treasure was beside it." He held up his left hand. A simple ring adorned the small finger.

Dalacroy stood, pain forgotten in anger. "You mean to tell me you used us?" He reached for his sword. "I almost died for that ring?"

The scholar frowned. "I'm truly sorry. The book was the only item I had a sketch of. My research told me the ring lay near it." He smiled sheepishly. "It's not like you had much choice, anyway."

Moirya asked, "How did you know which ring to pick?"

Lyman hesitated. "Well, as Dalacroy alluded earlier, I'm more than just a scholar. I can sense energy in objects."

Dalacroy removed his hand from his sword and touched the knife. "So that's how you knew those things about me?"

"Indeed."

"And the knife?"

"The blade is magic. It was bonded to you when your father gave it as a gift. It has quite a past, you know."

"I'm sure. So, it's useful when I scrap with magical monsters. That's something I don't intend to do for a living."

"It possesses another power."

"This grows more interesting."

"It flies straight to its target."

"Oh." Dalacroy frowned, remembered the times the blade had struck true during combat. He chuckled. "And I thought it was me. Is there anything else I should know?"

"The power of true flight is ineffective against magic."

"So that explains why you had me jump Shimburi. Why is sorcery so complicated? Wait, never mind. Tell me, what's that ring do?"

"It enhances my gift." Lyman raised his voice. "In fact, I sense Mazaki and his men outside this very chamber."

Chuckling deeply, the ponderous bulk of the merchant entered, one hand wiping sweat from his corpulent face. He was surrounded by several men. They stepped carefully, weapons ready, warily eyeing their dead comrades... until they saw the treasure.

Mazaki snarled at his men to hold. He said to Dalacroy. "Don't tell me you killed them all? Was there no guardian?"

Dalacroy stepped aside. "Right here."

The merchant squinted. "That looks like Shimburi. What happened to his skin? Where's Chiaki?" His eyes settled on the floor and the leather-bound tome near his feet. "Ah, my book." He bent to pick it up.

Dalacroy shouted, "Ah no! Run!"

The screams began as they made the first turn. Lyman took the lead, guiding them through the catacombs until they reached the long hall. They paused to catch their breath.

Moirya held up a hand. "Listen!"

They heard a heavy footfall.

Dalacroy swore. "Is the damned thing tracking us?" He pushed Lyman forward. Moirya followed. They reached the staircase.

Moirya and the scholar climbed the steps. Dalacroy paused. The creature that had been Mazaki appeared at the catacomb entrance. It was nearly as wide as it was tall, its face a frozen mask of horror. Blood dripped from its grey skin. It lumbered forward.

Dalacroy bounded the steps three at a time, his pain forgotten. He reached the exit and put his shoulder against the iron door. It moved, squealing in protest. Moirya and Lyman frantically added their weight.

The guardian reached the stairs.

With a surge of adrenaline, Dalacroy, Moirya and Lyman slammed the iron door shut. Dalacroy dropped the massive latch. A moment later they recoiled as the door was hit from inside. The pounding continued, dust exploding from the frame with each successive blow. But the door held.

Dalacroy wiped his brow. "I never thought a fat man could run so fast. At least he'll have an eternity to read that damned book." He looked around. "Where are the guards?"

Lyman said, "Mazaki probably took them when he followed us."

Above the fierce pounding, Moirya said, "Well, I for one want out of here." She looked at Dalacroy, "You have my... papers, don't you?" She turned up her nose.

He tapped the leather armour at his chest. "Right here."

She nodded, reached into the lacing of her own jerkin and produced a handful of gold coins. "And these should keep us from thieving for a while."

Dalacroy laughed, "Amazing." He turned to the scholar, "And what about you?"

Lyman's hands disappeared into the folds of his robe and produced two gold chalices. "I'd like to join you, if I may. I fear Dharwataqan has seen enough of me."

Dalacroy continued to laugh. "It wouldn't be the first time I've been in the company of thieves."

They climbed the steps, leaving the iron door behind. The pounding continued, growing faint.