Chapter 0 - Cavern of the Witch

Cavern of the Witch
Aranthir IV
 
                In all his years, Nuys had had better days, he reflected. First, a sudden springtime downpour stranded him under an old willow tree two miles from any village. To make things worse, he had been found crouching under the tree by four ornery Blackcloaks who were equally unhappy with the rain. Helplessly, the old peddler watched as they tore through his pack and cart in search of anything with which to amuse themselves.
                “I paid four coppers for that!” Nuys complained as the lead Blackcloak, a tall, burly man with a thick red beard and a Hyrthanian accent, pulled a bottle of white wine from the cart. The man uncorked it with his teeth and gulped down a third of it. He spat it into the wet grass. 
                “Bah, that’s five coppers too much for this piss!” he threw the bottle against a rock, where it broke open. The men laughed at Nuys’ helpless expression. “What else have you got in here?”
                A short and fat Blackcloak with a thin mustache drew out a long knife from his belt and slashed open Nuys’ leather pack. Rooting around inside with his fat hand, he drew out a necklace of seashells, two gold rings, and a bronze statuette of an owl. 
                “Oh, these are nice,” the man said. He stuffed them into his pocket with a smirk. Nuys’ shoulders sagged with defeat. 
                The Blackcloaks tore through his cart, gorging themselves on what bread and wine he had brought with him and stuffing their pockets with trinkets. Nuys thought to slink away, but everywhere outside the shade of the willow tree was being drenched by a torrential downpour.
                It was then, looking out over the rainy fields above the sea cliffs, that he spied a rider approaching from the west. The figure was hooded and cloaked, moving with purpose along the muddy road, entirely undeterred by the rain. Nuys pulled his cloak tight around him as the rider neared and from behind him, he heard the Hyrthanian Blackcloak call out.
                “Halt there, traveler. You’re needing inspecting.” He hiccupped on his stolen wine as he put a hand to his sword’s pommel. The rider stopped before the tree, rain pouring down around him. His horse seemed strangely unbothered. 
                “I should say you need inspecting, the way you’re going through that man’s cart,” the rider replied coldly. “Doesn’t the king pay you enough to keep you from robbing common folk?”
                “Robbing?” the Blackcloak snapped. His eyes narrowed and his companions abandoned their plundering to draw up close to him. “You’d better not talk to the Realmsguard that way. Who are you anyway? A common vagabond? A bandit?”
                The rider pulled his horse around to face the Blackcloaks. As he did, Nuys spied a sword hilt over his back. The rider stared down the Blackcloaks from beneath his hood. His eyes were strange, and they almost glittered in the darkness of his hood.
                “I am no bandit. You would recognize your like, no doubt. I am a traveler on the road, nothing more. Though you would do well to return that man’s things and compensate him for what you destroyed.”
                The big man spat. “I don’t take orders from you.”
                “Advice, not orders,” the rider said, his hands dropped to the saddle horns. 
                “Fuck your advice. Get down from there and submit to inspection. There’s been smugglers all along this road,” he added. At least he bothered to come up with a justification, Nuys thought sourly.
                “Smugglers?” the rider theatrically looked up and down the coast. “Oh what? Sheep? Mud?”
                “Smugglers are those who don’t pay the king’s tax,” the fat Blackcloak snarled, waving a knife in the rider’s direction. “And there’s a toll on this road, too.”
                “Do you take payment in lead?” the rider asked. His hands snapped up from the saddles horns and panic went through Nuys as he realized the man held a wheellock pistol in each hand. The snap of the wheels clicking just barely preceded the roar of the guns. The fat Blackcloak died standing, while his Hyrthanian companion screamed and clutched his arm. 
                The rider holstered his pistols and drew two more from his belt. The other two Blackcloaks bolted, one for the rider, sword at the ready, and the other for his horse. Nuys scrambled for cover behind a rock. From his safe place, he saw the rider fire again, or try to. His pistol failed to spark in the wet, so with a shrug, the rider instead drew out his longsword and slid expertly from the saddle. The Blackcloak reached him in a frenzied panic and steel rang against steel. The newcomer was more than a match for his inept foe. He blocked a clumsy overhand attack and clove at his foe’s legs. The blade connected just below the man’s brigandine coat and his legs gave way. 
                Instead of finishing him off, the rider turned towards the fleeing Blackcloak. Shielding his pistol from the rain with one hand, conjured a wisp of flame from his fingers and applied it to the touchhole of the pistol. The shot struck the man square in the back and he splashed from his horse into the muddy field. He returned the pistols and drew a dagger from his belt.
                “I serve the king,” the wounded man at his feet hissed, propping himself up on an elbow to look into the rider’s face. “Strike a member of the Realmsguard, and you’ll hang. Family too, if you’ve got ‘em.”
                The rider was unimpressed. “The penalty is indeed severe,” he agreed. “So why should I leave you as a witness?” He stabbed the man in the throat and watched as he gurgled away the last of his life’s blood. The Hyrthanian leader was all that remained.
                “Please,” he begged as the cloaked rider approached him. “I have money. I’ll pay. Spare me the knife, and I’ll tell everyone bandits attacked me. I’ll say you helped drive them off, you’ll get a reward! I’ll recommend you to the king himself, just please, spare me!”
                The rider shrugged. “I’ll spare you the knife, at least.”
                He exchanged the dagger for his last pistol and put the muzzle to the man’s forehead.
                “Please, I have gold,” the Hyrthanian whispered one last time, a hand raised in surrender.
                “I know,” the rider replied. The gun sounded, and then there was only the sound of the falling rain.
                “Sorry I couldn’t save your things,” the rider said after a moment of silence. 
                Stilling his shaking hands, Nuys crawled out from behind the boulder. He looked over the carnage around him and swallowed hard.
                “I thank you for the assistance anyway.” His rescuer bent over the corpses, whispering a prayer to the God of the Dead. He finished and went to each corpse in turn while Nuys waited in silence. 
                “What is your name, peddler?” the rider asked when he had finished. In the shade of the willow tree, he threw back his hood and Nuys saw that he was of elven blood. He was tall and slender, with dark brown hair, pointed ears, and green eyes that glittered in the gray light of the clouded sky. He wore two pistols on his belt, along with a pair of daggers, and a longsword over his shoulder. Underneath his cloak he wore a leather jerkin over brigandine and riding pants. His boots were worn by the rode and the stirrup, but of fine quality and make.
                “I am Nuys,” the peddler answered slowly. He averted his eyes from the elf’s piercing gaze and instead went to his cart to save what he could.
                “Nuys,” the elf repeated, pulling his horse close under the tree. He reached into his heavy saddlebags and produced a powder horn to reload his pistols. “I am Aranthir,” he continued. “I was on my way to the village of Richfield, which I’m told is just up the coast.”
                “It is,” Nuys confirmed. “I’ve been there before and was hoping to make it before the rain caught me. But, as you can see…” he trailed off, waving his hands uselessly at the drenched fields around them. 
                “You were caught by more than rain,” Aranthir went on. He finished loading the pistols in his belt and turned to those in his saddlehorns. “Were there more of these Blackcloaks?”
                “No,” Nuys answered, trying his best to stitch up the torn bags in his cart. “They have a barracks up the coast at Mathel, but out here they depend on the hospitality of the locals.”
                “I thought as much. I did not think to encounter them out here. Usually, they stay near the big estates. I suppose these took a liking to the local sheep.” The elf chuckled to himself as he nudged a corpse with his boot.
                “They told me they were looking for smugglers along the coast.” Nuys pointed across the field to their south, where the grass ran for two hundred yards before dropping a hundred feet or more into the storm-wracked sea below. “The king’s new tax on salt has brought smugglers from far away to ours shores.”
                “Always hungry for gold,” Aranthir remarked. “Let’s get your cart sorted.”
Together, they repacked as much of Nuys’ goods as they could, stitching up the bags and emptying the pockets of the dead. Aranthir took more powder and shot from them, but left their other weapons. When they had finished, the rain had at last relented, changing from a deluge to a soft, quiet rain. The elf mounted his horse, his head scraping against the willow’s branches. “We can make the village in time for a good rest before nightfall. Come on, I’ll guard against anymore bandits.”
                “Are you a lord’s man?” Nuys asked as he seated himself in the front of the cart.
                “Just a mercenary. I’ve been on my own for the winter. I was heading east, toward Sparras, when I heard of a discovery in this little village.”
                “I have friends in Sparras,” Nuys said with sudden concern, “Is there to be trouble again?”
                “The duke is quarreling with the lord mayor of Archbridge, who has sought King Petarr’s protection. The Regents of Calinad will surely contest the king’s intrusion into their affairs. There will be lots of work for a soldier, or a peddler. I heard the White Sisterhood has already begun gathering their companies from as far away as Broidha.”
                “All that is over my head,” Nuys brushed aside the politics lesson, “but King Petarr always needs soldiers.” He looked at the bodies behind them. “Four more of them now.”
                The half-elf snorted.
                “Blackcloaks are no soldiers. Besides, I’ve already done enough work for him. I’ll see to this village and its secret, then on to Sparras and wherever that may take me.”
                “We live a similar life on the road, you and I,” Nuys said. Their horses reached the muddy road and continued along it. Somewhere in the misty hills ahead of them lay the village of Richfield, where they hoped to find shelter. “When I heard that the villagers had uncovered something here, I knew there would be many flocking to see it. 
                “What have you heard of this discovery?” the elf asked as they trotted down the muddy road under a light rain.
                “These winter rains washed away part of the hillside, revealing a cavern complex beneath the earth. They say it is cursed, but some have already gone inside. The villagers tell of a powerful witch who lived in these parts long ago, and they say this is her tomb, or perhaps her lair.”
                “Indeed, though it hard to tell what is truth, what is mere superstition, and what is pure fable cooked up to draw adventurers such as myself.”
                “I suppose you intend to look inside it?”
                “I do. It is not the first old ruin that I’ve explored and won’t be my last unless it kills me.”
                “Have you found anything in these ruins before?”
                “Oh yes. Gold, magic, moss. The rewards are endless.”
                “Well, if you have anything you would like to sell to me before you head off to the markets in Sparras, I’m sure I can find a way to make it worth your time.”
                “Perhaps. We will see.”
                They rode on in silence, listening only to the rainfall and the sound of their horses trotting through the mud. They passed from green pastures to recently cleared fields. The beginning of the planting season was at most two weeks away, and already the peasants had been busily preparing. At last, the white plaster walls of the village came into view through the gray mist, and they rode into the village’s open square. 
                Curious about their new guests, a gaggle of villagers ventured into the square. At their head was the aldorman Farrin, an old man in a black wide-brimmed hat, a dark cloak, and the sash of office across his chest. Behind him were a half dozen other villagers in their rainwear, all with searching looks across their faces. They looked at Nuys with indifference, for he recognized them all from his past stops in the village. But they looked upon Aranthir with suspicion and awe, for elves rarely called in these parts. 
                “Hello again,” Nuys called, “It has been too long since I have called upon you. I heard of the find you made recently and decided to make my way here.”
                Farrin pulled his cloak tight around himself. The aldorman and the others spared Nuys little more than a second glance. Villagers never liked peddlers much. For an insular, provincial folk who dealt almost exclusively with friends, cousins, and neighbors and rarely traveled more than a day’s walk from their home, a stranger like Nuys who traveled between kingdoms and dealt in monetary transactions rather than an exchange of favors was someone who could not be trusted. Villagers did not deal in coins. Coins were what the king’s tax collectors squeezed out of them, what bandits and soldiers stole from their village, and what traveling merchants demanded in exchange for baubles and trinkets. 
                But today, they were more concerned with the alien stranger he had brought into their midst. The elf sat tall on his horse, the butts of his pistols visible under his cloak and the hilt of his sword jutting out above his shoulder. From under his rain-soaked cloak, two green, glittering eyes pierced the villagers down to their very core. 
                “Who is this?” the aldorman asked. He pulled himself up to his full height as he looked the newcomer in the eye, but Nuys could see that Farrin was shaken.
                “I am Aranthir,” the elf answered. “I have come to see your cavern.”
                “Are you a sorcerer?” the aldorman asked, “we are just humble folk---”
                “You need not be concerned,” the elf replied. “I am not here to trouble you. I will see about the ruin and then be on to Sparras.”
                “He’s a good sort,” Nuys put in, though he suspected the villagers would not put much stock in his assessments. “He drove off a group of Blackcloaks who robbed me by the roadside.”
                The villagers exchanged looks amongst themselves. 
                “Drove off?” Farrin asked hesistantly.
                “There are four bodies on the edge of town, beneath the old willow tree overlooking the sea cliffs,” the elf replied. “I’ve no concern for their burial, but they should be hidden lest any of their companions discover them. The village will have use for their horses as well.”
                “Dead then? All of them?”
                “All of them. If you make their bodies disappear, the king will have to conclude that they died of the weather, bandits, monsters, or just deserted. The village need not fear reprisal.”
                “I will have them buried in the morning,” Farrin replied. “It will be dark soon.” He turned to the others. “Who will give our guests hospitality tonight?”
                “I will,” said Gaithas. Nuys knew the man from his past stays in the village and preferred his hospitality to the others. He smiled to himself as Gaithas and his wife Narra led Aranthir toward their house. Behind them, the other villagers dispersed into the rainy evening. 
 
                After stabling their horses and unloading Nuys’ cart, Aranthir and Nuys were ushered into Gaithas’ house. Narra had cleared a space before the hearth for them. Aranthir was arranging his things for the night when a young woman, blonde and slender, entered the room with two bowls of stew. She gave the stew to the peddler offhandedly, but approached Aranthir with a look of awe. 
                She wore a simple green dress with a lace collar and bit her lip nervously as she handed him the stew. 
                “Would you like some cider?” she asked. “My aunt and uncle make it in the back. People from all over swear by it, say it’s the best they’ve ever had? Would you like me to get you some?”
                “That sounds lovely,” Nuys said, though the young woman’s expression clearly demonstrated that she had not been talking to him. Nonetheless, she quickly ducked out of the room. Nuys chuckled to himself.
                “The girl’s sweet on you,” he said. Aranthir nodded.
                “She’s likely never met a half-elf before. They all have so many questions.”
                “Does it make it easier? To attract women?”
                “I’ve never been a human, so I can’t tell you. But it does seem that way.”
                “I used to be quite a sight for the women,” the peddler went on, though the half-elf was occupied with his stew. “But age comes for all of us. Though for some more slowly than for others.”
                Aranthir said nothing, quietly eating his stew until the girl returned. She carried two bottles of cider and handed one to Nuys with a small smile. The other she held in her hand as she sat down across from Aranthir. Meeting his gaze, she held the bottle out to him. 
                “We had a good crop last year. Uncle Gaithas says this will be some of the best cider he’s made in his life.”
                Aranthir took the bottle with a nod. 
                “What’s your name?” she asked after a pause.
                “Aranthir. What is yours?”
                “I’m Essie,” she said, “it’s nice to meet you.”
                “I can tell you have questions, Essie.” He met her eyes and she nervously averted them.
                “You are really an elf?” she asked.
                “Only half. My father’s side was elven, my mother’s side human.”
                “Where did you come from?” Essie crossed her legs, put her elbows to her knees and rested her chin on her hands.
                “I was raised in Ildranon, far to the east. I spent time in the colleges there before I left to wander the lands.”
                “Ildranon?” she said the unfamiliar name to herself. “I don’t know that place. Is it lovely?”
                “It has its charms,” Aranthir replied. He had finished his stew and set it aside. “It is set on a hill, overlooking the fields and vineyards around it. The mountains are visible on a clear day, and in the fields between them are the colleges and their cloisters.”
                “Why did you leave?”
                Aranthir smiled and shrugged. 
“The wanderlust took me,” he said. He smoothed out his cloak he was to use as a blanket and rearranged his pistols. “I left to become a mercenary, which seemed like a good idea at the time.”
                “What is the life of a mercenary like?”
                “It is often solitary. I go from realm to realm, following the call of war. When there is no war, I find some rich man who will pay to get a thing done, or I do as I have done now, go in search of adventure myself.”
                “You’ve come to see our ruin?”
                “I have,” Aranthir replied. “What can you tell me about it?”
At the edge of their conversation, Nuys was inching closer. The old peddler craned his neck forward to hear, but both Aranthir and Essie ignored his eavesdropping.
                “The shepherds found it after a heavy rain. The hillside washed away and there it was, a big, black, yawning cave mouth where the grass used to be. Some of the others have gone inside, but Gaithas and Narra forbid me to. One of the other girls said she has used the cave as a place to entertain boys.” The girl blushed slightly. 
                “How deep does it run?” 
                “We do not know. There is an entry chamber, then a door. We’ve not been able to open the door.”
                Aranthir nodded. “Where is this cave?”
                “Follow the stream to the north until you pass the fields and reach the sheep pastures. The cave is in a gorge in the hills. There will be shepherds in the pastures who can guide you.” She studied his expression while Nuys lay down across his bedding behind them. “Will you go there in the morning?” Essie asked.
                “I will. Felitharna willing, I will be able to open the door and uncover the tomb’s secrets.”
                “What do you think you will find inside?”
                “It’s hard to say. Could be treasure, could be nothing at all.”
“Is it true that elves can see the future?” Essie asked, leaning in close with wonderment.
                “Sometimes. It is a rare talent among the People, and a fickle one at that.”
                “Can you see the future?”
                “Perhaps. I think I can see your future.”
                “Oh?!” she asked, rising to her knees in front of him. “What do you see?”
                Aranthir closed his eyes. “I see you in front of the hearth, with a man.”
                “A man?” she asked, “What kind of man? Is he handsome? Dangerous?”
                “Both, I think,” Aranthir replied, “You are quite taken with him. You hang on his every word.”
                “I do?” Essie said, beginning to understand. 
                “You do indeed. It seems that you are naked. And he is as well.”
                She smiled a mischievous smile. 
                “You do have that gift of foresight.” She stood up and pulled her dress over her head. Nuys gasped. Aranthir smiled and lay back against his pack to admire the sight before him. Beneath her dress, she was of slim bust and slight build, with fair skin and dark blonde hair. Between her legs was a coarse thicket of dull brown hair. Essie blushed at Aranthir’s appreciative gaze, and covered her face in amused embarrassment when she saw Nuys looking.
                Aranthir smiled and began to undress himself. Essie pulled off her shoes and knelt naked before him. She ran a delicate hand along his bare leg as he slid off his trousers. 
                “Come here, girl,” Aranthir whispered as he threw his shirt aside. With a delighted giggle, Essie leaned over him and kissed him on the mouth. 
                “You have the most beautiful eyes,” she whispered as she took his cock in her hand. 
                “You should see your own. Give me the Goddess’ Kiss,” he said, and she complied with a greedy smile. As she took his hard cock in her mouth, Aranthir noticed the old peddler slide a hand down the front of his trousers. 
                Essie swallowed his cock to the base and looked up at Aranthir with her pale blue eyes. Aranthir felt as if he might come then and there. There was little he enjoyed more than looking into a pretty woman’s eyes while she sucked his cock. She released his cock from her lips with a sucking sound and smiled as she ran her tongue down the length of his shaft before taking him in her mouth again. Aranthir put a hand to the back of her head and guided her up and down his cock. Essie reached a hand between her legs to play with herself.            
        “Leave that part to me,” Aranthir said and took her by the hand. He lifted her into his lap, his cock resting between her buttocks as he kissed her bare little breasts and clutched her ass between his hands. Essie buried her face in her hair with a moan of pleasure. 
        “Fuck me,” she begged, “Fuck me hard. I want your elven cock inside me. I want it so bad!”
        Aranthir lifted her up and slid his cock into her warm, welcoming sex. She gasped, her mouth forming a wide circle as she stared wide-eyed ahead. Aranthir kissed her and slid his tongue into her mouth. She moaned again. Essie began to grind her hips on his cock, moaning as she did. She grabbed at his shoulders and planted her feet on the ground. Her little breasts bounced with each motion and Aranthir pinched her puffy nipples between his fingers. 
        “Oh, by the Goddess!” she hissed, doing her best to keep quiet and failing all the same. “I love your cock!” She stared hard into his eyes as she rode him. Aranthir vigorously thrust his cock up into her as she rode and the girl’s eyes rolled back into her head. She let out a wordless moan of ecstasy, her grip going limp. The clapping of his flesh against her echoed throughout the room.
        Essie slumped forward and slowed her grinding. Aranthir also slowed his pace. She bent over him, still mounted on his cock, and her chest heaved with exertion. 
        “Fuck me, you’re good,” she breathed and leaned in to kiss him. They both turned to heads to look at Nuys. The old peddler had his cock out, gripping it in both hands. 
        “Forgive me, but I could not let the sight escape me.” He stroked his cock with a wrinkled, sun-spotted hand. “It’s not often I have a pretty naked girl in front of me.”
        Aranthir lost interest in the old man and put Essie’s nipple in his mouth. She laughed breathlessly and wound a hand through his hair.
        “I’ve never been fucked like that before,” Essie gasped to no one in particular. “Usually it’s village boys or the occasional merchant who comes through with coin to burn.” She looked at Nuys and shook her head. “Men like you.”
        Nuys perked up. He began to stroke his cock faster. “Men like me?” he asked. “You’re getting my hopes up that I might get some tonight.”
        “Do you have a silver for me?” she asked. Aranthir began to fuck her again, thrusting his cock into her and sucking on her little breasts. Essie turned her attention back to him. Her pale blue eyes gazed down into his and she smiled again.
        “I do have a silver for you,” Nuys said eagerly. He dug into his coin pouch and, as he did, his breeches slipped lower until they were around his ankles. He became entangled and once he fought free and removed his breeches, Essie and Aranthir were fucking again. 
        Aranthir held the girl by her waist as he fucked, her bouncing breasts brushing against his waiting lips. She brushed back her long hair as it fell over face again. Essie stared into Aranthir’s eyes and began to moan again.
        Nuys moved closer, holding his cock out for her to suck. She pushed him away.
        “Not now, old man. You’ll have your turn.” 
        Nuys retreated, disappointed, and Aranthir gathered Essie up in his arms and rolled her over onto her back. They interlaced fingers and he pinned her to the floor, fucking her furiously. The floorboards creaked underneath her. Above them, the rain started again, heavy droplets pattering on the wooden roof. Aranthir found the noise soothing.
        Nuys continued to stroke his cock, but Essie only had eyes for the half-elf inside her. Her dark blonde hair spilled across the floor behind her like the painted radiance of an ancient heroine. Aranthir raised up her legs, his arms in the crooks of her knees, and her feet flopped about as he fucked her. Essie ran her hands over his muscular chest and through his hair.
        “Don’t stop,” she whispered. Aranthir quickened his rhythm. 
        “I’m close,” he replied. Essie arched her back, raising up her little breasts, and Aranthir buried his face between them again. He groaned as he released himself inside her. Essie kissed his scalp.               
        Finished, Aranthir rolled to the side and rested Essie’s head on his chest. They lay together for a moment, he running a hand down her naked back and she idly drawing on her chest with her finger.
        After a time, they again became aware of Nuys stroking his cock behind them.
        “Do you want your silver now, girl?” he asked. Essie smirked to herself and got up. She positioned herself on all fours, her sex facing Nuys while her head was over Aranthir’s face so that they could kiss. Nuys pressed the silver coin into her waiting hand and eagerly penetrated her from behind. He gripped her by the hips and fucked her slowly and deliberately, savoring every moment inside her. All the while, she had eyes only for Aranthir. The half-elf held her head and kissed her lips as Nuys fucked her from behind. 
        In short order, the peddler finished with a loud moan. He leaned back, his dripping cock sliding out of her.
        “Gods above, that was some good cunny. I’ve not had a girl like you since I was your age.”
        “Worth your silver?” Essie asked, turning over onto her side and kissing Aranthir again.
        “Every bit of it,” the peddler gasped.
        Essie paid him no more mind, returning her pretty little head to Aranthir’s chest. The peddler lay himself down before the fire, still naked below the waist. 
        Footsteps in the hall approached and Essie scrambled for her dress. Gaithas entered and stopped short when he saw his niece’s nakedness. The man scowled but said nothing. Aranthir shot him a lazy smile, unashamed of his own naked state. Essie sheepishly dressed herself and followed her uncle into the other room. At the door, she stopped, turned, and blew Aranthir a kiss.
        Aranthir smiled back and then made ready to sleep.
 
        Aranthir rose with the dawn. Gaithas and his wife brought him breakfast, though Essie had disappeared. The day was cold but clear, with no sign of the previous day’s torrential rains. He and Nuys went to the stable, where the old peddler began to prepare his wares for the day’s hawking. Aranthir saddled his horse and rode out to the north. The village lay along a small stream that wound its way down from the hills and by following this stream Aranthir soon came to a grassy pasture much like the one he had found Nuys and the brigands in. 
        The stream ran through a narrow gorge in the suddenly rocky hillside. Aranthir rode his horse down to the edge and peered up the gorge. While Essie had said the cavern entrance was in a gorge, if she expected him to need a shepherd to guide him, the entrance could not be in the same gorge as the stream. Still, how many gorges could there be? he wondered. He dismounted and began to make his way up the edge of the stream on foot. He had not gone a hundred paces before the streambed turned too rocky for the horse to continue. As he debated walking through the water, and against the current, he spied motion at the lip of the gorge above him.
        Looking up, he saw a young woman with a shepherd’s crook staring down at him. At her knee was a white lamb. She wore a dark gray cloak about her, hiding herself underneath it so that all he could see was her pale face and long black hair that flowed in the wind. Her expression was one of cautious curiosity.
        “Hello there,” Aranthir called up from the gorge. “I am Aranthir of Ildranon, a wanderer come to see the cavern your village discovered.”
        The shepherdess said nothing, but her expression of caution deepened. 
        “Might I prevail upon you to guide me to the entrance?” Aranthir pressed. “The villagers told me I could find a shepherd to guide me.”
        “The cave is cursed,” the woman replied at last. “I won’t go near it.”
        “Perhaps you could point me in the right direction then,” Aranthir replied. “I won’t make you go inside. I can ensure you won’t be cursed, I know a bit of sorcery.”
        He saw immediately that that was the wrong thing to say. Common folk rarely liked sorcerers. 
        “I cannot help you, sorcerer,” the shepherdess replied. She put a protective hand to the lamb at her side.
        “Essie said I could rely on the shepherds to help me find the tomb,” Aranthir pleaded. “Without your help I could be up here all day.”
        “You spoke to Essie?” the woman asked.
        “More than spoke, but yes. I spent the night at the cidermakers’ house. I arrived yesterday with the peddler Nuys.”
        The woman considered a moment before she spoke again. “Essie is good people. Come on up from the stream, I’ll show you the way.”
        Aranthir did as told, retracing his steps downstream before looping back to join the shepherdess on the hill. She was sitting in the pasture when he reached her, surrounded by a score or more of sheep. One had laid its head in her lap as she stroked its recently sheared head. 
        “Come,” she said as he approached. “I will show you to the gorge, but no closer.”
        “Lead on then,” Aranthir replied. The shepherdess rose and began walking uphill. Aranthir followed, leading his horse by the reins. 
        The hills around them were grassy and nearly treeless, affording him unobstructed views all the way across miles of the sea to the horizon. He could see the land along the coast for miles. Near the willow tree, gang of villagers could be seen digging a pit large enough to hold four men. Aranthir smiled to himself. The road, now little more than a muddy strip of brown paralleling the edge of the sea cliffs, wound its way through more villages and around copses of trees until it disappeared into the folds of the land to the east and west. From the hilltop vantage, Aranthir spied another band of travelers approaching the village.
        More treasure seekers, or merchants like Nuys? he wondered. I am the first to arrive, or the villagers would have told me otherwise. Once he plumbed the cavern’s depths, he hoped to be gone before he had to defend his claim against other adventurers. 
        “What can you tell me about the cave?” Aranthir asked as they walked. The shepherdess pulled her cloak tighter.
        “The cave mouth is sinister, but some have still ventured inside. The animals avoid it, and so have I.”
        “In the village they told me there was once a witch who lived in these parts.”
        “No doubt there have been many witches. There is one who lives two days’ walk to the northeast, but she is not the type to live in a cave. She lives in a hut beneath an oak tree, and makes ointments and poultices for the villagers.”
        “What kind of witch lived here that people remember her still?”
        “None that I would want to meet. The legends are that she would lure men inside and then drink their blood until nothing remained by skin and bones.”
        Aranthir frowned. He wracked his mind for what that might mean, for there were only so many forms of magic that a witch might practice. None of what the shepherdess described fit the patterns he knew, but they were only legends, and she was only a shepherdess.
        “What’s your name, girl?” Aranthir inquired after a pause.
        “You want to use it in some spell?” the shepherdess asked with a laugh.
        “The sorcery of naming is beyond me. I’ve not the tools for it.”
        “It might serve you well. If you come back out, my name is Allia and I would be happy to avoid any entanglement with the cave and its secrets. I want nothing more than my sheep and my pastures, leave the sorcerer’s life to you and yours.”
        “Fear not, I will be gone soon enough, one way or the other. I’ll be headed east the day after I’ve finished with the cave.”
        “See that you leave the cave sealed up when you do. That door is keeping us out for now, but I would guess that it is keeping something in, too.”
        Aranthir merely grunted in agreement. They continued their walk until they reached the lip of another gorge. 
        “There,” Allia said, pointing into the gorge. Aranthir looked down and saw a narrow, rocky path that wound its way to the bottom of the gorge some hundred feet below where they stood. He looked up the gorge but could not see the cave mouth. Seeing his expression, Allia reassured him, “It’s up there, I promise. But now I will go. Good luck, sorcerer.”
        “Thank you for your help. I will endeavor to grant your wish never to see me again.”
        Allia gave him another suspicious look. “Sorcerers are always trouble. May you complete your business here quickly and take your trouble somewhere else.”
        Aranthir paid her no more mind as she set her sheep to graze along the hillside. Pulling his horse behind him, he started down into the gorge.
 
        Nuys found a spot for himself in the village square and laid out his things. The villagers did not all come out to look at his things as they had in the past, but slowly over the morning they began to trickle over. He sold a necklace of beads, then a bundle of soap. In exchange, he bought some of Gaithas’ famous cider and three bolts of woolen cloth.
        Near mid-morning, Essie came to him. With a smile and a blush, she lifted a bolt of rich yellow cloth.
        “I find myself in need of a new dress,” she said, her eyes sparkling as she admired the saffron color. “I seem to keep losing the ones I have.”
        Nuys laughed. “I am happy to sell you cloth as I am to see you naked,” he replied. “I think I can give you a good price on that. Would you like one bolt or two?” 
        Nuys produced a second bolt from his cart and Essie examined it. She held both in her hand, biting her lip in thought as she no doubt imagined the dresses she could make. Reluctantly, she set the second bolt down.
        “I think I have to settle for one,” she said. “Perhaps next time you come through.”
        “Perhaps next time,” Nuys agreed. He took her money and reclaimed the second bolt. Essie smiled again, thanked him, and skipped away humming to herself.
It was as Nuys was stowing the second bolt in his cart that two riders entered the village. The riders wore black cloaks and rode black horses, so Nuys feared that they were more Blackcloaks until they drew back their hoods. The men were tall, muscular, and bald, with arcane tattoos on their bare arms and collars. They were twins, mounted on identical black stallions. The villagers drew away from them as they pulled their horses to a stop in the middle of the square and looked around. Nuys felt a chill creep down his spine as their gaze passed over them. Behind them rode two more riders, their faces hidden under cloaks, one dark grey and the other a rich red. 
        The two men parted to allow their passage and the red-cloaked rider threw aside her hood. The villagers gasped and stepped back. Nuys clutched a bolt of cloth to his chest. The rider looked about the square. Her skin was lilac-colored, her eyes red and narrow like a cat’s. Two small white horns jutted up from her forehead. A hand with sinisterly pointed fingers spread open her red velvet cloak to reveal a shimmering robe of black silk. She opened her mouth to speak, revealing white fangs and a forked tongue between them.
        “We have come to see your ruin,” she said, her voice sharp with a strange accent. “Who will guide us to it?”
        Behind her, the other rider lowered her hood as well.  She was armored in a bronze cuirass and greaves, while her face was decorated with arcane tattoos like those on the twins’ arms. The four of them stared hard at the frightened villagers. A cold wind whipped around them, carrying with it the unmistakable smell of indigo spice. Nuys shuddered. 
        “Well?” the visling demanded. She reached into a saddlebag and drew out a black iron rod. “Must I ask again?”
        Gaithas stepped forward. “It’s in the hills to the north. Follow the stream until you see sheep, then ask one of the shepherds.”
        “I wanted a guide,” the visling demanded. She spurred her horse closer to Gaithas and looked down at him from the saddle. 
        “The shepherds know the hills better than we do,” he pleaded, “they will make better guides.”
        “Very well,” she said. Calling to her companions in a growling tongue, she rode from the square with them at her heels. Nuys stood still for a long time as he watched them go. Then he began to pack his cart.
 
        Aranthir tied his horse to a small tree up the gorge from the mouth of the cave and went to peer inside. As the villagers had said, the mouth was sinister. The jagged, rocky edge of the opening resembled the toothy maw of some great monster, and though the mid-morning sun was bright enough outside, once it passed the mouth of the cave it diminished as if something sinister was devouring the light. Undaunted, Aranthir cast a spell of seeing over himself and, drawing his longsword, stepped inside.
        The entry chamber was floored in worn cobblestones, still wet from the rain. His leather boots squeaked slightly as he carefully made his way across the chamber. The roomed was wide, tall, and empty. Above him, an unworked stone ceiling hung in craggy shadows, occasionally dripping water that echoed eerily off the masonry walls. 
        Who are the girls using this place for trysts? Aranthir wondered to himself. He had seen mausoleums more suited to seduction. 
        The door which had stymied the progress of the villagers was twice his height and made of stone banded in iron. Runes had been carved into it, but the script was not one that Aranthir was familiar with. Running his finger through the grooves, he picked up flecks of gold. Had the gold worn away over time, or had some scavenger pried it off to sell? Had it been the villagers or Richfield, or someone else, now likely long dead? 
        With no answers to his questions, Aranthir turned his attention to the great brass knob at the center. The knob connected to a series of heavy gears and a locking mechanism, but he could see no keyhole. Closing his eyes, he activated his mind’s eye. Aided by his seeing spell, he looked into the workings of the mechanism for the key. Fragments of other scenes passed at the edge of his vision, scenes of the past and present, but Aranthir kept his focus on the lock. 
        At last, he saw. It had no key of iron or brass; the key was a spell. Aranthir withdrew from his mind and opened his eyes. Infusing himself with a pinch of spice from his pouch, he again called upon his sorcerous talents. Wielding magicks taught to him long ago, he touched the center of the lock, and four bolts sprang open. There was a groaning of long neglected gears and the brass knob turned halfway around. Aranthir seized ahold of it and turned it further. The door began to creep open with a terrible grinding of stone against stone. A crack between the door and the wall opened and air that had been stagnant for countless centuries rushed past his face. The air was cold and damp, laden with strange smells. Aranthir felt his head spin.
        With considerable effort, Aranthir opened the door wide enough that he could squeeze inside. Looking around, he found himself in another chamber of cobblestone floor and masonry walls. Once again, the ceiling was raw stone untouched by mortal hands. On the far side of the chamber, three doors led further into the earth. 
        Aranthir paused a moment to consider his course. The doors gave no sign of what lay behind them, and none were locked. He shrugged and pushed open the middle door. Again, the stone ground against the earth and ancient hinges screeched under the effort. Pistol and sword at the ready, Aranthir made his way into the hallway beyond. 
        The stone-clad hall ran for ten paces until it reached a masonry walkway that stretched around the rim of a small pool of dark water. From the rocky ceiling above, a narrow beam of sunlight pierced the dark gloom, lancing its way into the murky depths of the pool. Aranthir peered closed, activating his mind’s eye again. 
        The pool was empty but for a few water-loving weeds that reached out to the ray of light. Aranthir breathed a sigh of relief, for dark things often dwelt in dark deep pools. Dismissing his mind’s eye, he continued along the edge of the pool to the chamber’s far side. 
        Opposite the door he had entered was an identical door, though this one stood ajar. Judging by the accumulation of dust beneath it, the door had sat this way for a long time. Aranthir slipped between the door and the wall without disturbing anything and looked around the room. 
        The room was unlit, and only his seeing spell and elven eyes allowed him to make out anything. He found himself in a sort of chapel, with a large altar of black stone opposite the door, flanked by two large statues of wolfhounds, and an old brass chandelier on the floor in the middle of the room. Above it dangled the ruins of its chain. The roof here was carved, and though age had damaged the decorations, Aranthir could clearly make out a scene of ritual celebration. Pillars along the edge of the nave were carved with strange writing and scenes of hooded acolytes praying to a dark figure. Aranthir felt the hair on his neck rise. The sides of the room were lined with shelved alcoves, but there were no books or scrolls to be seen. 
        Lowering his sword, Aranthir paused in thought. Robbing the houses of the gods was perilous work, but this was unlike the house of any god he knew. Perhaps the lord of the temple was dead? Did this temple perhaps date to The World That Once Was? 
        Again he called upon his mind’s eye. He staggered for a moment as the rush of years came over him. Like a bird plummeting from the sky, his mind hurtled backwards in time. How long he did not know, but when the years finally ceased rushing by, he found himself in the same chapel, only grander. The roof was painted in bright pigments and the pillar carvings were gilded. Upon the altar stood silver candelabra and the whole room was lit by candles in beautiful sconces. 
        Surrounding him were hooded figures in dark blue robes. Behind the altar was another man who wore a robe of the darkest black Aranthir had ever seen. It at once seemed to shimmer in the light of candles, but it also drank the light around him so that he seemed to be wreathed in shadow. 
        He called out in an ancient tongue and one of his acolytes stepped forward. With a whispered reply, the acolyte shed his robe to stand naked. He was young and hale, a fair-skinned man of no more than twenty with steel blue eyes and dark hair. At the indication of the black-robed man, he lay himself on the altar and closed his eyes. 
        There was a shout outside, and the hooded figures turned. The door shook under a heavy blow and the assembled figures hissed in anger. It shook again and burst open, admitting a torrent of soldiers in gleaming armor and blades that glowed red with sorcerous fury. The man behind the altar shouted in anger, but beneath the emotion Aranthir recognized the spell. The room shook, and the soldiers paused. The ritual’s leader spoke again and though Aranthir did not understand the language he recognized the contempt in the man’s voice. The soldiers quavered.
        But then another figure entered the room, and the soldiers found their resolve. This was a man in sky-blue robes trimmed with white that dragged along the floor but somehow remained free of dust and dirt. He wore a tall, peaked cap of black velvet with a feather plume and raised a gilded baton. He spoke a word of command and it was the ritualists’ turn to take a step back in fear. The ritual leader snarled again and hurled a spell of death at his opponent. 
        The blue robed man undid the spell as easily as a sailor undoes a knot and hurled one of his own. The soldiers surged forward as the hooded men drew knives from their cloaks and the whole room spiraled into madness. Aranthir’s mind’s eye recoiled at the assault of sorcery and he was wrenched through time again until he found himself on all fours, heaving against the floor. 
        Slowly, his panting stopped and the throbbing pain in his head subsided. Aranthir looked around. In the aftermath of that ancient battle, the room had been stripped. None of the treasure remained for him. Aranthir sighed. Perhaps the other wings would yield better results. He stood up and spied a door at the back, behind the altar. Retrieving his sword from where it had fallen, he made his way toward it. 
        As he neared the altar, he felt a sudden, intense sense of danger. He stopped and raised his weapons. Nothing moved. He glanced up at the ceiling, but still could not detect the threat. His seeing spell still cried out to him, but he crept closer. Then the statues to either side of the altar moved.
        Though they looked to be made of stone, they rose from their seated position like living beasts. Turning their heads toward Aranthir, the hounds’ eyes lit up with an infernal light. As one, they took a step toward Aranthir and the half-elf stepped back carefully. The hounds’ maws open, revealing a row of sharp fangs. With an unearthly snarl, they charged.
        Aranthir fired his pistol, only for the shot to strike one of the fell hounds in the eye and ricochet away without effect. Startled, he dove out of the way of their snapping jaws and slid through the dusty floor of the ancient chapel. 
        Coming to his feet, he shoved the spent pistol into his belt holster and gripped his sword with both hands. The hounds wheeled to face him and snarled again, their fell sight allowing them to find him in the pitch blackness. They split up, circling to either side of him like wolves on a hunt. Aranthir darted out of their pincer, only to find them quickly setting up another. They lunged at him, and he darted between them and struck an ineffective blow against the exposed flank of the hound he had shot. His sword rang out, steel on stone, but the hound wheeled to face him again unfazed. 
        Aranthir found himself pressed hard as the beasts struck again and again. He darted between pillars and over the altar to avoid their attacks, only to be quickly pressed into a corner. All the while, he struggled to summon what power of the spice remained to him after casting the seeing spell. Cornered, he faced the hounds’ attack with only a mundane sword of tempered steel. 
        They knew they had their prey cornered. They pressed in slowly, careful not to obstruct the other’s attack. Aranthir spotted his opportunity. He spoke the words of conjuring and his blade fared to life with a sickly green fire. The hounds paused in their approach, heads cocked to the side curiously. Aranthir struck.
        He lunged forward, both hands on the blade, and struck a heavy downward blow at the lead hound. The beast broke apart. Chunks of stone flew aside, smoldering with green fire, and the rest crumbled like a sand sculpture. The other hound yelped in fear and leapt aside. It rounded on Aranthir and looked to what was left of its companion, nothing but blacked ash. Snarling its terrible snarl once again, the creature jumped at Aranthir.
        The agile half-elf darted aside and struck off the fell hound’s head. The beast burst apart like broken pottery and fell to the floor in chunks which soon dissolved into ash and scattered across the room. Lowering his blade, Aranthir breathed a sigh of relief.
        He dismissed the fire and sheathed his sword. Once a look around had convinced him that there wore no more sorcerous guardians, he stepped into the back room. 
        The room was a small chamber that looked to have once served as a priest’s quarters. A small pottery wash basin sat in one corner and a rusted iron bedframe lay in another. Along the wall were old stone shelves lined with decaying books and scrolls. Aranthir picked one up to examine it, but the material came apart in his hands. It was no use; they were all too worn and faded to read anyway.
        As he turned to leave, his foot slipped. The stone underneath it had been cracked, and his toe slid into a crevice. Aranthir kicked aside the broken stone, but something beneath it caught his eye. He bent down and found a bronze tablet, inscribed with runes in the same script he had seen on the chapel pillars. Gingerly, he removed the tablet from its hiding place and examined it. While the script was unknown to him, he felt something familiar about the writing. Again, he resorted to the mind’s eye. 
        Beneath his sorcerous eye, the script swam and rearranged itself several times. Each time, Aranthir felt another flash of recognition. Some of the runes briefly appeared as characters he knew from his time at the Sorcerers’ College in Ildranon. The pattern of the writing was familiar as well. It was the same notation used by sorcerers when inscribing a spell. 
        He had just discovered a bit of lost magic. Aranthir smiled. There was something to show for this after all. He dug at the other stones in the room, then the walls, then the ceiling, but found nothing else. Disappointed, he returned to the entry chamber and considered the other two doors. They still looked identical and, fearing to use his mind’s eye a fourth time, he chose one at a whim and went through. 
                
                At the entrance to the cave, the visling Khurra peered inside. Behind her, her two bodyguards Rakath and Vushan flanked the captive shepherdess who had guided them there. The fourth member of their group, Pira the demonbinder, watched from ten paces away as she tended to their horses.
                “What are you looking for?” Rakath demanded. The tattooed man used their native tongue, something which clearly set the shepherdess ill at ease. Khurra stepped inside the cave mouth and her eyes, narrow and slitted like a cat, darted about.
                “An ambush,” the visling said at last. 
                “Then you should have sent us in first,” Vushan growled. “I’ve not had a fight since we left the ship.”
                “Worried about going soft?” Pira said as she joined them. The demonbinder’s hood was swept back to bare her head, bald but for a long braid growing from the back. The tattoos on her face danced as she gave Vushan a mocking smile. “Fight your brother if you want to stay sharp.”
                Khurra turned back to the others. “In we go,” she pronounced.
                “What about the girl?” Vushan asked. 
                “Send her away, she’s done as we asked,” Khurra replied. “We have no further need of her.”        
                “What if we need blood?” Rakath asked. “She is young and vigorous. She would make a worthy sacrifice.”
                “There is nothing left her to sacrifice her to. This place has been abandoned for ten thousand years. Whatever god ruled this place is long dead.”
                Vushan undid the girl’s bindings reluctantly. 
                “You are free to go,” Khurra said in the local tongue. The shepherdess nodded and hurried away, muttering to herself.
                “Damned sorcerers are always trouble,” was all that Khurra caught before the women disappeared along the gorge.
                “We should have kept her anyway,” Vushan muttered.
                “Sate your bloodlust with a worthy foe instead of some peasant girl,” Khurra said offhandedly and then stepped into the cave. The entrance was unpromising, but the door across the way stood ajar. She examined the opened lock and breathed in surprise. The door would have been a formidable obstacle to them, but someone had already done the hard part for them. The question was who in this mudhole had the knowledge to open the door? 
                “We must be cautious,” she said, “Someone is inside, and they must know sorcery.”
                “We should have asked the shepherd girl about who else has been here,” Rakath muttered. 
                “Do you two ever stop whining?” Pira hissed. “Draw your weapons and keep an eye open. Here.” She handed them each a torch and lit them with a spray of sparks from her hand. “Eyes open, mouths closed. Now move along.”
                The four of them took the righthand door, which opened into a narrow hallway. The first door on their right stood open, but five paces beyond the door, the tunnel was blocked. A mound of dirt and broken masonry had collapsed into the tunnel from above and there was no passing by it. Khurra frowned and led on. 
                The next room was a richer find. The door opened into a library chamber two stories tall. Rotting oak shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, piled high with ancient scrolls and leatherbound tomes. the vaulted ceiling was supported by two worn stone pillars topped with stone gargoyles, leering imps with bat wings, long claws, and wide, fanged maws. 
                “Search these shelves,” Khurra commanded, “perhaps we can learn a trick or two from the ancients.” 
                As her minions obeyed, Khurra joined the search herself. The scrolls were old and faded, most disintegrating in her hand as soon as she picked them up. Carefully, she tried to spread them out and read them, but the ink was blurred past the point of illegibility and the parchment still tore apart anyway. With a sigh of frustration, she gingerly picked up a heavy, brass-fronted book. 
                Undoing the tarnished clasp, she opened the cover. The front page was faded like the others, but the once brilliantly illustrated page was almost legible. Straining her eyes in the dim light, Khurra tried to make out something - anything - in the mess of ink. 
                It was no use. The illustration was tantalizingly close to making sense, but in the end, she could learn nothing from it. Discouraged, she threw the book back onto the shelf. 
                “This is a waste of time,” Pira growled. “These scrolls are falling apart. Damnation, there must be something of value in here!”
                Khurra pulled another book off the shelf. This one was bound in thick black leather and trimmed with iron. The book’s cover folded over itself to make it watertight. She hoped that it protected the contents against the ages better than the others had. The clasp was locked and as Khurra tried to open it, she noticed the sigil on the cover. She stopped before the warding spell blasted her to pieces. 
                “Pira, come here,” she said. The other woman stopped her fruitless searching and complied. “Look at this sigil. Can you dispel it?”
                Pira frowned. “Not here,” she said. “If we take it back to my library, I could find the right counterspell.”
                “Very well,” Khurra sighed. “At least it’s promising.”
                Pira looked around. “Which is more than I can say for the rest of this mess.”
                “Mistress, look at this,” one of the twins called from the back of the library. Together the two women followed the voice to its source. The twins stood in front of a metal safe set into the outer wall of the room. The door to the safe was a plate of burnished bronze, inscribed with all manner of runes and sigils. 
                “There must be something worthwhile in here,” Vushan said. Khurra and Pira moved past them to study the carvings. 
                “These runes are ancient,” Pira said, “but I think I recognize them.”
                “You think?” Rakath asked. “Do you merely think you can disarm it without turning us all into mice?”
                “I know them,” Khurra said. “I know the spell. Stand back.”
                The others retreated to what they presumed was a safe distance. Infusing herself with a pinch of spice, Khurra called upon her sorcerous heritage and spoke the words of undoing. 
                “It’s done,” she pronounced.
                “Wonderful,” said Vushan. “You open it.”
                Turning a withering look on her companions, Khurra pried open the door. Inside were five neat stacks of golden coins, along with a crystal wand. 
                Khurra licked her lips with a forked tongue.
                “Now that is a treasure,” Pira breathed. 
                Khurra reached into the safe and picked up the wand. It was the length of her forearm, made of translucent crystal wrapped in blue leather to provide a grip, and carved at the tip in the shape of a crow’s head.
                “What does it do?” Pira asked. “I see no runes explaining its purpose.”
                “I do not know,” Khurra replied quietly, examining her prize with great interest while the twins greedily claimed the gold coins. “We will find out when we get back to your library.”
                Pira opened her mouth to speak, but the movement of something above them made a sound. Turning, all four of them looked up and spotted the two gargoyles atop the pillars as they unfurled their wings and looked down at the intruders. Their eyes burned with malice as they slowly stirred to life. 
                “Eldrin’s Breath!” Pira cursed, drawing a cold iron dagger from her belt, “the ruin’s guardians still live!”
                “Prepare yourselves!” the twins cried in unison as they each drew a pair of axes. Khurra thrust the crystal wand into her belt and drew a silver-edged dagger. Rising to a crouch, the gargoyles hopped to the top of a shelf below, turning their heads quizzically at her.
                They were larger than they had looked at the top of the pillar. They were each man-sized, with widespread wings like those of a bat, porcine faces, and sharp fingered claws. Aside from loincloths that somehow resisted the centuries’ wear, they wore only bracers and collars of aged bronze.
                Khurra drew her companions into a tight knot in front of her.
                “Do we fight or go for the door?” Vushan asked.
                “If we can get to the hall, they won’t be able to fly,” Rakath added. 
                “What magic will undo these creatures?” Khurra asked. 
                “I could try to bind them,” Pira offered, “but not all spells of binding will bind a golem.”
                “Try one of the ones that will,” Khurra ordered. As she spoke, the gargoyles dove as one. Swooping down from the shelves, they pulled up just in front of the twins, avoiding their axe blows and unleashing their clawed feet. Vushan received a gash across the shoulder, while Rakath parried the strike with his steel axe. Their attack completed, the gargoyles flapped their wings and shot upwards until they alit on top of the shelves again, ready for a new attack.                
                Vushan clutched at his wound, dropping his axe to the floor. Rakath checked his brother’s shoulder, but kept an eye on their foes above.
                “Pira, tend to his wound,” Khurra ordered. She looked up and the words of a spell formed on her lips. She felt the sorcerous power grow within her and thrust her hand forth. From it burst a bolt of white lightning that struck one of the gargoyles and glanced off, leaving a smoking, charred spot that troubled the creature little. It looked down as her and screeched a terrible cry. Khurra winced and covered her ears. 
                One of them swooped down again, aiming for her. She found her escape blocked by the old shelving and as she scrambled out of the way, the creature seized her in its talons and pierced her shoulder. Screaming as the monster lifted her from the floor, she flailed about with her dagger and slashed the gargoyle’s leg. Hissing in pain, it dropped her, only for its companion to snatch her from the sky.
                They lifted her to the top of the shelves, and she sprawled over the edge, her legs dangling helplessly as she fought to steady herself.
                “Pira! Use the words of binding!” she cried out. The shelf shook, and she looked down to see Rakath beginning the climb with one hand around his axe. Below him, Pira at last called out the words of binding. 
                Khurra found purchase on the shelves, knocking a pile of scrolls to the stone floor below them as she did. One of the gargoyles crouched over her, its terrible claws digging into her shoulders as it favored its wounded leg. From below, Pira cried out the last words of binding and the creature’s eyes glazed over. 
                “Release my companion!” Pira shouted, but the gargoyle hesitated. It looked down at her and hissed again. Behind the fire in its eyes, Khurra detected a human hunger. Her own eyes widened. These creatures were no artificial constructs given a semblance of life by magic. They were once mortals, changed into monstrosities through some sorcerer’s ritual.
                “They’re resisting!” she cried out and Pira swore. The gargoyle shifted, withdrawing its bloody claws from her shoulder and instead wrapping them about her neck. The monster raised her up to meet his leering face and snarled. Khurra stabbed him in the thigh.
                It roared in pain and tightened its grip about her neck. She fought for air and felt the blood rush to her eyes. Afraid that it might tear her head off at any minute, she drove the dagger further into the monster until it screeched and released her, hopping off the shelf to fly away. Khurra fell gasping to the shelving, her neck raw and bleeding. 
                Rakath pulled himself on top of the shelves and touched her shoulder.
                “We should get down,” she gasped. “It is too narrow here.” He looked to the ceiling and saw that they had not enough room to stand up here.
                “Can you climb down?” he asked with concern. Beyond them, the wounded gargoyles had found a new perch while its companion hopped from shelf to shelf, looking for a new angle of attack. 
                “I’ll jump,” she said and Rakath bit back a reply. She shoved herself off the shelf and cried out a command word. Her fall was arrested by sorcery and she slowed descended to the floor. Rakath followed her down the shelving. 
                She found herself next to Pira as the other woman wound a bandage around Vushan’s shoulder. 
                “What do we do now?” Pira asked. 
                “These creatures were human once,” Khurra replied, “Human or some other kindred of mortals. Their skin may be tough, but their minds and souls are weak enough.”
                Pira nodded. 
                “Here they come,” Vushan growled through gritted teeth. He pulled himself to a standing position and readied his axe. The uninjured gargoyle had found its perch and leaped from the shelves. Its wings unfurled and it swooped through the narrow corridors with alarming agility.
                Pira stepped forward and called out in the black speech of death. Shadows coalesced from thin air and lashed at the gargoyle’s form as it flew. The monster screamed and thrashed, crashing into the shelves and tumbling from the air. Books, scrolls, and finally an entire shelf came crashing after it. Wood splintered, paper tore, and the monster flailed about in pain and panic.
                Rakath leapt down, completing his descent, and rushed the monster. It fought its way clear of the mess, screaming in pain, only to find itself moments from receiving a mortal axe wound. The creature’s face froze in realization, deep black wounds marred its face and body. It screamed a scream, cut short by the heavy axe blow, and then collapsed into the pile of splintered wood and destroyed books. 
                “Out!” Khurra cried, and they ran for the exit. The remaining gargoyle shrieked in fury at its mate’s demise and hopped from one leg to the other until it remembered the leg wound and screamed again. It spotted them through the shelves on their dash to the door and leapt from its perch, keening terribly on the wing. Khurra tried to shield herself behind a shelf, but the enraged monster crashed into it head-on. The shelf splinter and books fell, one terrible black claw reaching through the chaos to grab at her again. Its fingers tore through her dark red cloak and tore at her chest once more, but she fought off its grasp, receiving more slashes to her arms in the process. 
        She summoned her powers and struck back with a black arrow of shadow. She saw it lance through the falling wood and scrolls to strike the monster in the heart. It froze mid-frenzy, its hungry eyes locked on her. She saw the arrow had pierced a hole straight through its chest, right where a human’s heart would have been. Its eyes dimmed. Then a heavy tome from above struck it on the head and it fell to the floor.
        “Well done, mistress!” Rakath cheered, but Khurra took up running again. The chaos of falling shelves had sent the room into chaos. Some of the standing shelves had fallen on their fallen neighbors for support, while others had been knocked over the battle. All the shelves in the room were teetering or already falling.
        “This whole place is coming down!” Khurra shouted. “Get to the hall!”
        The four of them ran as best they could with all their wounds. Books, scrolls, shelves, and other odds and ends came tumbling down all around them. Pira was hit on the head by a falling piece of masonry but kept going.
        At last, they reached the safety of the hall. Behind them, the library room was a complete shambles and a heavy shelf collapsed across the doorway in a decisive bar to further entrance. Khurra fell against the far wall, her chest heaving with each breath. Rakath leaned against the wall next to her.
        “Apliss’ Favor, that was a close one,” he gasped. 
        “We will take a moment,” Khurra gasped, “to tend to our wounds before we go on.”
        “Two moments,” Vushan agreed, clutching at his wounded shoulder.
        “I would like to know the ritual that made those,” Pira said quietly. “They would be most useful soldiers.”
        “They were once mortal,” Khurra said, unsure if she had made that point before. “They had the mind of a mortal but the resilience of a golem or other being of artifice. Most useful indeed.”
        “If we find the ritual, there is a whole village of potential soldiers,” Vushan muttered. “What a return to the keep that would make!”
        “Better to use someone else’s peasants for this than our own,” Khurra agreed. “Perhaps we’ll take a few prisoners on our way home in any case.”
 
                Aranthir prowled the tunnels behind the left door, finding little of interest. He pilfered a few old coins left behind when this place had been sacked, along with a broken mirror that he sought to salvage for its silver. The rooms were mostly stripped bare and caved in in some places. This bronze tablet had better be worth something, or else I’ve likely wasted my time here, he thought. 
        He came to the end of the main hallway where it terminated in a heavy oaken door. This door was untouched by age, unlike all the others which had nearly rotted away. Suspicious, Aranthir drew his sword and a pistol and pushed it open.
        It swung in, moving on oiled hinges, to reveal a bedchamber with a large feather bed covered in green cloth. Two candles burned on the nightstand next to the bed and at its foot was a heavy chest of black wood. Across the room from the bed was a fireplace with a fire burning. Seated in front of the fireplace was a woman in a simple red peasant’s dress with white sleeves. She turned as the door opened and hopped to her feet. 
        “Oh, someone has come at last!” she cried. She ran across the room and threw her arms around him, avoiding his outstretched sword.
        “Who are you?” Aranthir asked, attempting to withdraw from her embrace. She was beautiful, pale, and raven-haired, with a strange scent about her that aroused Aranthir greatly. Despite her humble appearance, he felt stirring of lust he had not felt since he was a young half-elf. Something about her was strange indeed. “How did you come to be here?”
        “A sorcerer captured me,” she began, tears welling up in her eyes. “He made me his concubine and then left me here. Where he is, I do not know.”
        “This place is a ruin,” Aranthir replied, “Nothing has been touched for a thousand years. How is it that this room is still intact?”
        “He cast a spell upon it,” she sniffled, “He froze time so that nothing would change and I would forever remain young and beautiful.”
        Aranthir frowned. He had heard of such magic before, but never of such a spell that would last so long without regular maintenance.
        “Such a spell would need a power source to still be in effect so many years later. What was he using?”
        “I do not know,” she said, shaking her heard. “I know little of sorcery, only what my captor told me in his moments where his guard came down.”
        “What’s your name, girl?” Aranthir asked. 
        “Ilona,” she replied. 
        “Ilona, I am Aranthir of Ildranon.”
        “Will you help me?” she asked plaintively.
        Aranthir paused. How does she know our language, if she is truly a prisoner from out of time? And what is keeping her in here? He had been so caught off guard by her beauty and scent that it was only now that his mind caught up with him.
        “I will, but first, what kingdom are you from, Ilona?”
        She averted her eyes. “The kingdom I do not know, kings are all so distant from us peasants. It has been so long that you surely would not know him anyway.”
        “I would learn of the past through you, we have so few records left from your time,” Aranthir pressed. “In truth, I know not what time you are even from. When were you born? Was it before the Long Dark?”
        “Oh, I have no time to give you a history lesson!” Ilona exclaimed. “I want to be out of here at last!”
        “How do you know the Ephidi tongue? Is it some spell?” Aranthir saw something flicker across her face. For an instant, her frightened, vulnerable demeanor gave way to haughtiness. This is no peasant girl, he thought. 
        “Please,” she pleaded, her frightened state returning, “help me escape the spell he cast upon me so that I can free again! Please, sir, I’ll do anything for you.” She bent her knees, lowering her pretty face toward Aranthir’s waist. Her big blue eyes looked up at him and her red lips pursed together as her delicate white hand ran down his chest.         His cock rose in his trousers and his heart quickened with the expectation of fucking her. And Aranthir finally understood.
        “I think perhaps it is best if you remain here, demon,” Aranthir said coldly. Ilona’s face change from pleading to iron. She stood up and looked him in the eye.
        “A perceptive mortal to be sure,” she said in a new voice. No longer a plaintive peasant girl, this voice was as sultry as any courtesan or priestess of Nystra Aranthir had ever heard. Ilona’s image shimmered as well, and the peasant girl faded away to be replaced by a buxom, raven-haired woman with ivory skin and ruby-red lips. She smiled at Aranthir, completely nude. From her naked back unfolded a pair of black bat wings, reaching up to the room’s stone tiled roof.
        “In any other case,” she began, her voice low and smoky, “I’d have my way with you and leave you to rot.”
        “You will find me more difficult prey than a peasant,” Aranthir replied, pistol raised. He touched the cold iron muzzle to her chin and she did not draw away. “You would be the witch that the villagers told me about, would you not?”
        “I am,” the succubus replied. “Once there was a time when shepherds would come stumbling into my prison with regularity. None of them could help me, so I had my fun with them and turned them loose to die. Then an earthquake came and buried me. I’ve languished here for Felitharna knows how long until now.”
        “Well, now I’m here,” Aranthir said.
        “Indeed you are. Perhaps you can help me.”
        “And why would I do that?”
        “I can make it worth your while,” she purred. She touched a delicate hand to her bare breast, pale with a rosy-pink nipple in the middle. Her other hand wandered down her flawless body to the smooth, hairless sex between her legs. “You’ve the look of a vagabond, a wanderer, about you. Have you ever fucked a woman like me?”
        Aranthir smiled. “I do better than you might expect.”
        “Do you?” the succubus asked with sincere interest, “I would love to hear your tales of conquest. But I can assure you, you’ve never had a woman like me.”
        “I’ve never had a woman with wings, I can say that much,” Aranthir replied with a short laugh.
        “Indeed. There is a big, soft bed right here,” she stepped to it and ran her hand over its sheets. Aranthir saw her full breasts sway with her motion and clenched his jaw. Grabbing ahold of himself, he retrained his pistol on the demon. 
        “Would you like to make use of this bed?” Ilona asked. “Make use of me?” She turned over, showing him her smooth, round buttocks as she did. Aranthir could not deny that he found the sight inviting in the extreme.
        “What is your price?” he asked, as business-like as he could manage. She turned over again, her big, soft breasts pooling against her chest.
        “I am bound here by the sorcerer’s spell. Break it, and you and I will make the hills shake.”
        “And then what? I am to let you roam freely through the realm, draining the life from men as you please?”
        “Not only men,” she said coyly. Aranthir was unamused and showed it, so she sat up again, wings folded. “I will go away. Back to the Dark Reaches I was summoned from and assemble a stable of the lustiest imps and incubi, to fuck me for a hundred years until at last my long hunger is sated. Perhaps I’ll find a Kirynor to join my boudoir. I’ll never trouble a mortal again.” She slid one hand between her legs again, playing with herself.
        “How will I keep you to that promise?”
        The succubus moaned at her own touch and bit her lip. Aranthir felt about to burst out of his own clothes. “Place a new binding on me, or banish me to the Dark Reaches, but don’t keep me confined in this wretched cell any longer.”
        “I have nothing with which to banish you, assuming I can even break your binding in the first place.”
        The succubus lay back, her wings shimmering and melting away so that she once again looked a mortal human. She spread her legs open and drew her knees up beneath her armpits. Her wet sex called to him.
        “Won’t you have a go at me?” she pleaded.
        “You’re not listening to me,” Aranthir shot back, averting his gaze from her luscious form. He felt the charms of the succubus strongly and feared he was near to becoming her next victim. 
        “You need a source of power?” she asked, pulling herself upright again. Her magnificent breasts gleamed in the candlelight. “Use me. Oh, not like that, not yet.”
        Aranthir looked at her suspiciously.
        “You do not know how to tap a source of power?”
        Aranthir laughed helplessly at her possibly inadvertent innuendo. 
        “I was taught how,” he replied, “but to use you as a source of power to undo your own bindings… was that not an option barred by the terms of the binding?”
        “Not at all. The sorcerer summoned me as a tutor, concubine, and font of power. This spell was cast in part with my power. It can be undone by my power and your words, and then we will fuck like newlyweds.”
        Aranthir felt his breath coming rapidly. Was this a natural response to a beautiful woman’s charms, or was some dark magic of the succubus at work here? Ilona raised her foot from the bed and ran her toe down his chest to his swordbelt. He relented at last.
        “Very well. I will replace your bindings.”
        She jumped to her feet, her head nearly reaching the ceiling. Her long black hair fell to her waist in waves. “Oh, I’ve never been so happy! Set me free to walk the world again, so that I may enjoy its boundless pleasures.
        “Not boundless,” Aranthir replied, “I will rebind you under new terms. You may have your way with mortals, but never to their harm.”
        “Acceptable terms,” Ilona said. She put her hands on his shoulder and leaned in close to put his face between her voluptuous breasts. He drank in her intoxicating scent and struggled to keep his head about him.
        “Hold on,” he gasped. “First, the magic must be done.”
        Pushing her away, he stepped back from the bed. From his pack, he drew out his book of spells and a vial of the indigo spice. 
        “This will take a moment to prepare,” he said. Ilona knelt down on the bed, leaning forward to watch. Aranthir set out his tokens in a circle and seated himself in the center. Infusing himself with the spice, he cast a new seeing spell. This time, the sorcerous sight showed him not the physical world around him, but the strange, lightless world of the Ether. He lurched in his seat as the room around him fell away. In every direction was a dark, clouded nothingness devoid of life. 
        Except for directly in front of him, where a woman’s form glowed with light. Ilona’s wings shone brightly in the Ether, revealing her true nature again. But Aranthir was unconcerned. He reached out from his seat and touched her glowing body. She quivered under his touch. Aranthir felt sorcerous power rush into him, swelling every part of him with energy. 
        When he withdrew from her, a bright strand still connected their forms. He heard her voice, distant and filtered through the barrier between the mortal world and the Ether.
        “I feel you,” her voice echoed faintly through the void. “The bond is made.”
        Slowly, Aranthir allowed himself to retreat from the Ether into his body once again. Opening his eyes, he found Ilona staring expectantly at him from the bed. A thin bead of sweat dripped down her cheek.
v         “It is done,” Aranthir intoned. “Now to break the bindings.”
        But first, Aranthir cast a ward to shield himself from her demonic charms. Ilona saw what he was doing and laughed.
        “It’s better if you don’t but suit yourself.” Aranthir made no reply.
        She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. 
        “Now you will break the binding?” she asked. Aranthir nodded.
        “Give me a moment to prepare.”
        “I thought you already?” she asked with another laugh. “You’re so suspicious of me, and for what?”
        “Ask that to the men you killed.”
        “They died happy,” Ilona responded. “They came to me willingly and did not leave willingly. Some could control themselves, others could not. Is it truly my fault that some of them died?”
        Aranthir said nothing, though he was reconsidering his decision to help. But whether it was the pleading of a trapped soul or the insistence of his own baser impulses, he ultimately forged ahead. He summoned to him the strength of sorcery and looked into the Ether once more. Focusing his mind’s eye, he perceived the bindings about Ilona and the spell that locked the room in time. He willed into being a sorcerous knife and projected it out against the bindings. With a deep breath, he brought against the bindings. They shuddered and shattered, tumbling away and winking out in the dark void.
        Now was the moment for Ilona to run. He heard her gasp with elation as she felt the bindings at last dissolbe. If she made for the door while he was sitting here, she could escape unbound and wreak havoc throughout the countryside. But she made no move. Aranthir retreated from the Ether to find her sitting on the bed, arms wrapped around herself with tears in her eyes.
        “Free,” she whispered, “at last I am free.”
        “For now,” Aranthir said. He cast himself back into the Ether and forged a new binding for her. As he lay it about her glowing form, he pronounced his terms.
        “I free you to walk among the mortal realms on the condition that you not bring harm to the innocent, nor disruption to the fair and just trades of their peoples. Should you violate these terms, I cast you into the darkest, most desolate and barren reaches to languish alone for ten thousand years.”
        She frowned slightly as the bindings were set, but then her smile returned and she lay back on her elbows.
        “Now that that’s done, shall we?” she spread her lips with her fingers and the pinkness between her legs beckoned.
Aranthir stood up to look into her eyes where she sat on the bed.
        “If I find you have broken these bindings and become a problem for the people, I will return for you.”
        “I assure you that I will behave myself. You will have no reason to return for me, except one.”
        She stepped off the bed and drew close to him. Her bare breasts pressed against his chest. 
        “Mortals cannot resist me,” she whispered in his ear. Aranthir knew it was true. He reached for his belt, but her hands got there first. In a whirl, they tore off his clothes, armor and weapons clattering to the stone floor. Ilona grabbed his cock in his hands and knelt before him.
        She lay the cock across her face from chin to brow and giggled.
        “You are most fortunate to have such a big cock, my good Aranthir.”
        “All this time begging for it and you still want to talk?” Aranthir asked. She smiled wolfishly and the cock disappeared down her throat. She gulped at it, running her dexterous tongue all around it as she drew it in and out. Aranthir wound his hands through her lustrous black hair and thrust his hips in time with her. She stared up at him, her beautiful blues eyes framed by raven locks and her red lips wrapped around his cock.
        Aranthir leaned over her and slapped her round white ass. She giggled around his cock and took it in both hands. Aranthir could feel the lust overtaking him. He fucked her face vigorously, feeling his cock plunge down her throat with each stroke. For her part, she clutched his cock in her hands and squeezed as if she hoped to wring his seed from it like a wet sponge. 
        In the midst of his lust, Aranthir was overcome with the ridiculous image of himself in an ancient ruin, standing butt naked with his cock in a succubus’ mouth while his weapons and armor were strewn about on the floor. What if someone were to walk in? Perhaps the shepherd girl who had led him here or Essie? What if Ilona were to seize his weapons and force him to undo the bindings? These thoughts flitted through his mind like dreadful visions of the future, but he could not stop himself. 
        Instead, he hauled Ilona off her feet and cast her backwards onto the bed, where she landed with a bounce and a giggle. Her big breasts shook again. Aranthir climbed atop her, cock in one hand and the other on her right breast, squeezing it as he sucked on her nipple. Ilona wrapped her fingers through his short hair and moaned with pleasure.
“Nystra’s Tits, are you going to fuck me or not?” she demanded, opening her legs to receive him inside her. Aranthir spat out her nipple and smiled at the tooth marks he left on her breast. Positioning himself over her wet sex, he pressed his cock against her lips and slid himself inside. 
        Aranthir intended to savor the moment, but his lust overcame him and he shoved his cock inside her all the way to the base. Immediately, he felt on the verge of coming. Ilona grabbed at his legs, pushing her hips up against him.
        “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” she begged and Aranthir could only comply. He thrust himself into her as far as he could and saw her white breasts shake. He leaned forward, looking down into her eyes as she smiled broadly back at him. 
        “Don’t stop now,” Ilona whispered. Aranthir had no intention of stopping. He fucked her furiously, grabbing at her breasts, her hips, her legs. She wrapped her legs around his hips and held him inside her while her hands clutched at his shoulders. Aranthir lay himself down and kissed her warm, sweet lips. He felt her fingers dig into his back, sharper than a woman’s fingers had any right to be. The succubus cried out in pleasure and quivered beneath him.
        He did not stop thrusting, but instead intensified. He worked his hips harder and faster, slapping against her as he pressed his mouth to hers. Ilona moaned again and intertwined their tongues. Aranthir struggled to contain himself until he could no longer.
        Throwing himself back from atop her, he drew out his cock and spurted three long lines of cum across her flawless body. The first landed across her face, the second her breasts, and the third her stomach.
Laughing, Ilona ran a finger across her stomach and licked it clean. 
        “Done so soon?” she teased. Breathless, Aranthir could not recall how long it had been since he first entered her, but he was sure it was longer than he had spent fucking Essie the night before. One was a mere peasant girl with starry eyes for outsiders, the other an immortal being of sex and lust. Ilona deserved his best efforts. 
        With no response forthcoming, Ilona scraped up the rest of his cum with one delicate finger and held it before her red mouth, gaping wide as she slowly licked all her sticky white cum from herself. Aranthir merely knelt with his hands on his knees and watched. Ilona finished and smiled at him.
        “Imps?” Aranthir asked after a long pause.
        “What about them?” Ilona asked. She turned over and propped herself up on one elbow.
        “You said you would have a harem of imps to fuck you. Why imps?”
        “Have you ever seen an imp? They are half the size of a man, with a cock as big as the most blessed man. All I need is the cock.”
                “But they’re so ugly,” Aranthir complained. 
                “They don’t need to be handsome,” Ilona replied. “They need to fuck me, and all the rest is the rest.”
                “Then what about the incubi?”
                “They are there to be handsome. Though you are very handsome as well.” She ran a finger along his jaw and Aranthir felt himself blush.
        “Look at you,” she said, “you’re almost ready to go again.”
        Aranthir looked at his cock and saw that she was right. Ilona took his cock in her mouth again and began to caress it with her touch. Aranthir lay back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.
        “Another touch is all you needed,” she said after a moment. 
        He sat up and saw that she held his hard cock between her hands. Leaning forward, he kissed her lips again.
        Ilona pushed him down on the bed and mounted him with a smile. As his cock slid inside her again, she rolled her eyes back into her head, her mouth dropping open. Aranthir grabbed her by the breasts as she began to ride.         Bouncing her hips up at down on his cock made her breasts bounce in time and Aranthir watched their mesmerizing motion. Leaning over him, she looked down into his eyes as her long hair fell over her breasts. Aranthir broke off from her gaze to brush her hair aside and look upon her naked breasts again.
        Teasingly, she covered them with her hands as she continued to ride. Aranthir took her hands and pulled them aside.
        “Don’t hide your beauty from me,” he chided. Ilona beamed with delight and leaned down to kiss him. Aranthir wrapped his arms around her waist and held her close. They locked lips for a time until Ilona drew away.
        “Fuck me from behind,” she urged, “like an animal.”
        She dismounted from him, his hard, wet cock slapping against his chest as it came out of her. She got down on all fours on the bed, offering up her behind to him. Aranthir did not wait. He knelt behind her and shoved his cock inside her hungrily. Wrapping one hand through her long black hair, he grabbed her by the waist with the other and began to fuck. 
        Ilona craned her head back to look him in the eye and gave a throaty laugh. Aranthir kissed her forehead and thrust into her harder.
        “Oh yes, don’t stop,” she crooned, “Fuck me like you own me.”
        Aranthir tightened his grip, moving a hand to her throat as he pounded her luscious ass. Ilona continued to moan exhortations at him even as he clutched at her neck, the lust overtaking him. He felt himself grow closer to climax but did not slow his pace. Her ass began to redden where he had been fucking her, which only excited him more. The sound of his hips clapping against hers echoed about the stone room.
        Consumed by thoughts of lust, he was dimly aware of a noise outside the room. He did not stop, driving his cock into her with greater and greater fury. The succubus cried out in the throes of passion, begging to be fucked, punished, ravished like the lust demon she was. Aranthir let out a mighty roar as he could no longer contain himself. 
        He finished inside her again, his cock emptying itself into her warm, wet innards. His thrusting slowed, and he felt the sticky cum leak out of her along his cock.
        Ilona craned her head back to look him in the eye, but before she could say anything, the door swung open. 
        Aranthir whirled in shock, caught in the act by a strange group indeed. At their head was a lilac-skinned visling in a red velvet cloak. Behind her were two tattooed twins in black cloaks and a woman, bald but for a long braid growing out the back of her skull. Two of them moved as if injured, favoring their shoulders beneath their cloaks. All had the smell of spice about them.
        It was a most inconvenient situation for Aranthir, naked on the bed with his armor and weapons scattered across the floor. 
        “What have we here?” the visling hissed. She stepped into the room, a silver-edged dagger in her hand. The twins followed her in, each with an axe at the ready. They looked upon Ilona with great lust and malice in their eyes. The last woman drew no weapon, but her eyes fixated on Ilona as well, and though Aranthir detected no lust in her eyes, he did see great interest.
        “You have caught me at a disadvantage,” Aranthir said. “I brought this wench here to avoid her husband’s gaze. This strange ruin has proved a useful place for trysts.”
        The visling sniffed in derision. “You have the smell of spice about you.” Her eyes narrowed, like a cat preparing to pounce. “You are the one who opened the lock.”
        “I am,” Aranthir replied, still uncomfortably aware that he was naked, and with his cock still in the succubus as well. He drew it out of her and slid from the bed to his feet. Behind him, Ilona lay herself on her side, casually flicking her hair over her shoulder again. The twins’ gazes fixed on her.
        “It was a good deal of effort but…” he waved to the naked Ilona in explanation, “look at her.”
        “She’s beautiful,” one of the twins whispered, and his brother nodded in agreement. 
        “All that for a lay?” the visling asked, her voice low. Her dagger was still clutched in her hand. “How much spice did you expend opening the lock? For the value of the spice, you could have bought a week in the pleasure palaces with the finest courtesans in all the realms.”
        Aranthir scoffed.
        “What pleasure palaces? We are in the sticks here, out on the coast with nothing but the sheep and salt smugglers to keep us company.”
        “Then why are you here?” the visling demanded.
        “Enough of this,” the other woman cut in. She pointed an accusing finger at Ilona. “That one smells of sorcery.”
        “It’d be in his seed,” the other twin muttered, and they chuckled to themselves.
        That caught the attention of the other three.
        “A nymph?” one asked.
        “A succubus,” the visling replied.
        “I want her,” the twins said in unison.
        “Do you?” Ilona asked. She rose up to her knees, letting her naked body draw the men in. Aranthir’s cum dripped down her leg.
        “I want her first,” the woman with the braid said. She raised her hands and from one dropped an amulet on a chain. “I will bind her to serve me.”
        Ilona’s face darkened. Aranthir looked to his weapons in anticipation. 
        The woman called out a word of command, and Aranthir recognized the beginnings of a binding spell. Ilona bolted from the bed, her wings materializing again as she flew at the twins who blocked her path. The demonbinder’s chanted words reverberated about with the force of the wind and Aranthir scrambled for his pistols.
        Ilona’s claws came out and she slashed at the wounded twin in a frenzy. His brother came to his aid, hacking at her with his axe and warding her off. Aranthir grabbed a pistol from the floor but, before he could fire, the visling was upon him. Her silver dagger darted forward, seeking his heart, but he dodged aside. He raised his pistol to fire a shot into her chest, but saw, out of the corner of his eye, her hand burst into white fire. 
        As it rushed for him, he fell back, rolling naked across the floor. He came up ready to fire, but the visling was on him again. They tangled together and crashed to the floor. He caught her burning hand with his free hand, and when she stabbed at him, her dagger point became ensnared in his pistol’s trigger guard. 
        Using it as a makeshift swordbreaker, he twisted the pistol and wrenched the dagger from her grasp. She snarled in fury, her face a mask of rage, but he had aligned the muzzle with her face, and pulled the trigger. 
        The visling went limp in his grasp as blood sprayed across the far wall. Aranthir shoved her corpse off him and stood up. The others looked to him, the twins shocked and despondent. The wounded one was down on the floor, clutching at the bloody furrows Ilona’s claws had left on his face. But the demonbinder had finished her chanting, and Ilona looked to Aranthir with malice in her eyes.
        “Ilona,” he called, “You and I are bound. If you strike me, you will suffer loneliness for ten thousand years.”
        “Save your words, half-blood,” the demonbinder spat. “Your demon answers to me now. Thrall, kill the half-breed!” 
        Ilona started forward, slowly at first but then leaping into an attack, claws outstretched. Aranthir had nothing but an empty pistol to defend himself. He backed away from her onslaught but soon found himself running out of space. As she swooped in, claws extended, he dove aside and tried to cast a spell to break the demonbinder’s hold over her. It was no use, however, and he lose the spell in the rush of trying to escape Ilona’s claws. 
        Sprawling to the floor, he looked under the bed and saw his sword and second pistol on the far side. The bed was too low for him to crawl under and the weapons were too far away to reach. Fortunately for him, the demonbinder and her companions were still distracted attending to their wounds.
        Ilona turned toward him again and Aranthir felt his heart pound.
        “Ilona, restrain yourself. It’s me, Aranthir. I helped you,” he pleaded, feeling so vulnerable as he was alone, naked, vulnerable, and unarmed on the stone floor of a ruin. Her face softened a bit, and she paused her attack long enough for Aranthir to think. 
        A spell came to mind and he called upon his link to Ilona, channeling her energy as a font of power. From the room’s floor burst a thin, twisted root. Guiding it with his mind, Aranthir wrapped the root around his sword and pistol and swung them across the floor and into his hand. 
        The demonbinder saw it happened and her face went white. 
        “Kill him, my thrall!” she screamed, but Aranthir was too quick. He seized his pistol and leveled it against her. The wheels clicked and sparked, the gun fired. A puff of white, acrid smoke filled the room, some of the sparks falling onto the bedsheet where they smoldered briefly before going out. From across the room, he heard the men shout and scramble, but could see nothing through the smoke.
        Ilona crouched down next to him, all trace of hostility gone.
        “You saved me once again, Aranthir. I am forever grateful.”
        “You’re not saved yet,” Aranthir grumbled, taking up his sword. His root retreated into the earth. “Take the wounded one, I’ll take the other.”
        Vaulting over the bed, into the smoke, Aranthir went for the kill. The smoke parted in front of him and he saw the two men crouching over the demonbinder’s lifeless body. They heard him coming and whirled, axes at the ready. Steel rang against steel as they parried his strike and struck back, only to be parried themselves. Even wounded, they came on as one, driving Aranthir back with expert strikes. 
        But Ilona took them by surprise. On her great black wings, she soared over the bed and set upon the wounded man, clawing and tearing at him as she threw him to the ground. His twin was caught by surprise and his flank was exposed. Aranthir struck, slashing a long red line down his bare arm. 
        The dying man screamed in agony, and his brother turned to strike Ilona’s exposed back. Aranthir was quicker, and drove the point of his longsword through the man’s neck. He died gurgling and fell to the blood next to the bloody mess of his brother.
        “Now what?” Ilona asked as the dust settled and Aranthir’s heart stopped pounding. “Am I free to go?”
        “You are,” he breathed, “but what will you do?”
        The succubus shrugged. “Wander the roads, looking for a bit of fun. Perhaps I’ll head to one of the cities and take up work as a courtesan. There should be no shortage of men to sate my lusts.”
        “Very well. We should get dressed,” Aranthir said, picking up his scattered clothes.
        “I am as dressed as I wish to be,” Ilona laughed.
        “The roads can be dangerous for a beautiful woman alone. You will attract less attention on the road if you’re dressed in this” Aranthir lifted up the visling’s cloak, barely stained by her demise. “And it will look good on you.”
        Ilona sighed. “I suppose so.” She began stripping the dead visling and clothing herself. Aranthir did the same, buckling on his sword and pistols again. Once armed again, he felt a sense of security return to him at last. Ilona finished dressing and turned to him.
        “How do I look?” she asked, twirling about. Aranthir grunted in reply.
        “I liked you better naked, but this will make for easier traveling. You should find some more inconspicuous clothes soon, something tells me that these warlocks have people looking for them.”
                He turned his attention to their packs. They traveled light, but he took from them their weapons, two purses full of gold and silver coins, two spellbooks, and a small crystal wand. 
        “This is quite the haul from just four of them,” he murmured to himself.
        “They came to loot the dead and have themselves become the looted dead,” Ilona laughed to herself. “Serves them right.”
        Aranthir stood up. “Let’s go, there is nothing more for me here.”
        He walked off down the hall, but stopped when he realized she was not behind him. Turning, he found her standing at the door to the bedroom.
        “What are you waiting for?”
        “I’ve spent countless years trapped behind this threshold,” she replied, “I never thought I would see this moment.”
        Slowly, she put one foot over the threshold into the hall. When it touched the floor on the other side, she breathed a sigh of relief and bolted through the door like she thought it was about to close on her forever. Once in the hall, she burst out laughing.
        “I’m out! I’m gone! I had feared this day would never come!” She ran to Aranthir and threw her arms around him. She kissed him and whispered in his ear. “Thank you again, Aranthir of Ildranon.”
        “You are most welcome.” It occurred to Aranthir that immortals must experience time differently. I would be mad twice over from that much isolation, but she seems to still have her wits about her, he thought to himself.
        She separated from him and looked down the hall toward the entrance. 
        “Come, I want to see the sun again.”
        Ilona stopped before the pool of water, staring down into its depths and then up toward the hole in the roof.
        “I’ve not left that room in so long, I had forgotten what the rest of this place looked like,” Ilona said. 
        “What was this place?” Aranthir asked.
        “A sorcerer, my master, built this as a shrine to himself. He hoped to create a cult around himself that would make him a god. But the gods do not welcome company, and sent their servants to destroy him. I heard it from my chamber, though I could not leave it without his permission.”
        “Why did they leave you alone?”
        “I had tutored him in magic, and they believed me culpable in his crimes. When they realized I could not leave, they left me behind as a prisoner. It was a cruel fate.”
        Aranthir said nothing, though he nodded in agreement. Then a thought struck him.
        “Is this familiar to you?” he held up the bronze tablet he had taken from the hiding place in the chapel. “I found it hidden under a flagstone in the chapel.”
        She took it from him and turned it over in her hands.
        “It is a spell. One of my master’s devising, now likely lost to the world. Until you found it.”
        “I cannot read it, the script is lost to me, too.”
        Ilona handed the tablet back to him.
“         It is written in the script of the Aphalians. Are they known to you?”
        Aranthir nodded. “I have heard the name before. I may be able to find the books to translate it in the libraries of Sparras. If not, the citadel in Ildranon will surely have what I need, but they are far away.”
        “Then I wish you luck,” the succubus said. “My master’s work will see the light of day again, but more importantly, so will I.”
        They passed out the unlocked door into the entry chamber and then the gorge. It was late in the day and the long shadows completely covered the gorge’s floor, creeping ever higher along its walls. But Ilona reveled in the sunlight all the same. She threw herself into the short winter grass and rolled around, delighting in its feel after so long in the ruin. She laughed and ran up the gorge, then back down to rejoin Aranthir before turning to run up the gorge again.
        “How I have missed the sun,” she cried. Aranthir sat himself near the entrance as he waited for her to finish. Near the entrance to the cave, he found the warlocks’ four horses tied up and left behind. 
        “I’ll take one,” Ilona said as she returned, but the horses shied away from her as she approached.
        “They smell you for what you really are,” Aranthir mused. Ilona scowled back at him before turning to the horses with soothing words.
        The horses calmed themselves soon enough, allowing Ilona to approach and select a black stallion for herself.
        “Well done,” Aranthir congratulated.
        “I have a way with words,” she said and swung herself into the saddle. She looked down at him.
        “Take one for yourself,” she said.
        “I have no need, mine is up the hill. She waited in the gorge as he retrieved his horse from where he had left it. It was fortuitous that it was out of sight of the warlocks, he thought as he returned to Ilona.
        “What of the others?” he asked.
        “Take them for yourself. Surely you can get a good price.”
        “I’ll leave them with the villagers. It’s almost planting season.”
        “Well then, this is where we part ways, my good Aranthir.”
        “Indeed. You’ve been a great help to me, among other things.”
        Ilona smiled.
        “I should thank you as well. It’s been too long since I’ve had a man, let alone a man like you.”
        Aranthir smiled back. “You’ll find many more soon enough. The city of Daum Albor lies to the northeast, perhaps three days’ ride. It’s the king’s city, so you’ll find many rich men but also many prying eyes. It may not be safe.”
        “I can handle a bit of danger,” Ilona replied haughtily. “I find it so exciting.”
        “Well, I warned you.”
        “So you did,” she said with a sigh. “I will go there but take your warning to heart. Do come looking for me sometime.”
        “The king’s city would be more dangerous for me than you. I am headed east to Sparras.”
        “If Daum Albor does not work out, perhaps I will look for you in Sparras.”
        “Perhaps, but I won’t stay long. I’m looking for work.”
        “Fate will reunite us if it is to be. In the meantime, I’m off to Daum Albor and its pleasure palaces. It sounds like a wonderful time.”
        She kicked her horse into motion and the stallion slowly began to climb its way up the gorge to the north.
        “Behave yourself,” Aranthir called as she set off up the gorge.
        She turned back to him and smiled mischievously.         
        “What’s the fun in that?” she called back.
        Aranthir shook his head and turned back to his horse. He untied the other horses’ reins and retied them to his saddle horns. I am becoming a purveyor of horses to this village, he thought wryly. They will have an easy plowing season this year.
        With his charges in tow, he set off down the gorge toward the village. He made it back to the village as night fell. Gaithas and Narra reluctantly took him back under their roof for the night, though he only caught a brief glimpse of Essie as they shuffled her off to stable the horses with a neighbor. She gave him a pouty look as she disappeared down the street.
        Aranthir made his bed before the hearth, once again joined by Nuys.
        “Did you meet the warlocks?” the old peddler asked as Aranthir sat down. “They went up to the ruin around midday.”
        “I did,” Aranthir replied. “They are dead.”
        “Did you find anything of worth?” he asked after a short silence.
        “I did,” Aranthir said, showing the peddler a handful of coins. “The ruin was looted long ago, but there was still some treasure left behind.”
        “You will have to tell me your story on the road tomorrow,” Nuys said as he lay his head down to sleep. “I would like to hear of the warlocks’ fate.”
        “Perhaps. I have some other tales to tell as well.”
        Aranthir lay against his makeshift pillow, listening to the crackling of the fire as he fell asleep.
 
                The two of them rose with the dawn and assembled their things for the road. Essie reappeared to serve them breakfast, but Gaithas ushered her away soon after. Aranthir took the villagers’ looks to heart and made ready to leave. He and Nuys were on the road an hour after dawn, heading east toward the port town of Mathel with Aranthir recounting his adventure as they rode.
                “A succubus!” Nuys exclaimed, “I am amazed you are alive.”
                “They are not all they are made out to be,” Aranthir said with a shrug.
                “Not as beautiful?”
                “Exactly as beautiful, but not as deadly. If you thought Essie was a sweet piece, you would die to see this one naked.”
                “You lead a charmed life, my friend,” Nuys replied. Aranthir made to reply but stopped and looked past him. Eight riders in black cloaks were making west along an inland road, toward Richfield.
                “That cannot bode well,” Nuys muttered. 
                “I am going back,” Aranthir announced, “That means trouble.” 
                Without waiting for the peddler to respond, he wheeled his horse around and rode for the village. The riders were ahead of him, moving at a good pace, so he spurred his horse to keep up. Yet the coast rode wound around many coves and promontories, and he knew the riders would make for the village first. He reached into his saddlebags and imbibed a vial of the indigo spice. 
                As he neared the village, he heard a scream and kicked his horse to a gallop. Together they flew over the last hundred paces until he reached the village square.
                The eight Blackcloaks had formed a half-circle around the aldorman’s home. Their leader held Farrin against the earth with his boot. 
                “Where are they?!” he roared, pointing a pistol at the aldorman’s head. 
                Gaithas stepped forward, pleading with the man. “They never reached our village, we don’t know what happened to them! Please, don’t hurt anyone.”
                The Blackcloak raised his pistol to point at Gaithas. Narra and Essie quailed, while Gaithas himself stood frozen in fear. Then the sound of hoofbeats reached the village, and all assembled turned to see Aranthir charging in. 
                Rising to stand in the saddle, Aranthir dropped the horse’s reins and pulled a pair of pistols from his saddlehorns. The Blackcloak leader’s eyes widened, and he spun his pistol to face Aranthir. He was too slow. 
                Aranthir’s pistols fired as one, and two puffs of wet red mist burst out the man’s back. As his horse skidded to a halt, Aranthir leapt from the saddle, drawing his second pair of pistols from his belt and conjuring a gust of wind to carry him gently to the ground. The villagers screamed in panic and scattered. The seven remaining Blackcloaks drew swords and pistols, rushing to the attack. 
                Aranthir leapt a low fence and darted behind the aldorman’s house to escape their line of fire before they could shoot. Shouting in fury, they came on. When the first man rounded the corner, Aranthir fired a shot into his chest. Without a word, he went down with a thud. Now with only one pistol left, Aranthir scrambled onto the shingled roof of the house and drew his sword. 
                The remaining Blackcloaks had stopped in the street, unsure of how to attack as none wanted to be around the corner next. Aranthir rose up over the crest of the roof and fired again. At this range, he could not miss. The shot took his target in the side of the head, exiting out the other side in a spray of blood. 
                Shock and fear overtook them. One man turned to fire his pistol back, and Aranthir summoned a spell shield in front of him. The shot struck the shield and disintegrated, a spiderweb of white cracks appearing across Aranthir’s shield. Two more ran for their horses in the square. 
                Aranthir jumped from the roof and landed between them, hacking one man down to the earth with a blow across his back. His companion turned around, sword in hand, and stabbed at Aranthir. He easily turned the blow aside, but the other three were upon him. He retreated from their encirclement, fending off sword blows from every angle.
                Their fear banished, the four Blackcloaks attacked with inexpert fury, slashing and stabbing at him in a mad frenzy. Though unskilled, their attacks were numerous enough that Aranthir was hard pressed to defend himself. He backed away, parrying blows as he could, but there could be no retreat, as his exposed back would be quickly perforated by their blades. Steel ringing against still with the tempo of a busy forge, Aranthir came to realize that he had been overconfident.
                He needed to be faster. He called upon his tap on Ilona, despite the distance between them. He found that her power was still available to him and channeled it into a spell of alacrity. His arms and feet quickened, allowing him to dart aside from blows that he could not before. His sword moved faster, clanging against those of his foes with great force as he parried blow after blow. 
                Now he was driving them back, driving them apart until he opened one man up and drove his sword through his heart. It was now three against one. His foes were beginning to appreciate the danger of their situation. Their strikes were more guarded and cautious, they pressed their attack more slowly. All of which allowed Aranthir to find openings. 
                He dodged to the left, flanking their line, and slashed at a man’s exposed side. The swordpoint opened a long gash from shoulder to hip and the man cried out in pain, his sword dropping to the ground. 
                The other two lost their nerve and ran for the horses. Aranthir finished off the wounded man, then ran another down and killed him in the dirt of the square. But the last man took off running on his steed. Aranthir could not allow him to escape.
                Summoning Ilona’s power for the final time, he cast a bolt of hissing red fire at the fleeing Blackcloak. The bolt struck the man in the back, piercing his chest to burn him from inside out. His horse panicked and threw him off, so he died screaming in a ditch at the edge of the village.
                Aranthir dismissed his spells. The last man lay wounded and sobbing in the square. He raised a hand to plead for mercy, but before he could speak, Aranthir stabbed him through the heart. 
                “They are all dead now,” he called out to the villagers. “It is safe to come out.”
                Slowly, the villagers emerged from their homes, peering fearfully into the square. He saw Essie’s face peeping out from the windows of her uncle’s house, but none of the villagers entered the streets or the square.
                “They are all dead,” Aranthir repeated. “The bodies should be buried before anyone from outside the village sees them.”
                “Will there be more of them?” the aldorman asked fearfully, at last daring to step outside.
                “If there are, tell them Aranthir of Ildranon killed these men. For the king’s crimes against him. He’ll know what it means.”
                The aldorman nodded. Aranthir looked around himself and saw the other villagers staring in equal parts awe and fear. No, he decided, not equal parts, for the fear is greater.
                “I have overstayed my welcome,” he conceded aloud. “I will go no and trouble you no more. I am sorry for my part in all this.”
                None of them said anything as he remounted his horse and rode east again, hoping to catch up to Nuys on the road.