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Chapter 18
Part 1
The sun was still shining as Angharad stepped out of the coastal caves and into the quarry. A stream ran alongside her that carried the standing quarry water to the shore, and in an effort to reduce the painful drying that being in the sunlight for too long caused him, An’kachat splashed himself with the running water, making sure to get an even coat over his scales.
“Finally,” Ifan doused his torch in the stream, “torchlight is such a pain on the eyes.”
A pathway led the group along the edge of the quarry, with the occasional gap cleared by rickety old wooden bridges constructed years ago. Sturdy enough, they stood fast as each of the party crossed, albeit one at a time.
“So, our ancestors dug a hole this big… for stone?” asked Rhian.
“The Aberhaf quarries belonged to the trolls at first. Initially they were meagre endeavours, supplying stone for the town and providing a modest income as trade goods with the Inarellians. When we bought the land from the trolls, it was one of the country’s largest quarries, before being almost entirely tapped of usable stone.” Ifan streamed off the history of the quarry, learnt from years of forced study on the origin of Inarell. “It provided gainful employment to the trolls of Aberhaf for generations and made the place into one of our most useful port towns. Much of the current palaces of the capital at Gwynedd are constructed with Aberhaf stone, in fact.”
“What they don’t tell you in Inarellian history books is that while the surface was being mined by the trolls, the caves below have always belonged to my tribe’s forbears.” An’kachat snarled, “When the humans began running the quarry, within a matter of years you had encroached on our domain. After having lived peacefully with the trolls for centuries, your people’s actions drove a knife through that peace. Fights broke out at those very cave mouths, as we tried to reclaim our underground lake, Te’lahn.” An’kachat pointed back along the path, to the cave opening they escaped from.
“I had no idea. Obviously, I knew of the skirmishes your people carried out with the miners, but I was never made aware of your claim to the land. On behalf of my ancestors, I apologise. Mayhap we can work to make amends once we’ve solved this tainted arcanum business.” Ifan offered an earnest look at An’kachat, and a bow, stopping in front of Rhian as Gustov and Angharad continued onwards.
“Thank you, prince. Maybe we can. If there’s anything left of my people after this tainted arcanum business.”
“Come on, the path opens up ahead. We can take a break over there,” Angharad gestured to the rocky shores of lake Te’lahn. “My feet are killing me.”
Rhian smiled at both An’kachat and Ifan and hurried them forwards. Before long, the group had reached the shore and An’kachat all but climbed into the waters while the others took stock of the situation.
“Take five and then head back to Aberhaf?” asked Angharad.
“Sounds good to me. I think my crossbow may have jammed up a little in that last encounter. Could barely see anything in those caves under torchlight – I’d appreciate some time to take a look at it.” Rhian pulled her crossbow off her back and took to performing some maintenance on it.
“Sure. I’ll just be over here.” Ifan turned away from the lake and hid his quivering upper lip. Taking a few steps, he began inspecting the mined-out walls of the quarry. Thoughts of his last day with Mari whipped through his head at a rate of knots, and his stomach began to churn. The others kept to themselves and left him to his struggle, which he wasn’t sure if he appreciated or disliked.
“Call me when we’re ready to depart.” Gustov made his way a little bit ahead of the group, leaning up against the walls of the quarry and idly inspecting the quick of his axe.
“Wonderful.” Angharad unstrapped her spear and shield from her back and left them in a pile at her feet. Taking a moment to stretch her weary shoulders and back, she walked up to the coastline and splashed the water with her boots. “Water alright for you, sahuagin?”
“I can’t complain.” An’kachat dove into the lake, his webbed feet sticking out from its surface before he became fully submerged. Re-surfacing a few moments later, he let out a pained gasp. “Gills aren’t working as well as they used to,” he wheezed, “they’re closing up without any of the liquid magic.”
“Shame.” Angharad pulled her waterskin from her hip and took a generous swig. She watched the sunlight shimmer off of the lake’s surface, creating a thin layer of diamonds glistening in the summer heat. Returning to Rhian’s side, she offered a hand with maintenance, and took to idle chit-chat with her friend as they enjoyed their breather.
The respite was crushed by a rising pressure, along with a burst of iridescent purple from a space near the shoreline. Ifan was brought to his knees. The weight fought his every movement as he turned his head toward the purple coming from behind him. It ebbed and flowed, expanded and retracted, and sparked with red and yellow lightning. The others had also been dragged to the ground by the overwhelming pressure emanating from the site. Angharad struggled towards her equipment, and An’kachat held on desperately to the coast as the pressure threatened to push him out to the centre of the lake, the unnatural rolling waves forcing the water away from the shore.
“What the hell is happening!” Ifan shouted but nobody seemed to take notice. All of their eyes were fixated on the central point of the phenomenon happening in their midst.
With a pained shriek, the energy retracted to a finality, vanishing into a small dark orb. The pressure waned, and, suddenly, bodies materialised on the shore. Two people stood, struggling with one another over what looked like a staff. Two others desperately clawed at the head of a third, who was covered in blood. The third’s muffled screams filled the air as the orb dissipated, breaking the unusual silence, and eliciting a pained expression from Ifan.
Slowly standing, Ifan made his way over to Rhian, drawing his sword. The screaming continued, their new guests still not noticing their presence. He surveyed the scene. They looked elven and bore ugly mutations. The screaming elf was being engulfed by a flesh-coloured bulging mass, starting from the head. It had made its way down to the poor creature’s shoulders, the others’ efforts clearly not working to save their ally. The two struggling over the staff were a woman and a man. The man’s eyes locked with Ifan’s as his gaze landed upon them, and Ifan’s heart froze.
“It’s him.”
“Huh?” Rhian continued staring at the horrifying scene ahead, as the elf continued being consumed by the mass.
“He was at the well.” Ifan readied his sword, and the man shrugged off the woman’s attempts at prying the staff from his fingers, knocking her to the ground.
“You!” The man bellowed, “You killed him! Prince Ifan ap Rhydian.”
“So, you found out who I am. I’ve not yet learned who you and your friends are, and where your allegiances lie.” Ifan saw Gustov approaching slowly from behind the man with his axe prepared and made eye contact. A quick hand gesture slowed his Goliath ally, and the man seemed to not notice.
“Captain Fendrick Hurst, of Prestelwyn’s Forgotten. And the man you killed was my mentor, Captain Tristan Wrathborn.” Fendrick stepped forward, pulling his sword from its sheathe and wielding it alongside the odd metal staff.
“And the woman he killed was my sister, Princess Mari ferch Rhydian. Although if you know my name, I assume you are aware of hers.”
“Fendrick, this isn’t the time! Podge is still alive. We can still save him!” One of the elves helping their ally called out to Fendrick.
“Quiet, Dai. This is my chance. And he has the crystal.”
“Screw the crystal! One of your men is dying, Captain!” Dai attempted to cut the mass from Podge’s body. The flesh gripped the sword’s steel and pried it from his fingers. “Oh for fuck’s sake!”
“Fen!” the female elf pulled herself to her feet, “You’re a man possessed. Please, we’ve retrieved the staff. Let’s save Podge and get out of here!”
“He’s a dead man.” Fendrick spun his sword in his hand and continued approaching Ifan, “cast him into the lake and join me.”
“How friendly.” Angharad was stood directly in Fendrick’s path, and with spear and shield equipped she charged him.
Fendrick parried the attack with his sword and struck her shield with the staff. The wood exploded and splintered, catching her in the eyes and knocking her off her feet.
“Haz!” Rhian shouted for her friend and drew a bolt into her crossbow.
Struggling to her feet, she felt the cold steel burrow its way into her chest and the blood bubble up in her lungs. Fendrick pulled his sword clear from her body and kicked her to the floor. Watching Rhian load her weapon, he lifted the staff and spun it in a circle. The air ahead of him stiffened and became a translucent pane, and Rhian’s bolt shattered on impact with it.
“Fuck, how the hell is he casting magic?” Rhian fumbled with another bolt, before being lifted off her feet and launched backwards into the lake. The solid barrier of air connected with her chest and knocked the wind from her airways. Tumbling into the water and bereft of breath, Rhian lashed out with her arms and legs in an effort to keep her head above the surface.
“Your friend is nearly completely gone; we can continue this after you help him. I promise.” Ifan lowered his sword slowly and glanced towards Podge. The woman had also joined Dai and the other elf and was impotently raking away at the fleshy mass as it continued swallowing Podge whole.
“You think I’ll show you mercy again? It was a moment of weakness; I can assure you. I won’t let you get away, this time.”
Gustov’s battle cry pierced the tension like a sledgehammer through plaster, swinging his axe wildly at Fendrick’s back.
Ifan reacted in an instant, dropping his feint of disarmament and charging headlong at his opponent. A tug at his belt stopped him in his tracks.
“Ifan, behind you!” spluttered Rhian from the waters.
An’kachat had wrapped his webbed hands around the belt pouch at Ifan’s hip. With a second harsh pull, the pouch came loose. Pushing Ifan’s back, he made for the lake, struggling to get good purchase on the rocky shore.
Ifan stumbled forwards and slammed his sword into the ground to keep himself upright. Turning his head, he watched as his sahuagin guide dove clumsily into the lake. “Gustov, I’ll leave Captain Fendrick to you! Slippery little bastard took the stone!” Making chase, Ifan ran to the water’s edge. Bellowing an ancient tongue, a prayer to his God, Telric, he pulled the air into a spear of lightning; its form crackling and shifting in his fingers. Loosing the bolt towards his quarry, it struck true, releasing sparks of electricity across the thief’s body that dissipated across the lake’s surface.
Gustov’s attack was parried deftly by Fendrick with the staff, turning to a flourish and riposte upon watching Ifan chase after the sahuagin. “Do you always announce yourself to your prey? I believe you’d find more success if you kept your mouth shut.”
“Deception is the way of the weak! I prefer to look my foes in the eyes when I take their lives. To feel the fear in their bones when I crush their defences.” Gustov knocked the staff backwards and readied another swing. With another shout, the goliath smashed his axe into Fendrick’s defence, its steel colliding with the unusual metal of the staff. It released a painful ringing which Gustov pushed through, planting his foot into his enemy’s stomach.
Fendrick struggled under the weight of the behemoth of a man, steadying himself on Angharad’s chest. She wheezed under the pressure of his foot before her hand struck out and grabbed his ankle.
“You should have made sure I was dead.” Angharad pulled his foot out from under him, knocking him to the floor and arresting his breath. The staff tumbled out of his hand and fell alongside Angharad’s calf. “Gustov… The staff.”
Gustov reached down and snatched the staff away from Fendrick. It vibrated relentlessly in his hand, before an explosion of force emanated from its being. Gustov held fast, shouting in pain as the force reverberated through his skeleton. “What manner of weapon is this? I’m sick of magical trinkets screwing me over when I grab them!” Steeling himself, Gustov tensed his arm, lifting the staff like a javelin.
Retrieve my soul, Goliath. Wrest me from the fish-folk.
Releasing another primal scream, Gustov launched the staff as far away as he could. Its tip buried itself into the quarry walls some twenty metres to the east, and he breathed a sigh of relief. “I won’t be toyed with by some magical whispers in my ear!”