Another Day, Another Dungeon Page 5

He felt the wall he crouched against. It was grainy, a little soft. There were a few cracks, a few holes. And it was soft enough that he might be able to carve a handhold with his knife if he needed to.

  In the pitch darkness, Kraki began to climb. All of the monster's potential vulnerable spots were well off the ground. He had to gain some height. It didn't look too good, Kraki had to admit. How could he fight a monster he couldn't see?

  He kept on climbing. It never occurred to him to do anything else. Heroes fight monsters. Monsters fight heroes. It's just one of those things. And I, Kraki told himself, am a hero. Yah, for sure.

  Garni lay flat on his stomach. He was near a pool of water. His lamp had gone out in the confusion, though he'd hung on to his pack. His dwarven night vision let him see a few shadowy shapes, but he could make out very little. It was black, as black as an ogre's heart. He heard a splash from the pool; he hoped the crocs would leave him alone. But crocodiles were the least of his worries.

  He wished he could see what was going on. He considered relighting his lantern, but decided against it. Doing so would only reveal his position to the creature out there.

  He'd boasted to Nick about being prepared. Well, he might not be prepared to deal with monsters the size of mountains. But maybe there was something in his pack. . . .

  He fumbled through it. Wood axe. Spare socks. Bedroll. Brandy. Nothing useful there. Oil. Salt. Wolfsbane.

  Belladonna. Parchment.

  Wait. Belladonna. No, not just belladonna. Essence of belladonna, thin crystalline needles extracted by some magical process from the root and leaves of the plant. Priests and chirurgeons used it as a local anaesthetic. The medicinal dose was one hundreth of a grain; a truly tiny amount. Two grains would kill a man.

  He hefted the packet. He must have—call it an ounce and a half. Something over six hundred grains.

  Was that enough to kill the monster? It was damned big. Its body weight must be tremendous. Still . . . it was the only thing Garni could think of. And even if the dose weren't lethal, it might slow the monster down.

  But how to get the monster to take the poison? He could dump the belladonna into a jar of pemmican. . . . But no. The monster wouldn't identify the jar as food.

  I suppose, Garni thought, I could get it to eat me. He shuddered. For a moment, he contemplated capturing a crocodile and forcing it to eat the belladonna—but he was not about to wrestle blind crocs in the dark.

  Could he get the poison into the monster without getting him to eat it? Wait . . . To use belladonna as a local anaesthetic, you dissolve it in alcohol and rub it into the skin. The alcohol penetrates. . . .

  He picked up the bottle of brandy.

  Rog was unhappy. He crisscrossed the cavern floor. Those darn orcs had disappeared.

  Maybe they were huddling against the walls. Yeah, that's it! They must be huddling against the walls. Rog began to feel his way around the cavern, patting the walls with his fingertips.

  Timaeus stood uncertainly in the entrance. It was dark, as dark as the seventh hell. He could see very little. Where had everyone gotten to? Any sensible person would make for the exit. Wouldn't they? That creature was unbeatable.

  Wasn't it?

  Perhaps not unbeatable, precisely. Just very tough. Very, very tough.

  Wizards no more powerful than he had slain dragons, hadn't they? Admittedly, wizards far more powerful than he had also been eaten by dragons, but he didn't come on this expedition to shirk adventure.

  Still, those claws . . . He shuddered.

  Timaeus reached for his pipe, then stopped himself. Smoke would reveal his whereabouts. No pipeweed for now.

  The monster was so big. And those scales! His fireball had bounced right off-doing a little collateral damage, perhaps, but nothing major. The monster was just so big . . .

  Hmm. What would happen if the thing tripped? At university, he'd learned that the velocity of a falling object is directly proportional to its weight. The creature was nothing if not heavy. It would fall fast-and hard.

  Perhaps an entrapment spell on one foot . . .

  Father Thwaite panted heavily. He crouched with his back to a sizable stalagmite. He could see nothing; the cavern was as dark as the sins of humanity.

  What should he be doing? His companions were out there somewhere in the dark, no doubt worried, no doubt afraid. He would comfort them if he could, but he had no idea where they were or where he was, for that matter.

  Was there anything he could do about the monster?

  He prayed for spiritual guidance. He wished he had a drink.

  The monster. Was it truly evil? Few creatures were. Its home had been invaded, and it had responded accordingly. Might it not be intelligent? Might it possess a soul? Could he, perhaps, reach it somehow, convince it that the little creatures scurrying about its feet could become its friends? Could he lead the creature into the path of righteousness and instruct it in the ways of the gods?

  Even if it were not intelligent, perhaps he could calm it, gentle it as holy men are said to gentle the most ferocious of beasts.

  Stop, he thought.

  Yes, this is what he must do. He must go forth, unarmed and unafraid, to do battle for the spirit of the monster.

  "Suicide," he groaned. The theology was ineluctable, but he didn't have to like it.

  Father Thwaite closed his eyes and intoned his mantra. He rose and slowly walked forward across the chamber floor. He tried to gentle his thoughts, rid himself of emotion, and reach out with his mind to contact the mind of the monster.

  It was hard to concentrate. Here he was, wandering out into the middle of an unlit cavern, trying to convert a fifty-foot monster ravening for human blood—that he couldn't even see. Thwaite wished he'd chosen a different god to follow. Dion had his good points—including a notable fondness for bibulation—but this predilection for martyrdom was not among them.

  Ye gods, he needed a drink. Blind faith was always easier with a few stiff ones under the belt.

  Garni sloshed the poisoned brandy. Now what?

  Ideally, he wanted the monster to swallow the vial. Failing that, he'd have to splash the stuff onto its skin. The thing to do was hurl the brandy toward the creature's mouth; at worst, it would splash onto the face, and at best the creature would swallow.

  How could he hurl the vial so high? The creature was big. . . .

  He took out his eleven-foot pole and screwed it together. Maybe he could use the pole as a kind of sling . . .

  Timaeus inhaled deeply and prepared himself. This would take all his skill. First, he'd need some kind of light spell, to see his target. Then, he'd need to get the monster to run. Finally, he'd need an entrapment spell-and he'd better put everything into it.

  If this didn't work, they were probably dead.

  At last. Kraki came to a ledge and pulled himself onto it. He was tired. His leg wound was throbbing. He needed a rest. He thought he was high enough to reach the monster's head, although it was hard to tell.

  But how would he knew when it was nearby?

  Bah. He could always bellow a challenge. No doubt it would come to a hero's call.

  Nick knew Sidney was nearby because he could hear her breathe. "Found anything?" he whispered.

  "No," she whispered back. "We should have come to the treasure by now."

  "Let's—" Nick began, then broke off.

  There was a . . . footstep. The ground shook slightly. The air moved. Dalara and Dion, Nick thought. It must be standing right above us. That's when the lights came on.

  There was a flash and a bang, as of fireworks. That's what it was; streamers of white drifted slowly toward the cavern floor.

  Aha, Timaeus thought, spotting the monster. There's the bugger. He cleared his throat. "NYA NYA! NYA NYA!" he shouted. "YOU CAN'T CATCH ME! NYA NYA! NYA NYA!"

  Rog heard a bang. Then he heard one of the orcs yell something insulting. Or was it an orc? He bellowed and ran toward the yell.

  Nick knew he was going to die as
soon as the monster saw them. All it had to do was step on them.

  It began to move away. He fainted in relief.

  Sidney looked about. "Of all the . . ." she muttered, and began dragging Nick toward the edge of the cavern. If Timaeus was about to start tossing spells around, she didn't want to be at ground zero.

  Kraki sprang to his feet. He was startled for a moment, then realized the light must be more of the wizard's magic. The wizard yelled, and the monster began to run toward him.

  What was the wizard planning? No time to wonder. Kraki was above the monster. It was not far away, and moving closer. Kraki drew his sword, screamed and leapt.

  Aha! Light! Garni was ready. He swung the flask at the end of the pole. The monster opened its maw to bellow. Garni swept the flask back and let it fly.

  It arced through space, directly toward the monster's mouth.

  Timaeus shouted the Words of power. He felt the forces of magic work through him. He reached out . . .

  Crimson lines of energy crackled across space and encircled one of the monster's giant limbs.

  The foot stuck. Rog tripped. Slowly, slowly he began to fall. Timaeus held motionless, pumping all his power into the spell. Kraki's exquisitely timed leap would have landed him directly on the monster's head . . .

  Only, the monster tripped.

  Kraki made a grab for an ear as he fell past. He missed. He kept on screaming.

  Garni's flask arced high—missed the stumbling monster-and fell. Standing in the middle of the cavern, Father Thwaite peeled one eye open. His concentration had gone to hell. Where had all this light come from? Something hit him in the chest. It fell to his feet. He opened the other eye. It was a flask of some kind. It looked like brandy. Ah! That should do the trick. He unstoppered it and drank. Just what he needed. Although—there was a rather peculiar aftertaste.

  With a splash, Kraki fell into the pool. He stopped screaming.

  Rog was unhappy. He was falling over. This was turning out to be a bad day. Why did everyone always pick on him?

  He hit the cavern floor. Everything shook. Timaeus collapsed in exhaustion.

  Everything was silent for a moment. Rog lay still. Garni lit his lantern. Sidney limped up to the giant form. It was breathing, but "It's unconscious," she reported. She stared at the monster. It had no eyes. "And there we were, creeping around in the dark like mice," she said disgustedly.

  Garni let out his breath and turned to help Kraki out of the pool. "Vater cold," Kraki said. "Brr. Enough svimming for one day." The two walked toward the treasure, where Sidney and Thwaite joined them.

  "Where are the others?" Thwaite asked.

  "Nick's unconscious," Sidney said. "I left him over—"

  Garni stared in horror at the open flask in Father Thwaite's hand. "Did you drink any of that?" he said urgently.

  "Why, yes," said Thwaite.

  Garni dived into Thwaite, knocking him over. The flask went flying. He tried to shove a finger down Thwaite's throat. Thwaite fought back. "The dwarf's gone mad!" yelled Thwaite. "Help me!"

  Sidney and Kraki exchanged glances. Kraki shrugged. "That's poison!" Garni shouted.

  Thwaite sat up with an alarmed expression on his face. "Oh, dear. Dear, me."

  A human would have found the chapel grim. To an orc, it was pretty normal. Guttering torches lit a garishly painted state of a multilimbed female deity with big fangs. She was clutching the severed limbs of several victims. The altar was a stone slab with a depression in the middle and blood runnels down the side. The walls of the chamber were soot-stained limestone. Orcs were prostrate on the stone floor, muttering prayers into the rock as Fragrit finished the sacrament.

  Fragrit was a devout believer, yet he knew that whatever power this ceremony lent him did not come from the goddess Szanbu alone. Beneath the altar was an object which emitted a surprisingly strong magical field. The goddess' ceremony allowed him to tap some small part of the object's magic and use it himself. He shuddered to think what might happen if the spirit he was thus exploiting were ever to escape-and therefore prayed to Szanbu, Mistress of Madness, with fervor.

  The screams of the sacrificial victim died away. Fragrit turned to his congregation. He raised the knife and beating heart over his head and said, "An' now, we is going to sing da Hymn of Propitiation, number twenty-seven in yer hymnals."

  As Fragrit cleansed the knife and burned the heart in a brazier, strong orcish voices rang out with the time-honored words of the sacred song:

  "Oi, Miz Szanbu, please don't hang us,

  Or have us burned alive.

  Please don't whip us or filet us, Other victims we'll provide.

  "Cries of fear, an' cries of anguish Rise up to da heavens high;

  Oi, Miz Szanbu, please don't eat us, We'll bring more blood bye an' bye."

  The ceremony over, Fragrit stationed himself by the exit and shook the hands of his parishioners as they filed out. "Nice ceremony, Padre," said one.

  "Tanks, Dorog," said Fragrit. Others murmured their respects as they passed.

  Drizhnakh, Garfok, and Spug bustled into the temple. "Oi!" said Drizhnakh. "Boss!" The worshippers stopped drifting out and waited to see what was up.

  "Yes, Drizhnakh?" responded Fragrit.

  "Well, yer worshipfulness," said Drizhnakh, "we caught dat Lenny da Lizard skulkin' around, and he says dere are a buncha youmans comin' our way. . . ."

  Fragrit listened carefully to Drizhnakh's story. "Ah," he said. "Five youmans an' a dwarf. You done good, Drizhnakh." He turned to the congregation. "Awright, youse," he said. "Get yer weapons. Drizhnakh, Garfok—get Fifi."

  Garfok looked at Fragrit, startled. "Not a chanst," he said. "Whaddaya mean, not a chanst?" said Fragrit menacingly.

  "I ain't gettin' Fifi," said Garfok. "No way. Unh uh. Get yourself some udder sucker."

  "You is gettin' Fifi," said Fragrit, "unless you maybe wanta be da next sacrifice. Right, boys?"

  Several of the other orcs- muttered agreement. They didn't want to be the one to get Fifi, that was for sure.

  Garfok looked with dismay from green orcish face to green orcish face. He swallowed. "Awright," he said faintly.

  Timaeus lay prostrate on the rocks, unconscious—and naked. The others stared at him, more than a little puzzled. His lack of consciousness might be a side effect of the spell or the result of backlash—but his nakedness was harder to explain.

  Sidney shook Timaeus's shoulder. "Magister!" she said. "Magister! Wake up!"

  Timaeus groaned and flung one arm over his eyes. "Two lumps, Randolph," he said. "And a kipper or two, if you'd be so kind." He sat up suddenly and looked at his companions. "Oh," he said. "The monster . . . did I . . . ?"

  "Yah," said Kraki. "Monster fall over. Knocked out. Good yob." "Thank you," said Timaeus. He looked quite pleased with himself. Then, he realized the state of his dress-or lack thereof. He blushed and positioned his hands strategically. "Er . . . My clothes . . . What happened . . . ?"

  Garni began looking through his pack. "Just a minute," he said. "I have a spare blanket. Somewhere." He hauled out a small club, a piece of flint, a silver spoon, a packet of needles.

  "Lenny," said Nick to Sidney. "Eh?" said Timaeus.

  "He rolled you," said Nick bluntly. Timaeus looked upset. "Nonsense," he said.

  "Yah," said Kraki. "Vhere is the little bugger, anyvay?"

  "Don't you think it's kind of suspicious that he's not around?" Nick asked Timaeus.

  "Granted," said Timaeus, "but—"

  "If you'd been found by a bunch of orcs, say, you'd be dead. Who else would take your clothes-and your purse, I bet—without offing you?" asked Sidney.

  "My purse," said Timaeus somewhat dazed. "My . . . my pipe! Good lord, the conniving little devil has stolen my pipe!" He looked genuinely upset for the first time.

  "Here's the blanket!" said Garni triumphantly from behind a pile of stuff. Timaeus draped himself in it.

  "Douse dem torches," Fragrit ordered. The orcs obeyed.
That left his lantern, with its closable door, as their only light. He surveyed his orcs; there were a good forty, all males with weapons. "Guys wiv swords an' such in da front row," he said. "Bows in da rear." They formed up.

  Fifi stood in front of the orcs. All Fragrit could see, really, was her two hind legs and her massive, scaled rear. Atop her perched Garfok.

  It was an uncomfortable perch. The huge lizard's spine was, well, spiny. Garfok shifted, trying to find a way to sit that didn't make his backside ache. He studied the reins in his hands.

  In theory, it was simple. If he yanked on the left rein, Fifi's head would pull left, and she'd turn in that direction. If he yanked on the right rein; she'd turn right. There was a smaller rope tied to one of her spinal knobs; if he pulled on the rope, the hood covering Fifi's eyes would slip off. If he let the rope loose, the hood would drop back over her eyes.

  There were only a few problems with this, Garfok knew. First, Fifi was a lot stronger than he was. If she wanted to turn left, all the yanking in the world wouldn't stop her. Second, the hood was supposed to drop in place if he let the rope go-but it didn't look any too secure to him. Third, he'd never ridden Fifi into battle before; training is all very fine, but there was no predicting what she'd do when spells started zipping past her and people started bellowing war cries. Fourth, Garfok was awfully visible to the enemy, perched as he was on top of the lizard.

  Fifth, Fifi's neck was long and flexible enough that if she wanted to look back at Garfok-or at the orcs following her—she could do so pretty easily. The thought made Garfok distinctly uneasy.

  Fragrit walked to Fifi's hooded head and scratched behind the spikes. "My widdle popsy," he crooned. "My widdle Fifi. Fifi wanna treat?" The massive, scaled tail wagged sluggishly. Fragrit held out a handful of unrefined sugar; Fifi sucked it up.

  Garfok was tempted to pull the hood up. "Awright!" shouted Fragrit. "Forward!"

  Thwaite was either in a coma or a meditative trance; it was hard to tell which. He lay by the pile of gold, shivering violently.

  "I vill carry priest," said Kraki patiently.

  "Ye gods, man, do you realize what you're saying?" said Nick. "He must weigh a hundred and fifty pounds if he weighs an ounce. That's a hundred and fifty pounds of gold we won't be able to take out with us. ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY POUNDS OF GOLD! Do you know how many pints of mead a hundred and fifty pounds of gold buys?"