Firebrand

As the fight ended, so did the effect from the runes on the floor. The glow of the magic vanished, taking away the strength they had lent Martel. Gasping for breath, he fell back to the floor, spent after his last spell.

“Martel!” Eleanor threw her weapons aside and rushed over, turning him on his back to cradle his head. With a fearful expression, she looked down, her hand searching for his wound as well.

“I’ll be fine,” he reassured her. Fumbling, his fingers dug out a small jar from his belt. “Give this to Rolf. It will stem his bleeding.”

“What about you?”

He gave a weak smile. “I have another.” Placing the first jar in her hand, he took out another, opened it, and emptied the contents. Once he had done so, Eleanor gently lowered him back onto the floor before she hurried over to administer the elixir to the bard. Check latest chapters at novel fire.net

Martel closed his eyes, knowing it would take time. But the pounding in his ears began to lessen, and his breathing came in less ragged fashion. He would live.

Once he felt strong enough, he pushed himself up and practically crawled over to lean against the wall. In the middle of the room, Rolf sat up as well and gave a weak gesture as a greeting or some silent message to convey his gratitude for the elixir. Eleanor, meanwhile, had picked up the lightstone and began examining the walls near the shaft. “They are filled with Archean wards, just like the entrance chamber.”

“Make sense of it?” Martel asked, every word making him exhausted to pronounce.

“Not much. If I were to guess, though, I think they create some kind of barrier. Something that prevents the creature, or maybe anything undead, from passing.”

“Poor prison otherwise.” “Indeed. It still begs the question of why they would keep something like him captured down here. Was he once a man just like the alchemist in the village, and did he only turn into this when the tower fell?”

That seemed unlikely to Martel, given that the explosion had not reached this deep. Furthermore, in the other cases of the dead becoming reanimated, they seemed to be the simplest manner of undead. Mindless corpses or the ghost on the upper floor. While Leander’s fate was more complicated, at the end of the day, the magical disaster had killed him and brought him back to life but not otherwise changed him. The vampire they had fought, with his strange and unusual abilities, could not be considered the same, in Martel’s opinion. But it felt far too tiresome to express all of this, so he simply shrugged. “Who knows.”

“Wait, there is something over here. Items almost haphazardly placed in the corner. I guess the creature could not reach them under these wards,” Eleanor speculated.

Feeling strong enough to stand, Martel got on his feet. He walked with staggered steps, one hand against the wall, but he was able to join Eleanor. He saw the alcove, basically a tiny room appended to one side, which held the shaft that led to their freedom. Next to it, as mentioned by Eleanor, a handful of items lay. Several great vases, making Martel wonder what they contained.

“Look at this.” Eleanor reached over to pick up a sword that rested in its scabbard against the wall. She grasped the hilt and withdrew the blade. “Excellent balance, and unless my senses deceive me, the steel is enchanted.”

“Strange place to leave this. What good is it here?”

“It looks like the sword has a name. A word is inscribed on the cross guard.” Eleanor squinted. “Pyr.” As she spoke the word, flames erupted to cover the blade.

With his sense of magic, Martel knew they were real, not feigned or some illusion. “We could have used that ten minutes ago.”

Attracted by the conversation or the fire, Rolf joined them. “What are ‘minutes’?”

“Oh, like a short time. Never mind.”

Eleanor looked at him, still holding the flaming blade. “You are a swordsman as well.”

Understanding her implicit question, Rolf shook his head. “I need no reminder of this place. I want to bring nothing from here but my life – and the story, I suppose, which is why I came here in the first place. Keep the sword.”

Eleanor looked back at the fire engulfing the steel. “Only question now is how do you make them go away?” The fire disappeared. “Well, that is clever. You simply think it, and it happens.”

“Very clever, these Archeans, except for when they imprison monsters and make their towers explode,” Martel remarked dryly. He had begun to feel that the wizards of Archen had been too clever for their own good.

“I wonder what else we may find,” Eleanor considered, and she reached out a hand toward the nearest of the great pots, half the size of a human. She grabbed the edge and tipped it over, allowing a small object to slide out.

The flames of the sword had distracted Martel, but with them gone, he finally sensed something else. Magical in nature, and malevolent, emanating from the item that had appeared: a small figurine, entirely black. As Eleanor bent toward it, Martel reached out and grabbed Eleanor by the wrist. “Don’t touch it.”

“What is it?”

Martel could not make sense of it himself, but he recognised it. “It belonged to the maleficar we fought in Morcaster. Atreus took it away to destroy it. It looks like he placed it here instead.”

Eleanor frowned, but she stood up straight and stepped away from the small statuette. “Are you sure? Could it not simply be another similar in appearance?”

“Maybe,” Martel conceded, though deep down, he knew it was the same. It had the same mark of evil upon it that made his skin crawl.

“My rope!” Rolf explained. He had entered the alcove with the shaft. “Guess you’re right the draugr couldn’t get in here, or he would have torn it away. That makes our escape easier.”

Eleanor and Martel joined him with the lightstone, which illuminated a rope hanging down from the darkness above. “I shall go first,” she suggested. “If the rope should come undone, my spells will keep me safe. And I can haul you up afterwards, as long as you hold onto the rope.”

“My knots are strong,” Rolf protested, “but as the firemage and me are wounded, I won’t complain.”

“I can’t wait to see daylight,” Martel breathed as Eleanor began her climb.

Looking up at the night sky, Martel exhaled. “Alright, moonlight will do.” Less than a day had passed since they entered the tower, and yet Martel felt like ages had passed. Being trapped underground, with no certainty that they would escape alive or ever breathe the fresh air again – Martel never wanted to walk through tunnels again like this. If Eleanor ever suggested they investigate Archean ruins again, he would drag them in the other direction.

“We should return to the village. Our horses and belongings await us,” she said.

“They do. Should we tell the people of what we faced down there?” Martel wondered.

After a moment of consideration, Eleanor shook her head. “I think that will simply disturb their sleep. We should say we have cleared the ruins of anything dangerous we came by, but we suggest they continue keeping their distance. We cannot guarantee it is safe.”

Martel nodded. “Sounds good to me.” He looked at Rolf. “What about you?”

“I could use a decent night’s sleep before anything else, and maybe they can sell me a decent cloak. I came here in summer, after all.” The bard scratched the back of his neck. “After that, I think I’ll return north of the Frosten. I have a good story to bring home.” He looked at each of his Asterian companions. “Would you wish to join me? In my company, you shall be welcome in the North. More so once my tribesman realise you are the heroes of my new song.”

Martel and Eleanor glanced at each other. He had never really considered visiting the Tyrian tribes, but this seemed like the best opportunity to do so.

As for Eleanor, she gave a shrug. “Let us discuss it in the morning after we have had decent rest. And perhaps the villagers can be persuaded to part with a proper meal for us.”

“Gods, yes!” The skáld exclaimed. “I never want to see a rat again!”