Rundoric Bloodblade, son and one time heir to the chieftain of the Fian, held aloft the torch to afford him a better view of the yawning cavern. Eyes of pale blue surveyed the stone covered walls and the blood smeared along them.
Violence had been done here, a fact made clear by the torn corpses of the goblins strewn about the trail. He knelt to investigate the pile of rags, crumpled into a heap at his feet.
“Another goblin,” he muttered. There were no signs of life, merely disheveled footprints in the thick dirt. He gripped the leather wrapped hilt of his broadsword and stood.
A slight breeze ruffled his shoulder length, chestnut hair and his cerulean eyes narrowed at the scent that assailed his nostrils. Sulphur. His scalp tingled at the revelation. Only two things could produce the smell: fire or magic.
He growled deep in his throat at the prospect of having to face the dark arts. As a youth growing up in his village of Twin Oaks, he had learned to fear and distrust sorcery, a power only wielded by the shamans of the tribe or secretive witches who hid themselves away from prying eyes so they could practice their foul craft.
He had watched many a witch be put to the sword, spewing their defiance to the last breath. Ever since, he could sense the way the air became charged with energy whenever magic was present.
Rundoric hesitated for a moment, but his curiosity overtook his judgment and soon he was following the foot prints and patches of blood barely visible to most, but standing out like a beacon to his well-practiced tracker’s eyes. He moved like a hunting cat despite his considerable bulk and huge muscles.
Before his face he held the torch, a gnarled limb he found and wrapped with oil soaked rags, and continued down the path. He spied a lone arrow, shaft cracked and head blunted, lying against the far wall. He took it in his hands and admired the craftsmanship. The arrow had been painstakingly made with perfectly balanced shaft of yew and fletching of some blue feather he did not recognize.
Useless, he thought as he tossed it aside. He came across the corpse of a strange cat-like creature with several tentacles jutting from its shoulders. Several arrows of the same make riddled the corpse and it bled from many deep wounds. He knelt to touch the body.
“Still warm,” he mumbled. Whoever had killed the beast was not far ahead.
“Taros’ beard,” he cursed. He transferred the torch to his left hand, his right gripping the hilt of his broadsword, the torchlight glinting from its gold engraved blade as he slowly removed it. His hands, wound in strips of bear hide holding tightly the sharpened bear claws affixed to his knuckles.
He sensed danger ahead. It simply was an innate ability to taste the air about him and set the hairs on the back of his neck to stiffen.
“Blood and bones,” he cursed. What have you gotten into now? He asked himself. He could smell the magic growing closer as the corridor twisted deeper into the side of the mountain.
The Peaks of Mists were riddled with catacombs. His tribe’s legends told of the Earth Movers, an ancient race of man that lived far below the surface, extracting its rock and building vast cities in darkness. Rundoric took no faith in legends, but he could not ignore the underlying current of foreboding that wafted in the air.
The corridor widened and he could hear shouts echoing from somewhere ahead. A resounding peal of steel on stone reverberated through the caverns. His blood heated at the thought of battle. He was raised a warrior and would, he hoped, die in the throes of battle. Amalek willing.
His was not a god that listened to prayer only the song of steel as it sang in battle; the crunch of bone and the spattering of blood. Rundoric’s proficiency in battle would earn him a spot at his deity’s side. Any other death would insure him of an eternity of wandering the outer planes in search of release.
He rounded a corner just as an errant spark of magic flew before his eyes. He cried out and ducked and the spell exploded against the stone behind him carving out a deep niche. Rundoric growled and surveyed the scene.
There were four of them; three men and an attractive, dark haired woman wearing tight leathers and tumbling beneath the slavering maw of the worm. Foul, viscous saliva dripped from the creature’s fangs. She struck out with a short sword that seemed to grow from her fist. The worm hissed as it was struck and green blood gouted from the wound.
A tall man armored in a suit of pure metal, his face enclosed in a helmet, stepped toward the worm, swinging a large mace. Large chains were wrapped about the man’s shoulders. Rundoric could not understand how the man could breathe encased in all that iron.
Another man, short and portly and covered in armor of interlocking iron scales, swung a huge axe at the worm, its keen edge bouncing from the creature’s thick hide.
Across the cavern, dressed in fine robes of a dark green, several pouches hanging from his chest, a man with hair the color of rust threw balls of fire from his outstretched hands. Rundoric snarled. Here was the source of the magic.
The entire cavern was lit by small lanterns that swung from the ceiling on rusty chains. The barbarian threw his torch to the ground and gripped his blade with two hands.
The woman cried out as the worm’s head struck her, knocking her aside as if she were weightless. She landed to the side and groaned.
“Darieth,” cried the metal clad man, “shoot for the mouth.”
The robed man nodded and began muttering the words to a spell. Rundoric felt his hackles rise. A stream of blue light shot from the man’s palm, searing a gash into the worm’s side.
Rundoric growled deep in his throat. How he detested magic. He yelled a fierce war cry and rushed toward the towering monstrosity. The combatants were surprised by the arrival of the half -naked man clad only in the hide of a cave bear. It nearly cost the armored man his head as the worm snapped forward, huge mouth closing. At the last moment, the man realized his danger and ducked, but the momentum of the huge worm sent him sprawling.
The barbarian leaped over the fallen man, his sword slicing a grey streak through the air. The worm screeched as the steel sliced deeply through its mottled body with a spray of thick green blood. The fallen man scuttled away on his backside toward his mace.
Rundoric stood fast, knowing no fear. Death was a means to join the armies of Amalek where every warrior strived to be. Another swipe from his sword scared a deep gash in the worm’s abdomen and he jumped aside to avoid the slavering jaws.
“Who comes to our aid?” the woman asked from where she staggered to her feet near the far wall. The scaled man struck the vast worm with his double bladed axe, cutting deep. He stood beside the huge barbarian and looked at him with a sidelong glance.
“A timely arrival, stranger,” he said.
Rundoric merely grunted as he avoided yet another strike from the worm. He rammed his blade deep into the warm, his fist covering with sticky green blood. The giant beast began to sway and convulse.
“It is falling,” the axe wielder cried. “Get back.”
Rundoric rolled from the path of the convulsing worm with the agility of a panther. The others retreated to the cavern’s opening as quickly as they could move. The woman limped, visibly, a bruise showing dark upon her side. The armored man grabbed her arm and aided her taking her weight against his bulk.
The worm swayed and convulsed. The robed man held out a clenched fist and muttered a word. A ring on his middle knuckle flashed and a ball of fire struck the worm full in the thorax, engulfing it in flame. With a final shriek, it collapsed in a burning heap to the cavern floor.
The axe man leaped forward and with two heavy blows, cut the beast in half. The body convulsed as they stood and watched, breathing heavily.
“Dwas must surely be guiding our journey,” the armored man said, “if he sent you to our aid.”
Rundoric grunted. “Nobody sent me. I followed your trail of destruction and the stink of sorcery.”
The man in the robes chortled. Rundoric turned his feral gaze upon him.
“Have I said something to amuse?”
The robed man smiled. “My magic helped to kill the creature,” he said, arrogantly.
“A feat done just as easily with cold steel.” Rundoric sneered at the frail looking man.
“Do not mock the arcane arts,” the wizard said. “They take years to master.”
“A coward’s tool,” the barbarian growled. “I trust only in my own abilities and this.” He patted his gore covered blade.
“Peace,” the armored man said. “Let’s not spite the aid that this man has given us.”
“What in the seven virgins are you doing here?” Rundoric asked. “Traipsing about in a cavern in the Peaks of Mist.”
The large man chuckled. “The same could be asked of you.”
“I merely followed your trail. A blind man could have.”
“Do you have a name, friend?” the woman asked, rubbing her sore ribs with a slender hand.
“Rundoric of the Fian,” the barbarian replied. “Named Bloodblade on my naming day. Wanderer and outcast.” His gaze wandered to the floor.
Lacie,” the woman said, extending her hand. “These are my companions. The cleric wearing the chains is Glond. The warrior is called Mennan. The wizard is Darieth. “She smiled, slyly. “But I think you have already become friends.”
Rundoric’s eyes narrowed. He spat into the dirt at the base of the wall. “You still did not answer my question.”
“In time, Rundoric of the Fian,” the cleric Glond said. “Our business is our own. How do we know we can trust you?”
“You can’t.” The barbarian sneered. “The only thing you can trust in is steel.”
“Do you not trust in the Gods?” Glond replied. This elicited a chuckle from Darieth. The priest glared at the robed man.
“Scon is not to be mocked,” the cleric growled.
“The Gods have done me no favors,” the wizard muttered. “All I have I earned on my own.”
“What is it that you think you have?” asked Mennan. It was the first time he spoke and Rundoric noticed the man’s rich, deep baritone. The man’s demeanor reminded Rundoric of his own father and he scowled.
“The powers of the arcane,” Darieth said with a small smile. “The powers of Gyrani.”
Rundoric scoffed drawing a poisonous look from the wizard.
“Your primitive intellect could never comprehend the vast amount of time and devotion it takes to learn even the simplest cantrip.” The wizard puffed out his chest.
“And while you are muttering it,” Rundoric said, flatly, “my blade would be taking your head.”
“With this ring,” Darieth stated, holding out his hand where a silver circlet topped with a huge garnet hugged his middle finger, “I could blast you into ashes.”
“Someday,” the barbarian warned, “I will take that ring and shove it up your arse.”
“I welcome the attempt,” the wizard said with a smile.
“Enough,” Mennan bellowed. “This is no contest to see who can piss yellower. We have a quest to finish. One that will pay us a vast sum of gold. One more blade would be most welcome.”
“If we can keep it from our mage’s back,” mumbled Glond.
Rundoric turned to face the cleric, his face showing not one trace of humor.
“The wizard will see my blade before it takes his head,” the barbarian answered. “I assure you.”
“You cannot seriously be thinking of letting this….animal join?” Darieth was aghast. He had been threatened by the rude barbarian, yet the party was welcoming him like an old ally.
“I don’t know,” Rundoric replied with a shake of his mane. “What is in it for me?”
“To the point,” Mennan said with a grin. “A good trait. You can have a share of any treasure we find.”
“What need have I of treasure?” the barbarian replied. “Will there be more creatures to kill?”
Lacie laughed. “My kind of man,” she said.
The cleric elbowed her sore ribs and she cried out.
“I am sure we could accommodate that request,” the warrior added.
“Then my blade is at your disposal. Just keep that spell flinging lickspittle away from me.”
“This ought to be fun,” Lacie said under her breath.
