Depths of Madness - Erik Scott De Bie [1]
With an avenging cry, Arandon threw himself at the creature's thicker leg, but his axes shattered against the mottled scales. The beast clubbed Arandon aside with Telketh's ragged torso. His body slammed against the wall like a discarded bone, and everything went red.
He'd lost his limbs; whether they were attached or not, he could not feel them. Blood dribbled down his chin. Spears punctured his body. He thought he saw fire. He heard the screams of the dying and the jeers of the living.
A shadow flickered across his vision. A familiar face looked into his with bright eyes that seemed white in the dimming light. He prayed that his lover, at least, might escape.
"Go," he tried to say. Nothing.
She understood.
Arandon watched the elf vanish into the shadows and rebuked himself. If anyone survived, it would be her. Tymora, I'm coming, he thought.
Then a pair of eyes opened before him in his mind-cold eyes devoid of humanity or passion.
No, a quiet voice said in his head. No, you aren't. Arandon tried to scream.
CHAPTER One
Adull, half-hearted light leaked in from the torches burning in the hallway. The woman opened her eyes a crack. She awoke cold and mostly naked in muddy darkness. Her splitting headache made the world thrash as she tried to comprehend what had happened. Little sniffling sounds, like deep breathing or perhaps growling, came to her ears. Every bit of her ached, and her mind was as bleary as her eyes. She saw, dimly, a scar on her right hand, and contemplated it as she awakened.
"Typical," Twilight murmured.
She wondered, for a moment, which cheap dive she had awakened in this time. The tnustiness and the water dripping on her forehead reminded her of the Curling Asp in Westgate. The vaguely disturbing sounds brought back a certain guest chamber she had occupied on her one and only visit to the unsightly bowels of Zhentil Keep. The salty foulness in the air-a blend of spit, rot, and dried excrement-brought to mind a certain Haggling Harpy in Athkatla, which was ostensibly named for a local legend. Its name actually came from the technique that one needed to ply in order to procure a decent room.
The Fox-at-Twilight realized, though, that her cheek was stuck to cold stone that was far too comfortable to be one of the pallets at the Harpy. She peeled herself off and blinked. She detected a certain mixture of damp fur, mildew, and useless tears mixed with human foulness. She could practically hear the unanswered prayers from decades of prisoners.
"A cell," Twilight said as she rose to a sitting position, grateful that she could move. She sniffed and scowled. "Not as typical."
She focused on the sole source of light-a murky, pink-red radiance in the corridor. She padded to it on thick soles quite accustomed to a lack of boots. Twilight felt oddly light on her feet, a sensation much like being slightly tipsy on Calishite wine.
Ignoring the feeling, Twilight examined the exit. A series of blades and rods folded and fit together like a genius child's puzzle to make up the cell door. A lever, when shifted, would cause it to open in what Twilight could only guess would be a scintillating wonder of engineering. This door was highly sophisticated, magically wrought, and definitely something Twilight wouldn't expect outside of a dwarf citadel, the mage towers of Evermeet, or the mystic kingdom of Halruaa.
The lock, on the other hand, was a simple padlock that held the lever in place.
"Now that's juxtaposition," she mused. "But no sense turning down the Lady's kiss before it becomes a bite." She reached for her belt, which was not there. She wore only the tattered remains of a once-white chemise. The musky air was chill on her skin.
Twilight groaned. Not that she objected to nudity out of principle-she had found it quite useful in a tight spot or three-but it meant that she had no picks when it mattered.
Her eyes scanned the hall. Shadows. Good. Twilight closed her eyes, relaxed her thoughts, and… instead of dancing into the shadows, nothing happened.
"By the Maid," she cursed.