Realms of Infamy - James Lowder [23]
A wave of despair washed over the priest. Was this some sort of test? Was Oghma toying with him to see how well he might fare on his own? If so, he had to find another weapon.
With his good hand, he searched his pockets. There had to be something. His dagger was steel-useless. Then he found his coin purse. Coins? Ripping off his belt, he dumped the contents onto a step and smiled. Silver coins. Six of them.
He took a step toward the writhing, angry creatures. "Time for me to leave now. We must do this again sometime."
Gathering all six coins, he pitched them as hard as he could, catching one wraith with four, the other with two. Chane heard faint, liquid sounds of metal splashing through ectoplasm. At any other moment, he would have stopped to congratulate himself on not having wasted any of his tiny weapons. But this was not the time. Both creatures screamed in pain and confusion when the hated silver passed through them. Chane lunged forward, clutched the bag tightly, and retreated back up the stairs.
He expected to come out somewhere near the corridor that led to the curving stairway up. Instead, he found himself in a another small, square room filled with dusty stacked books. Four exits marked the walls. Am I back where I started? he thought. At the same instant, a hateful keening filled his ears.
A labyrinth!
That wretched gnome. Back-the way out has to be back the way I came. No, that was impossible; the wraiths were coming from behind. All loremasters were taught survival skills in regard to mazes and labyrinths. Chane let his mind seek out those half-forgotten lessons. Left. Always turn left. Never panic or you will be lost.
He leapt into action, running always upward and to the left. He concentrated on what Mirrortor's throat would feel like as his windpipe cracked. The keening grew closer.
Then it stopped. So did Chane.
Where are they? he groaned inwardly. Have they given up? No, that would be too easy. More likely they're trying to trick me into slowing down.
Chane broke into a jog. Each time he fell out of a flight of stairs into a room or a corridor, he turned left and scrambled up the next staircase. The maze had to empty out somewhere aboveground, sooner or later. Hope soothed his trembling heart when he realized how sensible he was. Nothing could stop him now. Then the rage-filled keening began again.
Only this time it came from ahead of him.
How could they have gotten in front of me? Fear and uncertainty crawled back into his spine. This could not be the end of so perfect a priest, to die like a rat in some mad gnome's maze! Standing dead center in a narrow corridor, Chane looked at the upward-bound stairwell about ten paces ahead. There were no doorways in the hall behind him except for the one to the stairway at the end. He was loathe to turn back; moving up and left seemed to be the only viable plan.
Wailing, the first wraith boiled out of the entryway and came straight toward him. In the dim torchlight glowing off the wall, he could make out its hideous expression of both insane hunger and fierce protection. He knew it could smell his warm blood and longed to drain him of life.
With no other choice, he threw the bag forward. It landed a few paces from the bottom step.
"Here, take it," he said in angry, bitter defeat. "Take your master's precious books, but you won't have me."
The creature stopped over the books and glared at the loremaster as though, for an instant, the sacrifice did not matter. But the undead did not leave its post; it continued hissing and spitting over Chane's discarded treasure.
The pain in his left arm had now spread into his shoulder. Going back down lower into the labyrinth would probably mean death. He panted to catch his breath.
"Get out of the way," he said.
Pulling his silver holy symbol over his head, Chane felt a stab of regret. Oghma would understand. The situation had grown desperate. Drawing his hand back as if to throw, he repeated, "Get out of my way."
The wraith