Realms of Valor - James Lowder [12]
“Stefanik!” shouted Pawldo. The tousled head twisted, as if the youngster tried to turn but failed. It was as if Stefanik were trying to look at his companion, but could not muster the strength. Again Half-Ear growled, fear tingeing his snarl. “Do not waste your breath!” hissed Ketheryll. “Like you, he is my prisoner.” “What did you do to him?” Pawldo asked, slowly circling to face all the looming figures. What did I do to him? his conscience added harshly. He well remembered Stefanik's pleas to depart from this place and his own insistence on pursuing the elusive treasure. “I've done nothing, but I plan to make him one of my treasures . . . my trinkets,” said Ketheryll. “I understand you have spent much of the night collecting the others.” “What do you mean?” 'They were all shiftless and deceitful-even my fearless legion-all like that traitor Garius.“ Ketheryll smiled horribly. ”He fled my home at my hour of greatest need, but that couldn't protect him from my wrath.“ The voice deepened, gurgling with a hellish boil. ”Like all those lured here by the promise of riches, drawn deeper into my web by their own greed, you and your thieving friend shall forever linger among these walls. Like all those who've tried to rob me or lie to me, you'll become things of imaginary value-all glitter, but no substance.“ ”I've seen plenty of substance in here,“ challenged the halfling, though he instantly regretted the foolish outburst. ”Do you think so? Perhaps you should look again.“ Suddenly sick to his stomach, Pawldo realized that the platinum dagger felt surprisingly light in his hand. Glancing down, he saw the thing as it really was: a piece of cheap tin set with glass baubles. He knew immediately that the rest of the treasures in his satchel would prove no more valuable. Pawldo tried to still the trembling in his limbs. Desperately his mind sought a plan. He looked around frantically, seeking some inspiration. Half-Ear stood beside the halfling, his yellow eyes darting around the circle of figures. The hackles on the wolf's back bristled. His nose twitched as canine lips curled into a teeth-baring snarl. Pawldo raised his lantern, acutely conscious of the sputtering flame, the small reservoir of oil still feeding the wick. The clay jar was heavy in his hand; more than half the fuel remained. ”Stefanik!“ he called again. Once more the young halfling struggled, caught in a battle of wills-but still he could not turn, could not speak. ”Fool!“ spat Ketheryll. Again, the sound came from all over the chamber. The flickering light of Pawldo's lantern trembled as he tried in vain to still the shaking of his hand. He saw one chance-a slim, desperate gamble, but that gamble was the only thing that offered even a faint hope of escape, //”he'd guessed correctly. He cast the dagger onto the floor and shouted a word- not the name of this nightmarish place, for he had realized that the Palace of Skulls was not the dagger's true point of orientation. Instead, he shouted a name. And with the
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speaking of the word the dagger flared like the sun. “Ketheryll!” Pawldo cried. The blade whirled on the floor and abruptly came to a stop. It pointed toward one of the encircling images, farther from Pawldo than the rest, almost lost in the shadows. The instant its true identity was revealed, the wraith lunged forward, extending icy claws toward its foe. With shocking speed those deadly talons neared Pawldo's face. Half-Ear growled, the sound low and rumbling in the cavernous room. The animal crouched momentarily, nostrils twitching, then leaped. His growl building into a savage snarl, Half-Ear clamped his jaws on one of Ketheryll's writhing limbs. The cursed prince lashed out, sending the wolf flying, but the valiant attack gave Pawldo the instant he needed to raise his arm, hoisting the flaring