The Ogre's Pendant & The Rat in the Pit

Schnk.

A silver blade thrust into the acolyte’s back, sliding cleanly through his ribs and deep into his beating heart. His blood-choked gasp alerted his companion, and the alarmed man whirled toward the dying acolyte and held up his oil lamp. He had no chance to cry out.

Rrrrrrrrrp!

Massive feline claws swiped the side of his head, tearing free his mask - and most of the face beneath - and ripping open his neck. As both men slumped to the stone, a short, olive skinned woman and a titanic sabre toothed-tiger looked toward a crossroad of tunnels. The guttering light from the flaming oil of the acolyte’s dropped lamp created writhing shadows across the open mouths of the caves ahead.

Sniff.

Wurhi wiped her blade on one of the men’s robes as her nostrils flared.

“That’s six dead. This way.” She nodded to the leftmost tunnel.

The cat’s eyes shone, and it turned toward one of the opposite tunnels, letting loose a low, rumbling growl. The scent of wolf drifted from the centre passage, and Wurhi watched it tense in anticipation of vengeance.

“Later, later!” she whispered. “First we’ll set the others free.”

The tiger eyed her before letting out a grunt of acknowledgement and following, to her relief. The great cat had proven a strange comfort as they had weaved through the pathways of the mountain. Its eerie silence and eerier sapience had made it a fine ambush partner to stalk with, soundlessly, through the dark.

They had fallen upon lone acolytes or those travelling in pairs, silencing them by silver and fang, while hiding from those that moved in packs. These larger groups had grown more frequent, and the mountain tunnels seemed to teem with cultists - all making their way toward one place.

Thm. Thm. Thm.

A sinister drumming resounded through the bowels of the mountain, calling forth the servants of the wolf god. Their chanting had swelled, seemingly roaring from every stone, and stiffening the hairs on the back of Wurhi’s neck. Her hand tightened upon her sword.

The air seemed to thrum with anticipation as the chanting and drumming mounted in fervour, toward a dark purpose; Wurhi recalled Milos’ mention of welcoming more acolytes into their vile god’s embrace. From the direction of the sound - though it was difficult to be sure in these tunnels - they were congregating within their blood-stained arena.

Thankfully, that was not where her destination lay.

Not yet.

Though she had no knowledge of the paths through the mountain, her goal could not hide from her nose. The pits into which she had been thrown upon arrival spewed a vile rot that she could scarce forget, and in wandering the passages, her nose soon caught that familiar stench.

It grew stronger as they moved forward, combining with the musk of beasts and unwashed bodies of captives and slaves. The Rat and the cat slipped around a corner into a well-lit hall. The foul odour of the pits was overwhelming. Muffled voices sounded from the tunnels ahead - both the grumble of caged beasts and the moans of prisoners in misery.

She hoped Merrick the Hawk would be somewhere among their number. It was time to fulfil the truce they had struck when they were first imprisoned. She had found escape first, and she would now share it. Wurhi threw a glance to the vast, beautiful predator stalking at her side.

Her mouth split in a tight grin.

She couldn’t wait to show the Laexondaelic thief what she had found.

“What do you mean you cannot find him?” Milos frowned.

Berard scratched his thick, black beard. A reddened bandage pressed against the wound he had struck into his own face. “That’s just it, Sacred Alpha. I had some of the acolytes search through the nearby tunnels, but we cannot find a hair of the beast.”

“And the scent?”

“His past trails through the tunnels confounds tracking him by smell: I followed it as best I could, but lost it many times. What would you like me to do, Sacred Alpha?”

Milos grunted, puzzling after the whereabouts of his beast-man. The creature had departed his chambers in low spirits - he had treated it coldly - but in the past when he had shown it displeasure, it had always sulked nearby. This behaviour was strange.

Of course, it had never lost a hand before.

“Leave it for now, Berard.” The cult leader rose from beside the roaring fire. The light danced across the heads of the wolf god. “Lycundar calls to us, and we must answer.”

“Yes, Sacred Alpha,” Berard bowed. “We shall find him tomorrow.”

“Yes…” Milos adjusted his robe as he approached the curtained exit, glancing to the moonlit mountain peaks through the stone window. Snow and wind raked their sides; it could well block the full moon for the ceremony. His mind drifted to the roar that had echoed through the mountains earlier, heralding his prized cat’s slaying of The Rat.

Or so he had thought at the time.

Could his beast-man have acted on vengeance? He frowned at the possibility, but dismissed it, for the beast did not know where his tormentor lay. It would be unlikely. Yet that thought could not stymie the growing unease in his chest. Too many things had turned sour as of late. “On second thought, perhaps it would be best to seek him out tonight, once the ceremony is finished.”

The two towering men passed through the curtain and into the darkened hall.

Berard’s reply receded as they travelled from the room, his voice quickly sinking beneath the endless chanting and hammering from the arena. The chamber lay empty in their wake, with the only furtive movement coming from the shadows cast by moon and dimming firelight, and the occasional sway of curtain by the wind.

Slap.

Until a lean-fingered hand, the colour of burnt umber, clutched the window’s rim from outside.

Kyembe the Spirit Killer peered into the empty chamber, swiftly searching for any threat before vaulting into the room. His feet touched upon the piled carpets in silence as he drew his sword and glided into the space in a predatory half-crouch.

A flame was dying beneath a hideous, wolf-headed mantle, but it yet held too much life to have been left unattended for long. Cocking an ear, he listened cautiously for a time, but none stirred from either curtained passage beyond.

Quietly turning back to the window, Kyembe peered out into the snowy night. The wind had risen, whipping the snow across the rocks below like a frozen mist that stung the flesh. The cliff face had grown slick and treacherous, but his fingers were clever and quick, and his grip sure. He had once scaled walls of burning marble in the Outer Labyrinths to escape imprisonment. A cold mountain troubled him not at all.

But it had proven to be master of a certain Saint, who could not follow him.

So, they had crafted a scheme better suited to each; one that would ensure attention would not fall upon him. He held his fist through the window and flared hellfire into his ring, signalling with a flash of white-hot light through the swirling snow. Below, the golden glow of the Tears of Amitiyah shone in answer before winking out.

The Traemean would start the climb up the narrow stair carven into the mountain’s side.

He almost pitied any who stood in her path.

His eyes narrowed.

Or any that stood in his.

Moving silently through the room coated in a chaotic menagerie of tapestry, he stole up to one of the curtains and drew it aside to peer at what lay beyond the portal. The demon- slayer’s eyes widened with a hushed intake of breath as he covered his nose.

Before him lay a room of nightmares that could only be described as a house of pain.

Animal skins covered the walls - stripped of fur and used as mediums for writing upon. Dozens of gruesome diagrams scrawled across their surfaces - each rendered in precise detail - of beasts and humans in various stages of dissection.

Several long tables stood throughout the chamber in neat rows, and upon each lay vivisected creatures, all doused in foul smelling alchemical substances. Each subject was stranger than the last.

A deer with ribs spread like the wings of a bloodied bird. Its viscera and head had been extracted and collected in a line of jars placed beside the body. A woman’s corpse; its head missing and a wolf’s head sewn in its place. A body of a man…no. That was no man.

It was a doll; a collection of parts from no less than a dozen animals sewn into a crude mockery of humanity. A needle threaded with catgut lay beside a strange collection of teeth, ready to be sewn into the propped open mouth of a mountain ape.

Kyembe knew well what he looked upon. The chambers of alchemists, healers and necromancers often held similar abattoirs: hideaways where they could seek out the secrets hidden within the flesh. Both good and ill knowledge had arisen from such grim practices, in his experience. His own master, the Archwizard K’mark, had explored the secrets of the flesh hidden in slain animals and demons.

Yet, he doubted that any good had ever risen in this wolf-den.

Shuddering, the Sengezian passed through the dissection chamber and found a bedroom beyond. It sported little more than a massive, opulent sleeping bed covered in wolf skins. He paused, then drew up some of the lupine hides, wrapping them about his knife-lean form to mask his scent. Satisfied, he crept back through the chambers, passed the fireplace mantle of writhing wolf heads, and slipped through the curtain into the hall beyond.

Adjusting the furs around his over-robe, Kyembe stole down the darkened tunnel and into the depths of the mountain.

Crunch.

Crunch.

St. Cristabel mounted the stairs with slow and deliberate movement, concealing the sound of her armour as best she could. Valkyrie-forged as it was, its magics dulled any noise unlike armour forged by simple skill and craft, but clumsy or hurried motion would still sound like a collapsing smithy.

Perhaps Amitiyah had smiled upon their quest. Wind and snow had whipped into gusts cutting down visibility. The punishing winds bothered her little: as a child she had always been fine with the cold and - after passing through the gates into the afterworld and back - even winter’s harshest bite could touch her no longer.

The howling of the wind served her well: masking the sound of her approach. With visor raised, she sought to listen through it. Snippets of voices undulated, caught within the whistle of the gale. Ahead, upon the mountain stair, the wan light of a watch fire flickered beside a shelter perhaps some fifteen paces ahead. The voices were low, but she caught the odd word rising and falling: ‘ceremony’, ‘cold’, ‘new comers’.

She cared little for their conversation.

Falling to one knee, she set her broad shield at her side and lay her massive blade across her armour-clad thigh.

Bowing her head, she closed her eyes.

“Oh, beloved Amitiyah,” she prayed. “Your humble servant calls upon you. Know that the deeds I do now are done in your name. May our enemies’ gazes draw to me so that Kyembe may be safe. May their ire draw to me so that Wurhi may be safe. May your blessing fall upon me and mine, and may your glory spread across the land and choke the vile Stheno and her treacherous servants.”

In response, the warmth of Amitiyah’s Tears poured down her form.

“Argh! What’s that light?!” came the cry from ahead.

“It begins,” she rose, opening her eyes. Golden light refracted upon the snow around her, extending its blaze across the mountain.

Clnk.

She slammed down her visor and charged up the steps.

The Traemean’s powerful bounding put her among her hapless foes in a breath. They gasped as she loomed out of the snows - the golden light of Amitiyah’s Tears shining upon the dark sapphire surface of her armour. The golden mammoth upon her shield glared at them.

“Surrender or die!” she roared.

They answered by lifting their spears. One of the robed men placed a horn to his lips.

Woooooooor!

A wan note - like a diseased wolf’s howl - writhed up out of their shelter and into the night. Cristabel smiled as other horns and cries answered from up the mountain.

“A mistake,” she told them. “But one I had hoped you would make. Have at you, blackguards!”

The knight charged into them, her bearing sword - broad, heavy and longer than she was tall - striking with impossible speed.

Whoosh! Chp! Crunch! Hssss!

It cleaved a crimson arc through the cultists - splitting them into bloody heaps that the Tears of Amitiyah burned - and dipped down to strike the watchfire. The impact blasted the embers into the masked faces of the remaining cultists.

Whoosh!

Another swing tore them into red ruin while they recoiled and her shield punched out.

Crnch.

The last’s chest crumbled upon the heavy, enchanted metal.

The knight spun and charged up the stairs, bellowing as she did. “Come, villains! The Solidblade Knight comes to battle you tonight! Meet my challenge!”

Boom!

Her blade struck the side of her shield, and both rang like the toll of an executioner’s bell. “Come and meet your doom!”