The Last Satyr: The Two Paths Part 2

The two lovers readied themselves for what could be the last time. Ronthiel mounted Leradien and fitted the first arrow to his bow. He only had two tens of arrows left in his quiver. He would have to make them all count.

Leradien braced herself for the imminent assault, though her instincts rebelled against the looming danger. Driders, despite their predatory prowess, were creatures of caution, fleeing from overwhelming odds unless the prize outweighed the risk. To engage in battle against such odds now, especially in defense of another’s cause, contradicted the very nature of her black blood. She had to conquer her demon half, which had no desire to either love or die for a Light Elf.

Yet both were ready now as she advanced, taking that first step, and then another, and then another; each faster and more certain than the last. Together, they charged into what could only be a keep of waiting death.

Here, for the first time, she saw an orc as part of the defense. He stood upon the very top of the keep itself, almost out of bowshot. He was not a man-orc, as he leaned over the parapet, having already spotted them from twice the distance she could see. Yet he was peering with uncertainty and reluctance to give the alarm, for such a big and beautiful black drider could only be Lolth herself.

And if she pretended to be Lolth, she was doing a very good job. The pretense was about to prove fatal for him. She put his hesitancy to her advantage, closing the distance between them before lighting him up with a ball of fairy fire, something Lolth should not do.

“Twang!”

Ronthiel unleashed his arrow over her right shoulder. The orc only had time to raise his eyebrows before it pierced his throat and felled him.

There were no more guards.

The only thing between them and entering the keep now was its bolted and gated door. With no alarm raised, Leradien now put her body in motion toward it with but a single thought: hoping to smash her way through it and break in. With her irresistible force, she struck the immovable object of the door.

Wood cracked and splintered as the wooden door bulged inward, the hinges visibly moving back.

Incredibly, the door held. It was of good, stout dwarf construction.

She struck it again and again. Yet it was with the same result. The gate held. She struck it with her iron claws but with no more effect beyond the sounds of splitting wood being heard.

Leradien knew she had failed; her charge had proved useless. There remained but one last choice. Cracking on the elf lantern in her hand she hated, she now illuminated the defensive firing windows of the keep above for Ronthiel. Inside, orc voices were already loudly giving the alarm.

So why did the door not break down? Every time she struck it, she shook the heavy door to its very foundations. The barred and bolted door split and cracked further, but it did not break.

And now the orc arrows came down on them. They came from everywhere and all were aimed at her. The first three glanced harmlessly off the armored shell of her spider’s body, impervious to any orc weapon. The enemy quickly corrected, aiming their next arrows at her elf woman’s body, which had no such armor. She deflected two arrows with her four front legs, still attacking the door. But the third arrow struck and hit home. Yet her black blood knew no pain.

“Twang!” Went Ronthiel’s bow.

An orc cried out from above. Leradien paid no attention. She continued to pound on the door, splintering it further. Yet it refused to break.

Another arrow hit her. Time was not in her favor.

“Twang!”

Ronthiel’s bow sounded the death knell of yet another orc. Yet even more orc arrows replied with their own “twang,” trying to sound her own death knell. Again, she deflected three and again the fourth hit.

Despite four arrows sticking out of her, Leradien felt little pain as she struck the door with her forelegs, smashing in the wooden timbers that refused to fall. Her black blood saw to it that her pain was minimal. Her demonic half did its best to make her immune from attack, but black blood alone has its limits.

A fifth arrow hit her, and she crumpled—only to rise again and strike the door just as hard as she did the first time. This time, the hinges broke loose and separated. Yet the bar at the back of the door inside, still held its place. She had given it her best, and she had failed. A sixth arrow hit her, and down she went again. Now she knew pain. Her demon had failed her, and she had failed Ronthiel. Their charge was over.

It ended here. More orc arrows flew, now aimed for Ronthiel, who would be next to fall. It was inevitable.

“Twang!” sounded Ronthiel’s bow.

Leradien heard the orc he hit scream his dying last breath. But it was over for her. She was not getting back up, and the keep’s door remained shut.

Leradien kicked, she thrashed, but she could not raise herself up. She was dying.

Young Joe found a dagger at his throat, held by the drow woman who had captured him in the cavern.

“Drink this or die!” she ordered.

He had been with the woman for several hours. It was her dire bat that had captured him and carried him toward Mill’s Breath. Yet there had been two cries of pain in making their escape—one from her and one from the bat.

The wounded bat carrying him in its claws had gradually lost altitude, flying lower and lower until it smacked into the ground in total darkness and spun around. Young Joe hit the rocks hard. Hard enough to hit, bounce, hit again, and bounce again. He had never felt more beat up before then.

In the darkness, she had found him again, forcing him up at knifepoint. She made him hobble along toward… something in the distance. Was it Mills Breath? Whatever it was, it certainly wasn’t close by, and whatever it was they walked upon, it certainly wasn’t a road. Tall, rocky columns blocked their way—some massive. He had no idea where he was, but he knew he was sorely hurt. He couldn’t stop at all to rest, though, without a prodding reminder of her knife at his back.

Twice, she stopped for water, and both times she did more than drink. She tended to a wound. Something had hurt her—though not anywhere nearly as bruised and battered as he.

Yet now she had stopped with no water nearby at all, and not because she was hurt but because she was looking back behind herself, as if she had heard or seen someone.

“Drink it!” she repeated, the knife pressing harder against him in her vicious warning.

He obeyed.

“That is drow poison,” she told him. “If I don’t come back to you with the antidote, you will die! So don't leave or I can't give it to you. You had better pray to El for my safe return!”

She left him, headed back the way they had come. In the darkness, he could then see no more. She must know someone was behind them, and was headed now to face them. Joe thought he should call out a warning to whoever it was. He tried to speak, but his tongue felt as heavy as a boulder, followed by his brain.

The drow poison, he thought, as he hit the ground, face first.

The boy stood dead still, knife and spear ready in the blackness. His only offense now was a good defense. In this cavern darkness, he might as well have been blindfolded. He had to listen for his drow opponent’s approach.

“Tink!”

Something hit and bounced off his armor under his tunic –an arrow? No! A dart!

It came from directly ahead. Whoever fired it, though, might have been ten paces away or even ten times that. Whoever it was, saw him easily, while he could not see them at all. The next dart, he knew, would hit higher.

But whoever had hit him didn’t know he was wearing mithril armor under his elf’s tunic. They believed they had hit him and he should fall.

So the boy deliberately staggered and fell, dropping his spear but not his knife.

He lay on the ground, pretending to be passed out.

Soon, someone approached and then leaned over him.

Quick as a flash, the boy struck with his knife. Yet two hands instantly intercepted his arm just as his blade struck drow armor. He had forgotten about their armor! He should have struck for the throat and not the ribs! It was a foolish mistake.

“Amien!” he cried out.

His only chance now was that his human friend was close by to hear and get here in a hurry.

“Amien!” he screamed again as strong hands fought with him for his knife.

An elf lantern cracked on to his left but too far away to help. By its faint light, there was a drow woman leaning over him, using both her arms to wrestle away his knife. Although she was big, as big as Ronthiel, he was still the stronger being a satyr and with her wounded. But it did him no good to be stronger when she was on top. A trained fighter, she soon wrestled away his knife, seized the massive blade by its handle, and prepared to drive it through his throat. The boy now used his two hands to stop her one. When he overcame her one hand, she added her second to drive it down. When he overcame that too, she added the full weight of her body to the knife to press it down, and now slowly, inexorably; the blade inched closer toward his throat. The elf lantern light was approaching, but it would arrive too late for him.