The Last Satyr: The Two Paths Part 2

At what passed here for nightfall, Leradien caught up with the Black Dragons and the satyrs camped out along the roadway. The guards and sentries didn’t stop her, but neither did they help her either. They all knew what a drider was and knew that, if she wasn’t insane already, she soon would be.

And they were much closer to the truth than they realized. If the two boys died, Leradien would be insane by morning. But, for now, she clung to hope and by that clung to sanity and found the tent of Kreel, the only person whom she thought might help a drider in desperate need.

Kreel came outside to have a look at the two boys, both now set down on blankets. The elf boy had a gray look about him and was cold to the touch.

“I see no weapon wounds,” he noted of the two on close examination. “How did this happen?” he asked the drider.

“They fought with Lolth,” said Leradien. “The satyr hit his head on the rocks. Lolth bit the elf in the neck.”

Kreel checked the back of the boy’s head and nodded. Then he inspected Ronthiel’s neck, finding a black bruise and two fang puncture marks there.

“This one may live,” he said of the satyr. “The elf will die.”

Leradien started at this abrupt, unexpected news.

“That cannot be,” she replied. “There must be a drow cure for Lolth’s Kiss!”

“No,” said Kreel, shaking his head. “There isn’t. See this black mark on the elf’s neck? That is the site of her poison. The area is black because the flesh already dies. A hard, white puss will form here soon, the blackness will spread, and the flesh will rot off his bones. In a week, he will be dead.”

“There must be something you can do!” said a desperate Leradien.

“Trust me. We have seen this poison before and there is no cure.”

“What about Graybeard? Can Graybeard cure him?”

“Graybeard has already left. He is beyond your reach. Besides!” said Kreel, “Keepers can perform no miracle cures. It is beyond their power. And, even if Graybeard had gained the wisdom to cure this by remedy, the surface medicines he would need do not exist down here.”

Leradien was in a state of despair. “You’re certain there is no cure?”

“None,” Kreel regretfully confirmed. “No one has ever survived Lolth’s bite—not even an orc.”

Leradien was in such disbelief she did not know what to do.

“She bit me too,” she countered. “Yet I am not affected.”

“You are a black widow, the same as Lolth. You’re as immune to her bite as she is to yours. Your demon blood protects you.”

Leradien nodded in understanding.

“Will he wake up?” she asked of Ronthiel.

“No,” answered Kreel. “But he will die in severe pain. His suffering will be great. First, he’ll grow cold as he does now. Lolth’s icy hand will spread through him. Then will come the pain, like a burning fire. It will attack the joints and he will experience fever and delirium and talk to Lolth, even though she is not in the room. He will never be lucid but always in extreme agony. It is one of Lolth’s cruelest tortures. If you’d like, we can put a spear through him now and end it.”

“No,” she said quietly. She could not do that.

“As for the satyr,” Kreel offered, “it depends upon how hard he hit his head. He may wake up in a few hours or he may also die in a few days. Would you like us to take care of him?”

“For now, please,” Leradien said. “But when you move on in the morning, I shall take care of them both.”

Kreel looked at her warily.

“What happens to you if they die?” he asked.

“You won’t want to be around me if that happens. So I shall stay behind.”

Kreel nodded. “We break camp in the morning,” he said. “Both of them we will leave with you. We shall make them comfortable until then.”

The Black Dragons watched over the boys all night, keeping them warm and cleansing Ronthiel’s wound. Leradien stayed up all night watching them, hopeful of some positive sign.

In the morning (or so they judged it to be), the satyr boy awoke. He seemed fine, except he had no memory of anything after he dropped his bow and leaped into the darkness spell of Lolth. After that, his mind was a complete blank. The drow expressed no surprise at this as they prepared to move on for Thera Pass and ruled the boy fit. In leaving the three, they told the satyr the elf was dying.

The satyr, of course, would not accept this, and so he wildly searched his pack and Ronthiel’s for any elfish medicines they might have and applied them to the site of the poison. The boy noted the black area around the puncture wound had a deadly chill.

“We must keep him close to a fire,” the boy concluded, noting Ronthiel was becoming restless.

“They say he will suffer greatly,” Leradien warned with reluctant regret.

“This black area,” noted the boy, changing medicines on Ronthiel. “It feels lifeless. It gives me the shivers as if some clawed, icy hand has him in its grip.”

“The hand of Lolth reaches far. She avenges herself upon us for her defeat.”

“She certainly defeats our medicines,” the boy agreed. “But she will not defeat our will.”

“Kreel said his wound is even beyond Graybeard’s ability to heal.”

“Perhaps beyond his, but not beyond ours,” said the boy. “This venom was meant to kill slowly. I have never seen your venom do this.”

“It will if I want,” the drider girl admitted. “It depends upon how much I use.”

Yet the boy was unfazed by her reply.

“We will take him back to the city,” he decided. “The Jaezred Chaulssin were all assassins, so they ought to be familiar with poisons. Those who study poison under the arts of Lolth also study the cures lest someone poison them themselves. There may be some medicines there we haven’t tried. And, if nothing else, we can at least find Ronthiel a comfortable bed.”

“And what if Lolth’s drow army comes?”

“Lolth’s army marches only on her command and she will not appear to them to give such an order. For, if she did, they would see her injured, realize they can kill her, and fall upon her. No, right now Lolth hides from her own army.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“I can’t,” replied the boy with sad sigh. “But the potions of the Jaezred Chaulssin are our only hope for Ronthiel and, thus, that Lolth’s army does not march is also our only hope. So I believe it whether true or not. And even if I’m wrong and they advance, we can find a hiding place while they pass.”

“Where can you hide me?” said Leradien. “I can’t fit through any drow house doors—not even double doors anymore.”

The boy studied her.

“Have you gotten bigger?” he asked, his eyebrows furrowing in suspicion and curiosity.

She nodded but without telling him it was from Lolth’s blood. He would understand the meaning of that all too well if she did.

Unaware of this, he did not see it as a problem. “It’s a big city. It’s got to have some big hiding places somewhere. Besides!” he said. “We know we can’t do anything for Ronthiel here. And Graybeard can’t do anything for him ahead of us either. They’ve already told us that. So the only possible cure exists in Ched Nasad. And, anyway, we’re supposed to hold the drow army up for two days. We haven’t done that for certain yet and we sure can’t slow them down from this spot if they do come. With us out in the open, they’ll spot us before we even saw them. We need to find cover. Ched Nasad should provide it. It is the logical place to go.”

“I don’t know if you’re talking brave or foolish,” Leradien said, “but let’s go. You ride on my back and I’ll carry him.”

After a long march, Graybeard, Marroh, young Joe, and Amien stood at the foot of a long, narrow, stone staircase leading upwards into the dark in front of Thera Pass that marked the entrance to a great cavern.

“These stairs bypass the man-orc defenses at Thera Pass,” explained Shinayne to them. “But the trek is difficult and must be made in single file. We Black Dragons cannot make it in sufficient numbers to mount a rear attack.”

“You forget about the satyrs,” said Graybeard. “They need no trail over rock at all. They can climb almost anything and do so very swiftly. Order them to use these stairs after us and to launch a flank attack on the half orcs from above while you make the frontal assault. The satyrs will have far fewer losses that way and have far more effect on the enemy, who should be caught unprepared from the side. My friends and I shall attack from the opposite flank, catching the enemy between us from three sides. But you must first give us time to find allies to attack their rear. I will signal you when I have found them with my light. I won’t shine it at you or you’ll be blinded, but it will signal our attack.”

“I agree with your plan to have the satyrs attack the enemy from their flank,” Shinayne stated. “Our armor will protect us from orc arrows in the frontal assault, but the satyrs have none,” she added. “Hopefully, the enemy is not aware of these stairs. Good luck!”

“And good luck to you,” said Graybeard, “that Lolth does not attack your own rear.”

“So far, the enemy does not move.”

“I assigned our three best to that task. Let us hope it stays that way,” said the elves keeper as he started up the stairs.

The stairs were ancient and poorly maintained, long forgotten and unused. The going was hard and tiring but, within the hour, the satyrs overtook them and passed them in the dark. Their years of living underground had given them some limited ability to see and their hooves found easy footing.

The stairs led to the Plain of Romar above the cavern of Ridder Mark, but the satyrs were not going that far. They would turn off to the side before reaching it and down in order to advance on Thera Pass below. There would be no stairs where they turned and the satyrs would find the going rough but not impossible.

After a long walk, the four of them reached the plains behind Thera Pass, finding them moss-covered as they cracked on a single elfin light and lit the way ahead.

“Won’t our lights be seen?” asked Amien of the light.

“Almost certainly,” replied Graybeard. “The question, though, is, seen by what?”

Before them in the distance was the dwarf city of Mills Breath. Not a single light or torch showed from it now. A stench fouled the air as they came near. The walled city had a gate with two towers on each side. The city had a further six more walls inside, for a total of seven walls in all, each one as stout and strong as the first and progressively higher as the city was built on a mound. Each wall had an iron gate.

As they approached, they could see the outer wall had been embattled and three sections were torn down and breached. The ground here was littered and strewn with dead orcs but no dwarves. Yet no dwarves stood guard upon the wall and the city gates had been dragged forcefully open.

The four of them passed through the first gate and the stench of death grew stronger. Here, more orc corpses lay long-dead. The next wall had also been breached, this time in four places and its gate also flung open. Not a sign of life appeared on the walls and no dwarf challenge reached them.

“If the dwarves lost,” said Marroh. “Where are their bodies?”

“Eaten,” replied Amien, with his sword at the ready.

They walked through the gate and reached the fifth wall. It was much the same as the others. It, too, had been broken through.

“Graves!” noted Marroh of the ground. “No orc digs graves!”

“Dwarf graves,” replied Amien. “It means the dwarfs stopped the attackers here, at least for a time, and repelled the enemy long enough to bury their dead.”

“They don’t seem to be here now,” said young Joe.

“No. The orcs attacked again a second time and broke through,” said Amien as they passed through the fifth gate. “They shattered this one open with battering rams.”

There were more dead and rotting orc bodies as they reached the fourth wall.

“More graves,” noted Marroh with hope.

“The dwarves stopped them again,” concluded Amien. “A fierce battle was fought here. Many died on both sides.”

“Too many dwarfs, I fear,” lamented Marroh. “Never have I seen so many graves!”

“There is no life in this place,” said young Joe. “We enter not a city, but a tomb!”

“Do not despair too soon,” warned Graybeard. “For someone dug these graves. And look! The fourth gate still stands closed.”

It was true. Nowhere had the enemy breached the fourth wall.

“But there are no dwarves upon the wall!” reported Marroh, his voice wrought with concern.

“There were probably not enough dwarves left to man it after the last battle,” said Amien, studying the battlefield. “So they fell back to the third wall.”

“And the enemy did not pursue as the gate remains shut,” said Graybeard. “They gave up.”

“Do you suppose the man-orcs got this far before they were called back to defend Thera Pass?” guessed young Joe.

Graybeard nodded, adding. “In which case,” he said, “there must be a great many of them there facing the Black Dragons.”

No one liked the sound of that.

“If that’s true; the Black Dragons and the satyrs shall charge to their doom,” said Amien.

“Not if I can help it,” said Graybeard, who held up his staff before the great iron gate and called to it in ancient Elfish.

The gates swung silently outward to admit them.

The four of them passed through it. Again, no challenge sounded. But the third wall ahead stood firm and undamaged too; though, again, not a light or a dwarf was to be seen. They headed for its gate. When they reached it, a voice finally called to challenge.

“Halt and identify yourselves!”

“We are friends,” answered Graybeard. “As you must know for no enemy of the dwarves would carry an Elfish light.”

“A man-orc might,” was the reply.

“I am Graybeard,” the ancient one responded. “Keeper of the light elves. These are my friends, Marroh the dwarf and two humans; young Joe and Amien, a man of the West.”

“State your business.”

“We’ve come to see the king.”

“The king and his sons were all killed in battle.”

“Who takes their place to rule?”

“Arnen Fang, elected by the people,” came the reply.

“Then we seek to see him.”

There was a long wait, but the gate finally opened. They came inside, expecting to see more dwarves, but there were only three to meet them—and one was the gatekeeper who had challenged him.

“I am Gimli Dol,” said the shortest, heaviest of the other two. “This is Amroth, captain of the guard, and this is Kradle Duskfoot.”

“We are delighted to meet you,” said Graybeard. “We feared you were all dead.”

“Not all,” replied Gimli Dol, “but a great many of us have passed on to the next realm. Do you see how our walls are undermanned? We have become far too few. Still! The enemy has finally given up on us.”

“No,” said Amien. “They have not given up on you at all. Your enemy has simply been diverted away from here to turn back your rescuers.”

“Rescuers?” asked Gimli Dol in surprise. “Who comes to our rescue?” He brightened, eagerly wanting to know, “An army of dwarves, men, and elves?”