Cadderly wanted to talk to Banner, to ask some questions, to get some answers. But where to begin? It was the Edificant Library, a holy sanctuary of both Deneir and Oghma! It was a place of prayer and reverence, and yet, standing before Cadderly was a creature that mocked that reverence, that made all the prayers sound like pretty words strung together for no particular purpose. For Banner had been a priest, a well-respected and high-ranking priest of Cadderly’s own god! Where was Deneir? Cadderly had to wonder. How had Deneir allowed such a grim fate to befall one so loyal?
“Not to worry,” Banner assured the trio, as if they were concerned about his finger. “Not to worry. I’ve become quite good at putting the pieces back together since the fire.”
“Tell me about the fire,” Cadderly interjected, seizing that one important event and holding on to it like a litany against insanity.
Banner looked at him weirdly, the bulging eyeballs rolling this way and that. “It was hot,” he replied.
“What started it?” Cadderly pressed.
“How would sleeping Banner know that?” the undead thing answered brusquely. “I have heard that the wizard …”
Banner paused and smiled widely, and began waggling his finger in the air in front of him, as though Cadderly had asked a question that was out of bounds. That waggling finger, like the one before it, dropped free, but fell all the way to the floor.
“Oh, where did it go?” Banner cried in desperation, and he whipped himself to a crouched position and began hopping among the pews.
“Are ye wanting to talk to this one?” Ivan asked, and the dwarf’s tone made it obvious which answer he preferred.
Cadderly thought for a moment. Banner had stopped short of an answer—and the hint he had offered didn’t sit well with Cadderly.
But why had the wretched thing stopped? the young priest wondered. What had compelled Banner to hold back? Cadderly didn’t even know exactly what Banner had become. He was more than an unthinking zombie, Cadderly knew, though the young priest wasn’t well versed in the various versions of undeath. Zombies, and others of the lowest form of animated dead, didn’t converse, were simply unthinking instruments of their masters, so Banner apparently ranked somewhere above them. Cadderly had once battled a mummy, but Banner didn’t seem to fit that mold either. He seemed benign, almost, too foolish to be a threat.
Yet, something, some impulse, had held Banner from answering.
Cadderly eyed the scrambling creature directly, presented his holy symbol, and in commanding tones said, “Banner! Spirit of Banner. I ask you again and by the power of Deneir, demand an answer. Who started the fire?”
The undead thing stopped his frantic movements, froze perfectly still and stared at Cadderly, or, more particularly, at Cadderly’s holy symbol.
Banner seemed to wince several times. “By the power of who?” he asked innocently, then it was Cadderly who winced. What had happened there to push his god so very far away?
Cadderly lowered his arm, lowered the symbol of Deneir, knowing then that he would gain no useful information from the undead wretch.
“Are ye wanting to keep talking to this thing?” Ivan asked.
“No,” Cadderly said, and before the word had fully fallen from his lips, Ivan’s axe went into a tremendous overhead arc, slicing down and taking Banner’s left arm from his shoulder.
The undead thing looked at that lost arm with curiosity, as if wondering how he was supposed to reattach it. “Oh, I’ll have to fix that,” his almost lipless mouth said.
Even more devastating was Pikel’s attack, the tree trunk club slamming hard atop Banner’s exposed skull, dropping the undead thing into a crumpled, broken pile of flesh and bones. Both eyes popped from their sockets and rolled about on long, thin strands.
“Now that hurt,” Banner said, and all three companions jumped at the unexpected response.
They realized then, to their horror, that the eyeballs were not rolling randomly, but seemed to be inspecting the damage!
“So much to do!” Banner whined.
The three slowly backed away, Pikel last, whimpering a bit and shaking his head in denial. Five feet from the broken monster, they found the courage to turn away, and started off, legs pumping to gain them full speed.
“Oh, Rufo will make me fix it alone!” Banner cried.
Cadderly skidded to a stop. Ivan crashed into him, and Pikel crashed into Ivan.
“Rufo?” Cadderly asked, turning back. “Rufo?” Ivan echoed. “Oo oi!” Pikel agreed.
“You remember Rufo, of course,” said a calm and familiar voice from behind them.
Slowly and in unison the three turned back toward the exit of the chapel to see Kierkan Rufo standing at his usual angle, not quite perpendicular to the floor.
Cadderly saw that the brand he’d given Rufo had been marred, clawed away.
“You don’t belong in this place!” the young priest roared, finding his courage, reminding himself that the Edificant Library was not only his home, but Deneir’s as well.
Rufo’s laughter mocked him.
Cadderly moved closer, drawing the dwarves in his wake. “What are you?” he demanded, understanding that something was terribly amiss, that something stronger than Kierkan Rufo faced him.
Rufo smiled widely and opened his mouth in a feral hiss, proudly showing his fangs.
Cadderly nearly swooned, but caught himself. He yanked his holy symbol free of the wide-brimmed hat, and plopped the hat awkwardly on his head in the same movement. “By the name of Deneir, I banish—” he began.
“Not here!” Rufo roared back, his eyes flashing like red dots of fire. “Not here.”
“Uh-oh,” muttered Pikel.
“He’s not a vampire, is he?” Ivan asked, and like everything Ivan seemed to ask, it was obvious what answer he wanted—needed—to hear.
“If you could only understand the meaning of that word,” Rufo answered. “Vampire? I am Tuanta Quiro Miancay, the Most Fatal Horror! I am the embodiment of the mixture, and here, I rule!”
Cadderly’s mind whirled along the terrible possibilities. He knew that name, Tuanta Quiro Miancay. He, above anyone else, understood the power of the chaos curse, for he had been the one to defeat it, the one who had put it in the bowl, immersed it in holy water.
But he had not destroyed it. Rufo was proof of that. The chaos curse had returned, in a new and apparently more deadly form. Cadderly felt a warmth along his leg, emanating from his pocket. It took him only a moment to remember that he had a pin in there, an amulet that Druzil had placed on Rufo in Shilmista. The amulet was tuned to the imp, so that its possessor and Druzil could be easily joined telepathically. It was warm, and Cadderly feared what that might mean.
“Your god is gone from this place, Cadderly,” Rufo chided, and Cadderly could not deny the truth of that statement. “Your order is no more, and so many have come over willingly to my side.”
Cadderly wanted to argue that, wanted not to believe it. He knew of the cancer that had crept into the order of Deneir, and of Oghma, even before that newest incarnation of the chaos curse. He thought of his last encounter with Dean Thobicus. Even as he’d left the Edificant Library in the early winter, Cadderly knew he would have to return and fight the habits that had become so ingrained in the place, ways contrary to the brother gods.
And there was Rufo, and the fall of the library seemed to make perfect sense.
The pause, the proverbial calm before the storm, could not last long, not with two volatile and terrified dwarves at Cadderly’s side. Ivan shattered that calm, roared, and charged forward, and hit Rufo full force with a sidelong swipe of his great axe.
The vampire lurched and flew half a dozen feet to the side, but came up straight and seemed unhurt—indeed, was even laughing!
Pikel lowered both his head and his club and charged, but Rufo casually slapped him aside, launching him end over end to crash right through two wooden pews.
Ivan charged again, and Rufo spun to the side, s
napping his hand out in the air. Some force emanated from that hand, some mighty energy that slammed Ivan and sent him flying off as wildly as if he’d run into the edge of a tornado. The dwarf grunted, his breath blasted from his lungs, and flew off. He hit the edge of an arch with a sharp, sickening retort, rocketed head over heels to the floor, and skidded and bounced along, leaving a trail of blood behind him.
Cadderly feared that the blow had killed Ivan. He wanted to rush to his friend’s side, to call upon Deneir’s healing gifts and take away Ivan’s pain.
Not yet, he realized. He could not go to Ivan yet. He kept his holy symbol high in the air, presented with all his faith, as he steadily approached the vampire. He chanted, prayed, demanded that Deneir hear his call and come back to the library.
Rufo winced, seemed pained by the presented symbol, but didn’t back down.
“You do not belong here,” Cadderly said through gritted teeth, and the symbol, flaring with a silvery flame, was barely a foot from the vampire’s snarling visage. Rufo reached out, clenched his hand over the eye-above-candle, and closed his fist upon it. There came a hiss, and wafts of smoke rose, and Rufo was obviously pained. But the vampire held on stubbornly, proving that the library was his place, not Deneir’s, that Cadderly’s holy magic was no good, not in there.
Gradually straightening, the vampire’s smile widened, his free hand, in a clawing position, rising up to his ear, ready to strike, ready to lash out for stunned Cadderly’s throat.
Pikel hit the vampire from the side, and though his club did no real damage, the jolt saved Cadderly, pushing him and Rufo far apart.
Rufo and Pikel engaged in a wrestling and slugging match, but the vampire was too strong, and Pikel was soon hurled away. Rufo turned on Cadderly, his prized prey, who had staggered back many feet.
A tremendous, inhuman leap brought Rufo flying up to block Cadderly’s way. Perched atop a pew, the vampire raised his arms wide and leaned forward, meaning to fall over Cadderly.
Up came Cadderly’s holy symbol, and the quick-thinking young priest enhanced the presentation. He pulled out his light tube, popped off the end cap, and put the beam right behind the symbol.
Rufo recoiled, struck and pained by the sudden glare. He spun away, his robes flying defensively as a dark barrier against the burning beam, and wailed an ungodly, unearthly wail that resounded off every wall in the library, that fell upon the ears and tugged at the heartstrings of the many minions the vampire had fashioned.
The building itself seemed to rise in answer to that call, responding wails and moans coming into the chapel from every direction.
Rufo melted away, transforming suddenly into a bat, and fluttered about the wide hall. Another bat in hard through the open door, then something bigger than a bat, but with batlike wings.
Cadderly recognized Druzil, and the imp’s presence answered many questions indeed.
They heard the shuffling of stiff-legged zombies in the hall outside, and those of the dark rising to Rufo’s side.
They had to get out—Cadderly knew they had to flee the library. Pikel, obviously thinking along the same lines, staggered to the young priest’s side and together they turned for Ivan, neither of them knowing how they were supposed to carry the battered dwarf out of there.
But Ivan wasn’t down. Somehow, he was standing and seemed to have shaken off the terrific hit.
The three joined and ran for the door, Rufo’s laughter echoing in their ears every step. They cascaded down the hall and plowed into a jumble of zombies congregating in the foyer.
Ivan and Pikel cut through the throng like the prow of a ship through water, scattering bodies and limbs in every direction. Ivan’s axe cleaved monsters in half or took limbs with every tremendous swipe, and the dwarf lowered his head and gored like a charging elk, ripping wide holes in undead chests. Pikel flanked his brother, knocking zombies aside with his club, and Cadderly came right behind them, ready to strike, and yet, with the dwarves so efficient, the young priest had nothing to strike at!
For all their progress, though, Rufo was right behind, and a horrible, scarred vampire—Histra!—was beside him, along with that wretched imp.
Bolts of energy launched from Druzil’s fingertips, scorching Cadderly’s back. Rufo’s mocking laughter and Histra’s hungry hissing licked at the young priest’s sensibilities.
“Where will you run?” Rufo cried.
Ivan’s axe cut a zombie in half at the waist and the way to the open door—open to the twilight—was clear before them.
The doors swung closed with a bang that sounded like a nail in Cadderly’s coffin.
“Where will you run?” Rufo cried again, and another barrage of Druzil’s energy stung the running priest so badly he nearly tumbled.
Cadderly thought to run past the doors, knowing that Rufo had closed them, and suspecting that the vampire had placed a spell on them that would keep them closed.
Ivan and Pikel were never that subtle, or that quick thinking, especially on those few occasions when they were truly terrified. They cried out together, lowered their heads, and hit the doors as one, and no enchantment Rufo or anyone else could have placed on the doors would have held the portal against that charge.
The two dwarves rolled outside amidst flying splinters. Cadderly, running full out behind them, tried to jump clear of the tangle, but hooked his foot on Pikel’s chin and went flying headlong to the ground.
Even that evasive, if unintentional, maneuver didn’t save the young priest from yet another of Druzil’s volleys. Pain raced along Cadderly’s razed spine. Ivan and Pikel each hooked him under one arm and ran along, dragging him with them. Ivan kept the presence of mind to scoop up the young priest’s dropped light tube and holy symbol.
The slow zombies ambled out in pursuit, but the vampires didn’t. The night had not fallen in full. Twenty paces down the path, Cadderly and the dwarves were running free.
But for how long? all three wondered. The sun was out of sight, and the library was lost.
FIFTEEN
NIGHTFALL
Shayleigh squatted atop the roof of the low structure behind the Edificant Library, eyeing the large, square building with mounting suspicion. She could tell that the fire had been fairly concentrated, as she would expect in a structure made mostly of stone, but it wasn’t so much the fire that worried the elf maiden. Two things struck her as more than a little odd. The first was the simple lack of activity around the library. Winter was on the wane and the trails were open, yet Shayleigh saw no priests milling about the place, stretching their weary limbs in the warming sunshine.
Even more curious, Shayleigh couldn’t understand why all the windows were boarded over, especially after the fire—to her thinking, the library should have been thrown open wide to allow the smoke to filter out and fresh air to blow in. At best, the Edificant Library was far from an airy place, but with the windows blocked, at least the ones on her side of the structure, the smoky air inside must have been overwhelming.
Percival, hopping along the branches of the nearest tree, provided little comfort. The squirrel was still agitated—so wild, in fact, that Shayleigh feared he might have contracted some disease. He ran down right near her, and she thought for a moment he was going to crash against her arm.
“What is it?” she cooed, trying to calm the squirrel as he jumped in circles on the branch.
Percival hopped down to the mausoleum roof, did that spinning dance again, chattering loudly, as if in protest, then leaped high, back to the low branch and sat facing the mausoleum squarely, still chattering.
Shayleigh ran a delicate hand through her golden hair, not beginning to understand what was going on in the rodent’s head.
Percival’s dance atop the mausoleum’s roof grew increasingly frenzied. He went flying back to the branch, again sitting facing the mausoleum directly, again sputtering protests.
Shayleigh realized that the squirrel was watching the crypt, not her or the library.
“I
n here?” she asked, pointing straight down to the mausoleum’s roof. “Is something in here?”
Percival did a somersault on the branch, and his shriek sent shivers along the elf’s spine.
Shayleigh stood up straight and stared down at the twig-covered slate roof. She knew enough about the customs of humans to understand that it was a burial house, but that fact alone shouldn’t bother a squirrel, even one such as Percival, who seemed to have more understanding than a rodent should.
“Something is in there, Percival?” she asked again. “Something bad?”
Again the white squirrel went into its frantic dance, chattering wildly.
Shayleigh crept to the front edge of the mausoleum and peeked over. There was one window, dusty and dirty, and the door was closed—but the elf maiden’s keen vision showed her how clean the edges of that doorjamb were. The door had been opened recently.
Shayleigh looked around at the small field and the library’s back grounds. With no one in sight, she gripped the edge of the mausoleum and gracefully rolled over, putting her feet near the ground, and hopped down.
Percival was on the roof then, near her and making more noise than the elf wanted to hear.
“Do be quiet!” Shayleigh scolded, her voice a harsh whisper.
Percival sat very still and silent, his little nose twitching.
Shayleigh could see nothing moving beyond the dirty window. She scanned the area with her elf’s darkvision, but from that perspective, too, the place seemed empty.
Shayleigh took little comfort in that as she let her eyes slip back into the normal spectrum of light and moved for the door. It was a crypt, after all, and any monsters inside might well be undead. Dead creatures were cold; they gave off no body heat.
Shayleigh winced at the creak of the old door as it rolled on its rusty hinges. Dim twilight filtered into the place, barely illuminating it. Shayleigh and her kin in Shilmista lived more under the stars than the sun, though, and she didn’t need much light. She kept her eyes focused in the normal spectrum and silently entered, leaving Percival, who was chattering again despite her scolding, on the lip of the roof above the open door.