Timmil, busy casting a divination to determine where the mage had gone, hardly noticed that sequence of events. Next to him Allton was likewise engaged in tracing the magic lingering in the room and seeing if he could identify it and where it might lead; thus, the four associates of the wizard and cleric faced Gravestone's household guards and the other three foes already present without the aid of spells for the time being. Discounting the dead man, nineteen other warriors were now quartered in the complex. Only four others were armed and on duty this morning, however, and these were the audience for the death scene of the first casualty of the melee.
Being hard-bitten men, these four went into the antechamber with ready blades. The men were confident of their own ability and the power of the three other agents of the tall, thin priest-wizard who were in the room with the half-dozen intruders. The mercenary soldiers considered the enemy as good as dead.
Considering their three fellow hirelings, it was understandable that the sell-swords felt confident. Bastro Felgosh was a mage of some power, able to wield magics of considerable strength, to summon elementals and conjure forth emanations of death to fell any who dared to oppose him. With Felgosh was the cleric of Nerull who called himself Staphloccus. Not quite as fell a spell-worker as the mage, the cleric was nevertheless able to paralyze with a word, or rot with a touch, those who angered him or threatened his master. Last, although by no measure the least, of the trio was Wilorne the assassin, called "Snapspine" or "Backbreaker" by the few close associates who knew and feared the ruthlessness of that murderer.
Felgosh, furious that he had not detected the nature of the six men before Sigildark had — and certainly fearing the consequences of that one's anger when he returned — had immediately begun calling forth his killing magic when the warning was signaled. Gellor, his eyepatch raised to expose the glittering ocular gem that empowered him with enchanted sight, opposed the dweomercraefter who was bent on bringing magical death to the six.
As if guided by some unseen divinity, Curley Greenleaf had moved so that he stood directly before Staphloccus. The dark priest raised up his vile symbol of death, that disgusting thing sacred to Nerull, and worked to lay low the druid before him. A word to fix the baldheaded fool immobile, Staphloccus thought, and then...
Chert, his mighty battleaxe singing as if it was a swarm of angry bees, waded into the four warriors who had rushed to attack. They cleared the headless corpse that was in their path and then came on to sink their swords into the lone man who dared stand in their way. He was a near-giant, but there were four sharp blades to make him fall hard.
When the commotion began, Wilorne immediately dived under a long table that Gordoned off the left quarter of the place. Then he rolled and came up on the flank of one of the intruders. Wilorne had meant to get at the spell-caster there, but a small, quick fellow got between him and his intended victim first. Grinning humorlessly, showing a pair of canines he was proud of, the assassin attacked the small one with precise strokes calculated to slay with utmost efficiency. His hook swung out on its thin chain. It would imbed itself in flesh and wound it, or merely entangle in a garment. No matter; then the strength that had earned him his epithets would be used to Jerk his adversary down, to him, or off balance at worst. Wilorne's narrow, small sword was darting into play to follow up whichever of the three possibilities eventuated.
The troubador began to shout out a lusty battle song as he waded into confrontation with the bulging-eyed dweomercraefler. Felgosh, accomplished in hand-to-hand combat such as this, was disconcerted not at all. Neither the chanted song nor the long sword that the strange opponent bore seemed threatening. Felgosh wore a magically protected garment, a robe that made him seem to be in one place when he was actually a cubit behind that place. Furthermore, the spell-binder had an enchanted collar stitched to that garment by daemon talons. The cloth seemed supple but was as hard as iron when touched by enemy attack. Last, Felgosh held in his left hand a fiend-gifted blade, a thick-bladed knife with the name "Agonizer" worked in nether-runes on the cleaverlike shank. A mere cut was sufficient to begin sending an adversary into paroxysms of pain as the evil power of the weapon sent fiery agony through the bloodstream of the wounded victim.
"Devil-serving varlet, you'll bleed scarlet!
"Call for netherforce, ride upon demon-horse, soon you'll be wailing!
"Now you feel sharp, clean steel!
"Back you'll reel!
"Down you'll kneel!
"Searching for your head, but it's gone sailing!"
That near-doggerel that Gellor voiced was a simple rhyming chant he had made up long ago to use as a war song as he fought in the thick of melee. At each point of pause in the verse he struck, the tempo giving him a rhythm for his movements and blows. Because he sung it with vigor and loud voice, it likewise lent power to those of his comrades also engaged in combat nearby.
The one-eyed troubador was only just beginning, however, and he knew that he had to be quick with the work before him. The mage with the egglike eyeballs who opposed him was near to completing a black spell that would bring terrible harm to all of them. This dweomer was from the deepest pits of the lower spheres, a magic that would draw out the very life forces of all six of them, even if it was not strong enough to slay anyone outright.
"... varlet!" Gellor shouted, and his longsword shot out. Felgosh didn't even bother to make a move to avoid the thrust, nor did the mage attempt to parry the attack with his heavy knife. He knew that he would remain beyond the length of the steel brand, thanks to the magic of his garment. Before the foe could make a next stroke, his summoning of energy would be finished, and his enemy would be gasping and howling as the negative power sucked life from his body....
"Eeeyaack!" Felgosh's scream of pain ended the casting short of its completion. Gellor had followed through with his thrust, ending it not in front of the mage but at his actual location.
I see you true, dogturd, Gellor thought even as he spat out the word "scarlet!" and freed the sword's point from the mage's thigh. At "netherforce" he parried a frantic slash from the spell-binder's knife and then slashed the fellow's chest in time to "demon-horse," but that attack only cut cloth, for the enchantment of the robe saved the mage from worse. Felgosh's eyes widened slightly, and he allowed himself a thin smile of satisfaction. The other man's point might be able to penetrate his enchanted robes, but he was still protected against slashing cuts; all he had to do was avoid any more thrusts until he could muster up another killing spell....
But that was much easier said than done. Gellor's next stroke came at the same time that the bulging eyes of the man locked upon his own, and the smug expression was instantly cut short. Gellor's edge left a red line on the wizard's bare forearm, then the point again went home, and once more.
Back reeled Bastro Felgosh, although he sent darts of evil energy burning into his adversary even as he tried to escape the savage pain of the unrelenting longsword. The glittering gem fixed in the sword-wielder's eye socket followed him as the gaze of an adder follows a rabbit. At the chanting of the word "head," Gellor's sword point took the mage in the chest and pierced his black heart.
Meanwhile, Curley Greenleaf was engaged with the other evil spell-caster. The druid had expected just this sort of opponent — so, as Staphloccus went into a ritual calling that was aimed at immobilizing Green-leaf, the half-elf sent forth a spell of his own. So quickly did he finish his casting, so quietly, that the evil cleric had no idea what had occurred. Seeing the druid make the pass that brought forth some power, and discerning no result from it, Staphloccus assumed failure on the part of his foe. With a harsh note of triumph resounding in his last words, the priest of Nerull completed his own spell and paused for a moment, expectantly.