Her own breathing pounded in her ears; the otherwise utter silence made the slight noise a thousand times louder. On and on the elf moved without finding any sign she was any nearer.
Finally frustrated enough, Idaria cleared her throat.
The brief sound was enough to elicit another slight clinking of the chains, and that time the sound was much closer. The elf felt her heart quicken.
At last, daring to take a great chance, she quietly called out, “I am here to help. I am an elf.”
There came a bit more clinking but not nearly enough to represent the hundreds that should be there. Idaria swallowed hard, fearful she was too late.
A male voice-an elf voice-murmured something that she could not understand. Idaria moved toward the voice only to nearly walk into an unseen column.
Growing more frustrated, she struck a fist against the column.
A dark blue light illuminated her surroundings.
Idaria let out a gasp at the sudden change then another, much more horrified gasp, at the sight before her.
She stood at the entrance of a vast chamber that appeared little changed in comparison to what Safrag likely had accomplished with the rest of the sanctum. The walls were a deep gray stone, and the floor was a striated marble combining black and crimson. Squat, fluted columns like the one with which the elf had almost collided dotted the immense room. There was no source for the blue illumination.
A number of disturbing smells greeted her. One was that of scorched flesh, something to which she had grown all too familiar. Another was the iron scent of blood. Again, that was a smell she knew too well. The third was less recognizable and, therefore, more frightening. It was the charged air odor that Idaria most associated with lightning during a storm. In such a place, that odor brought to mind terrible images.
But none of what she saw or smelled truly mattered much to Idaria, who had finally found her people … or what remained of them.
They stood in positions of fear, pain, and despair. Some were bent as if seeking to turn from their fate, while a few others stood tall and proud like the race Idaria remembered before the fall of Silvanost.
Hundreds of elves stood clustered before her, transformed into statues composed of what seemed to be amber. They ranged from those finally showing the age that only the most ancient of elves revealed to the very young, to those that had barely known the glory of the forested realm before the coming of Mina, the Nerakans, and, later, Golgren and the minotaurs. There was no order to the throng. They had evidently been transformed en masse after being herded into the subterranean lair.
However, not all had suffered that fate. Some chains rattled again, and Idaria discovered the one elf who still retained his fleshly form … but little else.
He lay bound and spread-eagled to a stone platform designed with five distinct appendages, one for each limb and a smaller one upon which he rested his head. Above him hung a sinister, spherical device of iron from which sprouted six evil tentacles-leather hoses, in truth-that descended to the captive’s wrists, ankles, and attached to both sides of his neck. The tentacles ended in hooked ends that penetrated the veins.
Idaria shivered. The hoses were transparent and revealed that, once, some crimson liquid had flowed through them.
She rushed to the elf’s side. Idaria did not know him, but visibly he looked not much older than she. Yet his skin was like parchment, and he was clearly in death’s grasp. Her frustration mounted; if she had been able to get there even a few hours earlier, then perhaps she could have saved that one slave.
His eyes had been shut, but they opened to reveal pupils almost white. That was no normal elf trait; Titan sorcery had caused the deviation, likely as part of the foul process that kept the prisoner alive while his blood was drained from him. The Titans desired that blood be as fresh as possible, perhaps in case something went amiss with the Fire Rose. With elf blood, they could still make batches of the insidious elixir that had been used to create or rejuvenate their numbers.
Idaria reached for the hoses attached to his neck, but the elf managed a faint shake of his head.
“The deed … is done. I am gone. You must save the rest … if you can.”
“Save the rest?” Idaria looked around but saw no other survivors. “Where are they?”
“All … all around …”
He meant the transformed elves. Idaria frowned; imminent death must have stolen the other elf’s senses. He did not know the others had suffered a gruesome fate.
His eyes shut as he strained to make his explanation clear. Through cracked lips, the dying prisoner managed to gasp, “They … they can be remade. The spell only … only is to hold them until ready.”
Whirling from him, the silver-tressed slave stared at the legions of macabre statues. “They are alive? They can be brought back?”
The elf did not answer her. When Idaria turned back to him, she saw that he was dead.
“Im corpuris den flau esada,” she murmured, using an ancient elf prayer. “May the body give back to the forest as the spirit flies.” Idaria touched his cheek. She did not even have a name by which to remember the latest victim of the Titans’ foul sorcery.
But the unnamed one had given her some hope. Somehow, there was a way by which all the prisoners could be released.
Abandoning the brave soul, Idaria rushed through the chamber. Any object or symbol that looked of interest to her she marked, but none seemed promising. The scrolls were written in indecipherable Titan script, and the many arcane devices looked so ominous, Idaria feared that, using them, she was more likely to do harm than good. She wished that Stefan were there to use his medallion and divine the best means of proceeding.
“Stefan!” Idaria gasped. She glanced over her shoulder in the direction from which she had come. In her desire to find her people, the Solamnic had momentarily slipped her mind.
Stefan was still on the other side of the wall.
Rushing to the magical entrance, also illuminated, Idaria pressed her hands against the stone barrier. Despite her expectations that she would be able to pass through as she had earlier, Idaria met with resistance from solid stone. Growing more anxious, she pressed harder but with no better result. She had been able to enter easily enough but could not leave.
Then Idaria recalled just what purpose the place served. The Titans had created an entrance suitable for ushering in elf slaves, but with the flow purposely designed for only one direction. That had easily prevented any of the prisoners from trying to escape, however futilely.
She was trapped. Idaria pounded on the wall. “Sir Stefan! Sir Stefan!”
There was no reply.
The Solamnic had thrust himself against the wall the moment Idaria had passed through it, but he could not follow her. Uncertain as to why she had been able to do what even the medallion could not grant to him, he wondered if perhaps the doorway were magical and intended to keep the elves prisoners.
The knight knew he had to find a path to Idaria and help her get her people to safety before his time ran out.
But how? How could he-?
The medallion grew warmer. It was all the warning that he received.
Stefan thrust the medallion into his breastplate then charged. Veering toward one wall, he gritted his teeth and leaped.
The wall gave him enough purchase but just barely. The Solamnic literally raced three steps up the wall. He extended his sword arm, ready.
The Titan materialized almost exactly where the knight calculated he was going to appear. The towering sorcerer’s expression turned from menace to utter astonishment.
Stefan swung.
The edge caught the sorcerer across the lower half of his throat. There was a flash of black light then a silver one. Titan sorcery sought to protect the blue-tinted fiend; the just power of Kiri-Jolith sought to cancel that protection.