Threadwood Abbey was a large,
rambling stone structure that, at some point in its existence, had been used as
a fortress. Time had not been kind to
the structure and, by the moon's dim light, Mallora saw that one of the abbey
wings had collapsed into rubble. Ivy had crept over the remainder of the
building, obscuring windows and probably helping the building blend into the
countryside. A poorly maintained dirt
tract led from the main road toward the abbey. There were no lights visible in
the abbey, no telltale hints of smoke rising from the building. No sign, at
all, that the place was a bandit's den.
The rest of the party was gathered
at the treeline, where the dirt tract started. Mallora saw a trio of darkly
dressed figures lying on the cold earth, horse blankets thrown over two of
them. The third seemed to be alive, bound hand and foot and gagged to boot. Mallora recognized him as the halfling she
had met with the group. His eyes were wide open, moving about, seeking any sign
of escape.
She turned her back on him and
watched as Elkedren and Brother Elloren bent their heads together and exchanged
whispers. When they parted the Abashite paladin was smiling, grimly. He
gestured at his accolytes and they stepped out of the treeline, onto the dirt
track. They advanced upon the abbey. Brother Elloren's silver chainmail glowed
like molten silver in the moon's dim light.
Elkedren's people had faded into the
shadows, as stealthy as any rogue Mallora had ever seen. She glanced at
Fericille, saw the sorceress double-checking her crossbow with a professional
detachment that seemed oddly out of character for her. Mallora's fingers brushed the hilt of her new
shortsword and waited.
She didn't have to wait long. The Abashites reached the entry to the abbey.
Brother Elloren called out something.
Golden light flared, briefly illuminating the small group of figures.
The sudden light made Mallora hiss and turn away.
"Forward!" shouted
Elkedren, and the party surged forward to catch up with the Abashites.
If the Sheriff of Treeport had been
expecting the bandit-monks to battle them face-to-face, he was disappointed.
The bandits vanished and what had started out as a raid soon turned into a
dangerous game of hide-and-seek.
Threadwood Abbey's stout stone walls
were riddled with secret passageways. The bandits popped out of them, to fire a
crossbow or throw vials of acid or oil. Elkedren's woodsmen may have been great
marksman but in the abbey's interior they were at a distinct disadvantage.
Brother Elloren and his accolytes
weren't fairing much better. It was no good being a skirmish fighter if your
enemy wouldn't stand and fight. The monks were thieves, not fighters, and they
exploited that fact, relying on stealth and their knowledge of the abbey to
ambush their attackers.
Of course, being rogues, they had
boobytrapped the place. Nauseating gases filled rooms. Poisoned darts sprang from
concealed traps. In one room, the floor
slid open, dumping a hapless Abashite into a pit filled with poisonous vipers.
"Demon teeth!" snarled
Elkedren, wiping blood from his brow. A barbed arrow had grazed his forhead
only minutes before. "This is like hunting rats in a barn!"
"I should have brought more
men," muttered Brother Elloren.
He'd pulled the unfortunate Abashite out of the snake-pit, but there was
nothing he could do for her.
"Perhaps we should burn the place
down," suggested Fericille.
"Can you burn stone
walls?" asked Mallora.
"No," admitted the
sorceress. "But the roof tiles are made of wood. Aren't they?"
"Slate probably," said
Elloren.
Fericille scowled and seemed to
shrink, irrate, into her heavy cloak.
"How many monks have we
taken?" asked Mallora.
"Five," growled Elkedren.
"And how many are left, do you
suppose?"
"Not many," said the
Sheriff. "Between the three we already had in custody and the five we've
taken, there's probably about another five or six running free. Including
Varre."
"How many men have we
lost?"
Elkedren sucked his teeth. "Too
many."
"The bandits have too many
bolt-holes," growled Brother Elloren. "By now, the remaining ones
have fled if they've any sense."
"Probably," agreed
Elkedren. He offered a grim smile. "But I'll bet they had to leave their
booty behind."
"Nothing hurts a thief more
than having to leave his spoils behind him," said Fericille. "And the
bandits have been using the abbey for a while. I imagine their treasure-room is
very well stocked."
"Fine," said Elkedren.
"Time to change tactics. We hunt for their gold."
"Perhaps one of the prisoners
will talk," suggested Mallora.
"Doubtful," said Brother
Elloren. "They're unusually loyal for a band of thieves."
"Could you charm the answers
out of them, Fericille?" asked Mallora.
The sorceress shook her head.
"No. My spells are physical. Fire. Ice. That sort of thing."
"I have no interest in their
gold," said Brother Elloren. "My people will continue to hunt for the
monks."
"Happy hunting," said
Elkedren. "Fericille, what say you?"
"As much as a treasure hunt
through a booby-trapped monastery sounds like fun, I'd rather not. Besides,
someone should take the prisoners back to Treeport."
"I'll assign some men to go
with you."
"No need," said
Fericille. "I can whip up a teleportation circle that'll do the job. I'll
drop 'em right in the middle of the Lawhouse."
Elkedren grunted and began to shout
orders. His woodsmen gladly regrouped at the entry to the abbey. There, they
watched as Fericille sketched out a complicated teleportation circle on the
stone floor using colored chalks. When
she was done, the living prisoners were shoved into the circle. The sorceress
joined them and, with a dip of her head and a jaunty wave, vanished with the prisoners.
Their departure triggered a burst of
thunder, as air rushed in to fill the space they had vacated. Elkedren
carefully obscured the teleportation circle, then began to issue new orders to
his woodsmen.
The Abashites were still in the
depths of the abbey, hunting for any lingering monk-bandits. Mallora felt
compelled to join them. She said as much
to Elkedren, who nodded and waved her away without a second glance.
Alone, Mallora moved quickly down
the stone corridors, toward the direction of Brother Elloren's party. She had
just turned a corner, when a voice called out to her.
"Lady."
Mallora turned and saw a familiar
figure, standing in an open doorway. Her blade was in her hand, before she even
realized.
"Peace, lady," said
Brother Varre.
He was still wearing his black
habit. His face, so amiable during their first encounter, held a serious
expression now. Mallora saw specks of
blood on his cheek.
"Are you surrendering?"
asked Mallora.
"No," said Brother Varre.
"There's no. . . ."
She rushed him, blade low and fast.
It plunged into the man's black robes and met no resistance. Instantly, Mallora spun on her heels and
threw herself to the side.
Brother Varre stood behind her,
hands tucked into the wide sleeves of his habit.
"Now that we've got that out of
the way, perhaps we can discuss terms."
"What terms?" demanded
Mallora. She eyed the duplicate warily, not trusting that it was entirely illusional.
"The terms of the agreement
where you help me get out of the abbey."
"Why would I do that?"
Varre drew a hand out of his sleeve
and showed her the leather tube that had held the Chief Archivist's letter.
"Because of this."
"A letter from the Chief
Archivist to some academic?" asked Mallora, chuckling.
The bandit-monk frowned. He studied her face for a moment and snorted.
"You don't know. Do you?"
"Know what?" demanded
Mallora. "What are you talking about, thief?"
Varre tossed her the letter.
"You should read that. It's no simple academic's letter. It's from the
Regent of Fallen Baramir."
"Nonsense," said Mallora.
She made no effort to catch the letter, suspecting a feint, an attempt to get
her to lower her guard.
"Truth, lady. He's asking
Isteban Mirelle to return to Fallen Baramir."
"I have no idea who that
is."
"You should," said Varre.
"That's no mere letter you're muling to Moontree, lady. It's the spark to
a powderkeg that could blow the entire continent apart."
"Why should I trust you?"
demanded Mallora.
"You probably shouldn't,"
said Varre. He tilted his head, frowning. "But now, if you'll excuse me, I
need to leave. Those bastard Abashites are coming and I've no desire to wind up
in their heavy hands. Fare thee well,
lady. I suspect we'll meet again some day."
With that, Brother Varre stepped
toward the wall. It swung open at his
approach and before Mallora could react the man was gone and the wall was
sealed behind him. Swearing, she hunted for a trigger but found nothing.
A moment later, Brother Elloren and
one of his accolytes appeared around the corner.
"Lady?"
"Varre was here," snapped
Mallora. She kicked the wall. "He vanished through there. Some kind of
secret passage."
"Damn! Well, we'll hunt him
down. For now, though, I think we need to find Elkedren. Show him what we've
discovered."
"What?" asked Mallora. She
knelt and picked up the scroll tube, tucked it into her belt.
"Better you should see."
Frowning, Mallora followed Elloren,
while his acolyte rushed off to find the Sheriff.
Grim-faced, the paladin led Mallora
along the stone corridors to a doorway. Two of his people stood guard, weapons
drawn, their eyes glittering with something like fear.
"Look through the doorway, but
don't cross the threshold," said Elloren.
Curiously, Mallora eased forward and
peered through the doorway. In the room,
candles burned in dozens of small recesses. Their light illuminated a fantastic
treasure horde. Precious gems, gold
coins, silver jewelry and more was piled high around a circular altar in the
middle of the room. Standing on that
altar was a dwarfish figure, apparently cast in solid gold, with glittering
emerald eyes, a large sack thrown over his shoulder.
"What am I looking at?"
asked Mallora.
"It seems our bandits may have
been actual monks," said Brother Elloren. He nodded at the figure on the
altar. "That is Ryat, God of Thieves."
"Are you saying this place is
his temple?"
"I believe so."
"In my experience, gods dislike
having their temples despoiled."
"Yes," said Brother
Elloren, grimly. "I imagine there's going to be hell to pay for what's
happened here tonight."
Mallora touched the scroll-tube and suspected
that the paladin was right.
BROTHER VARRE, L14 Human Criminal (L8 Rogue/L6 Cleric of
Ryat)
