Lux Tenebris: The Monks of Threadwood Abbey - Part 6

            The raid did not go like anyone expected.

            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.