The Dereth Saga - Prologue

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Neeson had never seen so many bodies. He had known the men less than a fortnight and now they all lie bloody and lifeless, twisted among the thick brambles of the Feral Woods. The filthy green corpses of the attacking trolls were a sight only slightly less disturbing. Without pausing to wipe the green blood from his blade, he searched the faces of his fallen comrades. A wave of relief swept over him when he found that his mentor Clade was not among them.

Rendryck, a wealthy land owner and collector of ancient artifacts, had hired Clade to lead a team of mercenaries. He had recently acquired a map that revealed the location of the long forgotten Ruins of Albree deep within the Feral Woods. His researched turned up a legend stating that the city of Albree had stood long before the mysterious forest had existed, at a time before some malignant god had cursed the land for miles. The legend said nothing of how the city had come to an end, only that it had once been a center of great culture and magical study. Rendryck believed the ruins still held artifacts of value, and was willing to handsomely reward to the men who would find it for him.

After several days of traveling Weal’s Roadway they had reached the village of Elassa’s Bend. Rendryck rented a room in the only inn, where he would stay until the men returned with whatever treasures they found.

Nothing had gone as Clade had planned. The map had proved unreliable, a fact that became apparent to the men after several days. The party trod through the bleak wilderness with ever decreasing hope of finding the ruins they had set out to plunder. The forest was perilous even for the fearless, rugged men, who craved the thrill of danger. Despite the warnings of the villagers at Elassa’s Bend, the men were ill prepared for the increasingly unpredictable magics that wrought bizarre and dangerous changes in the wildlife. And worse still was the recent inexplicable surge in the troll population. Dismissing the warnings of the villagers as exaggerated Clade had led his team onward.

Twice the party was attacked by a pack of wolves of unnatural size and ferocity. The beasts had a purposeful viciousness about them and eyes that glinted with a dangerous intelligence. In each encounter several men were wounded before the wolves were driven away, but there were no casualties, neither lupine nor human. The men’s eyes betrayed a nervous wariness after each encounter, but none would vocalize it for fear of being labeled a coward.

Morale dipped steadily as the journey continued on without any sign of the ruins. Then one late afternoon, just as the men had found a clearing suitable for camp, the woods around them crashed and crackled and a herd of hulking filthy green trolls emerged. They rushed upon the mercenaries like an avalanche, attacking with such speed the men had barely enough time to take up arms before the enemy was upon them. The trolls were merciless and slaughtered all they could, with no apparent motive save for the sheer pleasure of it. The men fought hard, despite the weariness of a day of travel, and by the end of the skirmish not a single green beast remained standing.

The sky had grown prematurely dark. A massive grey thunderhead loomed on the horizon, obscuring what little sunlight remained. Neeson scanned the forest around him in desperate hope of discovering a human survivor, coupled with the fear of spotting a troll. A rustling drew his attention to a thicket. His fist clenched the sword at his side and he drew a silent breath.

To his relief, out stepped Clade, who did not appear to have suffered even the slightest wound. Neeson tried to ignore the nagging question that surfaced in his mind when he noted that his mentor’s sword remained clean and shining.

“I’m glad you survived, my boy,” Clade said, clapping a hand on the young man’s shoulder. But Neeson could not bring himself to speak. The image of the men’s corpses was permanently branded into his mind.

The sky rumbled with thunder closing in, and the air bore the intangible thick quality that precedes a rainstorm. With little hesitation Clade hefted his pack and pointed with his torch toward the rocky hills. “We’d do well to find more substantial shelter.”

The young man gave a half-hearted nod.

Clade trod onward, but Neeson’s courage was badly shaken by the carnage. He watched as his master charged on through the brambles, taking not a moment’s rest, and his feet carried him after by sheer force of instinct. His mind was a blank as he followed on, staying close to the only beacon of relative safety he knew.

They came to a massive chunk of earth, clutched by the roots of a vast fallen tree. Its trunk stretched far beyond a horizon that grew ever darker and nearer.

It was Neeson who broke the quiet that existed between them up to that moment. “Why - it must have been hundreds of years old,”

“Yes, but it’s long dead now. And thank the gods for that. If this old thing hadn’t fallen we’d never have found this hole.” Clade stepped gingerly forward, “We’ll wait out the storm inside.” He shone his lantern into the darkness of the cavernous breach left in the soil when the roots pulled out from the ground, bringing the massive clump of earth with them. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

Neeson stared into the darkness of the gaping hole. “What if something else has already found shelter inside?”

“Do you honestly think we’ll be any safer out here? Now hurry, before we both get soaked, or worse.”

Neeson swallowed hard, gripping his torch so firmly his knuckles ran white, and stepped into the darkness. The air in the recess was cool and clean, but unsettlingly still. The pit was larger than he had expected, as if a subterranean pocket of air had been exposed by the fallen tree. He found a patch of pitch darkness to one side, and probed with his torch, but the dark stretched beyond its reach. He found a man-sized hole in the rocky surface. The cavern that was now exposed had been covered for hundreds of years. Inside it was stark silent, except for the hesitant echo of his steps from the far reaches of the abysmal chamber. Clade paused at the opening in the rock, then drew his sword and followed his young student inside.

The two walked in silence, their torches illuminating the crevices and sharp stalactites that hung down from the ceiling. They made their descent down a barely noticeable, but deceptively steep grade and the ceiling continued to rise far above their heads. Pale insects darted into the shadows as the foreign sensation of light touched them for the first time in thousands of generations.

“This cave seems to go back quite a ways.” Clade’s words, callously casual after the brutal deaths of his comrades echoed along the ever expanding walls. “We might just find something of value in here.”

The further they ventured, the more anxious Neeson became. He wanted desperately to camp close enough to the mouth of the cave that they could easily escape if need be, but now he could barely see the dim light of the entrance far behind him. Cloudy images of what horrors might reside in the darkness filled his mind as his eyes struggled to make out what lie ahead. But the dark encapsulated them and the weak torchlight was barely enough to keep it at bay. “Are you sure we should keep going? Wouldn’t it be better to camp near the mouth of the cave?”

“We have to make sure we’re alone in here, and besides, there might be something of value. I don’t want to think about what Rendryck would do to us if we came back empty handed with everyone else dead.”

Neeson didn’t say anything. He knew his mentor had a point. Rendryck had quite a temper, and was not likely to respond well to failure. The two might as well have died with the others by the time Rendryck was through with them. But if they brought back at least some bit of treasure he might be satisfied. Rendryck seemed to value his possessions more than the lives of his hirelings and Neeson felt he had little choice in the matter. Deserting his master and venturing out alone was out of the question, for Neeson was still an apprentice with little instinct for the wild.

The young man held his torch out in front of him, sweeping it side to side, but the cave stretched ever further ahead. A sinking feeling filled his stomach as he noticed his master’s torchlight had grown distant. “Clade!” he shouted, and his voice returned to him several times in a hollow echo.

“Neeson, my boy,” answered the man, “Let’s not get too far apart. Come this way. I have a feeling-”

The man was interrupted by the thunderous crash of falling stone. The cacophony mixed with the echoes it produced was nearly deafening. He turned to find that the light of his protégé’s torch had vanished.

“Neeson!” he shouted, but the only response was the echo of his own voice and the steady drip of water in the distance.

Neeson gazed up at the hazy orange light far above. “Clade?”

“Neeson! I’ve been calling you. Didn’t you hear me?” His mentor’s voice was irritated and distant.

Neeson tried hard to keep panic from setting in. A sharp pain throbbed in his left leg, but he could see nothing in his pitch black surroundings. “What happened?”

“The floor must have caved in. Are you injured?”

“My leg! I can barely stand the pain. I think it’s broken.”

“I have rope. I’ll send down another torch. Tell me what’s down there. Can you see anything?”

“It’s pitch black. I can’t see anything. Gods, my leg!”

Clade lit a second torch and carefully tied the rope around the middle, balancing the two ends so that it would not burn the rope as he lowered it.

Upon receiving the torch Neeson surveyed his immediate surroundings and found that he had been fortunate enough to have landed a safe distance from the boulders that had given way beneath him and tumbled to this strange depth. Despite the pain shooting through his leg, he was able to drag himself up and look around.

He discovered what appeared to be a fire pit, but the partially burnt logs were hard as stone, and just as heavy. He continued half limping, half crawling along the rough and jagged stone floor and found a petrified tree. Shards of smashed stone lay beside a very detailed statue of a pregnant woman. The head had been broken off, and lie in pieces.

Something about the statue was remarkable to him, but he could not pinpoint what it was. It seemed to be nothing more than a broken sculpture, yet he could not help but feel it held some inexplicable importance.

“Clade, I’ve found something!”

“What is it?” The man’s voice was sharpened with an impatient intonation.

“It’s some sort of statue. Life-sized. The head is gone, but I’m sure it’s worth something.”

“A statue? What else is down there?” He shifted restlessly, squinting in a vain effort to discern what lie in the abyss below him.

He was answered only by the sound of stone dragging against stone.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

“Send down the rope again. I’ll tie it around the statue and you should be able to hoist it up.”

“Don’t be a fool.” He made no attempt to hide the irritation in his voice. “What would Rendryck want with a broken statue?”

“Send down the rope,” Neeson said in a tone that Clade had never heard him use in the years he had known the young protégé. It was brusque, authoritative, demanding. “This statue is more precious than you can imagine. I can’t say why, but I know it is.”

Out of a frank curiosity, more powerful than the outrage he should have felt at the young man’s insolence, Clade sent the rope down, securing the near end to a thick and sturdy stalagmite.

He heaved with all his strength for what felt like an hour until the top of the stone statue cleared the edge of the pit. He hauled it up and stood gasping for breath, unable to take his eyes off the stone figure before him.

“Clade?” the young man called from below, his voice unsteady with rising anxiety.

“Why it’s incredible,” the man said in awe “I will surely be rewarded.”

“Clade!” called the young protégé, “send down the rope again!”

The dragging sound of stone on stone echoed down, and he felt a wave of panic spread over him.

“Clade!”

“Clade!” he shouted as the torchlight from above began to fade and the grinding of stone grew increasingly distant.

A sound, lighter than a whisper made the hair on his neck stand on end and filled the air with a harsh chill. He turned around and waved his torch, straining to find the source. It was like the quiet hiss of a concealed serpent. The sound grew in volume, slowly, insidiously, until he could make out the word “Neeson… Neeeeessssson… Neeeeeeessssssssssson.”

“Who’s there?” he shouted, terror gripping him as he waved the torch frantically around him, searching for the origin of the voice.

Silence fell and he began to tremble uncontrollably. He was not alone.

The quiet was cut by a voice as thin as a razor and slick as a serpent’s tongue: “Neeeeeeeeeeeeeessssssssssssssssssssssssssson, what have you done, Neeesssson?”