Undying Ch 01 10

Notes: 1) My thanks to Arec for reading over this and giving me a few things to look at and adjust! 2) If you see

this

version of the story anywhere other than Literotica it isn't supposed to be there. 3) Because of shorter chapters, this is being posted in chunks.

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*One*

Syreilla glared into the fire as she drank her mead. Kaddal had begged her to help him on this job. Tricky, but a high reward, he'd said. Fucking idiot. He'd gotten himself killed just scouting the site. This was why dwarves and half-dwarves weren't known for their thieving. The job was so far beyond tricky she could think the damned lich wanted them to fail and die. She emptied her cup feeling guilty. The stupidity wasn't all his, she should have asked more questions. Raising her cup she flagged down the bar wench. "More."

"I'd rather you be sober." The sibilant voice made her feel like she should be swatting a forked tongue away from her ear.

"I'd rather you be either dead or alive, but I'll settle for drinking until I don't have to think about it." Syreilla didn't look at him and instead fixed the bar wench with a look that promised a shortened life if her cup didn't find itself suddenly full again.

"I could find someone else for this job." His menacing hiss demanded her attention.

"Hevtos' scaly balls you could." She gave him a mirthless smile. "Kaddal was the only idiot you could find to take it in the first place."

The lich was mercifully hooded, but his eyes glowed like embers from the blackness beneath the cowl. "And you joined him."

"Because I trusted the half-witted half-dwarf." She paused as the wench filled her cup. "The only reason I'm not running in the other direction is because I took payment already. If I thought for half a heartbeat you'd accept your payment back and let me out of the contract I'd be on my way."

"Kaddal Forgepike spoke highly of your luck and skill, as have others."

There would never be enough mead to make the sound of that thing's voice bearable.

"And yet I'm here with you." Syreilla snidely spat before taking a sizable swig and then spitting it into the fire. "Dammit, woman!" at her tone the bar wench flinched. "You're honestly trying to switch me to the cheap shit after three cups?"

"I think you and your friend need to retire for the evening." The barman offered into the quiet caused by her outburst.

Syreilla stood and downed the cheap honeyed wine, it couldn't be called mead by any stretch. "He's not my friend."

The barman caught the coin she tossed.

"And she should know better than to try to switch drinks on a half-elf so quickly." With a glare to the wench, Syr stalked to the stair.

Slamming the door would have been satisfying but the damned thing looked as though a good slam might take it off of its hinges. She settled for setting a particularly nasty ward across the floor in front of it. Anyone who tried to stroll in during the night would find their legs both frostbitten and on fire. The mage she'd picked that up from had been a piece of work, but he'd paid well for every job and taught her some nasty tricks to keep her on retainer.

She'd actually been a little sad the day that sadist's apprentice had finally killed him. Not sad enough to keep her from looting his corpse and rummaging through all that the apprentice had hastily abandoned, of course. It had made her a ridiculous amount of money when she sold off the old mage's library. But sitting idle got dull quickly, and she enjoyed her work, mostly.

Settling in to wait out the night, and perhaps even doze, Syreilla let her mind wander back to the job at hand. If she could, she'd recover as much of Kaddal as she could to take back to Mordaeg Aledelver. She'd do that before she ventured deeper into that labyrinthian trap-filled crypt. Forgepike's kin at Delver's Deep would appreciate it and would be an excuse to go home.

Sighing and rubbing her face, she muttered, "Kaddal, what were you thinking? Taking a job from a lich and a shit job at that."

The stonework on the outside had looked dwarvish, but the trap he'd sprung as he touched the faint runes carved in the entranceway looked elvish. The brilliant blue on the edges of the blades as they slid soundlessly from the stones was unmistakable. His armor had been light for a dwarf, but tough, and the blades had sliced him apart as if he were made of butter. The hum of power from the entrance had warned her not to attempt to reach him. Tomorrow, when they went back, she'd have a long hook staff to pull the pieces out with.

Getting herself in would be much harder than getting him out. The more she considered it the more the job appealed to her despite the lich. There weren't so many places that she could say were a genuine challenge anymore but the trouble with challenges in her line of work was the ever-increasing risk of death.

Rising before dawn, Syreilla dissolved the ward with a few muttered words and ventured back down to see if there was anything for breakfast other than last night's leftover stew. In the dimness downstairs, a drunk snored under a table. The barman and the wench were nowhere to be found.

"Breakfast must be free," she grinned to herself as she stoked the kitchen fire back to life. Hunting through the pantry she found some reasonably fresh dark bread and hard cheese and set about melting butter in the iron skillet she pulled from the wall. Eggs would have been nice, but she hadn't seen any, and wandering around outside looking for a hen house to raid was too much work.

A tomato sliced on top of the fried bread and melted cheese, and brewing the last of the kave Batran had sent for her, made a filling breakfast. The bleary-eyed bar wench stumbled in and stared at her in confusion as she was finishing. "Were you in the kitchen?"

"No, magical fairies fixed me breakfast." Syreilla shoved the last bite into her mouth and chewed as she watched the woman's face turn red.

"I thought elves were supposed to have good manners." The wench huffed.

Syreilla sipped her kave and grinned, shaking her head. "Half-elf, and you're mistaken. Elves are vicious. If you think they're being nice, they're making fun of you. They don't like humans much and they like half-elves less." Finishing her drink, she picked up her dishes and carried them to the bar as the woman eyed her warily. "Watch and listen carefully next time you see them. I was raised human and I'll take human rudeness over elvish manners any day." The woman took the dishes from her and looked at them as if she didn't know what to do with them. "The hooded wretch I was with, did he leave or did he go upstairs?"

"He left." The bar wench looked relieved. "We kept the room empty in case he came back but when he left all he said was you weren't allowed mead in the morning."

She snorted. "That makes me want a cup."

The woman's eyes widened.

"If I live to come back tonight, don't short me on the mead. I'll need it."

"What-" The woman bit her lip and hesitated as Syreilla looked at her. "What happened to the dwarf?"

"Dead. Kaddal Forgepike is dead." Thinking for a moment, Syr pulled out a purse. "I'm going to recover his remains today, before I probably get myself killed. If I don't come back, send someone out to that damned entrance in the side of the mountain. His remains should go back to Delver's Deep. He belongs to Clan Stoutheart."

"And yours?" The barman had come up behind the wench quietly.

"If you can pull mine out without going in, take them to the same place. Batran Hammersworn will give you something for your trouble."

"You shouldn't poke around the Nameless." The man frowned. "There's evil in there."

"I don't doubt it." Syreilla gave him a sour smile.

The barman shook his head and she set out to get her horse and the hook staff from the town smith. The damned lich would probably meet her there. He had his undead heart set on an amulet inside.

*Two*

The black mist drove him forward. It pursued him for miles as his subjects watched without even attempting to interfere. The shame of it paired with the agony of not being able to breathe and not being able to die was more than he could bear. Olthon would pay for this. Vezar stumbled. The elf knew he could feel pain and exhaustion. This agony and indignity was planned.

The prison he'd been driven into was like a maze, the corridor twisted and wound inside the mountain. When he reached the center they were waiting for him. His crown was held in the hands of a dwarf and he snarled at the stumpy creature. An open coffin of steel and glass stood open on a raised platform, as if he would be on display.

"I will not allow this," Vezar gasped and growled, "I am a King. I am not some-" The black mist pressed against him from behind smothering his words.

"The coffin is the only safe place for you Vezar Edra, King Undying." Olthon lifted his chin proudly.

The mist drove him forward and when he tumbled into the coffin he could breathe. The mist, however, immediately solidified, forming a mask over his face which a dwarf promptly affixed to the bottom of the coffin. Olthon leaned in tying an amulet around his neck that made his thoughts hazy and muddled.

"He will not be able to escape this place."

"Close it, seal him in. Let us be done with it."

Vezar couldn't tell who of the men, elves, and dwarves were speaking, but when the lid closed he began to beat on it. The horror of knowing he would be sealed in alone lent him strength, he tried with all his might to break the thick glass as they warded it. Heavy suffocating sleep began to steal over him.

"Place the crown on the pedestal to raise the stone and seal it."

Darkness closed over him. He resisted sleep with all his strength, the fury and bitterness fueling him. But in the darkness, as exhausted as he was, despair and the agony of being utterly alone washed over him and his fury and resistance faded into the nothingness of forced slumber.

*Three*

Riding hard in the opposite direction did cross her mind as Syreilla made her way up the foot of the mountain to the bare stone face, but the lich would probably just hunt her down. No one else would be stupid enough to take the job... And the next time she'd have a challenge like this one might be a hundred years away.

He was exactly where she thought he would be. Pacing impatiently in front of the entrance. However, his companions were entirely unexpected. Two elves in gleaming armor bearing the sigil of Orileria stood to one side. She nodded to them cautiously.

"I thought he was lying when he said he found a half-elf thief for this." The closer of the two looked at her with amusement.

"I wish that he was." Syreilla offered dryly and garnered smiles from the pair. "You're here to help or just point and laugh as I die a horrible death?"

Their smiles became grins, "The latter."

Syreilla dismounted and made certain she had all she needed from the saddlebags before she took the hook staff and made her way cautiously to the entrance. Kneeling, she began pulling the pieces of Kaddal out and away from where they lay. It was a stomach-turning mess. She shook her head, even his great axe had been cut by the blades.

Once he was clear, she made her way toward where he had been standing. The hum of power had faded, waiting to be triggered again. She cursed under her breath. He probably hadn't felt it because there had been nothing to feel before it had been tripped. That didn't bode well for other traps inside.

From her pocket, she pulled the thin gold chains with the single dark blue gem dangling. The chain circlet had been payment for another job, and it was probably the most useful and valuable thing she'd ever owned. The dimness before her cleared. The runes, timeworn to illegibility, became readable, and the pressure plate on the ground now had visible edges.

The barman had called this place the Nameless, but according to the runes, the Nameless was who was buried here. Sealed by the three races, this place was not to be disturbed. She almost laughed, it also made very clear that there was no treasure within. What idiot would put that on a wall and expect people to believe it? Probably an elf.

Looking ahead, she sprang against the wall and pushed herself off at an angle, clearing the plate. A little deeper inside, a portcullis gate now blocked her way. Syreilla could see through the bars that there was a passageway behind it. There was no keyhole, no lever, no obvious way to raise it without brute strength. Something she was fairly sure would set off another trap. A little bit of dragon's fire might do the trick.

Crouching, she pulled out what she needed from her pouches, mixing the volatile stuff in a small ceramic bowl. With both hands, careful not to slosh it, careful not to even breathe on it before she was ready, she lifted it and exhaled as she poured it over the lowest rungs. It caught fire immediately and she dropped the bowl as the flames licked toward her hands. She moved back toward the entrance just a bit as the dragon's fire dripped and burned on the bars and set the stone floor on fire.

The flames were painfully bright while she wore the circlet, but she had to keep an eye on the color of the metal. At the right time, when it reached the right color, Syreilla murmured a tamping spell to quash the flames and gave the section of metal a kick, knocking it in. It opened a hole large enough for her to get through. Waiting for the metal to cool enough not to catch her clothes on fire or burn her as she went through always tested her patience. She pulled on her leather gloves after she judged that she had waited long enough, the metal and stone would still be hot.

Once she was through, she looked down both sides of the passageway. Kaddal had said it would be a maze in here. She chose to bear to the right. Wire traps, falls, pressure plates. A little excessive but nothing exotic. Syreilla had almost started to feel cocky until she came to the wards. A mage would have fits with those. She crouched, mentally cursing. How in Hevtos' sunless pits had Kaddal expected to get past those? The lich might be able to do something about it but he was waiting at the entrance. Getting back to him and then getting him through the traps would be too much.

She could, maybe, manage to set them off, if, and that was a big if, she could sling dragon's fire down the warded passage and get away in time. That would be stupidly dangerous. Batran would give her a hiding if she lived to make it back. She had to grin at the thought.

"Dragon's fire it is," Syreilla muttered under her breath.

Hairs on the back of her neck rose as the stones behind her began to move. She dove out of the way barely evading the barrage that was sent down the passage setting off some of the wards. Syreilla could hear them as she scrambled back to the fall trap, clearing a wire trap to get to it, and swung herself in, holding the stones of the edge as the air above her blistered with invisible flame and charred her gloves and the hands in them.

Syreilla screamed, kicking out her legs to hold her close enough to the top that she would be able to climb back out. She stripped the charred gloves off with her teeth and used one of the few elvish spells she'd managed to learn to siphon power from the onslaught above her and use it to heal her badly burned hands.

The power being released was harsh and difficult to control, but the pain focused her mind. Healing was her only thought. Once she'd finished she clung to the cool wall and waited, almost afraid to raise her hands and try to bring herself out. The thought occurred to her, whoever had planned that trap hadn't done it well. Unless it was meant to be the sound of a mage's voice trying to dissolve the wards that would have set it off. That might have caught a mage off guard. And the way the power had flowed through the passage that might have caught a human thief or driven them into the traps.

Hesitantly, Syreilla raised her hands and pulled herself out. If they'd had a thief helping design it, though, there wouldn't have been a fall trap here. And there would be more subtle wards like the one that triggered at the sound of her voice. She hadn't even seen that one. They'd trigger more useful things than sending bricks sailing, though. Cautiously making her way back to the warded passage, she took pains to be silent. There were still too many wards active to make going down that path sane. And worse, there was no telling if that was the passage she should take or not.

If she had been designing it, she'd have known people would be inclined to think that passage to be the most likely. Who would take the time and effort to ward a passage that went nowhere? Syreilla would. She started to go back the way she came and realized there was now a hole in the wall she'd had her back to.

Hollow walls? She peered in and it looked like a maze within a maze. This could be promising. Syr slipped into the hole and bore to the right again. No traps. No wards. No way out. She started to silently curse herself for thinking this was a good idea when she came to a flat, smooth wall. The passage was narrow and the large bricks on either side might give if she braced herself and worked at them enough, if she wanted to risk it, not knowing what might be on the other side.

Looking at them closely she realized those on her left had no mortar. They were just laid there. Pushing with her legs, her back against the other wall in the tight space, she managed to send some clattering down. Syreilla waited breathlessly for something to happen. Nothing.

The chamber she warily leaned into held thick musty air and even with her circlet it was dim inside. She climbed through remembering what Kaddal had said, the amulet was inside a sealed sarcophagus, being worn by the corpse. The raised dais with the solid, seamless-looking stone rectangle might be what she was looking for.

Holding out her hand, hovering it over the stone steps cautiously, she checked for traps and wards. Hoping to feel what she might have trouble seeing before she triggered it. Nothing. She did the same to the sarcophagus. It seemed for all the world like a solid piece of stone. Probably dwarvish made. There should be some way to open it if she could find it, that would be the trick. Finding a hidden dwarvish anything in stone was damn near impossible.

Syreilla looked until she began to yawn and had trouble keeping her eyes open. Master Odos had always been a stickler for never resting until the job had been finished but in the years since his death, she'd learned a few more things. Sometimes a short rest could be more of a benefit than a danger, and it wasn't as if anyone would be strolling in to catch her napping. She debated sleeping in the wall on the floor or on top of the sarcophagus. Stone or stone, but off of the floor, even if it was technically on top of a corpse, made more sense to her. The things that might crawl on the floors in this place were nothing she wanted to meet.

Heaving herself up she curled on her side on the stone. Lying there, she slowly realized that the stone wasn't cold. Syr lay on her back. That had to be some kind of magic but she felt none of the usual tingle she associated with it. Closing her eyes she tried to feel it, mouthing the words to the siphoning spell to make the stone warmer. Her eyes opened. Wards beneath her held power. Immense power. The stone was heating under her as if it were over a fire.

She sprang off of it and kept focusing the spell. Heating the stone until it showed its seams or broke apart could work. Hopefully, the amulet wouldn't burn. The corpse probably would. The room felt like a dry sauna and was filled with the smell of heated stone. The idea suddenly popped into her head, Syreilla switched from heating the stone to cooling it. The room cooled again and the stone cracked loudly as frost began to form on the outside. She repeated the process twice more and ducked as parts of the stone box shattered.