switched to a less potent tongue, one with less likelihood of its merest utterance binding even his soul to an unmentionable darkness.
The shimmering creatures buzzed about the Rotting Man’s head for a moment, surprised by their release from whatever nether dimension they had resided. Damanda stiffened, wondering if she was going to be tested sooner than she expected. The curse-born insects buzzed away like misshapen horseflies but quicker, and with malice aforethought.
“Are those something I’ll have to deal with too?” wondered Damanda, waving after the flitting creatures. She figured that with the way things were shaping up, the Rotting Man couldn’t afford to lose another lieutenant to one of his fits of rage.
The Talontyr, cloaked in his swathe of rot, ceased his curse rampage. He spoke, his voice initially unsteady from its unintended foray, “I rather think yes. Later. We have more pressing tasks to attend.”
“The cleric and his small band?” asked Damanda, though she already knew the answer.
What else had so occupied her lord’s mind these last few tendays? The Rotting Man was quiet with the details, but whoever the “cleric” was, the Talontyr seemed consumed with reports of his progress, which he received from agents unknown to Damanda, or perhaps via simple spells of divination.
The Talontyr answered, “Gameliel’s failure seemed an accident, but Anammelech’s breakdown indicates a trend, don’t you think, pretty Damanda?” He extended fingers not quite bereft of flesh, running them through the air near the blightlord’s face, coming close, but not touching, Damanda’s pale features.
Despite her special nature, she was still relieved to avoid that touch. She said, “The cleric and his group have had their successes, but their path seems clear. They are coming here. No matter their power, they can’t hope to stand against you, Talona’s favored, and your strongest servants, not to mention your… project.”
The cloaked figure laughed then. Damanda was inured to unpleasantness, but she still had to resist stopping up her ears to keep that sound out.
Still chuckling, the Rotting Man said, “Your fellows had but one taskbring the Child of Light to me here in the Close. In their incompetence, they not only lost their lives, but they also impeded the cleric, who had already decided to bring that which I seek directly to me in his own misjudged initiative.”
Damanda said nothing but leaned closer to indicate her interest.
“You wonder how I know all this? There is a spy in the Nentyarch’s Court. Yes, it’s true. He has served our cause before with bits of information channeled through Anammelech, but he took an audacious step. He revealed himself. In a bid to leapfrog his way into Anammelech’s heart and good graces, Fallon has plucked the Child of Light from the cleric and even now seeks to deliver the Child directly to me.”
“Fallon? Who’s he?”
“One of the Nentyarch’s hunters. Anammelech turned him. This Nentyar hunter is in our pocket. Anammelech has kept me appraised of Fallon’s reports and progress.”
Damanda frowned, realizing her brother blightlord had accomplishments in some areas greater than her own, another reason to be glad that Anammelech was not around to receive the Rotting Man’s accolades.
“Anammelech had a delightful ambush arranged.” Some of the joviality left the Talontyr’s demeanor. “That ambush seems to have backfired, but I pray that Fallon is still ahead of the cleric and that the traitor elf has the Child of Light with him.”
“Does he?” wondered Damanda. “We just ‘saw’ Anammelech fall, how can we be sure that Fallon is not also dead, and the Child of Light back in the hands of the cleric?”
Her voice was tight. She wondered what force had overtaken her, making her question her master and thereby precipitate harm to herself. The Rotting Man was not one to gainsay without consequence. Of course, most harm could not long impair her, given her supernatural resilience.
The Rotting Man shook with some unnamed palsy but did not strike down Damanda. He turned and walked a few short strides. He stopped before one of the great petrified trees that formed the periphery of the Close.
He said, “Anammelech plans ahead. He equipped his spy with a means to communicate with his paymaster. I can also access that communication link.”
The Talontyr began to spew syllables toward the tree, giving voice to a rough and somehow obscenely urgent chant. He ran his slender digits across the gnarled bark, caressing it. The dead wood began to shift and mold itself, soon-enough forming the likeness of a face. Damanda thought the features seemed elven and possibly masculine. Sometimes it was hard to be sure with that androgynous race.
The face spoke, saying in a weak voice, as if relayed from a great distance, “Who’s there? Is that you, Anammelech?” Though the face was that of an elf, its texture was that of petrified wood, briefly animate through the workings of the Talontyr’s sorcery.
“It is to Anammelech’s master you speak,” intoned the Talontyr.
The expression on the woody face grew slack with amazement then fear. When it could speak, the face sputtered, “My Lord, I… Where is Anammelech?”
“Anammelech is dead, Fallon. He fell to those who pursue you.”
“Marrec and Elowen? I didn’t think they had the power to contest a blightlord. Where are they?” squeaked the voice, its spike in tone betraying sudden apprehension.
“I don’t know their precise location, Fallon, but you can be assured that as we speak they are growing closer to you. You have only a small chance to escape them, but you will, if you do as I command,” instructed the Rotting Man. “If you fail, they’ll likely kill you. Don’t think that I won’t summon your spirit, from whatever afterlife it attempts to find, so that I can punish you for your failure. I have devised punishments that even the dead fear to feel.”
Damanda knew that last boast to be true.
“Of course, my lord. Instruct me,” shuddered the faraway voice of Fallon.
“They will catch you if you stay above ground. You must lead them into a trap, below the boggy forest.”
“Below?”
“Yes. This forest was a dark place, even before my arrival,” chuckled the Rotting Man. “Why do you suppose the Nentyarch placed his seat of power here in the center of the Rawlinswood? To seal the unquiet Nar demons that still walk the blind paths below us. To stopper up Under-Tharos.”
“Nar demons?” quavered Fallon.
“Do not interrupt me, elf. You may not know it, but Dun Tharos extends its crypt-like tunnels deep underground, though the Rawlinswood has choked shut most entrances. While my Close sits at the center of Dun Tharos on the surface, the extent of the city is far vaster below ground, showing only its tip here in the light. In truth, the Close is surrounded by a subterranean complex of great plazas and wrecked temples devoted to demonic powers. The treasures of NarfelPs fallen lords lie in buried storehouses and underground conjuring chambers. It was one of the reasons I chose to take this place as my own. Secrets can be had here that even I, Talona’s favored, could stand to learn.”
“I am to venture into this complex?”
“You are. I am sending Damanda to meet you. She can guide you through some of the most dangerous portions.”
The blightlord smiled slightly upon hearing her name and the purpose the Rotting Man intended for her. She always enjoyed a chance to walk Under-Tharos. She was a seeker after lost secrets, too.
The Rotting Man continued, “You must keep pressing forward, Fallon. The demons bound by the sorcerers of fallen Narfell sleep; you can pass by them, but they are sensitive to the presence of mortal life, and in your wake they shall open their eyes. The cleric and his band will find roused demons barring their path. They will be turned back, or they will be killed. Either way, I succeed.”
Fallon had the temerity to stutter, “What if a demon gets me and this child that you prize?”
“Keep moving. Do not linger in any one area too long. Do this, and you will live. Stay alive until Damanda reaches you. That is the only task you have. If by chance you should fail… well, the child whom you accompany may survive events that your frail flesh cannot, but I’d rather not put that surmise to the test.”
“How will I find an entrance?” asked Fallon’s rigid image.
In answer, the Talontyr touched the animate wooden mask on the forehead. The face screamed in sudden pain. The wood lost its coherence and gradually flattened back to stiff, petrified uniformity. The scream faded slowly away.
The Rotting Man turned to Damanda. “I implanted the location of the entrance directly into his mind. It
