Shadows Over Bajadoz Options

[Verlox]

After a long, long absence from writing anything, I've decided to jump right back into it with an original story. Enjoy
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Chapter One: Arrival at Calavatra

The savanna stretched out before him, endless, to the horizon. The lonely emptiness was astounding to the horseman, who hailed from the civilized principalities of the Hegemony. Trouble with a merchant in Cuenca had driven the man eastward, into the empty plains that extended out hundreds of miles until one reached the mountains that separated the lands of the Hegemony from the jungles of the East.

The horseman was an anomaly this far south, where the dusky-skinned, blue-bearded Turcas ruled over a malatto race of dark-skinned slaves. His sunburned, alabaster skin and steel-grey eyes marked him as a son of the North, and his presence in the South had caused much stir amongst the merchants and prostitutes of Cuenca, whose only experience with Northerners was as a conquered people.

The Northron had left the dirt tracks behind him, and his horse now plodded along through the sparse grass. The sun was high above him, beating down, making the man miserable in his glittering scale corselet. Reaching up, he swept back his armored coif, and wiped the sweat from his forehead. His horse, too, was sagging under the weight of its rider and heat of the sun, and the Northron knew that if he didn’t want to be stranded in these wastes, he would have to give the horse some time to rest.

Scanning the savanna, the horseman perked up when he saw the towering bulk of a boaboa tree not far in the distance. With a jubilant shout, the horseman spurred his steed to pick up the pace until they stopped beneath the shade provided by the tree’s branches. Dismounting, the Northron watered his horse with what little remained in his canteen. With the last of his water gone, the first hint of dread clouded his mind, but he shook off the darkness. Boaboa trees, among the Turcas, were sometimes called Nuntu Daka, or the Survivor’s Tree, for the water stored in their bloated trunks and the succulent fruit that grew among the leafy branches were often the saviors of travelers.

After tethering his horse to a close-by acacia tree, the man looked up into the intertwining branches to survey what resources the boaboa could provide. Instantly, he spotted several of the hard-shelled fruits hanging above him. But, before he went to fetch them, he prowled around the base of the tree until he found a small hollow, just big enough to fit his head into.

Reaching to his waist, the Northron drew his sword. Poking around in the hollow with it, he assured himself that nothing lurked within. Ecstatic, he grabbed his canteen and thrust it into the hollow, taking advantage of the store of fresh water within. With a heavy canteen full of water, the Northron relaxed. His near-frantic steps around the boaboa moments before were much calmer now. He was looking for a place that he could climb up into the branches of the boaboa to retrieve the fruit.

After a few minutes of multiple attempts at various places at the base of the tree, the Northron finally succeeded in grasping onto one of the low-hanging branches, and heaving himself up into undergrowth. The leaves were so dense, that inside the branches it was as twilight, and he had to strain his eyes to find the fruit he had seen only moments before. Carefully, he grabbed the branch above him; giving it a good tug to make sure it wouldn’t break easily. It bent, but he heard no sound that might imply it snapping, and he pulled himself up higher. As he climbed upward, the darkness around him became deeper, and he wasn’t able to see the clutch of fruit that was just above him. When he hefted himself up one more branch, his skull collided with one of the boaboa fruit. A stream of profanity escaped his mouth, breaking the smothering silence that saturated the savanna. When his cursing was finished, he used his freehand to yank several of the fruits from their branches, letting them simply fall to the ground.

He had acquired seven of these fruits when he heard a frenzied neighing below, as well as a terrifying roar that chilled him to bone. With panther-like speed, the Northron descended from the branches, his fear only intensifying as his steed’s neighing grew into frantic screams. He finally reached the lowest branch, and dropped from the boaboa, when another great roar, this time much closer, broke over the din of his horse’s screaming.

Whirling about, his sword now drawn, he was just in time to see a great bulk emerge from the tall grass near his tethered horse. A great golden cat, a lioness, leapt from the grass onto the horse, snapping the tether, and both animals collapsed to ground. Against the lion’s rending claws and teeth, the horse stood no chance, and it was only seconds before its screams were silenced.

Not thinking, a yell escaped the Northron’s lip and he charged the lioness, his sword held forward. Irritated at being disturbed, the great cat stepped over her kill, protecting it from the perceived interloper. With an ear-breaking roar, the lion charged the Northron, whose sword aimed for the creature’s throat. With his inferior reflexes, however, he missed his target, instead burying the blade into the lion’s shoulder. Seemingly undaunted by the wound, the cat attempted to flatten the Northron just as she had done to his horse. Losing hold of his blade, the man was forced to pit himself against the lion with nothing but his hands. While he was considered strong amongst the peoples of the Hegemony, his sinewy muscles proved the weaker against the lioness’s animal strength.

As if fighting a man, the warrior’s left-hand went to the sword that was embedded in the lion’s shoulder. Wrenching the blade down, and twisting it, the Northron caused the lioness to roar in pain. With ferocious rage, the cat attempted to slash at his chest. While his scaled armor deflected the rending claws, the force of the blow was enough to knock the warrior back a few feet and to the ground, the wind knocked out of him.
Quickly, the Northron reached for the poniard at his hip, and he drew it just as the lioness charged him one more time. Just then, a great cry went up.

“Ho there! Nantani, atugi!” The lioness stopped its charge, roaring as if in response to the call. Getting to his feet, the Northron looked up behind the bleeding lioness to see a group of four people come out of the tall grass. While their words had been of the Turca tongue, they looked nothing like the people the Northron had left behind in Cuenca. They had dark brown skin, and lean, wiry builds. Most of them were bald, but one had a black pony-tail. What most struck the Northron were their eyes, which were slanted in a way he had never seen.

It appeared to him that these newcomers thought him just as strange. As the lioness bounded over to one of them, the other three advanced upon him, their copper-sheathed spears pointed to him, and their antelope-skin shields at the ready. The one who stayed behind collapsed to his knees to hold the lioness to him, his gaze turned fiercely on the Northron.

Seeing that the situation wasn’t in his favor, the Northron threw one hand up, and knelt to put his poniard on the ground. The man with the pony-tail stepped forward in front of his fellows.

“Who are you, that trespasses on our hunting grounds?”

The Northron, his arms still up, replied, “Rogier,” and though they didn’t ask, he added, “I am from Arlmanea.”

The name of his homeland didn’t seem to affect the easterners in any way. The lead one continued, still speaking in the Turca speech.

“Is that your animal?” he questioned, pointing with his spear to the mauled horse. Rogier nodded his confirmation. The easterner seemed to mull over the situation for awhile, while his fellows flanked their quarry. Kneeling down, the easterner retrieved Rogier’s steel poniard, then backed away. “You should not be out here. This is our land.”

“I was not aware of that,” Rogier said through gritted teeth, “I have seen neither hide nor hair of a person for nearly five days. I thought this savanna was deserted.”

“We do not live here.”

Rogier was quickly growing tired of this impasse, and decided to bring things to a head. “What are you going to do with me?”

“My friends say we should kill you,” the easterner grinned, revealing sharp, filed teeth, “You harmed out hunting animal. Without her, how are we supposed to hunt the antelope?”

“Your lion attacked my horse first,” Rogier said, starting to grow angry, “Without my horse, I’ll die soon anyway. I’d as soon die at the point of spears than by the heat of the sun.”

The easterner grinned again. “The customs of my people forbid us from killing an unarmed man. But our hunting animal must be avenged. Ewyhal!” The easterner soothing the lioness’s wound looked up, “Beru wapana te.” It was only a few moments before the sword that had been sheathed in the cat’s shoulder was in the hands of the lead easterner, covered in blood. Tossing the sword, followed by the poniard, the easterner said to Rogier, “Pick up your weapons.”

Slowly, with his eyes flitting from man to man, Rogier knelt down, and retrieved both blades. As soon as he stood back up, the hunter on his left charged in with a blood-curdling scream.

With near-animal reflexes, Rogier side-stepped the hunter’s thrusting spear, and with his sword, sundered the shaft of the crude weapon. Bringing up his arm, Rogier slammed his right elbow into the hunter’s midsection, and then extended his arm to bring his poniard into the easterner’s side.

The hunter screamed and staggered backward, dropping his spear and shield in pain and surprise. Seizing the initiative, Rogier grasped his broad, heavy sword in both hands, and swung the weapon at the hunter’s collar. The blade dug into the hunter’s neck, half-decapitating him, and he dropped to the ground, dead. Rogier leapt back, putting the corpse between him and the others. Holding his sword out in front of him, he readied himself.

The other hunters stood, rooted to the ground, mouths gaping as they looked at their slain comrade. The other hunter seemed about ready to charge Rogier when the leader thrust his spear out in front to block him.
“Ancestors, you fight like a jungle devil of the East, outlander!”

“Aye,” Rogier spat, “And you lot fight like drunken dogs!”

The lead hunter bristled, but otherwise ignored Rogier’s insult. To the Northron, he actually seemed reluctant to challenge him any further, and his eyes were fixed on the gleaming, blood-soaked sword that could so easily slay one of his men.

“Peace,” the lead hunter said after a long while of silence, “You have fought and slain your executioner. We can do nothing more to you.”

Rogier was not satisfied, and his rage was starting to show on his face. “Your lion slays my horse, and then you set a man upon me, and you want peace? Yah, that is a foolish joke!”

“No joke!” the easterner threw his spear and shield onto the ground, and fell to his knees, “Please, put away your weapons. We can help you.”

Though his interest was piqued, Rogier did not sheathe either sword or knife, but he did lower them. “Other than providing me another horse, I do not see how you can aid me in anyway.”

“Please,” the lead hunter fell to his knees, bowing to push his head against the dirt ground, “Let us live, and we will take you to our home, where our chief can provide you with food and drink!”

“To your home? Aye, so you can stick a spear through my heart while I sleep?” Despite his words, Rogier seriously mulled the issue over in his mind. To him, he was dead either way. While the boaboa was a life-saver, it was only temporary. With nothing to boil water in, he could not use the leaves and seeds of the fruit to make a stew, and the hollow of water would only last so long. If he stayed in the savanna, he was dead no matter what, and while he was sure these strange people of the plain meant him further harm, his strength could potentially protect him. With a frustrated snarl, Rogier muttered, “Fine. Take me to your home. But you four,” he motioned to the surviving three hunters and the wounded lioness, “Will march in front. Mark my word, if any of you has treachery in mind….”

And so it was that Rogier found himself marching eastward, deeper into the plain. The corpse of their fallen companion had been left behind, and it seemed to the Northron that they cared more for the plight of the injured cat than that of their comrade. As they walked, Rogier listened to their speech. It seemed that only the leader spoke the Turca tongue, his companions using some guttural dialect that had some relation to the Turca speech as well as, to Rogier’s extreme surprise, the tongue spoken by the Schemites, whose land lay far to the north. He knew both languages, but the speech of these savages still threw him for a loop.
The sun was getting low in the sky when the ground started to rise steadily, and the grass was getting sparser and sparser, exposing the dirt of the ground. The trees were also growing thinner. After an hour, the slope ended and the four men and the lioness were marching on some kind of flat table atop the hill. Ahead of them, Rogier could see their destination.

Gleaming in the light of the setting sun, Rogier could see a great crag that rose sharply out of the plain. Atop it sat a great, domed fortress that shined like alabaster stone. At the foot of the crag were numerous wattle huts. As the troupe got closer, the track they were on began to get less bumpy, and when the Northron looked down, he could see what remained of some ancient flagstone. Off the track, to either side, the remnants of what might once have been fields for farming sat, now little more than lines in the dry dirt. The remnants of irrigation ditches, half-filled with the shrubs and thorns of the savanna, lay scattered about, seemingly at random. To Rogier, a man born to agriculture, thought this former cultivation rather useless, for there was no water anywhere in sight.

When they arrived at the small village at the base of the crag, the hunters called out in their tongue, “Eli haru. Da ques!” Rogier’s hand instinctively moved to the hilt of his sword as more of his companions’ dark breed emerged out of the flimsy shelters. Women, with their breasts bare and covered in odd tattoos came out holding their sleeping babies. Young boys and girls, clad only in light cloth came out screaming, marveling at the sight of the Northron in his glittering armor. Rogier snarled at one, barring his teeth, as the little boy tried to touch the dazzling scales of his hauberk.

The natives drew back, however, when two others came out of their own houses. They were both women, but much larger and statuesque than the others, and were clad in gilded finery. Their clothing might once have been magnificent, thought Rogier, great enough that a princess from Schem could wear them, but now were faded and torn from the harsh existence on the savanna.

The three hunters prostrated themselves when the two women came up to them, their brows raised imperiously. Rogier did not kneel. An exchange followed between the supplicants and the women, which was too fast for the Arlmanean to even attempt to follow. But by the concerned looks they gave the wounded lioness, and the sharp looks they gave him, he could see that his introduction had not gone smoothly.
Getting to their feet, the lead hunter turned and spoke to Rogier, switching from his own tongue back to Turca. “The Mouths welcome you to Calavatra, stranger. They ask only that you do not harm them.”

“If I’m not given reason,” sneered Rogier, “I don’t spill blood.”

This seemed to satisfy the hunter, and another exchange with the Mouths followed. The Northron’s eyes swept the crowd, who seemed spell-bound by the conversation as much as they were with him. His attention was drawn back to the Mouths when one started yanking on his arm, her sharp nail digging into the leather sheathing his forearm. He was about to yank himself free from her grasp when the hunter chimed, “She wants you to eat with them this night, as an honored guest.”

“And how can I do that, when I cannot even speak to them?”

“I am to serve as a bridge between the Mouths and yourself.”

Rogier grunted, but supposed that being invited to dine with the village’s leaders was a good sign, so he went along willingly.

Stepping into the dwelling of the Mouths, he wasn’t surprised to find it in general disarray. Drying fish hung from a string that was suspended over the smoking fire. Where these fish came from, he had no idea. The interior smelt like the house of a Turca alchemist, or one of the Witches of Worbren’s caves.

Directing him to seat himself on the ground, he was presented by the Mouths with a bowl of thin soup taken from the crude cauldron that sat on the fire. Rogier sniffed the soup at first, thinking it might be poisoned, but when the Mouths and the hunter drank from their bowls, he threw caution to the wind and titled the soup to his lips. It went down like a flask of Aaendran ale, and the Northron coughed and sputtered, but found it pleasing to his pallet.

“So,” Rogier began when he finished his soup, setting aside the bowl and addressing the hunter, “Why am I being honored in such a way? I killed one of your own, and damaged your property.”

“Like I mentioned before,” said the hunter, “The laws of our people say that when a man slays his executioner, he is free from punishment. And there are….other reasons.”

“Hm,” the Northron’s interest was peeked, “What ‘other reasons’ would those be?”

One of the Mouths interjected, muttering some nonsense at the hunter, at which he nodded. Turning back to Rogier, he said, “My mistresses say you are to be a messenger to the gods in the fortress above us. They say the gods sent dream-visions to them, telling of a metal man who would fight lions would come and show their wayward daughter the path.”

Rogier’s mouth hung open for a few seconds, and he stared at the hunter. Shutting his eyes and shaking his head, he exclaimed, “Yah, but that is a stupid story! If these ‘gods’ of yours need help so badly, why do they not use their own servants?”

“We have done what we could to get their divine daughter to return to her people, but she will not listen. She has withered our crops, and dried our river. The gods have decreed that you, stranger, are to be our salvation; to make a goddess see reason.”

**

[Verlox]

@ mALX: Thank you


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Chapter Two: The Den of Spiders

Disbelief overwhelmed Rogier as he stared open-mouthed at the natives. Dealing with them was one thing, but he was utterly at a loss on how he, a mortal, was to deal with gods; gods that weren’t even his.

“Yah….” the Northron breathed out, taking in the enormity of his situation, “Why can’t your baalim simply do this themselves?”

The hunter stiffened at Rogier’s words, as if he had implied his gods were not powerful, but he made haste to say, “Their daughter has left Bajadoz, and our lords cannot leave their home.”

“Bajadoz,” Rogier repeated, “That’s the name of the fortress?” The hunter nodded. Rogier sighed. “I don’t really see why I should go to your gods, they are not mine. Deal with this on your own.”

As if sensing his rejection, the Mouths began screaming at him, pointing accusing fingers, and brandishing their arms about wildly. The hunter, to Rogier’s eyes, seemed utterly terrified of their rage. He, however, was unperturbed, and snarled at the hunter, “You had best shut them up, dog, before I do it for you!”
Speaking soothing words to his mistresses in his own tongue, the hunter calmed them. Standing, he gestured for Rogier to follow him. His belly full on soup, the Northron saw no reason to remain in the presence of lunatics, and gratefully followed.

Out in the cool night air, Rogier followed the hunter to the base of the crag, atop which sat the fortress of the baalim. The pair stood in silence for awhile, the hunter looking up at the fortress, and Rogier observing his companion.

“So,” Rogier broke the silence first, “How do you know the tongue of the Turca? This village doesn’t strike me as one that has contact with the rest of the world that much.”

“My ancestor,” he said, still looking up the crag, “Was from the Turca Empire. When their Shah extended his hand into the East, he came into contact with this village’s ancestors. He brought many soldiers, to kill them, but he could not for gods fought for them.”

Rogier whistled lowly, interested in the easterner’s tale. “So…your ancestor was one of the Shah’s soldiers?”
“Yes, he survived the wrath of the dwellers of Bajadoz, and was given as a slave to Their people. He was intimate with a Mouth from long ago, and the line of my people was made.”

Realization dawned on Rogier that the man was more than just a simple hunter. He cursed himself for not seeing it before, for the way the man carried himself was different than that of his kindred he met in the field, and his stature was greater, broad and tall like the dark slaves that the Turca ruled over. He was a chief amongst his people.

“What’s your name, easterner?”

“Sem, the sixth of that name.”

“Well, Sem, what can you tell me about these gods of yours? Your Mouths didn’t seem very forthcoming with their knowledge.”

Sem laughed, revealing the sharp, filed teeth of his people. “They do only what they think the gods desire, for They came to us in secret, and communicate through dreams. Or so we are told by Their Mouths. But as chief,” Sem pounded his bared chest, “I was allowed to climb the crag, and meet them, so that they could declare me fit. They are powerful, and wise, and watch us from above. If They desire to see you, then your task is most important indeed, for not even my people are allowed to see their protectors.”

“And what of this daughter of theirs?” A shadow crossed Sem’s face, and he seemed hesitant to reveal what he knew. Rogier, sensing this, prodded further. “Is she such a terror, that you won’t even speak of her?”
“She…She is much like Her fathers, but she has delved into forbidden lore, and has set demons over Herself. If not for those who dwell in Bajadoz, She would have swallowed up Calavatra long ago.”

“Right,” Rogier drawled, his skepticism showing plainly, “And what kind of reward can I expect for aiding these baalim? Gold, silver?”

“You will receive,’ Sem said, “What the gods deign to give you.”

The Northron’s eyes narrowed. Sem’s words implied, to him, that he was not to expect any reward, for it was his duty to serve these deities. His blood cried out to him to reject the mission set before him, to turn away from Calavatra, Bajadoz and its mysterious gods, and to take his chances on the savannah. But his mind was urging him to accept, for the favor of divine spirits was not something to be shunted aside.
“How shall I get to Bajadoz?” Asked Rogier after minutes of silence.

Respite showed not on Sem’s face, but his voice quivered with excitement as he said, “Climb”.

*

The moon hung in the sky, looking down on the little village at the foot of the crag. Standing there, Rogier glared up at the towering edifice that shone like polished stone in the lunar light. He had been told that no path led up to Bajadoz, and he could see now that Sem spoke true. There was no trail or stairway that one could climb, and the only apparent way up were small indentations in the stone that one was expected to climb.

Making sure his sword was secure in its scabbard, and that his dagger was fastened to his belt, the Northron approached the crag and hefted himself up onto the rocks. Reaching from handhold to handhold, he found that as he moved upward, the climb grew more arduous, and that the rocks stuck out more, to the point where he was getting closer to being parallel with the ground.

Grunting as he swung his arm upward to latch onto a new hold, he misjudged the distance and fell short. Losing his balance, he panicked as his feet came loose, and he found himself dangling dozens of feet above the ground, his back to the crag, by one hand. Tightening his grip on his last handhold, Rogier roared as he contorted his whole body to swing himself back to face the stone. He was successful, but the force of doing so caused a loosening of his grip. Panic assailed him as he scrambled with his feet to right himself on the face of the crag; the thought of plummeting to the ground not appealing to him.

He climbed for several hours, his progress hampered by the darkness. As he climbed higher, the cliffs began to flatten, and he no longer had to worry about climbing upside down. However, as he went up, the indentations in the rock became more and more shallow. Finally, after two more accidents that almost sent him falling, he lifted himself over the lip of the cliff onto a flat surface, collapsing upon it to rest.

When Rogier lifted his head, he found himself in some sort of ravine, with further cliffs rising to his sides. The path between them was quite narrow, and when the Northron stood to walk it, he had to turn and slide, rather than walk. When he passed through the ravine, he found himself at the mouth of a deep hole, filled with all sorts of vegetation. The crag was hollow! Above it all rose the sheer towers of the fortress of Bajadoz. Rogier was dumbfounded, for the structure, that appeared quite large from the base of the crag, was even more enormous than he realized. Only the towers and central dome rose above the peak of the crag, with the bulk of Bajadoz deep in the hole, the extent of which he could not see.

Rogier cursed himself for not asking for a rope of some sort. In the pale moonlight, he could see no entrance to Bajadoz, for the alabaster walls of the fortress were unblemished, and no bridge of any sort spanned the gap between where he stood to the towers.

Not seeing how he could move forward, he knelt down and sat on the cold stone. The clink of his mail seemed deafening in the still silence of this odd little concave of the crag. Haven’t not slept since the morning, and having spent most of the day traveling, he thought it best to catch a few hours of sleep. Unbuckling his sword-belt, Rogier laid it to the side, and put his back to the walls of the cliffs.

The Northron slept several hours before he was roused from his slumber by the grating sound of a bird, but none like he had ever heard in his wanderings. “Ru yeh al ha-hanan!” Rubbing the dust from out of his eyes, he looked up to see a brightly colored bird staring at him. It was not like the parrot that so fascinated the Turca, and was an object of their worship, but more like a brightly colored, flamboyant crane that dwelt beyond the eastern upheavals. It was much smaller than one of these creatures, however, and the branch on which it balanced didn’t even sway under its weight.

“And what are you doing here, old devil?” Rogier grumbled as he lifted himself to his feet and buckled his belt to his waist, “Did you come here as a messenger from Yah, or as servant to the baalim?” The crane didn’t answer, only crowed as normal birds did, and no human speech issued from its mouth again. Feeling mocked, the Yaphite stooped, picked up a pebble, and launched it at the bird. It squawked madly as the stone hit it, and it fluttered about, lifting from the branch to seek safety deeper in the jungle filled hollow.
“Stupid bird,” mumbled Rogier as he stretched his tired muscles. The sun had long since risen, and by his judgment, it was getting close to midday. The sun was almost directly above open crag, and the intensity of it was enough to cook the Northron in his bronzed scale armor.

Even in the light of the sun, Rogier couldn’t see any opening in the towers of Bajadoz as he stalked around the hole from which they rose. But he knew that he had to find an entrance somehow, so the only option open to him was down. Sliding carefully to the edge of the wooded hole, he couldn’t see anything past the surface canopy. However, the branched seemed sturdy, and testing one with his foot, he found it largely unyielding.

With a satisfied grin, Rogier lowered himself down over the edge of the hole, and began to climb steadily downward into the pit, keeping the white-stone walls of the fortress in front of him. The canopy was so thick, that he found himself having to draw his blade to cleave smaller branch that bared his way, but he kept a cautious grip on the branch above him at all times.

The vegetation thinned as the Northron continued his descent into the pit, and the rays of sunlight from above that could pierce the leaves revealed a beautiful variety of plants that grew on the pit’s rock walls. When he finally touched down on solid earth, he found the floor covered in moss and decaying leaves. It was indescribably humid here, and Rogier found himself wishing to abandon his stifling armor. Knowing such a thing would be folly, however, he carried on, walking to the base of the fortress, the rose hundreds of feet above him now.

While the golden dome and alabaster towers that could be seen from Calavatra and the savannah were unblemished and shining, the base of the fortress was grimy, and covered in moss, mushrooms, and other such wet-growth. The circumference of the keep must have been nearly a two-hundred feet around. When he walked around it, however, he came to a stop beside a particularly overgrown patch. The moss was nearly ten feet high, and grew in a half-oval shape.

Drawing his sword, Rogier thrust the blade into the moss, and he found that it gave way. With another great sweep of the weapon, the moss caved in, falling to the ground, and revealed and dark, yawning portal that led into the fortress.

With the little light the illuminated the foyer, he could see unlit torches that lined the walls. Reaching up, he plucked one from it holder. With flint and tender from a pouch on his belt, he soon had a flaming torch that well lit up the dark hall of Bajadoz.

As soon as he stepped through the portal, Rogier found himself ascending a flight of stairs for a short time. The walls of the well were free of any drawings, friezes, or tapestries that he expected to exist in the house of gods. At the top of the stair was a wide hall. Golden pillars line it, but no doors or openings were present along the walls, so the only way forward was straight.

Surely enough, the hall opened up into a great room. At least, Rogier thought it to be a great room, for the darkness was so absolute that his torch only illuminated a small ring around him. Denied any sense of direction, the Northron picked randomly, and delved into the shadows. However, the heavy footfall of his boots soon turned into a kind of crunching, and when he looked down, he found the floor covered in a thick, white substance. Kneeling, he reached out to touch it, but as he tried to draw his hand away, he found it stuck on the wispy material.

When he finally ripped his hand away, bringing a good chunk of the matter with him, dread spread over him when it dawned on him what the substance was. A spider’s webbing. Although his left-hand was covered in the web, he yanked his sword from his scabbard as he tried to find his way back to where he had entered. His mind drove him on, all thought only towards leaving the fortress, the crag, the village, and to seek his death out in the savannah, where at least he would become food for creatures of the earth.

However, his random choice of direction hampered his escape, and he was unable get back to the hall with the golden pillars. His panic then increased when he began to hear chittering echoing across the massive room.

When he felt something touch his shoulder, he whirled around with a curdling scream, bringing his sword down in a slash, but he cut only air. Then he heard scampering to his left, and lashed out again, but found nothing. Rogier’s breath was coming in rasps now, and sounds were coming from all about the room. The Northron began to slash and thrust madly now, all his skill having departed, and his fear taking over.
When he finally ceased his maddened attacks, the sounds had halted. With deep, harsh breaths, Rogier lowered his sword and raised his torch. What he saw chilled his soul. Man-like creatures stood before him. They were garbed in decayed clothing, and their bodies were covered in thick, brown fur. Four, ugly appendages protruded from their backs, and their once-human arms ended in grisly hooks. The spider-things regarded him with chittering, fanged faces, covered in multiple red eyes.

There were five of these abominations, each more spider-like than the last, though they all had similar features, but they ranged from almost human, to spiders that walked like men. In the center stood the most bestial of the lot, flanked by its lesser. It made no sound, like its cohorts, but just regarded Rogier silently.
With no thought other than for his survival, Rogier unthinkingly lashed out with his blade, catching the lead man-spider on its shoulder, his blade cutting deep into the flesh. With panther-like speed, he ripped the blade out, and swung again, decapitating the sickening spider-head.

The other man-spiders screamed at the death of the eldest, and launched themselves up into the air. Rogier, too, gave a bestial yell. Dropping the torch to the ground, the Northron gripped his blade in both hands. Rather than the torch going out, it ignited the spider webs that coated the floor, and Rogier found himself fighting for his life in a flaming hell against spider-demons.

Blinded by fear and fury, Rogier ignored the spreading fire, and concentrated on slaying the man-spiders that would drop from the ceiling. He was fortunate, for although their appendages were tipped with cruel claws, they could not pierce his armor, but the force of their blows when they dropped down were enough to send him reeling.

Soon, the flames that was engulfing much of the room, and three of the man-spiders were dead at his feet. One he had killed by severing its web-line, then hacking it to pieces with his sword. Two more had been killed by the fire, their skin charred when they were dropped into the ongoing holocaust. Only one more remained, but because of the smoke that now filled the room, Rogier could not catch a glimpse of it.
He coughed heavily, smoke starting to fill his lungs. Reason was telling him to start looking for a way out, the last creature would burn to death on its own. This won out, and he abandoned his search for his last foe, instead focusing on finding a doorway that would lead him out of the burning room. Casting his sight about, he found a wall and decided to follow it. Smoke obscured his vision, but he kept a hand on the wall he followed, and moved where it did. Eventually, his fingers hit only air, and he looked up through tearing eyes to see a doorway where the smoke was filtering out. Plunging through it, he collapsed to the ground, breathing in the fresher air.

He lay their, on the hard ground, for only a few moments before he lifted his head, but his eyes went wide when they saw a pair of feet that stood before him. Raising his gaze further, he saw the hairy legs, ripped clothes and, eventually, the arachnid face of the last man-spider.

The monster wasted no time in lifting Rogier up, above its head, and throwing him down they hall they were in with such force that the wind was knocked out of the him when he hit the ground. Rogier groaned in pain, and tried to stand, but the spider-thing was on him once again, hitting his back with great blows from its bestial arms.

Summoning his last reserves of strength, Rogier reached up just as the man-spider was starting another assault on him, grasping onto its arms, and pulled with all his might. He had the intent to simply bring the creature to the ground, where they would be on equal terms, but instead the Northron found the arm giving way from its body, and a sickening rip came to his ears as he pulled the man-spiders arm from it.
The demon screeched, ceasing its attack on Rogier, scampering away and giving him the chance to stand up. His sword gone, Rogier gripped the furry, hooked appendage like a spear, and locked his burning gaze on his assailant who clung to the walls. With a roar, he lifted the arm over his head and then threw it like a javelin at the man-spider.

Although its animal reflexes were great, it wasn’t paying attention to Rogier as much as its own wound, and didn’t notice the projectile. The missile buried itself deep in the creature’s body, and it screamed again then fell limply to the ground, green goo issuing from its wounds.

Battered, but victorious, the Northron spotted his sword near the smoky opening that led back to what had once been the lair of those man-spiders. The fire was gone now, having cleansed the room of all the webbing. The smoke remained, but it was noticeably thinner than before. He couldn’t see them, but Rogier thought that some sort of shafts in the ceiling were venting the smoke out, and he troubled himself no more with it.

Scooping up his blade, he sheathed it. Peering into the darkness, he saw the red embers of his torch, marveling that it hadn’t been consumed in the flame. Carefully, and silently, he made his way over to it. Cupping the torch in his hand, he blew on it until the ember once again turned into flame.
Moving back to where he had slain the last man-spider, he saw that the hallway was quite short, and ended with another stairwell that led up into the darkness above. Making sure his affects were secure again, he mounted the steps and went up, deeper in the fortress of Bajadoz.