Durvil and Lothar heaved the massive stone to the side, and it tipped over with a heavy thud. Staring at them accusingly from what had been the underside was a carved, lidless eyeball, perfectly round and bloodshot throughout. Below where the stone had been set, a ruined stairway descended into the darkness, cobwebs drifting in the stale air.
“What do you think it was watching?” Elsbeth asked, indicating the massive eye.
Durvil glanced back from where he knelt, peering down the stairs. “Funny girl, when she wants to be,” he said to no one in particular. “I’m more interested in what old Staggy might have been hiding down here. Shall we?”
Lothar smiled and took a swig from his flagon. “Of course,” he said, stepping forward into the stairs. Holding his torch aloft, he watched the flame carefully. No breeze from below, so no other opening, then. Carefully, making room for Elsbeth beside him, he descended. Every now and then he would pause to let Elsbeth study the stairs and walls, waiting for her to give him the signal that it was safe to proceed. At the bottom, the stairwell opened up into a large chamber. The air was miserably damp, and greasy swaths of mold caked the carved stone walls and floor. Fifteen feet above, the ceiling was thick with cobwebs. Three archways in the walls opened into other rooms. Spread throughout were mounds of crates, furs, sacks, weapons, and other obviously stolen loot, making line of sight difficult to maintain.
Spreading out, Lothar, Ixilplith and Elsbeth checked each entrance, leaving Selah and Durvil at the stairs. It was apparent that Durvil didn’t trust the situation, and wanted to be sure nothing slipped up or down the stairs without him knowing. A quick look through each arch revealed more of the same: stacks of stolen goods. The far reaches of each room ended in piles of rubble, as though the collapsing tower above echoed its fall to ruin below. The archways all had carving along their lengths, odd symbols and markings, with the staring eye at the apex of each.
“What does the eye mean?” Ixilplith asked, stepping underneath one arch and peering closely at it.
Selah smiled at his curiosity. “Staring so closely at it won’t prod your memory, Ix. It’ll come to you eventually.” She frowned slightly. “But it does seem like something I’ve seen before. I just don’t recall where.”
A whistle from Elsbeth brought Ixilplith and Lothar to her from their investigations. Pointing, she indicated a pile of furs and blankets mounded in a dryer corner of one room. Surrounding it were small effects including a crock of water, a packet of pulled jerky, discarded bones, and a stylized circlet of stone leaves. “Who do you suppose was using this?” Ixilplith asked.
Lothar felt his skin crawl. “Someone the Stag Lord didn’t like, that’s for sure.” Looking around at all the crates, sacks and packs, a thought occurred to him. “Although, it seems more like he was locking a prized possession away than any prisoner.”
“And we still don’t know where he is,” Elsbeth whispered quietly, peering down one aisle of crates. She thought she saw a little movement in the corner. Motioning for Lothar and Ixilplith to follow, she tried to keep the conversation light and raised her voice so Selah and Durvil could hear. “These boys were busy, weren’t they?”
“Looks it,” Durvil agreed loudly. “But it looks like they never actually did anything with it. These were some poor bandits, who stole so much and never sold any of their ill-gotten gains.”
“Good that the Stag Lord is dead, then,” Lothar commented, stepping to the side of Elsbeth. She was right; there was definitely movement within the rubble of the collapsed corner. “If all he ever did was make everyone miserable, then I say good riddance.”
In front of Durvil and Selah, a piece of the wall separated itself from the stonework and stepped out into the room. Fascinated, Durvil watched as the form coalesced from stone to man. His face was broken and shattered, his eyes crooked below his brow. One ear was massively swollen, looking as though it had been beaten so often that it was forever malformed into a head of cauliflower. Through crooked and missing teeth, the old man hissed, “That boy was my son. If you are responsible for his death, then you will answer to me.”
At the same time, the rubble before Elsbeth exploded into motion as a carpet of roiling fur detached from the shadows, rushing forward and engulfing everything in its path. The chittering, squealing mass of rats was anything but innocent, myriad red eyes focused on the trio before it with ravenous purpose.
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