Rogues By Ian F White

The clash of steel on steel rang out loudly in the cavernous cathedral, echoing off the high-vaulted ceiling and numerous alcoves that ran along both mural-painted walls. Each of the two shimmering blades was clasped in a similarly vice-like grip, yet that was where the similarity of their wielders ended.

One was a large man, well over six-feet tall, wide-shouldered, broad-chested, thick of thews. His body was clad in a long coat of mail which fell from neck to knee. The steel helm from which his unruly shoulder-length dark locks protruded, sported a single, wicked-looking spike at its crown. Beneath the rim, his cool blue eyes twinkled with a raw humour that was reflected within the clean, white-toothed grin. He was handsome, perfect of physique, and he knew it.

The other was a woman, a clear head shorter than her opponent, yet equally a perfect specimen of her gender. Her full breasts and hips strained at the tight confines of the leather corselet and leggings she wore, as she held her fighting stance. Her long hair fell about her shoulders in golden rivulets that shone in the light of nearby sconces. Her green eyes and set of her full lips marked her attitude as irritable to the point of unconcealed anger. The sleeves of her loose blouse were rolled up to the elbows, revealing a number of scars upon her forearms – the only blemishes upon her perfection.

They stood upon a smooth, ceramic-tiled floor, its mosaic pattern depicting a hideous scene of enslavery and torture. Laying upon the floor between them was a large pearl about the size of an adult boar’s head.

Similar scenes of depravity decorated the walls and ceiling, some contained painted depictions of the massive, four-horned stone-carved idol, adorned with a grotesquely bloated masculinity, that crouched forebodingly atop a dais beyond the sacrificial altar at the far end of the great hall. Above a flat, bat-like nose and gaping, tooth-filled jaws, it’s single, central, large empty eye-socket stared sightlessly down at the blasphemers in its presence.

More items of golden, gem-encrusted finery rested upon every surface in the chamber, or else hung from brackets fixed to walls and pillars. There was enough treasure on display in this one room to secure the ransom of a dozen kings. But it seemed as though the two occupants were both intent on this one over-sized bauble before them over ought else.

The man relaxed his grip a little and his sword-tip lowered until it pointed at the huge pearl, though his eyes never wavered from the woman’s. He was confident in his swordsmanship, but also knew she was skilled in tricks and feints that would press him to his limits. That was part of the reason he loved her; if he was going to die, he’d prefer it to be by her hand. Yet he was not ready for that just now. He cleared his throat.

“It appears we’re at an impasse, my dear Karla,” he said, the words thick with a northern accent. “We both want the same thing, I suggest –"

“You double-crossing barbarian ox!” she hissed, cutting him off. “We had a deal – the pearl is mine. I should have known not to trust you. I can’t believe I fell for your rustic charms. I could have carried out this robbery alone. And I am no ‘dear’ of yours, Theor.”

Theor smiled. “I recall no such agreement.”

“You lying…” her voice trailed off, her eyes widened, her nostrils flared, and she sprang at him with the fury of a wild panther.

Theor stepped in quickly, Karla’s blade sliding along his thigh, showering sparks from the metal hauberk as it did so. They were suddenly face-to-face, body-to-body. Theor slipped a thickly-muscled arm around Karla’s waist and pulled her closer, almost squeezing the air from her lungs. They stared at each other; eyes locked. They paused, remembering; they had been in a similar position the previous evening.

“You brute. I will not…” Karla whispered as she placed a hand on his firm chest and pushed ineffectually, fighting to resist am inevitability, a fatefulness she knew would come to pass, yet still she resisted. It was in her nature.

“Our paths have crossed for a reason. You are an independent woman, Karla, and I respect that. But you are also a woman, and I am a man… I need you… do you need me…?”

Her resistance began to crumble as she stared up into his eyes. She saw the sincerity in them. Pushing their squabble over the bauble to one side, she whispered her answer. “Yes.”

Their lips met, they pressed passionately together, and at that moment, another voice called out from somewhere within the chamber.

“How romantic.”

Theor and Karla span apart, eyes seeking the newcomer, blades poised to strike.

In front of the altar stood a man. He was tall and thin, almost skeletal, clad in a scarlet-trimmed black robe with a high collar which framed his clean-shaven head. His thin lips were pulled back in a horrific parody of a smile. His deep-set coal-black eyes stared unblinkingly at the two rogues, boring into their very souls.

“High-Priest Balthar!” Theor cursed. “Where in the nine hells did he appear from?”

Karla gestured to a thin shadow that split the decorations of one wall. “Secret passage. Damn, I don’t know how I missed that.”

A feint sound drew their attention from the man and the secret door – the sound of stone grating upon stone. They both froze, staring in disbelief and horror at the statue of Balthar’s god. Its claw-tipped hands and feet moved, shifting position, ready to pounce!

The High-Priest spoke again, his voice a deep ululating drone. “The Lord Maltheis… Unsated Eater of Souls… Thrice Accursed Master of K’Alaar … Unwholesome Ravager of Women and Men… Dread Stalker of the Halls of Madness … wants his eye back!”

With a bellow that shook the hall and reverberated in the lovers’ heads and chests, the Lord Maltheis bounded from its perch…