They looked around for the source of the voice but saw no one. Tarrel gestured at a closed door, and both Brey and Mordan moved toward it.
“Who is there?” asked Haldin, in a conversational tone. “Would you be so kind as to show yourself?”
“As long as you don’t try to kill me,” the voice replied. Haldin waved the others back from the door, and they joined him reluctantly.
“Am I correct in supposing,” continued the gnome, “that I am addressing …” He looked at Dria.
“Adalrik d’Cannith,” she finished the question for him.
The door opened slowly, and a tall man stepped out. At least, he was mostly a man; his right hand and arm were sheathed in metal, and a steel mask covered half his face. Dria let out a gasp.
“No!” she breathed. “They didn’t tell me …”
“… that I was a renegade?” Adalrik d’Cannith smiled with the uncovered half of his face. Brey nocked an arrow, and Tarrel raised his wand, though neither moved to attack the newcomer.
“Don’t worry,” said Adalrik, stepping forward and displaying his empty hands. “I have no intention of attacking you.” He turned to Dria and bowed. “I assume you were sent to rescue me?” Dria, nodded silently, unable to take her eyes from the metal sheathing her cousin’s body.
“We met once,” the said quietly, “more than ten years ago. At Morcar and Alina’s wedding. I don’t expect you’d remember me. My name is Dria.” Adalrik’s one mobile eyebrow shot up in surprise.
“Dria?” he said. “Fintar’s daughter?” He took half a step back, and looked her up and down. “You’ve grown.”
“As touching as this is,” said Brey, “let’s not forget that there’s a very unfriendly necromancer somewhere around here, who’s liable to come back with reinforcements at any minute.”
“If I bring you back,” said Dria, in a small voice, “do you know what they’ll do to you?”
“I can imagine,” her cousin replied, “but your archer is right.”
“I’m not
“My apologies,” said Adalrik. “Still, I agree that we should deal with the immediate threat first, and worry about the future—once we know we have one.” He looked back at Dria.
“I put a few things together,” he said, “when 1 realized the place was under attack. I managed to make some real breakthroughs recently.” Turning to the door, he whistled softly, and was answered by the sound of heavy metallic footsteps.
The others tensed as a squat, bulky shape edged itself through the doorway, but Adalrik held up a hand to still them. It stumped over to Adalrik’s side, looking like nothing so much as a metal barrel with legs and arms.
“This isn’t a combat model,” he said, “just a menial. I have some papers and materials stored in its body.” The construct stood a couple of yards behind its master.
“These, on the other hand”—he whistled again, twice, and three more figures sprang lithely into the room—“are intended for combat. I hope they will help us get out of here alive.”
The companions stood and stared at the creatures for a long moment. They were humanoid, and patches of dead-white flesh could be seen here and there between the steel plates that covered their bodies like a lobster’s carapace. The arms of each one terminated in a pair of bright, curved blades.
Tarrel groaned. “Undead warforged.”
Adalrik half-smiled. “Not quite,” he said. “As you correctly deduced, my purpose here was to combine the most desirable qualities of the undead and the construct in a single creature. These are but a step in that direction. They are half-golems—partially flesh, but entirely constructs.”
“So,” he said, with an expectant look on the visible half of his face, “what’s the plan?”
“The plan is this,” said Brey, standing behind Dria, “while it’s heartwarming to help out with your family reunion, we came here to kill Dravuliel and destroy all his undead friends. There’s a temple nearby, and my guess is he’s beyond it somewhere, getting ready to wipe us out.”
“Or take us alive,” put in Mordan. “At least, that’s what he told his iron zombies. I’m guessing that would be worse.” Brey nodded.
“Then let’s go,” said Adalrik. He gestured, and his three half-golems loped out down the passage.
The temple was larger than they had expected. It also bore no signs of the Blood of Vol cult. Among the unfamiliar symbols carved into the pale stone altar and painted on the walls were a scythe and many skulls. Prominently placed on the wall behind the altar was the skull of a dragon.
“I don’t recognize these,” said Brey.
Haldin examined the dragon skull. “I do,” he said. “I take it you have heard of the Dark Six?” Brey nodded.
“Unless I am very much mistaken,” Haldin continued, “this temple is dedicated to one of them—a stealer of souls known as The Keeper.”
“So he changed sides?” asked Tarrel. “The temple we found in the Mournland was definitely Blood of Vol.”
“It would seem so,” replied the gnome, reaching into one of his equipment pouches.
