Torches
crackled and spit as the group hustled down the tight cavern
passageway. Discovering the series of fresh openings into the
Underworld is what gave birth to such an ingenious plan. Positioned
perfectly to prey upon the passing caravans that traveled along the
road to the city all it took was a quick strike, a snatching of loose
pouches and killing the strongest guards, to be followed by a fainted
run back into the darkness. Always as predicted, those that remained
would give chase to recollect their losses only to get turned around
among the array of twisted tunnels. From there the band of thieves
need only pick off their number, one by one, so they could return to
plunder and kill whatever or whoever was left behind.
This
time one of them was able to lift a handsome sack of gems, but it was
also host to a stronger contingent of people who were not so keen
with its parting company. Such luck would now find them frantically
darting toward plan B which led into a larger chamber buried along
the interconnecting tunnels. With their loot stashed behind a small
waterfall, this room contained many crevices and crannies in which to
hide until their pursuers tired and gave up chase. The plan was
perfect and had never failed.
They
were almost upon the cache when the first of their number began to
scream. The scout's torch hit the wet cavern floor with a hiss. Just
before it fizzled out the torchlight laid bare nothing but a severed
arm. The mage among them quickly muttered a spell only for it to fail
with a comedic popping sound and a harmless flash. Those that
remained scattered into hiding wincing at the eery, wet mashing
sounds they hoped was only the currents of the subterranean stream.
The
thief with the gem pouch gripped it tightly under his tunic, and
ducked quickly into a small fissure along the cave wall. He could
hear his comrades die one by one, like that of their past victims,
only for the cavern to be drown in an ominous silence. Frozen with
fear he struggled to control his breathing and remain as quiet as
possible. As he waited and listened, the available light in the room
slowly died as the last of the discarded torches lay sputtering on
the dank cave floor. In the final flickers of light, he witnessed the
gray stone of the wall before him slowly shift into a deep blood red.
In horror he flinched as the wall cracked open in a large gape of
teeth. Quickly, and in utter desperation, he plunged his dagger into
the wall mouth and twirled the blade. There was a short yelp, like
that of a kicked dog, as the mouth simply vanished into a puff of
dust tainted by the strong odor of sulfur.
The
event was so bizarre he might have believed himself insane if not for
the fact his hand and forearm were now encased within the fissure
wall. As soon as he tried to move the pain overcame him. He could
feel where his bone and flesh meshed with the rock, and even the
smallest movement was agony. It was then, with perfect timing, that
the cavern filled with the footsteps of his latest pursuing victims
as he struggled to remain hidden and endure the tortured kiss of
stone.
“What
in the name of compassion happened here?” a voice echoed across the
large chamber along with clanks and creaks of armor.
“I
don't want to find out,” another voice boomed out in reply.
“Valor
be with us, what a mess,” someone cursed. “Let's search what's
left of them and get out of here.”
The
room filled with the rebounding echos of chaos as the guard
frantically searched the area. Beads of sweat curled off his face as
the bone in his arm fractured slightly with every movement no matter
whether a breath or shiver. He flirted with consciousness as the
squad gathered their spoils and prepared to depart.
“No
sign of the gems, but look at this,” he heard one say followed by
the screech of twisted metal.
“That
a breastplate?” quizzed another.
“I
think so. Damn thing looks like it was gnarled by something.”
“Just
keep moving,” murmured the echoes that faded as the company drifted
away. “We're going to get gnarled ourselves for losing that pouch.”
He
took some deep breaths and waited for his former dupes to gain some
distance from his hiding spot. The bone had broken away from the
stone while he had struggled to stay alert. Stumps of his radius and
ulna rattled inside the flesh of his forearm as they grated against
the rock. Carefully he reached for his other dagger and placed the
sheathed blade in his mouth to allow him to grit through the pain.
With a chuckle wrought from agony and fatigue, he pondered which was
the greater loss, his hand or his primary weapon, both of which were
buried within the wall before him. Biting down on the sheath he tore
a strip of cloth from his tunic and twisted it around his embedded
forearm. Slowly he positioned the dagger above his arm he took a
moment to gather his strength. Sadly he was never good at carving
harvest turkeys.
So
began Tom's journey in mastering the arts of the lefty, and the
moment that would forever mark him as The Freehand. Returning with
wealth only attainable as a sole survivor, he would become one of the
first great pioneers of the Underworld. His enduring legacy, The
Freehands, would become known as some the best sources of strange and
rare oddities that the great darkness would have to offer.
