One hallway and three turns later, and we reached our destination. The necromancer’s armory was much less structured than such a descriptor made me assume - weapons were scattered haphazardly about the floor, not in racks or on shelves as I had imagined. Though, given that the only wielders of said weapons were likely the risen dead, cleanliness and orderliness were likely not high on the list of priorities. Many of the weapons wielded by those we had fought so far were of poor maintenance, one handaxe even covered completely in rust.

There was one exception to the chaos in the moderately-sized sideroom that the necromancer had piled his weapons in, though, and all six of our eyes were immediately drawn to it. Towards the middle of the room sat a stone pedestal, crawling with glowing runes and markings. Each glowed a separate color, pulsing and fluctuating each at its own rhythm. But it was not the pedestal that drew our attention. No, it was the massive greatsword floating in the air above it.

Easily over five feet long, the blade was a dark black metal and wider than a foot where it met the hilt. Its straight blade was simple in shape, as was its crossguard, simply a metal plate between the dark blade and its crimson-wrapped grip. The pommel, however, bore the likeness of a roaring dragon, a motif that was mirrored by the dark red dragon coiling down the flat of the blade. The pommel’s eyes were inset with a pair of rubies, glinting in the light of the everpresent green flames.

“Vrymstahl,” Jaric uttered, reverence and relief in his voice.

My eyes were then drawn downwards, back to the pedestal, where arcane runes glimmered. They were legible even from this distance, and I realized once again how fortunate I was to have somehow retained this skill.

As Jaric started forwards, Garrick put out his arm to stop the big man, “Hold on. Tell us ‘bout the runes, Runes.”

I turned my attention to the bard, rolling my eyes at his cheeky grin. “Well, they’re not really a problem. All of them, at least the ones I can see on this side of the pedestal, appear to be focused inwards, either powering the levitation spell or trying to contain the sword. The containing spells all seem focus on lowering temperature - is it supposed to be a flaming sword?” Though the blade was currently free of flame, the majority of power was being concentrated in keeping it cold, leading to my question.

Jaric snorted. “That would be underselling it. Check the back of the pedestal, if you wouldn’t mind.”

I stepped into the room and did precisely that. After confirming that none of the previously unseen runes were of dangerous magics, Jaric stepped up to the sword. “I would recommend stepping back out of the room for this. Vrymstahl is likely to be a bit cranky after this treatment.” The big man watched as Garrick and I followed his suggestion, stepping back out of the room to observe, then turned back to the pedestal. Reaching a single gauntleted fist out, he grasped the massive blade’s haft and pulled it from its rest.

As Vrymstahl left the confines of the runes’ magics, it burst into brilliant flame. This was not a normal flame, but a deep crimson blaze that practically ignited the air. From the hallway, Garrick and I were treated to a blast of air of a temperature more appropriate for a desert wind. It stole our breaths away, leaving us gasping.

Unlike the unholy flames that served as illumination in these halls, Vrymstahl’s fire cast the room in vibrant red. Its light seemed to dominate the unholy flames’, stealing away the other colors and leaving the room lit in a scale from black to crimson.

And then, as suddenly as it erupted, the flames dispersed. The room’s temperature dropped slowly back down as Garrick and I panted, catching our breaths. Jaric stood like a statue in front of the pedestal, both hands grasping the mighty blade, holding it vertically in front of him. “I’ve calmed her down. Allow me a moment to commune with her and then we can press on.”

Sagging against the wall, I slid down to the floor. Garrick did the same across from me, still panting. “Well,” I said, “that was interesting.”

“That was hellfire,” the bard retorted. “It would seem that our armored friend has been consorting with demons, if he’s able to control an artifact of such hellish nature.”

I glanced at Jaric. I still did not know much about the man. Even his race was an unknown. And yet, somehow, I already felt I could trust him with my life. This was beyond the desperation that might be fueling me, a sense that no matter what the odds, he would be on my side. The same felt true for Garrick, those his martial support carried less weight.

“Garrick,” I looked back to the bard, “Is there any kind of effect in these halls that would make a man more trusting?”

The bard frowned, “Not that I know of. I, certainly, haven’t felt anything of the sort. Why do you ask?”

I sighed, shaking my head, “It’s nothing. Just confirming a suspicion.”

That meant that the most likely cause of my sudden willingness to trust was divine interference. The fact that a goddess was pushing me to trust the two did nothing to diminish my new trust in them - in fact, if anything, it increased it. This was about as close as one could get to having a divine reference without becoming a paladin.

And considering my situation, I should likely be thanking Auriel for helping me overcome my preexisting cynicism to expedite my escape plans. I could only imagine how much time would have been wasted agonizing over whether or not to trust them while I was sitting in that cell.

But, still. It was the principle of the thing. I didn’t like anyone, divinity or no, mucking about with my mind. I would be having words with Auriel when next we spoke.

As my ruminations came to a close, Jaric turned around. “It is done,” he said, reaching the greatsword over his shoulder and releasing its haft. It seemed to float behind him, as if carried by an invisible scabbard strapped across his back.

I took a deep breath as I rose from the ground, mirrored by Garrick across from me. “Alright,” I said, “then it’s time for our escape.”

Jaric nodded as he approached us. He looked to Garrick, “What is the best route out of here?”

Garrick pondered for a moment. “Well, as I see it, there are two options of escape. One, we can try to make it out of the tunnels and into the mountains, but then it’s still two days to the nearest town, which would give our captors plenty of time to find and retrieve us. Two, we can make our way to thee Carrion Lord’s teleportation chambers and see if Runes here can make enough sense of the circles there to find a way back to town. The problem is that the teleportation chambers are on the other side of the complex, meaning we would have to likely fight our way through multiple caves filled with undead, and giving us a higher chance of being noticed by the Carrion Lord or one of his lackeys.”

So the choice was between a quick escape followed by days of running and hiding, or a long, dangerous battle followed by what would hopefully be a teleportation directly to town. Had we a wizard, ranger, or some other member who might be able to obscure our departure, I would prefer the former. But there was no telling what tricks a seasoned necromancer like Reginald could pull out when it came to hunting us down.

The other problem was Keidra. I had no way of knowing what had happened to her. That she hadn’t been in one of the cells with us made me hope she had managed to escape. I was pointedly ignoring any other obvious explanations for her absence in those cells, as none of them helped my motivation or mental state. Assuming she had escaped, I now had valuable intelligence on the location of Reginald’s base. Taking the first choice would potentially give Reginald enough days to relocate, or at the very least fortify his defenses. But, if I managed to figure out the teleportation circles, I could provide a backdoor entrance right into the necromancer’s lair for Keidra and her party.

I glanced at Jaric, “I’m assuming that new weapon of yours is effective against the undead?”

He nodded his helm, red eyes shining at me, “Indeed. Hellfire burns better than most other flames. Their bodies are desiccated - little more than tinder before a match.”

“How about you?” I asked Garrick. “Got any special tricks or powers up your sleeve?”

“Well, besides my skills with the bow, I am an excellent narrator.” Garrick grinned and winked.

Rolling my eyes, i made up my mind. “We’re taking option two,” I said. “If we can make it back to town, then I might be able to turn our escape into a backdoor entrance for the party that has been hunting Reginald.”

Both men nodded. As we turned to depart the armory, something caught my eye. “Hold on,” I said, reentering the room and crossing to one of the piles of weapons. Deposited atop it was a ceremonial dagger of familiar design. I bent down and scooped up the weapon. Though I had forgotten about it before, I now recalled that Auriel had mentioned that this dagger could serve as a focus for my energies. When I had tried it with my lightning magic before, it had provided no clear increase over simply wielding the lightning by hand. But perhaps the goddess had meant it would assist my use of the divine energy I had? I couldn’t imagine how, considering the ease with which I had bent it to my will in the prior fight.

Regardless, the dagger was mine, though I was dubious to claim it as such given the sigil of the Doom Cult on its hilt. At the very least it could serve as a backup weapon in case my font ran dry during a fight. A pity I didn’t see a serviceable shield anywhere in the room, though. I had left mine back at my room in the inn.

Garrick raised an eyebrow as I returned, his eyes on the dagger now at my belt.

“Long story,” I said.

“Oh, but those are the best kind!” he grinned.

I sighed, “I’ll tell you when we aren’t trapped in a dungeon controlled by a rogue necromancer and his pet succubus.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”