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Windhammer, Copyright Wayne Densley 2008 All Rights Reserved
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75
 Taking your pack from your shoulders you hunt around within its contents, looking for the bunch of keys you found previously. You are sure one had the number "101" inscribed upon it and within a roll of loose clothes you recover what you are searching for. Trying the key in the keyhole you find the lock turns easily and the door swings open. Carefully you peer into the room beyond and find it almost empty. For a moment you consider whether it is worth taking a closer look, but as you step over the threshold you hear in the distance the sound of a large number of iron-shod feet tramping down the stairway entry to the Great Hall. In the chilled air the sounds of movement are clear and imminent. Pulling the key from its lock you quickly close the door behind you, and with your ear pressed firmly against its smooth surface try to hear what might be going on in the hall outside.
Through the thick door it is difficult to discern much but in the quiet you can hear the shouts of the Hordim as they search the chamber. From their agitation you know that they have discovered you are at large within the fortress but they cannot find you, and your hope is that they will not. Faintly you hear the rattling of locks and handles, and the tramp of warriors running the length of the Hall. It sounds as if the search party is checking that all the doors are secure, methodically moving from one to the next, ensuring their security and then giving each a hard thump just for good measure. The door you hide behind is solid and cannot be opened without the key you possess so the patrol soon passes; a muffled pounding by a mailed fist the only indication the patrol has shown any interest. After a moment the echo of a door slamming in the distance is all that remains of the creatures' passing.
Perspiring freely in the cold quiet of the room, you breathe a sigh of relief and slide down onto the floor. Resting against the door for a moment you turn to look at the room you have entered. To your amazement it is perfectly clean and almost bare, the only items in the room being a free-standing full length mirror in one corner and a flask of liquid perched upon a small column in the other.
Moving over to the mirror you find reflected in its clean glass a sorry sight. Your clothes are torn and marked by blood and filth. Your face is a portrait of dirt and your hair a mat of mud and dust. Although you are not usually one to concern yourself with your appearance you make a firm decision to have a good wash once this quest is over.
As you stand there strangely absorbed by your own image you do not at first see the mirror change, a thin mist forming slowly at the edges of the glass. In the quiet you are not prepared for what happens next, and you cannot help but jump back, reeling with surprise when the mirror speaks...
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This book, and its associated books and other documents in the Chronicles of Arborell series are the intellectual property of the author, Wayne F Densley, and all rights are reserved by him. Windhammer is best viewed at 1024 x 768 resolution. Any questions regarding the Chronicles of Arborell can be answered by emailing the author at densleyw@shoal.net.au
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Windhammer, Copyright Wayne Densley 2008 All Rights Reserved
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