What Remains of Heroes Read Online Free

, Lannick thought. Brugan had told him the story behind the tavern’s name, once. Something about finding shackled skeletons and instruments of torture in the catacombs below the adjacent church. He cursed his wine-softened head, knowing there was something relevant, something important about the story he was forgetting.
    A thud resounded from the bar, followed by a muted cry. Lannick winced, imagining Brugan’s face smashed against the bar top by one of Fane’s bloodthirsty henchmen. He thought of rushing in to save his friend from the beating, but quickly dismissed the notion. Both of them would end up dead if he tried, especially in such tight quarters and without a proper weapon. Instead Lannick uttered a quick prayer for his friend’s safety. As vicious as Fane was, he wasn’t likely to gut Brugan if he didn’t think the barkeep had been complicit in his daughter’s deflowering. At least Lannick hoped it was so.
    Another crash sounded, forcing Lannick’s thoughts back to a means of escape. There was something about the place that Brugan had mentioned…
    “I do not enjoy repeating myself,” said Fane in his screeching tone. “Don’t tempt me to bury you in your cellar!”
    The cellar .
    Brugan had once told him he’d found an entrance to the catacombs in his cellar. That’s why he kept it bolted shut, just in case anything or anyone ever tried wandering into the tavern from below. It was said the catacombs wound under the entire city of Ironmoor, a relic of an older time. It stood to reason there’d be another portal to the outside world, somewhere nearby.
    With a silent apology to Brugan and a silent prayer the barkeep could hold out just a little longer, Lannick grabbed his old, vomit-stained shirt. He looped it about his hand and used it to grab an ember from the fireplace. The bolt to the cellar yielded with only minor protest and Lannick dashed down the stairwell and into whatever lurked below.

    The cellar was a series of cramped chambers serving as storage for all manner of necessities for The Wanton Vicar . In the gloom Lannick discerned wheels of cheese, casks of ale, and seemingly endless bottles of wine. He managed to find a hand lamp amidst the stockpile, and judged there was some oil in it from the sloshing sound it made. He lit the wick with the burning ember from the fireplace and light spilled across the chamber.
    Hard footfalls sounded on the planks overhead. Fane’s men were either leaving or tossing the place. Lannick scanned every dark corner of the cellar and at last spotted a low, bolted door. This bolt did not give easily, scraping and squealing as he pulled. Eventually, though, it gave way, and a rush of stale air from the catacombs beyond threatened to extinguish his lamp. Lannick could see nothing in the narrow corridor before him, but the thudding sounds from above permitted no other choice.
    Just before plunging through the doorway, he turned back to the racks of wine. There were many bottles, so he reckoned Brugan could spare just one for an old friend. He grabbed it and departed.
    Take care, Brugan, and may we both survive long enough for me to repay you .

    The catacombs were said to be haunted, and the utter dark yielded little to the light of Lannick’s lantern. Strange winds whipped at him from every direction, and the air carried the sickly-sweet reek of decay. Occasionally a howl or scream from something, somewhere, pierced the wind’s moan. If the Scarlet Swords behind him weren’t enough, the thought of undead beasts stalking the darkness was sure to spur his pace.
    Lannick was a tall man, which didn’t match well with such low ceilings. He winced as he scraped his head again and again upon the roughly hewn rock. What was more, the tight passages twisted and turned, and he slammed into the walls more than once. But he figured the haphazard design provided him some small advantage. He guessed there was some chance his lantern’s light would be concealed from the