* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Here?s the next chapter in Victoria?s continuing fanfiction story!  Will the
gang ever make it out of Queen Sabra?s dungeon?  Can Eric somehow find a way
back to them?  Find out in Part 4 of ?Lambs Among Wolves?!

                                                *
--------------------
Lambs Among Wolves Part IV
[or, The Never-Ending Story] ;)
by Victoria Bishop

Standard Disclaimer: The kids aren't my creation, I'm just being mean to them
for a little while. They belong to Marvel. Queen Sabra et al came from my
twisted little mind, though.

Rated: PG-13, just to be on the safe side. Kinda dark and depressing.

     Sheila--along with every other worker at her table--flinched as one of
the taskmaster's cracked the whip above the head of one of them. In fact, the
only worker who _didn't_ flinch was the girl the whip was actually directed
at. Sheila's first thought was that she might be deaf, but she immediately
discarded that idea, _no one_ who talked as much as she did could be deaf.
Another warning from the whip--this one close enough to ruffle the girl's hair
had more of an effect. The girl rolled her eyes dramatically and stopped
talking.
     Finally.
     The instant the guard's back was turned, however, the girl made a rude
gesture in his direction. Sheila raised her eyebrows, wondering if that
particular gesture crossed over into other dimensions and meant the same thing
it did back home.
     "Jerk," the girl flipped a honey-blonde curl out of her eyes and turned
back to pounding the metal with her tiny hammer. "Isn't he?" she asked the
other workers at the table.
     No one answered her.
     Everyone else kept their eyes on their work, but Sheila lifted her head
slightly to meet the girl's eyes.
     "Well, he is. Jeez, can't people talk and work at the same time?" the
girl obviously took Sheila's acknowledgement of her presence as an invitation
to talk some more. "Just because he's probably to stupid to walk and chew gum
and the same time..."
     'Walk and chew gum at the same time?!' Sheila's eyes widened at the
phrase.
     The girl didn't notice though, she was muttering on and on about the
taskmaster's obvious lack of intelligence. "...not like this is the most
difficult job in the world. Flattening metal with a hammer. They don't even
have the brains to design rollers to do the job..."
     Sheila had to stifle a smile. The girl didn't seem depressed or beaten
down, like the other slaves. Did complaining really keep her spirits up? She
was tempted to try it when she and Diana met in the cell, to see if it worked.
     Her smile faded when she thought of the cells. Was Bobby really in the
same cell as Hank and Presto? Diana had only seen him once, and Sheila
couldn't shake the feeling that her friend hadn't told her the whole story.
Her friends tended to overlook the fact that for all his impetuous bravery,
her brother was still only ten years old and that even though he wielded his
heavy club with ease, he wasn't physically as strong as they were.
      'Hank and Presto will look after him', she told himself firmly.
      'If they're in the same cell.'

     Hank's arm shot out in a reflexive gesture when he and Presto were shoved
into their cell. Presto didn't stumble like he usually did, finally getting
used to the momentum of the guard's heavy hand.
     "Cell sweet cell," the magician muttered.
     Hank didn't answer.
     "Hank?"
     "Bobby?" Hank exclaimed, starting for the still form lying in a corner of
the cell.
     "Bobby?" Presto followed Hank's blurry form.
     Hank knelt beside the boy, thinking he was asleep. A chill shot through
him when he saw that although Bobby's eyes were open, he hadn't moved or even
seemed to notice them. "Bobby?" he whispered.
     'If you die down there, they just leave you...'
     That meant he wasn't dead. If he was dead, they wouldn't have brought him
back to the cell. "Bobby," he said sternly. "Bobby, answer me."
     "Can't do it anymore, Hank," Bobby whispered, still not looking at Hank.
     "Sure you can, Bobby." The words came out of Hank's mouth purely on
reflex. "It's just for a little while longer. I've found a way out."
     Slowly, Bobby's eyes tracked towards Hank's face.
     Encouraged, Hank went on. "I saw it when I was working up on the cliffs."
     "Where is it?" Bobby croaked.
     "By the last dungeon. Near the metal-working places. You really can't see
it from ground level, because the dungeon is so big, but from up high I
noticed it. If we just climb the hills next to that last dungeon, we could..."
Hank's voice trailed off as Bobby closed his eyes. "Bobby?"
     "I know the place you're talking about," Bobby said dully. "It's right
near the mine entrance. They'll never let us through there."
     "I wasn't planning on asking permission," Hank replied in a tight voice.
     "Too many guards," Bobby muttered. His eyes opened and he looked Hank
directly in the eye. "We aren't ever getting out of here."
     Hank lowered his own eyes, he couldn't meet that too-adult gaze without
losing what little optimism he had left. "We're getting out of here," he
replied as firmly as he could. "We _are_." He snuck another glance at the boy
and saw....'Is that pity?' "We are, Bobby," he said, although his voice wasn't
as strong as he would like.
     "But not if we give up," Presto added.
     Hank glanced at him gratefully. The magician had been so quiet that Hank
had almost forgotten he was there. "He's right, Bobby."
     "Hank..."
     "You're tired," Presto said quickly. "And hungry. They keep you on longer
shifts than us, Bobby, and _we're_ tired. Once you've rested, you won't feel
this way."
     "And you need something to eat, Bobby," Hank continued. "You can have my
share when they bring the food."
     "And mine, too," Presto volunteered.
     Hank shifted his position so that he was sitting alongside the young
barbarian and smoothed the dirty blond hair as best he could. "You need to
sleep. Everything seems impossible when you're this tired. We _will_ get out,
Bobby. _All_ of us." Hank kept up his soothing litany until the boy's
breathing finally evened out and his own voice became hoarse. After that there
was nothing else to do but sit with Presto in troubled silence.

     Eric awoke to a soft muzzle nudging gently but insistently at his cheek.
For once he was happy to see the little unicorn the group had adopted--it sure
beat waking up to the crack of a whip. He even managed to move one hand enough
to stroke the fiery-coloured mane. Uni turned slightly and pushed her muzzle
under his shoulder, pressing steadily upwards.
     "You want me to get up?" Eric asked in disbelief. In reply, the pressure
increased. Eric watched in amazement as the slender horn on Uni's forehead
glowed slightly and then faded."Teleport? Can you teleport again?"
     There was a small bleat of affirmation, but Uni obviously wasn't going to
go anywhere while he was still sprawled on the floor.
     "Gimme a minute, Uni," Eric sighed. "And stand back, you don't want me
falling on you."
     Uni let out a snort of impatience and moved to his side, trying
unsuccessfully to get him up that way.
     "Okay, okay," Eric said, annoyed. "Jeez. Pushy unicorn."
     Uni pranced slightly at the familiar tone and resumed her encouragement.
     Eric managed to get his arms straightened beneath him without his vision
clouding, and with a deep breath, his shoved himself upwards onto his knees.
Immediately, dizziness assaulted him and he began falling forward. He would
have hit the floor again if Uni hadn't placed her body beneath his torso.
There was a small grunt from the animal as Eric's arm and chest hit her back,
but he was able to hold onto the ground he had gained. Using Uni's shoulders
and withers as props, he maintained his balance until the room stopped
spinning. Finally, he released the unicorn and rested his hands on his thighs,
gritting his teeth against the pain and trying to get his breathing under
control. He was surprised to find that his injuries weren't making things any
harder than this. Parts of his back seemed almost numb--something else to be
grateful for.
     Uni took several steps back and regarded Eric, her head cocked to one
side like a dog. With another small bleat, she circled him and nudged her head
between his arm and side. "Now?" Eric asked, involuntarily crooking his arm
around her neck. "Jeez, how am I going to--" He took a deep breath. "Okay.
_Anything_ to get out of here. Any idea where we're going?"
     Uni regarded him with big innocent eyes.
     "I didn't think so."

     Hank eyes flew open when he heard a muffled moan from Bobby. The guards
had come and taken Presto away for another shift some time ago and Hank had
decided this was as good a time as any to get some rest himself. Now it looked
like that wasn't going to happen. He shifted over slightly and put a hand on
the Barbarian's shoulder. "Bobby?" In spite of the dim light, he could see
Bobby's pained expression and tear tracks on the freckled cheeks. "Bobby," he
shook the boy slightly.
     Bobby came awake with a gasp and grabbed onto Hank's arms.
     "It's okay, Bobby," Hank assured him.
     Bobby's eyes were haunted as he looked at the older boy in mute misery.
     "It's okay. I'm here." Hank struggled to keep his voice calm even though
fury was coursing through him. Fury directed towards Queen Sabra for enslaving
them; towards whatever force brought them to this hellish Realm; towards
Dungeon Master for abandoning them; towards Venger because...because he was
_Venger_. "You were dreaming, Bobby." As soon as the words were out of his
mouth, Hank realized how futile they were. For all he knew, the nightmare was
the lesser of two evils. "But now that you're awake, maybe you should eat
some--"
     The sound of the heavy door opening cut off Hank's words. The large frame
of one of the taskmasters was silhouetted in the doorway. "Little gold-hair.
Back to work."
     "He hasn't eaten yet," Hank protested.
     The guard stared at him in disbelief for a few seconds, then walked
further into the cell and gave Hank a cuff that sent him sprawling. "Wasn't
talking to you. You," he pointed towards Bobby.  "On your feet."
     Bobby stood up, moving more like an octogenarian than a ten-year-old.
     "Bobby, stay where you are," Hank ordered.
     "You can't get out of here if you're dead, Hank," Bobby said solemnly.
     Hank stayed where he was, affected as much by Bobby's tone as his words.
It was only after he'd been alone in the cell for quite some time that he
realized Bobby had said 'you' instead of 'we.'
     He didn't get any sleep after that.

     'It wasn't this bad last time,' Eric reflected, waiting for his
surroundings to swim into focus. The first time he had teleported, the
experience had been disorienting, but it hadn't left him lightheaded and
nauseous.  'Of course, last time I still had skin on my back,' he reflected,
his sense of outrage rising again. The dizziness forced him onto his hands and
knees, and for once he was  grateful that his stomach was empty.
     Uni saw any loss of Eric's vertical stance as a bad sign and expressed
her displeasure with a series of high-pitched whinnies and bleats. She pushed
her nose under the Cavalier's face, trying to urge him back up.
     "Will you just hold on a minute?!" Eric snapped, taking out all his fear
and suffering on the only creature available.
     "Byeah," Uni stopped her ministrations and stepped back slightly.
     Eric took several deep breaths and slowly straightened up again, he
wondered why his back didn't seem to be bothering him as much.  He remembered
his gym teacher refering to people "hitting the wall," finding a point beyond
pain.  'Maybe that's where I am.' He opened his eyes and looked around the
room.  'Nope. I'm just halluncinating. I must be.'
     The room Uni had teleported to was obviously a private one. Although it
was richly decorated, it came nowhere near the more public rooms that Eric had
seen in the palace. As he glanced around the room, nausea swept over him
again, although this time it had nothing to do with his injuries or
teleporting and everything to do with the objects decorating the walls. More
specifically, the heads decorating the walls.
      'This is one psycho queen!' Eric thought, swallowing hard. 'What is
this? Her trophy room?' He immediately looked away from the dismembered heads
and glanced around the rest of the room. Various treasures and weapons were
displayed on any flat surface, and Eric began to suspect that they all
belonged to the unfortunates that adorned the walls. His stomach bottomed out
as a horrible thought struck him and he forced himself to look up at the heads
again, praying that he wouldn't recognize any of them.
     Uni nuzzled his palm, and Eric realized he was clutching her mane in a
death grip. Only when he saw that none of the heads were familiar did he
release the small animal, involuntarily smoothing the silken mane back into
order. "Great teleporting, Uni," he shuddered.
     As he looked down at her, a flash of bright orange metal caught his eye.
Turning slightly, he stared in astonishment at the familiar weapon and the
barest flicker of hope sprang to life inside of him.
     "Great teleporting, Uni!" Eric exclaimed more loudly, chucking the animal
under the chin. Completely forgetting his injuries, he tried to spring to his
feet and immediately lost his balance. He clutched at the wall as he waited
for the room to align itself again. He opened his eyes cautiously and found
himself confronted with the agonized death-mask of some poor soul that had
inspired the Queen's rage. 'What did you do, buddy?' He mentally asked the
head. 'Save a puppy?'
     'Psychotic witch!' He pushed himself away from the wall and started
towards his sheild, trying to ignore the fact that fresh blood was weeping
from his back again. He found that all of their weapons had been kept
together, along with their clothes. 'Guess she hasn't had the chance to place
them yet,' he decided.
     As he slipped him arm into the straps of his sheild, the flame of hope
burned a little brighter. Sparing only a moment to revel in the reassurance it
gave him, he quickly began gathering up the rest of the weapons. He paused a
moment when he saw a sword and a whip. 'Those don't belong to any of us.' He
was just debating whether he should take them when the door burst open.
     Eric spun around. Three guards were entering the room, carrying spoils
and a few more heads. They couldn't see him at the moment, because their
burdens were blocking him from their line of vision, but as soon as they put
everything down, he'd have to be ready to fight.
     Eric grabbed Hank's bow on pure instinct, even though he knew it wouldn't
help him. He had taken archery classes at one point, but still didn't have any
aptitude with the weapon. With his injuries--probably even without them--he
didn't stand a chance against the burly men. He edged closer to the wall just
as the first guard put his burden down...

Thanks to Rhonda for the suggestions and Amy for letting me break up this
monster story.

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And now, (after a slight delay, sorry about that guys!), here are Parts 3 and
4 of Mike Bugg?s story, ?The Curse of the Warduke?!
Story Rating for Parts 3 and 4: PG-13.

The Curse of Warduke
by Michael D. Bugg
MdBugg@aol.com

Author's Note:  This work, based on the Dungeons & Dragons cartoon show of the
mid '80s, is copyrighted by the author, 1997.  Permission is hereby given to
copy and distribute this work, so long as credit is given to the author.

And now that I have the legal blurb out of the way, I must apologize.
Originally, this story was to be only three parts long, but now I find myself
going into at least a forth part, possibly a fifth.  I hope my readers will
bear with me; this story has taken on a life of its own and I can only let it
flow as it should.

Part 3:  Battle on the Moor
        A dark form approached the briars.  Though he thought that he knew who it
was, Hank readied his bow and glanced at the others, who were likewise
preparing their weapons for sudden, violent use.  He could almost feel the
heat of Bobby's rage, just waiting to be loosed, and the young Barbarian was a
match next to a bonfire beside Scarlet.  Hank wondered what the Bearers had
done to her.  He didn't let his thoughts linger long along that path--it
brought home too many fears about Eric and Sheila.
        He refused to think on the Dungeon Master's riddle for the same reason.
        "I sense a great disturbance in the Force . . ." he hissed at the shadow.
        ". . . the last time I felt it, it was in the presence of my old master,"
Diana's voice answered him.  It was a long password, but it worked.  Hank
relaxed fractionally--Diana's voice did not sound too upset, which hopefully
meant good news.  Bobby and Scarlet did not.
        "Well?" asked Presto as Diana joined them in the thicket.  She was dressed as
a serving woman, with a shawl pulled low around her face.  She pushed that
shawl back as she took a seat, gratefully accepting the waterskin offered by
Hank.
        "Thanks."  She took a long drought.  "Well, the good news is that they
escaped.  Eric apparently rescued Sheila from being burned at the stake as a
witch at the last moment, stole a horse, and rode away."
        "Thank God," Bobby breathed, sagging.  Uni neighed comfortingly, nudging him,
and Bobby stroked her mane slowly.
        Hank studied Diana's face, and his stomach did another flip-flop.  "And the
bad news?"

        Sheila awoke to the sensation of cold water at her lips.  She drank
eagerly--how long had it been since she had been offered water?  An eternity.
When more water was offered, she drank that too.  And more.
        A little caught in the back of her throat, making her cough.  Her lungs hurt.
"Easy," a voice said, familiar and yet unknown at the same time.  The word was
gentle, but cold as ice.
        Sheila opened her eyes.  When she could get them to focus, she stared into
the face of Death.
        She jerked away with a gasp, hand reflexively seeking the hood of her cloak
before she saw clearly the armor below that black, dragon-winged helm.
"Eric?" she asked in a trembling voice, almost a gasp.
        The man in the helm hesitated before answering, "Yes.  I was--am--Eric."  He
did not sound completely certain of that fact.
        "Where are we?" Sheila asked, looking around.  They seemed to be in a forest,
crouched by a little stream.  Nearby, a large war horse whuffed impatiently.
There was no sign of the Bearers' Keep.  Her lips were cracked and dry despite
the water Eric had given her, her wrists still chaffed where rope and chain
had bound her, and her back . . .  Gritting her teeth, she tried to forget her
back.
        "In the woods, a little over ten miles from the Keep," Eric said, and Sheila
turned to regard him again.  His eyes were shadowed by the helm, though the
fading light of the sun caught them just right to make them seem to flash red,
almost like an orc's eyes.  She felt herself shiver as she remembered
everything that had happened.
        Eric stood and helped her to her feet.  She managed to walk unaided for a few
steps before her knees threatened to give way.  Her back burned like fire and
her stomach, now that she had had enough to drink, rumbled with hunger.
        "Can you sit up to ride?" Eric asked her.
        "I think so," she said, ignoring the pain of her wounds. Trying to, anyway.
"Where are we going?  To find the others?"
        Eric shook his head before turning his back and striding over to the horse.
"I don't know where they are, though I suspect that they're back in the
direction of the Bearers.  We aren't riding back that way alone."
        "So where are we going?" Sheila repeated as he helped her into the saddle and
climbed up behind her.  She couldn't repress a hiss of pain as his hand
brushed her back.
        "Sorry," he said in a voice that conveyed absolutely no compassion for her
pain, but rather a conditioned response.  "We're going to find my army," he
told her before she could ask again.

        Sheila became lost in a haze of darkness and pain as they rode through the
night.  Her back screamed fire at the slightest touch, and that fire never
faded from her thighs.  Several times she fell asleep, or maybe passed out,
only to awake with a whimper as her back refused to bear her weight against
Eric's chest any longer.  Through it all, Eric never spoke, not even to answer
direct questions.
        Until finally, as the false dawn of four suns lit the cloudy sky with a dim,
grey glow, he said in a voice as harsh and cold as stone, "We have company."
        Dully, Sheila looked up.  They were crossing a moor, half-shrouded in pre-
dawn mist, barren save for a few shrubs.  To their right, scarcely more than
shadows in the fog, a dozen men on horseback galloped towards them.  A fierce
war cry went up from them, and a white banner was lifted.
        "Quickly," Eric said.  "Slide off and turn invisible until I deal with them."
        There was no mistaking his tone.  "Eric, no!  We can just out ride them!"
        He laughed, a harsh, grating sound.  "On a horse that has carried two people
all night long?  Hardly!  And I wouldn't if I could.  Off, now!"  And he
pushed her from the saddle.
        Sheila hit the ground like a sack of potatoes, and rolled. The pain as her
back touched the stony ground was nearly as bad as when the whip had first
kissed it.  She retched as the world spun around her in sickening agony.
Dimly, reflexively, she managed to pull her cloak up and over herself.
Through a small space between the cloak and the ground, she watched Eric--Eric
the Cavalier, Eric of the Unsteady Nerves, Eric the Rich Man's Kid--take war
to a dozen battle-hardened knights.
        A lump of burning ice twisted in her stomach when she heard his wordless
battle-cry.
        He rode into the midst of them without hesitation, and a dozen men split
themselves to avoid the path of one.  His sword struck once, and a man toppled
from his mount, the sword ripping through steel mail like cloth.  Never
slowing, never hesitating, he spun to meet the attack of the next.
        Five minutes later, Eric dismounted, striding past eleven fallen men towards
the twelfth, who struggled to his feet, sword in hand.  With a contemptuous
flick of his wrist, Eric sent that sword flying.  The Bearer--a boy scarcely
older than Eric himself, rubbed his sore wrist--eyes wide in fear.  Eric held
his blade to his neck.
        "What is your name, boy?" he asked.
        "V-Vylar," the youth answered, adding "Demon scum!" almost half-heartedly.
        "Vy . . . lar . . ."  Eric drew the word into a growl.  "I have a task for
you, Vylar.  Go back to your bishop, archbishop, high priest, or whatever you
call him and deliver a message for me.  Tell him that the Warduke is coming
for his head."  The boy didn't move.  "Well, go!  You have a long walk ahead
of you."
        " . . . walk ? . . ."
        "Yes.  I have need of your horses, so you'll have to walk.  What, don't you
think that twelve horses are a fair exchange for your lives?"  Vylar's eyes
flickered to his companions.  "Oh, yes," Eric told him.  "I left them
breathing.  The first life that my sword steals will be that of your dear
Archbishop.  You may tell him that for me too."  Eric sheathed his sword and
strode away, calmly gathering the reins of the horses as if he were buying
them in a marketplace.  The youth didn't move as Eric led them away.
        "Sheila!  Sheila?  Where are you, girl?" Eric demanded, eyes searching.  It
wasn't until they passed over her without hesitating for the third time that
Sheila remembered her cloak.  Croaking weakly, she managed to brush it a
little bit off her.  It was enough; Eric ran to her side, crouching down to
brush her hair back from her face with a gentle hand.  "Oh God, I'm sorry!  I
pushed you too hard!"
        "Especially from the horse," she managed weakly.  His hangdog expression was
almost like the Eric she knew.
        "I'm sorry," he repeated.  "This time you can have your own horse," he
promised with an attempt at a smile.  It faded quickly.
        "I don't know if that's such a good idea right now," she said.  "I think I'm
bleeding again.  I'm not sure if I could stay in the saddle."
        Eric cursed.  "Well, we can't stay here.  Can you ride a few more miles?
We're almost there."  As he spoke, he lifted her with a preternatural strength
that hardly seemed to notice her weight, combined with a gentleness that
seemed strange, coming from the wearer of that black helm.  She tried to bite
back a whimper as she was moved.
        "Do I have a choice?" she asked, not quite keeping the bitterness from her
voice.
        "No.  I'm sorry," he told her as he swung into the saddle of one of the
Bearers' mounts.

        Eric rode as gently as he could, but even so, Sheila again hovered in that
neverland of pain that was becoming so familiar.  When he finally brought
their mount to a halt, she opened her eyes.  They stood at the edge of a rough
camp of hide-covered tents.  Tall humanoids with sharp, jagged teeth and
mottled green flesh approached them, bearing weapons of black iron.
        Hobgoblins!  Sheila's heart lurched.  "Eric . . ."
        "Easy," he whispered before raising his voice to speak to the Hobgoblin
warriors.  "Neh tegru Warduke ha!"
        "Tagh Shiv," the one in the lead said, dropping to one knee.  The others
quickly followed suit.  Cries of "Shiv Warduke!" rang throughout the camp.
        Sheila looked up at Eric.  His eyes burned in a shadowed face set with a cold
smile.  "My army," he said, and it was in the Warduke's voice.
        Blackness washed over her as the Warduke threw back his head and laughed.