Too much time wasted in this room, but it seemed perhaps that it didn’t matter. He almost missed the first of the crashes, with the last pitiful whines of the rottweiler echoing up behind him as he retrieved his bow, but the thudding vibrations from the floor beneath were hard to ignore. Moros was up to something in the basement.
It didn’t take a genius to recognize that the basement would be a very bad place for the likes of Apollo to square off against Moros. Lots of places for the bruiser to hide, dark and musty, easy for one’s senses to get confused, and few exits. That last was the most glaring problem with going down into the cellar after him. Moros, insane as he clearly was, had not given up his hold (yet) on his intellect. He’d surely have the main staircase ready with some nasty bit of trap or worse still, would be waiting somewhere close by for him.
Apollo needed another way down.
That other way down would be dependent on what was located upstairs, and what was located in the cellar.
Finding a servants’ stair was easily done, and he made his way to the ground floor. From here, he moved with careful, slow steps, doing his best to keep his footfalls from resounding through the floor; he didn’t want Moros having any idea where he was headed, if he could avoid it. Not, of course, that Doom would likely hear him through the thick, sturdy planks of the floor, but taking such foolish chances would surely land him on the losing side of this fight.
After several interminable minutes of searching, he found what he was looking for: the kitchens. The kitchens would likely have what he needed, though he was by no means looking forward to doing what he was about to attempt. Mixing bowls, pans, pots, knives, forks, breadboards and cooking utensils of every description littered the tables, countertops, and walls.
What he was looking for, he found a short section of wall that was bare. The dumbwaiter was small, and would be horribly cramped for him, and he’d have to be careful of his weapon, but after opening the doors and seeing the shelved box he’d have to fit himself into, he knew that would work for him. He’d have to climb down, using both lengths of rope to keep himself from falling.
With a sigh, he slipped his bow over his shoulder and scooted into the dumbwaiter shaft. Inch by slow inch he lowered himself down, clamping down on both cords with each hand. Several minutes later, hands sore from holding two separate lengths of rope, he reached the bottom. He opened the basement dumbwaiter door, and crept out, peering about in the darkness for any signs of ambush. Moros was crafty, and he wouldn’t it put it past his adversary to have gotten the drop on him, even now.
As soon as he was free from the dumbwaiter, the bow was back in his hand, arrow nocked and at the ready.
The basement was large, he saw (more or less), as he moved through, which was to the good; it would give him ample room to fall back and continue firing before he had to abandon his best weapon and resort to melee. He hadn’t yet found a different way up, but for a basement this large, he expected there to be at least two different regular entryways.
And finally, there he was.
His seemingly infinitesimal speed in moving through the basement appeared to have paid off. Ahead of him shone a small shaft of light, coming down from the stairwell to the ground floor. Below and behind the staircase waited his hunter, his prey. Oh, he was good. He’d have been a perfect target for Moros, if he’d come down those stairs.
He didn’t bother congratulating himself on his foresight. This was a battle far from over, but drawing to its climax, he’d guess.
The split-second crescendo of music from his more deadly lyre agreed with him.