“The ale is good, isn’t it?” asked the old woman in a cackling voice. She was of a race that Delegado had never seen before. The most striking thing is that she had no eyes, but seemed to see perfectly. She had gray skin and thick fingers, and wore a series of burlap sack pieces sown together as a dress. Despite having no eyes she seemed proficient in magic, keeping a spellbook whose writing was all in bumps and ridges on thick vellum. From the happy, glazed look in the eyes of several of her henchmen, most of her magic consisted of enchantments. On meeting her Delegado had bluntly told her that her magic would not work on the warforged, and she had best not try any. She had tried once, surreptitiously, and Orphan had told her that she would die if she did it again.
The woman called herself Duchess – apparently delusions of royalty were common in this place – and she seemed intent on Delegado being happy. The half-orc had drank a vial of antitoxin before sitting down with the woman, but wasn’t keen on testing it against whatever the woman had brewed up. “I had some,” he said, very conscious of the filthy human with the heavy crossbow on the other side of the room.
“You lie to the Duchess,” the woman said, showing rotten teeth as she laughed. “You only held it to your lips.”
“Because it tastes like the Keeper’s sweat,” Delegado snapped. “I didn’t pay you in coin and wine bottles to chat over tea, Duchess, I paid you for information.” Due to Orphan’s mental condition, the half-orc had again assumed responsibility for the party. Thomas did not argue, instead keeping his eyes on Duchess’ motley crew of humans, orcs, goblinoids, and a gnoll with a hook on one hand.
“Duchess told you much,” the woman said defensively. And indeed she had, once she had established that the three of them were not ‘labyrinth people.’ Delegado was surprised to learn that there was a dedicated band of orcs and half-orcs in a cave system to the west that were dedicated to eradicating the evil in the Wastes. It sounded like something that those idiots in Thrane would try to do. One might as well try to eradicate the trees of the Eldeen Reaches or the swamp water of the Shadow Marches. “You promised Duchess that you are not here collecting bounties for the Three Sisters of Droaam, yes?”
“Yes,” Delegado said. “I told you I have worked there but that I am not working for them now. I am here now, on separate business, and I’m paying you to answer questions. All I’ve gotten from you so far is that the low-life scrags in the ruined buildings are one caste, and the ones with power and money like you keep to the whole buildings, like little tribes.”
“Yes, yes, the lowlies, they are horrible trash. The one with the living shadow called King is a leader of sorts to them, a prophet of the Dragon Below. He taught them cannibalism.”
“So he’s added to the evil, then,” Delegado, giving the warforged a significant look.
“That word has no meaning here,” Duchess told him simply.
“Well, he’s dead, so they’ll eat him now,” Delegado said. She laughed at that and applauded. “You said you have not much to sell.”
“Karbal has the only good store, the only good place. Karbal is a bugbear, dangerous, good with a sword, powerful. Those who work for him are very loyal, but he trusts no one. He hears anyone sneaking up on him.”
“And he only opens up at evening.”
“Every evening,” she said. “He may entertain private guests, like the missionary, but he only opens to everyone at evening.” She began to sound defensive. “I charge less, if you want a roof, and this room is big enough for your horses.”
“What missionary?”
“Bugbear woman preacher, came a few days ago,” the woman said, shrugging. “Crazy woman, trying to get people to help each other for free. Came here on purpose. She got a room at Karbal’s. Big talk in the Holt. Only talk in the Holt. Maybe Karbal wants to make little bugbears, heh.”
“She’s a Sovereign Host worshipper?” the half-orc asked.
The woman shrugged. “Those words mean nothing to me.”
“Hm,” Delegado said. “And can the three of us go to the inn at evening and leave our horses and things here?”
The woman gave a sickly smile. “Heh, no. Can’t control my people that much. Your horses are a fortune here.”
“I’ll stay with the horses,” Thomas said. “You control your people or I’ll kill them to the last man. And don’t try to take over my mind, the stormstalk will zap your spellbook. You’ll be helpless within a day.” The woman cringed. To Delegado and Orphan Thomas said, “Go ahead without me. I have a scroll with a message spell, I can alert you while you are there to anything important.” Delegado nodded.
“We’ll take this room for now, take your people elsewhere,” Delegado said, handing her a bag of flatbread. She took it greedily, and ushered her minions out.
Once they were alone, Orphan tapped the side of his head, letting Thomas and Delegado know they were being eavesdropped on. Delegado gave Feather some food and stroked the hawk’s back.
“We’ve got hours until evening,” Thomas said. “Let’s have lunch and then I’ll sleep so that I can stay up as long as you need at this Karbal’s place.”
Delegado nodded. Then to Orphan he whispered, “We’ll take the bags off and sell Karbal your horse for food and arrows, okay?”
“No complaints, I’d prefer my own feet,” Orphan agreed. There was a long pause. “I can’t wait to get away from this place,” the warforged finally said. The others nodded in glum agreement.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Chapter 19 - Part 4
Delegado made a hand motion to Thomas, and the two of them stopped in the street. This part of the Holt had better buildings, and each one had two guards at the front protecting what were probably businesses of a sort. The guards were a mixed bunch of various races. Two were orcs, one of whom sort of waved at Delegado once he saw the Tharashk dragonne on Delegado’s clothing. Delegado waved back but did not smile.
Orphan had come to a halt, and looked about to drop his reins. Delegado clicked his tongue, and Feather hopped onto the saddle’s pommel as the half-orc jumped down. “Orphan?” he asked.
The warforged turned to him. “I’m a murderer,” Orphan whispered. Delegado was no artificer, but he had been with Orphan long enough to pick up on some things. The warforged looked sick. If he had had a circulatory system he’d have gone pale, and if he’d have had a digestive track he’d have been ready to vomit.
“No you’re not,” Delegado said. “That half-daelkyr was making a stand, and he wouldn’t have taken no for an answer. In this town no one is innocent, anyway. It’s just a wretched hive of scum and villainy.”
“I acted without law, I acted out of necessity,” the warforged said. “I was a judge unto myself, letting my higher calling be ignored.” He looked into Delegado’s eyes. “I wanted to knock them out, but then the inhabitants would have killed them anyway and I would have looked weak.”
“Orphan, pull yourself together,” Delegado said. “We have to get moving. You did what you had to do.”
“I couldn’t consult,” Orphan said. “I just did.”
“You had no time,” Delegado told him. “Now come on, you’re looking weak.”
“You lead for now,” Orphan said. “You do the talking.”
Delegado looked back at Thomas. The half-daelkyr had heard the warforged, and nodded his head. “Alright,” Delegado said to the warforged. “Let’s go.”
The made their way to the only multi-story building that was within sight. Unlike the others it appeared to have at least been painted once, if not in the last century. A large sign in front of it portrayed a weatherbeaten male and female bugbear holding cups. Painted over the pair in rough, red paint were the words ‘Dead Before Morning.’
Three guards, not just two, stood before the closed double doors. One was a lizard-man, a tall, reptilian humanoid whose race hailed from Q’barra. He held a sword in one hand and a tall shield of bone in the other. A coat made of bearskin was draped around his shoulders. Another was a warforged, nearly twice as thick as Orphan, its coloring clearly indicating adamantine in its plating. Half of this warforged’s face had been burnt away by some long ago acid, completely eradicating one eye. It bore no sword, but it flexed powerful fists.
In the middle of the other two stood an orc, slightly bigger in size than Delegado. This was the orc that had not waved to him. He wore shaders, the wooden eye slits that helped full-blooded orcs move around in daylight. Along with the shaders the orc wore plate mail armor, albeit plate mail that had seen better days. He carried a greataxe like Thomas’ in two powerful hands.
“We don’t open until evening,” the orc said to Delegado in their tongue. “Not even for House Tharashk.”
“You mind if we stay here until evening?” Delegado asked, still in the same language. The orc shrugged, indicating he did not care. “You from the Marches?” Delegado inquired.
“Once you’re here it doesn’t matter where you’re from,” the orc sneered. “The fiends don’t let anyone leave. Once you’re here, you’re from Festering Holt, even if you weren’t. There’s only two types here. Those who eat and those who are food. The only place to go for those with coin and strength is here.”
“This the inn?”
“Inn, tavern, general store,” the orc told him. “This is ‘Dead Before Morning.’ Karbal is the boss here.”
“Karbal an orc?”
“Goblin. The big kind with the nose.”
“Bugbear.”
“Whatever.”
“Can I speak to him?” Delegado asked.
“I don’t bother Karbal,” the orc said. “I like my job.”
“What are you saying to him?” the burned-face warforged asked suddenly.
“Shut!” the orc barked in a crude attempt to speak the common tongue. The warforged scowled, but was quiet.
“Thanks, brother,” Delegado said. He took a small flask of whiskey from his saddlebag and handed it to the orc. “This is a gift from Delegado d’Tharashk.”
“Thanks,” the orc said, taking it. He unstoppered it and smelled it. “Nice.” He closed it and put it away. “Mrag from Yrlag, then the Labyrinth, thanks you.”
Delegado nodded and led Thomas and Orphan away. There was over five hours until evening, and he didn’t want to be a sitting target until then. One of the other power groups in the area might be able to tell him more. He started with the building guarded by the orc who had waved to him.
Orphan had come to a halt, and looked about to drop his reins. Delegado clicked his tongue, and Feather hopped onto the saddle’s pommel as the half-orc jumped down. “Orphan?” he asked.
The warforged turned to him. “I’m a murderer,” Orphan whispered. Delegado was no artificer, but he had been with Orphan long enough to pick up on some things. The warforged looked sick. If he had had a circulatory system he’d have gone pale, and if he’d have had a digestive track he’d have been ready to vomit.
“No you’re not,” Delegado said. “That half-daelkyr was making a stand, and he wouldn’t have taken no for an answer. In this town no one is innocent, anyway. It’s just a wretched hive of scum and villainy.”
“I acted without law, I acted out of necessity,” the warforged said. “I was a judge unto myself, letting my higher calling be ignored.” He looked into Delegado’s eyes. “I wanted to knock them out, but then the inhabitants would have killed them anyway and I would have looked weak.”
“Orphan, pull yourself together,” Delegado said. “We have to get moving. You did what you had to do.”
“I couldn’t consult,” Orphan said. “I just did.”
“You had no time,” Delegado told him. “Now come on, you’re looking weak.”
“You lead for now,” Orphan said. “You do the talking.”
Delegado looked back at Thomas. The half-daelkyr had heard the warforged, and nodded his head. “Alright,” Delegado said to the warforged. “Let’s go.”
The made their way to the only multi-story building that was within sight. Unlike the others it appeared to have at least been painted once, if not in the last century. A large sign in front of it portrayed a weatherbeaten male and female bugbear holding cups. Painted over the pair in rough, red paint were the words ‘Dead Before Morning.’
Three guards, not just two, stood before the closed double doors. One was a lizard-man, a tall, reptilian humanoid whose race hailed from Q’barra. He held a sword in one hand and a tall shield of bone in the other. A coat made of bearskin was draped around his shoulders. Another was a warforged, nearly twice as thick as Orphan, its coloring clearly indicating adamantine in its plating. Half of this warforged’s face had been burnt away by some long ago acid, completely eradicating one eye. It bore no sword, but it flexed powerful fists.
In the middle of the other two stood an orc, slightly bigger in size than Delegado. This was the orc that had not waved to him. He wore shaders, the wooden eye slits that helped full-blooded orcs move around in daylight. Along with the shaders the orc wore plate mail armor, albeit plate mail that had seen better days. He carried a greataxe like Thomas’ in two powerful hands.
“We don’t open until evening,” the orc said to Delegado in their tongue. “Not even for House Tharashk.”
“You mind if we stay here until evening?” Delegado asked, still in the same language. The orc shrugged, indicating he did not care. “You from the Marches?” Delegado inquired.
“Once you’re here it doesn’t matter where you’re from,” the orc sneered. “The fiends don’t let anyone leave. Once you’re here, you’re from Festering Holt, even if you weren’t. There’s only two types here. Those who eat and those who are food. The only place to go for those with coin and strength is here.”
“This the inn?”
“Inn, tavern, general store,” the orc told him. “This is ‘Dead Before Morning.’ Karbal is the boss here.”
“Karbal an orc?”
“Goblin. The big kind with the nose.”
“Bugbear.”
“Whatever.”
“Can I speak to him?” Delegado asked.
“I don’t bother Karbal,” the orc said. “I like my job.”
“What are you saying to him?” the burned-face warforged asked suddenly.
“Shut!” the orc barked in a crude attempt to speak the common tongue. The warforged scowled, but was quiet.
“Thanks, brother,” Delegado said. He took a small flask of whiskey from his saddlebag and handed it to the orc. “This is a gift from Delegado d’Tharashk.”
“Thanks,” the orc said, taking it. He unstoppered it and smelled it. “Nice.” He closed it and put it away. “Mrag from Yrlag, then the Labyrinth, thanks you.”
Delegado nodded and led Thomas and Orphan away. There was over five hours until evening, and he didn’t want to be a sitting target until then. One of the other power groups in the area might be able to tell him more. He started with the building guarded by the orc who had waved to him.
Chapter 19 - Part 3
“This place is disgusting,” Orphan whispered to Delegado.
“You noticed,” the half-orc replied sarcastically.
Festering Holt was living up to the first part of its name, the smell as they approached was that of an open sewer. This seemed to be because refuse was thrown directly in the street. There was no sewer in Festering Holt any more than there were streets or common areas. The place was a town, or a hamlet rather, only in the crudest sense of geographic proximity. The buildings, or at least the ones standing, were jumbled together in a random fashion, looking like nothing but droppings from a passing bird in the form of wood and cheap brick. Not a building in the place looked like it would withstand a sledgehammer, and not a patch of ground didn’t stink of bodily fluids. The Holt had received only a light dusting of snow as compared to the heavier accumulation some twenty miles to the southwest.
All eyes were on the three mounted riders as they came into town. The inhabitants of the town, and odd mixture of races, looked enviously at the riders. Several of them looked at the horses and licked their lips hungrily. The place stank of hunger and despair.
Thomas suddenly drew his hood back, and let his stormstalk look out. The sight of the symbiont made the few furtive inhabitants dart back into the spaces between buildings and burnt walls.
“Are these all that there are here?” Orphan asked Delegado. He saw three of them, an orc and two hobgoblins, suddenly turn on a fourth, a smaller goblin, and beat him to death. They began to tear off his clothes and cut his body up for food even before he finished kicking.
“I don’t know,” Delegado said. The usually nonplussed half-orc looked disgusted. “The better structures seem to be in the middle of town. Maybe…maybe there’s some civilization there.”
“Perhaps there is some law,” Orphan said hopefully.
“Don’t bet on it,” Delegado said, wrinkling his nose as a young shifter woman standing in a bloodstained doorway beckoned him with a filthy claw.
A zapping sound made them turn their heads. A pair of dirty humans with nail-studded clubs had started to move in behind them, and the stormstalk had whipped around and burnt the ground in front of one of them.
They rode on, watched, but unmolested. As they passed a gap of snow-dusted, rocky ground in between two groups of buildings, a man walked out from an alleyway, flanked by a pair of hobgoblins with swords. He stood in the middle of the street and raised a hand. Delegado looked at Orphan, and the warforged nodded. The half-orc took out his bow and moved his mount two steps to the right. Feather was sent up to look at the rooftops. Thomas opened his satchel of scrolls.
Orphan dismounted, truthfully happy to be off the horse and on his feet. He regarded the strange man before him. “You’d better have a good reason for stopping us,” Orphan said. He was not trying to impress the fellow, or bluff in any way. He was simply being honest.
The man could have been human, if not for his unsettling eyes, which seemed to possess a luminescent glow. Orphan also realized that the man’s shadow was not just a shadow. It was a diaphanous shape, faintly humanoid, but hollow and faceless, hiding in the man’s real shadow.
“You are new to the Holt,” the man said. “You need a guide.”
“We already have a daelkyr half-blood,” Orphan said loudly. Thomas’ head picked up and he examined the other half-daelkyr closely.
“I am King,” the half-daelkyr. “That is my name.”
“I see,” Orphan said. He realized that all eyes were on him now. The Holt’s inhabitants were peering from cracks in the wall, from windows, from around corners. They were deciding if Orphan and his friends were food.
The warforged made a decision born of necessity. He did not know if Sensei Visha would approve, but his mission was clear. Some things were unavoidable.
Orphan jumped up in the air, kicking first one hobgoblin in the forehead, then the other. Both died as their skulls fractured. Then Orphan had his hands around King’s throat, and was choking the man.
“I’m not impressed with your choice of name,” Orphan said.
The man’s shadow tried enveloping them, blocking out the light, but Orphan did not need to see someone he was holding. King struggled futilely, unable to break Orphan’s grip. Finally he died, his neck snapping, and his shadow symbiont broke free of his dead body, fleeing into a nearby alley.
Everything was hushed, and Orphan decided not loot the bodies. What he had done was horrible enough. And besides, a more practical side of his mind said. It shows more strength if I feel I can ignore their possessions.
Orphan took his horse’s reins, and started walking to the center of town. Feather flew down onto Delegado’s shoulder, and then the half-orc and half-daelkyr followed. Thomas paused long enough to spit on the other half-daelkyr’s face.
As soon as they were away, a crowd descended on the bodies and stripped them, then carried them away for food.
“You noticed,” the half-orc replied sarcastically.
Festering Holt was living up to the first part of its name, the smell as they approached was that of an open sewer. This seemed to be because refuse was thrown directly in the street. There was no sewer in Festering Holt any more than there were streets or common areas. The place was a town, or a hamlet rather, only in the crudest sense of geographic proximity. The buildings, or at least the ones standing, were jumbled together in a random fashion, looking like nothing but droppings from a passing bird in the form of wood and cheap brick. Not a building in the place looked like it would withstand a sledgehammer, and not a patch of ground didn’t stink of bodily fluids. The Holt had received only a light dusting of snow as compared to the heavier accumulation some twenty miles to the southwest.
All eyes were on the three mounted riders as they came into town. The inhabitants of the town, and odd mixture of races, looked enviously at the riders. Several of them looked at the horses and licked their lips hungrily. The place stank of hunger and despair.
Thomas suddenly drew his hood back, and let his stormstalk look out. The sight of the symbiont made the few furtive inhabitants dart back into the spaces between buildings and burnt walls.
“Are these all that there are here?” Orphan asked Delegado. He saw three of them, an orc and two hobgoblins, suddenly turn on a fourth, a smaller goblin, and beat him to death. They began to tear off his clothes and cut his body up for food even before he finished kicking.
“I don’t know,” Delegado said. The usually nonplussed half-orc looked disgusted. “The better structures seem to be in the middle of town. Maybe…maybe there’s some civilization there.”
“Perhaps there is some law,” Orphan said hopefully.
“Don’t bet on it,” Delegado said, wrinkling his nose as a young shifter woman standing in a bloodstained doorway beckoned him with a filthy claw.
A zapping sound made them turn their heads. A pair of dirty humans with nail-studded clubs had started to move in behind them, and the stormstalk had whipped around and burnt the ground in front of one of them.
They rode on, watched, but unmolested. As they passed a gap of snow-dusted, rocky ground in between two groups of buildings, a man walked out from an alleyway, flanked by a pair of hobgoblins with swords. He stood in the middle of the street and raised a hand. Delegado looked at Orphan, and the warforged nodded. The half-orc took out his bow and moved his mount two steps to the right. Feather was sent up to look at the rooftops. Thomas opened his satchel of scrolls.
Orphan dismounted, truthfully happy to be off the horse and on his feet. He regarded the strange man before him. “You’d better have a good reason for stopping us,” Orphan said. He was not trying to impress the fellow, or bluff in any way. He was simply being honest.
The man could have been human, if not for his unsettling eyes, which seemed to possess a luminescent glow. Orphan also realized that the man’s shadow was not just a shadow. It was a diaphanous shape, faintly humanoid, but hollow and faceless, hiding in the man’s real shadow.
“You are new to the Holt,” the man said. “You need a guide.”
“We already have a daelkyr half-blood,” Orphan said loudly. Thomas’ head picked up and he examined the other half-daelkyr closely.
“I am King,” the half-daelkyr. “That is my name.”
“I see,” Orphan said. He realized that all eyes were on him now. The Holt’s inhabitants were peering from cracks in the wall, from windows, from around corners. They were deciding if Orphan and his friends were food.
The warforged made a decision born of necessity. He did not know if Sensei Visha would approve, but his mission was clear. Some things were unavoidable.
Orphan jumped up in the air, kicking first one hobgoblin in the forehead, then the other. Both died as their skulls fractured. Then Orphan had his hands around King’s throat, and was choking the man.
“I’m not impressed with your choice of name,” Orphan said.
The man’s shadow tried enveloping them, blocking out the light, but Orphan did not need to see someone he was holding. King struggled futilely, unable to break Orphan’s grip. Finally he died, his neck snapping, and his shadow symbiont broke free of his dead body, fleeing into a nearby alley.
Everything was hushed, and Orphan decided not loot the bodies. What he had done was horrible enough. And besides, a more practical side of his mind said. It shows more strength if I feel I can ignore their possessions.
Orphan took his horse’s reins, and started walking to the center of town. Feather flew down onto Delegado’s shoulder, and then the half-orc and half-daelkyr followed. Thomas paused long enough to spit on the other half-daelkyr’s face.
As soon as they were away, a crowd descended on the bodies and stripped them, then carried them away for food.
Chapter 19 - Part 2
One thing that they had plenty of were druid scrolls, particularly utilitarian spells that helped them endure the elements and allowed them to pass without trace in the snow. The latter did not have a permanent effect to them, but lasted long enough to make their purchase worthwhile.
The Demon Wastes looked peculiar under the snow. Whereas snow normally made a place look serene, here it looked dangerous. The snow in the Wastes merely seemed to exist to give cover to the many dangerous things in the land.
There seemed to be very deep snow, deep enough for Orphan to ride his horse rather than run, but in a number of places the earth poked through the snow cover, and in other places the snow seemed to shrink back from the ground. In the occasional blackened craters of glass, not a flake had stuck. These were the things that Delegado had always avoiding on their way to the caves, and avoided still.
The snow was not always white. Oddly there was a large patch of snow with streaks of crimson in it, like blood, which Delegado told them quite sternly not to touch. Apparently some of the snow in the Wastes was poisonous. Orphan found the thought revolting, and was even more aghast when Delegado told him that some snow had special rusting abilities. Nothing was without danger in the Wastes.
They set up tents in the lee of a large boulder for the night, eating their supper cold. Orphan took first watch and the second as well, choosing not to wake Thomas up. Three moons were full enough to give plenty of light. For the first time in days the skies were clear. The following morning, on the twenty-second of Sypheros, they set out early. Within two hours, they arrived at Festering Holt.
The Demon Wastes looked peculiar under the snow. Whereas snow normally made a place look serene, here it looked dangerous. The snow in the Wastes merely seemed to exist to give cover to the many dangerous things in the land.
There seemed to be very deep snow, deep enough for Orphan to ride his horse rather than run, but in a number of places the earth poked through the snow cover, and in other places the snow seemed to shrink back from the ground. In the occasional blackened craters of glass, not a flake had stuck. These were the things that Delegado had always avoiding on their way to the caves, and avoided still.
The snow was not always white. Oddly there was a large patch of snow with streaks of crimson in it, like blood, which Delegado told them quite sternly not to touch. Apparently some of the snow in the Wastes was poisonous. Orphan found the thought revolting, and was even more aghast when Delegado told him that some snow had special rusting abilities. Nothing was without danger in the Wastes.
They set up tents in the lee of a large boulder for the night, eating their supper cold. Orphan took first watch and the second as well, choosing not to wake Thomas up. Three moons were full enough to give plenty of light. For the first time in days the skies were clear. The following morning, on the twenty-second of Sypheros, they set out early. Within two hours, they arrived at Festering Holt.
Chapter 19 - Part 1
CHAPTER NINETEEN – GETTING THERE IS HALF THE FUN
The 21st of Sypheros, 993 Y.K., mid-morning, a magically created cave in the Demon Wastes
Orphan lifted the flap just a little bit, but all he could see was more swirling snow. The warforged shut the flap quickly, before Delegado could complain about the warforged letting the warm air out. It wasn’t east to tie the cord in place while wearing gloves designed for beings with five fingers, but he managed it.
The warforged cinched the drawstrings of his coat together tighter as he walked back to his companions. The half-orc and the half-daelkyr were in coats and snow pants that Delegado had bought for the trip, and Feather was wrapped up in a thick blanket, as were the horses. Brittle wood made a poor fire in the center of the cave, underneath the ventilation holes that Thomas had fashioned.
The half-orc and the half-daelkyr were sharing a bottle of whiskey as they ate a breakfast that was only warm because it had just been conjured. They had used up the last of the scrolls that created food and water, starting at lunch it would be the stores that they had.
“Let me guess,” Delegado said dryly. “It’s still snowing.”
“I just thought I’d look,” Orphan shrugged. “I still can’t figure out how you can predict the weather so well.”
“No one can predict the weather perfectly,” Delegado said. “Especially here. But I told you the night before last when it started that it would still be going, and it is. It’s not going to stop until noon at the earliest, and probably not until nightfall. And we’re not changing that with the stick Oalian gave us unless we want to notify every rakshasa in the Wastes.”
“You were planning on a quick exit from this area before something came, weren’t you, Orphan?” Thomas asked. “Don’t worry, it’ll slow down everybody, coming and going. Here, you want some of this brandy?”
“It’s whiskey,” Delegado insisted. “Brandy is sweet. Thomas, you come from Karrnath, you ought to know your booze.”
“I know what I like,” the half-daelkyr shrugged. His stormstalk poked out from under his coat, then retreated back into the warmth. “You want some or not, Orphan, it’ll warm you up.”
“I can’t drink this, I don’t digest them,” Orphan explained. “It would just puddle out.”
“But you drink potions,” Thomas noted.
“The magic enters me, the liquid just seeps away,” Orphan explained. “Potions are just spells in a bottle, really, the liquid is only a preservative.”
“We are going stir-crazy with cabin fever,” Delegado chuckled. “We’ve run out of things to say.”
“Then let’s tell stories,” Thomas said. He’d suggested the same thing the day before.
“No thank you, I don’t like to share,” Delegado said. He’d said the same thing yesterday, but with more prickliness. The sitting and waiting was obviously getting to him as well.
“What do you do when you boast, then, hm?” Orphan asked.
“Oh ho, a funny warforged,” Delegado said.
“Well, I’d love to hear some,” Thomas said. “I liked it when my mother told me stories.” There was a painful pause, and Orphan was afraid that Delegado was going to say something totally inappropriate, but the half-orc kept his mouth shut. “I mean, I’ve not got a lot to brag about. I have nothing but regret for what I’ve done in my life. There’s little that wasn’t evil, except the years I spent by myself.”
“What’s the most wonderful thing you saw in your years as a hermit?” Orphan asked, trying to get some conversation started.
Thomas thought a bit. “I saw a rainbow that filled a whole valley once, right after a storm,” he said. “The air smelled so clean, and the sun came back and the wet earth smelled so good, and the rainbow sat like a crown on a king.” He looked up at the warforged, hesitant.
“That’s beautiful,” Orphan said. “You should be a poet.”
“No, no, I can’t,” Thomas said. “You talk instead. Did you see anything beautiful where you were, um, forged?”
“Whitehearth was a fairly utilitarian place, no,” Orphan said. “But I saw many wonderful sights when I crossed the Talenta Plains with Sensei Visha.”
“You were forged in Whitehearth?” Delegado said, looking up rapidly.
“Yes, what’s your point?” Orphan asked.
“That’s the most top-secret Cannith facility known in the world,” The half-orc said, taking the whiskey bottle from Thomas. “You never told me that.”
“You never asked,” Orphan said. “There’s a whole conclave there, although now that I think about it there were plenty of places where movement was restricted even to the humans. I didn’t know its significance.”
Delegado took a swig of alcohol. “Orphan, for such a smart guy you really are oblivious sometimes.”
“I wasn’t exactly allowed to sightsee,” Orphan said. “For most of my week there I was in an underground cell.”
“Tell us about Talenta,” Thomas said. “I passed through that land briefly, long ago, but I snuck around at night, and I saw little.”
“Delegado can probably tell you more, he’s the world traveler,” Orphan said.
“I’ve never been to Talenta,” Delegado grinned. “You’re on stage by yourself, Orphan, sorry.”
“Well, let’s see,” Orphan said, remembering the first heady days of his life with the Balanced Palm. “We fled at top speed, Visha and Pienna had rescued me from a manor in the center of Cyre that Cannith owned secretly.”
“What do you mean, ‘owned,’ Orphan?” Delegado asked.
“I mean what I said,” Orphan told him.
“Dragonmarked Houses aren’t supposed to own land,” Delegado told him. “It’s part of their deal with the dead empire of Galifar. They have to rent and lease everything.”
“So maybe they leased,” Orphan said with a shrug.
“More likely they think the rules apply only to other Houses and not to them,” Delegado grumped.
“House Tharashk owns land,” Thomas said.
“Yeah, in the Shadow Marches, where Galifar never stepped,” the half-orc snorted. “That’s our country. But everywhere else in Khorvaire we have to pay. Well, except Droaam, they don’t give the Fury’s patience for Galifar.”
“Look, Thomas,” Orphan said in a loud whisper. “Delegado is sharing.” Thomas chuckled.
“Alright, wiseguy,” Delegado said, not quite blushing. “Tell your story.”
“We moved quietly at night, and by day we jumped on top of a moving Orien train,” Orphan said. “That was very exciting. I was surprised at what good jumpers halflings are.”
“You jumped onto the top of a Lightning Rail?” Delegado asked. Orphan nodded. “You are totally bonkers. Seriously. You are crazy. The electricity around it could have fried you.”
“It was either that or slavery, if not death,” Orphan said. “And we had to get over the border unnoticed.”
“You took the southern spur around Lake Cyre to Gatherhold?” Delegado asked.
“No, the northern spur,” Orphan said. “We got off at the first stop on the Talenta side, where a tribe had pitched some tents near the platform. Well, actually we got picked up. Once the train slowed down some flying dinosaurs came down and Sensei Visha and I hopped on. They took us east, then once we got behind some hills they banked southeast. The halflings were cheery folk, and they work well in unison, but pity the man who crosses them. In any event, we switched mounts several times, moving in a zig-zag pattern, and we spent the nights with various tribes who hosted Visha as a guest. They were a little puzzled that I did not eat their food.” The warforged sounded wistful. “I would have liked to. I cannot smell very well, only strong scents, but it smelled wonderful.”
“You left a wide trail for such a hunted pair,” Thomas noted.
“The Talenta people protect their own,” Delegado said. “When they don’t want to talk, you can walk in a crowd of a hunded of them and they’ll swear to every priest in the land that they never saw you. It gives the Deneith Sentinel Marshals fits.”
“And how does the Finding House get around that problem?” Orphan asked.
“Very, very carefully,” Delegado said. “It involves trade secrets, sorry, can’t say a word.”
“But you haven’t been there,” Orphan asked.
“Nope,” Delegado said. He took the whiskey bottle back and took another swig.
“Tell us where you have been, then,” Thomas said.
Delegado looked at Thomas, and Orphan could tell what the half-orc was thinking. His reticence to make small talk with the half-daelkyr on the flight to Greenheart had led to some bad blood that had almost split their band up. And the two of them had fought side-by-side for days when they were trying to find the warforged. And Delegado was bored. And he had been having more whiskey than he usually did.
“Fernia and Risia and everywhere in between,” the half-orc said with a laugh. Thomas grinned at that, although Orphan didn’t get the reference. “Well, I grew up in the Marches, born and bred. My father was old when I was born and had stopped traveling for the most part, although I did briefly visit Stormreach with him to see an uncle and check on some things.”
“Where’s Stormreach?” Orphan asked.
“Xen’drik,” the half-orc told him.
“What is that place like?” Thomas asked.
“Hot and forgettable,” Thomas said. “Or at least Stormreach was. Anyway, when I manifested my dragonmark, I spent a lot of time in the wild prospecting for dragonshards. Well, a lot more time anyway. I grew up loving the wild, loving moving through the wilderness. My mother says I wanted to crawl into the swamp right out of my crib.”
“I thought you grew up in House Tharashk,” Thomas asked, curious. “You didn’t live in a mansion?”
Delegado let out a deep belly laugh. The whiskey was definitely making him cozy. “Thomas, that high living is for the other Houses, not Tharashk. We live in the wild, or on the streets. Scions of my House are expected to thrive on the hunt, not on silk sheets.”
“But you wander now,” Orphan said. “Your first dragonmark manifestation was only for dragonshards, but later it worked on people?”
“Well, first objects, then people, yes,” Delegado said. “I was stalking fugitives before my dragonmark expanded, though. The first one was an orc born from an orc mother and a demon father. He led a lot of Dragon Below cultists and killed a number of innocent people, some of them Tharashk workers. The House struck back. There’s none of your precious law in the Marches, Orphan. It’s all strength, and Tharashk had to show that anyone who worked for them would be avenged, or else others would start trying the same galig. We broke his army with some Gatekeeper assistance, and I was with a team that pursued him all the way to the Droaam border.” The half-orc paused, lost in his memories.
“What happened?” Thomas asked.
“I was sixteen,” Delegado said softly. “I was the scout. The other three were warriors, great orcs, great fighters, honorable and brave. The one in charge sent me ahead a bit while they fanned out. Shaidan – the orc born from fiends – caught them. They died harshly. I shot Shaidan with an arrow, gave him a scar. He unfurled his wings…and I hid. He didn’t try to hard to find me because he didn’t want to stick around. If he had had the time, he would have, and I’d be dead long ago.” Delgado took another swig. “I was ashamed, but I had to return and report. Most commended me for trying, some blamed me for failing. My father told me there was no shame, and that he was glad I was alive. Still, that was the last time I lost a quarry.” Delegado tipped his head back and drained the bottle.
“Whatever happened to Shaidan?” Orphan asked.
“I ran into him last Olarune, and I took his head from his body,” the half-orc said. “But in the process, a good – a nice – someone that meant a lot to me died.”
“But you think from what Drorin said that maybe she’s alive,” Orphan said, several things clicking together in his mind. Delegado’s response was not exactly an expected one.
“STAY THE KHYBER OUT OF MY HEAD!” the half-orc roared, rising and hurling the empty whiskey flask. Orphan dodged it instinctively, and the glass shattered on the cave wall behind him. The horses whinnied in fear, and Feather shrieked as he flew upwards into a niche.
Orphan scuttled backwards and got to his feet, even as Delegado glared at him. The warforged cursed himself for not thinking before he spoke. Delegado was visibly hurt, and badly angry.
“Easy,” Thomas said, his voice soft. “Easy.” The half-daelkyr slowly stood, and held his hands out between the half-orc and the warforged as if to separate them.
“I’m sorry,” Orphan said sincerely. “I do not always understand male and female relationship feelings or taboos. I truly did not mean to offend.”
Delegado blinked, his nose flaring, and then breathed deeply. “Let’s change the subject,” he said, sitting back down.
“No arguments here,” Thomas said, also sitting down again. Orphan hesitated, but then sat back down where he had been as well.
“I’m sorry,” Orphan said again.
“Me too,” said Delegado. “Now change the f’testing subject.”
“What does f’test mean?” Thomas asked. “I’ve always wondered.”
“It means that a male helps activate a female belly forge,” Orphan said.
Delegado slapped his forehead so hard that the horses started again. But this time the half-orc was laughing. After a moment, Thomas joined him. Orphan had no idea what they were laughing about, but he was beginning to think the half-orc had no tolerance for alcohol. “Orphan,” Delegado said, stopping to breathe. “You are going to kill me one way or another, seriously.”
Orphan was puzzled. The last time he’d seen people go from extreme anger to extreme laughter he had been with the Balanced Palm, and he had gone into the women’s bath area. He had explained to the women there that he couldn’t understand why they bathed separate from the men, and he was just curious, and they threw soap at him. Mentioning women and reproduction to Delegado seemed to bring forth the same extreme range of emotions.
“So if you didn’t leave the Marches going after Shaidan, when did you?” Thomas asked as Delegado’s laughter began to subside.
“Several months later, and not on purpose,” Delegado said. “I was tracking a fence with some stolen dragonshards. He went through a byeshk mine in Droaam, and I crossed the Byeshk Mountains into the Eldeen Reaches. I remember my first really good look at the Reaches. Verdant meadows, rolling hills, glorious trees of all types everywhere. I tracked the fence all the way to Varna, staying on his trail with my dragonmark focusing on the shards he’d stolen. Met some good friends in Vadalis along the way, too. I finally caught the guy, and the Triumvirate was very pleased with me.”
“The what?” Orphan asked.
“Tharashk has three people leading it instead of one,” Thomas said. “You didn’t know that?”
“I know little of the Houses save Cannith,” Orphan said. “And of that one I wish I knew less.”
“Cannith, Lyrandar, Jorasco, they’re all family names,” Delegado explained. “Groups of people who manifested a mark and stuck together. ‘Tharashk’ is an orc word, not a name. It means ‘United.’ Three clans formed the mark, and we joined. Some smaller clans developed the mark and joined as well, but that came later, and they are swallowed up by the numbers of the three clans. Each clan’s chief is a Triumvirate member. They make decisions together.”
“What are the clans?” Orphan asked. “You mentioned an Ash-something once, didn’t you?”
“Torrn, Aashta, and Velderan,” Delegado said. “Most in my House claim one of them.”
“You don’t,” Thomas noted.
“I am a son of my House,” Delegado said. “My family tree is very mixed, the clans marry with each other. Technically my father was a Velderan and my mother from a smaller clan, but my grandparents and my great-grandparents are all evenly divided among the three clans. My family is known within the House to proudly claim everyone in their blood.”
Orphan nodded, beginning to understand why Delegado had so vehemently defended Greoche.
“Then you got used to traveling, seeing the world?” Orphan guessed.
“Yeah,” the half-orc answered. “The lure of the new and the thrill of the hunt. I’ve been to Breland, Aundair, Darguun, and Thrane along with the Reaches. I’ve spent time in Droaam, and I’ve been to Karrnath, and once very briefly to the Mror Holds. I’ve been to Cyre, gorgeous country even with the battles raging, and once to Valenar. Most of my time has been in Breland and Aundair, the Reaches, Droaam, and Cyre tie for third place. Beyond that I couldn’t tell you much, I don’t really keep notes.”
“The time in Valenar is when I met you?” Orphan asked.
“No, that doesn’t count, I wasn’t on the ground long enough,” Delegado said. “This was earlier.”
“I heard you two tried to kill each other when you first met,” Thomas said.
Delegado sighed, and Orphan could tell the half-orc felt caught. On one hand it would make bad blood with Thomas to refuse to tell the story, on the other hand the half-orc was afraid of rubbing the warforged the wrong way.
“It was a war zone,” Orphan explained. “It was mutual self-defense, really.” He could see Delegado look grateful at that.
“Darguun had shot across the bay to come at Cyre from an unexpected direction,” Delegado explained. “They burned their way through Valenar to do it, putting the Fury’s own heat into the elven horse-lords. Cyre found out they were coming and met them with warforged on Valenar soil. The Valenar rode around the two huge armies with wizards and raiding bands, and a bunch of halfling opportunists showed up to pick off stragglers. It was a four-way fight involving thousands.”
“And my order was beneath it all,” Orphan explained. “We were digging under a hill, searching for an ancient tablet. We’d actually been digging under that hill for almost a century, trying to keep it quiet.”
“What did the tablet say?” Thomas asked.
“I’ve no idea, it was never found, and Sensei Visha kept her own counsel on the matter,” Orphan said. “In any event, it became a combination search and refuge. Everywhere the Balanced Palm was, it was being attacked and harassed, so everyone fled to the cave. Only the hills above the cave then came to be a battleground.”
“You were trying to find the tablet?” Thomas asked Delegado.
The half-orc shook his head. “I was trying to find a Thrane who knew the name of every Thrane intelligence agent in Breland, and the Brelish intelligence services were spending a lot of money to get him alive, and alive only. Breland paid for an airship, and we flew to this cave system, having gotten word that the Thrane spymaster would be there, posing as a member of the order of monks.”
“He was a member, incidentally,” the warforged interjected. “But he was using a false name and hiding his purpose. He used our order for duplicitous purposes, often having us unwittingly send messages for him. When Sensei Visha saw the evidence, she was most upset.”
“Long story short,” Delegado said. “A Brelish wizard conjured me down to the battlefield, and I hid, but then a headless warforged fell onto me, followed by a psycho Valenar chief with an adamantine double scimitar who wanted my head. I talked him down but wanted shelter, and fighting him would have meant drawing fire from every goblin on that side of the hill even if I beat him so I agreed. I brought him to the hidden cave and we were challenged by the Balanced Palm. The elf went nuts and started a fight. He died in the process, but killed a monk and the other was out for my blood so I brought him down.” Delegado paused. “I shot him in the back as he ran to get help. It was a survival thing. I thought I had no choice, he wasn’t listening to me because of that Khyber-kissing Valenar.”
Orphan said nothing, but remembered Edmen, the man Delegado had killed.
“But the other monks attacked anyway,” Thomas said.
“Yeah,” Delegado coughed, not comfortable with Orphan’s silent gaze. “One of them cast a sleep spell on me and was going to slit my throat, mind you. Orphan tried to get them to back off but they wouldn’t. Orhan and I fought, it was close, and then a warforged titan fell into the hill.”
“A what?” asked the daelkyr half-blood.
“A machine that can cause tremendous devastation,” Orphan explained. “They’re huge, and very difficult to destroy. It came tumbling in and brought hundreds of goblins with it as the ground collapsed into our caves. Then I knocked Delegado out. I took him to Sensei Visha, and found that we were being flooded with goblins fleeing the battlefield. Battles erupted everywhere in the tunnels, which were vast things, many centuries old if not older, and the Balanced Palm was forced to retreat. Delegado came to, tied up and his weapons taken from him, and Sensei Visha pronounced that he would be left there while we made a stand in the records room. She said if he survived he was innocent, if not he was guilty.”
“And?” Thomas asked, clearly immersed in the tale.
“I survived,” Delegado said. “I killed a bunch of goblins and went in after the Thrane. I got him and called the airship with a signaling device. The halfling sensei and Orphan were the only monks left alive – except for the Thrane. I was paid to get him alive and I did.”
“How?” Thomas asked.
“I wondered that myself,” Orphan noted.
Delegado merely grinned. Orphan could tell the half-orc was going to keep some ‘trade secrets’ to himself.
“What happened to the Thranish spy?” Thomas asked.
“Actually,” Orphan said. “I never found out. What happened to him, Delegado?”
The half-orc shrugged. “Don’t know, don’t care. I did the job. My House got paid. I moved on to the next job.” He took a big bite of food. “If he had any brains he sang like a canary.”
“So Breland uses long pain as well,” Orphan said with disgust in his voice.
“Orphan,” Delegado said with a tone of voice that indicated a mustering of patience. “War is about survival. Breland needs to survive. Everyone needs to survive. They do what they can.”
“Maybe that’s why there is so much war,” Orphan said.
Thomas shook his head. “No, there is war because people want what other people have. What do you do if not fight? Lie down and die? Run away to some unexplored portion of a distant land? Most people are not like you and I, Orphan. They cannot simply flee. They need the land where they are to grow food. You don’t have to eat, you don’t understand hunger. You don’t understand desperate.” Thomas’ voice sounded almost pleading, and the warforged could tell that the half-daelkyr was thinking of his own crimes next to Delegado’s dubious actions under the hill in Valenar.
“I suppose,” Orphan said after a while.
“Let me ask you a question,” Delegado said, all serious. “Let’s say you’ve captured a nut. I mean a real whacked-out, homicidal, true believer nut, maybe from the Emerald Claw, maybe a cultist who worships the Dark Six or the Dragon Below or something. And they’ve placed a magical device, like a dragonshard holding a fireball in it, somewhere in a town full of innocent people. It’s going to go off in five minutes. You have no way of evacuating the hundreds if not thousands of innocents in time. Would you torture the guy? Would you use long pain to make him tell you where he hid it?”
Orphan contemplated that. “I suppose I would,” the warforged finally admitted. “It is a horrible thing to think about, though.”
“Horrible but real,” Delegado told him. “Breland is home to some pretty large cities, including Sharn. You would not believe the number of people who live in those towers. Some seventy-five years ago, in the early days of the war, somebody brought one down. Thousands died. Since then Breland has vowed never to let it happen again, no matter what the cost. The Brelish spend so much effort at counter-intelligence that House Medani could have no client other than Breland and still be wealthy.”
“You know a lot for someone who claims to think so little of bards,” Thomas joked.
Delegado laughed in a way that said he was finally letting something go. “Most of them are worthless fools who refuse to do honest work. I had a second cousin named Eusyram who got it into his head that he would be a bard. He didn’t mine, he didn’t hunt, he didn’t fish, he didn’t go prospecting, nothing. He sat on his behind and drank and gambled and collected stories. He’d beg or try to make money entertaining people, but his stories were horrible. They’d start out okay, but then he’d change them, and he started putting himself in them. To hear him tell it he was involved in everything and the great heroes of the stories went to him for advice on everything and he always saved the day, but he never went more than a mile from the City of Stilts. He eventually got eaten by a chuul.”
Orphan did not ask what a chuul was, the look on Thomas’ face told the warforged enough. “We know you can’t give away trade secrets,” Orphan said to the half-orc. “But there’s still more time to talk. Have you got any more stories?”
“I am not going to sit here and provide entertaining exposition for the two of you until it stops snowing,” Delegado grunted.
“I would like to hear about Aundair,” Thoams said. “I’ve never been there, and you said you spent a lot of time there. Did you ever find anything interesting there?”
Delegado’s face grew strangely dark. “Maybe we’d be better off taking another inventory,” he said. His tone of voice told Orphan that the conversation was over.
The 21st of Sypheros, 993 Y.K., mid-morning, a magically created cave in the Demon Wastes
Orphan lifted the flap just a little bit, but all he could see was more swirling snow. The warforged shut the flap quickly, before Delegado could complain about the warforged letting the warm air out. It wasn’t east to tie the cord in place while wearing gloves designed for beings with five fingers, but he managed it.
The warforged cinched the drawstrings of his coat together tighter as he walked back to his companions. The half-orc and the half-daelkyr were in coats and snow pants that Delegado had bought for the trip, and Feather was wrapped up in a thick blanket, as were the horses. Brittle wood made a poor fire in the center of the cave, underneath the ventilation holes that Thomas had fashioned.
The half-orc and the half-daelkyr were sharing a bottle of whiskey as they ate a breakfast that was only warm because it had just been conjured. They had used up the last of the scrolls that created food and water, starting at lunch it would be the stores that they had.
“Let me guess,” Delegado said dryly. “It’s still snowing.”
“I just thought I’d look,” Orphan shrugged. “I still can’t figure out how you can predict the weather so well.”
“No one can predict the weather perfectly,” Delegado said. “Especially here. But I told you the night before last when it started that it would still be going, and it is. It’s not going to stop until noon at the earliest, and probably not until nightfall. And we’re not changing that with the stick Oalian gave us unless we want to notify every rakshasa in the Wastes.”
“You were planning on a quick exit from this area before something came, weren’t you, Orphan?” Thomas asked. “Don’t worry, it’ll slow down everybody, coming and going. Here, you want some of this brandy?”
“It’s whiskey,” Delegado insisted. “Brandy is sweet. Thomas, you come from Karrnath, you ought to know your booze.”
“I know what I like,” the half-daelkyr shrugged. His stormstalk poked out from under his coat, then retreated back into the warmth. “You want some or not, Orphan, it’ll warm you up.”
“I can’t drink this, I don’t digest them,” Orphan explained. “It would just puddle out.”
“But you drink potions,” Thomas noted.
“The magic enters me, the liquid just seeps away,” Orphan explained. “Potions are just spells in a bottle, really, the liquid is only a preservative.”
“We are going stir-crazy with cabin fever,” Delegado chuckled. “We’ve run out of things to say.”
“Then let’s tell stories,” Thomas said. He’d suggested the same thing the day before.
“No thank you, I don’t like to share,” Delegado said. He’d said the same thing yesterday, but with more prickliness. The sitting and waiting was obviously getting to him as well.
“What do you do when you boast, then, hm?” Orphan asked.
“Oh ho, a funny warforged,” Delegado said.
“Well, I’d love to hear some,” Thomas said. “I liked it when my mother told me stories.” There was a painful pause, and Orphan was afraid that Delegado was going to say something totally inappropriate, but the half-orc kept his mouth shut. “I mean, I’ve not got a lot to brag about. I have nothing but regret for what I’ve done in my life. There’s little that wasn’t evil, except the years I spent by myself.”
“What’s the most wonderful thing you saw in your years as a hermit?” Orphan asked, trying to get some conversation started.
Thomas thought a bit. “I saw a rainbow that filled a whole valley once, right after a storm,” he said. “The air smelled so clean, and the sun came back and the wet earth smelled so good, and the rainbow sat like a crown on a king.” He looked up at the warforged, hesitant.
“That’s beautiful,” Orphan said. “You should be a poet.”
“No, no, I can’t,” Thomas said. “You talk instead. Did you see anything beautiful where you were, um, forged?”
“Whitehearth was a fairly utilitarian place, no,” Orphan said. “But I saw many wonderful sights when I crossed the Talenta Plains with Sensei Visha.”
“You were forged in Whitehearth?” Delegado said, looking up rapidly.
“Yes, what’s your point?” Orphan asked.
“That’s the most top-secret Cannith facility known in the world,” The half-orc said, taking the whiskey bottle from Thomas. “You never told me that.”
“You never asked,” Orphan said. “There’s a whole conclave there, although now that I think about it there were plenty of places where movement was restricted even to the humans. I didn’t know its significance.”
Delegado took a swig of alcohol. “Orphan, for such a smart guy you really are oblivious sometimes.”
“I wasn’t exactly allowed to sightsee,” Orphan said. “For most of my week there I was in an underground cell.”
“Tell us about Talenta,” Thomas said. “I passed through that land briefly, long ago, but I snuck around at night, and I saw little.”
“Delegado can probably tell you more, he’s the world traveler,” Orphan said.
“I’ve never been to Talenta,” Delegado grinned. “You’re on stage by yourself, Orphan, sorry.”
“Well, let’s see,” Orphan said, remembering the first heady days of his life with the Balanced Palm. “We fled at top speed, Visha and Pienna had rescued me from a manor in the center of Cyre that Cannith owned secretly.”
“What do you mean, ‘owned,’ Orphan?” Delegado asked.
“I mean what I said,” Orphan told him.
“Dragonmarked Houses aren’t supposed to own land,” Delegado told him. “It’s part of their deal with the dead empire of Galifar. They have to rent and lease everything.”
“So maybe they leased,” Orphan said with a shrug.
“More likely they think the rules apply only to other Houses and not to them,” Delegado grumped.
“House Tharashk owns land,” Thomas said.
“Yeah, in the Shadow Marches, where Galifar never stepped,” the half-orc snorted. “That’s our country. But everywhere else in Khorvaire we have to pay. Well, except Droaam, they don’t give the Fury’s patience for Galifar.”
“Look, Thomas,” Orphan said in a loud whisper. “Delegado is sharing.” Thomas chuckled.
“Alright, wiseguy,” Delegado said, not quite blushing. “Tell your story.”
“We moved quietly at night, and by day we jumped on top of a moving Orien train,” Orphan said. “That was very exciting. I was surprised at what good jumpers halflings are.”
“You jumped onto the top of a Lightning Rail?” Delegado asked. Orphan nodded. “You are totally bonkers. Seriously. You are crazy. The electricity around it could have fried you.”
“It was either that or slavery, if not death,” Orphan said. “And we had to get over the border unnoticed.”
“You took the southern spur around Lake Cyre to Gatherhold?” Delegado asked.
“No, the northern spur,” Orphan said. “We got off at the first stop on the Talenta side, where a tribe had pitched some tents near the platform. Well, actually we got picked up. Once the train slowed down some flying dinosaurs came down and Sensei Visha and I hopped on. They took us east, then once we got behind some hills they banked southeast. The halflings were cheery folk, and they work well in unison, but pity the man who crosses them. In any event, we switched mounts several times, moving in a zig-zag pattern, and we spent the nights with various tribes who hosted Visha as a guest. They were a little puzzled that I did not eat their food.” The warforged sounded wistful. “I would have liked to. I cannot smell very well, only strong scents, but it smelled wonderful.”
“You left a wide trail for such a hunted pair,” Thomas noted.
“The Talenta people protect their own,” Delegado said. “When they don’t want to talk, you can walk in a crowd of a hunded of them and they’ll swear to every priest in the land that they never saw you. It gives the Deneith Sentinel Marshals fits.”
“And how does the Finding House get around that problem?” Orphan asked.
“Very, very carefully,” Delegado said. “It involves trade secrets, sorry, can’t say a word.”
“But you haven’t been there,” Orphan asked.
“Nope,” Delegado said. He took the whiskey bottle back and took another swig.
“Tell us where you have been, then,” Thomas said.
Delegado looked at Thomas, and Orphan could tell what the half-orc was thinking. His reticence to make small talk with the half-daelkyr on the flight to Greenheart had led to some bad blood that had almost split their band up. And the two of them had fought side-by-side for days when they were trying to find the warforged. And Delegado was bored. And he had been having more whiskey than he usually did.
“Fernia and Risia and everywhere in between,” the half-orc said with a laugh. Thomas grinned at that, although Orphan didn’t get the reference. “Well, I grew up in the Marches, born and bred. My father was old when I was born and had stopped traveling for the most part, although I did briefly visit Stormreach with him to see an uncle and check on some things.”
“Where’s Stormreach?” Orphan asked.
“Xen’drik,” the half-orc told him.
“What is that place like?” Thomas asked.
“Hot and forgettable,” Thomas said. “Or at least Stormreach was. Anyway, when I manifested my dragonmark, I spent a lot of time in the wild prospecting for dragonshards. Well, a lot more time anyway. I grew up loving the wild, loving moving through the wilderness. My mother says I wanted to crawl into the swamp right out of my crib.”
“I thought you grew up in House Tharashk,” Thomas asked, curious. “You didn’t live in a mansion?”
Delegado let out a deep belly laugh. The whiskey was definitely making him cozy. “Thomas, that high living is for the other Houses, not Tharashk. We live in the wild, or on the streets. Scions of my House are expected to thrive on the hunt, not on silk sheets.”
“But you wander now,” Orphan said. “Your first dragonmark manifestation was only for dragonshards, but later it worked on people?”
“Well, first objects, then people, yes,” Delegado said. “I was stalking fugitives before my dragonmark expanded, though. The first one was an orc born from an orc mother and a demon father. He led a lot of Dragon Below cultists and killed a number of innocent people, some of them Tharashk workers. The House struck back. There’s none of your precious law in the Marches, Orphan. It’s all strength, and Tharashk had to show that anyone who worked for them would be avenged, or else others would start trying the same galig. We broke his army with some Gatekeeper assistance, and I was with a team that pursued him all the way to the Droaam border.” The half-orc paused, lost in his memories.
“What happened?” Thomas asked.
“I was sixteen,” Delegado said softly. “I was the scout. The other three were warriors, great orcs, great fighters, honorable and brave. The one in charge sent me ahead a bit while they fanned out. Shaidan – the orc born from fiends – caught them. They died harshly. I shot Shaidan with an arrow, gave him a scar. He unfurled his wings…and I hid. He didn’t try to hard to find me because he didn’t want to stick around. If he had had the time, he would have, and I’d be dead long ago.” Delgado took another swig. “I was ashamed, but I had to return and report. Most commended me for trying, some blamed me for failing. My father told me there was no shame, and that he was glad I was alive. Still, that was the last time I lost a quarry.” Delegado tipped his head back and drained the bottle.
“Whatever happened to Shaidan?” Orphan asked.
“I ran into him last Olarune, and I took his head from his body,” the half-orc said. “But in the process, a good – a nice – someone that meant a lot to me died.”
“But you think from what Drorin said that maybe she’s alive,” Orphan said, several things clicking together in his mind. Delegado’s response was not exactly an expected one.
“STAY THE KHYBER OUT OF MY HEAD!” the half-orc roared, rising and hurling the empty whiskey flask. Orphan dodged it instinctively, and the glass shattered on the cave wall behind him. The horses whinnied in fear, and Feather shrieked as he flew upwards into a niche.
Orphan scuttled backwards and got to his feet, even as Delegado glared at him. The warforged cursed himself for not thinking before he spoke. Delegado was visibly hurt, and badly angry.
“Easy,” Thomas said, his voice soft. “Easy.” The half-daelkyr slowly stood, and held his hands out between the half-orc and the warforged as if to separate them.
“I’m sorry,” Orphan said sincerely. “I do not always understand male and female relationship feelings or taboos. I truly did not mean to offend.”
Delegado blinked, his nose flaring, and then breathed deeply. “Let’s change the subject,” he said, sitting back down.
“No arguments here,” Thomas said, also sitting down again. Orphan hesitated, but then sat back down where he had been as well.
“I’m sorry,” Orphan said again.
“Me too,” said Delegado. “Now change the f’testing subject.”
“What does f’test mean?” Thomas asked. “I’ve always wondered.”
“It means that a male helps activate a female belly forge,” Orphan said.
Delegado slapped his forehead so hard that the horses started again. But this time the half-orc was laughing. After a moment, Thomas joined him. Orphan had no idea what they were laughing about, but he was beginning to think the half-orc had no tolerance for alcohol. “Orphan,” Delegado said, stopping to breathe. “You are going to kill me one way or another, seriously.”
Orphan was puzzled. The last time he’d seen people go from extreme anger to extreme laughter he had been with the Balanced Palm, and he had gone into the women’s bath area. He had explained to the women there that he couldn’t understand why they bathed separate from the men, and he was just curious, and they threw soap at him. Mentioning women and reproduction to Delegado seemed to bring forth the same extreme range of emotions.
“So if you didn’t leave the Marches going after Shaidan, when did you?” Thomas asked as Delegado’s laughter began to subside.
“Several months later, and not on purpose,” Delegado said. “I was tracking a fence with some stolen dragonshards. He went through a byeshk mine in Droaam, and I crossed the Byeshk Mountains into the Eldeen Reaches. I remember my first really good look at the Reaches. Verdant meadows, rolling hills, glorious trees of all types everywhere. I tracked the fence all the way to Varna, staying on his trail with my dragonmark focusing on the shards he’d stolen. Met some good friends in Vadalis along the way, too. I finally caught the guy, and the Triumvirate was very pleased with me.”
“The what?” Orphan asked.
“Tharashk has three people leading it instead of one,” Thomas said. “You didn’t know that?”
“I know little of the Houses save Cannith,” Orphan said. “And of that one I wish I knew less.”
“Cannith, Lyrandar, Jorasco, they’re all family names,” Delegado explained. “Groups of people who manifested a mark and stuck together. ‘Tharashk’ is an orc word, not a name. It means ‘United.’ Three clans formed the mark, and we joined. Some smaller clans developed the mark and joined as well, but that came later, and they are swallowed up by the numbers of the three clans. Each clan’s chief is a Triumvirate member. They make decisions together.”
“What are the clans?” Orphan asked. “You mentioned an Ash-something once, didn’t you?”
“Torrn, Aashta, and Velderan,” Delegado said. “Most in my House claim one of them.”
“You don’t,” Thomas noted.
“I am a son of my House,” Delegado said. “My family tree is very mixed, the clans marry with each other. Technically my father was a Velderan and my mother from a smaller clan, but my grandparents and my great-grandparents are all evenly divided among the three clans. My family is known within the House to proudly claim everyone in their blood.”
Orphan nodded, beginning to understand why Delegado had so vehemently defended Greoche.
“Then you got used to traveling, seeing the world?” Orphan guessed.
“Yeah,” the half-orc answered. “The lure of the new and the thrill of the hunt. I’ve been to Breland, Aundair, Darguun, and Thrane along with the Reaches. I’ve spent time in Droaam, and I’ve been to Karrnath, and once very briefly to the Mror Holds. I’ve been to Cyre, gorgeous country even with the battles raging, and once to Valenar. Most of my time has been in Breland and Aundair, the Reaches, Droaam, and Cyre tie for third place. Beyond that I couldn’t tell you much, I don’t really keep notes.”
“The time in Valenar is when I met you?” Orphan asked.
“No, that doesn’t count, I wasn’t on the ground long enough,” Delegado said. “This was earlier.”
“I heard you two tried to kill each other when you first met,” Thomas said.
Delegado sighed, and Orphan could tell the half-orc felt caught. On one hand it would make bad blood with Thomas to refuse to tell the story, on the other hand the half-orc was afraid of rubbing the warforged the wrong way.
“It was a war zone,” Orphan explained. “It was mutual self-defense, really.” He could see Delegado look grateful at that.
“Darguun had shot across the bay to come at Cyre from an unexpected direction,” Delegado explained. “They burned their way through Valenar to do it, putting the Fury’s own heat into the elven horse-lords. Cyre found out they were coming and met them with warforged on Valenar soil. The Valenar rode around the two huge armies with wizards and raiding bands, and a bunch of halfling opportunists showed up to pick off stragglers. It was a four-way fight involving thousands.”
“And my order was beneath it all,” Orphan explained. “We were digging under a hill, searching for an ancient tablet. We’d actually been digging under that hill for almost a century, trying to keep it quiet.”
“What did the tablet say?” Thomas asked.
“I’ve no idea, it was never found, and Sensei Visha kept her own counsel on the matter,” Orphan said. “In any event, it became a combination search and refuge. Everywhere the Balanced Palm was, it was being attacked and harassed, so everyone fled to the cave. Only the hills above the cave then came to be a battleground.”
“You were trying to find the tablet?” Thomas asked Delegado.
The half-orc shook his head. “I was trying to find a Thrane who knew the name of every Thrane intelligence agent in Breland, and the Brelish intelligence services were spending a lot of money to get him alive, and alive only. Breland paid for an airship, and we flew to this cave system, having gotten word that the Thrane spymaster would be there, posing as a member of the order of monks.”
“He was a member, incidentally,” the warforged interjected. “But he was using a false name and hiding his purpose. He used our order for duplicitous purposes, often having us unwittingly send messages for him. When Sensei Visha saw the evidence, she was most upset.”
“Long story short,” Delegado said. “A Brelish wizard conjured me down to the battlefield, and I hid, but then a headless warforged fell onto me, followed by a psycho Valenar chief with an adamantine double scimitar who wanted my head. I talked him down but wanted shelter, and fighting him would have meant drawing fire from every goblin on that side of the hill even if I beat him so I agreed. I brought him to the hidden cave and we were challenged by the Balanced Palm. The elf went nuts and started a fight. He died in the process, but killed a monk and the other was out for my blood so I brought him down.” Delegado paused. “I shot him in the back as he ran to get help. It was a survival thing. I thought I had no choice, he wasn’t listening to me because of that Khyber-kissing Valenar.”
Orphan said nothing, but remembered Edmen, the man Delegado had killed.
“But the other monks attacked anyway,” Thomas said.
“Yeah,” Delegado coughed, not comfortable with Orphan’s silent gaze. “One of them cast a sleep spell on me and was going to slit my throat, mind you. Orphan tried to get them to back off but they wouldn’t. Orhan and I fought, it was close, and then a warforged titan fell into the hill.”
“A what?” asked the daelkyr half-blood.
“A machine that can cause tremendous devastation,” Orphan explained. “They’re huge, and very difficult to destroy. It came tumbling in and brought hundreds of goblins with it as the ground collapsed into our caves. Then I knocked Delegado out. I took him to Sensei Visha, and found that we were being flooded with goblins fleeing the battlefield. Battles erupted everywhere in the tunnels, which were vast things, many centuries old if not older, and the Balanced Palm was forced to retreat. Delegado came to, tied up and his weapons taken from him, and Sensei Visha pronounced that he would be left there while we made a stand in the records room. She said if he survived he was innocent, if not he was guilty.”
“And?” Thomas asked, clearly immersed in the tale.
“I survived,” Delegado said. “I killed a bunch of goblins and went in after the Thrane. I got him and called the airship with a signaling device. The halfling sensei and Orphan were the only monks left alive – except for the Thrane. I was paid to get him alive and I did.”
“How?” Thomas asked.
“I wondered that myself,” Orphan noted.
Delegado merely grinned. Orphan could tell the half-orc was going to keep some ‘trade secrets’ to himself.
“What happened to the Thranish spy?” Thomas asked.
“Actually,” Orphan said. “I never found out. What happened to him, Delegado?”
The half-orc shrugged. “Don’t know, don’t care. I did the job. My House got paid. I moved on to the next job.” He took a big bite of food. “If he had any brains he sang like a canary.”
“So Breland uses long pain as well,” Orphan said with disgust in his voice.
“Orphan,” Delegado said with a tone of voice that indicated a mustering of patience. “War is about survival. Breland needs to survive. Everyone needs to survive. They do what they can.”
“Maybe that’s why there is so much war,” Orphan said.
Thomas shook his head. “No, there is war because people want what other people have. What do you do if not fight? Lie down and die? Run away to some unexplored portion of a distant land? Most people are not like you and I, Orphan. They cannot simply flee. They need the land where they are to grow food. You don’t have to eat, you don’t understand hunger. You don’t understand desperate.” Thomas’ voice sounded almost pleading, and the warforged could tell that the half-daelkyr was thinking of his own crimes next to Delegado’s dubious actions under the hill in Valenar.
“I suppose,” Orphan said after a while.
“Let me ask you a question,” Delegado said, all serious. “Let’s say you’ve captured a nut. I mean a real whacked-out, homicidal, true believer nut, maybe from the Emerald Claw, maybe a cultist who worships the Dark Six or the Dragon Below or something. And they’ve placed a magical device, like a dragonshard holding a fireball in it, somewhere in a town full of innocent people. It’s going to go off in five minutes. You have no way of evacuating the hundreds if not thousands of innocents in time. Would you torture the guy? Would you use long pain to make him tell you where he hid it?”
Orphan contemplated that. “I suppose I would,” the warforged finally admitted. “It is a horrible thing to think about, though.”
“Horrible but real,” Delegado told him. “Breland is home to some pretty large cities, including Sharn. You would not believe the number of people who live in those towers. Some seventy-five years ago, in the early days of the war, somebody brought one down. Thousands died. Since then Breland has vowed never to let it happen again, no matter what the cost. The Brelish spend so much effort at counter-intelligence that House Medani could have no client other than Breland and still be wealthy.”
“You know a lot for someone who claims to think so little of bards,” Thomas joked.
Delegado laughed in a way that said he was finally letting something go. “Most of them are worthless fools who refuse to do honest work. I had a second cousin named Eusyram who got it into his head that he would be a bard. He didn’t mine, he didn’t hunt, he didn’t fish, he didn’t go prospecting, nothing. He sat on his behind and drank and gambled and collected stories. He’d beg or try to make money entertaining people, but his stories were horrible. They’d start out okay, but then he’d change them, and he started putting himself in them. To hear him tell it he was involved in everything and the great heroes of the stories went to him for advice on everything and he always saved the day, but he never went more than a mile from the City of Stilts. He eventually got eaten by a chuul.”
Orphan did not ask what a chuul was, the look on Thomas’ face told the warforged enough. “We know you can’t give away trade secrets,” Orphan said to the half-orc. “But there’s still more time to talk. Have you got any more stories?”
“I am not going to sit here and provide entertaining exposition for the two of you until it stops snowing,” Delegado grunted.
“I would like to hear about Aundair,” Thoams said. “I’ve never been there, and you said you spent a lot of time there. Did you ever find anything interesting there?”
Delegado’s face grew strangely dark. “Maybe we’d be better off taking another inventory,” he said. His tone of voice told Orphan that the conversation was over.
Chapter 18 - Part 16
Orphan and his friends watched the rakshasa’s body dissolve in the lava, along with its monocle and robe. The warforged could not help but feel it was an appropriate way to avenge the lost kama. That kama had saved more innocents, and done more justice, than any other bit of Balanced Palm lore, and it satisfied Orphan greatly to see the rakshasa’s corpse disintegrate in the same lava.
“Too bad we wouldn’t have kept his stuff,” Delegado said, tossing in another dead dretch demon. He and Thomas were doing their best to rid the place of all the evidence that anything important happened here. They didn’t want any fiends to come nosing around to find a reason to investigate possible intruders in the Wastes.
“You said it could be used to track us,” Thomas said, tossing in some pieces of the forge.
“Yeah, we had to do it, but it’s still a shame,” Delegado said. “Come on Orphan, grab a dead fiend and toss, would you?”
The warforged began throwing fiends into the lava. Like the babau their initial resistance to fire made them float a bit in the lava, but they eventually sank and burnt to ash. “We ought not to keep any of the forged weapons, either, I suppose,” the Orphan noted.
“No, and mores the pity,” said Delegado. “Did you see the look on that undead shade’s face when those three arrows hit it?” The half-orc gave a satisfied chuckle.
“What day is it, anyway?” Orphan asked, helping Thomas pick up an anvil to roll down the embankment into the lava pool. “I completely lost track of time.”
“It’s the nineteenth of Sypheros,” the half-daelkyr told him. “I guess about an two or three hours to go until sunset.”
“Enough time to get this cleanup done and get back to the horses for dinner,” Delegado said, kicking the skinned kyton into the lava as well. “Do you realize that we beat one of the Lords of Dust? Do you?”
“Don’t gloat, they’ll be looking for him and may find us,” warned Thomas.
“We all die someday, might as well gloat in the meantime,” chuckled Delegado. He threw two longspears into the lava.
“Well, gloat if you want, but we have a eulogy to deliver once we are done cleaning up,” Orphan said.
“The coutal’s ghost?” asked the half-orc. Iron Orphan nodded. “You’re a seriously decent guy, Orphan. I can’t help but wonder why you hang out with Thomas and me.”
“He’s got terrible judgement,” the half-daelkyr said dryly.
“Too bad we wouldn’t have kept his stuff,” Delegado said, tossing in another dead dretch demon. He and Thomas were doing their best to rid the place of all the evidence that anything important happened here. They didn’t want any fiends to come nosing around to find a reason to investigate possible intruders in the Wastes.
“You said it could be used to track us,” Thomas said, tossing in some pieces of the forge.
“Yeah, we had to do it, but it’s still a shame,” Delegado said. “Come on Orphan, grab a dead fiend and toss, would you?”
The warforged began throwing fiends into the lava. Like the babau their initial resistance to fire made them float a bit in the lava, but they eventually sank and burnt to ash. “We ought not to keep any of the forged weapons, either, I suppose,” the Orphan noted.
“No, and mores the pity,” said Delegado. “Did you see the look on that undead shade’s face when those three arrows hit it?” The half-orc gave a satisfied chuckle.
“What day is it, anyway?” Orphan asked, helping Thomas pick up an anvil to roll down the embankment into the lava pool. “I completely lost track of time.”
“It’s the nineteenth of Sypheros,” the half-daelkyr told him. “I guess about an two or three hours to go until sunset.”
“Enough time to get this cleanup done and get back to the horses for dinner,” Delegado said, kicking the skinned kyton into the lava as well. “Do you realize that we beat one of the Lords of Dust? Do you?”
“Don’t gloat, they’ll be looking for him and may find us,” warned Thomas.
“We all die someday, might as well gloat in the meantime,” chuckled Delegado. He threw two longspears into the lava.
“Well, gloat if you want, but we have a eulogy to deliver once we are done cleaning up,” Orphan said.
“The coutal’s ghost?” asked the half-orc. Iron Orphan nodded. “You’re a seriously decent guy, Orphan. I can’t help but wonder why you hang out with Thomas and me.”
“He’s got terrible judgement,” the half-daelkyr said dryly.
Chapter 18 - Part 15
He stalked the babau, his command of both divine and arcane magic assisting him in his search. The babau was born with its skills and could not improve them because it could not change its nature, but he could, and he did. He touched the gold monocle on his eye, activating another detection spell. The babau’s aura should be leaving traces, but he hadn’t found anything recent. He was convinced the thing was alive, however. Its little hidey-hole was still filled with coin and gems, and had the babau been defeated in combat its living quarters ought to have been looted.
The elf spectre hovered by him, waiting for commands. It had been surprised when he had called it forth with the rod. One of the artifact’s lesser power was the ability to control all but the most powerful undead. Each time the rakshasa had encountered a natural dead zone to his detection spells – a not uncommon occurrence in the natural rock strata of this area – he sent the spectre through the walls and floors to circle around and report back.
A silent ping went off in his mind. Something had tripped one of the silent alarm spells. He frowned, wondering if it could be the babau. It was coming from the ledge that he had levitated up to. He doubted it, but he sent the spectre back there to check it out.
An hour later he had finished checking a series of cross-tunnels that held no surprises, and he was wondering where the spectre was. He caressed the rod, pulling forth just a trickle of its power, and he hunted for undead.
Nothing.
The rakshasa was surprised. The spectre was a powerful undead, untouchable by most weapons. Then the tiger-thing’s brow furrowed. He had left several of the ghost touch weapons alone in cavern where he had drained the dretches. Could something have taken those weapons to use against the spectre?
The rakshasa cast a spell that made it walk faster and hurried back to the ledge. He set his monocle to a continuous detect evil spell. The babau should show up like a fireball’s explosion at midnight. Smaller flickers of evil were ignored, as they were just the atmosphere of the Wastes.
The rakshasa turned a tunnel, and suddenly a human with a worm in his neck and a large battleaxe became visible as it read from a scroll. A light flared behind the rakshasa, and he saw a glowing figure of a large bear, a summoned celestial being whose claws dripped that venomous holy energy, appear and attack him. The bear’s claws slashed against the mage’s armor that surrounded the rakshasa, and the tiger-thing lifted the rod, ready to blast everyone away in a sea of evil.
A figure moved forward quickly, a pronged-fork weapon in its hand. It was another warforged, or maybe it was the same one, and it had been cleverly hidden behind a curve in the tunnel. The warforged did not strike at the rakshasa, instead flicking the weapon’s prongs around the rod, and wrenching it from the rakshasa’s grasp.
“No!” the rakshasa yelled, furious that the precious artifact was so easily taken. He had been hunting it for literally thousands of years, and he was not about to let it go so easily. He raised his hand and cast, easily dodging another swipe from the celestial bear’s claws. A bolt of black, enervating energy shot forth, hitting the warforged dead on.
The warforged ignored it utterly, and began to run back down the tunnel. The rakshasa was stunned. A divination spell that he had cast about a decade ago had told him that the warforged were living beings, and he had thought that the negative energy attack would work.
The worm in the human’s neck spat electricity at the rakshasa, but the tiger-thing’s natural resistance to magicks brushed the discharge off as easily as he would flick a fly. The rakshasa cast a quick dismissal on the celestial bear – which was the only thing that theoretically could get past his natural damage reduction, and ran after the human with the worm, who was already fleeing along the route the warforged had taken.
Coming around the bend, his magical speed easily helped him overtake the human. No, it is a daelkyr-spawn, the rakshasa realized. That only made the matter more delicious, although he did not understand why his detect evil spell had not alerted him to the symbiont’s master, assuming one of the smaller evil pulses had been the symbiont itself.
The rakshasa blasted the half-daelkyr in the back with a spell that overwhelmed the man’s mind, making him stumble and drool. The tiger-thing slashed viciously at the half-daelkyr as he passed, still in hot pursuit of the warforged who had his rod. The warforged moved as fast as the rakshasa, even with the tiger-thing’s enhanced speed.
Two arrows slammed into the rakshasa with great force. The fiend shuddered for a moment in fear before realizing that his innate regenerative abilities prevented any harm from the wounds. Had either the arrows or the bow been enchanted for holiness, the pain would have been incredible. Ahead of the warforged was a large orc with a longbow. Even as the warforged cover over half of the one hundred feet gap between the orc and himself, the orc was withdrawing a sword. A sword whose color became apparent to the rakshasa in the light of the sunrod the warforged carried in his belt.
“Be careful, Delegado,” the warforged cried out, tossing the rod to the orc. “It burns!”
The rakshasa sneered at the pain that the pathetically pious warforged was feeling when holding the rod, and he quickly cast a spell as the orc, or maybe half-orc, named Delegado drew his arm back to deliver the blow with the adamantine blade.
A large hand with tiger’s claws erupted out of the tunnel wall. Formed entirely of stone, the summoned hand grabbed the half-orc, preventing him from delivering the blow. Caught off-guard, the half-orc struggled his mighty muscles to free himself from the grip of the stony hand. And no doubt that he would, but not soon enough.
The warforged hurled a flask at the rakshasa and then withdrew his kama and ran at the summoned stony hand, trying to help Delegado free himself. The flask hit the rakshasa, and a tiny burst of electrical energy singed the tiger-thing’s fur. This astonished him until he realized that it was an alchemical effect, not a magical one, and thus it could hurt him, if not greatly.
He was more concerned about the kama, however. It was the most powerful magic that the warforged carried, according to the monocle on the rakshasa’s eye. The tiger-thing decided not to take a chance.
“We’ll see how you like having things taken from you,” the rakshasa snarled. He mentally activated a ring made of byeshk and dragonshards on one hand, and a telekinetic bolt of force slammed into the kama. While the ring was very powerful, it did not handle things of a larger size with any precision. It had been designed to steal coutal spellbooks, long ago, and it had been useful for other things since then. Now the rakshasa slapped the kama so hard that it sailed out of the tunnel, over the ledge that was some ways behind the half-orc. A second mental nudge tapped the kama until it spun to the right, assuring that it would land in the lava pool.
The warforged called out in anguish, but punched the stony hand, trying to free his friend. The half-orc grunted in pain, and managed with the warforged’s help to shove the fingers open.
The rakshasa tapped with the ring again, trying to rid the half-orc of his weapon as well, but its grip on its weapon was too strong. The half-orc swung downwards, even as the rakshasa charged.
The half-orc’s first blow hit directly along the rod’s side. Despite the strength of the blow, only a minor crack appeared. This terrified the rakshasa, as the rod should be unable to be even scratched. The half-orc’s second strike opened the crack more, and flickering lights danced on the rod’s surface.
“I think not,” the rakshasa snarled, bursting a web of sticky strands around the half-orc and the warforged. The web was a particularly strong one, as the rakshasa had enhanced its magic with years of practice. The half-orc was stuck, and began trying to pull free so as to hit the rod one more time, but the warforged was not, instead being only slowed down.
The stony hand grabbed the half-orc again, and between the hand and the web the half-orc was painfully immobilized. The rakshasa used his ring again, and now the adamantine sword slipped out of the half-orc’s hand, tumbling backwards into more of the web. It finally came to rest a good five feet behind the half-orc.
The warforged charged at the rakshasa, and wrapped its arms around the tiger-thing’s throat. “You will fall!” the warforged insisted.
Even with his air supply cut off, the rakshasa noted the deep scratches and wounds to the warforged. It was the same one from before after all. A swipe of the rakshasa’ claws, and the warforged was stumbling backwards, thrown into the wall of the tunnel. Another swipe and the warforged collapsed in a heap.
“I fall when I choose,” sneered the rakshasa. He looked back towards the orc, who was slowly turning purple as the stony hand began to seriously threaten his ribs. “And I will be able to fix what you have done to the rod,” the rakshasa said, striding forward. “And I will enjoy torturing you for centuries.” The rakshasa cocked his head to one side as he regarded the half-orc. “You know, you look familiar.”
“I humped your mother,” the half-orc said, spitting a wad of mucus at the rakshasa. Something about the half-orc’s face, even through the pain, was off. It wasn’t simple bluster, it was –
A heavy greataxe slammed into the rakshasa’s back, penetrating the magical fields and the thick skin of the tiger-thing. The wound was a grievous one, hitting in a particularly vital area. Even with his immediate healing of blows from most weapons, the rakshasa was badly hurt, and began to bleed profusely. For a brief moment he felt his legs give way until the nerves in his spine reconnected.
The rakshasa turned, trying to recover from the horribly damaging sneak attack that the charging half-daelkyr had delivered with his greataxe. Thomas was moving faster, however, and the raging half-daelkyr gouged the rakshasa across the stomach. Only the rakshasa’s initial resistance to damage kept the tiger-thing from being eviscerated. It was still incredibly painful, and more of the rakshasa’s lifeblood covered the tunnel floor. It awkwardly stumbled to the side, trying to get some room. Thomas whirled his greataxe a third time, but this time the strike was at a bad angle, and the rakshasa’s thick skin and magically summoned armor prevented any more damage.
The rakshasa was terrified. It had been preparing a spell, but the pain crushed its concentration. It had never been this badly hurt since it was a whelp. It tried to scratch Thomas with tiger claws and it succeeded, but the half-daelkyr, now frothing at the mouth, seemed not to notice.
“Thomas,” said the warforged with obvious effort, dragging itself to the webbed half-orc. “The sword. Get the sword.” The half-orc was growling, and shoving the stony hand open with terrific effort. “Break the rod.”
Thomas turned and bolted for the webbing, barely able to focus through his rage. He pushed his way into the sticky mass, slowing down but not stopping, and reached past Delegado for the adamantine sword.
“No!” the rakshasa yelled, casting a small spell now that it could focus his mind again. It had used too much spell ability and had no more for its most powerful arcane spells. A series of four magically summoned darts slammed the half-daelkyr in his back. Thomas grunted, but grabbed the sword and pulled it free anyway.
Thomas could not go far, but he didn’t need to. He turned himself around and stabbed downwards. The rod split, and then made a high-pitched shrieking sound.
A torrent of sensation burst in all directions, temporarily overwhelming the minds of everyone there, the rakshasa included. They saw and felt the pain of dretches, or coutals, of dragons, of other great fiends. Shapes and creatures that they could not understand went by. Somewhere in the rakshasa’s mind it understood that the life force that the rod had captured was now all being released into where such things went when they died as the artifact dissolved, but anger and pain were feelings that washed away any sense of philosophical appreciation.
The stony hand dissolved, no longer held by the rakshasa’s mind due to the overwhelming sensations. Thomas collapsed in the web, his rage prematurely spent, his alien mind still trying to cope with what he had perceived. Even the stormstalk looked disoriented. The warforged was in no better shape, its many wounds keeping it from moving quickly or decisively.
Only Delegado seemed to rally himself, oddly enough, and he managed to act before the rakshasa could rise from the prone position that it could not remember falling to. The half-orc did not try to retrieve his sword or his bow. Instead he grinned as he pulled a flask from his belt pouch.
“Forgot I had this,” laughed the half-orc, flicking the stopper out with his thumb and sprinkling oil onto the warforged’s body.
The rakshasa snarled as it moved forward, his claws flexing. It wanted nothing more than to rip the webbed half-orc’s throat out.
The warforged suddenly rose, and stabbed the rakshasa with the fork-prong thing. Astonishingly it slid all the way into the rakshasa’s side, and the tiger-thing cried out in pain. “Delegado and Thomas didn’t have any more bless weapon oils,” Orphan said. “But it turned out that the kyton was hiding one, he didn’t trust you too much.” The warforged stabbed again, and the rakshasa jumped backwards to avoid being hurt again.
A good and piercing weapon, the rakshasa realized, feeling real terror. He slashed with his claws again, then turned to run.
The warforged dodged the claws, and hit the rakshasa in the back with a flurry of stabbings. The rakshasa ran now, ran from the lesser beings, but the warforged was just as fast as he was. The tiger-thing turned to slash with its claws again, not understanding how it could be losing.
Then the warforged’s weapon went cleanly through its heart.
The elf spectre hovered by him, waiting for commands. It had been surprised when he had called it forth with the rod. One of the artifact’s lesser power was the ability to control all but the most powerful undead. Each time the rakshasa had encountered a natural dead zone to his detection spells – a not uncommon occurrence in the natural rock strata of this area – he sent the spectre through the walls and floors to circle around and report back.
A silent ping went off in his mind. Something had tripped one of the silent alarm spells. He frowned, wondering if it could be the babau. It was coming from the ledge that he had levitated up to. He doubted it, but he sent the spectre back there to check it out.
An hour later he had finished checking a series of cross-tunnels that held no surprises, and he was wondering where the spectre was. He caressed the rod, pulling forth just a trickle of its power, and he hunted for undead.
Nothing.
The rakshasa was surprised. The spectre was a powerful undead, untouchable by most weapons. Then the tiger-thing’s brow furrowed. He had left several of the ghost touch weapons alone in cavern where he had drained the dretches. Could something have taken those weapons to use against the spectre?
The rakshasa cast a spell that made it walk faster and hurried back to the ledge. He set his monocle to a continuous detect evil spell. The babau should show up like a fireball’s explosion at midnight. Smaller flickers of evil were ignored, as they were just the atmosphere of the Wastes.
The rakshasa turned a tunnel, and suddenly a human with a worm in his neck and a large battleaxe became visible as it read from a scroll. A light flared behind the rakshasa, and he saw a glowing figure of a large bear, a summoned celestial being whose claws dripped that venomous holy energy, appear and attack him. The bear’s claws slashed against the mage’s armor that surrounded the rakshasa, and the tiger-thing lifted the rod, ready to blast everyone away in a sea of evil.
A figure moved forward quickly, a pronged-fork weapon in its hand. It was another warforged, or maybe it was the same one, and it had been cleverly hidden behind a curve in the tunnel. The warforged did not strike at the rakshasa, instead flicking the weapon’s prongs around the rod, and wrenching it from the rakshasa’s grasp.
“No!” the rakshasa yelled, furious that the precious artifact was so easily taken. He had been hunting it for literally thousands of years, and he was not about to let it go so easily. He raised his hand and cast, easily dodging another swipe from the celestial bear’s claws. A bolt of black, enervating energy shot forth, hitting the warforged dead on.
The warforged ignored it utterly, and began to run back down the tunnel. The rakshasa was stunned. A divination spell that he had cast about a decade ago had told him that the warforged were living beings, and he had thought that the negative energy attack would work.
The worm in the human’s neck spat electricity at the rakshasa, but the tiger-thing’s natural resistance to magicks brushed the discharge off as easily as he would flick a fly. The rakshasa cast a quick dismissal on the celestial bear – which was the only thing that theoretically could get past his natural damage reduction, and ran after the human with the worm, who was already fleeing along the route the warforged had taken.
Coming around the bend, his magical speed easily helped him overtake the human. No, it is a daelkyr-spawn, the rakshasa realized. That only made the matter more delicious, although he did not understand why his detect evil spell had not alerted him to the symbiont’s master, assuming one of the smaller evil pulses had been the symbiont itself.
The rakshasa blasted the half-daelkyr in the back with a spell that overwhelmed the man’s mind, making him stumble and drool. The tiger-thing slashed viciously at the half-daelkyr as he passed, still in hot pursuit of the warforged who had his rod. The warforged moved as fast as the rakshasa, even with the tiger-thing’s enhanced speed.
Two arrows slammed into the rakshasa with great force. The fiend shuddered for a moment in fear before realizing that his innate regenerative abilities prevented any harm from the wounds. Had either the arrows or the bow been enchanted for holiness, the pain would have been incredible. Ahead of the warforged was a large orc with a longbow. Even as the warforged cover over half of the one hundred feet gap between the orc and himself, the orc was withdrawing a sword. A sword whose color became apparent to the rakshasa in the light of the sunrod the warforged carried in his belt.
“Be careful, Delegado,” the warforged cried out, tossing the rod to the orc. “It burns!”
The rakshasa sneered at the pain that the pathetically pious warforged was feeling when holding the rod, and he quickly cast a spell as the orc, or maybe half-orc, named Delegado drew his arm back to deliver the blow with the adamantine blade.
A large hand with tiger’s claws erupted out of the tunnel wall. Formed entirely of stone, the summoned hand grabbed the half-orc, preventing him from delivering the blow. Caught off-guard, the half-orc struggled his mighty muscles to free himself from the grip of the stony hand. And no doubt that he would, but not soon enough.
The warforged hurled a flask at the rakshasa and then withdrew his kama and ran at the summoned stony hand, trying to help Delegado free himself. The flask hit the rakshasa, and a tiny burst of electrical energy singed the tiger-thing’s fur. This astonished him until he realized that it was an alchemical effect, not a magical one, and thus it could hurt him, if not greatly.
He was more concerned about the kama, however. It was the most powerful magic that the warforged carried, according to the monocle on the rakshasa’s eye. The tiger-thing decided not to take a chance.
“We’ll see how you like having things taken from you,” the rakshasa snarled. He mentally activated a ring made of byeshk and dragonshards on one hand, and a telekinetic bolt of force slammed into the kama. While the ring was very powerful, it did not handle things of a larger size with any precision. It had been designed to steal coutal spellbooks, long ago, and it had been useful for other things since then. Now the rakshasa slapped the kama so hard that it sailed out of the tunnel, over the ledge that was some ways behind the half-orc. A second mental nudge tapped the kama until it spun to the right, assuring that it would land in the lava pool.
The warforged called out in anguish, but punched the stony hand, trying to free his friend. The half-orc grunted in pain, and managed with the warforged’s help to shove the fingers open.
The rakshasa tapped with the ring again, trying to rid the half-orc of his weapon as well, but its grip on its weapon was too strong. The half-orc swung downwards, even as the rakshasa charged.
The half-orc’s first blow hit directly along the rod’s side. Despite the strength of the blow, only a minor crack appeared. This terrified the rakshasa, as the rod should be unable to be even scratched. The half-orc’s second strike opened the crack more, and flickering lights danced on the rod’s surface.
“I think not,” the rakshasa snarled, bursting a web of sticky strands around the half-orc and the warforged. The web was a particularly strong one, as the rakshasa had enhanced its magic with years of practice. The half-orc was stuck, and began trying to pull free so as to hit the rod one more time, but the warforged was not, instead being only slowed down.
The stony hand grabbed the half-orc again, and between the hand and the web the half-orc was painfully immobilized. The rakshasa used his ring again, and now the adamantine sword slipped out of the half-orc’s hand, tumbling backwards into more of the web. It finally came to rest a good five feet behind the half-orc.
The warforged charged at the rakshasa, and wrapped its arms around the tiger-thing’s throat. “You will fall!” the warforged insisted.
Even with his air supply cut off, the rakshasa noted the deep scratches and wounds to the warforged. It was the same one from before after all. A swipe of the rakshasa’ claws, and the warforged was stumbling backwards, thrown into the wall of the tunnel. Another swipe and the warforged collapsed in a heap.
“I fall when I choose,” sneered the rakshasa. He looked back towards the orc, who was slowly turning purple as the stony hand began to seriously threaten his ribs. “And I will be able to fix what you have done to the rod,” the rakshasa said, striding forward. “And I will enjoy torturing you for centuries.” The rakshasa cocked his head to one side as he regarded the half-orc. “You know, you look familiar.”
“I humped your mother,” the half-orc said, spitting a wad of mucus at the rakshasa. Something about the half-orc’s face, even through the pain, was off. It wasn’t simple bluster, it was –
A heavy greataxe slammed into the rakshasa’s back, penetrating the magical fields and the thick skin of the tiger-thing. The wound was a grievous one, hitting in a particularly vital area. Even with his immediate healing of blows from most weapons, the rakshasa was badly hurt, and began to bleed profusely. For a brief moment he felt his legs give way until the nerves in his spine reconnected.
The rakshasa turned, trying to recover from the horribly damaging sneak attack that the charging half-daelkyr had delivered with his greataxe. Thomas was moving faster, however, and the raging half-daelkyr gouged the rakshasa across the stomach. Only the rakshasa’s initial resistance to damage kept the tiger-thing from being eviscerated. It was still incredibly painful, and more of the rakshasa’s lifeblood covered the tunnel floor. It awkwardly stumbled to the side, trying to get some room. Thomas whirled his greataxe a third time, but this time the strike was at a bad angle, and the rakshasa’s thick skin and magically summoned armor prevented any more damage.
The rakshasa was terrified. It had been preparing a spell, but the pain crushed its concentration. It had never been this badly hurt since it was a whelp. It tried to scratch Thomas with tiger claws and it succeeded, but the half-daelkyr, now frothing at the mouth, seemed not to notice.
“Thomas,” said the warforged with obvious effort, dragging itself to the webbed half-orc. “The sword. Get the sword.” The half-orc was growling, and shoving the stony hand open with terrific effort. “Break the rod.”
Thomas turned and bolted for the webbing, barely able to focus through his rage. He pushed his way into the sticky mass, slowing down but not stopping, and reached past Delegado for the adamantine sword.
“No!” the rakshasa yelled, casting a small spell now that it could focus his mind again. It had used too much spell ability and had no more for its most powerful arcane spells. A series of four magically summoned darts slammed the half-daelkyr in his back. Thomas grunted, but grabbed the sword and pulled it free anyway.
Thomas could not go far, but he didn’t need to. He turned himself around and stabbed downwards. The rod split, and then made a high-pitched shrieking sound.
A torrent of sensation burst in all directions, temporarily overwhelming the minds of everyone there, the rakshasa included. They saw and felt the pain of dretches, or coutals, of dragons, of other great fiends. Shapes and creatures that they could not understand went by. Somewhere in the rakshasa’s mind it understood that the life force that the rod had captured was now all being released into where such things went when they died as the artifact dissolved, but anger and pain were feelings that washed away any sense of philosophical appreciation.
The stony hand dissolved, no longer held by the rakshasa’s mind due to the overwhelming sensations. Thomas collapsed in the web, his rage prematurely spent, his alien mind still trying to cope with what he had perceived. Even the stormstalk looked disoriented. The warforged was in no better shape, its many wounds keeping it from moving quickly or decisively.
Only Delegado seemed to rally himself, oddly enough, and he managed to act before the rakshasa could rise from the prone position that it could not remember falling to. The half-orc did not try to retrieve his sword or his bow. Instead he grinned as he pulled a flask from his belt pouch.
“Forgot I had this,” laughed the half-orc, flicking the stopper out with his thumb and sprinkling oil onto the warforged’s body.
The rakshasa snarled as it moved forward, his claws flexing. It wanted nothing more than to rip the webbed half-orc’s throat out.
The warforged suddenly rose, and stabbed the rakshasa with the fork-prong thing. Astonishingly it slid all the way into the rakshasa’s side, and the tiger-thing cried out in pain. “Delegado and Thomas didn’t have any more bless weapon oils,” Orphan said. “But it turned out that the kyton was hiding one, he didn’t trust you too much.” The warforged stabbed again, and the rakshasa jumped backwards to avoid being hurt again.
A good and piercing weapon, the rakshasa realized, feeling real terror. He slashed with his claws again, then turned to run.
The warforged dodged the claws, and hit the rakshasa in the back with a flurry of stabbings. The rakshasa ran now, ran from the lesser beings, but the warforged was just as fast as he was. The tiger-thing turned to slash with its claws again, not understanding how it could be losing.
Then the warforged’s weapon went cleanly through its heart.
Chapter 18 - Part 14
Meschashmal circled in the clouds, waiting for the idiotic little goblinoid to move. He couldn’t stay in one place, else his end would be faster. He’d seen the fiendish animal before she had, from his perch high above, but he hadn’t had a clear shot at it until it engaged her in combat. Then he thought he’d never get to it but she backed up, and he took the shot.
Got it dead center, too, Meschashmal thought proudly. He’d expected the bugbear to keep moving towards Festering Holt with the same dogged determination that she’d been demonstrating since he’d found her three hours ago. But she wasn’t. She was singing.
How did the goblins ever build an empire? Meschashmal wondered, flapping his great blue wings. When will she move, and let me see what she does in Festering Holt! I have to observe her, to see if she will help the three, and I don’t have a lot of time!
Finally the bugbear rose from her kneeling position, ceased her singing, and continued walking towards Festering Holt. The great blue huffed in relief…until he saw the demonic riders bearing down on him.
The pious bugbear walked on, ignorant of the battle that was beginning to erupt high in the skies above.
Got it dead center, too, Meschashmal thought proudly. He’d expected the bugbear to keep moving towards Festering Holt with the same dogged determination that she’d been demonstrating since he’d found her three hours ago. But she wasn’t. She was singing.
How did the goblins ever build an empire? Meschashmal wondered, flapping his great blue wings. When will she move, and let me see what she does in Festering Holt! I have to observe her, to see if she will help the three, and I don’t have a lot of time!
Finally the bugbear rose from her kneeling position, ceased her singing, and continued walking towards Festering Holt. The great blue huffed in relief…until he saw the demonic riders bearing down on him.
The pious bugbear walked on, ignorant of the battle that was beginning to erupt high in the skies above.
Chapter 18 - Part 13
Soft snow crunched beneath her feet as she walked across the broken earth. There was a trail of sorts, or at least a fairly level ribbon of ground that snaked between smoking pits and upthrust hills. The information that she had said that the trail led to Festering Holt, but that the way was treacherous. This did not scare her. Treachery was burnt away by the Flame, and faith made all endeavors possible.
These were her second set of boots. Shortly after slaying the demonic version of a mountain goat she had stepped in some snow that was made of acid. She’d jumped back in time to save her feet, but not her boots. If not for her fellow priests insisting that she pack an extra set of footgear, she’d have lost her ability to walk to frostbite by now.
I could use the horse, she thought. But not yet. I am not yet able to keep him the entire day.
Something moved behind a large upthrust rock, a piece of blood-red granite larger than a barn that could be hiding another. The bugbear lifted her broad nose and drew her flametouched iron longsword. Whatever it was, it was going to come her way soon.
With a terrible roar, a thing of white, leathery skin and red, smoking eyes came charging around the corner. It had a broad shield of bone reaching up from its skull and over its neck, from which two long horns projected. Another shirt horn, this one curved, shot up from a mouth that ended in a sharp, beak-like opening.
Fiendish dinosaur, she thought, dodging the first charge and laying a strike along its side. The beast was large, and barely felt the scratch. It turned and struck her breastplate with its horns, knocking her down. She rolled away, and sprung to her feet with her blade in hand. The demon-bred thing breathed a greasy plume of noxious smoke at her, but she dodged it easily.
“Flame protect me and guide me,” she said, backing up so that she could circle. “The Silver Flame is my beacon, and with it I am safe.” The dinosaur snorted in contempt, and watched her movements with beady eyes, preparing another charge.
A great arc of lightning shot down from the cloudy sky, hitting the dinosaur-fiend dead center, and splitting it apart. Roasted demonic meat gave off a foul odor that competed with vehement ozone in her nostrils. Her vision was full of the lightning bolt, but she blinked her eyes for a minute until the afterimage cleared.
She looked up, seeing only clouds in the morning sky. Happily she fell to hear knees and began to sing. Loud hymns in praise of the Silver Flame rolled across the desolate landscape of the Demon Wastes.
These were her second set of boots. Shortly after slaying the demonic version of a mountain goat she had stepped in some snow that was made of acid. She’d jumped back in time to save her feet, but not her boots. If not for her fellow priests insisting that she pack an extra set of footgear, she’d have lost her ability to walk to frostbite by now.
I could use the horse, she thought. But not yet. I am not yet able to keep him the entire day.
Something moved behind a large upthrust rock, a piece of blood-red granite larger than a barn that could be hiding another. The bugbear lifted her broad nose and drew her flametouched iron longsword. Whatever it was, it was going to come her way soon.
With a terrible roar, a thing of white, leathery skin and red, smoking eyes came charging around the corner. It had a broad shield of bone reaching up from its skull and over its neck, from which two long horns projected. Another shirt horn, this one curved, shot up from a mouth that ended in a sharp, beak-like opening.
Fiendish dinosaur, she thought, dodging the first charge and laying a strike along its side. The beast was large, and barely felt the scratch. It turned and struck her breastplate with its horns, knocking her down. She rolled away, and sprung to her feet with her blade in hand. The demon-bred thing breathed a greasy plume of noxious smoke at her, but she dodged it easily.
“Flame protect me and guide me,” she said, backing up so that she could circle. “The Silver Flame is my beacon, and with it I am safe.” The dinosaur snorted in contempt, and watched her movements with beady eyes, preparing another charge.
A great arc of lightning shot down from the cloudy sky, hitting the dinosaur-fiend dead center, and splitting it apart. Roasted demonic meat gave off a foul odor that competed with vehement ozone in her nostrils. Her vision was full of the lightning bolt, but she blinked her eyes for a minute until the afterimage cleared.
She looked up, seeing only clouds in the morning sky. Happily she fell to hear knees and began to sing. Loud hymns in praise of the Silver Flame rolled across the desolate landscape of the Demon Wastes.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Chapter 18 - Part 12
“This way, to the right,” Delegado hissed, still invisible.
“Following,” Thomas said, from a few feet behind him. “You move real slow.”
“Show off,” Delegado grumbled. The half-orc had plenty of cousins who embraced their most natural feral state. Like Thomas they could call on raging strength in battle, and like Thomas they could get their legs working faster across the ground than most. As a child they had mocked Delegado’s choice of paths as a tracker, until he started making more money with his dragonmark than they could dream of.
They turned a corner and Delegado felt heat ahead. He slowed down and Thomas bumped into him. So did something small and wriggly that stank of ozone.
“Keep that damn thing off me!” Delegado hissed.
“Then warn me when you stop,” Thomas retorted. “I can’t see you.”
Delegado swallowed a meaningless reply and tapped the wall twice as he moved on. He heard Thomas’ soft footsteps follow.
The tunnel opened up to a large cavern with several exits. A great pool of lava was to his left, along with a foundry and a smithy. Some of the foundry was smashed, but most of the anvils and tools seemed in good condition. The heat from the lava and the smell of the sulfur was intense.
What happened here? Delegado wondered. He stepped across a broken trough and saw the bodies.
“Drop the spell,” he told Thomas in a croaking voice.
“You sure?” said Thomas’ disembodied voice from behind him and to his right.
“Whatever did this is gone,” Delegado said, surveying the cave floor. Before him were upwards of thirty of the hunched demonlings, all withered and drunk, the very essence ripped out of them. Foul though the demonlings might have been, it was an unseemly death. Delegado felt the air ripple, and he could see his hands, the rest of his body again.
“I’m going to stay invisible,” Thomas said. “Whatever did this may come back. Where’s Orphan?”
“Last I checked he was down that way,” Delegado said, pointing to a tunnel that had far newer marks of construction. “And a lot of footprints go down there and back.”
“You’ve got another dragonmark use today, don’t you?” asked Thomas’ voice, now moving around the great cave, apparently examining things.
“I’d like to save my ability to find a person if I don’t need to use it,” Delegado told him. “Come on.”
They headed down the tunnel, immediately noting the scorch marks, and the multitudes of dead bodies. Many of these demonlings had died in combat before the survivors were sucked dry in the cavern. Delegado recognized the busted-up faces that resulted from a warforged monk’s powerful punch. He heard Thomas grunt from somewhere behind him, and he knew the half-daelkyr was noticing the wounds as well.
Then he saw the still form made of stone, metal, and wood lying underneath dead demons, and he ran forward. “Orphan!” he yelled.
No, no, no, no, Delegado’s mind went off like a set of drums with denial. He pulled the filthy, evil, dead things off of his friend. No! Orphan lay there on the ground, his body full of cracks and punctures, a small puddle of some oily substance beneath him. Delegado lifted the warforged’s body up, noting the smears of demon blood and warforged lubricant staining the uniform outfit of the Balanced Palm that Iron Orphan was so proud of. The warforged monk had always kept it neat and presentable.
“I wasn’t quick enough,” Delegado said, his eyes leaking tears he could not hold back. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” The wave of grief shocked him with its fierceness. He’d known that he liked the warforged, but he hadn’t ever considered just how much. Solitary as he was, Delegado had grown very used to Orphan in a very short period of time.
An invisible hand touched his shoulder. “Let me look into his eyes,” Thomas said.
Delegado’s first instinct was to tell Thomas to go jump in the lava, but he suppressed it, reminding himself how hard the half-daelkyr had fought to find the warforged. The half-orc lifted his friend’s body up so that Thomas could look deep into Orphan’s face plate.
“He’s not dead,” Thomas told him, ruffling through some scrolls. “Look deep into his eyes. Warforged don’t bleed to death when injured, they aren’t flesh. They just shut down.” Delegado turned and looked into Orphan’s eyes. Astonishingly he saw a thin, small spark.
“He’s not dead,” Delegado said, relief flooding through him.
“There’s a thin line between damaging a warforged enough to shut it down but not enough to kill it,” Thomas said. “Ah-hah!” An upwards rustle said that he found the scroll he was looking for. “Most constructs simply hit a point where the damage they took doesn’t allow the field animating within them to continue functioning, and they die. The warforged have enough living parts that they can sometimes hold on in that gray area before death, like a human in a coma.”
“Some House Cannith Dragon Below cultist tell you all this?” Delegado asked with a sarcasm that was born of relief. He recalled that they’d purchased a repair scroll from the Cannith operative in Greenheart. For that matter he also realized that he still had an oil of repair in his belt pouch.
“Actually, yes.” Soft magical chanting was followed by the light of a released scroll burning itself a few feet above the ground. A dim cloud of ambient specks floated over to Orphan’s body, and the cracks and puncture wounds retreated just the tiniest bit.
Orphan flinched, the light coming back to his eyes, and he jumped up, startled. “Delegado?” he asked, clearly confused.
The half-orc hugged the warforged tightly before putting him down. “Good to have you back, you tin-plated hunk of clockwork!”
“I have neither in my construction,” Orphan said. “However what’s urgent now is – where’s Thomas?”
“Here, Orphan,” Thomas said. “I’m invisible. There’s a rakshasa about, a prince of fiends. It’s a defensive measure.”
“Tiger-headed thing that casts powerful magic,” Orphan said. “Yes, he’s taken the rod, we have to stop him.”
“What rod?” Delegado asked.
“We can’t take that rakshasa, Orphan,” Thomas said. “We just can’t.”
“We have to,” Orphan said. “Would someone give me a sunrod? I can’t see a thing.” Delegado whipped one out and placed it in Orphan’s hand. The monk activated it and ran down the tunnel.
“Did I miss something?” Thomas asked. Seconds later Orphan was back.
“Yes, it’s gone,” the warforged said. “We have to find it! Delegado, if I describe it to you, can you –”
“I used that earlier to find your kama,” Delegado said. “This rod, would it happen to suck the life force out of a bunch of people?”
“Yes,” the warforged said. “I take it that you found some corpses?”
“Up there,” Delegado said, jerking his thumb.
“He covered his tracks,” Orphan said. “Sentry was right, he doesn’t want the other fiends to learn that he has it.”
“Who is Sentry, and what is ‘it’? You’ve got to fill us in,” Thomas said.
“A rod forged millennia ago by a great demon lord,” Orphan said. “It can only be destroyed by adamantine. It must be destroyed, or the greater fiends trapped beneath Khyber could be raised, and this world will die drowning in its own blood. We have to find him, Delegado, you have to track him!”
“I can’t, he has a magical robe that makes him pass without a trace,” the half-orc said.
“There has to be a way!” Orphan insisted, running up the tunnel. They followed him hastily, and found him pacing around the cavern, examining the bodies. “Which way did you come in?” Orphan asked. Delegado pointed to the tunnel. “He didn’t go back that way or else you would have passed him,” Orphan said, pacing. “And he didn’t teleport away, because he would have teleported in if he could have. But if he came down the fastest way, why not go back the fastest way?”
“Is there another thing he wants?” Thomas’ voice asked from somewhere around the cavern. The half-daelkyr seemed to be examining the various tunnels.
“No, he has the rod, that’s all they wanted,” Orphan said. “The forges were to create boltheads that could hit insubstantial things. The rod was guarded by the ghost of a coutal. They – I mean, the rakshasa, has no more need of it.”
“Hm,” Delegado said, spotting three arrows leaning against a stack of longspears. He picked them up, examining the heads, then kept them. It sounded like a handy weapon. “Who was the boss of this place before the rakshasa showed up? Maybe they’re off together.”
“A kyton,” Orphan said. “He’s dead, that’s his body there.” The warforged pointed to a skinned slab of meat that had once been a tall humanoid. “I’m guessing the rakshasa threw the chains into the lava as part of his punishment. Or maybe he planned to kill him all along and he’s still just covering his actions. Where could he have gone?”
“Chains?” Delegado asked.
“The rakshasa is killing things here, ensuring their silence, even though he has the rod,” Thomas mused. “Why is he afraid of being exposed if he has the power?”
“He doesn’t want anyone to know,” Delegado said. “Probably he figures they may develop counter-measures, or they may have their own adamantine. Most likely he wants the element of surprise. Where are the things he’s still killing?”
“That ledge,” Orphan realized, pointing up. “That’s the way I came in. There’s a maze of tunnels there. Somewhere in there is where I came back with the demon that teleported away from us after attacking us. There were some other guardians. Maybe he’s going to kill them.”
Delegado pulled out a grappling hook and began to tie it to a silk rope. “Let’s get up there, then. I’ve seen parts of this guy, and you’ll fill me in on more. Once we’re up I’ll try my dragonmark one more time. That’s the only chance we’ll have.”
“Rakshasa are resistant to many magical effects,” Thomas warned.
“Then I guess I’d best try real hard,” Delegado said, twirling the rope and getting ready to throw.
“Following,” Thomas said, from a few feet behind him. “You move real slow.”
“Show off,” Delegado grumbled. The half-orc had plenty of cousins who embraced their most natural feral state. Like Thomas they could call on raging strength in battle, and like Thomas they could get their legs working faster across the ground than most. As a child they had mocked Delegado’s choice of paths as a tracker, until he started making more money with his dragonmark than they could dream of.
They turned a corner and Delegado felt heat ahead. He slowed down and Thomas bumped into him. So did something small and wriggly that stank of ozone.
“Keep that damn thing off me!” Delegado hissed.
“Then warn me when you stop,” Thomas retorted. “I can’t see you.”
Delegado swallowed a meaningless reply and tapped the wall twice as he moved on. He heard Thomas’ soft footsteps follow.
The tunnel opened up to a large cavern with several exits. A great pool of lava was to his left, along with a foundry and a smithy. Some of the foundry was smashed, but most of the anvils and tools seemed in good condition. The heat from the lava and the smell of the sulfur was intense.
What happened here? Delegado wondered. He stepped across a broken trough and saw the bodies.
“Drop the spell,” he told Thomas in a croaking voice.
“You sure?” said Thomas’ disembodied voice from behind him and to his right.
“Whatever did this is gone,” Delegado said, surveying the cave floor. Before him were upwards of thirty of the hunched demonlings, all withered and drunk, the very essence ripped out of them. Foul though the demonlings might have been, it was an unseemly death. Delegado felt the air ripple, and he could see his hands, the rest of his body again.
“I’m going to stay invisible,” Thomas said. “Whatever did this may come back. Where’s Orphan?”
“Last I checked he was down that way,” Delegado said, pointing to a tunnel that had far newer marks of construction. “And a lot of footprints go down there and back.”
“You’ve got another dragonmark use today, don’t you?” asked Thomas’ voice, now moving around the great cave, apparently examining things.
“I’d like to save my ability to find a person if I don’t need to use it,” Delegado told him. “Come on.”
They headed down the tunnel, immediately noting the scorch marks, and the multitudes of dead bodies. Many of these demonlings had died in combat before the survivors were sucked dry in the cavern. Delegado recognized the busted-up faces that resulted from a warforged monk’s powerful punch. He heard Thomas grunt from somewhere behind him, and he knew the half-daelkyr was noticing the wounds as well.
Then he saw the still form made of stone, metal, and wood lying underneath dead demons, and he ran forward. “Orphan!” he yelled.
No, no, no, no, Delegado’s mind went off like a set of drums with denial. He pulled the filthy, evil, dead things off of his friend. No! Orphan lay there on the ground, his body full of cracks and punctures, a small puddle of some oily substance beneath him. Delegado lifted the warforged’s body up, noting the smears of demon blood and warforged lubricant staining the uniform outfit of the Balanced Palm that Iron Orphan was so proud of. The warforged monk had always kept it neat and presentable.
“I wasn’t quick enough,” Delegado said, his eyes leaking tears he could not hold back. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” The wave of grief shocked him with its fierceness. He’d known that he liked the warforged, but he hadn’t ever considered just how much. Solitary as he was, Delegado had grown very used to Orphan in a very short period of time.
An invisible hand touched his shoulder. “Let me look into his eyes,” Thomas said.
Delegado’s first instinct was to tell Thomas to go jump in the lava, but he suppressed it, reminding himself how hard the half-daelkyr had fought to find the warforged. The half-orc lifted his friend’s body up so that Thomas could look deep into Orphan’s face plate.
“He’s not dead,” Thomas told him, ruffling through some scrolls. “Look deep into his eyes. Warforged don’t bleed to death when injured, they aren’t flesh. They just shut down.” Delegado turned and looked into Orphan’s eyes. Astonishingly he saw a thin, small spark.
“He’s not dead,” Delegado said, relief flooding through him.
“There’s a thin line between damaging a warforged enough to shut it down but not enough to kill it,” Thomas said. “Ah-hah!” An upwards rustle said that he found the scroll he was looking for. “Most constructs simply hit a point where the damage they took doesn’t allow the field animating within them to continue functioning, and they die. The warforged have enough living parts that they can sometimes hold on in that gray area before death, like a human in a coma.”
“Some House Cannith Dragon Below cultist tell you all this?” Delegado asked with a sarcasm that was born of relief. He recalled that they’d purchased a repair scroll from the Cannith operative in Greenheart. For that matter he also realized that he still had an oil of repair in his belt pouch.
“Actually, yes.” Soft magical chanting was followed by the light of a released scroll burning itself a few feet above the ground. A dim cloud of ambient specks floated over to Orphan’s body, and the cracks and puncture wounds retreated just the tiniest bit.
Orphan flinched, the light coming back to his eyes, and he jumped up, startled. “Delegado?” he asked, clearly confused.
The half-orc hugged the warforged tightly before putting him down. “Good to have you back, you tin-plated hunk of clockwork!”
“I have neither in my construction,” Orphan said. “However what’s urgent now is – where’s Thomas?”
“Here, Orphan,” Thomas said. “I’m invisible. There’s a rakshasa about, a prince of fiends. It’s a defensive measure.”
“Tiger-headed thing that casts powerful magic,” Orphan said. “Yes, he’s taken the rod, we have to stop him.”
“What rod?” Delegado asked.
“We can’t take that rakshasa, Orphan,” Thomas said. “We just can’t.”
“We have to,” Orphan said. “Would someone give me a sunrod? I can’t see a thing.” Delegado whipped one out and placed it in Orphan’s hand. The monk activated it and ran down the tunnel.
“Did I miss something?” Thomas asked. Seconds later Orphan was back.
“Yes, it’s gone,” the warforged said. “We have to find it! Delegado, if I describe it to you, can you –”
“I used that earlier to find your kama,” Delegado said. “This rod, would it happen to suck the life force out of a bunch of people?”
“Yes,” the warforged said. “I take it that you found some corpses?”
“Up there,” Delegado said, jerking his thumb.
“He covered his tracks,” Orphan said. “Sentry was right, he doesn’t want the other fiends to learn that he has it.”
“Who is Sentry, and what is ‘it’? You’ve got to fill us in,” Thomas said.
“A rod forged millennia ago by a great demon lord,” Orphan said. “It can only be destroyed by adamantine. It must be destroyed, or the greater fiends trapped beneath Khyber could be raised, and this world will die drowning in its own blood. We have to find him, Delegado, you have to track him!”
“I can’t, he has a magical robe that makes him pass without a trace,” the half-orc said.
“There has to be a way!” Orphan insisted, running up the tunnel. They followed him hastily, and found him pacing around the cavern, examining the bodies. “Which way did you come in?” Orphan asked. Delegado pointed to the tunnel. “He didn’t go back that way or else you would have passed him,” Orphan said, pacing. “And he didn’t teleport away, because he would have teleported in if he could have. But if he came down the fastest way, why not go back the fastest way?”
“Is there another thing he wants?” Thomas’ voice asked from somewhere around the cavern. The half-daelkyr seemed to be examining the various tunnels.
“No, he has the rod, that’s all they wanted,” Orphan said. “The forges were to create boltheads that could hit insubstantial things. The rod was guarded by the ghost of a coutal. They – I mean, the rakshasa, has no more need of it.”
“Hm,” Delegado said, spotting three arrows leaning against a stack of longspears. He picked them up, examining the heads, then kept them. It sounded like a handy weapon. “Who was the boss of this place before the rakshasa showed up? Maybe they’re off together.”
“A kyton,” Orphan said. “He’s dead, that’s his body there.” The warforged pointed to a skinned slab of meat that had once been a tall humanoid. “I’m guessing the rakshasa threw the chains into the lava as part of his punishment. Or maybe he planned to kill him all along and he’s still just covering his actions. Where could he have gone?”
“Chains?” Delegado asked.
“The rakshasa is killing things here, ensuring their silence, even though he has the rod,” Thomas mused. “Why is he afraid of being exposed if he has the power?”
“He doesn’t want anyone to know,” Delegado said. “Probably he figures they may develop counter-measures, or they may have their own adamantine. Most likely he wants the element of surprise. Where are the things he’s still killing?”
“That ledge,” Orphan realized, pointing up. “That’s the way I came in. There’s a maze of tunnels there. Somewhere in there is where I came back with the demon that teleported away from us after attacking us. There were some other guardians. Maybe he’s going to kill them.”
Delegado pulled out a grappling hook and began to tie it to a silk rope. “Let’s get up there, then. I’ve seen parts of this guy, and you’ll fill me in on more. Once we’re up I’ll try my dragonmark one more time. That’s the only chance we’ll have.”
“Rakshasa are resistant to many magical effects,” Thomas warned.
“Then I guess I’d best try real hard,” Delegado said, twirling the rope and getting ready to throw.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Chapter 18 - Part 11
“What’s going on up there?” Orphan asked, hearing the screams and the clanking.
“Something is killing the kyton,” Sentry told him softly. “And whatever it is, it is not having any difficultly doing so. I feel its magic from down here.” He turned his translucent head to stare at the demonic rod that lay amidst the bones behind him. “Orphan, the fiends must not get that rod.”
“I understand,” Orphan said. The kyton gave a final, agonized scream, and then there were more orders given by a new voice. Spells were cast as demonlings fell in line. “What are they doing?”
“I cannot tell,” Sentry said. “I cannot hear the spells clearly.” The ghost of the coutal paused. “And now I can hear nothing.” He chanted, casting his own spell, as Orphan moved back to stand by the rod within the corpse. Magically-created daylight flooded the end of the tunnel and the entrance to the cave. Sentry did not need it, but he knew that Orphan did.
Orphan tensed, watching, waiting. He heard nothing.
Too much nothing, the warforged suddenly realized. Like when the naga had used a silencing spell back in the Eldeen Reaches. “Sentry!” he yelled in warning. The ghost did not hear him, as the silence field was already overlapping the unsuspecting coutal.
Orphan began to dart forward, but he was far too late. A great veil of illusion dropped, and suddenly a dozen dretches with crossbows became visible as they fired at Sentry. The bolts tore into the ghost, making the coutal open his mouth in a silent scream.
Orphan charged while the ghost writhed, trying to summon his magic through the pain of the crossbow bolts. All of the dretches reloaded their crossbows except for one who took a small Eberron dragonshard and smashed it against a wall, ending the silence spell.
Sentry flicked a translucent tail through one dretch, causing that one to shrivel and wither, but the other fired again, and most of them hit. The dretch who crushed the dragonshard yelled back up the tunnel as sound came back, and more dretches came charging down towards Sentry, some with longspears, and some with crossbow bolts. The ones with crossbows were already firing. Most hit the wall of the tunnel. Others hit the dretches milling around in front of Sentry. Enough made it to the coutal’s form, tearing him up, making his translucent form break apart.
The ghost’s screams were ringing in Orphan’s ears as he rolled into the mess of dretches, punching all around him. Some tried to shoot at him point blank, or slash at him with their claws, but most focused on Sentry. Orphan killed dretches in seconds, but Sentry fell nonetheless. The ghost screamed one more time, then dissipated into nothing.
The dretches now attacked Orphan, trying to overwhelm him. The warforged fought back ferociously, but there were dozens of them left, and they were more afraid of what waited at the top of the tunnel than they were of him. They came, they shot crossbows, they lashed out with claw and spear, and they died. Orphan took wounds, at first minor ones, then larger ones, but he did not waver. Fist, foot, and flying shiruken drove the dretches back even as they surrounded him.
A particularly bad blow came from a longspear to the side, and he tumbled backwards, realizing that he needed to get his back to a wall. A dretch standing there held a loaded crossbow to Orphan’s face, but the warforged slapped it out of the demonling’s hands. Orphan flicked a shiruken with a minor fire charm at another crossbow, setting the weapon ablaze
A command in a terrible language came from atop the tunnel, and the dretches all fell back, surrounding the warforged in a wide semi-circle. There were still about forty dretches left, and many had bruises from Orphan’s punches. But they were not Orphan’s concern now.
A tall figure in a dark robe with silvery tracings at the hem was walking confidently down the tunnel. It was humanoid in shape, but it had the head of a tiger, and wore a gold monocle on a mithril chain on one eye. The figure was chanting, and he cast a black light that erupted from his hand and wrapped around Orphan’s form, seeking to paralyze him.
Except that was impossible. Warforged did not have joints and a nervous system as living creatures did, and they could not be paralyzed by chemical or magical means. Orphan charged at the creature, seeking to tackle it so that it could not cast spells.
The warforged crashed against an unseen barrier surrounded the tiger-headed thing that gazed at him impassively. With a flick of its orange-and-black striped hand – a hand that seemed to be attached backwards – it cast another spell, and the ground opened up underneath Orphan’s feet.
The warforged flipped backwards before he fell in, scrambling away from the tiger-headed thing. “What are you?” the warforged asked, backing towards the dretches. One demonling charged at the warforged from behind, and Orphan kicked it in the face without turning around, knocking it unconscious.
“The oldest race does not explain itself to the newest,” the tiger-thing said calmly. Another wave of its hand made the daylight spell disappear, and Orphan was rendered blind as the tunnel was plunged into darkness.
The tiger-thing gave another command in its terrible language, and the dretches charged again. Orphan managed to kick a few, but in the darkness he missed too many. A claw scratched him. A longspear stabbed him. A crossbow was smashed onto his head.
The warforged fell, and something horrible gouged at him. His mind shut down, and he stopped feeling pain.
“Something is killing the kyton,” Sentry told him softly. “And whatever it is, it is not having any difficultly doing so. I feel its magic from down here.” He turned his translucent head to stare at the demonic rod that lay amidst the bones behind him. “Orphan, the fiends must not get that rod.”
“I understand,” Orphan said. The kyton gave a final, agonized scream, and then there were more orders given by a new voice. Spells were cast as demonlings fell in line. “What are they doing?”
“I cannot tell,” Sentry said. “I cannot hear the spells clearly.” The ghost of the coutal paused. “And now I can hear nothing.” He chanted, casting his own spell, as Orphan moved back to stand by the rod within the corpse. Magically-created daylight flooded the end of the tunnel and the entrance to the cave. Sentry did not need it, but he knew that Orphan did.
Orphan tensed, watching, waiting. He heard nothing.
Too much nothing, the warforged suddenly realized. Like when the naga had used a silencing spell back in the Eldeen Reaches. “Sentry!” he yelled in warning. The ghost did not hear him, as the silence field was already overlapping the unsuspecting coutal.
Orphan began to dart forward, but he was far too late. A great veil of illusion dropped, and suddenly a dozen dretches with crossbows became visible as they fired at Sentry. The bolts tore into the ghost, making the coutal open his mouth in a silent scream.
Orphan charged while the ghost writhed, trying to summon his magic through the pain of the crossbow bolts. All of the dretches reloaded their crossbows except for one who took a small Eberron dragonshard and smashed it against a wall, ending the silence spell.
Sentry flicked a translucent tail through one dretch, causing that one to shrivel and wither, but the other fired again, and most of them hit. The dretch who crushed the dragonshard yelled back up the tunnel as sound came back, and more dretches came charging down towards Sentry, some with longspears, and some with crossbow bolts. The ones with crossbows were already firing. Most hit the wall of the tunnel. Others hit the dretches milling around in front of Sentry. Enough made it to the coutal’s form, tearing him up, making his translucent form break apart.
The ghost’s screams were ringing in Orphan’s ears as he rolled into the mess of dretches, punching all around him. Some tried to shoot at him point blank, or slash at him with their claws, but most focused on Sentry. Orphan killed dretches in seconds, but Sentry fell nonetheless. The ghost screamed one more time, then dissipated into nothing.
The dretches now attacked Orphan, trying to overwhelm him. The warforged fought back ferociously, but there were dozens of them left, and they were more afraid of what waited at the top of the tunnel than they were of him. They came, they shot crossbows, they lashed out with claw and spear, and they died. Orphan took wounds, at first minor ones, then larger ones, but he did not waver. Fist, foot, and flying shiruken drove the dretches back even as they surrounded him.
A particularly bad blow came from a longspear to the side, and he tumbled backwards, realizing that he needed to get his back to a wall. A dretch standing there held a loaded crossbow to Orphan’s face, but the warforged slapped it out of the demonling’s hands. Orphan flicked a shiruken with a minor fire charm at another crossbow, setting the weapon ablaze
A command in a terrible language came from atop the tunnel, and the dretches all fell back, surrounding the warforged in a wide semi-circle. There were still about forty dretches left, and many had bruises from Orphan’s punches. But they were not Orphan’s concern now.
A tall figure in a dark robe with silvery tracings at the hem was walking confidently down the tunnel. It was humanoid in shape, but it had the head of a tiger, and wore a gold monocle on a mithril chain on one eye. The figure was chanting, and he cast a black light that erupted from his hand and wrapped around Orphan’s form, seeking to paralyze him.
Except that was impossible. Warforged did not have joints and a nervous system as living creatures did, and they could not be paralyzed by chemical or magical means. Orphan charged at the creature, seeking to tackle it so that it could not cast spells.
The warforged crashed against an unseen barrier surrounded the tiger-headed thing that gazed at him impassively. With a flick of its orange-and-black striped hand – a hand that seemed to be attached backwards – it cast another spell, and the ground opened up underneath Orphan’s feet.
The warforged flipped backwards before he fell in, scrambling away from the tiger-headed thing. “What are you?” the warforged asked, backing towards the dretches. One demonling charged at the warforged from behind, and Orphan kicked it in the face without turning around, knocking it unconscious.
“The oldest race does not explain itself to the newest,” the tiger-thing said calmly. Another wave of its hand made the daylight spell disappear, and Orphan was rendered blind as the tunnel was plunged into darkness.
The tiger-thing gave another command in its terrible language, and the dretches charged again. Orphan managed to kick a few, but in the darkness he missed too many. A claw scratched him. A longspear stabbed him. A crossbow was smashed onto his head.
The warforged fell, and something horrible gouged at him. His mind shut down, and he stopped feeling pain.
Chapter 18 - Part 10
Delegado growled fiercely as he shook his mind free of the fear that the hunched demonling was trying to magically summon. Gripping his longsword in both hands, he took the demon’s arm off, then stabbed it in the face. Despite its tough resistance to unblessed weapons, he managed to kill it.
Next to him Thomas was retching, trying to rid his lungs of the foul cloud that another demonlings had summoned. The half-daelkyr couldn’t even hold his axe properly. The stormstalk was not helping at all, the hunched demonlings were completely ignoring the electrical bolts.
“Get back, get clear air!” Delegado yelled, his voice only slightly muffled by the alchemically treated scarf over his face. He’d carried the scarf for almost a year, never thinking he’d need it, but he was glad to have it. The vile cloud still stung his eyes, but he was functional. He jerked Thomas backward down the tunnel, and the daelkyr half-blood sucked in big lungfuls of air.
Two of the hunched demonlings fired crossbows tipped with some metal that Delegado had never seen before, but they missed in all the melee. Delegado cut one superficially, and then he heard Thomas snarl.
The dalekyr half-blood went into a rage that would have done the finest orc hunter in the Marches proud. Blood pumping and adrenalin flowing, his massive greataxe cut through demon flesh with enough impact to slice all the way through one demonling to hit another. Delegado took out the thing’s throat while it reeled from Thomas’ awesome blow.
Delegado and Thomas fought until their foes broke and ran. Twelve of the squat fiendish bodies lay as corpses, while five had broken and fled. Delegado wanted to go after them, to keep them from alerting others, but Thomas was exhausted. The aftereffects of rage in combat didn’t allow for a prolonged chase.
“Sit, get your wind back,” Delegado said, popping a seal on a curing potion. It went down his throat reflexively, and instantly the cuts and bruises on his body began to fade. He winced at the taste, however. House Jorasco potions were like sweet, clear water. Druid-made curing potions always tasted like chalk and tree bark.
“Are we getting close?” Thomas asked.
“Closer than ever before,” Delegado said. He concentrated, and his dragonmark tingled, growing in heat before cooling off. “Orphan’s still down there, or at least he still has his kama. I think we’re finally hitting the last round of guards, though. Those hunched things were the ones who killed that sniffer.”
“Good,” Thomas said, getting up and stretching. “The sooner we get Orphan and get out of here the better.”
“What’s this,” Delegado muttered, poking at the remains of some cloth wrapping that one of the demonlings had been carrying.
“It’s the nineteenth, you know,” Thomas was saying. “Eighteen days ago I thought it would be over. I thought my dreams driving me to Pienna would end.”
“Huh,” was all Delegado said. He pushed aside the cloth and was shocked to see six smoothed and polished Khyber dragonshards arranged in a bowl of dark porcelain. What in the Fury’s eyeteeth is this about?
“How long have we been down here?” Thomas asked himself. His symbiont danced in the air, looking like a schoolchild eager to answer a question.
“Five days and change, quit worrying about it,” Delegado said, looking over the other bodies. There was nothing else of note, just the bowl.
“Should have been at Festering Holt by now,” Thomas continued. “Maybe there’s peace there, finally, maybe. But we’re fighting endless days without sun down here. Fighting endless foes.”
“Take a look at this,” Delegado said, picking up the bowl after making sure that it wasn’t trapped.
“What?” Thomas asked, jerking out of his melancholy. He looked a bit guilty for some reason.
“These demonlings were bringing up an offering,” Delegado said. “There must be a mining operation down there.”
“An offering to who?” the half-daelkyr asked.
“Someone that they feel a need to impress,” Delegado noted. “These are high quality stones. Even one of them would justify a three-month Tharashk prospecting expedition.”
Thomas frowned, then took out a scroll and cast it. Once it was done, the scroll crumbled, and Thomas took a small glass eye out from his pouch. A long minute passed, then the daelkyr half-blood looked troubled. “Something is coming,” he said, gesturing to a side tunnel. “Something unafraid to walk alone.”
“What did you just do?” Delegado asked. He followed Thomas into the side tunnel and they pressed themselves against the wall around a bend.
“That scroll had an extra-range clairvoyance on it,” Thomas said. “I memorized that last leveled area that we went through, where the three tunnels met. Something came through. Something hooded. Now hush!” Thomas quickly cast one more scroll, something with a pictogram of an owl on the back of it.
In other circumstances Delegado would have bristled, but this was a land where one lived only by hushing. Delegado was long used to using cover to hide in the wild, and a minor enchantment in his mithril shirt aided that, but fiends had sharp ears as well as sharp eyes. The half-orc strained to listen for footsteps even as he and Thomas remained still and silent.
The footsteps came. They were soft ones, but sure. As the footsteps came closer Delegado felt a mental probing, not too different than he had felt when he encountered the Riedran pirates. The half-orc forced his mind to be quiet, silent, unnoticed. A quick glance at Thomas showed the half-daelkyr doing the same thing. The symbiont was hiding behind Thomas, plainly terrified.
The footfalls were near, and then they stopped by the corpses that Delegado and Thomas had left. There was a soft chanting, and then a deep, powerful voice demanded something in the terrible language of the fiends. Delegado was shocked to hear an answer in the same language, albeit in a weak, monotone voice. The bounty hunter peeked around the tunnel curve.
A tall figure in a robe with a deep hood was making a demon corpse talk through some spell. Delegado could make out little of the creature in the dark robe, although he could see runes at the hem of the robe with silvery tracings. The half-orc frowned. He had seen something similar, long ago. The robe prevented its wearer from leaving any tracks, even a scent for bloodhounds. In the civilized lands of Khorvaire it was either incredibly expensive or incredibly illegal. Delegado had only caught the fugitive wearing it because Feather had spotted the quarry from the air. This robe meant that Delegado’s hunch about whoever was behind this wanting it hidden was right.
The figure in the robe finished interrogating the corpse and let the spell go. Delegado got a glimpse of a hand with stripes of fur clutch the robe as the thing went deeper into the tunnels, straight down the path that led to wherever Iron Orphan was.
Delegado waited, forcing himself to slowly count to a hundred, then turned back to Thomas. “I think I just saw the local clan-chief,” he said.
“I had a feeling,” Thomas told him. “We don’t have any more bless weapon oils or scrolls, do we?”
Delegado shook his head. “You have any bless weapon scrolls by any chance?” Thomas answer was a negative shake of the head. “Happy joy. Listen, that thing is a spellcaster with some expensive gear, we have to think carefully about this. We have to use those invisibility scrolls.”
“We only have two,” Thomas reminded him.
“We’ve only got one skin,” Delegado pointed out. The symbiont looked at him. “Don’t you start,” Delegado told the stormstalk.
“Did you get any clue about what it was?” Thomas said.
“Stripes of fur on one hand,” the half-orc shrugged.
“Orange and black fur?” Thomas asked. There was real fear in Thomas’ voice.
“Orc nightsight doesn’t have color perception,” Delegado said, a bit defensively. “I thought your darkvision was the same.”
“Yeah, yeah it is,” Thomas said. “Delegado, do you know what a rakshasa is?”
“No.” Delegado didn’t like admitting that, but blustering wasn’t going to get him anywhere.
“The worst Kyhber has to offer,” Thomas said. “The only force in the world below that the daelkyr fear. They call themselves the Lords of Dust.”
Delegado’s mouth twisted. “Okay, yeah, I’ve heard that term. We still need to go get Orphan.”
Thomas wordlessly drank a pair of potions and Delegado did the same. Two scrolls later they were running down the tunnels with invisibility spells in place, trying not to bump into each other.
Next to him Thomas was retching, trying to rid his lungs of the foul cloud that another demonlings had summoned. The half-daelkyr couldn’t even hold his axe properly. The stormstalk was not helping at all, the hunched demonlings were completely ignoring the electrical bolts.
“Get back, get clear air!” Delegado yelled, his voice only slightly muffled by the alchemically treated scarf over his face. He’d carried the scarf for almost a year, never thinking he’d need it, but he was glad to have it. The vile cloud still stung his eyes, but he was functional. He jerked Thomas backward down the tunnel, and the daelkyr half-blood sucked in big lungfuls of air.
Two of the hunched demonlings fired crossbows tipped with some metal that Delegado had never seen before, but they missed in all the melee. Delegado cut one superficially, and then he heard Thomas snarl.
The dalekyr half-blood went into a rage that would have done the finest orc hunter in the Marches proud. Blood pumping and adrenalin flowing, his massive greataxe cut through demon flesh with enough impact to slice all the way through one demonling to hit another. Delegado took out the thing’s throat while it reeled from Thomas’ awesome blow.
Delegado and Thomas fought until their foes broke and ran. Twelve of the squat fiendish bodies lay as corpses, while five had broken and fled. Delegado wanted to go after them, to keep them from alerting others, but Thomas was exhausted. The aftereffects of rage in combat didn’t allow for a prolonged chase.
“Sit, get your wind back,” Delegado said, popping a seal on a curing potion. It went down his throat reflexively, and instantly the cuts and bruises on his body began to fade. He winced at the taste, however. House Jorasco potions were like sweet, clear water. Druid-made curing potions always tasted like chalk and tree bark.
“Are we getting close?” Thomas asked.
“Closer than ever before,” Delegado said. He concentrated, and his dragonmark tingled, growing in heat before cooling off. “Orphan’s still down there, or at least he still has his kama. I think we’re finally hitting the last round of guards, though. Those hunched things were the ones who killed that sniffer.”
“Good,” Thomas said, getting up and stretching. “The sooner we get Orphan and get out of here the better.”
“What’s this,” Delegado muttered, poking at the remains of some cloth wrapping that one of the demonlings had been carrying.
“It’s the nineteenth, you know,” Thomas was saying. “Eighteen days ago I thought it would be over. I thought my dreams driving me to Pienna would end.”
“Huh,” was all Delegado said. He pushed aside the cloth and was shocked to see six smoothed and polished Khyber dragonshards arranged in a bowl of dark porcelain. What in the Fury’s eyeteeth is this about?
“How long have we been down here?” Thomas asked himself. His symbiont danced in the air, looking like a schoolchild eager to answer a question.
“Five days and change, quit worrying about it,” Delegado said, looking over the other bodies. There was nothing else of note, just the bowl.
“Should have been at Festering Holt by now,” Thomas continued. “Maybe there’s peace there, finally, maybe. But we’re fighting endless days without sun down here. Fighting endless foes.”
“Take a look at this,” Delegado said, picking up the bowl after making sure that it wasn’t trapped.
“What?” Thomas asked, jerking out of his melancholy. He looked a bit guilty for some reason.
“These demonlings were bringing up an offering,” Delegado said. “There must be a mining operation down there.”
“An offering to who?” the half-daelkyr asked.
“Someone that they feel a need to impress,” Delegado noted. “These are high quality stones. Even one of them would justify a three-month Tharashk prospecting expedition.”
Thomas frowned, then took out a scroll and cast it. Once it was done, the scroll crumbled, and Thomas took a small glass eye out from his pouch. A long minute passed, then the daelkyr half-blood looked troubled. “Something is coming,” he said, gesturing to a side tunnel. “Something unafraid to walk alone.”
“What did you just do?” Delegado asked. He followed Thomas into the side tunnel and they pressed themselves against the wall around a bend.
“That scroll had an extra-range clairvoyance on it,” Thomas said. “I memorized that last leveled area that we went through, where the three tunnels met. Something came through. Something hooded. Now hush!” Thomas quickly cast one more scroll, something with a pictogram of an owl on the back of it.
In other circumstances Delegado would have bristled, but this was a land where one lived only by hushing. Delegado was long used to using cover to hide in the wild, and a minor enchantment in his mithril shirt aided that, but fiends had sharp ears as well as sharp eyes. The half-orc strained to listen for footsteps even as he and Thomas remained still and silent.
The footsteps came. They were soft ones, but sure. As the footsteps came closer Delegado felt a mental probing, not too different than he had felt when he encountered the Riedran pirates. The half-orc forced his mind to be quiet, silent, unnoticed. A quick glance at Thomas showed the half-daelkyr doing the same thing. The symbiont was hiding behind Thomas, plainly terrified.
The footfalls were near, and then they stopped by the corpses that Delegado and Thomas had left. There was a soft chanting, and then a deep, powerful voice demanded something in the terrible language of the fiends. Delegado was shocked to hear an answer in the same language, albeit in a weak, monotone voice. The bounty hunter peeked around the tunnel curve.
A tall figure in a robe with a deep hood was making a demon corpse talk through some spell. Delegado could make out little of the creature in the dark robe, although he could see runes at the hem of the robe with silvery tracings. The half-orc frowned. He had seen something similar, long ago. The robe prevented its wearer from leaving any tracks, even a scent for bloodhounds. In the civilized lands of Khorvaire it was either incredibly expensive or incredibly illegal. Delegado had only caught the fugitive wearing it because Feather had spotted the quarry from the air. This robe meant that Delegado’s hunch about whoever was behind this wanting it hidden was right.
The figure in the robe finished interrogating the corpse and let the spell go. Delegado got a glimpse of a hand with stripes of fur clutch the robe as the thing went deeper into the tunnels, straight down the path that led to wherever Iron Orphan was.
Delegado waited, forcing himself to slowly count to a hundred, then turned back to Thomas. “I think I just saw the local clan-chief,” he said.
“I had a feeling,” Thomas told him. “We don’t have any more bless weapon oils or scrolls, do we?”
Delegado shook his head. “You have any bless weapon scrolls by any chance?” Thomas answer was a negative shake of the head. “Happy joy. Listen, that thing is a spellcaster with some expensive gear, we have to think carefully about this. We have to use those invisibility scrolls.”
“We only have two,” Thomas reminded him.
“We’ve only got one skin,” Delegado pointed out. The symbiont looked at him. “Don’t you start,” Delegado told the stormstalk.
“Did you get any clue about what it was?” Thomas said.
“Stripes of fur on one hand,” the half-orc shrugged.
“Orange and black fur?” Thomas asked. There was real fear in Thomas’ voice.
“Orc nightsight doesn’t have color perception,” Delegado said, a bit defensively. “I thought your darkvision was the same.”
“Yeah, yeah it is,” Thomas said. “Delegado, do you know what a rakshasa is?”
“No.” Delegado didn’t like admitting that, but blustering wasn’t going to get him anywhere.
“The worst Kyhber has to offer,” Thomas said. “The only force in the world below that the daelkyr fear. They call themselves the Lords of Dust.”
Delegado’s mouth twisted. “Okay, yeah, I’ve heard that term. We still need to go get Orphan.”
Thomas wordlessly drank a pair of potions and Delegado did the same. Two scrolls later they were running down the tunnels with invisibility spells in place, trying not to bump into each other.
Chapter 18 - Part 9
They moved like a herd of cattle, except that they were giant shapes, hunched over as they walked. Had they stood upright they would have given the ogres of Droaam a contest for size. In fact, they were relatives of the ogres, of a sort, having been bred from them to be stronger, faster, and most importantly, stupider.
Driving the herd were fiends with moist, scaly skin and pointed ears, riding great lizards that were plainly bred from some devilish hatchery. The fiends had clawed hands and feet, long tails, and snaky, disgusting beards brimming with loathsome things. The riders worked in concert, driving the herd with their massive saw-toothed glaives. Their army was moving southwards, towards a cave system in an escarpment that their rakshasa master had ordered them to occupy. The fiends did not know why they were being sent to this long-abandoned place, and neither did their master, who was only acting on a suspicion regarding a fellow rakshasa’s strange behavior.
One of the riders looked up, suspicious at a shadow within the clouds. It was not yet dawn on the ground, but there was some light in the clouds far above. The clouds had been dumping light snow and balls of hail on and off for a few days now but they hadn’t acted liked that.
Another rider came up to him, snarling at the one who gazed upwards for lagging behind in formation. He did not get to finish his imprecations before Meschashmal dived from the sky, blasting the riders to smoking pieces with his lightning.
The blue wyrm flew back and forth, letting his dragonfear break the herd up, pausing only to blow up another rider here and there. They had no weapons or spells that could reach him as high as he was, and as the sun came up over the horizon all of the riders and half of the herd lay dead, with the rest scattered in all directions.
Meschashmal flew back to the safety of cloud cover. It would not be long before rakshasa divinations determined what had happened, but for now, the three who were to become four would have a lot less to deal with in the area.
Driving the herd were fiends with moist, scaly skin and pointed ears, riding great lizards that were plainly bred from some devilish hatchery. The fiends had clawed hands and feet, long tails, and snaky, disgusting beards brimming with loathsome things. The riders worked in concert, driving the herd with their massive saw-toothed glaives. Their army was moving southwards, towards a cave system in an escarpment that their rakshasa master had ordered them to occupy. The fiends did not know why they were being sent to this long-abandoned place, and neither did their master, who was only acting on a suspicion regarding a fellow rakshasa’s strange behavior.
One of the riders looked up, suspicious at a shadow within the clouds. It was not yet dawn on the ground, but there was some light in the clouds far above. The clouds had been dumping light snow and balls of hail on and off for a few days now but they hadn’t acted liked that.
Another rider came up to him, snarling at the one who gazed upwards for lagging behind in formation. He did not get to finish his imprecations before Meschashmal dived from the sky, blasting the riders to smoking pieces with his lightning.
The blue wyrm flew back and forth, letting his dragonfear break the herd up, pausing only to blow up another rider here and there. They had no weapons or spells that could reach him as high as he was, and as the sun came up over the horizon all of the riders and half of the herd lay dead, with the rest scattered in all directions.
Meschashmal flew back to the safety of cloud cover. It would not be long before rakshasa divinations determined what had happened, but for now, the three who were to become four would have a lot less to deal with in the area.
Chapter 18 - Part 8
Ackvar thanked the soldier who had brought him the tea and got back to his notes. Beneath his feet, chickens clucked in their coops. It was somewhere between midnight and dawn in the early hours of the eighteenth of Sypheros, and the tired shifter reconnaissance officer still had more reports to go over before presenting his official recommendation to the head of the Wardens of the Wood here in Owl’s Perch.
He smiled grimly reading the after-action reports that had been stolen from the Aundairian General’s base of operations. They referred to the Eldeen Reaches as a ‘meat grinder.’ The Reachers were killing five Aundairians for every three of their own that fell, if all estimates were right – and this fit with Ackvar’s assessment of his own side, and the enemy general had orders wizards to be pulled from the Thaliost push to the front with the Reaches. There was a small bit of gloating about killing the Reachers’ best strategic thinker in a catapult barrage quite recently. Ackvar snarled at that, shifting his fangs several inches longer as he did so.
He spent another hour going over more reports, all of them grim. The army was running out of food, the land was being stripped for resources, the people were complaining about the taxes to fund the war, a small return-to-Aundair movement had started, and House Cannith had suspended warforged sales to both the Eldeen Reaches and Aundair until the Merylsward matter could be cleared up – an act which hurt the Reaches far more than it did Aundair. Ackvar could smell the fat, dragonmarked house pressuring the Reachers to drop the complaints against Cannith, and he snarled again. Except for Vadalis, he thought all the dragonmarked could jump into the sea as far as he was concerned.
Ackvar sighed. The other reports were even grimmer. The front with Droaam was an open wound, the monsters seemed to come and go as they pleased. The Aundairians kept taking ground, if by the inch, and almost never lost it. The blademark companies were demanding to be paid weekly now, not monthly, and Kundarak was refusing to lend the Reachers any more gold until they could demonstrate that Aundair was not going to conquer them all over again within the next year.
Ackvar threw the reports aside and stood, buckling on his swordbelt. He would take the news straight to his superior officer without delay. The free people of the Eldeen Reaches had to accept the Brelish offer. They had no other choice.
He smiled grimly reading the after-action reports that had been stolen from the Aundairian General’s base of operations. They referred to the Eldeen Reaches as a ‘meat grinder.’ The Reachers were killing five Aundairians for every three of their own that fell, if all estimates were right – and this fit with Ackvar’s assessment of his own side, and the enemy general had orders wizards to be pulled from the Thaliost push to the front with the Reaches. There was a small bit of gloating about killing the Reachers’ best strategic thinker in a catapult barrage quite recently. Ackvar snarled at that, shifting his fangs several inches longer as he did so.
He spent another hour going over more reports, all of them grim. The army was running out of food, the land was being stripped for resources, the people were complaining about the taxes to fund the war, a small return-to-Aundair movement had started, and House Cannith had suspended warforged sales to both the Eldeen Reaches and Aundair until the Merylsward matter could be cleared up – an act which hurt the Reaches far more than it did Aundair. Ackvar could smell the fat, dragonmarked house pressuring the Reachers to drop the complaints against Cannith, and he snarled again. Except for Vadalis, he thought all the dragonmarked could jump into the sea as far as he was concerned.
Ackvar sighed. The other reports were even grimmer. The front with Droaam was an open wound, the monsters seemed to come and go as they pleased. The Aundairians kept taking ground, if by the inch, and almost never lost it. The blademark companies were demanding to be paid weekly now, not monthly, and Kundarak was refusing to lend the Reachers any more gold until they could demonstrate that Aundair was not going to conquer them all over again within the next year.
Ackvar threw the reports aside and stood, buckling on his swordbelt. He would take the news straight to his superior officer without delay. The free people of the Eldeen Reaches had to accept the Brelish offer. They had no other choice.
Chapter 18 - Part 7
“You told me the babau would keep everyone else away,” whined the kyton into the enchanted glass. An image of a tiger-headed humanoid was staring back at him. “You told me you would keep this operation secret. There is fighting in the upper tunnels!”
“You told me you could handle it,” the rakshasa sneered. “Maybe I should have picked someone else.”
“You reinforcements aren’t getting here,” the kyton said. “Something is killing them. I can’t leave this cavern to deal with it, the dretches would bolt, and they will tell tales.”
“You keep this operation secret or I will eat your skin,” the rakshasa snarled. “Do you understand me?”
The kyton swallowed. “Yes, lord,” he said.
“I can tell there is some interest, others have noted the missing troops,” the rakshasa said. “I have had to make some excuses, but I am on my way there now. We will end this interference within two days. Break the glass, we will not talk again until I arrive.” The rakshasa’s image winked out.
The kyton growled, and smashed the glass into splinters and dust with its chains. He had been promised much reward and glory, a chance to sit at the right hand of the throne, and now it was seeping away from him. He stalked out of the small cave that he used as a planning station. He had about ten more of the mindless lemures left. In an hour he’d send them charging down the tunnel to their death, but after that he would either need to start sacrificing the dretches – who were finally trained to use the crossbows correctly, or sit on his chains and do nothing. The latter option would just leave him open to more blame.
“You told me you could handle it,” the rakshasa sneered. “Maybe I should have picked someone else.”
“You reinforcements aren’t getting here,” the kyton said. “Something is killing them. I can’t leave this cavern to deal with it, the dretches would bolt, and they will tell tales.”
“You keep this operation secret or I will eat your skin,” the rakshasa snarled. “Do you understand me?”
The kyton swallowed. “Yes, lord,” he said.
“I can tell there is some interest, others have noted the missing troops,” the rakshasa said. “I have had to make some excuses, but I am on my way there now. We will end this interference within two days. Break the glass, we will not talk again until I arrive.” The rakshasa’s image winked out.
The kyton growled, and smashed the glass into splinters and dust with its chains. He had been promised much reward and glory, a chance to sit at the right hand of the throne, and now it was seeping away from him. He stalked out of the small cave that he used as a planning station. He had about ten more of the mindless lemures left. In an hour he’d send them charging down the tunnel to their death, but after that he would either need to start sacrificing the dretches – who were finally trained to use the crossbows correctly, or sit on his chains and do nothing. The latter option would just leave him open to more blame.
Chapter 18 - Part 6
“There is a strange pace to their attacks,” Sentry noted, blasting more dead bodies with fire. “Irregular. Like a pipe whose flow is manipulated without pattern.”
Orphan nodded. He wasn’t sure how long they had been at it, but Sentry had run his magical reservoir of spells dry twice, so it had been a good while. The coutal still had some left after the latest wave, an odd mixture of fiends with half-melted bodies and a large, bull-like thing with smoking red eyes and jet-black skin. “They have been pacing us, studying us.”
“They are so pitiful compared to the ones I battled when I was alive,” Sentry said contemptuously. “Now, where were we?”
“Discussing art, and how it comes from unconscious philosophy,” Orphan said. The conversations he had been having with Sentry were most interesting. If not for the constant threat of attack and the shadow of terror that hinged on the fiends acquiring the rod that Sentry was protecting, Orphan would be enjoying himself. “But, I think we ought to go up the tunnel, somehow. They may be gauging us. And they still have all those crossbow bolts.”
“I have told you that I cannot leave this place, else I would have gone up there long ago and eradicated them,” Sentry reminded the warforged. “I am bound to the rod. And if you go up there, the kyton will crush you beneath the chains that it controls.”
Orphan nodded, recalling that the kyton was the chain-controlling thing, and the hunched demonlings were dretches. Sentry knew his opposition, and he had filled the warforged in on the various strengths and weaknesses that the creatures had. “The kyton, it serves twisted law, axioms set to further evil, correct?”
“Yes,” Sentry said. “And the dretches are creatures of chaos and evil. You wonder why they work together. The simple answer is that they are afraid of the kyton, and perhaps also of who the kyton serves.”
“This kyton has had some interesting allies,” Orphan noted. “And I think he is simply trying to keep us busy. I suspect he is keeping us occupied while he prepares some final push.”
“Orphan, neither of us need to eat or sleep,” Sentry said. “The fiends need some of that. The kyton is trying to keep them busy, keep them from fleeing, perhaps. That is all. Let us turn our discourse to more savory topics.”
Orphan went along with Sentry’s insistence, but his heart remained troubled.
Orphan nodded. He wasn’t sure how long they had been at it, but Sentry had run his magical reservoir of spells dry twice, so it had been a good while. The coutal still had some left after the latest wave, an odd mixture of fiends with half-melted bodies and a large, bull-like thing with smoking red eyes and jet-black skin. “They have been pacing us, studying us.”
“They are so pitiful compared to the ones I battled when I was alive,” Sentry said contemptuously. “Now, where were we?”
“Discussing art, and how it comes from unconscious philosophy,” Orphan said. The conversations he had been having with Sentry were most interesting. If not for the constant threat of attack and the shadow of terror that hinged on the fiends acquiring the rod that Sentry was protecting, Orphan would be enjoying himself. “But, I think we ought to go up the tunnel, somehow. They may be gauging us. And they still have all those crossbow bolts.”
“I have told you that I cannot leave this place, else I would have gone up there long ago and eradicated them,” Sentry reminded the warforged. “I am bound to the rod. And if you go up there, the kyton will crush you beneath the chains that it controls.”
Orphan nodded, recalling that the kyton was the chain-controlling thing, and the hunched demonlings were dretches. Sentry knew his opposition, and he had filled the warforged in on the various strengths and weaknesses that the creatures had. “The kyton, it serves twisted law, axioms set to further evil, correct?”
“Yes,” Sentry said. “And the dretches are creatures of chaos and evil. You wonder why they work together. The simple answer is that they are afraid of the kyton, and perhaps also of who the kyton serves.”
“This kyton has had some interesting allies,” Orphan noted. “And I think he is simply trying to keep us busy. I suspect he is keeping us occupied while he prepares some final push.”
“Orphan, neither of us need to eat or sleep,” Sentry said. “The fiends need some of that. The kyton is trying to keep them busy, keep them from fleeing, perhaps. That is all. Let us turn our discourse to more savory topics.”
Orphan went along with Sentry’s insistence, but his heart remained troubled.
Chapter 18 - Part 5
The bugbear walked alone in the caves beneath the Icehorn Mountains. According to the ancient rubbings she had found on a dusty shelf in an Argentum library, there would be a place of collapsed limestone coming up that would require her to bear left. While it seemed like a double-back, it would actually lead her up and around, cutting the travel time to Festering Holt by over a week.
She came to a narrow but high cavern, and she raised her torch high to study the collapsed rock. It was limestone. If her information was correct, there would be a leftwards exit from to the cave. She walked forward a bit and studied the shadows before she saw it. One large boulder nearly obscured it, but it was there, big enough for her to walk through, if uncomfortably. She gave thanks to the Flame.
Her time in the cramped tunnel was short, and she heard moving water and felt moving air on her face within minutes. Soon the tunnel opened up onto a cliffside within a deep valley, and a mountain spring burst out from the rock not ten feet from her. The sky was clouded over, and a light snow was trying to fall, buffeted by a wind that constantly changed shape to cut at any exposed surface. The rock before her was terraced, edged steps that had been roughly hacked in a hurry many years ago. She could spot patches of ice and snow that would make the trip down extremely dangerous.
She heard something breathing heavily, and she turned quickly, focusing with her belief in the Flame. A powerful sense of evil touched her sacredly acute senses, and she drew her sword, ready for battle against the thing that she could not yet see.
It charged, and became visible to her as it did so. It did not seem to possess full-fledged magical invisibility, merely a profane aspect to its being that let it adapt its coloration. Nonetheless it was enough to give it a first shot at her. She had a glimpse of a black shape with red glowing eyes, and ferocious, upswept horns before something like a oversized mountain goat slammed into her breastplate armor. She kept her footing, the armor holding back the worst of the injury, and smote the thing with all the ferocity that the Silver Flame could muster.
The thing quivered and wailed, suddenly understanding in its animalistic mind that this was not easy prey. Its flesh split easily with a silvery light as the bugbear’s blade cracked open its spine. It fell to its knees, and then was decapitated by a smooth return stroke. Its head bounced down the mountain path, followed shortly thereafter by its bleeding body.
“I wish that I had time to train you, to show you the way,” the bugbear whispered. “May the Silver Flame give you some renewed chance in the afterlife to be something better.” Then she carefully began to make her way down to the valley.
She came to a narrow but high cavern, and she raised her torch high to study the collapsed rock. It was limestone. If her information was correct, there would be a leftwards exit from to the cave. She walked forward a bit and studied the shadows before she saw it. One large boulder nearly obscured it, but it was there, big enough for her to walk through, if uncomfortably. She gave thanks to the Flame.
Her time in the cramped tunnel was short, and she heard moving water and felt moving air on her face within minutes. Soon the tunnel opened up onto a cliffside within a deep valley, and a mountain spring burst out from the rock not ten feet from her. The sky was clouded over, and a light snow was trying to fall, buffeted by a wind that constantly changed shape to cut at any exposed surface. The rock before her was terraced, edged steps that had been roughly hacked in a hurry many years ago. She could spot patches of ice and snow that would make the trip down extremely dangerous.
She heard something breathing heavily, and she turned quickly, focusing with her belief in the Flame. A powerful sense of evil touched her sacredly acute senses, and she drew her sword, ready for battle against the thing that she could not yet see.
It charged, and became visible to her as it did so. It did not seem to possess full-fledged magical invisibility, merely a profane aspect to its being that let it adapt its coloration. Nonetheless it was enough to give it a first shot at her. She had a glimpse of a black shape with red glowing eyes, and ferocious, upswept horns before something like a oversized mountain goat slammed into her breastplate armor. She kept her footing, the armor holding back the worst of the injury, and smote the thing with all the ferocity that the Silver Flame could muster.
The thing quivered and wailed, suddenly understanding in its animalistic mind that this was not easy prey. Its flesh split easily with a silvery light as the bugbear’s blade cracked open its spine. It fell to its knees, and then was decapitated by a smooth return stroke. Its head bounced down the mountain path, followed shortly thereafter by its bleeding body.
“I wish that I had time to train you, to show you the way,” the bugbear whispered. “May the Silver Flame give you some renewed chance in the afterlife to be something better.” Then she carefully began to make her way down to the valley.
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