“Tell me we have coffee left,” Delegado groused, tightening the drawstrings on his gloves as he got out of his extra-thick bedroll and stomped over to Iron Orphan. It was early in the morning on the twenty-seventh of Sypheros, and they were some seventy miles northwest of Ashtakala. Once they had gotten ten miles away from the city, the cold weather had come back in full effect.
“Our coffee bag got torn open by those burrowing worms that killed your horse yesterday,” Orphan told him, staring at the distant horizon.
“I was hoping you found some,” Delegado said, starting to stack up kindling. They had little left, but the others would need it. “You know, no matter how much I see it, you look funny in an overcoat.”
Orphan was relieved to see some of Delegado’s humor coming back. Just yesterday when they had been putting bags from Delegado’s dead horse onto Thomas’ mount, Orphan had been forced to point out that it would be difficult to successfully flee while hauling Bartemain’s body. Delegado had been close to snapping, until Ois had undone the bandage around Bartemain’s skull, letting the dust that the body was stuffed with leak out. Now Bartemain’s corpse weighed one-third of what it did when they went over the wall of Ashtakala, and along with their dwindling supplies, the extra weight had made a huge difference.
“Why aren’t you sleeping?” Orphan asked the half-orc. “You can get another hour in.”
“I don’t like the dreams I’m having,” Delegado said. He started the fire over the small pile of kindling and held his hands over it. “You don’t dream, do you?”
“No, I don’t,” Orphan said. “I understand that particularly vivid fears, traumas, and sometimes hopes seem real and the dreamer feels no control over the dreams.” He paused. “You were dreaming about your father, I take it.”
“Yeah,” Delegado said, glancing at the corpse that was carefully laid out on the ground. He nudged the fire a bit, and once he got it going he whistled.
Feather stuck his head out from under Delegado’s bedroll. Upon seeing the fire the hawk spread his wings and hopped up to the flames to warm himself. Delegado fed the bird some grain.
“Are you going to focus now?” Orphan asked. He had learned that Delegado focused his senses in the early morning to distill and shape the limited spell power that he drew from nature.
“In a minute,” Delegado said, his voice a bit hollow. “I’m going to feed Feather first.” The half-orc turned to look at the volcanic mount that dominated much of the sky. “You’d think that thing would provide some warmth since we’re sitting practically at its feet.”
“It’s been quiet all night,” Orphan said. “I’ve watched it.”
“Yeah and now you’re watching the sunrise again,” Delegado said. “You are predictable, Orphan.”
“It never stops being beautiful,” Orphan said.
“No, it does not,” the half-orc agreed. There was a pause. “You took every watch yourself, didn’t you? Again.”
“You all need sleep,” Orphan said. We’ve been running non-stop since we got past the storm around Ashtakala. And you know the only reason we haven’t been overwhelmed is because of the blizzards that Thomas has been throwing up to slow the fiends down.”
“Yeah, you did a good job on that one,” Delegado said. “Between him and that warforged army in Merylsward maybe you have the makings of a diplomat.”
“I seriously doubt it,” Orphan said. The warforged recalled how once they were free of the Ashtakalan storm Thomas had unceremoniously bolted eastwards without a word. The warforged had had to run after the half-daelkyr and jump up into the saddle behind him. Thomas was bent on leaving all of them, and Orphan had forcibly grabbed the reins to slow the horse down. The conversation had not been pleasant.
“She lied to me!” Thomas had snarled.
“She had to, she and Delegado had a past!”
“She let me believe there is redemption!”
“There is!”
“You don’t know that! I don’t know why I try!”
“So where are you going, Thomas?” Orphan had asked. “Where?”
“You got the riddle from the prisoner, yes?” Thomas had asked in return. “You don’t need me. I’m going back to the Icehorn Mountains. I should have never gotten involved with people again!”
“I need you,” Orphan pointed out. “We have a better chance of surviving if you’re with us.”
“Like I care,” Thomas said. “I owe the half-orc nothing, I owe the liar nothing, and I owe you nothing.”
“You owe me your life,” Orphan said. “I’m the one that knocked you out instead of killing you, remember? A common room full of people wanted you dead, and would have succeeded, but I knocked you unconscious. You would have never made it to Pienna without me.”
Thomas sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose between his eyes. “You’re right,” he said. “Not only are you the only one who has never lied to me, you’re also the only one whose company I can stomach.” He slowly turned the horse around, and they rejoined the others.
Thomas had indeed been of use to them, if not very social. He had snarled at both Ois and Delegado, and refused to speak directly to either of them. But he had used the mirror that Ois had procured with his scrying spells. They had discovered that a force of demons was coming in from the east, from the west, and from the north, all trying to cut them off. The lightest concentration of fiendish forces was to the north and west, so they had headed in that direction. The other scrolls that Ois had procured were primarily attack spells, and Thomas had used them to summon bolts of lightning, fireballs, and other bursts of energy to punch through the fiendish lines. They had barely made it through, and were only free because of the weather that Thomas was able to conjure up.
“You might want to pick information spells,” Orphan said to Delegado.
“You don’t know how much we can trust Thomas?” the half-orc asked with a raised eyebrow.
“We only have one scrying scroll left, and no protective scrolls,” Orphan said. “He’ll cast it soon to get a feeling for the lay of the land, but we may need information later.”
“I’m no wizard,” Delegado said. “My information comes from Feather. I’ll focus my power on being able to talk to him.”
Orphan nodded. Once Delegado was done they would prepare breakfast for the others, and hopefully they would escape their pursuers before their dwindling stocks of supplies disappeared.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Chapter 21 - Part 5
The gnome scampered quickly for one of its kind. He had spent more than half his life in the Labyrinth, first as a guest, then as an ally, of the Maruk Ghaash’kala, and he had learned about sprinting in the demon-infested wilderness. The gnome’s outline flickered as the magical blur effect slowly receded from it. Before the illusion spell ended, he was tumbling down a steep slope into the shady depths of the Labyrinth.
Strong hands with green and gray skin caught him, and the gnome looked up into the red eyes of Gaan’den, the holy warrior whose face was marked by a ritual scar of Kalok Shash.
“You take too many chances, Little Brother,” the orc said in his birth tongue, his deep voice a heavy whisper.
“All worth it,” the gnome said, scrambling down from the massive fingers. He spoke to the orcs in their own language, a fluency that had saved his life when he had first met them years ago. “I saw the dragon’s corpse, and the hundreds that it slew.”
“Praise be to the Dragon for killing evil, may Kalok Shash comfort its soul,” intoned Gaan’den. “But this does not explain why Little Brother risked his life.”
“A zakya,” the gnome grinned. Creaking of armor could be heard at that, as the other orcs in the area listened in to hear. “Leading some of the lesser fiends into the Split Rock Trail. The zakya is the captain who slew your father, I recognize his hair beads.”
A deep growl came from Gaan’den, and the orc licked his lips at the opportunity to avenge his father. “We go to ambush now,” he said, turning to the tribe hiding in the darkness behind him. “Little Brother will sing the battle song, and the fiends’ blood will flow!”
Orcs pumped their fists silently, wanting to roar their approval, but not wanting to alert their prey. Outside the Labyrinth, the demons were the hunters, but when they foolishly ventured into this place, they became the hunted.
Little Brother did his best to keep up with his adopted family. He wanted to tell them more, especially about the sudden masses of fiends that had abruptly turned and charged towards Ashtakala when he flying thing had come with the message tube. The orcs were more driven than he was curious, but maybe one day he would have an opportunity to find out what prompted such a great migration.
Strong hands with green and gray skin caught him, and the gnome looked up into the red eyes of Gaan’den, the holy warrior whose face was marked by a ritual scar of Kalok Shash.
“You take too many chances, Little Brother,” the orc said in his birth tongue, his deep voice a heavy whisper.
“All worth it,” the gnome said, scrambling down from the massive fingers. He spoke to the orcs in their own language, a fluency that had saved his life when he had first met them years ago. “I saw the dragon’s corpse, and the hundreds that it slew.”
“Praise be to the Dragon for killing evil, may Kalok Shash comfort its soul,” intoned Gaan’den. “But this does not explain why Little Brother risked his life.”
“A zakya,” the gnome grinned. Creaking of armor could be heard at that, as the other orcs in the area listened in to hear. “Leading some of the lesser fiends into the Split Rock Trail. The zakya is the captain who slew your father, I recognize his hair beads.”
A deep growl came from Gaan’den, and the orc licked his lips at the opportunity to avenge his father. “We go to ambush now,” he said, turning to the tribe hiding in the darkness behind him. “Little Brother will sing the battle song, and the fiends’ blood will flow!”
Orcs pumped their fists silently, wanting to roar their approval, but not wanting to alert their prey. Outside the Labyrinth, the demons were the hunters, but when they foolishly ventured into this place, they became the hunted.
Little Brother did his best to keep up with his adopted family. He wanted to tell them more, especially about the sudden masses of fiends that had abruptly turned and charged towards Ashtakala when he flying thing had come with the message tube. The orcs were more driven than he was curious, but maybe one day he would have an opportunity to find out what prompted such a great migration.
Chapter 21 - Part 4
Orphan came to a stop about twenty feet in front of the great whirling wall of dagger-like glass and contemplated the riders catching up with him. Delegado’s face was grim, and he rode poorly as he kept putting a hand back on his father’s body. Feather cawed and launched himself from his master’s back, flying to Orphan over the horses, and Delegado didn’t seem to notice. This was worrisome. Every ounce of Delegado’s concentration would be needed to find that slim passage of safety through the storm.
In contrast, Thomas rode angrily, savagely jerking the reins. The daelkyr half-blood seemed to have something against changelings, from what he said. At the very least he was so angry over Flamebearer’s deception. Orphan wondered just how reliable Thomas would be. It seemed that Thomas had placed great hope in redemption with the Silver Flame and that the half-daelkyr now saw those hopes as having been illusory.
How that would affect Thomas’ ability to manipulate the weather remained to be seen.
Both horses arrived at the same time, and with a cawing sound, Feather settled back down on Delegado. The hawk looked angry when Delegado took him and began wrapping him in the reed cocoon, but did not protest.
“I’m not carrying the liar on my horse!” snarled Thomas. “I won’t!”
“She wasn’t trying to fool you,” Delegado said.
“So she was trying to fool you instead,” Thomas snapped at him. “That makes it all better!”
“Thomas, get the staff out, and get the storm calmed down, or we are all dead,” Orphan said flatly. “Delegado killed a second rakshasa lord while we were in the city, and they are all hot on our heels. You can look back and see them coming over the wall.”
Thomas looked impressed, despite his ire. “You did?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Delegado said, touching the body tied down behind him. “They were torturing my father. We’re getting Orphan and Ois past the storm, Thomas, then you can go with them, go your own way, or go with me.”
“Where are you going?” Orphan asked. Delegado did not answer. “You going to hunt down every demon in the Wastes? You going to go join the orcs in the Labyrinth? Or are you going to keep Ois from dying out here, keep your word to fulfill the Prophecy, and get your father’s body back to the Shadow Marches?”
Ois came riding up behind them. “Thomas,” she began. “I can explain –”
“Shut her up, I have to concentrate,” Thomas snapped, pulling the staff out and holding it in both hands. “Orphan, you need to mount up, Delegado you need to tie the horses together.” He closed his eyes and furrowed his brow. His stormstalk danced as it looked at Ois, seeming to mock her.
Delegado quickly joined the three horses, though Ois’ celestial mount seemed to not want to let him touch it at first. Once Ois patted the horse, Delegado was able to tie its bridle and saddle to his and then Thomas’ while Orphan pulled himself up behind Ois.
“Put your arms around my waist,” the changeling told him. Orphan did so, marveling at the smooth strength of her mithril armor.
“So firm but so light,” the warforged mused.
“Keep your hands where they are, Orphan,” Delegado snapped. “Not higher and not lower.” Orphan thought that Delegado was joking, but he wasn’t sure what the half-orc meant.
“Now,” Thomas said. The staff glowed, and wind rose around them, buffeting the sand and grit. Back at the horizon, where fiends were swarming over the city wall and spilling out onto the plain of black gravel to come after them, the sudden winds knocked them back, holding them in check temporarily. The half-daelkyr opened his eyes. “I’m holding down the storm as best as I can, Delegado. Find our way.” The half-daelkyr turned his head back to look at Ois. “Unless you think the Silver Flame will do it.”
Orphan felt Ois stiffen, but the changeling said nothing.
In contrast, Thomas rode angrily, savagely jerking the reins. The daelkyr half-blood seemed to have something against changelings, from what he said. At the very least he was so angry over Flamebearer’s deception. Orphan wondered just how reliable Thomas would be. It seemed that Thomas had placed great hope in redemption with the Silver Flame and that the half-daelkyr now saw those hopes as having been illusory.
How that would affect Thomas’ ability to manipulate the weather remained to be seen.
Both horses arrived at the same time, and with a cawing sound, Feather settled back down on Delegado. The hawk looked angry when Delegado took him and began wrapping him in the reed cocoon, but did not protest.
“I’m not carrying the liar on my horse!” snarled Thomas. “I won’t!”
“She wasn’t trying to fool you,” Delegado said.
“So she was trying to fool you instead,” Thomas snapped at him. “That makes it all better!”
“Thomas, get the staff out, and get the storm calmed down, or we are all dead,” Orphan said flatly. “Delegado killed a second rakshasa lord while we were in the city, and they are all hot on our heels. You can look back and see them coming over the wall.”
Thomas looked impressed, despite his ire. “You did?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Delegado said, touching the body tied down behind him. “They were torturing my father. We’re getting Orphan and Ois past the storm, Thomas, then you can go with them, go your own way, or go with me.”
“Where are you going?” Orphan asked. Delegado did not answer. “You going to hunt down every demon in the Wastes? You going to go join the orcs in the Labyrinth? Or are you going to keep Ois from dying out here, keep your word to fulfill the Prophecy, and get your father’s body back to the Shadow Marches?”
Ois came riding up behind them. “Thomas,” she began. “I can explain –”
“Shut her up, I have to concentrate,” Thomas snapped, pulling the staff out and holding it in both hands. “Orphan, you need to mount up, Delegado you need to tie the horses together.” He closed his eyes and furrowed his brow. His stormstalk danced as it looked at Ois, seeming to mock her.
Delegado quickly joined the three horses, though Ois’ celestial mount seemed to not want to let him touch it at first. Once Ois patted the horse, Delegado was able to tie its bridle and saddle to his and then Thomas’ while Orphan pulled himself up behind Ois.
“Put your arms around my waist,” the changeling told him. Orphan did so, marveling at the smooth strength of her mithril armor.
“So firm but so light,” the warforged mused.
“Keep your hands where they are, Orphan,” Delegado snapped. “Not higher and not lower.” Orphan thought that Delegado was joking, but he wasn’t sure what the half-orc meant.
“Now,” Thomas said. The staff glowed, and wind rose around them, buffeting the sand and grit. Back at the horizon, where fiends were swarming over the city wall and spilling out onto the plain of black gravel to come after them, the sudden winds knocked them back, holding them in check temporarily. The half-daelkyr opened his eyes. “I’m holding down the storm as best as I can, Delegado. Find our way.” The half-daelkyr turned his head back to look at Ois. “Unless you think the Silver Flame will do it.”
Orphan felt Ois stiffen, but the changeling said nothing.
Chapter 21 - Part 3
Amazingly, over a half-hour went by without incident. A great commotion was still occurring around the city, but none of it on their approach to the northern wall. Given that such was Orphan’s plan, Ois thought that meant the warforged was still alive.
Finally Delegado paused, and again they crouched behind some rubble. “Okay,” he said. “We’re close enough.” He clicked his tongue and extended his arm. Feather landed onto the half-orc’s arm, and Delegado cast his spell, conversing with the bird. Ois listened, impressed that Delegado had found his own magic. When they had been together in Aundair, the half-orc had known no magic, and he had been trying to train a snake from the Marches that she was very leery of. The half-orc finished his spell, and Feather launched himself into the sky, heading north. “He’s going to find Thomas,” Delegado explained.
“It’s very impressive to watch you do that,” she said.
“Oh?” he said. “Didn’t think I had the brains to figure out some spells?”
“I thought you had the brains,” she said, lifting Bartemain’s father again. “I didn’t know you had the subtlety.”
Delegado’s face grew sad, and he reached over and shifted his father’s corpse so that it lay better on Ois’ shoulder. “I wish he could have seen it.” He blinked. “He’s leaking dust.” The half-orc rummaged around in his pack.
Ois looked about. The commotion in the other areas of the city was dying down or coming closer. “We need to hurry, Delegado,” she said.
“Won’t take long,” he told her. He took out a bandage, one of the bandages he had gotten from the eyeless witch in Festering Holt. He carefully tightened it around his father’s head. “No reason to give them a trail, right?”
Delegado finished fiddling with the bandage, and then trotted down the street, clutching his bow. They crouched as they ran, moving low and sticking to building fronts, trying to keep from giving away too much of a profile.
Finally Delegado paused, peering ahead. They were about five thousand feet from the city wall, but the building ahead had collapsed centuries ago, and the street area beneath it was full of holes and unsafe angles. “You have any more of that oil?” he asked. “It’s a short duration.”
“I know,” she said. She set her mace down, fished the oil out, and then tossed it to him. He caught it and stuck it in his belt stash as she picked her mace up again. “That one is two minutes only, use it well.”
“Hunh,” he said. “You hear that?” His eyes tightened, then he grinned. “Orphan’s coming, but he has company.” The half-orc pulled the oil out and coated his bow.
“Your dragonmark?” she asked.
“Yep,” he said. “On three.” She felt something, a rumble in the city. “One.” Now she heard muffled noises coming from the holes by the collapsed building. “Two.” There was shouting now, and she heard many feet coming from the nearby streets. “Three,” Delegado said, stepping out from behind cover.
Orphan leaped out of one of the holes in the street, landing on a pile of masonry. The warforged was covered in scratches, cracks, and burns. Smoke wisped from the rags of what was his monk’s uniform, but he still had his belt and his sai. From down one street a crossbow twanged, but the bolt came nowhere near the warforged.
Delegado stepped, turned, and fired two arrows at once. The fiend with the crossbow shrieked as Delegado felled it.
“Orphan!” he yelled. “Go to the wall!” Ois was already running, carrying Bartemain over her shoulder. She knew Delegado’s plan without being told.
“Rakshasa is behind me!” Orphan said, flipping backwards.
On cue, a tiger-headed fiend in wizard’s robes fly out of the hole and cast a spell, peppering Orphan with magical darts that left pitted holes in the warforged’s frame. Another tiger, this one a lesser rakshasa, was climbing up behind its master. The snarls and threats of other horrible things could be heard in the remains of the sewer pipes as well, all waiting for their chance to maul and hurt.
Ois swung, and the lesser rakshasa, a tiger-man in scale mail with a hand and a-half sword, screamed as the mace hit him. The Eberron shard on the mace shattered, and the rakshasa disintegrated.
“Flame has blessed me!” Ois cried, running past the ashes that floated away from where the lesser rakshasa had been. The mace was shriveling now as well, apparently its form did not hold after the dragonshard was used, so she dropped it and drew her longsword.
“Wonderful,” Orphan said, flipping backwards over the other holes towards the wall. “Delegado, come on!”
The half-orc was not moving. Instead, he was grinning as he sighted his temporarily-blessed bow at the rakshasa wizard. “Say hello to my little friend!” the half-orc whooped as he fired three arrows from the massive bow into the floating rakshasa wizard. The rakshasa was caught off guard, and it howled in pain as the arrows sunk deeply into its body. Its next spell fizzled even as the tiger-thing was in mid-cast, the pain having broke its concentration.
“Get over the wall!” Delegado yelled to Ois and Orphan. The rakshasa was trying to fly away from the blessed longbow, but the half-orc’s weapon had the range factor. “I’ll catch up when I’m done!” Five more arrows flew, and the rakshasa fell dead, its brain and heart pierced. Once a lord of this place, it was now a corpse.
By then Orphan was scampering up a ladder, ignoring the hidden bells within it that would have alerted every fiend in the area if the general uproar had not. Between those converging from the surface streets and those still trying to get out of the tunnel, the area was going to be very densely populated soon. Halfway up he realized that Ois was struggling under her burden, and he went back and helped her climb while holding the body.
“Who is this?” Orphan asked. “The prisoner?”
“Yes,” Ois said, shoving Bartemain upwards. “Changed somehow. He was Delegado’s father and he spoke of a cloud over a jewel.” She did not think it was possible for a warforged to look startled, but Orphan did. Nonetheless he quickly hauled Bartemain’s body to the top of the wall and then jumped off, no doubt doing his trick of a slow fall. Ois had seen monks sworn to the Silver Flame do the same thing.
Ois turned around to see Delegado firing in a blur, slowly working his way towards her. His bow brought down lesser fiends flying overhead, and bulkier things that tried rushing down the street. He had a look in his eyes that scared her. He did not seem to care if he died.
“Del!” she called, rushing towards him, hacking at scaly hands that reached through rent places in the ground, trying to grab her feet and his. She grabbed his shoulder. “Come on, we have to go!”
“I’m coming,” he said, firing two arrows at once into a hole in the ground. A terrible cry of pain came from below. “Just a few more. Just kill a few more.”
“Del!” she screamed.
“Did you see what they did to my father?” he howled at her. He sighted and took an incredible shot between two spires, sending an arrow into the eye socket of a harpy with a fiendish aspect to her. The creature fell, her wings no longer keeping her aloft.
“If we don’t get outside the wall soon you’ll never bring your father’s body back to your village!” she said, tugging at him.
He went, if reluctantly. A hunched thing tried to shatter her mind, not knowing that she was immune to fear, and she decapitated it. A wriggling insect thing teleported into the air next to her, but she eviscerated it before it could attack. Somehow they made it to the ladder. She made Delegado go up first, smiting a drooling half-ape, half-lobster thing. He sent down a rain of arrows from atop the wall that gave her cover to ascend the ladder.
When she got atop the wall, she saw Thomas in the distance charging on his horse and leading Delegado’s to where Orphan was waving his arms below. Delegado had affixed his grappling hook, and tossed the silk rope to the ground below. His face was made of stone as he whirled and dropped another flying thing with three arrows. “Get down there,” he told her.
She nodded, and she took out the potion gave her. After drinking it, she sheathed her sword then rushed forward and grabbed him.
“Hey!” he yelled, caught off guard as she stepped off the wall. The magic in the potion held true, and they floated to the ground gently.
“I don’t want you to make some stupid stand up there,” she said. “That bless weapon oil won’t last forever, and you’re running low on arrows.”
“If you would have told me you were going to do this I wouldn’t have needed to leave behind a really good rope and hook,” he told her angrily. “And I have no intention of making a stupid stand, not when the rest of you need me to get you through the storm.”
They landed, and saw that Orphan had tied Bartemain’s corpse onto the back of Delegado’s horse.
“What in Khyber is this?” yelled Thomas, his face turning red. He was staring at her with anger and pain in his inhuman eyes.
Ois realized that she had forgotten to change back.
“That’s Flamebearer,” Orphan said. “Also known as Ois Silva. She is –”
“I know what she is!” Thomas snapped. “She’s a changeling! They can’t be trusted!”
“Thomas, she was hiding from me,” Delegado said, mounting up. Feather flew down and landed on the half-orc’s shoulder. “Now we have an entire city of demons behind us, so let’s deal with this later! We have to get to the storm!”
“You can summon your own horse, liar,” Thomas snapped at her with anger. He wheeled his mount and charged after Delegado. Orphan ran after them both, and soon overtook them.
Ois frowned, and summoned her steed. As always it appeared in a glowing nimbus of silvery light, tossing its magnificent head. She grabbed the saddle horn and mounted quickly, riding after the others as the cries of the demons ascending the wall reached a fever pitch.
Finally Delegado paused, and again they crouched behind some rubble. “Okay,” he said. “We’re close enough.” He clicked his tongue and extended his arm. Feather landed onto the half-orc’s arm, and Delegado cast his spell, conversing with the bird. Ois listened, impressed that Delegado had found his own magic. When they had been together in Aundair, the half-orc had known no magic, and he had been trying to train a snake from the Marches that she was very leery of. The half-orc finished his spell, and Feather launched himself into the sky, heading north. “He’s going to find Thomas,” Delegado explained.
“It’s very impressive to watch you do that,” she said.
“Oh?” he said. “Didn’t think I had the brains to figure out some spells?”
“I thought you had the brains,” she said, lifting Bartemain’s father again. “I didn’t know you had the subtlety.”
Delegado’s face grew sad, and he reached over and shifted his father’s corpse so that it lay better on Ois’ shoulder. “I wish he could have seen it.” He blinked. “He’s leaking dust.” The half-orc rummaged around in his pack.
Ois looked about. The commotion in the other areas of the city was dying down or coming closer. “We need to hurry, Delegado,” she said.
“Won’t take long,” he told her. He took out a bandage, one of the bandages he had gotten from the eyeless witch in Festering Holt. He carefully tightened it around his father’s head. “No reason to give them a trail, right?”
Delegado finished fiddling with the bandage, and then trotted down the street, clutching his bow. They crouched as they ran, moving low and sticking to building fronts, trying to keep from giving away too much of a profile.
Finally Delegado paused, peering ahead. They were about five thousand feet from the city wall, but the building ahead had collapsed centuries ago, and the street area beneath it was full of holes and unsafe angles. “You have any more of that oil?” he asked. “It’s a short duration.”
“I know,” she said. She set her mace down, fished the oil out, and then tossed it to him. He caught it and stuck it in his belt stash as she picked her mace up again. “That one is two minutes only, use it well.”
“Hunh,” he said. “You hear that?” His eyes tightened, then he grinned. “Orphan’s coming, but he has company.” The half-orc pulled the oil out and coated his bow.
“Your dragonmark?” she asked.
“Yep,” he said. “On three.” She felt something, a rumble in the city. “One.” Now she heard muffled noises coming from the holes by the collapsed building. “Two.” There was shouting now, and she heard many feet coming from the nearby streets. “Three,” Delegado said, stepping out from behind cover.
Orphan leaped out of one of the holes in the street, landing on a pile of masonry. The warforged was covered in scratches, cracks, and burns. Smoke wisped from the rags of what was his monk’s uniform, but he still had his belt and his sai. From down one street a crossbow twanged, but the bolt came nowhere near the warforged.
Delegado stepped, turned, and fired two arrows at once. The fiend with the crossbow shrieked as Delegado felled it.
“Orphan!” he yelled. “Go to the wall!” Ois was already running, carrying Bartemain over her shoulder. She knew Delegado’s plan without being told.
“Rakshasa is behind me!” Orphan said, flipping backwards.
On cue, a tiger-headed fiend in wizard’s robes fly out of the hole and cast a spell, peppering Orphan with magical darts that left pitted holes in the warforged’s frame. Another tiger, this one a lesser rakshasa, was climbing up behind its master. The snarls and threats of other horrible things could be heard in the remains of the sewer pipes as well, all waiting for their chance to maul and hurt.
Ois swung, and the lesser rakshasa, a tiger-man in scale mail with a hand and a-half sword, screamed as the mace hit him. The Eberron shard on the mace shattered, and the rakshasa disintegrated.
“Flame has blessed me!” Ois cried, running past the ashes that floated away from where the lesser rakshasa had been. The mace was shriveling now as well, apparently its form did not hold after the dragonshard was used, so she dropped it and drew her longsword.
“Wonderful,” Orphan said, flipping backwards over the other holes towards the wall. “Delegado, come on!”
The half-orc was not moving. Instead, he was grinning as he sighted his temporarily-blessed bow at the rakshasa wizard. “Say hello to my little friend!” the half-orc whooped as he fired three arrows from the massive bow into the floating rakshasa wizard. The rakshasa was caught off guard, and it howled in pain as the arrows sunk deeply into its body. Its next spell fizzled even as the tiger-thing was in mid-cast, the pain having broke its concentration.
“Get over the wall!” Delegado yelled to Ois and Orphan. The rakshasa was trying to fly away from the blessed longbow, but the half-orc’s weapon had the range factor. “I’ll catch up when I’m done!” Five more arrows flew, and the rakshasa fell dead, its brain and heart pierced. Once a lord of this place, it was now a corpse.
By then Orphan was scampering up a ladder, ignoring the hidden bells within it that would have alerted every fiend in the area if the general uproar had not. Between those converging from the surface streets and those still trying to get out of the tunnel, the area was going to be very densely populated soon. Halfway up he realized that Ois was struggling under her burden, and he went back and helped her climb while holding the body.
“Who is this?” Orphan asked. “The prisoner?”
“Yes,” Ois said, shoving Bartemain upwards. “Changed somehow. He was Delegado’s father and he spoke of a cloud over a jewel.” She did not think it was possible for a warforged to look startled, but Orphan did. Nonetheless he quickly hauled Bartemain’s body to the top of the wall and then jumped off, no doubt doing his trick of a slow fall. Ois had seen monks sworn to the Silver Flame do the same thing.
Ois turned around to see Delegado firing in a blur, slowly working his way towards her. His bow brought down lesser fiends flying overhead, and bulkier things that tried rushing down the street. He had a look in his eyes that scared her. He did not seem to care if he died.
“Del!” she called, rushing towards him, hacking at scaly hands that reached through rent places in the ground, trying to grab her feet and his. She grabbed his shoulder. “Come on, we have to go!”
“I’m coming,” he said, firing two arrows at once into a hole in the ground. A terrible cry of pain came from below. “Just a few more. Just kill a few more.”
“Del!” she screamed.
“Did you see what they did to my father?” he howled at her. He sighted and took an incredible shot between two spires, sending an arrow into the eye socket of a harpy with a fiendish aspect to her. The creature fell, her wings no longer keeping her aloft.
“If we don’t get outside the wall soon you’ll never bring your father’s body back to your village!” she said, tugging at him.
He went, if reluctantly. A hunched thing tried to shatter her mind, not knowing that she was immune to fear, and she decapitated it. A wriggling insect thing teleported into the air next to her, but she eviscerated it before it could attack. Somehow they made it to the ladder. She made Delegado go up first, smiting a drooling half-ape, half-lobster thing. He sent down a rain of arrows from atop the wall that gave her cover to ascend the ladder.
When she got atop the wall, she saw Thomas in the distance charging on his horse and leading Delegado’s to where Orphan was waving his arms below. Delegado had affixed his grappling hook, and tossed the silk rope to the ground below. His face was made of stone as he whirled and dropped another flying thing with three arrows. “Get down there,” he told her.
She nodded, and she took out the potion gave her. After drinking it, she sheathed her sword then rushed forward and grabbed him.
“Hey!” he yelled, caught off guard as she stepped off the wall. The magic in the potion held true, and they floated to the ground gently.
“I don’t want you to make some stupid stand up there,” she said. “That bless weapon oil won’t last forever, and you’re running low on arrows.”
“If you would have told me you were going to do this I wouldn’t have needed to leave behind a really good rope and hook,” he told her angrily. “And I have no intention of making a stupid stand, not when the rest of you need me to get you through the storm.”
They landed, and saw that Orphan had tied Bartemain’s corpse onto the back of Delegado’s horse.
“What in Khyber is this?” yelled Thomas, his face turning red. He was staring at her with anger and pain in his inhuman eyes.
Ois realized that she had forgotten to change back.
“That’s Flamebearer,” Orphan said. “Also known as Ois Silva. She is –”
“I know what she is!” Thomas snapped. “She’s a changeling! They can’t be trusted!”
“Thomas, she was hiding from me,” Delegado said, mounting up. Feather flew down and landed on the half-orc’s shoulder. “Now we have an entire city of demons behind us, so let’s deal with this later! We have to get to the storm!”
“You can summon your own horse, liar,” Thomas snapped at her with anger. He wheeled his mount and charged after Delegado. Orphan ran after them both, and soon overtook them.
Ois frowned, and summoned her steed. As always it appeared in a glowing nimbus of silvery light, tossing its magnificent head. She grabbed the saddle horn and mounted quickly, riding after the others as the cries of the demons ascending the wall reached a fever pitch.
Chapter 21 - Part 2
The plaza was much as they had left it, although the city was not. Alarms were going off, gongs were being tolled, and enough creatures were yelling to drown out the screaming coming from the top of the tower.
Feather was on Ois’ shoulder now, and not happy about it. Delegado had his bow on his right shoulder, and his father’s body on his left, so there was no place for the hawk to sit. Delegado had to use a spell to make Feather stay with Ois, the bird didn’t know her well enough to trust her, otherwise.
“It sounds like Orphan hasn’t been caught,” Delegado said. “Let’s head north.”
“Which way is north?” she asked.
“This way,” he said, sword out, hurrying down the street. Ois’ noticed that a small trail of dust leaking from her blow to Bartemain’s head was leaving a trail, but one that seemed to blend in with the dust on the street. She hurried after Delegado, but said nothing to him about his father’s head seepage. He was too close to cracking now, too many emotional things had happened to him in too short a period of time.
Because you keep too much in, Delegado, she thought accusingly. You always did. The only emotion you aren’t ashamed of is irritation. Feather squawked and launched himself from her shoulder, as if sensing her mental criticism of his master.
She felt ashamed. The Flame should have burned away grudges. Again, she was found lacking in her own eyes.
You try to out perform everyone, as if you have something to prove, a dwarven cleric of the Flame had told her once. He was right, but that didn’t change her. Her drive was what defined her, something that Delegado could not seem to grasp.
The half-orc stepped behind a half-collapsed overhang, crouching near some rubble. He gingerly set his father’s body down, and then sheathed his sword. Scanning the opposite corner, where a gaping hole in a wall let them see the dusty interior of what had once been a large building, the half-orc took out his bow and drew two arrows against it. Feather settled down on a nook above Delegado and fluttered his wings nervously.
She hurried to crouch next to him, hiding her sunrod against her body. She also sheathed her sword and drew out the mace with the dragonshard that she had found. “What do you see?” she asked, knowing that his orcsight was telling him something.
“Something moved in there,” he said. “I don’t know what, but it’s waiting for us, I know that. I think it’s hiding behind that column in there, the one that’s fallen over halfway.”
Ois concentrated, focusing her senses with the Silver Flame. The Flame burned away all distractions, showing her the narrow world of good and evil. A great blot spread across her vision behind that half-fallen pillar. “It’s very dangerous,” she said, withdrawing her senses. “Very evil. Very hungry.”
“Then why isn’t it hunting Orphan?” Delegado asked. “What’s it waiting for? Why can’t they order it around?”
She thought about that. “Maybe it was, and it heard you coming.”
“Why not attack me directly if it’s so powerful?” he asked her. “No, it’s got cunning, but it isn’t smart.”
“A fiendishly-bred animal?” she asked. “I have seen many in this land.”
“Tell me about it,” he snorted. “Thomas and I fought wolves, snakes, and all sorts of devilspawn things. I take it you did, too.”
“A fiendish mountain goat,” she said.
He looked at her and raised his eyebrows. “Wow,” he said in that sarcastic tone she knew too well.
“It tried to knock me off a mountain,” she said.
“But the Silver Flame protected you,” he said, returning his gaze to the building with the gaping hole.
“Later I faced a fiendishly-bred thunder lizard, similar to the most dangerous beast in the heathen Talenta lands,” she told him. “Lightning from the sky came when I prayed to the Flame and destroyed it.”
Delegado looked puzzled. “You’re a druid?”
She did not give him the satisfaction of rolling her eyes. “So you think it’s a fiendish animal, or a fiend with animal intelligence?”
He shrugged. “Either way it will move soon, then I’m going to shoot it.”
She took a flask out of her belt and unstoppered it, then poured its oil over the top of his longbow. The magical oil seeped into the wood of the bow, and it glowed with holy light briefly. “Bless weapon oil,” she said. “Made by the finest brewers in Thrane. The Silver Flame will help your weapon strike past the defenses of the fiends.”
“Where were you when we were trying to kill that rakshasa lord?” he asked her.
“You fought with a rakshasa lord?” She could not keep the impressed tone out of her voice, and the grin on his face made her angry. Again. Being smug was a subset of pride on most lists of seven sins, but she sometimes wondered if Delegado was proof that smugness was the eighth great one.
“Yeah,” he said. “Orphan killed it, but we all helped.” He squinted. “There!”
Delegado stood, and fired both arrows. Something in the building snarled in pain. It began to charge out into the street, but Delegado shot four more times and it collapsed.
She squinted. She could see it now. It was like an ape, but with a scaly hide the same color as the stone of the building. She nodded and picked up Bartemain.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Leaving you free to use your bow against the many enemies that face us,” she said. “I believe the phrase is, ‘range beats numbers every time,’ yes?” She settled Bartemain’s body onto her shoulder. He did not weigh a lot, but she could clearly feel the sand within his body.
Delegado suddenly leaned down and kissed her on the forehead. He said nothing, however, but jogged down the street. Feather flew after him, and Ois followed with her new mace in her hand.
Feather was on Ois’ shoulder now, and not happy about it. Delegado had his bow on his right shoulder, and his father’s body on his left, so there was no place for the hawk to sit. Delegado had to use a spell to make Feather stay with Ois, the bird didn’t know her well enough to trust her, otherwise.
“It sounds like Orphan hasn’t been caught,” Delegado said. “Let’s head north.”
“Which way is north?” she asked.
“This way,” he said, sword out, hurrying down the street. Ois’ noticed that a small trail of dust leaking from her blow to Bartemain’s head was leaving a trail, but one that seemed to blend in with the dust on the street. She hurried after Delegado, but said nothing to him about his father’s head seepage. He was too close to cracking now, too many emotional things had happened to him in too short a period of time.
Because you keep too much in, Delegado, she thought accusingly. You always did. The only emotion you aren’t ashamed of is irritation. Feather squawked and launched himself from her shoulder, as if sensing her mental criticism of his master.
She felt ashamed. The Flame should have burned away grudges. Again, she was found lacking in her own eyes.
You try to out perform everyone, as if you have something to prove, a dwarven cleric of the Flame had told her once. He was right, but that didn’t change her. Her drive was what defined her, something that Delegado could not seem to grasp.
The half-orc stepped behind a half-collapsed overhang, crouching near some rubble. He gingerly set his father’s body down, and then sheathed his sword. Scanning the opposite corner, where a gaping hole in a wall let them see the dusty interior of what had once been a large building, the half-orc took out his bow and drew two arrows against it. Feather settled down on a nook above Delegado and fluttered his wings nervously.
She hurried to crouch next to him, hiding her sunrod against her body. She also sheathed her sword and drew out the mace with the dragonshard that she had found. “What do you see?” she asked, knowing that his orcsight was telling him something.
“Something moved in there,” he said. “I don’t know what, but it’s waiting for us, I know that. I think it’s hiding behind that column in there, the one that’s fallen over halfway.”
Ois concentrated, focusing her senses with the Silver Flame. The Flame burned away all distractions, showing her the narrow world of good and evil. A great blot spread across her vision behind that half-fallen pillar. “It’s very dangerous,” she said, withdrawing her senses. “Very evil. Very hungry.”
“Then why isn’t it hunting Orphan?” Delegado asked. “What’s it waiting for? Why can’t they order it around?”
She thought about that. “Maybe it was, and it heard you coming.”
“Why not attack me directly if it’s so powerful?” he asked her. “No, it’s got cunning, but it isn’t smart.”
“A fiendishly-bred animal?” she asked. “I have seen many in this land.”
“Tell me about it,” he snorted. “Thomas and I fought wolves, snakes, and all sorts of devilspawn things. I take it you did, too.”
“A fiendish mountain goat,” she said.
He looked at her and raised his eyebrows. “Wow,” he said in that sarcastic tone she knew too well.
“It tried to knock me off a mountain,” she said.
“But the Silver Flame protected you,” he said, returning his gaze to the building with the gaping hole.
“Later I faced a fiendishly-bred thunder lizard, similar to the most dangerous beast in the heathen Talenta lands,” she told him. “Lightning from the sky came when I prayed to the Flame and destroyed it.”
Delegado looked puzzled. “You’re a druid?”
She did not give him the satisfaction of rolling her eyes. “So you think it’s a fiendish animal, or a fiend with animal intelligence?”
He shrugged. “Either way it will move soon, then I’m going to shoot it.”
She took a flask out of her belt and unstoppered it, then poured its oil over the top of his longbow. The magical oil seeped into the wood of the bow, and it glowed with holy light briefly. “Bless weapon oil,” she said. “Made by the finest brewers in Thrane. The Silver Flame will help your weapon strike past the defenses of the fiends.”
“Where were you when we were trying to kill that rakshasa lord?” he asked her.
“You fought with a rakshasa lord?” She could not keep the impressed tone out of her voice, and the grin on his face made her angry. Again. Being smug was a subset of pride on most lists of seven sins, but she sometimes wondered if Delegado was proof that smugness was the eighth great one.
“Yeah,” he said. “Orphan killed it, but we all helped.” He squinted. “There!”
Delegado stood, and fired both arrows. Something in the building snarled in pain. It began to charge out into the street, but Delegado shot four more times and it collapsed.
She squinted. She could see it now. It was like an ape, but with a scaly hide the same color as the stone of the building. She nodded and picked up Bartemain.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Leaving you free to use your bow against the many enemies that face us,” she said. “I believe the phrase is, ‘range beats numbers every time,’ yes?” She settled Bartemain’s body onto her shoulder. He did not weigh a lot, but she could clearly feel the sand within his body.
Delegado suddenly leaned down and kissed her on the forehead. He said nothing, however, but jogged down the street. Feather flew after him, and Ois followed with her new mace in her hand.
Chapter 21 - Part 1
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE – HONOR THY
The 25th of Sypheros, 993 Y.K., late afternoon, in the Demon city of Ashtakala
“You are Bartemain?” Ois asked, her mind reeling. “But that’s – ” She paused, trying to find a word that could be shaped into making some sense.
She didn’t finish her sentence. Delegado had drawn his sword and slashed through the bars. Snarling and growling the half-orc cut the bars to shreds like they were slow mayflies too foolish to know that a flame licked up at them.
“Son,” Bartemain said, stepping through the opening. He hugged the half-orc that towered over him.
“Poppa,” Delegado said. “Poppa.” He hugged his father back, his eyes shut tight. Ois knew that Delegado was holding back tears. She knew faces. She remembered his face when he had received word of his father’s death. The proud half-orc had not been afraid to show his sorrow then.
Ois was instantly suspicious. The finest augerers available to Tharashk had declared Bartemain dead, and the best trackers in Blood Crescent had found no trail. Why would he be here? Especially in a city full of shapeshifting rakshasa. She touched her soul to her mind, where the Silver Flame burned brightly. Her holy sense, carefully calibrated by her paladin training and adherence to the moral codes, detected no evil in Bartemain. There was plenty of the background evil that this place radiated, but none in Bartemain. He was no fiend. He was Delegado’s father.
She stepped forward and touched Bartemain’s side, which showed sore and bruised flesh through a hole in his shirt. Calling forth the power of her faith, she laid her hands down and cured the bruise. Curiously, it resisted her, as if something in this place did not want to let her heal the prisoner. It took twice the level of holy energy that it should have taken.
“Thank you,” he said to Ois. “My ribs, they feel brand-new!”
“Poppa, how?” Delegado asked. “The augerers said you were dead!”
“This land has strange magical twists to it,” Bartemain said. “Divination does not work properly. All I know is that we were ambushed by a force far larger than we had ever seen before. Instead of a few scattered fiendish animals, a disciplined force of these mindless things with melted bodies attacked us as we gathered narstones. We held them back, but they were a distraction. A great spider thing, twice as tall as our tallest warrior, slashed my hand off at the wrist with a foreleg that ended in a massive cleaver. Then its eyes shot this ray of strange light. I knew nothing. When I came to, I was here, and feeling returned to my body bit by bit. I had been turned to stone for the trip across the Wastes. The rakshasa closed the open wound in my wrist, and they began to question me.” He shuddered. “They kept asking me about a dream I had, a message in the dream. They tortured me endlessly at first, and then they lost interest. But they did not want to let me die.”
Ois considered this. “What message?” she asked.
“Ois, let him be!” Delegado thundered.
“Calm down, boy,” Bartemain coughed. “She’s doing her duty, obviously. What’s your name, miss?”
“Ois Silva,” she said. “Paladin of the Silver Flame, sworn to law and good.”
“You with that crowd now?” Bartemain asked his son, his eyes crinkling in surprise.
“No Poppa, Ois and I – well, we used to – we are friends,” Delegado stammered.
Bartemain smiled knowingly. “I see. How did you find me?”
“I have a greater dragonmark now,” Delegado said proudly.
Bartemain made a happy gasp and hugged his son anew. “That’s wonderful!” he exclaimed. “I could not be more proud.” Something occurred to him then, and he licked his lips. “Delegado, did your mother – is she still…”
“She is alive, she did not remarry,” Delegado said. “She was deep in mourning, she still loves you. But we thought you were dead.”
“You got the sword, I see,” Bartemain said. “I’m glad, there was so much protest when I gave it to you.”
Ois’ heart melted, but she forced her mind to be practical. She was happy for Delegado but something was wrong. There was no food in the cell, no outlet for waste, and no ventilation. Further, for a man of Bartemain’s age, he was unusually spry and quick.
But her ability to detect evil told her nothing. Bartemain was not evil, according to her paladin senses. However the senses she had developed years earlier as a thief told her something else. Something was not where it should be, the shape of the facts was all wrong.
“Bartemain, I don’t want you to exert yourself too much, but we must leave now,” she said smoothly. “There is no telling when the fiends will know that we have broken into this place.” She watched his chest carefully.
“Yes, yes,” he said. “But, Delegado let me see my sword, just one more time. Let me hold it.” His ragged shirt and the exposed skin underneath were not moving as he spoke.
Of course, she thought. If he can survive in an airtight cell, he doesn’t need to breathe when he talks, either. She said nothing, though, knowing that Delegado’s mind would still be reeling. The half-orc needed to be shown, not told. Ois rested a hand on a hidden dagger, one made of adamantine.
“Absolutely, Poppa,” Delegado said, handing it over, hilt-first. “I polish it whenever I can.”
“Mm-hm,” Bartemain said, taking a practice swing at the air. “You always did revere where you came from, Delegado.” He suddenly whirled and swung at his son’s head. Feather squawked in alarm.
Ois was already there, her lightning-fast draw parried the blade, and sparks flew where the two adamantine weapons clashed. Bartemain was far stronger than a man his age should be. “What are you?” Ois asked, shoving the longsword back, if only barely.
“Poppa?” Delegado asked weakly. He seemed frozen. Feather had hopped to a corner and was cawing.
“I am Bartemain of House Tharashk,” the old man said. “Or I was.”
He swung at Ois instead, and she ducked backwards. “Delegado, stop him!” she yelled, tossing the half-orc her adamantine dagger. He caught it, but barely. He seemed numb.
Ois drew two more daggers and threw them in rapid succession, then she pulled her flametouched longsword free. The daggers were not enchanted, but they were well-balanced, and they both struck Bartemain in the chest. She heard a slight whisking sound, and then her dagger fell out onto the floor. No blood appeared, and from Bartemain’s face, he hadn’t even felt it.
Delegado roared on seeing that, and stepped around, flanking the thing that wore his father’s face. He obviously had decided the man was a rakshasa, although Ois was not sure. Delegado stabbed deep with the adamantine dagger Ois had given him, and sank it up to the hilt in the man’s spine.
Bartemain’s eyes showed no pain. He whirled and slashed, and Delegado barely stepped back in time. As it was a scratch across his cheek drew blood. Had the half-orc been a fraction slower, it would have cut his head wholly open.
Ois focused, and called upon the Silver Flame. “Evil shall be burned!” she declared. She smote, crouching as she did, slashing strongly at the back of Bartemain’s knees. Her sword passed through them, but left no wound. Bartemain’s flesh closed over the cuts, leaving him standing. She thought she smelled spilling dust, but the weapon seemed to deliver no damage to the elderly human.
The flickering flame that she called up with her smiting was another matter. It danced and burned, and Bartemain howled. He turned back to Ois, trying to cut at her, but Delegado took advantage of the situation to grab at the older man. The half-orc was not as smooth a wrestler as the warforged, and he almost took another slash in the shoulder, but he got behind Bartemain’s sword hand and grappled with the thing that appeared to be his father.
“Who are you?” Delegado snarled.
“I am your father, boy!” Bartemain said. “You are named after my brother, who died when a chuul attacked our home when I was a teenager. I took you to Stormreach in the early summer of 973 Y.K., and we bought that glass bowl with the moving paint oils in its walls for your mother. I showed you how to shoot a longbow, and I bought you your first one after you took down the rabid boar from four hundred feet.” He was twisting as he said this, but spry as he was, he could not match his son’s strength. Delegado pinned his father’s hands, and Ois took the adamantine longsword away.
“I feel sand within you!” Delegado cried. “Not flesh, not blood! Who are you?”
“I am your father,” Bartemain said. He stopped struggling and looked sadly at his son. “The fiends took my flesh, and replaced it with dust. The process was incredibly painful, but now I am like a Cannith war machine. I need no air, no food. I cannot control all of my actions. They have programmed me to attack intruders who seek to free me.”
“We’ll free you of this,” Delegado said.
“You can’t, boy!” Bartemain said, bitter laughter escaping cracked lips. “They only did it to keep me alive! I’m too old for this! I should be dead! They didn’t want me to die, because they hadn’t figured out the riddle that they tortured out of me hundreds of times!”
“No!” Delegado yelled. “There has to be a way!”
“The pain, boy, you don’t know the pain,” Bartemain said. “You have to bludgeon me, the dust they stuffed me with shoves aside swords and spears. You have to crush my skull.”
“No!”
“We came here for the riddle,” Ois said. “Tell it to us, and we will do our best to help you.”
“We’re not killing him!” Delegado roared.
“When the greatest jewel is obscured by clouds, the chance for peace will be in balance, and the steel cap must not be opened,” Bartemain said. “I don’t know what it means. Neither do the fiends. Now kill me.”
“We’re going to tie you up and bring you with us,” Delegado said, his eyes wet. “We’ll find a way to turn back what the fiends did to you.”
The stone set high in the wall over Bartemain’s bed began to hum. They all looked at it.
“That’s them asking me to report on anything here,” Bartemain said. “If I don’t respond, they’ll be here in minutes. If I do respond, their programming of me won’t let me lie. Kill me, Delegado. That’s an order.”
“I can’t,” the half-orc said. Ois could tell Delegado was breaking down.
“You will!” Bartemain ordered.
“I can’t.”
Bartemain turned his eyes to Ois. “You there, do you know how much evil will triumph if you are caught?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Grab a mace from in there and crush my skull, then!” he told her. To Delegado he said “Son, I love you, but I can’t control myself. You let her do what she has to do.”
Ois saw Delegado nod, and then she ran back into the storeroom. She found a mace quickly, a well-balanced thing with an Eberron dragonshard in it. She returned and found Delegado still pinning his father. Bartemain’s head was clear.
“Do it right,” he told her.
“It will be too fast for you to feel any pain,” she said.
Ois swung, and Bartemain’s head cracked like an eggshell. He went limp in his son’s arm, and dust dribbled from his wound instead of blood.
Delegado retrieved his sword, and handed Ois her daggers. He then lifted his father’s body. “I’m not leaving his body here,” he said, his eyes red.
“I wouldn’t expect you to,” she said softly.
They ran out of the room, and bolted down the curving ramp to the tower’s base.
The 25th of Sypheros, 993 Y.K., late afternoon, in the Demon city of Ashtakala
“You are Bartemain?” Ois asked, her mind reeling. “But that’s – ” She paused, trying to find a word that could be shaped into making some sense.
She didn’t finish her sentence. Delegado had drawn his sword and slashed through the bars. Snarling and growling the half-orc cut the bars to shreds like they were slow mayflies too foolish to know that a flame licked up at them.
“Son,” Bartemain said, stepping through the opening. He hugged the half-orc that towered over him.
“Poppa,” Delegado said. “Poppa.” He hugged his father back, his eyes shut tight. Ois knew that Delegado was holding back tears. She knew faces. She remembered his face when he had received word of his father’s death. The proud half-orc had not been afraid to show his sorrow then.
Ois was instantly suspicious. The finest augerers available to Tharashk had declared Bartemain dead, and the best trackers in Blood Crescent had found no trail. Why would he be here? Especially in a city full of shapeshifting rakshasa. She touched her soul to her mind, where the Silver Flame burned brightly. Her holy sense, carefully calibrated by her paladin training and adherence to the moral codes, detected no evil in Bartemain. There was plenty of the background evil that this place radiated, but none in Bartemain. He was no fiend. He was Delegado’s father.
She stepped forward and touched Bartemain’s side, which showed sore and bruised flesh through a hole in his shirt. Calling forth the power of her faith, she laid her hands down and cured the bruise. Curiously, it resisted her, as if something in this place did not want to let her heal the prisoner. It took twice the level of holy energy that it should have taken.
“Thank you,” he said to Ois. “My ribs, they feel brand-new!”
“Poppa, how?” Delegado asked. “The augerers said you were dead!”
“This land has strange magical twists to it,” Bartemain said. “Divination does not work properly. All I know is that we were ambushed by a force far larger than we had ever seen before. Instead of a few scattered fiendish animals, a disciplined force of these mindless things with melted bodies attacked us as we gathered narstones. We held them back, but they were a distraction. A great spider thing, twice as tall as our tallest warrior, slashed my hand off at the wrist with a foreleg that ended in a massive cleaver. Then its eyes shot this ray of strange light. I knew nothing. When I came to, I was here, and feeling returned to my body bit by bit. I had been turned to stone for the trip across the Wastes. The rakshasa closed the open wound in my wrist, and they began to question me.” He shuddered. “They kept asking me about a dream I had, a message in the dream. They tortured me endlessly at first, and then they lost interest. But they did not want to let me die.”
Ois considered this. “What message?” she asked.
“Ois, let him be!” Delegado thundered.
“Calm down, boy,” Bartemain coughed. “She’s doing her duty, obviously. What’s your name, miss?”
“Ois Silva,” she said. “Paladin of the Silver Flame, sworn to law and good.”
“You with that crowd now?” Bartemain asked his son, his eyes crinkling in surprise.
“No Poppa, Ois and I – well, we used to – we are friends,” Delegado stammered.
Bartemain smiled knowingly. “I see. How did you find me?”
“I have a greater dragonmark now,” Delegado said proudly.
Bartemain made a happy gasp and hugged his son anew. “That’s wonderful!” he exclaimed. “I could not be more proud.” Something occurred to him then, and he licked his lips. “Delegado, did your mother – is she still…”
“She is alive, she did not remarry,” Delegado said. “She was deep in mourning, she still loves you. But we thought you were dead.”
“You got the sword, I see,” Bartemain said. “I’m glad, there was so much protest when I gave it to you.”
Ois’ heart melted, but she forced her mind to be practical. She was happy for Delegado but something was wrong. There was no food in the cell, no outlet for waste, and no ventilation. Further, for a man of Bartemain’s age, he was unusually spry and quick.
But her ability to detect evil told her nothing. Bartemain was not evil, according to her paladin senses. However the senses she had developed years earlier as a thief told her something else. Something was not where it should be, the shape of the facts was all wrong.
“Bartemain, I don’t want you to exert yourself too much, but we must leave now,” she said smoothly. “There is no telling when the fiends will know that we have broken into this place.” She watched his chest carefully.
“Yes, yes,” he said. “But, Delegado let me see my sword, just one more time. Let me hold it.” His ragged shirt and the exposed skin underneath were not moving as he spoke.
Of course, she thought. If he can survive in an airtight cell, he doesn’t need to breathe when he talks, either. She said nothing, though, knowing that Delegado’s mind would still be reeling. The half-orc needed to be shown, not told. Ois rested a hand on a hidden dagger, one made of adamantine.
“Absolutely, Poppa,” Delegado said, handing it over, hilt-first. “I polish it whenever I can.”
“Mm-hm,” Bartemain said, taking a practice swing at the air. “You always did revere where you came from, Delegado.” He suddenly whirled and swung at his son’s head. Feather squawked in alarm.
Ois was already there, her lightning-fast draw parried the blade, and sparks flew where the two adamantine weapons clashed. Bartemain was far stronger than a man his age should be. “What are you?” Ois asked, shoving the longsword back, if only barely.
“Poppa?” Delegado asked weakly. He seemed frozen. Feather had hopped to a corner and was cawing.
“I am Bartemain of House Tharashk,” the old man said. “Or I was.”
He swung at Ois instead, and she ducked backwards. “Delegado, stop him!” she yelled, tossing the half-orc her adamantine dagger. He caught it, but barely. He seemed numb.
Ois drew two more daggers and threw them in rapid succession, then she pulled her flametouched longsword free. The daggers were not enchanted, but they were well-balanced, and they both struck Bartemain in the chest. She heard a slight whisking sound, and then her dagger fell out onto the floor. No blood appeared, and from Bartemain’s face, he hadn’t even felt it.
Delegado roared on seeing that, and stepped around, flanking the thing that wore his father’s face. He obviously had decided the man was a rakshasa, although Ois was not sure. Delegado stabbed deep with the adamantine dagger Ois had given him, and sank it up to the hilt in the man’s spine.
Bartemain’s eyes showed no pain. He whirled and slashed, and Delegado barely stepped back in time. As it was a scratch across his cheek drew blood. Had the half-orc been a fraction slower, it would have cut his head wholly open.
Ois focused, and called upon the Silver Flame. “Evil shall be burned!” she declared. She smote, crouching as she did, slashing strongly at the back of Bartemain’s knees. Her sword passed through them, but left no wound. Bartemain’s flesh closed over the cuts, leaving him standing. She thought she smelled spilling dust, but the weapon seemed to deliver no damage to the elderly human.
The flickering flame that she called up with her smiting was another matter. It danced and burned, and Bartemain howled. He turned back to Ois, trying to cut at her, but Delegado took advantage of the situation to grab at the older man. The half-orc was not as smooth a wrestler as the warforged, and he almost took another slash in the shoulder, but he got behind Bartemain’s sword hand and grappled with the thing that appeared to be his father.
“Who are you?” Delegado snarled.
“I am your father, boy!” Bartemain said. “You are named after my brother, who died when a chuul attacked our home when I was a teenager. I took you to Stormreach in the early summer of 973 Y.K., and we bought that glass bowl with the moving paint oils in its walls for your mother. I showed you how to shoot a longbow, and I bought you your first one after you took down the rabid boar from four hundred feet.” He was twisting as he said this, but spry as he was, he could not match his son’s strength. Delegado pinned his father’s hands, and Ois took the adamantine longsword away.
“I feel sand within you!” Delegado cried. “Not flesh, not blood! Who are you?”
“I am your father,” Bartemain said. He stopped struggling and looked sadly at his son. “The fiends took my flesh, and replaced it with dust. The process was incredibly painful, but now I am like a Cannith war machine. I need no air, no food. I cannot control all of my actions. They have programmed me to attack intruders who seek to free me.”
“We’ll free you of this,” Delegado said.
“You can’t, boy!” Bartemain said, bitter laughter escaping cracked lips. “They only did it to keep me alive! I’m too old for this! I should be dead! They didn’t want me to die, because they hadn’t figured out the riddle that they tortured out of me hundreds of times!”
“No!” Delegado yelled. “There has to be a way!”
“The pain, boy, you don’t know the pain,” Bartemain said. “You have to bludgeon me, the dust they stuffed me with shoves aside swords and spears. You have to crush my skull.”
“No!”
“We came here for the riddle,” Ois said. “Tell it to us, and we will do our best to help you.”
“We’re not killing him!” Delegado roared.
“When the greatest jewel is obscured by clouds, the chance for peace will be in balance, and the steel cap must not be opened,” Bartemain said. “I don’t know what it means. Neither do the fiends. Now kill me.”
“We’re going to tie you up and bring you with us,” Delegado said, his eyes wet. “We’ll find a way to turn back what the fiends did to you.”
The stone set high in the wall over Bartemain’s bed began to hum. They all looked at it.
“That’s them asking me to report on anything here,” Bartemain said. “If I don’t respond, they’ll be here in minutes. If I do respond, their programming of me won’t let me lie. Kill me, Delegado. That’s an order.”
“I can’t,” the half-orc said. Ois could tell Delegado was breaking down.
“You will!” Bartemain ordered.
“I can’t.”
Bartemain turned his eyes to Ois. “You there, do you know how much evil will triumph if you are caught?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Grab a mace from in there and crush my skull, then!” he told her. To Delegado he said “Son, I love you, but I can’t control myself. You let her do what she has to do.”
Ois saw Delegado nod, and then she ran back into the storeroom. She found a mace quickly, a well-balanced thing with an Eberron dragonshard in it. She returned and found Delegado still pinning his father. Bartemain’s head was clear.
“Do it right,” he told her.
“It will be too fast for you to feel any pain,” she said.
Ois swung, and Bartemain’s head cracked like an eggshell. He went limp in his son’s arm, and dust dribbled from his wound instead of blood.
Delegado retrieved his sword, and handed Ois her daggers. He then lifted his father’s body. “I’m not leaving his body here,” he said, his eyes red.
“I wouldn’t expect you to,” she said softly.
They ran out of the room, and bolted down the curving ramp to the tower’s base.
Chapter 20 - Part 17
“Here we go,” Ois said, pulling the lever back. The door clicked free of its restraining pins and swung inwards. A hiss of air entering accompanied it. “No traps,” she said. “It was airtight, though.”
“No alarms,” Delegado noted.
“That we can hear,” she said.
“Well, now’s the time to pray, then,” Delegado said.
“You want to pray to the Flame?” she asked.
“I did once,” he told her. “It didn’t work.” She was shocked at that. “But – but you can, if you want.”
“Flame guide us both then,” she said, stepping in, the sunrod raised high.
It was a long room, with bookcases and shelves carefully arranged. Most of the them held books and scrolls, but Delegado saw rings, wands, weapons of archaic make, and bars of gold and silver that could buy any man in Khorvaire a lifetime of leisure.
“This way,” Delegado whispered, pointing. He led her to a shelf near the back that held a porcelain trough. Rooting around in it he found the headband. It was a simple thing, braided leather etched with symbols, quite out of place with the ostentatious wealth of the place. He folded it and tucked it into a pouch. Ois took a brace of potions and a pair of wands, as well as an expensive-looking mirror.
“I thought you gave up being a thief,” he told her.
“We’ll need these,” she said. “Thomas can use them to drive the fiends back, and he can scry with the mirror.” She pulled out a pair of books and some scrolls. “Here, put these in your backpack. Thomas can use them as well.”
“Okay, but let’s make that it,” Delegado said. “The more we raid the more risk that we find trouble. We need to find a prisoner, but I don’t see a cell.”
“You’re not looking in the right place,” she said, walking over to the wall. “Ask yourself why this bookcase is unoccupied, then look at the scratches on the floor.” She ran her fingers along the wall and found a catch. Seconds later the wall with the bookcase pivoted inwards. “There may be many prisoners in this place,” she said. “Aside from the wretch whose screams we can hear. But this prisoner is considered a treasure.”
Delegado stepped in, and lead the way. She walked next to him, holdng the sunrod high. They did not walk far, perhaps fifteen feet until the turn to the right, and then then were in front of a cell with bars that had thorny projections. On the other side of the thorny bars was a straw-covered cot, and above it was a stone set high in the wall that glowed with faint illumination.
A man slept on the cot, his back to them. His hair was white, and like his beard, it was long and ragged. His clothes were filthy and torn. He seemed to stir when they approached and he rolled over, peering at them. He was human, and elderly, and missing one hand. The prisoner slowly stood, wiping his face with his one hand. A face that may have been human, but was still a near-copy of the half-orc’s.
“Delegado?” the man croaked.
“Poppa?” the half-orc gasped.
“No alarms,” Delegado noted.
“That we can hear,” she said.
“Well, now’s the time to pray, then,” Delegado said.
“You want to pray to the Flame?” she asked.
“I did once,” he told her. “It didn’t work.” She was shocked at that. “But – but you can, if you want.”
“Flame guide us both then,” she said, stepping in, the sunrod raised high.
It was a long room, with bookcases and shelves carefully arranged. Most of the them held books and scrolls, but Delegado saw rings, wands, weapons of archaic make, and bars of gold and silver that could buy any man in Khorvaire a lifetime of leisure.
“This way,” Delegado whispered, pointing. He led her to a shelf near the back that held a porcelain trough. Rooting around in it he found the headband. It was a simple thing, braided leather etched with symbols, quite out of place with the ostentatious wealth of the place. He folded it and tucked it into a pouch. Ois took a brace of potions and a pair of wands, as well as an expensive-looking mirror.
“I thought you gave up being a thief,” he told her.
“We’ll need these,” she said. “Thomas can use them to drive the fiends back, and he can scry with the mirror.” She pulled out a pair of books and some scrolls. “Here, put these in your backpack. Thomas can use them as well.”
“Okay, but let’s make that it,” Delegado said. “The more we raid the more risk that we find trouble. We need to find a prisoner, but I don’t see a cell.”
“You’re not looking in the right place,” she said, walking over to the wall. “Ask yourself why this bookcase is unoccupied, then look at the scratches on the floor.” She ran her fingers along the wall and found a catch. Seconds later the wall with the bookcase pivoted inwards. “There may be many prisoners in this place,” she said. “Aside from the wretch whose screams we can hear. But this prisoner is considered a treasure.”
Delegado stepped in, and lead the way. She walked next to him, holdng the sunrod high. They did not walk far, perhaps fifteen feet until the turn to the right, and then then were in front of a cell with bars that had thorny projections. On the other side of the thorny bars was a straw-covered cot, and above it was a stone set high in the wall that glowed with faint illumination.
A man slept on the cot, his back to them. His hair was white, and like his beard, it was long and ragged. His clothes were filthy and torn. He seemed to stir when they approached and he rolled over, peering at them. He was human, and elderly, and missing one hand. The prisoner slowly stood, wiping his face with his one hand. A face that may have been human, but was still a near-copy of the half-orc’s.
“Delegado?” the man croaked.
“Poppa?” the half-orc gasped.
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