Callan raises his woolly eyebrows at Pyotr’s suggestion.
“Sounds to me like a weak excuse to do some adventuring,” he grizzled old guard says with a smile “Gallivanting two nights in a row, eh? Seems like you’re getting a taste for it. Now I might point out the tower you’re talking about is due east, whereas the last orcs we saw were west. I might also ask myself if Master Ironcoffer directed you so, why’re ya tellin’ me, and not him. But I ain’t a killjoy. I think my lads and lasses have got things covered tonight. Just make sure you’re around when trouble starts, and don’t let too many people see you sneaking off.”
The aroma of Crinkles’ broth drifts across the camp. It’s the same as the previous night’s, except that somewhere Crinkles found some cheese to add. The result certainly makes for an interesting taste, and although it would be difficult to call the resulting concoction good, it is, at least, different.
Dierik retires shortly after dinner, although a glimmer from around the edges of his carriage door suggests he is still awake. Many remain awake though, lolling around in whatever comfortable spot they can find, chatting idly or listening to Crinkles playing a gentle melody on his fiddle.
The dying campfires of the laagered caravan recede behind the four adventurers are they head out into the darkness. They pass Crooked Callan, slouched comfortably on a fallen block of stone, his bow in hand, his glittering eyes carefully inspecting the night shadows. He diplomatically pretends not to notice them as they pass.
They have only been travelling a short while when Harchrist’s Blockade crumbles down into another long breach. With the wall collapsed, there’s no shelter from the mournful winds howling out of the Hold, and they tug vigorously at hair and clothing. Somehow, the darkness beyond the stunted foundations of the broken fortifications appears somehow blacker and more menacing as they look out into the night shrouded Hold of Belkzen.
The wind is just beginning to chill when they reach the end of the breach, and Harchrist’s Blockade climbs back up to its former heights. The adventurers pass an open, crumbling, narrow staircase without a balustrade leading up to the top of the battlements. Some ten minutes later, a darker shape looming in the night sky indicates their arrival at the keep they saw at dusk.
The keep is diamond shaped; the points of its horizontal plane abutting the line of the wall, except that to the east the wall has collapsed completely. The keep has probably four stories, one level of which stands higher than the wall. Surmounting this is a squat, square turret rising from the point of the diamond which looks out over the Hold.
Three clear entrances to the keep are visible. On the Lastwall side, a thick, stone staircase hugs the flank of the tower, leading up to a postern entering at the second level. The wreckage of a bent and twisted portcullis can just about be seen, protruding from the mouth of the postern like fangs. The tower can also be entered from the west. Where the parapet running along the top of Harchrist’s Blockade abuts the keep, an open, gaping doorway is visible. If a door or portcullis once barred this entrance, it is long gone. An identical portal can be found on the opposite side of the keep. This still retains a heavy door of timber, but due to the destruction of the connecting length of wall, this doorway hangs in space, about three levels up! However, torn protrusions of stonework still protrude where the two fortifications used to meet, so it would be possible to climb up to the lonely doorway. A particularly skilled climber might even make it all the way to the battlements of the keep and enter from the roof (it’s about forty feet up from ground level).
At the bottom of the keep, on the western side of the diamond facing in towards Lastwall, you discover that grey lines of lichen have formed in the cracks of a well-concealed secret door.
"Main door seems easiest. Doesn't look too hard to get in, and unlikely it's trapped against people entering from the Lastwall side." He glances over to Bonegrit. "Anyone been around here lately? And can you tell if something is living in there??"
"The postern does seem the obvious choice. But, it will be obvious to any creatures sheltering within. However, as I do not relish scaling the walls, I only see one reasonable alternative, and it's as likely to be guarded." Pyotr indicates the door opening onto the parapets.
Bonegrit slurps down his helping of the broth in short order, sopping up the remnants of the bowl with a stale hunk of bread. As the low whine of the cook's fiddle begins hanging over the camp, Bonegrit steals away to where Amiro is tethered and begins quietly saddling up the horse behind the considerable bulk of a sixbull. His hands are practiced and calm as he sets to the business, and Amiro obliges his master's wish for privacy with a quiet nuzzle. As the others begin mustering to leave the caravan for the night, they find the ranger waiting for them atop his horse, nodding to each as they approach.
Anyone been around here lately? And can you tell if something is living in there??
"Aye." Bonegrit dismounts and stoops down to peer at the ground, giving a few pronounced sniffs every now and then as he goes. Let's see what tale the ground has to tell tonight, yeah? Though his nose is still a touch leaky from the vapors of the potato-jerky-cheese broth, he still tries to discern any unique odors that may have passed through the area in recent history . As he sets to picking up any nearby trails, Bonegrit notices the presence of the secret egress. He runs his hand along the cracks before turning to wave the others over to investigate it.
"Don't know much about how they built these things. Could be a way in or could be a way out, yeah?"
"Don't know much about how they built these things. Could be a way in or could be a way out, yeah?"
Pellius is excited to be exploring in places where the Lastwall soldiers stood strong against the orc hordes. The magus dismounts and leaves Signior nearby; he doesn't tie him down but asks the horse to stay close.
He inspects the secret doors and nods, quietly speaking, "I think we ought to explore this first."
The secret door is quite large, of sufficient size that, as long as he dipped his lance, a fully armoured and mounted knight could use it fairly easily. However, there seems to be no way of opening the secret door from the exterior – there are no visible hinges, not sign of a keyhole or cleverly concealed pullring, in fact the only evidence the door is there at all stems from the faint crease of its outline.
Pyotr doesn’t notice them at first, but keen-eyed Bonegrit points out faint but clear boot prints on the stairs leading up to the postern. The muddy tracks are probably only a day or two old, and made by a man or man-sized creature.
The half-orc’s keen nose quickly picks up the stench of carrion, unfortunately quite familiar following his experience at the battlefield by the Ghostlight Marshes. The smell is definitely stronger closer to the keep, though Bonegrit can’t determine an exact direction.
The wind keening over the battlements almost masks it, but you briefly hear a howl, as if uttered by a man wrought by great despair, drift out from the upper reaches of the keep.
Harchrist was one of Lastwall’s great heroes. His tactical genius and inspired leadership were instrumental in putting a halt to the orc threat in 4230s. All this is common knowledge in Lastwall of course, but some stories of the famous general have spread further afield than his homeland.
One interesting tale that Delkaneth has heard relates to the Shield and Sword Marks borne by the men and women of Vigil. This tradition was begun by General Harchrist following the completion of his blockade. The general, along with several leading members of his command staff, all received marks of justice from the clergy of Iomedae, swearing oaths never to leave the wall whilst it was under attack, on pain of a powerful curse. This act inspired his men, many of whom followed suit with their own marks and oaths (although many of these aesthetic without any divine sanction). The trend culminated in the formation of the Swords of the Allure*, a small (and decidedly fanatical) sect of Iomedean knights whose marks of justice prevented them leaving Harchrist’s Blockade under any circumstances at all.
*The allure, beyond its more common definition, is a term given to the wall-walk atop a wall or castle battlement.
"Only a few days old? Pyotr, any chance the Swords of the Allure are still active on the Blockade? Exploring an abandoned keep is one thing, but bursting in on a faction of knights isn't quite what I had in mind."
Pyotr blinks in confusion. "The Swords of the Allure? You mean soldiers who patrol the battlements? Harchrist's Blockade fell centuries ago. No knight has walked the allure in many years."
"The print undoubtedly belongs to some footpad or highwayman clever enough to avoid the local patrols. Or some wayward orc, far from the horde."
"The door will not likely open to anything less than a battering ram. Our options have dwindled. If we still intend to enter," Pyotr draws his greatsword, "it appears the postern is our portal."
Bonegrit curls his nose for a moment in a near-wince before spitting. "Urgathoa's teets! Phew!" He draws his right forearm across his nostrils and takes a step back to look up at the crumbling keep. "Had my fill of that stench at the battle site. Wonder if somethin' big crawled in there and died?" The blank stares of his companions reminds Bonegrit of the fact that most don't share quite as accute a sense of smell as he does. "Ah, that is... I smell a bit of rot somewhere in there..."
"...what was that!?" Bonegrit's ears twitch slightly and he swivels his head up to steal a glance at the higher levels of the keep. "Didn't reckon on finding carrion and cries in here. Think I'm even more curious now..." The half-orc's words trail off into barely a whisper, but his gaze doesn't leave the exposed upper levels towering above him. "I can climb up and have a look if ya like. Can't say I like the sounds or smell of this place, though."
Pyotr carefully grips the silver bell hanging from his hilt of his sword, silencing it. He ducks cautiously under the hanging remains of the postern's portcullis, and into the darkened interior. With his sword at the ready, he lets his eyes adjust to the darkness.
The magus draws his blade and lets the more savvy of his companions check for traps and unseen enemies. His eyes strain trying to pierce the darkness ahead.
Delkaneth’s careful survey of the staircase leading up to the postern gate reveals no sign of any traps. Pyotr confirms this conclusion without triggering anything untoward, although he does stumble over a step, causing the bell on his greatsword to jingle sweetly.
At the postern he pauses. The only sign of the doorway that once stood here are the sockets for the hinges, but the portcullis remains. It has been broken open from the inside, so that its jagged bars now twist out towards the half-orc. The passageway through the thick wall is about twelve feet across. A level ceiling, no more than ten feet high and pierced by three cobwebby murder holes completes the postern gate.
Beyond lies a room of considerable size, perhaps once a hall or a space to muster troops. It’s almost bare of furnishings, although a foot high ledge does run around its perimeter. In the centre of the room a large spiral staircase leads both up and down, and in the western wall sag a pair of double doors. A couple of pillars support the ceiling.
The stench of rot that Bonegrit remarked on now catches in Pyotr’s nose as well.
Pyotr, now intimately familiar with the smell of decay, hesitates at the threshold. The beautiful sound of the silver bell echoes surprisingly loudly in the narrow chamber. The murder holes hang ominously over his head in the ringing silence.
With a slight effort of will, Pyotr pushes himself across the eave and into the chamber.
The magus wrinkles his nose at the stench of the carrion in the air. He sees the murder holes in the roof and gives them a wide berth as he examines the room.
With his 'lighted' feather stuck behind his ear and drawn blade, the scout looks around.
The magus nears the spiral staircase in the middle of the room trying to pierce the darkness.
Bonegrit remains silent towards the rear of the band, attempting to rest softly on the soles of his well worn boots as he advances. As the bell affixed to Pyotr's massive blade begins calling out its greeting to the failing stronghold they all find themselves in, however, the ranger is forced to confront the fact that their presence is no doubt known by now. His eyes peer about the murder holes in wary wonder, but the reverie's malaise soon lifts as he recalls the signs of someone having passed this way only recently. Trusting that their vanguard is equipped for any lingering threats herein, he turns his gaze to the ancient floor, intent on learning what tale the stones may tell.
The adventurers pass nervously under the murder holes, but they disgorge nothing. As they enter the large room, shaped like half a shield, they are all aware of the smell of something dead. A thick layer of grimy dust covers everything within, but the passage of something has left trackways back and forth across the room, most of them leading from the spiral staircase to the postern gate.
The tracks match those Bonegrit already identified on the stairs outside, and the most recent lead up the spiral staircase.
There seems to be a strange inconsistency in the footprints, vague as they are. There are some prints of a left boot, but none can be found of a right. There are also scuff marks which suggest a staff or stick used as some kind of walking aid.
Beside the entrance to the room, a series of holes puncture the stone. Presumably, these once fastened a now disappeared ladder to the wall, which lead up to a tiny stone door, barely large enough for a man to squeeze through, above the passageway through the postern. This door must provide access to the murder holes.
As the adventurers move into the room their attention is drawn to a noise coming from behind the shaft of the spiral staircase . It’s a scuffling noise, as of something being dragged clumsily over the floor, and is punctuated by occasional bursts of ratlike squeaking.
Pyotr begins following the tracks towards the foot of the staircase, when the sounds from behind the stairs draws his attention. Delkaneth moves to get a glimpse of the source, while Pyotr holds his position at the stairwell.
Alerted by the noise from behind the shaft of the spiral staircase, the magus ducks out of sight (H30/V23) and tenses in anticipation of trouble.
He slips his magical feather into his armor partially dousing the light.
Pyotr glances up the stairway. The tight curl of the spiral staircase prevents him from seeing far, but the short section visible is empty. Pellius is beside him, neither of the two Iomedeans can see what Delkaneth can see.
However they do see the Chelaxian step on something.
This sudden squeak comes from Delkaneth's feet. With his eyes on the trio of rats behind the stairs, he failed to notice a fourth rat, quietly and contentedly chewing on a hunk of rotten meat in the shadow of the ledge. Contentedly chewing that was, until Delkaneth stepped on its tail.
The giant rat bites ineffectually at Del’s leg, ( ) then scurries across the room to join its companions.
Quickly moving up beside him, Pellius asks, "You OK, Del?"
The magus slips part of his magical feather out of his vest's pocket illuminating the area but takes a hint from the bard and doesn't engage the large rodents. "If that's all that's here maybe we should go up the stairs. Did you see anything Pyotr?"
Pyotr keeps his voice low, and his sword at the ready. "Nothing, save the wall ahead."
Leaving the rats to their repast, Pyotr leads his companions up the stairs. The steps are smooth and worn, and slightly uneven in their height in relation to one another. The big half-orc stumbles on the third step, his greatsword clangs against the wall, then jingles as Pyotr is forced to use the hand that was stifling the bell to steady himself.
The staircase leads up to the third level, opening onto a wide, bare passageway that appears to ring the stairwell. Directly facing them to the south are the remains of a door. The door remains in its frame, but long ago someone or something hacked a man (or orc?) sized hole straight through its heavy oaken boards. The light from Pellius’ feather is sufficient to illuminate a little of the room beyond, which appears quite large. Wooden pews are piled haphazardly in the entrance, many atop each other and most of them broken or smashed.
The passageway encircles the stairwell, so it’s likely there are other exits leading off it (unseen from the adventurers’ current position). The spiral staircase also continues upwards to the level above.
The tracks that Bonegrit identified continue leading up the staircase.
Pyotr edges to the hacked open door, and studies the room.
The light from Pellius’ feather is sufficient to illuminate a little of the room beyond, which appears quite large. Wooden pews are piled haphazardly in the entrance, many atop each other and most of them broken or smashed.
"The chapel? A shame that the proud soldiers of Harchrist's Blockade died barricaded in a tower, rather than atop fine steeds in the open field." Pyotr whispers.
Pyotr leads his companions into the chapel, ducking his tall frame through the broken maw of its portal. The room is T-shaped; or more accurately sword-shaped. Small side chambers, perhaps serving as robing rooms or quiet areas for meditation or prayer, extend on either side of the door like a sword’s crosspiece, whilst the blade of the room stretches away from them to a window in the southern wall. The window is open to the night outside, and actually consists of five vertical slits cut through the thick outer wall of the keep, not one slit being wide enough to allow an attacker to squeeze through. Broken shards stuck in the narrow frames and shattered on the floor below show that these verticals once held stained glass panels.
One the other side of the barricade of pews is a pile of human skeletons, their bones clear testament to the great cleaving blows that slew them. Absolutely nothing else lies amongst these remains, no broken weapons, no scraps of armour, not even the rotten remains of any clothing.
Beyond them stands a twisted and deformed icon to Iomedae. The sword and sunburst are mangled out of shape, and it appears the finer metals that once decorated this icon (which is as tall as Pyotr) have been stripped and looted by the invaders. What remains is only the copper and iron core of the symbol.
A horizontal recess in the western wall bears the life-sized effigy of an angel carved in low relief, as if sleeping in full armour atop her tomb. Her arched wings mantle her beautiful face, and of course, there is a longsword cradled upon her breast.
This image is of Saint Lymirin, the patron saint of drawing first blood against the enemy.
Just beneath the window someone has used a knife or some other sharp point to carve the following message: Iomedae forgive me, but I value my life more than my vow.
Your sharp ears catch a sound floating down the stairwell, a sound like a man knocking over something big but managing to catch it just before it struck the ground.
Pellius immediately falls to his knee and brings his longsword up to salute the remains of the statue of Lady Iomedae. A few seconds later and he stands before the angel, saluting it as well. "May I be as quick as you are Saint Lymirin."
With his lighted feather out again, he nears Del and nods the bard's assessment.
The magus then goes back and examines the statue and angel closer.
Pyotr turns his sword hilt to the carved relief, causing the tiny bell to jangle lightly again. "May our swords always be sharp... and rarely drawn in anger."
Suddenly, Pyotr stiffens. He quickly puts his sword to the ready, and points everyone towards the stairs.
Pellius and Delkaneth investigate the horizontal effigy of Saint Lymirin. It’s the magus who notices the secret compartment; a little rectangular door built into thick mass of stone at the carving's feet. Even as Pellius’ gloves gently brush over it, it pops open, swivelling easily on a pivot. Disappointingly, there’s nothing inside, just an empty space about the size of a shoebox.
Pellius glances back at the defaced symbol of his goddess, and suddenly the windows behind the icon blaze with light, temporarily blinding him. He blinks rapidly to clear his sight, and on regaining his vision, the scene in the chapel is very different.
It’s daylight, with sun streaming rainbow hued light through the five stained glass panels of the window. The icon is restored to its full glory, gleaming with gold and silver. Flanking it are two flags, each bearing the image of Iomedae’s sunburst rising above the crenellations of a fortified wall. The pews are whole, standing in ordered rows, and what’s more, the room is full of people.
Many of them appear to be knights, although the style of their full plate appears somewhat archaic, but there are a large number of men-at-arms in mail hauberks as well. These lesser infantry are lining up for some sort of ceremony, each presenting his or her weapon hand to a white and gold robed priestess standing before the icon.
“Your valour today is equal to the courage we all must show on the field," she says "Iomedae recognises your pledge to defend Lastwill until your last breath has fled your lungs, until your last drop of blood has spilled into this border’s soil. Hold the wall, and accept this mark that binds us to it.”
“I accept the mark of the Allure,” responds the man-at-arms as the priestess sinks a sharp-tipped quill into his hand and mutters a prayer tinged with magic.
“Hold the wall,” chorus the rest of the people in the room.
Pellius feels a hand on his shoulder and turns. It should be Delkaneth, but in fact he sees a young, sallow faced man with a thin, brown moustache looking at him.
“Bah, to the hells with valour,” he whispers “It’s a mark of death, that. Can hardly refuse though, can we, not with every other fool in this keep signing their entire lives away. And even if we did, guess who’d get selected for the next suicidal sally out against the orc hordes eh . . .”
The delusion abruptly dissolves as Pyotr’s voice brings Pellius back to the real world. His vision has lasted a mere second; it’s unlikely that Delkaneth even noticed fellow Chelaxian’s briefly unfocused stare.
Pellius recognises the sun rising over the wall symbol as belonging to the Swords of the Allure, a minor cult of knights and paladins dedicated to Iomedae that existed for only a few decades up till the fall of Harchrist’s Blockade. So fanatical were they in their defence of Lastwall that they adopted the use of marks of justice that prevented them from ever leaving the fortifications.
This practice, in a somewhat less severe form, was later taken up in Vigil via the Sword and Shield Marks.
Pyotr’s cry of alarm turns the adventurers’ attentions back to the stairwell. A few breathless moments pass by, but there are no further audible sounds and nothing comes down the stairs.
Pellius is momentarily stunned by the vision. He quickly looks at the statue and painting for a second but his soldier instincts kick in before he investigates further.
Partially dousing his lighted feather, he nears Pyotr, "If you heard something, let's go and check it out. After we're done, I gotta tell you something that you're not going to believe."
"If you heard something, let's go and check it out. After we're done, I gotta tell you something that you're not going to believe."
Pyotr gives the soldier a quizzical look, then nods. A much more determined look replaces it as he dashes back out through the chapel door. At the stairwell he pauses, glancing up towards the next floor, once again stymied by the curve of the spiral staircase.
With a glance towards his companions, he begins climbing the stairs as quietly and rapidly as he can, only succeeding in not making quite as great a racket as he made moving to the second floor.
Following Pyotr’s clanking lead, the adventurers hurry up the spiral staircase. Suddenly, there is a clattering, unseen commotion from the level above them*, followed by a bouncing, pounding noise that rapidly grows in volume.
Ricocheting around the corner of the tightly turning spiral staircase come a half dozen iron balls each the size of a man’s head – old catapult ammunition! Pyotr’s jaw drops open in alarm as the balls clatter towards him at speed.
*A real world comparison would be the noise of someone hitting a strike in a bowling alley.
The magus curses as the balls start rolling towards him. He manages to raise his sword and deflect the first but two other balls slam hard into his shoulder and side of the head. Not time to worry as the magus rubs his neck and already feels the swelling.
Pyotr's jaw drops as heavy iron pours down the steps. Cunning. His long strides allow him to easily step over the first of the catapult shot that reaches him. The second wave is too random, and he fails to make the adjustment. "Gods blast me for a foo- Oooph!" as the round shot catches the lip of a stair, blasting into his gut.
A catapult ball slams Bonegrit in the upper arm; the half-orc grunts in pain.
The stairs are in fact pretty narrow, and Pyotr’s bulk more or less fills them. Nevertheless, Delkaneth’s agile enough to slip past the reeling Pellius and leapfrog the doubled over half-orc in order to charge up the stairs.
The stairwell opens out onto the roof, facing north to the tower that protrudes another couple of levels higher than the main body of the keep. The stairwell also continues up to crest a small turret rising in the centre of the roof. The wide, flat space of the roof is littered with debris, including the ancient, inoperable remains of a pair of small catapults, a trio of massive, irregular boulders which seem quite at odds with the spartan order of the keep, and numerous disarticulated skeletons scattered across the flagstones like toys a child has neglected to tidy away. A raised parapet (some five feet high) runs along the crenellations around the edge of the roof.
As Delkaneth steps out onto the roof the wind buffers him, but despite its force he immediately notes the return of the cloying stench of decay that permeated the entrance hall below.
At the top of the stairs a large iron bound crate lies on its side. Its lid has been ripped off; its ancient, rusted padlock sheared away as if it were no more than a lace ribbon. The box is empty. Delkaneth notices a trunk of similar style and dimensions sitting beside one of the ruined catapults, and quickly concludes this to be the container for the iron spheres that just came bouncing down the stairs at him and his companions.
However, this is but a secondary observation as he catches a glimpse of a strange, powerful looking humanoid figure disappear through the doorless portal to the tower in a lurching run.
Delkaneth slips past Pyotr as he struggles to recover from the impact of the catapult shot. After a moment, his breath returns, and taking the stairs two at a time, he quickly catches the Chelaxian. The last image of the man's cloak vanishes around the corner as Pyotr steps onto the landing.
" Stand and account for yourself, coward!"