After the bloody encounter with the tritons, the sea itself seems to retreat into uneasy silence. The waves roll gently beneath the black hull, gulls wheel overhead, and the salt wind tastes clean again, but there’s tension on board that no wind can blow away.
Captain Kargeld and his sailors grow quieter the farther they sail. They whisper together in their coarse tongue, glancing often toward the horizon. Once, in the dead of night, Vormog catches the captain standing alone at the prow, muttering a prayer, not to Mitra, but to some nameless sea god of the north. Even his laughter, when it comes, sounds brittle.
By the third week, the water begins to change. The deep blue turns pale, flecked with glittering white as the Frosthamar enters colder climes. Dawn after dawn, the horizon hardens like a mirror.
Then one morning, ice appears, vast fields of it. Shards and floes grind and drift, the sea groaning like a living thing. Kargeld proves his worth here, standing high on the prow with the wheel lashed, he calls sharp orders in Norspik, and his crew leaps to obey.
"Damned summer ice!" he curses the sea. "It cleaves in chunks and floats 'neath the surface. If we hit one it'll break the keel or tear through the hull!" He spits in the party's direction. "Get around the bow and cast a keen eye in front of us!"
The Frosthamar creaks and shudders as it threads through jagged mazes of ice, the edges shearing past close enough to scrape the hull. Every turn seems a gamble, every passage a heartbeat from disaster. The sailors’ faces are tight, their eyes unblinking.
The wind bites like a knife as the Frosthamar presses north. The sea has turned to broken glass, fields of jagged ice stretch in all directions, drifting and grinding together with a low groan that vibrates through the hull.
Kargeld Odenkirk stands rigid at the prow, one gloved hand on the tiller, the other raised to signal his men. "Hold your breath and your nerve," he growls. "This is where ships die."
Ahead, floes shift and turn like the pieces of a vast frozen puzzle. Each one could crush the knarr to splinters if the timing falters. The Frosthamar must pick her way through the maze.
Each PC can attempt one primary skill check per round (representing 10–15 minutes of tense navigation). You can coordinate, use Aid Another, or rely on magic or ingenuity.
Skills which may be used: Perception, Profession (sailor), Knowledge (nature), Survival, and possibly Swim if you're brave. You may also use relevant spells. You may also try to improve the morale and effectiveness of the crew through social skills.
You'll need to make a set number of successes, and the accumulation of failed rolls could be potentially catastrophic.
Let's handle any questions about this challenge in Discussion and reserve Gameplay for your actions.
"Rayce, impress on these sailors that there's no glacier so cold as the Hell we'll send them to if they fail."
Rendylyn glides to the ship's foredeck. After a miserable few weeks, she's found her sea legs and overcome her seasickness. Even cold never seems to touch her. She bends to watch the waters ahead, her breath a steaming cloud amid the icy air and freezing salt spray.
Her eyes are better suited to darkness than to the morning sun's glare on the water. She shades them with one hand and grips the gunwhale with the other, sinking her claws in for purchase. I've only one fire spell prepared. Best save it for the worst.
Posh emerged from below decks bundled in his cloak, the fur-lined collar drawn tight against the cutting wind. The cold bit deep, but his sharp eyes gleamed with something close to delight as he took in the shifting labyrinth of ice.
“Ahh, now this is familiar,” he murmured, voice half-swallowed by the wind. “The world reduced to shapes and patterns—currents, pressure, flow. The sea itself becomes a living map if one knows how to read it.”
He climbed up onto a coil of rope near the bow, squinting across the glittering expanse. The triton blood was long washed away, but the deck still smelled faintly of iron. He licked his lips thoughtfully, scanning the way the floes drifted and collided.
“There,” he said suddenly, pointing with his gloved hand toward a cluster of larger bergs. “That break—see how the smaller shards veer starboard before they strike? There’s a crosscurrent pushing beneath the surface, warmer and steady. Follow that vein and we’ll slip between the floes instead of courting them head-on.”
As the sailors leaned and strained against the tiller, Posh traced invisible lines in the air, muttering quietly under his breath as though sketching a chart only he could see.
“Think of the ice not as obstacles,” he said to no one in particular, “but as continents adrift. The trick is to find the fault lines, the edges where the world breathes.”
He turned, flashing a grin at Kargeld. “Keep her true along that break, Captain. The Frosthamar will glide through like a quill over parchment.”
Rayse nods to Rendylyn, and he prowls around the ship ready to reinforce the warnings from the rest of the knot, up close and personal if needs be. Heedless of the resentment that his chivvying and upbraiding he intends to push the crew without mercy to obey, for as long at it takes. And when the crew inevitably grow weary he snarls, "Snap to it you slugabouts, you can rest when you're dead!"
Treesa and Rufus take a position at the bow, helping to spot dangerous ice in the water. Treesa lights up the water using Dancing Lights looking like 4 torches, she sends them under the water to scout for ice that might not visible otherwise.
She watches and tells Rufus to look for any big pieces of ice and tell her about them.
The cold deepens until every breath feels like glass. Each exhale hangs in the air before breaking apart into frost. The Frosthamar pushes through a shifting maze of ice. Her hull creaks under the strain and the timbers moan like something alive.
Rendylyn squints into the white glare and her eyes ache from it. The morning sun scatters off every frozen surface. She sees only fragments of motion, the gleam of ice, and the shadow of something drifting below the surface. She grips the rail until her fingernails leave marks in the wood. Somewhere in the deep, something shifts unseen.
Treesa's witch-lights move through the water but the surface glare fractures them into pieces. Her and Rufus' warning comes moments too late. A low thud shudders through the hull. The ship jolts and the deck tilts underfoot. The wood groans but holds. For now. You can feel Kargeld's stare harden at the backs of your heads.
Vormog’s eyes cut through the glare and see the shear line, six fathoms deep to starboard. His voice pierces the chaos, guiding the captain along the safe line.
Kargeld reacts at once. "Hard over!"
The rudder bites. The Frosthamar lurches and slides between two ice floes so close they scrape her hull. The ship shivers but stays whole.
From the bow, Posh gives sharp instructions, his tone calm and certain. His confidence steadies the crew, and even Kargeld's jaw unclenches as the tension breaks for a moment.
Rayse's roar drives the sailors harder. His voice carries through the gathering gale. Fear pushes them where reason cannot. They throw themselves into the work until sweat steams off their backs despite the cold.
The ship glides into a patch of open water. For a few heartbeats, silence reigns except for the slow creak of the mast and the distant grind of ice closing behind them.
The sailors breathe again, their faces pale under the frost. Ahead, the channel narrows and the ice grows black with silt. The pieces move faster now. The wind shifts and begins to press the floes together with a sound like thunder rolling beneath the sea.
Kargeld shouts over the din. "This next field will close fast. If we misstep, the Frosthamar is finished. Ready yourselves."
The sea groans under the strain. Great ridges of ice rise and fall like living things. The passage ahead closes by the minute. The Frosthamar presses into the next maze. The sound of colliding ice fills the air, deep and endless, as if the sea itself is waiting for the ship to fail.
Treesa and Rufus continue watching.
They do matter...
Rendylyn grimaces at the grinding of the hull. All Asmodeus's protection would win me here would be the pride of being the last to freeze to death on the ice.
Vormog seems to have the knack of spotting floes. She moves to his side and covers his blind spots.
I'll try to aid on Perception then...
The last stretch closes around the Frosthamar like the jaws of some ancient frozen beast. The ice groans beneath the sea, deep and heavy, and the wind lashes the deck with cold that burns like fire. The ship rolls between towering walls of frost. Every plank trembles. Every rivet strains.
Rendylyn tries to pierce the glare but the sun scatters off the floes. Her eyes ache with the effort. Each shadow seems to shift and the glimmer of submerged ice is impossible to trace.
Treesa's lights flicker in the black water. Rufus bristles and lets out a low growl. The pair can sense danger but cannot see it. The cold and the glare turn the world into fractured light.
For a long breath it seems the ship is about to vanish beneath the grinding ice. Then Posh speaks.
His voice is calm and steady. "There. Look ahead. The current folds just before that black floe. There is a seam in the water. That is our way out."
Kargeld freezes. His eyes narrow. He follows the gnome's line of sight.
"By the oceans. He is right."
Posh climbs the railing, bracing himself with one hand. "The ice pushes from port. The current cuts starboard. Take her straight into that seam. Do not drift. Do not hesitate."
The crew watches him. Even the wind seems to hush for an instant.
Rayse strides to their backs and his voice rolls through the gale. The sailors surge into motion, their fear now channeled with ruthless focus.
Kargeld shouts the order. "Hard ahead. Follow the seam."
The Frosthamar lunges forward. Ice scrapes along her sides. A floe bucks upward and shatters as the bow slices past it. Cold shards spray across the deck. The hull groans but holds. The current catches the ship and pulls her into a narrow ribbon of open water that Posh saw long before anyone else.
For a moment the world is silent except for the hiss of water under the keel. The floes grind together behind them, sealing off the passage they just escaped.
Kargeld lowers the tiller with shaking hands. "We are through." His voice is quiet with disbelief. He turns to Posh. "Gnome. You saved us. You saved my ship. I will not forget that."
The sailors cheer and clap Posh on the back. Their voices are thin with exhaustion but they ring with relief. Even the cold seems to lift slightly as the ship glides south toward clearer waters.
A final few days push through the cold northern waters and Kargeld turns the Frosthammar toward the entrance to the River Taiga. Beyond the headwaters is a land of savage wonders. The Taiga winds through a great northern forest that to the best of anyone’s knowledge has no name.
After miles and miles of picturesque pine trees frosted with new fallen snow, the ship comes to a great mountain range. This river flows through a great rift in the mountains that looks as if some impossible huge primordial giant smashed a pass through the grey slate.
You are headed south now, though this appears to have no effect on lessening the intense cold. They are headed to the great interior sea of Talingarde – Lake Tarik as it is known. To the south of that lake sits the Watch Wall. And on the northern banks in a wide wooded valley is your destination – the camp of Sakkarot Fire-Axe.
Thousands of bugbears are already assembled. These savage humanoids are not pleased to see outsiders, especially humans. Worse, there are more than just bugbears here. The occasional polar bear lumbers around the camp untended. Fur-clad goblins scamper here and there, laughing with frenetic glee. Even a few hill giants gather at the camp’s fringes.
There is only one place to dock the boat – a crudely made pier that juts into the river. On that pier are four hulking bugbears. The crew is nervous but they make short work of docking the Frosthamar.
Kargeld breathes a long, loud sigh.
Posh Stemtimple steps lightly down the gangplank, boots crunching on the frost-rimed pier, the air sharp enough to sting his eyes. Behind him, the Frosthamar rocks uneasily, as though even the ship shares the tension radiating from the shore.
The bugbears tower above him — hulking, fur-bristled, their yellow eyes narrowed into suspicious slits. One cracks his knuckles loudly. Another snorts steam like an offended bull. They do not growl, but the not-growling feels perilously intentional.
Posh smooths a gloved hand over his cartographer’s cloak, adjusts the angle of his spritelyre on his hip, and—importantly—keeps his hands visible.
Then he bows.
Not deeply. Not meekly.
Just enough to be polite… and just enough to make them curious.
“Ahh, yes… magnificent sentinels of Fire-Axe’s domain,” he calls, voice carrying cleanly across the cold air. “We come not as intruders, nor wanderers, nor fools who mistake this sacred ground for anything less than the threshold to greatness.”
He gestures toward the thousands of assembled warriors in the valley, a sweep of his arm as though unveiling a masterpiece.
“We are emissaries. Bearers of goods, guidance, and purpose — sent by one whose will burns hotter than any hearth, and whose plans will see Sakkarot Fire-Axe rise as the storm at the heart of Talingarde.”
His voice drops, warm and conspiratorial.
“And we know bugbears value strength… but also respect. So respect we offer first.”
He nods toward the Frosthamar.
“We have crossed seas of ice and death to reach this place. Kargeld’s ship sails because we willed it to live. We come to give, not to take.”
A slow smile curls his mustache.
“Now then — why glower at allies, when a greeting will suffice?”
He spreads his hands.
“We all stand to gain much from this meeting. Let us begin it without unnecessary friction.”
He steps back slightly, allowing the bugbears space, but not yielding an inch of confidence.
“What say you, honored guardians? Will you escort us to your mighty chieftain?”
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Vormog is relieved when the ship makes it through. He joins the crew in patting Posh on the back. He enjoys the rest of the trip. He likes the cold, although he does put on an extra layer to keep warm.
As they arrive in the encampment, he studies it carefully, assessing its size, trying to estimate its strength. The investment that Cardinal Thorn is putting here tells him this is supposed to be a force to be considered. He also focuses on a particular bugbear that isn't too obvious or notable so that he may try to impersonate him if necessary.
He hears Posh's introduction and it makes him think. The knot is also close to making a demonstration of strength, as they betray and attack the Frosthamar's crew. He thinks "I suppose the ship will also be part of the gift."
He approaches Rendylyn and says so only she can hear "Maybe we talk to the captain while the crew is helping unload the cargo?"
Rendylyn listens to Vormog with one ear while studying the waiting bugbears. "We've other concerns at the moment," she tells him, while giving their agreed sign for prepare for violence.
As Posh makes his introduction, she calls from the deck, "No doubt the Fire-Axe would be grateful to the first warrior to bring him news of our arrival."
The frost riming the pier crunches under Posh's boots as he steps forward, and the four hulking bugbears watch him with growing confusion. His bold speech rings across the river valley. His voice carries clearly in the cold air. The sentries glance at one another. Their expressions shift from suspicion to bewilderment, then to something like grudging respect. The largest of the four tilts his head slowly, as if wondering how a creature Posh's size managed to stride off a ship full of humans and declare himself the face of anything.
Rendylyn's sharp call from the deck reinforces his words. The bugbears grunt approval at the mention of Fire Axe's name. Vormog senses the tension shift. These creatures were moments away from bloodshed, but Posh's poise and absolute confidence has rewired the entire exchange.
One bugbear snorts so hard frost sprays from his nostrils. He gestures broadly to the others. "Little one speaks bold." Another scratches his chest with claws like fishhooks and rumbles agreement.
Behind them, the camp sprawls across the snowy valley. Thousands of bugbears move in loose tribes and packs. Polar bears wander freely. Goblins hop from log to log, chasing each other and laughing in shrill bursts. A pair of hill giants sit on a ridge, tearing strips of frozen meat from some unfortunate beast. All of them watch the pier now. A few begin to gather. Many snarl or grin. The newcomers have attracted attention.
Posh's words, and Rendylyn's goading, ripple outward in the murmuring crowd. It is clear the sentries now accept the party's arrival as legitimate. They grunt at each other and gesture toward the inland path, indicating willingness to escort the group into the camp. One points at Posh in particular, then gives a puzzled laugh that rumbles like boulders falling.
As the party disembarks, a low roar rolls across the encampment. It echoes from the mountain walls and stills the closest hundred bugbears at once. Something massive forces a path through the throng. Warriors step aside and bow their heads as a towering figure approaches.
Sakkarot Fire Axe comes into view.
He is enormous. His black fur hangs in thick mats. His shoulders are as broad as a wagon. His eyes burn a deep amber. In his right hand he carries a great axe wreathed in living flame. The heat of it rolls across the pier like the breath of a furnace. He steps to the front of the crowd. The bugbears behind him lower their weapons. Even the giants rise to their feet in respect.
Sakkarot regards the group with a slow, deliberate sweep of his gaze. His nostrils flare as if catching their scent. Then his eyes fall on Posh, who happens to be the one standing closest and most visibly in front.
He raises the flaming axe and points it directly at the gnome.
The crowd inhales as one.
"Who sent you?" he asks in perfect, unbroken Common. His tone is flat and unreadable. For a moment he seems to be genuinely questioning whether the smallest creature before him is indeed the leader of this strange party.
The bugbear sentries exchange glances. One stifles a laugh but fails, producing a snorting bark that he quickly masks with a cough. Another taps his companion and points at Posh with something approaching amusement.
The moment hangs.
The answer to this question will decide everything. One wrong word could turn a valley filled with monsters into a killing field. The right one will trigger something else entirely.
Not entirely trusting Posh to give a brief answer, Rendylyn steps forward. "Cardinal Thorn sent us in Asmodeus's name." She produces the silver Archstar amulet the Cardinal gave her as proof. No proof of his identity seems necessary, she thinks, admiring the great flaming weapon the Fire-Axe carries.
Not entirely trusting Posh to give a brief answer
Posh adds, "our business will include here once your supplies are offloaded, and then we have to head off again with the Frosthamar to another destination."
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Vormog feels the tension in the air and grips his longspear tightly. He does this despite the fact that the group will be completely annihilated if the army turns on them, but it looks like even Fire Axe himself could dispatch the entire group by himself. He is glad he's not on the other side. He stays silent the whole time and thinks "Maybe Posh can get Fire Axe to get rid of the captain for us..."
Sakkarot strides to the Frosthamar and tears open one of the crates as if it were made of parchment. After examining the contents, he turns toward the horde and lifts his burning weapon toward the darkening sky.
"These allies brought us strength. They brought us war."
The valley erupts into howls and cheers. Bugbear warriors thump their chests. Goblins hop onto shoulders and screech praise. Even the polar bears lift their heads and add a low, satisfied rumble.
At Rendylyn's pronouncement and Posh's explanation, Sakkarot replies. "Your business is concluded when I say it is! Tonight we feast in Thorn's honor!"
Sakkarot's expression changes. His teeth show in a broad, predatory grin. "These are my guests. Anyone who harms them will answer to me."
The dock shakes as the monstrous assembly gathers in excitement. Sakkarot's lieutenants rush to carry away the unloaded cargo. The gleam of new metal spreads through the crowd. The transformation is immediate. The knot witnesses a thousand savages becoming a thousand soldiers, each with the emblem of the Fire Axe.
The air crackles with triumph. The valley feels changed. More dangerous. More alive. The tools of war have arrived. The weapons are distributed. The bugbear horde revels in their transformation from half-armed tribes to a proper army. The valley thrums with the sound of steel. The day stretches on in a haze of roaring approval and rising chaos.
The knot is guided through the sprawling encampment, past fires already blazing high. Bugbears wrestle in the snow. Goblins race through the crowd carrying torches twice their size. A hill giant drinks from a barrel large enough to drown a man. The valley smells of pine smoke, spilled blood, and roasting meat.
At the center of the camp stands a long table carved into the trunk of an uprooted tree. Its roots still jut upward like twisted spires. Sakkarot sits at the head of it. He gestures for the PCs to take the seats immediately beside him. The crowd takes note. Many stare. Some whisper. All understand the meaning. Guests seated so near the Fire Axe are under his protection and also under his judgment.
The feast begins. It is a brutal spectacle. Bugbears pile meat onto wooden slabs. Goblins screech songs in a language that sounds like a pack of wolves arguing. Every few minutes a fight breaks out. Someone loses a tooth. Someone else loses consciousness. The crowd cheers louder each time.
Then the highlight arrives. A dozen bugbears drag forward something enormous. Chains rattle in the snow. The ground seems to shake with each step. A dire boar, colossal and bristling with frozen mud and blood, thrashes between them. Its eyes burn red in the firelight. It weighs at least a ton. Its breath fogs the air in thick clouds. It squeals and snaps, almost breaking free before the handlers force it into the circle before Sakkarot.
The camp goes silent. Sakkarot stands. The fire from his axe reflects in a thousand predator eyes. He steps forward with calm, deliberate power. The boar lunges at him. The bugbears holding the chains skid backward. Sakkarot lifts the axe in both hands. The blow arrives faster than thought.
A single stroke. A plume of smoke and sparks. The dire boar's head falls into the snow with a heavy thump. The body collapses. Steam rises from the wound.
The camp erupts into wild celebration. The carcass is dragged to a great open pit. Fires roar to life beneath it. Soon the smell of roasting meat fills the entire valley. Bugbear cooks hack away at slabs still sizzling with fat. Spits squeal as they turn.
Sakkarot returns to the head of the table and sits heavily. The flames behind him cast his shadow long across the snow. He gestures for the PCs to eat. The knot now has the undivided attention of the Fire Axe.
He leans toward them, voice pitched low for their ears alone. "You crossed the sea. You braved the ice. You brought us the steel that will gut Talingarde."
His golden eyes narrow with keen intelligence. "You are traitors to your own kind. You must know that. When Balentyne falls and my horde pours through its shattered gates, we will slaughter the Talireans by the thousands. Yet I see no regret in your eyes."
He pauses to gauge your reactions before continuing. "You came from Thorn. I want to know more. Why did he choose you? What does he want of me? And what do you want of him?"
He looks at each of them in turn. "Speak. This night is ours. Let us plan the ruin of this soft kingdom."
Posh sits forward on the vast wooden bench, the shadows of the fire flickering across his face and giving a faint copper glint to his spectacles. He wipes a smear of boar fat from his glove, straightens a corner of his cloak with practiced dignity, and inclines his head toward the massive bugbear lord.
But he does not cower.
“My lord Fire-Axe,” he begins, his voice steady despite the crowd of a thousand monsters hanging on every syllable, “you honor us with your candor… but I must correct one premise before truth can stand firm on it.”
He taps two fingers to his chest — not quite a salute, not quite a pledge, something in between.
“We are no traitors to Talingarde.”
A ripple moves through the nearby bugbears. A few narrow their eyes. One snorts in disbelief. Posh continues, unflinching.
“A traitor betrays a cause he once upheld.”
He shrugs lightly. “But we never upheld the false light of the Mitran priests. We never bent the knee to their sun, nor believed their lies of mercy and purity. Talingarde’s so-called ‘virtue’ has no claim upon us — nor we upon it.”
He gestures subtly to the crates of weapons now spread like seeds of war through the camp.
“We serve a different order… one older than their church, stronger than their king, and far more honest about the nature of power.”
He does not say the name Asmodeus aloud — this is a moment for implication, not proclamation — but the meaning hangs thick as smoke.
“That same power armed your horde,” Posh continues calmly, “and that same power sent us. We are loyal to it — and to the designs it has placed before us.”
He takes a sip of whatever harsh northern liquor has been shoved into his hand, winces faintly, and presses on.
“You see, my lord… we are not deserters of a kingdom.”
“We are instruments of a plan.”
His smile is thin, pragmatic.
“Our work here is one piece of that plan. There are others. When your supplies are fully delivered and our responsibilities here concluded, we must set out again to serve the greater purpose entrusted to us.”
He gestures toward Sakkarot’s blazing axe.
“You swing the fire that will break their walls. We deliver the means to feed that fire. Each of us loyal… each in our proper place.”
Then, softer:
“So no, mighty Fire-Axe. We are not traitors to Talingarde.”
“We are simply not theirs.”
He sits back, hands folded neatly atop his knees, perfectly composed beneath the fiery gaze of the warlord.
Rendylyn nods in agreement. "Stemtimple has the gist of it. This isn't treason--it's justice. The other Talireans are the traitors, they who dishonorably deserted the ancient and proper worship of the Dark Lord. We have been sent to punish the disobedient, and restore the glory of old.
"We must cleanse this nation with fire and the axe. Let the Mitran dead souls rise up in their thousands to seek whatever niggardly reward their god offers them in the afterworld. As for the innocent ones who die--well, what of it? Innocents die every day, and none live forever. They, too, will get their just deserts in the life beyond.
"The tens of thousands who remain will be the ones with the good sense not to martyr themselves under your horde's steel fury. They will be useful, malleable. Some of them will be rather interesting people, who will prosper in the struggle. Those are our kind, mighty Sakkarot--your kind and mine: the strong, the resourceful, the wise. We will cut a place for them in the heart of Talingarde."
"And when you and I die, whether in war or old age, our great deeds in our master's service will have earned us a place high in the hierarchy of the damned. This life is an eyeblink in eternity. We must do everything we can to secure our dark souls' destinies."
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Vormog's belly vibrates with the drums of war. For a moment, he genuinely wants to be a part of the war band and pour into Talingarde. However, he quickly remembers the reason why he's here. Just as in a proper fight, he wins by being resourceful and precise, not by overwhelming his adversary.
As they sit at the table, and Fire Axe kills the boar, Vormog is impressed with his strength. He pictures Sakkarot breaking the walls like an unstoppable force, moving forward with nothing strong enough to stand in his path. But then he remembers that this is but dust compared to Asmodeus' power, and he is glad to wield that power.
Posh and Rendylyn speak very well to defend the knot's honor, but he feels Sakkarot's questions bear more guile than what was addressed. He asked about his place in Thorn's plan, and he is also testing the group in asking what they hope to gain from Thorn. He wants information. Clearly Thorn has not informed him of all the details. Looking at the towering warlord, he would never yield to any power, and his place in the plan is to only cause damage up to a certain point, doomed to fail and be betrayed at some point. To fall before he can conquer the entire island, being able to see his prize, but never able to grasp it.
He says "As my brothers said, we were chosen for following the same plan. It is also obvious what Thorn wants from you. He wants to wage war on Talingarde. To bring down the current oppressive order that denies us all things. The wall to the south makes it clear what it denies you and all the northern folks. Now, about what we want of him... You must know that we can never answer this completely. But one thing is certain. We all want to follow through with the plan."
He finishes talking, knowing he gave enough information to answer the warlord's questions, but also being bold enough to show that they are not simple head bowers.
Taking the offered seat Treesa calls Rufus over to her and orders him to sit beside her. She carves off some meat and feeds it to him before she even takes any for herself. She speaks to him in barks and growls.
She adjusts her Medallion so it is open for any to see, and pulls up her sleeves showing her brand as she takes a taste of the meat. "The hordes that you will destroy are weak. They will get what they deserve. Mitrans coddle the weak so they can lord over them. I look around here and see strength. This is welcome."
Rayse thought, 'Some of them are weak at least. He was wise enough not to voice this notion.
Instead Rayse spoke up and said, "You asked why did Thorn choose us? I'm not privy to his innermost thoughts, but I think he saw potential in us. As you can see from the weapons he has entrusted us to be the instrument of his will."
Looking Sakkarot’s in the eye, he added "You spoke of your horde pouring through the gates of Balentyne, this is also Thorne's desire, but with one minor but important detail. Those gates will NOT be shattered, instead they will be wide open..."
Posh smiles, knowingly, at that revelation from Rayse.
Rendylyn studies the feasting bugbears, making sure none of them are close enough to overhear their scheming. Best to make sure no captured scout or greedy malcontent can betray our plans to the Mitrans.
Rendylyn's eyes move slowly across the chaos of the feast. Bugbears brawl in the snow. Goblins shriek and leap over each other. The great pit fire sends sparks riding on the wind like tiny burning insects. A pair of polar bears prowl the edge of the circle, snatching scraps tossed by drunken warriors.
It is a scene of utter savagery. Yet not one creature comes within earshot of the head table.
Rendylyn's gaze lingers on a gathering of bugbear bravos who pretend to argue over a hunk of meat. The instant her eyes land on them, they avert their stares. A hill giant scratches his cheek and shuffles farther away. Even the goblins, normally too unruly to heed anything, give the table a wide berth.
Her keen perception confirms a simple truth.
For fear of reprisal, none of Sakkarot's followers dares to eavesdrop.
This conversation belongs to the knot and the Fire Axe alone.
Sakkarot listens in silence as Posh, Rendylyn, Vormog, Treesa, and Rayse speak. His expression is unreadable, though the firelight dances in his amber eyes and reflects from the edge of his burning axe. He does not interrupt. He gives no sign of displeasure. His silence has the weight of an executioner waiting to judge the final word.
Posh's correction.
Rendylyn's theology.
Vormog's measured insight.
Treesa's cold pragmatism.
Rayse's revelation of the plan for Balentyne.
All of it lands. All of it holds his attention.
When Rayse speaks of the gates of Balentyne standing open, the Fire Axe shifts slightly in his seat. The movement is small. The effect on the surrounding bugbears is immense. Those nearest flinch as though a mountain shifted.
Sakkarot looks from face to face, reading each expression, each intention, each flicker of ambition. Then he sits back slowly, clasping the haft of his burning axe in one massive hand.
The fire behind him crackles in the sudden quiet.
He speaks in a low rumble meant only for the knot. "The gates opened from within." He taps one claw against the table. "And my horde pouring through without a single arrow spent."
There is something like admiration in his tone. Something like satisfaction. But beneath it, there is calculation. He has heard what he wished to hear. He has weighed their words and now weighs their worth.
The feast continues around you. Bugbear warriors tear huge slabs from the roasted boar. Goblins leap onto the carcass and carve at it with crude knives. Snow falls in light flakes over the entire valley, settling on fur and steel.
Sakkarot turns his full attention back to the group. The firelight paints his fangs gold. "You speak like those who know their purpose. Thorn chose well."
He leans forward, lowering his voice further. "There is more to say. More that I would know. But for now, eat. Drink. Ask what you wish of me. Tonight I answer."
He settles back on his throne-like seat. The opening is clear.
Treesa watches Sakkarot. He appears to be a very intelligent and capable commander. He watches and listens, waiting for mistakes, assessing potential allies, or enemies. She feeds Rufus some more meat, and slowly eats the food herself.
"You know Thorn, and I don't mean 'know of' Thorn. When did you meet him?"
After Sakkarot answers Treesa's question, Rendylyn takes her turn. Reaching out a respectful finger to touch, to nearly caress the burning weapon, she asks breathlessly, "Where did you get this magnificent axe?"
Later, when talk turns to tactics, she offers him her counsel on troop deployment. "You know your horde best, and you know siege, but add to your consideration that during the assault we will be able to weave blessings and protections on a few of your troops, and our spells will have the greatest effect if we can lay them on your mightiest, rather than on whatever arrow fodder you might be tempted to throw at the castle first. Send your hill giants first as the vanguard of your assault, and we will plan to make of them a very deadly spear-head indeed."
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Vormog looks at Treesa as she asks an interesting question. Sakkarot's history is indeed worth asking about. He is equally interested in knowing Rendylyn's question about the axe. He is however perplexed at her trying to give strategy advice. "Does she forget that we won't be with the war band as it attacks?", he asks himself.
When it's his turn to ask something, he ponders heavily on what he feels would be worthwhile to know. Finally, he smirks. He asks "What do you hope to gain from all this?" Realizing he has been looking at Sakkarot with many assumptions, his apparent intellect contradicts the image of the brute he exudes with his fiery axe. His question shows he is ready to drop all his assumptions about the warlord.
Realizing he has been looking at Sakkarot with many assumptions, his apparent intellect contradicts the image of the brute he exudes with his fiery axe. His question shows he is ready to drop all his assumptions about the warlord.
The great bugbear warlord listens in stillness. The fire behind him snaps and hisses. The scent of roasting boar mingles with the cold of the falling snow. None of his warriors come close. None dare. Only the knot and the Fire Axe sit within the circle of heat and shadow.
Treesa's question reaches him first.
Sakkarot turns his amber eyes toward her. For several breaths he simply watches her feed her familiar. The sight seems to amuse him.
"I know Thorn," he says at last. His voice rumbles like distant stonefall. "Not as a tale. Not as a whisper. I met him face to face."
He taps one claw against the table. "It was two winters past. The snow lay thick in these same valleys. I was chieftain, but not warlord. My tribe was strong, but not united. We fought the other clans, and we grew hungry, and the men to the south hunted us like beasts." His gaze drifts to the fire. "Thorn came alone. He walked into my camp in the night. The guards never saw him. He found me by my fire, and he spoke my name aloud before I could rise to take his head." Another pause. "He promised me victory. Promised me unity. Promised me a chance to crush the Wall that kept my people penned like cattle. And he gave me the means to do it." He lifts his weapon slightly, and the flames illuminate the lines of his black-furred face. "I knew then that he was no ordinary man."
He does not say the name of the Dark Prince. He does not need to. He knows who sits at his table.
Rendylyn's question draws his attention next. She reaches toward the burning blade. Heat rolls over her hand, but the flames do not leap to strike her. Sakkarot watches her boldness with interest.
"You ask of the axe." He angles it slightly, so she may see the runes etched into the black iron. "This was Thorn's gift. He placed it in my hand on the night we made our pact."
His tone shifts, low and reverent. "He said it was forged in the south, in a place where fire never dies. It drinks the strength of those it slays. It will not cool until I fall." He turns the weapon so the flames lick up the blade again. "And I do not plan to fall soon."
When she speaks tactics, he listens. His expression remains unreadable. He does not interrupt. When she is finished, his gaze slides to Vormog.
The inquisitor's question lands with weight. "What do I hope to gain?" Sakkarot considers this for a long moment. "Power, yes. Revenge, yes. These are simple truths."
His eyes sharpen. "But more than that, I want to break their pride. I want to make the sun worshipers feel fear in their marrow." His voice lowers. "And Thorn promises me this. He gives me the place I was born to hold."
He sits back again, the axe resting across his knees. "What he gains is his own affair. What I gain is freedom."
The feast rages behind him, but the head table remains quiet. The warlord studies each of you in turn.
"You have answers for me. Now I have given answers to you."
The fire cracks. Snow drifts down in slow flakes. The smell of charred boar thickens.
Sakkarot gestures with one massive hand, inviting the conversation to continue.
Treesa stares at Sakkarot, pausing from feeding her familiar. "Answers for you? You need to know our next task as it affects your army. We brought the weapons here. You have armed your forces. Our next step is to take the boat to Aldencross. There we will infiltrate the tower at Balentyne, and open the gate. We will signal so your forces can come through and kill. Whatever pitiful forces they have in the north will have to face your army on the open fields, not hiding behind their walls. You will destroy them easily."
Treesa stares at Sakkarot, pausing from feeding her familiar. "Answers for you?...
A thousand bugbears feast and howl, but at the head table the warlord sits in perfect stillness.
Vormog's request draws a long breath from the Fire Axe. His amber eyes narrow with memory.
"No bard of mine could tell it better," he says. "Not in this camp. Not in any camp."
He sets the burning axe across his knees. The flames dance higher as if tasting the story that is about to be told.
"You want a battle." A slow smile creeps across his black-furred face. "Then listen."
"It was before Thorn came. Before the clans bowed to one banner. Before I was what I am." He stares into the fire as he speaks.
"The winter was cruel. The humans from the south claimed a caravan had been taken by one of our tribes. They sent a patrol north to punish us. A score of knights. Fifty spearmen. And a fire priest whose name I never learned."
He growls at the memory. "They marched through the narrow pass, snow falling so thick a man could vanish ten paces ahead. They thought the cold made us weaker. They thought numbers would protect them." His yellow eyes gleam. "They were wrong."
Snowflakes hiss as they drift too close to the heat of the Fire Axe.
"I had forty warriors. I took only fifteen. I chose the ones who feared nothing. We stalked the humans from the ridges above them. They lit bright torches. They shouted prayers. Their armor glowed like the sun. They wanted us to see them." He bares his teeth. "So we let them. When the wind turned, we leapt. The humans could not hear the claws on stone. Could not see us through the storm. Not until we were already among them."
His voice rises like distant thunder. "I took their commander first. Caved in his helm with my fist. His skull burst like a rotten gourd. His men cried out. They tried to form a shield wall. They could not. The snow swallowed their feet. The cold froze their hands."
He mimes the wide sweep of an overhead strike. "I shattered three shields in one blow. My warriors tore through the line. The spearmen broke. Screamed. Ran. The knights tried to retreat the way they had come." Sakkarot leans forward. "But the fire priest stood firm. His magic pushed us back. His flame burned blue in the storm. He spoke words that froze the blood in our veins." The bugbear's smile turns grim. "He almost killed me."
For the first time there is something like respect in Sakkarot's tone. "He struck me with a bolt of fire that split a boulder beside me. I felt the heat through my fur. I saw a future where he slew us all." He taps the burning axe lightly. "I did not have this then. Only a crude blade. But I had anger. And strength." He lifts his clenched fist. "I brokered no retreat. I barreled through his fire until I could smell my own fur burning. He faltered. His magic failed. And I tore his throat out with my teeth."
The fire behind him roars as if in approval. "The snow turned red. The bodies froze where they fell. And in the end my warriors stood alone among the dead." His voice softens. "I lost six that day. Their names are carved in the stone above the pass."
He sits back again. "That was the first time the other clans called me Fire Axe. I had no flaming blade then. Only fury. Only will. But the name stuck." The flames flicker across the metal of his weapon. "And when Thorn placed this axe in my hand, the name became truth."
Sakkarot looks at each of you in turn. The feast still rages behind him, but the closest bugbears have grown quiet, instinctively aware that something sacred was spoken at the head table.
He lifts his chin. "There. A story for the night."
He rests the axe across his knees again. After a pause her surveys the horde. The coming night brings a frigid wind down from the peaks to settle in the valley.
Sakkarot signals an end to the feast and stands to bid you off. "Thorn has faith in you and so do I. Break the Watch Wall and your names will be legend."
Sakkarot likewise lifts his goblet and drains down the burning liquid. Setting it down, he walks with the knot as you return to the dock. The Frosthamar is fully unloaded now, with Captain Kargeld standing at the bow, impatiently waiting to depart and make the final leg of the journey under cover of darkness.
Sakkarot eyes the captain for a long moment, his expression unreadable as ever. Then he looks at each one of you in turn. His burning axe dims to a sullen ember glow.
He speaks low, so only you can hear. "The fire showed me a vision on the longest night. I saw four towers beneath a sky without stars. One will take your blood, one your faith, one your loyalty, and one your truth. Then I saw a bridge of burning chains stretched over a chasm of smoke. Many walked it. Some were you. Some were strangers. At the far end stood a man of fire and shadow, shifting and obscure. The bridge holds him for now, but the chasm waits. The fire whispered that when the bridge breaks, all who walk it will fall unless they uncover the truth hidden at the center. Thorn walks that bridge. And so will you."
With that, flames erupt from the axe blade. "To the ruin of Talingarde!"
The mighty warlord turns away from you and from the dock, disappearing into the camp.
Vormog raises his drink after the story is done and says "A drink to that." and drinks. He feels respect for Fire Axe.
After, he looks to the others and tells them "We still have a task to do before setting out." He hopes they remember.
"What task did you have in mind Vormog?"
Treesa speaks, very quietly to Posh's question. "We have a captain and crew to kill, and a boat to burn. And whatever treasure is in the boat should be recovered before we burn it and send it to the bottom."
Softly Rayse interjected "They need to take us across the lake first, unless you fancy a long and very cold swim."
"Indeed. I haven't noticed any nautical skills amongst our Knot. Better we stick with the Cardinal's plan, rather than modify it. We get to Aldencross first!"
Rendylyn leans back, relaxing her vigilance at last. She tears charred meat from the bones in front of her and chews it thoughtfully.
"Still, we have a task before we leave. We need to arrange a way to communicate with the Fire-Axe so we can let him know when the fortress is ripe for the sacking. We also need to know how long it will take for his army to reach Aldencross after he receives the signal. I saw no fleet to carry them across the water after us. For a allied general, he's been very vague about logistics."
"Have faith, little one," is all Sakkarot says to Rendylyn's persistent talk of strategy. Either he believes the will of Asmodeus is superior to the machinations of mere mortals like himself, or he's holding his cards close to the vest. Regardless, the meeting with Fire Axe is over.
You board the Frosthamar for the last short leg of the journey. Where the moon guided your voyage on the placid sea, clouds now conceal your trip south over the lake, and a dense mist makes the small ship practically invisible. Kargeld steers his boat by instinct and experience and before midnight one of the crew drags a line and quietly reports you're approaching the shore. Her hull empty of cargo, Frosthamar sits high in the water, and the captain is able to bring her in close.
"This is where we part company," Says Kargeld quietly. "The water's only a couple feet deep here, and shore is just a dozen paces ahead. From here, Aldencross is no more than a few hours' walk south. If you don't delay you'll be there well before sunrise. Now kindly get the hell off my ship."
Always glad to be underestimated, Rendylyn doesn't mind when Sakkarot tries to evade her questions...but doesn't she give up.
"My faith is in Asmodeus, who commands me to plan ahead. Sakkarot Fire-Axe, how can we tell you when our mission is complete? Must we send a messenger across the water? How long will you be at this camp?"