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http://boards1.wizards.com/showthread.php?t=608692
if it doesn't work directly, cut and paste should. It's on the Eberron People and places board, an Eberronesque conversion of the Age of Worms for the last two sections of the series.
This was suggested by one of the commentors on the post at the WoTC boards. The stories are 60,000+ words long, so I won't post them in their entirety again here. Click on them if you like the developments of the Age of Worms and I hope you enjoy them!
Waiting eagerly for my next Dungeon!
===Aelryinth
Episode VII, Stormlost Island
“Sovereigns for your thoughts?”
“How many?” Marcus replied, looking over the knife sharp prow of the Stormwolf with eyes as brooding as the raging, dark clouds ahead of them.
“I can fetch a couple more from the vaults if need be,” Hazé replied easily, spinning a pair of golden coins between graceful fingers. The light reflecting off the setting sun behind them drew his eyes despite himself.
“We are being played,” he told her, meeting her golden eyes squarely with his pale stare. His good hand cracked loudly as he flexed it. “I do not like being played, Hazé.”
“Knowing is half the battle. When did you first realize this?” She didn’t seem surprised, so he rightfully figured she had known for quite some time.
“Since the soireé. I grew up around undead…no mere shapechanging spell is going to fool me as to her nature. I knew she was undead within moments.”
Hazé’s elegant eyebrow rose. “Undead? Ah, I wasn’t looking for that. I thought you’d discerned that she was a Dragon. My error, I suppose.”
Another man might have spluttered in surprise at that little fact being thrown at them. Marcus’ eyes just narrowed. “An undead…Dragon?” he repeated, gritting his teeth. In sharp contrast to the scars on his face, they were startlingly neat and even, and quite white…almost as white as the pale brand on his left cheek.
“She is a vampire?” Hazé asked calmly, golden eyes sure on his. He nodded once. “How apt a choice for a minion. A vampiric silver Dragon of advanced age…not a Wyrm, but close. Your restraint was admirable…as was her tact in keeping a safe distance from you. No need to have her disguise compromised by the presence of such a random factor as one man…” Flawless lips curved in a knowing smile. “I see that she was indeed somewhat upset by the presence of the Hand, but I didn’t miss the greed in her eyes as well. I rather think she would like to claim it for her own…although even unliving Dragons should think twice about messing around with the severed limbs of would-be gods.”
“The priest has already made landfall on Stormlost?” Marcus asked, a rhetorical question.
“Tilagos? Yes…and he’s off the plane. He’s found something to take him beyond the range of normal divinations. Trencher can find out more when we get to the stone there, of course…and I could go deva-nobbing, but I like to keep the illusion of my free will as solid as possible.”
Marcus’ smile was even grimmer now. “Prepped for the morning?” he asked calmly, nodding at the raging storm which, by their research, had been going on for fifteen centuries, despite some truly mighty attempts by the House of Winds to alleviate it.
“Of course. The matrices are all in place…we can punch through the storm without too much problem, and the weather won’t be a problem once we set foot on the ground. We can send for the ride off the island when we are done.”
“Review the tactics at sunset, and make our start fresh in the morn.” She nodded assent, and spun around to go set up the Tactical room for the meeting. He let his eyes linger on that backside and the enchanting hipswing and elegant legs probably a mite longer then was purely decent…but then, he was supposed to. Certainly the crew of his Wolves never had a problem staring at the indigo-haired Lady Hazé when they thought she wasn’t watching…which, of course, she always was. A couple of them got caught by his eye and looked away hurriedly, quick to get back to work under their commander’s disapproving gaze.
=======================
“Here’s the identities of the people revealed in the scrying at the manor,” Hazé repeated for all of them. Hard light images rose from her hand, and were rapidly sculpted and mixed into precise renditions of the folk seen in the scrying mirror a day earlier. The human with the rotting, skeletal hand. The birdfolk with the elegant repeating crossbow. A being of flame made flesh, a noble genie of the efreet. And a pair of twinned brothers with definite inhuman blood and lethal grace.
A few more images arose to join these…a scarred Orc, a minotaur in full armor, and the glowering surprise of a full-blown Diabolic entity, a Devil of the Cornugon extraction, all dancing around a great sailing cog.
“The ship they sailed on was the cog Secret Hand, captained by Spit-Eye, a full-blooded Orcish warrior and archer of some repute. It has been confirmed as wrecked on the shores ahead of us, and the crew mostly alive, but definitely marooned. I think for the chance to get off of there they might be willing to do almost anything.
“The human is a mighty priest of the Lord of Secrets and Shadow, as might be obvious from the symbols he helpfully paints all over his robes, and as our contact last night inferred, his name is indeed Darl Quethos. He’s been trying to thwart scrying aimed directly at him, but the problem is with fame there comes a lot of infamy, and so he and the people he travels with have acquired a certain reputation. The priests of the Shadowed One like to deal in secrets, but not everyone they deal with is good at keeping them.”
Lists slid into place in front of the assembled people…Hazé was always sinfully well prepared for tactical briefings, and delineated there were point by point observations, confirmations, and recitations of data on every one of the people illustrated, complete with common tactics…and a full workup on the legendary powers of the Hand the priest bore…or that, perhaps, bore him.
“His comrades are exceptional individuals in their own right, and as you can see, he has a fondness for outsiders and fire dwellers. His offensive tactics are thus oriented around flames and the like, and naturally necromancy and such things…not that we haven’t seen a rather large number of those things recently. We’ve got a kenku assassin of extraordinary reputation and zealotry as his right hand…a minotaur warrior and bodyguard of sterling and brutal reputation…an efreeti exile from the fiery realms…a horned devil whose Truename is so common he’s hanging out with a priest of Secrets just so he doesn’t get summoned around by every fledgling conjuror…and a pair of exceptionally deadly twins trained in the monastic arts of the red robes, and currently being sought by said folk for butchering their entire order of Brothers upon completion of their training.
“Master Quethos, in turn, was notified of our interest by the scrying we caught him in, and is doubtless digging among the netherworlds for nuggets of information on us, pandering with fiends and worse in dark places. We can expect him to be informed of us to some degree, although my scrying defenses are much better then his, and doubtless he’s got quite a headache after the first two attempts to break through my wards.” Hazé smiled sweetly at the rest of them. “So he can get information on us, nasty little secrets bartered to him by whisperers in shadow…but he doesn’t know where we are, at least at the present. He can track the Stormwolf indirectly, but we don’t have to worry about a Whizbang attack.
“Any questions? We can coordinate caster lists based on the data presented.”
Which, Marcus was less involved in. “The island itself. What information?”
“Typical one-way stop, no passing crowns, no clamoring for resurrection. The storm operates as massive scrying disruption, making direct observation almost impossible, and it thwarts dimensional access and travel too…the number of people who have made it off the island can probably be counted on your knuckles. There seems to be a device that allows a direct connection to a sealed plane on the island…the connection might be the very effect that is empowering such a powerful and unending storm in place. I would hazard that the connecting terminus would be in condition to be used, else the connection would terminate and the magical storm abate.”
“Ergo, we hit the island, find the gate to the far away place, and do what we have to do to find the phylactery of Dragathra?” he drawled slowly, uninspired.
“Reads like a bad adventure novel, doesn’t it?” Hazé agreed cheerfully. Her eyes sparkled with expectation. “Trencher, Estemar?”
Dwarf and holy warrior glanced at one another, engrossed in the written compilation Hazé had left for them. The Dwarf spoke first. “I was able to ascertain from the earth that there is a massive amount of druidic-based magic at work on the island ahead. Based on old legends and stories,and accounting for what made this, we are probably going to be facing great beasts, and evils that threatened the natural world. I imagine this place we seek is a safehold for more then just the secrets of those who vanquished the Wormhead in the ancient past.” His accent on his term for the ancient Goblin Necromancer was exquisitely insulting.
“Agreed. There is great evil ahead, and not all of it as open as the Diabolic…although I find their presence oddly refreshing after the battles against so much Kyuss-spawn.”
“Then the Devil is yours…get rid of it quick,” Trencher replied instantly, and got a sharp nod in reply. “Marcus…the priest?”
His knuckles cracked faintly. “Of course,” he said softly, scanning the notes with a practiced eye. “I see he is noted for his disdain of physical combat. How unfortunate… for him.”
“Leaving me with my choice of a pair of scamperfists, the skulker, or the oversized brute. Says here the twin fiend-bloods like to beat on spellcasters.” Trencher’s dark eyes sparkled maliciously. “I’ll make a fine, slow target for them, then.”
“And I can take out the skulker. That leaves the minotaur as a free axe, for Estemar to deal with, if he’s free, or the efreeti. The genie could be quite a wild card," she mused.
“Or for me, depending on how long the priest takes to die.” Marcus had no concerns about the outcome of any match against the priest. “If they are smart, however, the minotaur or the scamperfists will be dedicated to getting in my way.”
“Harassment is my middle name,” Hazé agreed calmly. “Hopefully they’ll be whittled down by the time we get to them…and we will get to them. Estemar, get rid of the devil, and then possibly the efreeti?” The knight just nodded once. For just a moment, her shining golden eyes faded to celeste, dark and full of distant stars. “Next chapter in the book of Worm-baiting, Tilagos!”
===============
The wolfskate drove through the storm with an odd serenity. About the open-hulled landing vehicle, the storm roiled with unnatural fury…thunder and lightning flared and roared, dark clouds swallowed all, and the roar of the wind was almost deafening.
On the ‘skate, however, only a gentle breeze blew, while a tight weave of aeromancy wound about the vessel and spun the wild winds around and away harmlessly from the vessel, and leaping lightning coursed over and past even as the crash of thunder became distant, drum-like rumbles. A hundred paces below them, the wild waters reached up for them, but even driving downspouts were bent aside by the magic warding the launch, and they proceeded in with only the buzzing drone of the PME’s props pushing them forwards.
Visibility wasn’t good, but then it didn’t need to be. They roared through the intervening winds and clouds, noting the rocks and then the shore beyond, and descended past them onto the beach.
Hazé noted the field of magic about the revealed ruins, pointing the pilot in calmly. Lieutenant Jons smoothly rotated the fans and brought the wolfskate down with a sure hand, sparing only a glance for the dozens of wrecks smashed upon the shores.
The four of them swung over the side smoothly, with the ease of a lot of practice. Jons was pulling up and away as the last of their feet hit the ground, out of range of any threat of above and below, and with him went the wards spun about the ‘skate.
The thunder became much louder, but still oddly muted. The rain that had been redirected away from the launch was not a driving morass, but more an irritating, constant drizzle that didn’t touch three of them…and slid off Marcus’ armor without even leaving a trail.
-We’ve been spotted.- Hazé’s magic had already ranged ahead of them, sussing out a path. –Looks like the crew of Spit-Eye’s ship has seen us. They are running off to the west. Probably a camp there, in one of the older ruins.-
-Scanning for signs of any of Quethos’ band.- Crystals fluttered around Hazé’s fingertips, sparkled into rune patterns, as Trencher knelt to the water-etched stones, closing his eyes. His athame, Forge, began to glow a deep red at its core, and hissed softly in the rain as steam rose from it.
“He left the assassin behind as a watcher.” Hazé was delighted by this good news. “Marcus, if you would care to do the honors?”
Marcus moved forwards without another word into the ruins starting to yawn ahead of them. Within ten paces in the gloom, he was effectively out of sight.
-There’s a number of nasty beasts in the ruins…and some vestigial magic tied to the access device around them.- Trencher reported gravely. –What we want is located almost due north.-
-Let’s get to it.- Hazé’s eyes were sparkling celeste, deep in concentration. Topaz Knight and Rockmage took the point. The first sparkling crystal shard spun skywards as they headed north.
================
Foolish adventurers, thought Karespi, sliding closer through the gloom and rain. Her crossbow was carefully tucked away beneath her cloak, her dark eyes easily picking out the stray flashes of crystal snaking skywards, clearly marking the location of the adventurers as they progressed towards the plaza with the device to the Fountain of Secrets. The orc-blooded sailors had obviously seen them, too, by the shouting that had gone up, but their fumbling attempts at stealth had been called back, leaving her to pursue the heathens thankfully alone.
The adventurers were part of a mercenary unit of some notoriety, the Wolves of the North, noted for their stealth work and commando-style operations. Her master had said they had possession of a flying ship…one not powered by the crafts of the House Lyrandar. Likely it was moored in the sky just beyond the reach of the storm…a convenient and powerful way to travel.
Subtlety for their commanders hardly seemed to be what was going on now. Karespi resisted an urge to cackle as she came in behind them, seeing flares and flashes of light ahead as they engaged the massive octopus tree that guarded one of the jewels that opened the gate. Crystalline daggers shot skywards, ruddy light of elemental flame accompanied a deep vibration in the earth, and she had to look away from a hateful flash of golden light that made her eyeballs throb and heart shrivel. Hissing in hate, cloaked in invisibility, and making far less noise then the rain falling all about her, she was looking forwards to picking off these fools one by one from the darkness, leaving them wondering what had struck them…if she moved quickly, she might even be able to-
She wasn’t sure where the sword came from, but the merest flicker of motion saved her life, as it plunged through her cloak and nearly spit her like some mere yardbird. The next instant, an iron hand closed about her shoulder and closed in a vice-like grip that had her squawk in pain, and was then twisted in a bone-snapping manner uncannily reminiscent of the style of the fiend-blooded Sinstar brothers. She looked back into a faceless helm, gawking at how she had stepped right past the man, just as she was dragged forwards into a beak-crushing headbutt that had her seeing stars even as she clawed for her daggers, kicked desperately at the full suit of plate he wore, and tried with all her skill and power to get free.
Silently, spikes shot out of the armor, coating him in a hand-deep nest of pointed death. Then his other hand came over and drove into her gut with incredible speed, wrapped her up in a tight and deadly embrace, and took her down.
The Colonel of the Wolves said nothing as he methodically ripped the kenku apart. His hands twisted, and bones broke while she clawed ineffectually at the skinplate of his armor. He impaled her on the spikes of his armor, and let her own writhings and his calculated wrenchings drive the spikes deeper as he levered his arms into position, grabbed the convenient beak, and used her neck as a fulcrum.
There was a series of pops, ending as he completed two entire revolutions of the assassin’s skull. He let go and let her head flop back, slowly lifting himself up and letting her fall off of him as the spikes on his armor flowed back into the unbroken surface.
The rain started washing away the blood and feathers quickly. With a practiced eye, he bent to looting.
===================
Marcus’ telltale, echoless whistle heralded his rejoining the group, and he strolled into the chamber where the blasted and smoking carcass of some sort of animate tree-thing was still twitching. Hazé and Trencher were examining some softly glowing crystals retrieved from the pool the thing had been in, and Estemar was engaged in sorting some of the loot that had been hauled out of the place from the wreckage and remnants.
“Dead assassin,” he reported calmly, moving with eerie silence despite his full armor up to the knight. “She won’t be coming back. He’ll have to find himself a new slayer-in-shadows.” He dropped a sack of loot wrapped in a bloody cloak, privately wondering when skulkers would figure out that the reason that Hazé sprayed Shards skywards was to mark their position and draw stalkers in, as well as inform him of exactly where they were at any given moment.
The Topaz Knight grinned up at his Colonel. “There was never any doubt, sir.” He gestured at the creature they had slain. “Octopus tree, according to the Lady, and a big one. Surface dwellers…it probably didn’t want to chance the storm again.”
Marcus would have liked to see the creature in action, with the massive limbs and yawning central jaws promising a good fight. Smoldering walls of thorns seemed to divide the area, burnt to ash despite the rain. He could see the telltale burst patterns of Hazé’s shards all over the central mass, and one driving bolt of molten power from Trencher that had laid it open. Size wasn’t going to save it, however, not against the likes of that pair.
“I also warned off the Orc-kin, promised them a ride out of here if they behave themselves. Only had to kill two of them to get the message across. They are trying to fix their ship…a lost cause, with this storm about.”
“Easy enough to shuttle them out of here, when it’s time,” Estemar agreed easily enough, as he began to deposit the spoils the Colonel had dropped into his knapsack, glancing at their spellcasting companions. “They are arguing over magical properties of the crystal…nothing important,” he winked.
Marcus sighed and headed for the two arcanists. Trencher loved showing his expertise in geomancy to Hazé, whose much broader knowledge of magic in general tended to trump him in most situations. Both turned to greet him as he walked up.
“The big tree thingie is dead, sir,” Trencher stated with the completely deadpan voice of a Master of the Obvious.
“Thank you, Trencher,” Marcus replied dryly. “Can we be going now?”
==================
“So we fit the crystals in the pillars and get whisked away to wherever. Is it strong enough to take me?” Marcus asked archly.
Hazé Opened her eyes, squinted at the magic as Trencher fit the last, carefully carved crystal in. They had actually grabbed several of the gemlike growths, convinced that the rarity and magical properties might be useful. “Yes,” she said with some certainty. “It’s at least as strong as the storm is. Big Divine Aura-Power-Hand o’ the Heavens involved here.” Her mock awe made Estemar and Trencher hastily cover smiles.
Marcus rolled his eyes as magic began to sparkle and crackle in the rain, gathering among crystals gold, blue and red. They weren’t dragonshards, but certainly looked like them as they hissed and spat and wove an aesthetically pleasing pattern of raging might, settling into a humming, mist-like doorway in space which you couldn’t see a damn thing through.
Hazé, as usual, didn’t wait, skipping lightly forwards and diving into the rip in existence. Estemar was right behind her, and Trencher shuffled forwards. Marcus sighed and strode in after them.
The sensation was…unpleasant. Being grounded in the physical world far more then the others, Marcus had never actually experienced teleportation before, and the vortex didn’t seem to like him much. However, concentration was very much part and parcel of who he was, and overcoming pain, nausea, disorientation, and the like was as natural to him as gritting his teeth. The vortex seemed to pull back from him, and almost urgently shove him forwards into the whiteness coming up-
He hit the suddenly solid ground in a combat crouch, Thorn wrapped around his fist and eager for blood. He spun instantly to take in the surroundings as the others shook off their disorientation – hah! - and tried to ignore the churning in his gut telling him this wasn’t his homeworld.
Some sort of temperate island…perhaps the ancient form of the storm-tossed hunk of rock they’d left behind. They’d arrived on some sort of mesa or plateau…the island curved down and away from them in some sort of pine forest, giving way to broad plains with dark specks all over them, and a darker forest beyond that actually rose into a low range of high hills or low mountains, depending on your perspective. Mountains…there was a frost line up there. Temperature was nominal, the sun was out…or some copy thereof, not exactly the right color to him…and so all the colors of what should be normal plant life seemed subtly…off. Or was it a problem with scale? He squinted at some of those distant dots…his eyes were very good, and he was sure that normal herd animals shouldn’t look quite so large at this distance.
The others were also surveying the area, Estemar with magically enhanced vision for range, Hazé with Opened eyes, and Trencher had gone to one knee and was silently conferring with the land.
“Company coming,” the dwarf announced, pointing sharply. Everyone oriented automatically, and so when the four beings stepped out of the old pines at the edge of the clear space, they found four sets of eyes meeting theirs instantly.
“Assessment?” hissed Marcus, Dex twitching and ready to disgorge his shield.
“That looks like living armor…something like you have, sir,” Trencher said quickly.
“Swarm of insects around them. Cloak seems to be made of living thorns and is moving of its own voilition. That spear design is a type I’ve not seen before, definitely enchanted for electrical energy. I sense neither weal nor woe upon them,” Estemar said in his turn, an arrow at the ready, but his bow was not drawn back yet.
“Fey. Elemental energies, centered on those flags on their backs. A nimbus of elemental nexii surrounds them and connects them to the land. They are guardians or watchers of some sort, tied to the forces which brought us and this land here.” Hazé had her primary salvo of Shards up and ready for usage, but they were in rotate/counter mode, on ‘standby’, as it were, spinning back and forth around her forearm. “Probably not hostile. What do spritzy guardians do in all the good stories if they don’t attack you straight off?”
“No hostile stances. Fey means cold iron. They came in response to the portal being used.” Marcus straightened and stepped forwards. “I imagine they have to give us a quest. Or two. Or three.” He heard Trencher make a rude noise behind him.
====
“Well, the Colonel was wrong, and I was there to see it!” Trencher mused, but he didn’t sound happy about it.
“Four quests! I imagine we should have brought along another dozen Wolves and received a dozen more!” Marcus was vastly irritated…jumping through inane hoops for the benefit of a bunch of magical fey was definitely not high on his priority list.
“Now, now…at least they admitted that the Shadow priest and his cohorts passed through here as well. How are you coming on deciphering their grandiose terminology, Trencher?” Hazé’s spirits were,as usual, undulled by having to traipse over the island on missions to ‘prove their worth’.
“Being linked to the land, they basically get their terminology from their awareness of it, and it of them. Very useful. I can feel them at the fringes of the land…they seem amused at what I’m doing.” The Dwarven rockmage patted a thick hand against the stone beneath him. “There is a LOT of earth magic in this place. The wild things grow feral and strong. Much as I hate to say it, we’d be best a-flight, and likely invisible, or we’re going to be fighting our way tooth and nail through some very nasty beasties.”
“One ride, coming up.” Hazé’s Shards streamed off her arm, flattened, grew together and thickened into a glittering, eye-catching disc, something over a pace across, slightly concave, hovering at waist height for her. From her pack, a dark blanket whipped out and wrapped around it, completely enfolding it and neutralizing the betraying glitter-glow. It was rapidly followed by a contraption of ropes with a wooden seat, which wove itself around the disc and let the wood fall onto the stone. Marcus made a face to himself, but said nothing, as knight and dwarf hopped up on opposite ends of the disk, and Hazé lightly jumped up to stand between them. With a wink at him, she rose straight into the air, and about three paces up Marcus stepped onto the wooden board. The shaded disk continued rising straight up, bearing him aloft with it, but well below the influence of his Forsaken aura.
===================
Estemar whistled. “Would you look at the size of that thing!”
The girallon was immense…at least six times the height of a man, four-armed, long-tailed and looking for a fight. It pounded its chest louder then war drums, BOOM BOOM BOOM, and roared up at them in challenge…or more accurately, roared at Marcus, thirty paces in the air above it and looking down with some interest as the massive creature bellowed at him.
“So much for subtlety,” he mused loudly enough for those above to hear him. The island was home to huge numbers of oversized animal life…the average beast was twice the mass of the common animal at home, and the plants grew huge and strong as well. The growth rate on the plant life had to be prodigious to support such immense creatures, especially predators like the great displacer beasts that had tried pacing them below for an hour before giving up and slinking away as quietly as lethal shadows, and equally immense dire bears in these hills, and especially these oversized girallons, who in size would dwarf the largest giants.
“Set me down on those rocks, and I’ll get me a reading. Note anything, anyone?” Trencher asked, pointing ahead for Hazé. The girallon only charged after them a short distance as Marcus swung away on their new course, satisfied with their retreat and lack of hostile action.
“That dark forest ahead has a serious vein of nastiness running through it,” Hazé noted aloud, squinting at it. “Negative natural energies, flowing from the center of it.”
“Castle.” Estemar pointed at a clump of rocks in the distance. “I believe we have a 'Shackled Conqueror' to relieve of his belt?”
Hazé set down calmly on an outcropping, surveying the area to make sure nothing was close enough to leap upon Marcus as he stepped off, and the disk came down low enough for the invisible Trencher to clamber off and with a sigh sink down to question the earth again.
“Huh.” The dwarf stood up slowly. “That’s definitely the place…and one of our friends' mugs, the minotaur, went over there and didn’t come back. The land was pretty specific. We’ve a Titan over there.”
“A real Titan?” Even Hazé was startled at that.
“Yes, no mistaking it. His presence is more distinct then anything on the island. As for the forest…there’s something really, really dark at the heart of it. Old, too…and I think it’s aware of us.”
“Elder evils of the land. How wonderful! Is the Roc King lairing up in those mountains?” They’d seen a couple of the massive birds in the distance and high in the air…and seen one swoop down to grab an oversized buffalo as easily as an eagle might a rabbit, and fly off with it.
“Highest peak,” confirmed the Dwarf. “And on the other side of that forest, there’s another real nasty piece of business, in them hills. It’s almost as old as whatever is in the heart of the forest…and it’s looking for people, too.”
“Let’s try to get that belt first.” Hazé smiled, invisibly. “You know, I think we can have the big four-armed ape do some work for us. I think I can make off with his belt with just a little distraction.”
“I would rather just kill it and be done with it,” Marcus stated coolly.
“It’s a Titan, Marcus, not an oversized Ogre,” she sniffed. “It might be better to use some tactics, yes?”
“Don’t use tactics that rely on wild beasts…use those that rely on your own strength and cunning,” he replied easily. “Now, let’s head for the castle, and take our first prize and get these damn quests out of the way.”
=================
Trencher vanished into the ground with the stolen belt…the Titan bellowed and his gargantuan hammer crashed down, putting a sizable crater into the stone with the booming impact right on top of where the dwarf had been standing. Lightning blew across the courtyard at Hazé, smashing into her…and was vented directly downwards, into the ground, barely causing her indigo hair to rise up as she released another full salvo of Shards onto the enraged Titan.
Marcus seemed to detach from the stone behind the Titan, moving with an agility and speed completely unexpected of a man in full armor. His sword was in two hands as he sliced Thorn through the back of the Titan’s right leg, once, twice, and brilliant scarlet blood flowed in a trail after the path of the blade, and the knee gave way as the tendon was stressed by the shifting of the Titan’s weight.
The enraged primeval Jotun had difficulty hiding his surprise as he smashed down to one knee, but it didn’t stop him from hurling his tree-sized warhammer at the floating Hazé, who made an irresistible target, or from striking down with a fist bigger then Marcus was at the armored warrior. Marcus’ reply to that bit of effort was to roll with the strike with amazing foresight, completely avoiding the massive limb with a sideways somersault that would have made some Dwarven instructors of his very proud, and the Titan cursed as a third stroke sliced across the back of his hand, opening a massive crimson gash, and leaving an even thicker trail of blood following Thorn’s dark blade. The ram-sized warhammer went hurtling completely through the illusionary image of Hazé and kept on going over the walls of the battered keep, striking nothing solid as the illusion vanished into sparks of dissipating hard light.
Estemar’s golden shaft plunged into the Titan’s neck like a lance of living sunlight, drawing a mighty curse that gargled just a bit with the impact. Another stroke of lightning lept across the courtyard as the hurled warhammer was suddenly back in his hands, but now the Titan was wincing instead of boasting, and swept his hand in a broad arc behind him, the mailed forearm meant to catch Marcus and hurl him away even as he lifted the hammer and threw it one-handed at Estemar as the knight lined up for another shot. The Topaz Knight lept back as it roared past, completely smashing the section of wall he’d rolled into to avoid the full force of the chain lightning that had come flaring for him, and still his shot was calm and centered as he drew back and let fly. Golden light seemed to gather on the point of his arrow as it drove into the throat of the ancient Jotun, just missing the jugular.
Marcus, instead of being hurled away by the impact of that hugely muscled arm, shocked the Titan by leaping on top of it and gaining access to the forearm and shoulder. Without further ado, he swarmed up the shoulder as easily as a cat, and the Titan found that bloody blade plunging for his eye.
The Titan shrieked, forgetting to recall his hammer, completely focused on getting that blade away from him as it sliced across his perfect cheek in a meter-long gash. Both hands converged to grasp and crush the puny man who dared such effrontery, and icy-hot pain slashed through both of his palms and covered them in blood as Marcus somehow avoided both of them and used the Titan’s own hair to swing around the back of his head to the far side of his face.
The ground heaved upwards as Trencher made his presence known, and lava blew past the Titan’s face in molten agony, searing the perfect skin and physique and coating the Jotun in red-hot stone. Hazé’s next salvo snapped the great head back with the singing force of impact, ripping apart the perfect face yet further, and the Titan surged desperately back to his feet, screaming incoherent curses in the oldest dialect of Jotun, clawing for the human on his neck even as Marcus drove Thorn deep into his ear, and lept up on top his head.
A great palm slammed the sword in deeper then Marcus could possibly have driven it, and a massive tremor shook the Titan’s entire body. A moan of what might have been disbelief escaped the great mouth as the ancient Jotun tottered, simple denial that he could be defeated keeping him on his feet.
Estemar calmly released.
The sun-bright shaft drove into a plate-sized eye and buried itself to the fletching. A huge crimson-stained hand reflexively, slowly, came up to clutch at the wound, and then bolts of fire and shards of crystal drove into the face and skull of the Titan, spinning him around and wiping off most of his noble features in the process, and with the grandiose solemnity of the near-divine, he fell.
Marcus lept and rolled free as the Jotun hit as heavily as any falling tree, somersaulting to diffuse the momentum several times before rising smoothly to his feet. The great body twitched a couple times, and then was still, a pool of too-vivid scarlet rapidly growing about it.
The girallons in the cage near him cowered back reflexively. He was covered in a wash of Titan blood, and they’d just seen him hacking on the creature that had captured them so easily. Above, Estemar shook his head at the Colonel’s easy daring, while at the far side of the compound Trencher smiled at the effectiveness of the Jotun-slaying techniques Marcus had learned from some of the finest axes of the Mror.
That skull would make a fine trophy, if Hazé wasn’t just the sort of person who would flame the entire massive corpse to dust and ash just to be sure nothing undead could be made of the primeval warrior-Jotun, the Dwarf mused, sniffing as she began to do just that, starting calmly with the feet as Marcus strode back to drive his left hand elbow deep into the Titan’s ear, grip, and withdraw Thorn in a gory eruption of blood and brains. The guard of the blade writhed in seeming delight, and without preamble the coating of blood seemed to vanish from the black of the guard instantly, the rest of the gore drying up and dusting away in mere seconds.
The Colonel looked at the blade in his hand, shrugged, took a step, and stuck it a hand’s-length into the pool of blood running out of the Titan’s ruined skull and gathering on the stone of this broken courtyard. Estemar, in particular, noted how the pool of blood began to slowly converge on the buried blade in some distaste…and even moreso, how the Colonel stepped clear of the mess and didn’t even leave bloody footprints behind himself…
So fell Krathanos the Destroyer, one of the great banes of civilization before the founding of Galifar, gone fifteen centuries and sent to the doom he’d inflicted on countless numbers of the lesser races who’d dared try to emulate the great Empire-building of the Jotuns.
None mourned him.
================
“Marcus, sample the sap, if you would, please?”
Hazé had some unhealthy ideas at times. The Colonel cocked an eye up at her, but she only waved him at a particularly large mess of the black ichor oozing out of these strangely dark and silent pines.
Grimacing, he reached out and stuck Dex in the mess, scooping up a glob on two fingers, and gingerly stuck one finger in his mouth.
It tasted like a combination of bad licorice, rotten eggs, and raw coffee. He made a face as he chewed on the thick stuff and slowly swallowed it.
“It tastes like a really bad memory, Hazé,” he related shortly, eying the remnants of the glob.
“Unfortunate. It’s got more nutrients packed into it then a bag of trail mix.” He glanced up in some surprise as her Shards came in, melted into waves of telekinetic force which she sent streaming out to scoop up multiple gobs of the stuff from several of the trees about, sending them back to be deposited into the waiting openings of a half-dozen glass jars rotating around her. He also saw cuttings, leaves, needles, and cones being whisked off and set into their own jars, which were smoothly tucked back into her overly spacious pack.
More then the concentrated, nut-heavy glop that she’d mixed up for trail rations? Marcus eyed the stuff on Dex, who wasn’t pulling away as it might if the sap was unhealthy. Shrugging, he stuck it into his mouth - he was hungry, after all - and swallowed it. He’d survived on worse.
“Into botany now, are we, Lady?” Estemar asked lightly.
“I’m not sure what breed of pine this is, but if I can replicate the sap, and maybe make it taste better, these trees could potentially feed whole cities…and give people an excuse to keep forests around. In the long run, I think that might be much more important then anything else we do on this quest.” The holy knight’s forehead creased as he pondered the implications of a virtually endless renewing food source…of trees!
“If that’s true, then this island becomes also an extremely valuable natural resource…if and when it ever returns to Eberron.” He was not above noticing the worth of such a discovery.
“Aye…and with the magic gone, so will much of the Earthpower gathered here, if it does return. The creatures here will die of starvation as the ecosystem rebalances…but if we can get these trees to stay alive, we’ll have a place that can support a whole lot of people or animals in a fairly small place.”
“Hence why the behemoths eat here,” Marcus’ voice drifted up from below, where he was eyeing several shattered limbs broken off by the passage of the great girallons, who looked as if they’d been gnawing on the bleeding trees. “There’s sign of landshark passage among the roots, but I’ve not seen one yet…they must be waiting for dinner to come walking over them.”
“Not today!” Hazé’s disk conveyance was extremely useful for whisking them around at a good clip, faster then most horses, and able to ignore terrain for the most part. The gloom of the forest was deepening as they pressed in towards the dark heart, but instead of the trees growing thicker and closer, they seemed to be opening up…and one big-arse tree was becoming visible above the towering pines.
“Our opponent is a tree?” Marcus asked, seeing the rising specter of the unnatural plant ahead of them.
“Aye…a very, very old tree,” Trencher whispered softly. “This is a thing of despair and fear, a product of all in nature that hates sentient minds.” He blanched despite himself. “The land feels it like a sore, but can do little.”
“Watch this. Estemar, stay tight…we’re going to need you. Marcus, this kill is going to have to be yours.” She leaned over the edge of the disk and met his coolly inquiring gaze. “If this is what I think it is, there’s a very hefty curse attached to killing it.”
The Colonel smiled coldly, drew Thorn slowly, and then sliced the dark blade through a passing pine limb, sending it crashing down behind them as a slick yet viscous black mist-wave began to congeal, trailing behind the sword’s edge. “Really? I’ll have to see that for myself. Sounds terribly frightful.”
A couple minutes later they were paused on the edge of a massive clearing…one nearly a klik across. Nothing moved in the center of this place except an unnatural wind…and a sound twitching at their ears.
And souls.
“May the Host preserve us.” The Evil Estemar could feel was so ancient and black it made the knight’s voice crack. “I…what manner of plant - ?”
“Night Twist. Old…thousands of years old. Just look at it…it must be two hundred feet tall. Druids don’t like to even mention them, but one of this size…I imagine it was easier to send the thing here then to dare to kill it.” Hazé’s hand indicated the huge clearing. “Perhaps there are treants around, but I rather think that even the plants don’t want to live close to it.”
“And we have to kill this thing?” Marcus sighed again. “Why do I have the feeling we are doing all the hard work some ancient inept sept of tree-huggers couldn’t bring themselves to do?”
Trencher barked out a dry laugh above, but it faded it the mournful dirge that seemed to hang in the air. “How do we fight the thing, Lady? I know nothing of it.”
“It feeds on death, fear and nightmares. Gird your will and prepare to face your nightmares. Marcus, it is animate, and as you might gather, immensely strong…”
“I’ll try not to stand still and let it devour me or crush me to a pulp.” Thorn lashed out again, and the black wave grew thicker yet behind him. “Cast your wards and take us in.”
================
“I am going to have nightmares for a month,” Trencher breathed, slowly levering himself to his feet, leaning heavily on his athame.
Marcus had blood coming out his eyes, ears and nose, which he ignored with a deadly cold calm as he continued to hew into the massive trunk of the great tree. Thorn was streaming solid black waves, sheering through nearly a forearm’s length of wood with every pass, slicing away huge chunks of dark wood that writhed away from the edge of the blade. He was tireless and focused and extremely ******, covered in stinking sap and unclean fluids and not slowing down in the slightest.
Estemar’s aura of faith had kept their fears at bay and sanity intact, the wards woven against the mental powers and lashing negative energies of the Twist sustaining them as the spellcasters bombarded the tree with fire and Marcus had proceeded to start hacking into it. Caught between a bombardment of fiery missiles and the hacking attacks that had cut into it with massively damaging blows, the Twist had eventually succumbed as a strike from the Colonel’s blade had literally sliced it open to its dark heart, splitting a massive gash down the trunk which quickly was ripped further asunder by his blade’s remorseless edge. Now he was endeavoring to cut the thing in two laterally, not just split it open…and making good progress.
“I imagine the wood from this thing would fetch a fortune from the right magi,” Trencher pointed out, as Forge began to thrum and a distant beat of steel on steel, the roar of an opening furnace, began to sound around them. He tasted salt on his lips, and realized he must be bleeding too.
“There are places they can go to, sooner, rather then later. Burn it to ash.” Hazé’s Shards spun again into place, burst into flame with a snap of pyromancy, and sped out trailing streams of fire in an intricate seven point, wheeling star. Where they struck, the wood of the ancient Twist began to burn.
“That’s going to take forever,” Trencher observed.
“Summon up an earth elemental and have it start ripping this thing apart. We don’t have a week to watch it burn…but there’s no way we can leave it intact for anyone,” Hazé hissed back, letting out another salvo. “The things I can imagine getting made from this creature’s wood you don’t want to think about…and make damn sure the elemental forces the roots up, and any and all saplings in the area. We are going to have to flame most of the area, so plan on bringing in a fire elemental too. I hope it doesn’t mind the work.”
“This place will be ash by the time I’m done,” Trencher promised grimly, and began to intone words older then Mror in a language as ancient as stone itself. Somewhere across the plains, he felt the answer with some satisfaction. The elemental was coming as requested, and aid would not be that hard to solicit. The corruption accompanying the Twist was best cleansed by fire, and the earth elemental would only be too eager to uproot and destroy such an insidious thing.
==============
“Well, isn’t this a fine mess.” Hazé wasn’t too happy.
They hadn’t anticipated much problem getting a feather…invisibility, telekinesis, a sharp sword, and a quick exit would have done the trick.
Except the oversized avian lay sprawled and hacked, quite dead, spread out over about the same amount of ground as a grand manor house.
“Any means to raise it from the dead?” mused Marcus sardonically. The wording of the quest had been quite specific.
“Well, the bastards took the heart too, and there’s some unhealthy magic about it…probably ripped out a bone or four…see there, left claw is missing! I’m afraid not…it would take the Keeper of the Flame to return this poor fellow back to life.” Hazé sighed at the waste of the once-magnificent animal.
“Well, they must want a fight. It’s been dead only a day or so. How far do you think they have gone?” Marcus cracked his knuckles in anticipation.
“I rather doubt they are all flying, but I could be mistaken. Perhaps the priest is whisking them around. Trencher will be able to locate them come nightfall…” she glanced at Trencher suddenly. “Don’t efreeti have the power to grant Wishes?”
The efreeti bellowed as he finally exploded the cage of ice he’d been encased in, flying and melting shards spraying everywhere as steam hissed off his burning skin. His rage lasted only a couple seconds as he looked about himself.
His mount was down, a single golden arrow driven through its huge, skeletal skull with fantastic precision…and the bone slowly dissolving to white chips around that blessed shaft.
One of the Sinstar brothers was sprawled next to the dwarf, his hands literally torn apart, and his skull quite stoven in. A fair amount of his brains were hissing on the dark metal of the flanged weapon being oriented in his direction.
The priest! The priest was dead! So fast! Rakémost the Destined gawked at the sight of the man who’d borne that terrifying Hand, skull looking back over his own shoulders, the deadly artifact’s stump writhing from where it had been stuffed far down into his gaping mouth. Obviously, he’d been rather surprised at his sudden death too…
There was no sign of the Devil except a blasted white circle that he knew at a glance meant the fiend had been banished to his home realm.
The only other survivor was the last of the tieflings. As he watched, a man…at least, he thought it was a Man, the helm had no face…had bent the tiefling into a horrifically unnatural angle despite all the demonchild’s frantic thrashings, inexorably forcing him back past the breaking point. Normally, the efreeti would have taken a macabre delight in the sudden crack and release as the tiefling’s spine gave way, and the Sinstar twin thrashed and jerked spasmodically in a prelude to death as the armored figure unwound himself from the tangle of limbs and rose to face the efreeti.
A cold hand touched the back of the noble efreeti’s head.
A very cold hand. The air began to liquify around his head.
“Do not move, O Lord of Fire, or I will freeze your very soul and bind it forever in ice eternal.”
Rakémost obligingly did not twitch, even as drops of liquid air fell onto his broad shoulders and burned more painfully then any acid. The voice was beautiful, the accent like daggers in the language of his people, tearing at his ears with the chill menace of it.
He let his mighty tulwar fall from his fiery grasp, just to be on the safe side.
“I understand that you have the power to grant Wishes to mortals, Prince of Perdition.” The elegant title tore at his thoughts painfully…no voice so cold should ever have spoken his native tongue! He shuddered despite himself.
“I do indeed, great Lady,” he answered carefully. Such a power had spared his life before, and would now spare it again.
A block of floating, crystalline ice…frozen air, he recognized with a shudder despite himself, and carved in ghostly letters of icefire that made his eyes weep flaming tears to gaze upon them. Ignan, written in rimefire! His mind recoiled just to behold it!
He read the Wishes carefully, thoughts racing on how to twist them. “Please, continue to think that way, Bey of the Coming Ash.” Great knees buckled as the cold words said so beautifully tore across his soul, and thoughts of betrayal and mischief fled him.
The wishes were clear, simple, and remarkably free of greed or benefit. They could even be deemed…altruistic? “And-and why the last Wish, Mistress of the Everice?” he asked, very carefully, not looking back, but deciding that a return of the complimentary language was very much in order.
A dark blur, and fiery eyes looked down at a runesword of such perfection as to make angels sing, runes to rip the mind of those whose aze fell upon them emblazoned along its scarlet-edged length…and the sword was looking back at him.
The efreeti gurgled in recogition. “You!” he managed to say, completely ignoring the creature who wielded the blade. It just watched, waiting, on more then one level, to strike him down…Oh Most Holy Sultan of the Heartflame, he began to pray, horror rising on many, many levels, not even thinking it wrong to pray to the very power he wished most in life to overthrow.
“Generous are my terms, Caliph of the Coming Inferno?” the icy voice whispered, sending icy soul-chills to complement the dark terror seizing the heart of the noble efreeti.
“More then generous!” Rakémost could not remember his voice ever breaking, but it did so now. “Done, done, and done!”
The black sword was lifted away, the wielder stepped back.
And the efreeti was gone.
Hazé stepped down from midair, letting the icy shards she’d summoned up fade from their dripping existence…along with the spectral runes that had been enhancing each and every one of them.
“Most impressive, Lady,” Estemar acknowledged, glancing at Thorn as Marcus sheathed it.
“It’s all in the inflections, most noble cavalier!” she replied with a swing of her hip, drawing a deep blush from the Topaz Knight. He hid his embarrassment with a sound of satisfaction as he shortly lifted from the supplies of the band of evildoers a great and elegant feather, torn from the breast of the King of Rocs. As if on cue, a great cry from some distance away rolled over the camp, sharper then any thunder…a great King of the animal world, reborn by the magic of genies.
“Trencher, what would it take to get some lead from you?” The dwarf lifted an eyebrow at his Colonel, who simply waved his gauntleted fist at the twitching skull of the dead Priest of Secrets, where a certain Hand was attempting to wriggle free of the corpse of its former servant.
“I’ll get right on it.” The dwarf sat down to meditate and Marcus caught Hazé’s approving nod in passing.
======================
Marcus called it the Whistle of the Dreamer, and it was one of his few vanities and trademarks. He didn’t relate where he’d learned it, simply because of the amusement value of it. It was one of the few things where he allowed himself to indulge his sense of humor.
Simply put, the Whistle didn’t echo, and was virtually impossible to triangulate. This could make it maddeningly annoying to attempt to locate for just about anyone…the sound carried extraordinarily well over some distance, if you knew how to throw it. If you were really good, you could even set up a haunting tune with it to really drive someone nuts.
That was what he was doing now.
The last creature they had to face was a Nightmare Beast, sitting in this steaming cave ensconced above a valley of thorns and briars only a rabbit might love. None of them really wanted to go into the place…he’d drummed too many solid tactics into their heads. So, they had to make the creature come out.
Which is why he was alone inside the cave, and he was Whistling.
It required precise application of internal energy, concentration, and breathing control. He kept up the tune as he stole into the cave, his armor as noiseless as shadows amid shadows, steam and mist contributing to the lack of sight, and the whistle competing with the distant hiss of steam and dripping of water.
Place smelled of sulfur and Evil. He was almost surprised to find himself calling it that, but that was the only apt term that came to mind. He was pretty sure the essence of the beast was instilled into the very stones, and that poor, blessed Estemar had a roiling headache just being near this place.
But, this thing that fed on fear and nightmares couldn’t track him, couldn’t sense him, and it was waiting. It knew the others were outside, and now it knew someone was inside…and it had to be looking for him.
He timed it perfectly, and lept over the first of the two chasms in midburst of steam gouting up from below, the whisper of his motion lost in the hissing of the vent.
He heard it beyond the second vent as he crouched, the drawing in of great lungs. There. The huge head, which Hazé had thoughtfully holo’d for them all, would be moving back and forth…looking for fliers, wall-crawlers, shapeshifters, magical sources of the maddening sound. Hidden in the roiling clouds of steam, ready to burst forth.
He lifted his crossbow, keeping his eyes closed, orienting in on the sound of the breathing. Huge nostrils over gaping jaws…massive tusks…eyes would be about…there…
He turned his head, and altered the pitch of his whistle for one note. For a moment, it echoed in the direction he was facing.
There was the faintest snort as the huge head turned.
He pulled the trigger.
The roar as his bolt drove home into the creature’s eye shook the stones under his feet. Without the slightest hesitation, he skipped backwards and jumped again, as something Big came looming up out of the other side of the second vent, orienting on the sound of his crossbow going off.
His heel hit the ground, skittered on stone as he turned and ran. Vibrations rang through his feet as the mass of the creature hit the ground…once, twice as it jumped with the ease of elemental power and vast familiarity –
And he was outside and leaping airily over the edge, seeing the rope left for him and grabbing it in midair as he dove off the edge of the cliff as the Beast of Nightmare drove out of the steaming darkness behind him.
Behind it, its lair flowed abruptly shut.
Golden shards tore into the creature, exploded across the writhing scales and ripped them free in flaming glory. Reflex saved its other eye as a pair of golden shafts drove in, punching through the massive scales and drawing a countering roar of pain even as the elemental Trencher had summoned reached up from below and clamped onto the massive foreclaws.
It was much too big and powerful to be held by even something as strong as an earth elemental, but that was only a delaying tactic. It recognized the threat instantly, kicking back at the wall blocking its retreat, knowing that trying to run down the mountainside was going to get it killed by the two flying people out of its fight range. The stone was too thick to be shattered in one blow, even as it tore free of the elementals grasp with pure brute strength.
The fountain of lava came rumbling up from the heart of its mountain and caught it squarely, raging twenty paces into the air as it seared the mighty Beast. A second pair of arrows hit the side of its skull, and one exploded with terrible brilliance, a pain that seared it physically and mentally with awful purity. Another salvo of golden missiles raked its foreleg, and it almost fell…just before the elemental latched onto that weakened limb again.
And then Marcus somehow came swinging up from nowhere almost right into its jaws. The creature had only an instant to behold the figure of a Man coming up and around out of nowhere before the black blade he held plunged deep into the plate-sized remaining orb.
Marcus hit hard and Thorn drove in full length, reaching hungrily for the brain. Without any hesitation he left it there as he kicked free, using the instinctive toss of the Beast’s head to impel him back over the edge, his grip on the rope unbroken. His whoop of glee was most uncharacteristic of him, but he forgave himself.
The Beast thrashed once, twice, and then the final salvo of fire and golden glory tore into him with eerie simultaneity, blowing its skull into flaming ash with the pure brutal impact of elemental fire following vengeful godfire and blessed missiles to the source. With a long and horrible bellow, the Beast collapsed, and as it did, it began to burn.
Marcus swung up further down the trail smoothly, smiling to himself as the things head blew off. He resisted the urge to swagger as he strolled back towards the burning carcass…what, they hadn’t thought he couldn’t swashbuckle if he needed to? Silly underlings…
==Aelryinth
Marcus rolled his eyes and threw up his hands, turning to face the others. “Hazé,” he growled, sliding deceptively backwards. She cocked an eyebrow at him and began to glide subtly forwards. “You said we were done with the fighting!”
She looked over his shoulder at the angry fey guardian, who looked impatient for a battle to begin, smiling cheerily. “Oh, come now, Marcus. You know how the tales go. First you have to jump through all the tests, trials, and tribulations the guardians put before you to prove your worth. Then, said guardians still don’t believe you are worthy and you have to beat them all up to prove your prowess anyways. Did you really expect this to be any different?”
Marcus grit his teeth. “Honestly? No, I didn’t.”
He was ten paces away from the indignant Watcher who’d levied his challenge. He hopped backwards, and his left arm whipped around.
The Watcher blinked in astonishment, despite himself, as very suddenly Marcus’ left hand of searing cold metal was clasped around his wrist, connected by a long and taut metal thread to the stump of the warrior’s arm.
Marcus pulled, and as he pulled, he lept.
The Watcher was strong, but this was a case of physics and balance as much as strength. He was jerked forwards, his arm forced across his body to interfere with bringing his weirdly configured spear into play, and Marcus’ other hand was coming around to meet him halfway.
Hazé winced with the others as fist met face, and Watcher and Colonel slammed together and fell sprawling.
“Poor bastard,” Hazé murmured, detouring around the place where Marcus was relentlessly wrapping up the Watcher like a pretzel and applying pressure. The nimbus of insects had spiraled free…the banners of elemental power were hanging listlessly…the cloak of nettles was writhing madly and not deterring him in the slightest…the fallen spear wasn’t sparking…and the Watcher didn’t have a noble nose anymore, just a flat smear across his face. His brethen looked shocked, afraid even, as Marcus bent their fellow into ways no biped should ever want to be bent with shocking speed, and then lifted the left hand which had started the whole mess, now right back where it belonged.
The stunned guardian might have been trying to surrender. Instead, the fist crashed into the side of his face, as strong as any hammer forged, and the struggling Watcher went limp.
“Now, now, don’t look astonished. Couldn’t you tell he is Forsaken?” Hazé waved lazily at Marcus as she stepped up next to the seeming leader of the guardians, her wards snapping as the insects whirling about the Watchers bounced off and began to build up a fairly thick blanket around her feet before smartly avoiding her.
“Forsaken? A Hero of the Prophecy?” The Watcher looked astonished despite himself.
“Well, no, we just sort of dragged him into this mess, and are using him to get things done. He just likes to fight.” She smiled as Marcus got to his feet, and strode unconcernedly towards the other Watchers, who all clenched their strange spears reflexively. Their insects spiraled away from him, the cloud parting before him as he stopped in front of the lead watcher, a polite pace away.
“I trust,” he said, with a dreadfully icy calm, leaning forwards, “that the tests are concluded.”
The look in his eyes and the scars on his face did not indicate he was going to take a negative response well.
The Watcher nodded slowly. “I…am impressed, warrior. I would never have thought that one of the Forsaken…” he trailed off as he regarded his unconscious fellow. Carefully, he bowed to the scarred man without magic, without destiny, without fortune. “I would offer you a boon, in admiration of your skills, but I fear it would do you no good…”
“I like memento weapons. Forge me a spear shaped like yours and I’ll call it even, Watcher,” Marcus replied evenly. “Now, my associates came looking for some secret knowledge. I would appreciate it if you would oblige them.”
“Of course. A boon to each of them, as well, for their fine deeds.” From off his back, the Watcher plucked the misting banner and presented it to Hazé, who lifted an eyebrow as she took it from him. “Bear these into battle against the foes of the Land, you have earned them. Rockborn, this is for you.” Trencher walked up, sparing no glance for the fallen brother, who was just starting to mumble and stir, and accepted the banner of earthen brown, spilling sand and dust in an unseen wind in his hands. “And Knight of the Host, a fire to carry with you.” The flaming banner was accepted graciously by the Topaz Guardian from his hands.
“Behold the Fountain of Secrets!” The Watcher waved his hand, and upon the formerly featureless plaza upon which they stood, now an immense and ornate fountain appeared, carved in a thousand tales and water as sparkling and pure as light falling from a hundred openings. Hazé clapped her hands in delight, Trencher leaned forwards to get a better look at the stonework, and Estemar promptly knelt in reverence for the divine power he could feel contained within it.
Marcus sighed. Yes, yes, the great revelation is upon us, all the world rejoice and sing, he mused acerbically.
“You have but to drink, and the knowledge you seek shall be visited upon you,” the Watcher proclaimed. Marcus turned to look at him, and the certainty in the Watcher’s eyes wavered just a bit.
“Power of Heaven, Marcus.” Hazé was sliding around the fountain as if the ground were ice and her feet were skates, getting an intense look at it from all sides…impressing it into her memory, he knew. “You’ll probably have to drink directly from the waters, however.”
“How wonderful.” He watched the last of the Watchers get unsteadily to his feet, looking quite surprised that the arm Marcus had wrenched out of joint still wasn’t in place…and that his face and head were still all messed up. “You are assuming I want all these secrets in my head.”
“And which of us can make the best use of them?” she replied archly. He made an exasperated sound, hating arguing with her.
“Are you quite done with your appreciation of the architecture? I would like to get this over with.”
“Our ever-patient Colonel? Please.” He sighed, crossed his arms, and simply waited as she made her circuit, leaning in closer and then rising right up off the ground to glide in closer to the central spire to get more details. The Watchers looked on impassively, except the one with no nose who was still holding his head and leaning on one of the others, and keeping a careful distance from Marcus. Estemar and Trencher helped each other place their new banners behind their backs, floating in midair behind their heads, flapping with a life of their own. Catching the sight of them, Hazé’s rose of its own accord from her grasp to snap firmly into place as well.
Her gratified smile indicated it was time. Marcus uncrossed his arms and tried not to grimace at the thought of drinking the too-pure waters, which were glittering like crystal, gleaming with a light and life of their own.
He didn’t miss the expectant light in the eye of the Watchers, and carefully hid his own smile as he stepped forwards with the others. They all bent carefully to drink at the crystalline waters…except Marcus. He plunged his head right in and took a deep swallow.
===========
The magic inside his head was pounding at his skull. It felt very wrong and rather painful as it roared through his brain, and space and time seemed to flow around him…and go hurtling by.
Again with the wrenching at his proper place in the cosmos. This wasn’t some instilling of knowledge…they were moving again?
And this wasn’t a vision…it was too crisp, too clear.
It was a battlefield.
Commander’s reflexes snapped into place as he measured sizes, analyzed battle units and the lines they were drawn up in. Great forces, large numbers…humanoids and men, in as large of numbers as he’d seen on any field in the Last War. Opposing them, equally huge armies of undead, shaming anything the Karrns had brought into battle…skeletons and zombies, many of them dripping with the telltale worms…the great skeletal warriors they’d faced before…the worm-infested beetles, the naga-like spellcasters, the fell Knights of Worms, worms larger then dragons, Dragons spewing gouts of worms, centipedes that made the very earth writhe around them, house-sized scorpions that seemed to be turning living soldiers against their own…
And over it all…more Dragons? This was a part of the damn Prophecy?
Oh, he wasn’t happy at all now.
Just look at the Gods-damned size of that skeletal Red over there…had to be Dargatha himself.
Tremendous amount of magic being leveled here, mostly elemental and druidic, but he was more concerned with the undead then analyzing the defenders, even as they swooped over the massive legions and down towards a column of rock extending from a rise overlooking the battle.
Druids there, bent and bloodied, and they guarded something.
With an almost jarring jolt, he was physical again. Thorn hissed out into his hand, and he was looking west at the battle beyond. Dex disgorged his shield and he was ready to fight.
The others were here, looking dazed for just an instant. From the people in front of them, an older man moved forwards, and spoke.
Marcus let the words move in one ear and out the other, fixating on what they guarded, and his eyes narrowing as the Silver Dragon in elf form stepped forwards, as beautiful now as she would be some day in the future. She looked truly magnificent as she took flight, but the others were looking at him, and the way he was facing as he strode away.
He was always looking for threats, and he’d seen the things climbing the side of the pillar. The warning of the druids fell on deaf ears…he was already charging as the first squad heaved itself over the edge of their little retreat, and Hazé shouted at him to get down.
He rolled to the side. From overhead and past him, a cone of golden shards filled the air with hissing death, pounding holes in these warriors of the worm with every impact. Then a rolling wave of stone turned itself to mud, and suddenly these undead were trying to climb muck.
He smirked as the side of the pillar flowed away, taking with it many, many undead for a long, hard ride a long ways down. Of course there were more, on other sides…and other creatures.
It heaved itself over the edge, body long enough to find a grasp away from the running cascade of mud which was flowing down the side of the column and carrying away dozens of skull things. It didn’t expect itself to be heaving up right next to him, and it instinctively tried to take a bite at him.
It was made all of bones, a serpentine creature of such. He didn’t know what necromancy was woven into something made of so many bones, and he didn’t really care. Without even thinking about it, he sheared through a skeletal eye with Thorn, and the sword’s runes began to glow with that feral green light he was so familiar with by now…bloodfire of the Worm.
It tried to pull away, but there was literally nowhere to go to escape him. Thorn ripped into the mass of bones in great reaving cuts, and tore the essence of the creature from it. The upper half of it almost seemed to explode around him in wormfire as Thorn carved the bones like water, and sent the beast crashing back and away and down in a hollow, screeching mass of fragmenting bones.
That was one. He didn’t know how much time the Druids needed, but they had the right bunch of heroes along to help the problem.
Trencher made a wall of stone around half the edge of the plateau with a pounding strike of his athame…a wall rather too thin to support its own weight, jutting out horizontally instead of vertically. It cracked at the base and broke off…and swept away a lot more undead as it did so.
Hazé was building a circle of winds that was expanding out around the druids and their party. One thing skeletons didn’t have was mass, and mass was about the only thing that was going to let them resist the building cyclone. They were scampering over the edge as fast as they could…and then the vortex of winds swept out and hurled them away like toys for a long, long fall to the ground.
Another one of the skeletal worm things heaved itself over the edge…and caught four arrows in its head, two directly in the eyes. There was a brief moment of hesitation, and then the things head blew right off in a blaze of golden fire.
You’d almost think we had experience fighting these things. Marcus smirked as he smashed the heads in of those trying to crawl up his side of the column, until the vortex came out far enough and began to extend down the side of the stone pillar, and he could watch dozens, then scores of skeletal worm-things get ripped away from the mountain and go tumbling to smash, crash and break to bits on the unfriendly stones below.
Unaffected by the magical winds, he strode back to the others…and the rather impressed looking druids, who had obviously completed their preparations. They were looking to Hazé, who was standing in midair, eyes Open and maintaining the circle of winds that would deny anything less then a real Dragon passage to them.
A distant roar of final pain caught his ears, and he looked back in time to see a great silver form fall deep, deep into the scar in the land below.
So, she was killed by Dargatha himself, he thought, watching as the dying dragon vanished from sight. And so many necromancers like nothing more then to make their greatest foes servants of their wills…
He almost felt sorry for her.
Whatever the druids said, he lost it in the winds and the sudden swirl of mists and memory that swept him up and sent them howling back up the corridor of time again…and hopefully, back to where they belonged.
================================
The four fey didn’t look happy. Actually, they looked both surprised and confused.
They were back in the real world. Marcus could feel it deep in his bones, a relaxing and familiar presence as he breathed in real air. Behind them, the mesa led down to a familiar ocean, with tumbled ruins, and a great many broken ships that suddenly weren’t being pounded by a millennia-old storm. Before them, the unspoiled glory of the island sprawled ahead of them…but something was definitely changed, now.
“What have you done?” the oldest of the fey demanded, doubtless completely at a loss and using anger to cover his confusion.
“It would be unseemly to punish the living creatures of the island for their prison finally being unwoven, noble warden. The efreeti who was here granted me a Wish to bend the magic of the land into something that might endure more closely with the magic of Eberron proper when the great magic you had woven started to unravel. This entire island is now a Manifest zone to Lammania, the Wild Lands.” Her golden eyes danced sunnily as she glided forwards, completely ignoring his nettles and shroud of insects, to kiss him on the cheek. “Now, it is finally time for you to once again build the Order of the Storm, instead of merely sitting and waiting for time to catch up to you. I look forwards to hearing of the rebirth of your ancient traditions.”
The four fey were trying very hard not to gape at her for such effrontery and foresight. Marcus hid a smile as he turned away, looking south.
“The Stormwolf is here,” he announced dryly. Indeed, the airship was moored almost directly over the mass of ruined vessels, and a fair number of men were clambering over the wrecks, looking for wealth and loot. “Wardens, the Orcs of the marshes have a very strong and ancient tie to the druidic orders. They might be more receptive then you think to an offer to remain behind in such a wild and free land.”
There was no immediate response, as the fey obviously had not put a great deal of thought and planning into what would happen after their guardianship of the secrets of their Order was ended.
“Patience brought him in quick,” Estemar mused, coming up beside his Colonel, appreciating the sight of the Wolves quick at work. “Perhaps if I go with you, I could begin the overtures to the Orcs, who doubtless have considered that getting into a fight with an airship is not the wisest course of action.”
“I think these fey will need the help.” Marcus didn’t lower his voice, turning around to gaze upon the somehow lessened, but still magnificent view of the unspoiled island behind them. “They are going to be busy beating off the claimants to this prime real estate. At least Hazé insured they wouldn’t be bored.”
“She is so very considerate of others.” The two of them started down into the tumbled ruins of ancient and weathered stones, the ground suspiciously dry already, leaving Hazé and Trencher behind to speak to the rather stunned Wardens whose long servitude, instead of ending, was now beginning a far more active phase instead.
===============
“We made quite a haul before those Warden creatures finally showed up and claimed the remaining spoils, sir,” Captain Patience saluted the Colonel. “The Lady is valuing it now. Some old coin down there…a fair number of antique pieces. Quite a prize catch, if I may say so, sir.” The towering Warforged was well pleased with the efficiency of her salvage operations.
“Excellent. Inform my wife that we can eat whenever she is finished.” The Captain inclined her graven head and backed out of the planning chamber, closing the door firmly behind her.
“She must have been impatient, daring to ‘port aboard.” Hazé didn’t bother to hide her amusement. The Colonel’s wife Ana was a wonderful woman and a very skilled artificer, and was great friends with the Khorovar Witch…but always felt threatened by the combination of her husband and the indigo-haired Lady Hazé, not the least because of the common knowledge that Hazé was very attracted to the Forsaken Colonel, on many levels.
“We can use her where we are going.” Marcus turned his attention back to the hard light map that Hazé had raised…a long and twisting scar in the ground, in which rose a city, an old and inhuman city not built for human inhabitants. “You found the place amazingly quickly, Hazé.”
“The lore of the Order is popping up all over. I’ve got nine reference volumes that spoke not a whisper of it, and now, there are whole pages and passages in them that speak as if their existence was common knowledge.” She smiled dazzlingly at the sheer audacity of it all. “It would have been fun to see the expression on the face of that priest had he managed to drink from the Fountain, and set loose all these secrets, instead of tying them up for his own use.”
“So, it’s a fairly strong chance that the servants of the Wormhead are going to have this knowledge too.”
“They probably don’t know the phylactery is being held here precisely…but they’ll deduce it quickly enough. Giant Kings called to guard and ward against great dragons…you couldn’t really be too much less subtle.” She sniffed, then smiled again. “We can expect a fair number of Dragons, if the Heavens have any sense of things. This is not going to be a safe place for anyone, especially the airborne…the Dragons will definitely challenge anything that’s a threat to aerial superiority.”
“And turn out in enough force that the Demons won’t want to interfere…at least too strongly.” Marcus eyed the city in the gorge, a massive rip in the ground just east of the haunted and ancient lands of the Demon Wastes, and with depths unplumbed in ages. Only the most foolish of the Eldeen ever bothered to approach the place…giants and demons made for an unkind mix to the curious. “This could easily get interesting, Hazé.”
“I plan on watching your wife and those wands of hers shine.” The Khorovari laughed musically. “And then we claim the heads and go after the hoards…after the important stuff is done, of course.”
“Of course,” Marcus agreed dryly, contemplating their penetration of the ancient city and its secrets.
===Aelryinth
Take a breather!
===Aelryinth
Worms, Wyrms, Dragons, Giants…and a Crawler bigger then any.
“How many Dragons are we talking about?”
Hazé manipulated her hard-light image effortlessly as she relayed the sights of the homonculous eye giving a live-action report from well above the ancient Giant canyon-city. The holo was splendidly precise and unlifelike, much more comfortable to work with then some crafted illusion. There were grids for measuring distance, hostiles ‘painted’ different hues to denote data, even exaggerated details of importance like the hardpoints from where the Jotuns still carried on a losing battle.
“At least two dozen. Verifying types.” The telescopic lenses of the Eye In the Sky, promptly shortened to just Eis, were uncannily accurate and well out of threat range of any of the Dragons swooping around the massive rift below.
Dragons began to wink and get charted by relative size and hue, lining up on the side of the display for his assessment and easier sorting. He clinically noted the way they were prowling in brood packs based on color, and the majority were indeed smaller and younger Dragons. Eis had picked out at least half-a-dozen Dragon carcasses spread around the city, with who knew how many now lying deep at the bottom of it and feeding whatever grew there.
“A dozen acid spitters, nearly that many cloud-spewers, a half-dozen lightning breathers, and some exceptionally large ones.” Marcus leaned forwards with the others as Hazé broke the Dragons down into squads. “This is with an invisibility sweep active?”
“Yes, Marcus.” Hazé almost let her professionalism slip to tease him, but kept it in check.
“The commander is there.” Marcus’ eyes were narrowed as he studied the formations and patterns of the great reptiles both a-wing and on foot, spewing their breath weapons against the fortifications, or stalking amidst the devastation with the daintiness of great scaled cats. “The elder blue and green ones are covering different sectors, and that spiked monstrosity is either squatting or stalking. When they converge, they always do on one point – that Dragon.” His finger stabbed at the center of the city’s defense, a lonely tower isolated on a pinnacle of rock, with a commanding view of the entire city, and the siege equipment to go with it.
Hazé’s elegant eyebrows lifted, and the view from Eis spun rapidly as the construct whizzed over the canyon, aiming for a closer look at the big red Dragon. Invisible and with alchemical paint that reflected the hue of the skies about it, even dragonsight was not going to pick out the drone from over three hundred paces above the fighting as it stopped.
Eis got no closer…the presence of the draconic commander was all that was needing confirmation. Clearly larger then any of the other Dragons, edges of its scales just starting to grow black, and with dozens of gems and gold pressed into the scales of its underside, it was quite a magnificent sight. “Brazzenmalen, I believe? The reports were he died in Droaam about a generation ago…” Hazé studied the sweeping grandeur of the Dragon as it vented a raging inferno against the stonework of the fortifications, the assisting Green Dragons swooping in behind to follow its lead.
“And no white dragons about. I believe we’ve found the proper element to work with here.” Marcus nodded to his wife, who smiled thinly. She had half a dozen wands and rods in place at forearms, belt, back and thighs, with numerous other surprises hidden away in the pockets of her vest and belt.
“And only the one red. Good news.” Forge beat once, distant hammer on steel, in Trencher’s big hands.
“Sir, I count 3 flights of the younger blacks taking orders from greens, a trio of greens overseen by two of the blue, and four greens.” He reached out with an arrow to indicate the various groupings. “This large blue also has his two escorts, and the large green and the spiked one – “
“Fang Dragon. By his size, I’d say that’s probably Xyzanth himself,” Hazé interrupted smoothly. “He’s been stalking the mountains of the southwest for centuries.”
Estemar tilted his head in acknowledgement. “Both are ‘running solo’ as it were. The other dragons seem to be specifically avoiding the area the Fang Dragon is prowling about.”
“It’s a hunter…it doesn’t want to share the kill.” Marcus studied the overview of the city, then shifted his view to the extension where the big red was. “I believe classic decapitation is called for. Let’s see how these Dragons hold up their assault when the General dies…and hopefully dies very, very quickly.”
“Oi, sir, but there’s so many we could kill and be about looting!” Trencher complained with a grumble, visions of two dozen dragon hoards evaporating before him. Marcus barely glanced at him, and the dwarf dropped his eyes promptly, muttering under his breath about ‘blasted mission objectives’ and ‘fighting priorities.’
“Relay to Patience…bring the Wolf in closer overland. Hazé, if you and My Lady might dispose of the commander, the rest of us will go in by a more convenient route.” For him, anyways. “Join up when you are done.”
“Of course.”
“We’ll see if Patience can’t stir up enough interest to at least bring one of those wings out to retaliate. I imagine a quick strafing run from above should get their attention and stress that aerial superiority isn’t theirs anymore.” There were several glances around the table…the full power of the Stormwolf was actually going to be put to the test, after nearly a decade? “Blood and fire, people. Let’s kill us some Dragons.”
=======================
Ana had to admit that watching Hazé at work was, well, enchanting. Just like most everything else about the Witch of Siberys.
The pair of them were ensconced on the lip of the Rift ledge overlooking the Red commanding Dragon, preparing for a very singular one-shot assault. Ana was waiting on word from Hazé to begin the infusing on the wand she had ready, while watching her friend and inadvertent rival for her husband’s affections at work.
Bands of shimmering runework spun about Hazé’s waist and hands as she wove the layers of magic into place, crystalline energy flowing back and forth and acquiring an icy tinge, while disruptive, lashing chaotic polyhued currents rolled themselves into the runic circles. The power of the display was making her hair stand on edge, an exercise in drawing pure magical energy from the stars and binding it into contingent spells in series, and the fell beauty of the khorovari hovering there in midair, flawless face a mask of serenity as her indigo hair billowed in the constrained flow of power, was making Ana fight hard to control her envy.
Hazé popped open one of her eyes, gone all full of stars, and deliberately winked at her.
Ana made an exasperated sound, tapping her foot impatiently. Hazé smiled at the show of pique as wedges of crystalline ice, dripping liquid air, slid into place around her right arm, one ring of seven, another of five, spinning in opposite directions; and runic wheels ensconced each display, spinning counter to them, a dizzying, hypnotic sight.
“Ready.” From her left hand, a standard flow of crystalline shards burst out, expanded, joined together seamlessly into a floating circle.
Ana calmly concentrated on her wand, requiring much less time to perform her task then had Hazé, who had also taken up a rod of Dragonbone in her right hand. Her other magic was largely continuous and not to be expended unless needed…and she didn’t expect to need it overlong. It took only a handful of breaths for her to prepare, and then, taking a deep breath, she stepped up on the floating disk next to Hazé.
She felt the subtle tinge of dominus gravitae take hold as the two women stood back to back, Hazé holding out that deadly arm of frozen death, Ana ready with her wand.
“Mouse takes Wyrm,” Hazé said with a low laugh, and they were hurtling over the side.
The Dragon called Brazzenmalen was some hundred paces below the lip and out into the canyon even further…the pair of them flew out over the ledge, and smoothly inverted and plunged down.
No surprises allowed…Eis had been watching him the whole time, and they had his position precisely mid-flight, coming out of a lazy attack run, directly below and away from them. The world spun for Ana, but there was no sensation of vertigo as the disks dominance of gravity kept both of them firmly in place. They were free-falling towards the Dragon, driving down diagonally, wand and arm swinging ‘up’ into place, pointing ahead and down, and Ana heard Hazé hiss the first word.
Seven spinning shafts of radiant polychromatic light speared down in an instant, winding into a corkscrew effect that slammed into the Red even as its head snapped up in surprise at the assault. Magical energies tore apart, particularly on his foreclaws, Ana easily identifying the abjurative energies that now turned back on the Dragon and lashed it with its own power.
Both of them hissed the words of release, and the air went white with cold.
Hazé’s double volley of icy force-shards led the way, and liquid air spun madly away from their descent path as they drove down, growing with solidified water vapor as they did, until like massive spears they smashed into the great Dragon.
Ana’s attack was nothing so pretty. It was pure brutal elemental power, and the pair of icy globes were more then a pace wide as they were vented out of the wand she held, and followed by two more as she drew on the power within the wand to release more.
The backlash of freezing air as the four orbs hit could have frozen them solid…the disk spun them out of the way, bouncing them off the wall of liquefying air in front of them and away, clutching at the frost on their fingers as they re-inverted and swooped away, looking back to see what had become, wand and arm instantly re-acquiring.
Ana didn’t hesitate, and sent two more orbs with a spoken word into the holocaust of ice and frost billowing out there from the impact points.
Hazé’s gentle laughter was all the confirmation Ana needed that their target was dead. Hissing streams of flash-frozen and equally quickly liquefying and evaporating air streamed away from the hurtling tableau of the rime-covered Dragon, the front half of its body encapsulated in ice, including the wide-open mouth, wings stiff and framed in ice and carrying it away and down towards the city on the ledge. The very end of its tail twitched once in reflex, and then the burning light faded from the Dragon’s eyes.
“Shall we catch up to the boys?” Hazé asked, eyes on the far side of the city, where a great dark shadow had come over the lip and was now coming down…the Stormwolf, making its approach. Two Pups zipped past it, and even at this distance they could see the flash of Orb Cannons going off, and seconds later hear the screams of Dragons.
“I would rather catch up to more Dragons,” Ana said firmly. Hazé just smiled and concentrated, and the disk spun away. Behind them, it was long breaths before the gliding carcass of the great red smashed first into the canyon wall, and head and neck broke apart like brittle, shiny red china, before the rest of the body slammed into the stone with a gargantuan impact, and then slowly and grandly fell towards the city-ledge below.
The first of the four assisting greens made the mistake of thinking the two women standing in midair were unprepared for it. Ana leveled her wand, Hazé extended her arm alongside, and magic sang a chilling note in the ancient air of the Rift Canyon.
================
-Porting!- Venshelhein sang out from his observation point in the prow, and the big blue dragon winked out of Patience’s sight. Without even thinking, the Captain of the Stormwolf lept, spinning the Main Gun melded to her right fist around on its pintel mount, landing precisely at the point required. The long barrel of the Orb Cannon oriented perfectly on the proper point in space, the end result of hours of long practice, and Patience bent her will to the release.
The big blue was likely surprised when, instead of popping up amidships, its jump in space was shunted out to directly in front of the razor-sharp prow of the diving Stormwolf…and equally badly for the Dragon, directly in front of the Main Gun.
All three barrels went BOOM, the concussion enough to drive any crewman nearby from their feet, had they been silly enough to stand within ten paces. Patience weathered the blast stoically…not so the Dragon, as barely visible triple arrays of sonic force drove into it a breath before the full mass of the Stormwolf.
Azure scales blew away, and the Dragon was reflexively roaring in agony even before the ship smashed into revealed blood, bone and muscle with horrid, crunching force, slamming it backwards through the air as, undeterred, the superior mass of the warship forged ahead.
The massive head came whipping down on the deck, crunching hard on the ironwood, directly in front of the Main Gun. The stunned elder Dragon had only a dazzled moment to consider the precariousness of that position before Patience triggered the Orb Cannon again.
The Concussion blew the front part of its skull and jaws clean away, sent head and neck whipping away to peel the rest of the body off of the prow in grand, slow motion as the great beast went limp. Patience watched it fall away from the corner of a glowing eye, pivoting sideways as the two younger blues suddenly checked their progress, seeing their Elder die so quickly.
The two port Side Mounts opened up with their own distinctive sounds, one like a great hammer smiting steel, the other the gong of a massive bell. Both oriented precisely on the forwards target, as trained, and their impact sent the Dragon spinning through the air wildly, ample evidence of the skill of Bar and Bell.
Confirm the kill. The Side Mounts re-oriented on the other Dragon, which was hastily performing a wingover and dropping rapidly out of range in wild retreat, and the Main Gun roared and sent its load after the first target. That one never quite recovered from its spin as the second shot reached out and introduced the Stormwolf’s Roar, descending into a broken, wheeling spin that ended with a crashing impact into the stones of the city below.
Dragons were scattering away from the path of the ship…which was the most foolish thing to do, as the Orb Cannons couldn’t fire straight down.
A foolish Black went down, smashed against the side of the Rift wall as it attempted to swoop down on Rhongas’ Pup, and wingman Felgas promptly came in above it and drove a howling shot into it. Rhongas spun over, vented his props, and shot up almost vertical as he worked the Pup into a spin, and added his own barking shot to that of his wingmate. The stunned Dragon went tumbling madly, and both Pups shot away with speed that could dazzle even Dragons.
Patience acquired another black from that same flight, mentally signing Cymbal and Horn, and the Stern mounts rang out with their musical detonations as the Stormwolf dipped to provide them a better view. The Roar followed suit, and another Dragon spun away to die.
Dragons scattered, the Stormwolf roared through over the Rift, leaving the city quickly behind. Belch let go a single burp of the aft mount, and Patience heard his laughter over the link as he got lucky and smashed another black into one of the steel chains crossing the city below, sending it end over end into a headlong dive as the chain wrapped around it and gave it no time to recover from the jolt. The boulder that was pulled out of the canyon wall was happy to finish anything the impact with the ground didn’t do as it came down atop the hapless Dragon.
The big props were roaring happily as the PME’s worked their tireless revolutions, and drove the Stormwolf up and into the sun once again. Behind the great airship, Dragons scattered and milled in confusion and uncertainty.
“Later,” Marcus said in no uncertain terms, letting Trencher’s muffled curses slide off him as the dwarf put away an adamantium skinning knife brought down for just this purpose. The burned, battered, and specifically white-mouthed Green with a fiendish bloodline didn’t object as the three warriors clambered over it and trotted towards the city.
Marcus watched the Stormwolf sweep in, the resulting carnage, and nodded to himself as Dragons began to drop, scatter, get out of the air or below weapons range. A couple made the mistake of getting close to the trio…while Marcus wasn’t the archer that Estemar was, he was very good with a Mror crossbow, and Trencher, of course, was more then happy to make any Dragon that came into range pay dearly. Wounded from battles with the giants, the blacks were startlingly quick to die from the lethality and accuracy of fire and magic from below as they tried to take shelter from the thunderous death coming down from above.
Marcus could also calculate what every roar, bark, belch, ring, horn and other sound cost, and knew he’d best be able to salvage these Dragons, or he’d be losing a bloody fortune here. Not that he wouldn’t do exactly that, to stop what was coming…
Flashes of blue-white light on the opposite side of the city drew his attention, coupled with the crystalline flash of Hazé’s disk. The ladies were taking full advantage of the fleeing Dragons to pelt them with more magic, and Ana especially was having quite the field day. He smiled to himself – his Mouse so seldom got to show her stuff – and watched pairs of white death go hurtling this way and that, and screaming dragons fall from the air, chased by crystalline streams on the way down.
Trencher and Estemar whistled in unison, and Marcus glanced at them in irritation as they moved into the ruins of the city, past the great towers and sundered doors that were fused and melted by dragonflame and acid.
“She’s accounted for nine so far, sir,” Estemar said apologetically. Marcus just grunted and looked away so they couldn’t see him smile. “The Giants in the tower took a shot at the pair of them, so they aren’t pressing the bastards, but the two remaining greens there have pulled out. They’ve been popping blacks out of the air on the other side of the city.”
“Where’s the big Fanged bastard?” He studied the sprawled corpses of Giants and Dragons, wondering exactly how much of a re-enactment of Xen’drik of old this was, and kept going forwards, eyes alert for signs of attack.
“It seems to be watching the pair of them at the chokepoint ahead. It doesn’t seem particularly eager to engage with them,” Estemar relayed after a short moment. “Sir, looks like the rest of the Dragons are breaking away.”
A last blast of ice and crystal in the distance sped away from them.
“How about the big bastard?”
“Still watching…although he’s definitely ready to take cover if anything happens.”
“Or teleport away? Have Hazé send him a warning shot up his nose…I think he’ll get the message to move along, and get back to prowling his lands for fiends and not helping out undead Wyrms.”
“Sir.” A heartbeat later, a double flash of crystal lept across intervening distance, and a faint snarl rumbled through the stones ahead. “Dragon’s gone, sir…teleportation.”
“Have her get a lock on the location…it’s a loose end to be cleaned up.” Estemar made an ‘o’ with his mouth as he realized what his Colonel had done…neatly sent away something that could drain their resources, and yet kept it secured for later.
“Very good, sir.”
“Have Venshelhein contact the Jotuns inside the pinnacle fortress via magic, and politely ask permission to have the Stormwolf come in so we can claim our Dragons. If they refuse, have him politely ask if they’d rather the foundations of the fortress be turned into mud so they can all take a long fall into the Rift.”
“Sir.”
“Now let’s find out where this bloody phylactery is and end this business. If the Giants start getting uppity, we’ll deal with them as it happens.”
=============================
“Keys? Where are these keys?”
The hill giant swallowed. Wealth of kings no, hidden silly treasure of dragons, yes? The look in the scarred human’s eyes was nothing like he’d ever seen on something so small, and the way the barbed grip on his sword was beginning to writhe expectantly was ample sign that bargaining might not be a good idea.
“I threw it away. Into the pit below the city, where the crawlers dwell.” The Chieftain made a gesture down and away, and Marcus recalled there was a second, lower level to this ancient place.
“Get this straight, Jotun…I have no interest in you or your politics. As a matter of fact, I’m inclined to kill you right now for making my damn job far harder then it should have been!” He pulled Thorn out a span, and mist the hue of hill giant blood spilled out thickly, mute evidence of the half-dozen of this idiot’s followers that he’d had to take down.
“He’d look better as a statue, Colonel,” opined Trencher, smiling sweetly as the Chieftain shot him a quick glance. Four broken heaps of rubble were all that remained of another few Jotuns who hadn’t gotten the message that small folk sometimes weren’t to be messed with either…especially if they could chase away Dragons.
“How about we throw him into the pit to go get it?” Hazé asked sweetly, and the look of horror on his face was sweet answer to those words. “Yes, I think he’d do fine as a guide down there, Marcus. Valiant warrior that he is.”
“Fine by me. Make sure to tell some of the other Jotuns where we are going and why. I’m sure they’ll appreciate the thief of one of their most sacred artifacts all the more for what he’s done.”
If it was possible for the hill giant to look any worse, he did so then, as Marcus saw all his ambitions going up in smoke in his expression. While the fled remnants of his followers wouldn’t kill him, likely the other two factions still existing in the city would.
=======================
So much for him, thought Marcus, diving out of the way as the head of the utterly massive worm-creature came down on the gaping and terrified would-be king. Writhing tentacles wrapped around his head, limbs, body, and twisted and ripped fluidly, irresistibly. Bits of giant went in every direction with a wet crunch, and were lapped up with horrendously delicate and rapid speed by those massive feelers, leaving Marcus with a nice opening. He grabbed onto one of the many jutting spikes on the beasts body and headed up, driving for some altitude.
A crystalline flame blew through the air, setting it on fire, singing the huge Worm and clearing the air of fungus spores. A moment later, the first impacts of frozen death struck, drawing a squeal from the beast that rocked the entire cavern with its loudness. He could hear Trencher roaring out ancient words louder then the dwarf had ever invoked them, and the fungus and filth flared and blew away as the ground all about the massive creature suddenly became red-hot lava.
To say it was a mite discomfited was putting it mildly…and the smell of it burning was non-too pleasant either. It drove for the assembled group, ignoring the pinpricks of arrows and reaching out with those massive feelers for them as it frantically tried to get out of the lava.
Hazé’s force wall stopped that frontal charge cold…the smashing of the Worm’s head against the immovable field nearly tore Marcus off the head of the thing. Happily, he already had Thorn drawn and plunging into it, and all it did was rip the wound wider.
Thorn beat and pulsed happily as it re-attuned itself to this new meal, and pus-white ichor-mist billowed down the sides of the thing’s head as it heaved probably eighty paces of gargantuan bulk sideways out of the circle of lava, roaring at the pain with force to send bits of rock falling and flying from the ceiling. Feeling tentacles looked for and found the edges of the wall of force blocking its way, and with horrendous speed belying the primeval bulk of the thing, it poured around the gap.
This time the blast of fire and cold hit it face on…Marcus was sure the beast swallowed one of the orbs of cold, and kept right on coming…smack into another force wall as the party backed up. Hazé was no fool.
Marcus drove his weight down on Thorn, pushing the blade down into hide as thick and hard as any Wyrm’s scales born, and the blade sank down happily, the foul, ageless flesh peeling away from the hungry edge with a most marvelous stench. The thing hadn’t even noticed him…but it was about to, as he threw his weight sideways, concentrating on opening the wound.
Ichor boiled past him, he could almost feel the thing’s flesh boiling as it peeled away from the scarlet edge of his blade, and Thorn began to move.
The rest of the group was almost back into the rubbish tunnel now…a tunnel too small to fit this angry Worm, not that she wouldn’t be shaking the stone to bits trying. He knew what the next tactic would be, marking golden streaks from Estemar’s bow that were leaving bubbling scorchmarks all over the face and tentacle roots of this thing, and he began to slide.
Behind and above him, a huge rent in the thing’s hide spilled open with a sickening sound of pulping meat bursting free…writhing innards bulged up and out not looking like any kind of muscle or organs that he knew of. Around and down he pulled his full weight on his blade as Hazé wove her fire port right at the entrance to the tunnel, leaving an opening in the middle, a gridwork of force that the magi could shoot through, but too small to admit the massive tentacles that instantly were writhing over them looking for an opening.
Fire and ice poured through that gap relentlessly and remorselessly, and Marcus completed his wrenching slice, leaving a horrible wound nearly ten paces long around nearly half the head of the creature. Crammed into a small space, it could only writhe as Marcus dove through the force wall, canceling the magic easily enough, was on his feet and slicing back to sever the tentacle that came twisting in after him. Hazé quickly sealed the opening off, and then began to pound volleys of Shards into the open wound on the neck, sending bits of unclean matter flying explosively in all directions, to be alternatively fried and flash-frozen.
It was another long couple of minutes before the writhing of the Worm stopped. By then, it couldn’t be said to have much of a head left, and the yawning path of the magic blown into its body was like another extension of the tunnel itself.
The four, unlike him, were safely off the ground, which had been rocking and bouncing with the gargantuan mass of the beast throwing itself around. Marcus had ridden it out as well as he could, given the circumstances, and his armor shed the filth he’d fallen into even as he was forced to roll in it.
“Well, now, which of you fine souls is volunteering to go in after our prize?” he asked calmly. Four sets of eyes looked at him, back at that huge ruin of a stomach, and blanched as one.
“Find me that key, Hazé, and we’ll carve our way into it.” Thorn was still pouring out Worm-mist, and in his grip, felt greedy for more of the ancient creature’s essence.
=======================
The surprise on the giant warrior’s face as he fell was complete…he clutched between his legs as his groin gave way, the pain had to be incredible. The undead stone giants warding the portal looked on remorselessly as the leader of the ancient Dragon-slaying order of Jotuns fell to the edge of Thorn and Marcus’ skill.
The dying fury in the Jotun’s eyes as Marcus pulled the second key out of his purse and tossed it to Trencher was met straight on by the human. “You learned to kill Dragons, and I doubt there is another giant within this city who can surpass you at the task. I learned how to kill Jotuns, and I am not a Dragon, Jotun. Hazé, make sure he lives.”
The surprise on the Jotun’s face was complete as a golden shaft of light drove into his belly, and the agony between his legs lessened considerably. “I will still kill you, manling!” the Jotun swore, but flinched back as that streaming sword rounded on him.
“You will do nothing of the sort!” Marcus hissed, and Fire Jotun blood boiled off the blade in dire warning. “Your time as Keeper of the Heart is done, it is time for you to be the Keeper of the Flame! For a thousand years, your predecessors guarded what is beyond this door in preparation of this day, for the Lord of Worms is preparing to rise! As the Jotuns warred with him in days of old, it is time for a King to rise among the Jotuns again, and lead them again to battle with this perversion of life! That King is YOU, you stupid bastard…now get on your feet and watch your damn destiny unfold!”
The shocked Jotun found himself doing just that as Estemar, Ana, Trencher and Hazé gathered before the doors of the Vault, the two keys held before them. Words none of them had ever spoken or learned rolled off their lips, impossibly loud in the stone of the chamber, mystic energy pulsing and glowing as the keys were inserted in the doors, and twisted. Almost, the Heartkeeper stepped forwards, but Thorn hissed into his path in dire warning, and the Fire Jotun halted despite himself.
And there was the damn carved box-thing those druids had been guarding so fervently all those years ago. The magical light and glow went out from the ceremony, and everyone stared at the box-phylactery-thing, all nice and carved up with dragons and skulls and other friendly stuff.
“It’s done. The impetus to guard the Heart should be gone. You should feel far less cause to remain in this place now, Flame Keeper.” Hazé sounded oddly distant, and Marcus recognized that voice without even seeing her eyes…this was another of those moments of destiny.
The Fire Jotun blinked once, placed his hand to his head, and frowned. “I feel…something has changed…”
“The ancient wards woven about this place are gone.” Hazé turned her eyes to Marcus as he stepped forwards, Thorn clasped in two hands now. “You cannot destroy it, Marcus.” He lifted an eyebrow as she turned to him. “Without it, Dargathra cannot open the tomb of the Lord of Worms, and the Wormhead cannot be destroyed.”
“The wonderful thing about Destiny is that it has so many different ways to be fulfilled,” he replied, and he did not slow down. “That dracolich is a foe much better slain as quickly and painlessly as possible, and that means here and now by the means at hand. I shall lay odds that our fair silver Dragon vampiress will rise to the occasion…but she will be a far easier foe to defeat.”
Hazé knew better then to stop him, and the Flamekeeper made no movement as Marcus strode into the Vault, took up his stance. Thorn pulsed, and the molten crimson of Fire Jotun blood vanished as the wormfire blood writhed anathema along the blade. He lifted the living blade, and without regret or care for the workings of Fate, brought it down, concentrating all his strength and power on the tip of the blade.
Magically reinforced metal and ceramic split and tore, and Thorn drove deep into the phylactery of Dargathra.
Foul light flared from deep within, a Great Wyrm’s life and more of evil and hate. In the distance, something ancient screamed in horror and fear as Thorn sank in deep, and in that pit of spiritual blackness, light flared.
Marcus let go, and hopped away.
He turned his head just in time…the explosion of light was brighter then the sun, a soundless roar of an ancient soul being fed to the Land. Around them writhed the essence of a Great Wyrm who had cheated far more then death…and now death was come to claim it. The soundless roar drove everyone screaming to their knees, save Marcus, who only dimly heard the final agony of the dracolich…and then the phylactery was gone, the light, the presence, the death throes of an ancient thing whose time had finally come.
Unmoved by the cursing and moaning behind him, Marcus strode forwards and reclaimed Thorn from where it had fallen into the stone, plunged in a good hand's length. The runes along the blade were pulsing brightly, and the strands writhed happily to meet his grip…the sword had fed well this day.
He sheathed it, and could almost feel it sigh contentedly as it slid home and quieted.
“Hazé, get the Flamekeeper up to fighting trim so he can be about claiming his throne,” he stated shortly. “Our work here is done…let’s go find out where the bastard was living at, and see what’s to be seen there.”
===Aelryinth
Episode XI: The Wormcrawl Fissure.
The Stormwolf descended slowly and carefully down the canyon gorge. The full crew was out and ready…the lamps were aglow filling the sky with light, and magic glittered over the hull and above the decks with faint warning sparkles to ward away the wise. A hundred paces of flying warship sank smoothly, ominously into the gathering dimness below.
The morale of the crew was quite high. Not far behind them, the former lair of the red dragon slain during the siege of the City of Giants lay stripped, the hoard of the creature filling the hold and promising the crew substantial bonuses. Three other lesser hoards accompanied that one, and the prospect of more loot to come had the crew itching for action.
EIS had spotted more then a few flying monsters in the canyon ahead…wyverns, manticores, some perytons and chimera. The Pups had gone in and delivered more then a few warning deaths to those who might think of interfering, and even though the ship made a massive floating target, nothing was coming into range of the lights…yet. That would change when they got deep enough and the residents of the side caves decided that chucking rocks from above would be great fun…useless, but great fun. The shields above the Stormwolf had been specifically set up to prevent such things from being a possibility.
The rest of his personal strike force were back at the Fort, dealing with a diversionary assault on his holdings. Well, diversionary to the effect of a few thousand undead worm-bearers walking across the River Cyre out of the Mournlands. Reports from agents in several locations had revealed more then a few warbands of the least of the Wormhead’s minions stumbling out of the Mournlands, apparently introduced to the corpses there that didn’t rot and finding them great homes. The implications of the move were not lost on the rulers of the remnants of Galifar…potentially millions of corpses in Cyre waited re-animation by something as simple as a couple writhing green worms. Doubtless the agents of the Wormhead had already reached some of the major battlefields or destroyed cities, and whole legions were assembling under the guidance of apocalyptic madmen…
He suspected that the Lord of Blades’ continued interest in Metrol, and the large number of uncontrollable spirits there, was somewhat hampering this assembled force, or the cult would have thrown a much larger number of undead at him. As it was, precautions had been put in place some time ago anticipating just such a move, and there was no doubt in his mind that the worm-things were going to get butchered en masse and fed to the Land.
More disturbing was reports of the hidden undead legions of Karrnath getting infected by worms and rebelling against their keepers, spilling out to assault the locals in vengeful, undying fury. He shook his head, but had to smile at the reports that such undead seemed particularly inclined to attack temples dedicated to the Blood of Vol. The elvish origin of the faith seemed particularly anathemic to the goblin-born would-be god and its servants.
Unable to teleport with his strike team, he’d stayed with the Stormwolf and begun the process of looting the abandoned Dragon hoards that could be found. Patience kept him and the crew well-informed of the events at the Keep, and the contingency plans in place seemed to be working fine, buttressed by the might of the Lieutenants of the Wolves.
But last night, he’d been woken from his meditations by Thorn, fairly rocking in its sheath, eager for some reason to be up and about. Balancing the blade on his palm, it had quickly swiveled to point unerringly down the canyon, leading him somewhere. Unwilling to dismiss the awareness of the weapon, and certainly not one to let action slide him by, he’d directed his ship down towards the Wormcrawl Fissure…the spur of the Canyon of the Rift wherein dwelled the heart of the power of the Wormhead, and ostensibly, Dargathra himself.
The undead dragon wasn’t dead, much as he might wish it. However, destruction of its phylactery and thus its soul put it into a precarious position of true death claiming it if it did battle and lost. Ego and cowardice thus demanded that it prize its life above vengeance, and so it hid deep in the bowels of its master’s power. Thorn fairly pulsed with the remnants of the unliving wyrm’s destroyed soul, eager to finish off the mockery of life once and for all. He knew it could feel the Wyrm’s presence keenly…but that this urge was something new and different.
Something sparked off the shields above, and he glanced up as a flight of hurtling rocks shattered on the shields and went spiraling harmlessly off the sides. This was followed by more then a few carooming boulders, rains of either acid or fecal material, and more stones, arrows and whatnot. The crew laughed openly at the uselessness of the salvoes from above, and the Stormwolf did not alter course in the slightest, nor did the lights waver an instant.
Somewhere around four hundred paces below the lip, the ship leveled off, lights playing over the barren surface below. The strongest of the lamps clearly indicated that this spur of the Canyon descended even further into darkness, and he calmly waved them forwards, keeping the ship about a hundred paces off the level of the ground.
He quickly noted the change in the landscape, as fungi began to pop up, and the lines of crude warning scarecrows indicating the demesne of the Wormhead. Still they went down, the jubilant mood of the crew fading into a more uncomfortable and appropriate wariness, but no less confident.
In the darkness of the Rift, the ship could doubtless be seen for leagues, but he highly doubted any Dragons wanted to tangle with it…and said dragons might be surprised, indeed, by how far off the sentries could see them coming. The skins, bones and assorted innards of over a dozen Dragons also occupied much storage room in the hold…and their skulls hung around the mast in an impromptu necklace, strung on steel cable like the prizes of a crew of savages. Brazzenmalen’s skull looked rather aggrieved sitting there…
They passed over a section fed by multiple waterfalls from above, a darkly foaming rush that crashed down into an ominously quiet, wide lake at least two kliks long. No waves disturbed that expanse of eerily quiet black water…which, by a casual depth plumbing, was only a few meters deep…and by even the most casual inspection suddenly unfit for consumption. This, in turn, led out to a shallow river leading away from the shallow lake, a tepid and continual flow that continued for several kliks in continuous descent into a much larger and deeper, mist-shrouded lake of gloom, even more eerily still then the previous expanse of water…save for a single surge of movement, something hiding from the probing beams of light sweeping down from too far above to reach…something truly immense. He wondered if there was another of those primal carrion crawlers around…or something equally eld.
“Sir, we’ve got a flyer ahead!” reported the forward lookout, a sharp-eyed Corporal named Meers, peering into the blackness. The trooper glanced back, lifting the nightsight goggles and getting rid of the fiery glow to his eyes in the process. “A winged serpent-woman, multiple colors, with wings and hair like fire. A demon, sir?” His voice rose ever so slightly. Wolves were tough, but true fiends were not something any normal man wanted to deal with.
Marcus’ eyes narrowed. “Stand down the forward archers.” The mate standing by bellowed out the order instantly. “Blink the forward lamps, idle the fans, and light up the port landing circle. Let’s see if our curious flyer has some courage.” He turned and strolled for the port wing, listening to the background hum of the fans die slowly, turning the powered flight of the ship into a gradual glide. He watched them rotate down and lock horizontally under the quick hands of the crew working the winches, and strode out into the center of the wing, where a clearly lit circle-and-cross blinked invitingly.
The forward lamps picked her out a moment later, swinging gracefully through the air with the impossible ease of magically-aided flight. He knew enough of physics to know that most creatures of size simply shouldn’t be able to fly…but fly they did, just as did his ship. The light of the lamps lit up her fiery hair and wings, the dazzling display of scales winking and glittering like a blaze that had to attract the eye, and then the first vestiges of a proud song began to wash over the crew as they beheld this distinctly inhuman glory.
“Cease the song or I will blow you out of the sky,” he stated crisply, and the Port and Forward Mounts snapped suddenly to life. Still fifty paces off, his words were heard quite distinctly, and the angelic voice cut off like a knife. There was a moment of hesitation from the creature, and then the flame-red wings folded sharply and she swooped in towards him like a suddenly released arrow.
If she was trying to test his nerve, she failed. He waited calmly as the blazefeather wings spread wide at the last moment, the serpentine lower body looped forwards and formed a coil, and the creature settled easily and with beautiful grace into a poise reminiscent of a poised cobra opposite him.
Golden eyes lit from within regarded him very curiously, a dismissive air that quickly began to revise itself as the icy calm of his unwavering return stare and the Forsaken aura about him became apparent. He saw the infinitesimal retreat of wariness even as the beautiful creature lifted her eyes from him to run her eyes over the dark hull, splendidly lit up by the roving lamps, of the majestic size of the Stormwolf.
“I am Colonel Marcus Ruin, commander of the Wolves of the North, and you are aboard the flagship Stormwolf, my command ship.” The fact he didn’t command a second such ship was, of course, superfluous. “You are a long ways from your home realm. Might I inquire as to what a lillend does in the heart of power of the Wormhead?”
The golden stare lifted from the intense examination of the Stormwolf and very intent crew to return to the man who commanded it…and who wasn’t in the least bit intimidated or overawed by that attention. “I am Zynshulya, and I was on my morning constitutional when I spied your vessel from afar. A magnificent achievement, Colonel.” Her voice was like a low fire and wind chimes combined, distinctly inhuman, very ear-catching, and with range and precision to shame any mortal throat.
He didn’t blink. “Thank you. My people worked quite hard on it.” He unclipped Thorn’s scabbard with Dex, earning a reflexive flinch back, but did not draw the blade. Instead, he coolly spun it in the air and caught the scabbarded edge unerringly on the proper balance point with one fingertip. The barbed guard writhed gently as the sword spun once like a compass needle, slowing for a moment as it passed the serpentine creature, then swinging on to stop unerringly, pointing past her.
“Do you happen to live in exactly that direction?” he inquired calmly, indicating the direction Thorn was pointing without moving his eyes from hers. She glanced away from him, looking admiringly over the dark beauty of the scabbarded blade before swiveling completely around in place on her coils.
“I do indeed.” The magnificently inhuman voice held distinct traces of both confidence and uncertainty.
“I believe you may have something that I require.” He dropped Thorn back into his grasp with a snap of his wrist. “I rather doubt that comes as a surprise to you…outsiders tend to become pawns of the Prophecy with alarming regularity.” He saw her eyes flash at mention of the word pawn, and knew he’d scored. “Perhaps I might relieve you of this object, that your role in the workings of fate be done, and you can return to your own choices in life?”
Her eyes looked from him, to his ship, and then to the sword in his hand, reading very clearly his intentions that he was going to take the object whether she wanted him to or not, and there wasn’t very much she could do about it. “Perhaps…we can come to terms,” she offered proudly, but not without comprehension of the situation.
“Indeed. Perhaps some wine?” He bowed slightly, indicating she should proceed to the main deck, and she did so with confident arrogance that she was the center of attention. “I have a rather ecletctic supply of Aundairean vintages…nothing worth the Higher realms of course, but, as I understand it, the celestials tend to be ultimately lacking in variety of the grape.”
Her pointed ears perked up in distinct interest. “That would be most welcome, Colonel.”
“Excellent. I can introduce the men to a proper wine-tasting, and we can swap merits on the relative value of grain, fruit, and honey. Mercer, Ogreth, take two men and bring the Bar up from officer’s quarters. Pulver, Umag, a table and chairs just forwards.” The indicated men hurried off eagerly to comply, while Marcus lifted a finger for a moment to forestall progress and headed up the stairs to where Patience sat in the Captain’s chair.
“Ahead slow, and follow the point, Captain,” he said calmly, placing Thorn unerringly on the rail in front of his Warforged officer. The blade immediately swung to point ahead of them, perfectly balanced and obviously not about to fall off.
“Ahead slow, aye, aye, sir,” the warforged replied in her slow, reassuringly deep voice. A sharp armwave, and the fans were quickly winched back into position, and began to spin quickly back to life. “Going to drink an angel under the table, sir?” the Captain asked in her steady voice, without the slightest hint of humor…and clearly audible to the lillend waiting below.
“I rather think she could drink the whole ship under the table. We shall see, however, if it’s too early in the day for her to dance. Art alone is angst and deprivation…art shared is beauty.”
He didn’t miss the flutter of wings at his words, nor did he hide his amusement at the statement typical of the Warforged.
It was going to be an interesting day.
================================
Marcus slid down the rope smoothly and with the kind of composure his men envied the most, letting it slide under his heel while he regulated speed with Dex and held on with his free hand, balancing easily. The lillend lifted her eyebrows at the casual display before she waved open the crystalline doors to her home, and preceeded him within.
Perhaps he was being arrogant and overconfident…but perhaps not. He had not once offered a threat to the proud and vain creature before him, definitely a proper resident of the fabled courts of the Fey and not belonging here in the mud and gloom of Eberron. At least, he’d not offered a direct threat. Unspoken implications of action were understood…she had something he wanted, he was going to get it, and it was up to her to determine under just what circumstances it left her possession.
Her magical ability didn’t bother him in the slightest, although Ship’s Mage Veshelhein had rather nervously pointed out that she was, indeed, extremely adept…like an Archsorceress or something similar. His Forsaken aura billowed out around him like a cloak of mundanity, and she instinctively shied away from it. He could feel the glamour that enwrapped her home unraveling by his mere presence, and turned about to regard the place with a practiced eye.
He was no great patron of the arts, or a scholar of the same, but he knew enough to recognize that many of the sculptures and paintings on display were those of a master of the arts – hardly unexpected for a being that was supposed to represent patronage of the same! – although the choice of subject material was definitely on the rather gloomy and morbid side. He saw a lot of that in Karrnath…the works here would have fetched a fine price from the nobles of his homeland, of that he was certain. Otherplanar landscapes; portraits, masks and sculptures of subjects from the macabre to the truly disturbing…yes, a rather depressing array, although that weaving of a nature goddess certainly caught the eye.
He flipped Thorn up onto his finger, and the blade pointed unerringly past all these diversions for the eye. He let his gaze linger on the windows, ostensibly stained glass that somehow caught and enhanced the scant ambient light…but no glass refracted light quite like that, except for the Four Dooms, one centralized in each frame.
He saw a flash in her eyes that showed she suspected exactly where he was being led to, and she threw open the doors to her sleeping chambers with a flair. He lifted an eyebrow at the riot of pillows and cloth that festooned the chamber in patterns and images that played off one another to great distraction and more then a little erotic effect, but none of that deterred the point of Thorn. The point of the blade lifted appreciably to point directly at an intricately carved jade statuette sitting in a place of honor in the center of the far wall, clearly designed to be appreciated from every angle and vantage point with inhuman brilliance and clarity of vision, framed in a thousand manners and styles to inspire thought.
Bright coils flowed sensuously between cushions and silks, fiery wings caressed hanging cloths and feathers and chimes delicately. Effortlessly, she rose an additional two paces off the ground to grasp the idol, hoisting it easily and sinking back down before spinning to display the piece, held closely to her breast.
“Remarkable, that you come seeking the most precious of my works of art,” she said in a smoky voice that should have been directed at Estemar, who doubtless would have been driven to his knees by hearing it. Her poise was clearly suggestive, every curve and highlight accenting the statue even as the glamour in the room hummed on every swaying shroud and colorful bloom of a pillow. She’d had quite a remarkable time on the leisurely trip here, bantering wine snobbery with him over a range of ales, stouts, wines, liqueurs and meads, which he’d shared with rotating members of the crew who’d been delighted to sample vintages they’d never see fit to spend money on themselves. His cellar was absolutely gutted now, of course, but that hardly disturbed him, and the dancing that had followed as the males of the crew got to whirl a shape-changing, Fey creature of absolutely inhuman beauty about them had put the men into a fine mood, and despite herself at their relative crudity, got the lillend to enjoying herself.
The fact that dancing with the Colonel was quite out of the question had clearly raised all sorts of other questions in the mind of the lovely creature.
“Seduction is wasted on me, as I’m sure you realized some time ago. I am fully aware that by even my own people’s standards, I definitely err on the side of direly ugly, to say nothing of the rigors of the Fey Court. And there is the matter that you are not going to touch me if you can help it.” He took a step forwards, and did not miss the instinctive retracting of her tail between the cushions, and her sudden tensing up. He lifted up Thorn, which continued to point perfectly at the statuette without his aid. “And I rather doubt you are going to seduce this. Might I take possession of the carving?”
He was very polite, and very prepared to run her through. Still, she hesitated, clutching the thing closer to her perfect torso. “Such a prize as this should be appreciated in deeds worthy of it. You may win it from me fairly, for a small task.”
He was very slow in replying, and did nothing to hide the rapidly deepening measure of his irritation as he slowly repeated, “A…small…task?” Had she been a certain group of fey guardians, she likely would have been rubbing her nose and flinching back…as it was her coils shifted and scales rustled sensuously, yet nervously.
“There is a lich nearby, who thinks of himself as enamored of me.” Sparks lit up the golden pools of her eyes with outrage at the temerity of the idea. “Seek him out, find out the true meaning of his intentions towards me, and return, and I yield this to you freely.” It was somewhere between a wrathful promise and a purr.
“If such doesn’t interfere with the other tasks I have to do, I will endeavor to do so promptly. If it does, then when my other business is concluded, I will arrange to see to his abrupt and permanent removal from your life.” He lifted Thorn meaningfully. “The carving, if you please.”
She studied him for a careful moment, clearly less then pleased at the lack of deference in his voice, and at the same moment recognizing his manner for the honorable and distinctly unhappy agreement that it was. With mixed triumph and regret, she held forth the carving for him.
Thorn whipped about atop his hand very suddenly, lunging out as his fingers snapped closed on the sheath instinctively, smacking its pommel against the carving solidly. He frowned and was about to say something when the carving twisted in her grip, writhed and shrank as a white glow illumned it, wrapped about it, and seemed for a moment to represent the shadow of a face that wove itself into a fine thread as the carving shrank and fell, and then was abruptly falling limp.
He lifted the sword up, letting it slide back into the sheath, eying the figurine now tied to the pommel of the hilt via an opening that hadn’t been there a moment ago, and with threads of black and white that didn’t look altogether solid. It was something annoyingly stylized and rakish, very impractical…and definitely Thorn wanted it that way.
“Interesting,” was all he said, as he calmly flipped it back up and onto balance across the edge of his hand. The point of the blade rocked back and forth, and then pointed unerringly, to the north and up.
He saw recognition in the lillend’s eyes with only a glance. “Don’t tell me…your amour of a dead thing dwells in that direction.” She lifted an artful eyebrow and smiled briefly. “Ah, truly a pawn of the Prophecy.” That wiped out some of her smug mood. “In the interest of laying an undead thing to rest, if you could trouble yourself to relate some information about this creature, I might be able to expedite his abrupt removal from your misery.” He grasped Thorn more fully and slid the scabbard back into place in the ring at his waist without looking. “Let us start with his name.”
She executed a long, thrilling release of breath that would have left a normal man dry of mouth and liquid of knee. “He calls himself Thessalmar…”
======================================== =====
EIS had reported more and more bad news as they left the dead lake of the lillend…somehow, he wasn’t surprised when she elected to accompany him, although her interests were somewhat different then might have been predicted. He delegated Venshelhein to accompany her, much to the combined dismay and honor of the Ship’s Mage…and with him, also sent half the warforged crew.
Zynshula had never seen a living construct, and her interest in them had been subtly demonstrated during the minor celebration. He chose those warforged of an artistic bent, had them gather up what items they liked to tinker with in their down time, and set the whole group up in one of the dimensionally expanded holds to provide her an impromptu court of her own that could answer all her questions and keep her occupied. The Warforged were great students of war, and he was sure their tales of the Last War could keep her occupied for days, if nothing else. It seems she had rather missed those events over the course of the last century, being rather wrapped up in her own muses of creativity to worry about such piffling things as a continent at war…even the Mourning came as news to her.
And people wondered why he didn’t like to deal with outsiders.
Cristvur, the Mage’s Hand, handled the holographic reports of EIS now, the homunculus spotter ranging ahead of them. The fortress home elected by the lich was ahead of them, atop a huge, jutting spire of rock, and connected by a bridge at least three hundred paces long to the wall of the canyon. Who had the engineering knowledge to erect such an edifice would have been a tantalizing question for Trencher, who he was sure would be returning to investigate what kept such a thing intact over the ages…but he was less interested in the makers then the current occupants.
The size of the multi-headed creatures in the muck and filth of the courtyard was daunting, as was that massive central maw and the serpentine heads dripping acid and venom around it. Nothing that could not be pounded down from above, of course, but he wasn’t here to wipe out monstrosities willy-nilly…well, maybe he was.
But Thorn said he had other things to do.
“Bring up the skate. Have EIS get some particulars on those chimeras…the last thing I need at this time is a massive aerial assault by undead flying monstrosities…although the crew is probably spoiling for some fun.” He bent down to inspect the far side of the lich-home. “Looks like windows to me…”
====================
The problem with being a supersmart, ages-old genius with the magic of the ancients at your fingertips is that you really tend to undervalue the application of simple skill…and discount the ease with which magic could be bypassed by the competent.
The lich was…puttering was the word for it. He seemed to be inordinately fascinated with this big tall column of…flesh. Marcus was sure Hazé would have had a proper word for it, or his parents (may their souls rot in Dollurh) but the massive column of meat, bone, organs, fluids and other stuff just deserved a routine name to downtone the horror of it.
But Thorn was pointing at the big hunk of spiraling meat, and for whatever reason wanted access to it. It was amazing how intent the lich was on its experiment…he could move about the lab fairly easily, tracking the lich by sound.
Nothing fancy needed here. He simply stood up on the opposite side of the pillar from the lich and drove his fist through the crackling field of force containing the meat.
There was a pop and a sizzle and a few whines and squeals. He was already leaping for cover as his Forsaken aura tore apart the fields of overlapping force, bolts of power began to lash about the room, and the meat began to pour on out.
And as it poured out, it began to take form.
He saw the lich gaping in surprise as one of the thessalhydras…a BIG one…assembled out of the meat with impossible speed, and the serpentine heads fixated on the one creature moving in front of it. And then a bunch of serpentine heads came down, grabbed hold of the lich, ripping, rending, and even as a fiery shield burst into existence about the lich, the combined heads tossed the unliving mage into the gaping central maw.
It might have had heads looking in every direction, but it still had a back that it had assembled out of the gunk it was made of, and there was nothing saying it couldn’t be surprised. Being in the relatively small laboratory with a multiton behemoth dripping poison and acid was not exactly what he wanted, and it had elected to build itself a spine.
Spines made for good climbing on multiton behemoths digesting a fiery meal. Thorn didn’t seem at all reluctant to drive in to a hands-wide spine and sever it, and he watched the pincer-tail coming in to grab him shudder and flop convulsively away. Both hands on Thorn, he dragged it down the side of the spine, just below the weird assembly of the ribs, and a gaping wound sliced open, spilling out innards bearing a strange lack of resemblance to the raw meat they’d been assembled from. The flesh was smoking as it peeled away from Thorn’s edge, a sure sign that some form of magical healing or regeneration was being thwarted aggressively.
Two writhing heads dove for him as the massive rear legs folded limply, nerves severed. He lept away, Thorn blurred, and the heads went smoking away before they could touch him. He hit a table of alchemical glasswork, scattering a whole slew of noxious pseudo-chemicals that he was actually sorry he could identify, and then bounced away again as the mutate beast rolled its massive bulk over for him, lunging wildly. Another head went spiraling away as it snapped for him, then he was coming back up and they were converging on him and he was executing a full Harvest Bloom and serpentine heads were flying in every direction as their neckstumps lashed madly and blindly all around him.
There was a smoking cough from the gaping maw facing him, as of a fire extinguished, and he had a fairly good idea the lich would be looking for a new corpse to animate. The creature shuddered, and he clambered onto it again, Thorn plunging in and opening up the monstrously thick hide like wet paper, probing for massive heart pumping up a perfect imitation of life’s ichor.
After all, if the lich had any loot on it, best to get it before it dissolved, right?
Blood jetted into the air beneath the point of his blade, wound and spun itself into a long, almost serpentine coil. He raised his eyebrows as the coil lashed down to his side…and around Thorn’s sheath riding there, settling in as a fairly ornate serpentine form wrapped around the plain black of the scabbard.
Well, now, surprise, surprise.
====================
The two thessalhydras, set alight and chased by volleys of flaming arrows, rushed out the gap broken in the confining wall…and directly into a thousand-meter fall. They made for quite a sight, bouncing, burning, writhing…and achieving terminal velocity with aplomb and many jumps and skips. Bits and pieces of multi-headed monster tore flaming free, and the assembled crew watched with great interest as after a good thirty seconds of tumbling free fall, they finally hit the bottom.
“Ouch!” Captain Patience pronounced with some finality, to the great amusement of the crew. The skate was already below to confirm the things were dead…and still burning. No need to have zombie thessal-things stumbling around.
Zynshulya, with the serpents-headed crown that had once adorned the lich’s head propped rakishly on her flaming locks, smiled at the sight as well, leaning over much farther then the rest of the crew could, of course.
“I figure you’ve a week or so before he reconstitutes himself. Why don’t you leave him a few “Leave and never come back” messages in terms he can understand while we address the small problem of all those undead chimeras which need to be taken care of.” They’d blown a hole in the far side of the fortress and expertly stripped out everything of value. Venshelhein was salivating over the haul…only the fact that it had been the property of a very old, very demented lich was keeping his fingers off of it. He had translated some of the lab notes, and Colonel Ruin had blithely let Zynshulya read them, and what the lich had intended for her.
Love, such a many-splendored thing.
“Those creatures are hideous,” she sniffed. Her habit of spinning her entire torso rather then just her neck to face someone was disconcerting, since she didn’t really have to move to do it. He just frowned thoughtfully at her words and turned away. Well, the others were sort of busy…
================
“I bet you didn’t think this was even possible.”
Horrible, cold pain ripped through the flank of the great worm, soul-eating energies feeding on unlife, lashing in deep, far deeper then the undead worm could possibly have guessed, chewing in with pain that it had only experienced in the voyeuristic thought-reading and memory digestion from its countless victims.
This was no dream. The filaments of its body exploded out in reflexive agony from their pores, and a whole arc of them instantly burst into white flame and then dust. The worms that infested it were exploding inside it, the bones and skeletons smashing into inanimate dust as the flames raged within. Marcus ripped it open with great flaming swathes of Thorn, giving the ancient, gargantuan creature no chance to respond. He was within the massive bulk, buried in the mass of decaying meat and flaming worms and acidic stuff that pulsed in place of blood, and the damn thing was screaming as only that which finally comprehended the last horror could scream.
Sounded sweet.
With a last writhing convulsion, the thing blew apart, green worms blowing into white ash, filling the chamber with an unholy mess of burning innards and unliving remnants. Thorn blazed with great glee at the slaughter – a surprise attack was always pleasantly ichor-filled – and left him standing in the middle of a huge worm-thing’s carcass that was burning merrily with unwhite fires.
An explosion shook the stones as the external effort started. He stood there, listening to the wild chatter and chittering of the great undead vermin that laired in the intervening caves. The things weren’t bright, that much was fairly obvious…they hadn’t come to investigate the screams, but the threat of a magical assault was definitely mobilizing them.
Besides, they might have felt this thing die. Even undead could know fear…why would they be inspired to come here and die too?
Heh.
The point of Thorn swung away as he loosened his grip and let it spin in his hand. He followed the point with a wary, silent step, waiting to see where it led him.
====================
“You had enough to keep you busy, you didn’t need the minor distractions I was putting up with.” Marcus’ expression didn’t waver a bit at the somewhat annoyed expressions of his lieutenants. “You didn’t really expect me to be waiting around doing nothing with a perfectly usable weapon of destruction under my heels, do you?” The scathing force of his glance finished the last of their irritation. He returned his gaze to the reports they’d brought with them. Bleeding gold all over the place, without a doubt…loss of life had been fairly minimal, it looked like they hadn’t moved with the force of the stronger creatures he’d been putting to rest here. The mud trenches had done their job once dispelled, and the earth elementals gladly crushed the life out of the thousands of Kyuss spawn trapped in them. Aerial bombardment and some exacting spell and missile fire had gotten rid of most of the commanders…and the undead simply hadn’t been prepared to face the Light of certain other defenses brought to bear.
Which left Fort Lewt safe…for now. Worm cleanup would take a while, and certainly there were a lot more of them in the Mourning, waiting…or moving elsewhere.
“Not like you to start mass destruction without inviting us along, sir,” Trencher grunted, looking out over the bow, where a toppled thousand foot spire lay strewn across the shadows at the bottom of the fissure…along with most of the undead chimeras who had laired within.
“Never get between a lillend and her artistic impulses,” he replied smoothly, setting the files aside. “However, her information is accurate, we’ve only the primary holding of the Wormhead to deal with, the Tabernacle of Worms. There’s some sentry undead at the fissure’s entrance, but for the most part it looks like just a strike team type thing.”
“Dargathra?” Hazé asked calmly, her eyes on the sword lying on the desk.
“Yes, he’s down there…or at least he should be. And, of course, there’s a bit of a surprise for us all.” Blithely not looking at Hazé, he picked up Thorn, and tossed it at a non-descript purse hanging on the other side of the room.
There was a flash of light, pulsing white radiance, a coiling golden glow, a burst of rainbow freedom, all caught up in a wind that blew over the souls and not their flesh, spinning, uniting, growing, forming anew…
“Lord Kenzeltun!” Hazé recognized first, as the ghostly form coalesced into someone recognizable. The famed explorer and wizard looked both startled and pleased as his spirit blinked, and turned around to regard them all.
“Lady,” bowed the spirit in his place, with a very proper Karrnathi accent. He looked over them all, and his eyes met those of the Colonel, who rose to his feet calmly to offer him a formal salute. “Ah. So close, and yet the fragments of my soul could not unite until they truly left your person. You are, sir?”
“Colonel Marcus Ruin, commanding officer of the Wolves of the North, sir,” Marcus replied in a clipped manner. “I am hoping you might be able to shed some further light onto some very interesting circumstances we find ourselves in, sir…and about a certain undead dragon we are making some preparations to remove from our misery.”
“You seek to kill Dargathra. Excellent.” The spirit’s visage hardened, and white points of light seemed to flare into his spectral eyes. Hand on a phantasmal sword, he drew himself up and faced them fully. “I will tell you all that I can…which is a considerable amount.”
=======================
“An extraordinary vessel, Colonel. I was not aware of such advances being made by the Houses or the military,” the spirit of the slain Lord asked him softly, from where Marcus sat in the front of the wolfskate. A half-dozen of the best archers among the Wolves were present, as was Venshelhein. They’d be staying with the skate when it was no longer feasible to fly on.
“They aren’t. It was funded privately. The Houses are hardly the only people with a better idea, sir.”
“I also seem to recall us meeting before, young sir.” Marcus’ sharp eyes flashed a warning to the ghost, who just chuckled hollowly. “Yes, I remember that stare, although you were just a child. I visited your parents to gain some insight into the cult of the Wormhead, and I do remember seeing you.”
“As I do you, sir. You made a distinct impression, especially the way you looked down on my family for all their hauteur and arrogance…although I don’t think most of them realized it. I greatly approved. It was depressing when I heard of your disappearence…I had plans to ask to enter your service after I attended the Rekkenmark, but you had been gone long before I could attend.”
“Indeed!” The ghost looked pleased despite himself. “I would say you had done quite well for yourself, young sir.”
“To a degree. I’ve done quite well for my people, more to the point.” His keen eyes never stopped scanning the writhing clots of worms upon the ceiling of the long, snaking tunnel plunging them deeper and deeper into the earth. Bundles of them kept falling onto the skate, hitting the shields erected over them and exploding away in white flame as they bounced off. Everyone was nervous, arrows nocked and spells ready, but so far there had been no attacks…nothing was stationed in the primary entry tunnel, as Lord Kenzel had intimated, and a careful flyby with EIS had confirmed.
“I am astonished you’ve accomplished so much without usage of magic. It seems that lacking the gift only seems to open the eyes to other possibilities.” The dead explorer sighed emptily, but then his eyes sparked again. “But the Wormhead is not something to be taken lightly.”
“I take nothing lightly,” Marcus replied coolly, meeting the spectre’s gaze. “And I am certainly not one to enter the lair of Dragathra alone, preparations and forewarning or no.”
“No, I think you are not. Which is good…we are here to see him dead, not merely blind with vengeance, as was I.” He nodded at a sickly green glow ahead. “We come close to the primary cavern.”
“On your feet!” Marcus suited action to deed, lifting the Mror crossbow in his arms, pulling up the brazen sideplates for chest high cover and resting his weapon thereon. Behind him, the rest of the skate followed suit. The careful pace of the skate didn’t change, and sharp eyes were looking in all directions as they glided out of the cave entry and into the massive underground cavern that was the heart of power for the Wormhead.
“By the Host!” Estemar whispered, staring down at the lake of ghoulish green below them, stretching into the distance. The distance from top to bottom of the central cavern had to be well over a hundred paces, and the cavern itself at least two clicks long. In the center of it, like a carved spike punching up through a writhing green carpet, was the great dark cathedral, exactly as mentioned and described, ringed by more stalagmites reaching up towards the dark ceiling above. Clutching onto those things like tiny worms, yet so large as to be easily visible even at hundreds of paces, great green worms clung to the basalt of the stone, their leech-like heads moving back and forth ceaselessly.
“Keep us well above the filth below,” he stated in no uncertain terms. He could see that there weren’t real waves moving in the soup below…only living things making a swell and swirls by movement and impact. There was a continuous background hiss…the feasting of uncounted worms upon the slime of the sea of slime.
Hazé smiled and leaned over the side, opening up the strange box she’d kept covered. Marcus considered the oddly…cute…yet repulsive little squealing creatures that tumbled into her hands. Hairless, almost shiny, pink things, with big eyes and a tube for a mouth, wiggling eagerly in her grasp, each about the size of a big pickle.
“Feed well,” she whispered encouragingly to them, and let them go, to drop gently down towards the green below. Everyone wanted to take a closer look, but Marcus just grunted.
“Burbur. Six of them! They must have cost you a fortune.” He didn’t inquire as to where she’d procured them.
Hazé just smiled sweetly, and even the spectre of Kenzeltun grunted in fascination at what she had just done.
“I will wager, if we come back in six months, that burbur will be far less rare then they used to be,” she winked at the ghost, who could only smile in appreciation for her cunning.
“Burbur. Slime-eaters. They are treasures among the Mror, feeding on the oozes and puddings and things that crawl up from the depths.” Trencher was a bit awed at the very novelty and wicked cunning of what she had just done.
“And they feed on Kyuss worms, too, and reproduce asexually. And below, an entire ocean of the best food they could possibly imagine. They are going to be all over the place, gorging themselves on worms and slime.” Hazé smiled dazzlingly. “I should like to see the expression of the cultists who come in here and start finding buffalo-sized burbur sucking up all the worms they can right and left…”
“The Age of the Burbur, eating the Age of the Worm,” contributed Estemar, grinning despite himself. “It has a certain mocking ring to it!”
“Shall we acclaim for the burbur?” Marcus asked archly. “It would make such a fine battlecry.”
“Burbur! Bur-BUR!” shouted Trencher at the top of his lungs, and even when the huge overworms began roaring the alarm in the distance, it didn’t stop the Wolves from taking up the cry and lustily calling out their defiance to the cathedral ahead.
===============
Thorn inserted into the writhing green unrock of the Cathedral doors, and the worms it consisted of exploded into white death, melting away from the blade as they died. The whole of the double doors, made tall enough to fit an advancing Wyrm, undulated in pain as dripping, flaming worms fell away from the great hole in their surfaces.
“Nice,” smiled Trencher, turning up his nose as he considered the unrock, imbued with uncounted numbers of the Worms. Everyone’s heads turned as a squealing roar of pain echoed behind them, and they watched another overworm lose its grip on its watchspire and fall trailing silver flames towards the jutting rock and sea of slime below. Impact was wet, messy, and a swathe of silvered flame rushed out across the slime before being consumed and fading away. “Bur-BUR, Bur-BUR!” rose in a loud chant as the skate headed to the next worm, the more enthusiastic archers already sending out silvered arrows to strike the target.
“They are having fun. Shall we do the same?” Hazé asked with a disarming smile, and strolled on ahead. Marcus coughed once, and she turned and waited just long enough for the fully armored, shield-bearing Colonel to step past her. The white flames from Thorn were billowing out and leading the way…not that they hadn’t all memorized the layout of the Cathedral of the Worm from the exhaustive descriptions supplied by the ghost of Lord Kenzeltun.
Forewarned was forearmed, and they were very forewarned. The Colonel trailed Thorn against the wall of the Cathedral, leaving a great flaming scar behind it that made the stones twitch and tremble beneath them as it pulled back from the blade’s touch.
Some inhuman priests of the Wormhead, servant creatures, and a few magical traps and things were going to be in their way. They didn’t anticipate that much of a struggle.
=====================================
A secondary cavern beyond the first, with its own pool of green, and a great black ziggurat thrusting up from it with a blackness so foul it hurt the eyes to look upon it. In the corner of the cavern, a huge mound of, well, loot, heaps of coins and scattered trunks and chests and gleaming jewels and more, the kind of dragon’s hoard the bards like to wax very poetic about, and enough wealth to send dreaming rogues drooling with greed.
Marcus was more interested in the gaping hole where was supposed to be the great black monolith that was the true heart of the Wormhead’s power, now a gaping pit bleeding green ooze out in pulsing streams. Prowling about that pit, waiting for them, a gigantic skeletal form, whose head snapped around to face them the instant they stood forth, and which roared out a challenge in Draconic, sending the whole cavern shaking and dripping green slime like rain.
The aura of fear about the worm slammed into the sanctified aura about Estemar and faded to nothing. From fifty paces away, Marcus coldly considered the Wyrm as it stepped to the edge of the ziggurat’s top to wait for them, framed by great writhing pillars of unrock that fairly pulsed with malevolent energy.
-Dimensions are sealed – Hazé stated silently, as she, Ana, Estemar and Trencher split up behind the Colonel in a short arc.
“Don’t engage the thing on the ziggurat.” With a snap and hiss, the four of Marcus' lieutenants rose above the vile rock beneath them, standing on their own crystalline disks.
“COWARDS AND FOOLS! HOW FEEL YOU TO BE MANIPULATED, PLAYED LIKE CATS-PAWS AND PETS?” the Dragon roared with its stone-shaking voice, slapping the material of the ziggurat with enough force to be felt on the skin even at that distance. “MERE TOYS OF ANOTHER FOLLOWER OF THE MASTER OF WORMS, TO BE USED AND DISPOSED OF WHEN YOU HAVE SERVED YOUR PURPOSE?”
“He must be talking about that vampiric silver dragon he killed all those centuries ago and reanimated into the service of his god,” quipped Estemar aloud. “That happened right about the time he lost his phylactery, didn’t it?” Jets of flame shot out the nostrils of the skeletal dragon at mention of that...even at this distance, it heard him clearly.
“Yes, he’s been manipulated and doesn’t even know it. All these millennia, thinking he’s a servant of the Wormhead, and in reality just a tool of the Prophecy and a pawn of Kussyus, the Rajah of Worms, a traitor to his own kind. How does it feel, knowing that your faithful service and incidents of cowardice were actually played by the Wormhead in an attempt to steal the power of Kussyus? All these centuries, thinking this was where the heart of his power would be, that he would attempt to tear free the might of a Rajah from directly above its prison, while the true attempt would be made far, far from the true nexus of might of the rakshasa?” Hazé’s disgust and mockery was conveyed in exquisitely inflected Draconic. “All those years living in fear of death, betrayal, and in the end, you are betrayed yourself, by your deeds, your actions, and by the one you thought of as master.”
“Truly, the Prophecy is a masterwork of fate,” Trencher agreed solemnly, further driving the knife of words into the Wyrm, as it was frozen with the stillness of undeath to consider the implications of what they were saying.
“YOU LIE!” the undead Wyrm roared, whipping its head around to stare at the stolen monolith, finally understanding what had happened. There was no way his lesser could have ripped the heart of the Wormgod’s power from this place…unless it had wanted to go.
To go, and to leave him here.
“No, I don’t think we do.” Marcus lifted up Thorn, and the flames bent towards the undead Wyrm tellingly, eager, seeking. “You’ve been abandoned, Wyrm…by that which you thought was your patron, and by that which truly was. Your soul is gone, and all that is left is to put an end to the mockery which you’ve become.”
“Come and die, pitiful Worm of a Dragon.”
The answering roar was the loudest yet. Skeletal wings snapped out, easily would have cleared seventy paces except for the small problem of the columns holding up the cavern. “I’LL SHOW YOU DEATH, LITTLE MAGGOT OF A MAN!”
Forty paces in one long bound down the steps of the ziggurat, a black vortex building inside the empty ribcage, and then came the wind.
It was a hurricane-force blast of damnation and nihility, strong enough to send a Jotun flying and to strip souls from bodies like wheat from chaff. It washed over them in an instant, laden with annihilation, and filling their ears with a howl straight from oblivion itself.
So it surprised Dargathra some when it got hit back.
The Gyre tore into its protective spells and ripped half of them away instantly, blowing them into raw discharges of energy that tore over its skeletal form in unnatural hues and forms. A single golden arrow punched right through the howling wind as if it were made of light itself, and drove into the very center of its skull and blew apart with a light like the rising sun. Golden crystals hurtled around the vortex and converged on the head of the Wyrm, and if the arrow had shone like the rising sun, these blew like high noon come to call.
Silvery orbs of force smashed into it, whamwhamwhamwham, chips of bone flying wildly from the force of the impacts, sending the Dragon back a step.
Vortices of clinging negative energy swirled about an unseen wall, dark mists crawling over faintly sparkling crystalline force erected in midair in front of the four hovering disks, completely protecting them from the harmful effects of the wind of death. On the ground, in front of it, completely unperturbed, Colonel Ruin lifted Thorn, unfazed, untouched, and started forwards.
The quartet behind the wall of force flowed apart smoothly, magic blazed in the soul-chillingly cold air with hostile warmth and light, and the Wyrm realized it had grossly underestimated the full might of the attackers here.
Sunstones and arrows of light streaked out with positive energy, force orbs and wheeling stars of blazing positive energy shards lashed out with quicksilver and radiant light that smashed right through the remnants of its protective fields without slowing. The assault was horrifyingly powerful, perfectly keyed to take advantage of the inherent vulnerabilities of being undead and steering well clear of the elemental nature of a Wyrm.
With a single Word, Dargartha lifted his own force wall to intercept the attacks as he reeled back from the second volley, contingency spells crackling to feed negative energy back into bones weakened by the assault of anathemic forces.
The human on foot came striding right through it, smashing it to pieces even as the Wyrm lept backwards.
If a skeletal Wyrm could gawk, the ancient Dragon would have, because suddenly the human had managed to grab its foreleg and hold on, even in midair, and now the sword came back, the sword that it could feel had fed on its very soul, and was now coming to finish the job.
If it would have managed to come down atop the man, then skin-flowing armor or no, the man would have been crushed. Even as he was moving to do so, the man was flowing aside and hacking with the blade.
Ancient bone almost exploded apart from the touch of the dark blade’s edge, and Dargathra roared in an agony like it had never felt before. Fires were clawing at it, clawing for its very existence, at once pushing and pulling it towards oblivion. With a bellow, its fractured leg, nearly paralyzed, turned and almost snapped in twain as the Wyrm landed, and the man rolled free and was underneath it.
And it was exposed.
With a hiss of magic, it was gone, terror clawing at its unliving lack of a heart. Damnation or worse was close, so close, and it had to flee to safety, or it would die here –
And found itself right back to where it had been standing an instant later, as the magic meant to whisk it away to safety jolted and fed into itself, circumvented and diverted backwards.
This time when the sword came down, Dragathra’s right foreleg was hacked clean through, and white fires blazed up the length of its bones as it came crashing down. The blade was rising to meet the descending ribcage, and the spiritual web of negative energies keeping it together shattered and tore with horrible zeal as the blade cleft deep into the hollow chest and through the gathered bones.
And as the flames began to rage in its ribcage, Dragartha looked up, and saw the sun and stars coming for it one last time. Its roar of fear and defiance of Fate finally catching up to it was swallowed by the silent eruption of silver and golden light, and judgment came in a blast of exploding bones and all-consuming flash as the remnants of the ancient undead Wyrm blew into less fragments then dust.
-----------------------------
Marcus wasted no time on the remnants of the Wyrm…the hungry flame around Thorn was gone, all the information he needed. The crystalline disks were already moving forwards to investigate and cover, and unlike perhaps some other mercenary teams, loot gathering was done as professionally as the killing.
“Trencher, let’s get a door and frame up. Estemar, scan the bone dust for goodies.” He walked down the ziggurat’s oversized steps with a springy stride, content to have done his part. The squirming green hue of the stone faded to black as he came down, and flowed back to writhing green as he moved on. “Hazé, start moving the loot.”
There were swirls of light from Hazé, Trencher, and Estemar, as the figurine, soul-wrap, and purse pulsed and gave up the lights that joined together in the soul of Lord Kenzeltun with sparkling, almost dancing speed.
“Dead. Finally and truly dead.” The glowing eyes of the spirit of the lost Lord closed once as he gave forth a spectral sigh of relief. “At last, I can move on, my vengeance is complete.”
“Hardly.” Marcus strode right past the spirit as some surprise showed on the face,eyes popping open once again. “Hazé has already divined that within this hoard lies the means to return you to life, and despite all your trials and tribulations, the true force behind the Cult of Worms and this Dragon remains to be defeated. Dargathra may have killed you, but your battle was never merely with it, but what it made possible.
“I think your revenge has yet to be properly taken, and then, I believe it would only be proper to see what kind of life you can lead without endless revenge weighing on your soul would be like. As I am sure you would agree?”
Lord Kenzeltun opened his ghostly mouth and closed it, not knowing quite what to say to that. Instead, he drifted over closer to the younger Colonel as Trencher first purged some of the black rock of the unholy infestation of worms within it, then rapidly sculpted a door standing in a frame before that massive hoard of treasure.
“You were one of the great heroes of Karrnath, Lord Kenzeltun…a hero not because of your deeds in the Last War, but because of what you accomplished outside of it. Karrnath is going to need her legends and her heroes in the days ahead. Come home, and give them hope that there is more then what our homeland has become.”
Ana affixed a plain golden knocker to the stone door, and rapped on it with a smart pattern. With a smiling glance at her husband, she pushed it open, and the deep room beyond opened wide, ready to accept their new wealth. Instantly, coins were flowing like a clinking river into the extra-dimensional space, first the gold and the platinum, then chests and coffers and other things as Hazé and Trencher concentrated, flowing into streams of silver as the most precious items were rapidly stuffed into the far end of the chamber…and a simple coffer floated up to her hands.
The Colonel turned to face the appraising eye of the long-dead Lord. “Ready to breathe again, sir?”
===Aelryinth
Another break. The next story is out of order while I waited for the last episode.
==Aelryinth
Episode VII – The Pirate Haven
“Ashkalan? You honestly expect us to go into that cesspool?”
The Colonel’s tone mirrored Estemar’s expression. The pirate city of the Redhand Principality was infamous for the level of corruption there…the Dark Six were venerated almost openly, ‘dark angels’ were known to dwell in the city, the people were oppressed and virtual slaves, and the land around the city occupied by people who could be called brigands by nature at best, and marauding raiders at worst.
“Nevertheless, that’s where Lord Kenzeltun went. If we want to find his research, that’s where we need to be going,” Hazé said cheerfully, charming smile completely unfazed. “Crawling through feces is part of the job of a Wolf…smiling while doing it takes an officer!”
Marcus’ scarred lips curled in an expression that promised all sorts of nasty things to any Ashkalar. “I’ve had dealings with marauders from those lands, Hazé…violent dealings.”
“Then they know not to mess with you. And I’m assuming that’s during your army days…you are now a well-known merc with a fairly broad reputation for grim ruthlessness and efficiency, who runs a full-scale looting operation of the Mournland,” the Khorovari pointed out without batting an eye. “I’d think that at least some of the powers there would absolutely love to court you and get the service of your Wolves for some unscrupulous purposes…and some Mror rockmagic to boot!” She smiled dazzlingly at Trencher, who had to look away hastily to keep his dour expression intact.
Estemar looked thin-lipped. “Hazé, the ruler of the city is known to actively employ fiends. It is an insult to all I believe in…I cannot let it pass.” The Topaz Knight reached up to touch his Order’s diadem for strength.
“And the Demon Wastes is full of Rakshasas and Hags…I don’t see you racing out there to kill them all. One battle at a time, and your eye on the priorities. What’s more important…stopping the Wormhead or hacking apart some uppity erinyes? And if you say ‘both’, then if killing the latter now means not killing the former, I trust you’ve the sense to hold off on the now?” The holy warrior was troubled and could not meet her eyes. “There is a time for a war of weapons and another for a war of words…it’s time for the latter. Evil thinks itself clever and subtle, and certainly loves to play with people. You’re going to be surrounded by temptation, enticement, and open encouragement to act…it’s going to take tremendous discipline and faith in a higher cause to hold yourself higher then they expect of you.” Her golden eyes turned to Marcus. “I fully expect that Marcus can do all sorts of very unsavory stuff, tallying all manner of payback for the right time…and every single one who tries such things with him is going to know it. You won’t have to stoop if you don’t want to, but you can stand tall and make tally just as fiercely.”
Estemar glanced at his commander, whose cold gray eyes were narrowed to speculative slits. “Diplomacy,” the Karrnath-born warrior spat.
Her eyes widened. “Oh, even better. Nobody expects a Karrn to be diplomatic. Work on your accent, and just pretend you’d rather kill them all then have words with them. I’ll handle the charm.” Her smile was infectious.
Estemar coughed into his fist…he looked like a Cyran, sounded like a Cyran, and generally made a fairly poor Karrn. “I’ll see what I can do,” he agreed hesitantly.
“And keep that Pureheart aura underwraps, or things will be hunting for you.” She eyed his diadem speculatively. “I can make that look less like a challenge, too…I think being in disguise is going to suit you, noble cavaliar!” As always, compliments caused the Topaz Knight to blush deeply and look away.
========================
One of the finer points about using the Stormwolf for major traveling was the fact it was a lot less visible then the gaudy Lyrandar airships, and unless it was going full speed, quieter. Getting within an hour or two of the port and debarking was accomplished with minimal difficulty…seeing an airship of the size and lethality of the Stormwolf close to the city would definitely not make their jobs easier.
While the rest of the group could make do with magically summoned mounts Hazé could whip up, as Estemar was not going to be summoning his preferred Puremount Novs, Colonel Ruin was instead mounted atop Sergeant Ruddy, the magebred warhorse who oversaw the training of what cavalry mounts the Wolves fielded. The mighty roan was excited and pleased to be about the task, and proud indeed to actually being selected as the mount of the Colonel, who generally was renowned for his skill at butchering horses, not riding them. He towered over the plainer mounts Hazé had summoned forth, and pranced eagerly, definitely ready for some lancework if he could arrange some.
“Easy, Sergeant,” the Colonel stated, giving the stallion’s shoulder a pat, keeping his hands off the reins as the roan pranced. “Start looking stupid. I don’t need anyone knowing you are smarter then they are, especially in this area, and it will probably keep you alive if someone decides you look just too valuable not to filch.”
Ruddy bared teeth which had found the throats and faces of more then one enemy, and the scars on his hide were ample proof that this was a warhorse, not some breeding stud. He’d taken his own toll of Valenar and their fey-bred mounts, and enjoyed doing it. He tossed his mane, but settled down with a cunning look in his eye that promised a very quick return to mayhem status if needed, snorting once.
“Yes, I hope one does too.” Cold gray eyes looked over the lot of them, all of them ‘dressed down’…in Wolf uniforms, with far less of the individualistic accoutrements they normally wore to stand out and represent their specialties. Estemar, bereft of his white and gold, looked darkly dashing with his diadem gleaming black and not a sign of Dol Arrah visible upon him, all in Wolf black and gray. Hazé was actually in something that almost looked like a uniform, except it fit much too well and looked much too good on her to actually be called that. However, her hair was bound in braids, her extra knives were at her waist, and there was a dangerous glow to her eyes that would make sure that no one mistook her for a soft target. Her body language was swifter and more calculating, and there was a dangerous tilt to her mouth that promised ready mayhem…overall, she looked the most different and got the most eyeblinks from the rest of the crew when she had presented herself, too used to seeing her in softer colors and with dancing eyes and smiles.
“Why do I have the impression you’ve been in Lhazaar before, and the city ahead in particular?” Marcus asked, as the Stormwolf lifted away, heading back for Fort Lewt.
“Three seasons aboard the Deeplily as a ship’s mage,” she responded with a venomous sweetness all the more startling for who it came from. “Unfortunately, the Captain couldn’t keep his hands to himself, and there was a falling out.”
Marcus lifted what was left of his eyebrows, while Estemar looked suitably shocked. “So, they might know you here?”
“I’m reasonably sure the Prince of Redhand might remember me,” she smiled, with the edge of a razor in it. In profile, she looked like one very dangerous, intelligent, and beautiful woman.
Marcus managed not to roll his eyes. “And do you still think he composes sonnets for you at night?” Hazé glanced at him slyly, smiled even more dangerously, and crisply rode ahead so that they might all admire her backside.
Trencher coughed at the sight. “Methinks this is going to be very interesting, Colonel Ruin, Sir.”
“I pity the poor Prince who has to deal with a vicious version of our lovely Witch,” Marcus replied affably, taking it all in keenly. “She did have quite a career before falling in with the likes of us, you realize.”
“Poor killing machines that we are?” Estemar inquired, getting into the mood of things.
“Oh, yes. This is going to be entertaining. Let us sit back and watch her tongue at work. This could be extremely enlightening.”
==============================
“Good morning.”
Marcus actually saw the bored gate guard swallow as Hazé bent over towards him. Maybe it was the deep violet lip polish. Maybe it was the fact it was late on evening. Maybe it was just the way she said it looking deep into his eyes and kept them from wandering down further, which they desperately wanted to do.
“Is Prince Ismiador still holding court in this quiet little city?” she asked of him, so much silken poison in the words Marcus actually saw beads of sweat break out on the no-longer bored gate guard’s brow.
“Y-yes, M’lady,” the guard managed to reply, completely forgetting his role in roughing up and appraising passersby.
“Good, good. See if you can’t tell him that Jetsilver is in town, and I hear he’s holding a party sometime soon. I’m sure he’d like to invite my associates and me. Perhaps you’ve heard of Colonel Marcus Ruin?”
He repeated the name once, mouth framing a silent O as his head turned, and got the full force of Marcus’ glare.
“I’ll send word to the castle right away, ma’am!” he promised almost trippingly, waving them through and almost physically impelled back by the death promised by Marcus’ stare.
“How sweet of you.” Hazé gently spurred her horse ahead, all of the gate guards craning for a better look before Marcus’ stare made a full sweep and sent them retreating carefully back as the others followed after her.
“Is she going to negotiate our next contract, too?” Estemar asked innocently, trying to look grim and not burst out laughing.
“She looks like a fine vintage of poison, she does,” Trencher mused. “Sounds like it, too. Jetsilver…haven’t heard that one before. Not surprising tho, if she was only aboard a ship for three seasons.”
“Well, enough to make an impression. She seems quite sure of herself.” The three male Wolves rode comfortably in her wake through the town, which seemed to be composing itself for some sort of festivities…except there was not a trace of festiveness in the air. Marcus took it in carefully, then fixed his eyes on something passing overhead.
The change in his mood snapped everyone’s head up, even Hazé, who wasn’t even looking at him. They all watched the winged figure cut across the sky…from a distance, a woman warrior with raven’s wings.
Thorn’s guard reached up to caress the mailed hand stroking the pommel, drawing pricks of blood as it passed through the armor to his skin with the animated barbs. Marcus followed the path of the fiend until the rise of the houses hid it from sight.
“Estemar, make a mental note to find out just how many of those things are here in the city.”
“Sir.” One order he was extremely pleased to take.
“Trencher, Hazé, I want to know when one is around…visible or otherwise.”
“Sir,” Trencher responded for both of them, while the Khorovari just sniffed. The townsfolk scattered from the uncanny air of dread that seemed to be hovering around her, and the more perceptible raw menace leaking from the scarred face of the man following her. After her and Marcus, the stoic figures of knight and Dwarf were just forgetful add-ons…which was just the way it was supposed to be.
“You think she knows the best inn in town, sir?” Estemar asked forwards, glad his expression was mostly hidden by his helm.
“I imagine there have been changes, and she is going to enjoy herself finding out about them. I imagine she will be going shopping at some point. You get to be the pretty boy who carries her packages.”
“Thank you, sir,” Estemar replied drily. “And what will you and Trencher be up to?”
“Philosophical discussions with the locals over whatever local poison they call drink here.”
“Very good, sir. I’ll try not to spill my wine and her perfumes.”
“See that you don’t.”
=======================
“I daresay a set of invitations was never delivered so swiftly in the poor man’s life.” Estemar waved the set at the rest of them as Marcus and Trencher strode back into their plush quarters. “You might have thought she was the Empress for all the fawning he was doing over our dear Lady.” He looked the pair of them up and down. “Interesting time?”
Trencher belched loudly. “There’s a band of hobgoblin mercs in town…mountain clan expatriates, failed to perform a coup or somesuch and have been trying to get some distance from their former clan. It seems we’ve some competition for business.”
“I had to kill a few Lhazaar who expressed a disbelief of the stories of Karrnathi combat ability. Apparantly, they think not being able to puke out your guts on the deck of a ship is a fine fill-in for experience in personal combat. A personality trait common among the Lhazaar, I’ve been told.” The Colonel didn’t look amused, nor was a thread out of place.
“They had knives, too,” winked Trencher. He had more then a few threads out of place, was wobbling slightly, and hiccupped up some blue flames. Estemar noted gratefully that he didn’t smell of booze, thoughtfully having burnt it away.
“And I presume that’s how they died. Eyeballs or throats?”
“Ears. He couldn’t stand listening to them anymore. I told the Captain about the émigrés from the mining town. He doesn’t think it a coincidence they are here…someone or something attracted them here.”
“Pawns of the Prophecy?” Estemar sighed, deftly pouring the three of them a rather fine Brelish Red and handing it out in the silver tankards that came with the room.
“Doubtless. That quaggoth sage? He’s living on the floor below. Was a bit surprised to see Wolf insignia again.”
“Caulder’s team did a fine enough job.” Marcus’ eyes started to glower at the mere idea the fur-covered immigrant from a freak’s show might be judging one of his squads less then competent.
“Oh, he had no problems with performance. Was rather then excited about the whole thing and started telling everyone about the grand adventures of Caulder’s team. Spreading the word, as it were.”
“That can’t hurt. It should spread among the grapevine of other natives and all over the city very quickly, then.” Marcus’ eyes narrowed. “Is that quaggoth greedy? Calling himself a sage and intellectual…he would definitely seem to have some ambitions above his people’s normal inclinations.”
“I don’t think greed is his primary goal…but he was definitely looking to better his lot in life,” Estemar agreed.
“An intelligent, driven, monstrous bastard with a decent mind might be useful to us. Invite him up for cigars. We might be able to do some business.”
Trencher and Estemar both glanced at one another. The Colonel’s mind never stopped working. “Sir,” the knight agreed, heading for the door.
“And where is her most dread Ladyship?” the Colonel asked curiously.
“Next door. Taking a bubble bath. With the windows open, and singing.” Trencher coughed as Marcus obligingly looked out the window, and with a remarkable lack of coincidence, a flight of bubbles blew past in his view.
“Exactly how large a crowd is assembling below?” he asked the ceiling. “Never mind. Tell her that the lair of the Dragon that Caulder encountered and that struck the mines has been identified as in the middle of the river north of town. She might want to scry ahead of us and see what manner of surprises are in store.”
He was fairly sure there wouldn’t be a single interruption of her song, and she’d probably end up using the bubbles for a scrying tool…and judging by the way they were swirling outside the window, amusement for the locals drooling below her window.
“She asks if we are going to hit it tomorrow or if she’s allowed to go get a new dress first.”
“Shopping after. She’ll have to clean up anyways. And it will give the locals conversational material.”
===========================
“That was a damn surprised Dragon,” Trencher mused, bending down to inspect Ruddy’s blood-smeared hooves. “I bet it never expected to have its head trampled in by a horse.” Ruddy tossed his head, where the array of triple, bull-like warhorns affixed to his barding-helm were streaked with the hissing black blood of the dead Dragon.
“Nice lancework there, Lieutenant.” Marcus had come across by boat, while Estemar had ridden the roan right across the waters…rather difficult to do with one of the Forsaken on your back.
“Thank you, sir. It’s good to keep in practice.” He withdrew his blackened lance from the breast of the second Dragon, and a thick stream of dark ichor poured out of the lethal wound and down the dark scales of the beast, hissing where it struck the muddy ground.
“Trencher, you can start cutting the things up if you like. I’d like to go back across the waters with four heads on pikes, if you catch my meaning.” With their eyes still glowing and smoking, they’d make a fine set of trophies.
“Understood, sir.” Trencher snapped out his gleaming adamantine skinning knife and started enthusiastically, and expertly, to work.
“The locals said some of the hobgoblins came out here to investigate the lair.” Marcus kicked aside the severed head of the Dragon he’d killed nonchalantly, exposing the mashed bootprint below…iron-nailed. “I’ve a feeling we might have annoyed their Captain by pre-empting his attempt. Keep an eye out, Trencher. Hazé, Estemar, with me.”
‘Lady Jetsilver’ blew on her nails critically, but trailed after him easily enough. It was disconcerting to see her crystalline shards manifesting as indigo, inky swirls, but they’d been just as effective as usual…and the Dragons had been quite surprised at how easily she could tear away their concealing globes of darkness.
“Looks like they were herded…six of them, in all.” Marcus’ cold eyes read the ground easily as he followed the path of the hobgoblins up the low hill. “No real damage or injuries…except the ones that strayed from the path. Looks like one tried to run and got dragged off.” He glanced ahead. “The lair has a problem.”
“Something in there needed food?” Estemar wondered, then corrected himself. “No, else it would just devour the corpses. They were being herded, and I assume the entry is ahead. They needed something living, but disposable, and didn’t want to go themselves. Some form of undead within, or a rogue guardian?”
“As if creatures they could push around could take care of something they were afraid to.” Marcus just shook his head at the dimwittedness of the swamp dragons. It was only a few minutes more before they stood before the portals, some sort of acid-resistant stone double doors laying at an angle…a secondary exit or entry sized a bit small for most Dragons.
Hazé snapped her fingers, and a dark eyeball popped into existence in front of her, swooped past the two men as they obligingly heaved open the doors, and vanished into the darkness beyond.
“Acid burns are everywhere on the stone. My, my, I don’t think the hobbers got very far.” A field of green light swirled about her and Estemar, and down into the darkness they went, the dark crystal on Estemar’s diadem leaping to golden life to light their way.
==========================
“Some sort of cursed genie…a marid, perhaps. Mind the acid, Colonel. Don’t want to ruin your boots!”
Marcus stayed crouched on the workbench patiently as Hazé’s fingers wove carefully, and a jet of white particles streamed hissing down her arms and into the calf-deep, dangerously fuming, bubbling remnants of the massive…thing that Thorn had cut into free-form pseudo goo that filled the floor of the room they were in. Estemar was gingerly stepping on one of her crystal disks, covering them with his bow, while she drifted easily around the room on another.
With gurgles and pops, the goo completely liquefied under the barrage of her assault, changing color and transparency and beginning to drain away. Like a hose, she waved it around the entire room, and the acidic secretions liquefied and flowed off of everything in fairly short order.
“Alkalines?” the Colonel asked curiously, stepping down from his basalt perch casually.
“Magic-charged positive alkalines. A lot of the thing’s acidity came from the former contents of this place…” Hazé began to sniff around and inspect everything, very curious, idly continuing her barrage of Shards-dust. She paused only to snap her fingers, another crystalline disk to wink into place, and a few jars to begin easing themselves out of her pack. “I’ll go over it with a fine tooth comb, Marcus. You might want to get back up top. There’s another longboat heading for the island.”
==========================
The hobgoblins numbered over a score this time, and plainly were not happy to see someone else on the island where their comrades had gone missing. However, their aggressive half-charge from their boats slowed to a stop as they came into the full sight of four young black dragon corpses spread out around the area, in various states of dissection.
Trencher was leaning on Forge, which was cherry red and smoking slightly in his grip, sure sign that a spell was about to go off and take a lot of hobgoblins down with it. Marcus was on Ruddy this time, lance out and shield ready, while Estemar had two arrows nocked and at the ready, covering the coming archers.
Completely undaunted by their archers, Marcus trotted forwards to cut off their advance, easily making the right flank pull back and coming up a dozen paces shy of their commander, who was eying the carcasses both covetously and with a bit of trepidation…especially with the marks of Dragon claws showing on Ruddy’s neck and flanks where the stallion’s barding had been torn. The proud strut of the warsteed drew many appreciative eyes from the hobgoblins, and careful steps…this was a warhorse, not some mage’s toy.
“Captain Nirru’huk, I presume,” Marcus stated coolly. “If you are looking for your soldiers, they are quite dead and liquefied via acid some time ago. I recommend you turn around and go back whence you came. There is nothing for you to do here.”
The baleful yellow eyes of the broad-shouldered, wine-skinned hobgoblin couldn’t compare to the cold gray and inhuman scarring covering the Colonel of the Wolves, although he did manage to meet the human’s gaze with something approaching challenge. “Colonel Ruin of the Wolves of the North. You are a long way from your little fort, human…you think to give orders to me?” he snarled back, and his followers tensed.
“You think to claim what is mine by battle-right?” Marcus’ steel-on-slate voice, instead of rising, only softened, yet carried with terrible clarity, his Karrnathi accent slashing the syllables off with dire force. Anyone who knew him knew that as a very dangerous sign as the gory lance descended. His pale eyes were almost glowing with the eagerness to kill. “Please, do try. I’ll make sure none of the rest of your band make it back to report just how quickly I butcher you all. There is, after all, nowhere to run.”
The hobgoblin glanced at the Dwarf with the hissing iron-stick glowing red hot, the human whose arrowheads were aglow with magical power…and four dead Dragons, even young ones, with gaping eyes smoking green light from their severed heads.
“You did not come all the way to Ashkalar to kill the spawn of Dragons, human,” he replied, getting quickly off the subject of his own death, not liking the look of that Dwarf, even with his own Dirgesinger ready to counter his magic.
“I have some local business with the Prince I am pursuing, Captain. Perhaps you would like to interfere with that, as well?” Ruddy was stamping and pawing eagerly.
The mere thought he might have competition for a mercenary contract did not sit well with the hobgoblin, and indeed had not since he had heard the commander of the Wolves was in town…even without the rest of his band of Karrnathi throat-cutters around.
“You think you can match me, human?” He let the guffaw escape his lips. “A challenge, then!”
Cold gray eyes regarded him without blinking, clearly preferring to settle matters more directly. “I am listening.”
“We shall see who is better equipped to do battle…without offending our host by doing raw battle in his domain!” That they were outside the city walls and beyond the care of the Prince right at the moment he conveniently left out.
Marcus’s scar-split lips parted in a truly fearsome smile, all the moreso for his incredibly even, perfect white teeth. “If this is some manner of trick, Captain, the Prince’s wrath will not be something you have time to fear!” The whole troop flinched on seeing his expression.
Captain Nirru’huk managed to carefully spit his contempt. “I will be waiting for you at the town square, if you dare to come.” Deliberately, he turned his back on the human, and started back down towards his boat. Marcus’ eyes raked the rest of them, and spurred them after their commander.
Trencher and Estemar came up on either side of their commander, while Ruddy whuffed his disappointment. Trencher gave the warhorse a friendly pat on his flank. “Aye, there, laddie, I’m sure we’ll get a chance to beat some hobbers into the muck. Nice save by the bastard…showed his whole troop why he’s the boss.”
“What manner of challenges do you think he has in mind, sir? That didn’t sound like an invitation to a duel.” Estemar didn’t hide his disappointment, either…he also tended to loathe goblin-kin.
“Traditional challenges of warrior’s competency. The hobgoblins are a bit more civilized then their larger kin, who just brawl out challenges, and more open then the goblins, who tend to slit throats and avoid public spectacles. Think Imperial, Lieutenant.”
Estemar thought quickly. “Games! You’ve been challenged to games, sir!”
“Correct. Athletic, possibly dangerous, but not intentionally lethal.” Marcus studied the rapid, expert withdrawal of the hobgoblins from the beach. “They’ve had training as marines…unusual for a mountain clan. Roggos-Thar emblem…they are wearing it even here. Territory on the southernmost reaches of the Dhakaani Highlands…pirates, like the Lhazaar.”
“And hobgoblin only, none of their cousins…pride, or something else?” Trencher contributed softly.
“His band is mixed, but most of it is camped outside the city…the Prince is no fool, although I doubt they’d dare the wrath of the Dark Angels.” He didn’t look up, but Trencher sharply did.
“Aye, sir, two of them overhead,” the Dwarf reported quickly. “Nice play, sir. Worst display of false bravado I’ve yet seen from you, sir.”
His scarred smile was more like that of a wolf, this time, but no less fearsome for the lack of teeth. “It’s going to be an eventful day. It’s too bad Hazé is going to miss it shopping.”
“That had to be incredibly humiliating,” Estemar murmured to Trencher as the hobgoblins moved away from the piercing gaze of the human Colonel, leaving behind a massive dire boar with all four legs trussed up and ready for the slaughter. The path out of the wrestling pen cleared quickly and widely, and even the Captain of the warriors saw fit to say nothing.
“He won a stare-down with a warpig. That’s a first,” Trencher agreed softly. “Beat ‘em individually and together.” Ruddy huffed softly over Estemar’s shoulder, watching the whole thing with restrained glee. “Oi, sorry, Sergeant. They be thinking he’s just the master rider what with him not bothering to grab the reins and all. That pig didn’t have a chance of beating you and we know it. Just adding to the Colonel’s rep.”
The equine Sergeant huffed, flicked an ear in acknowledgement of the point. “Have you ever seen a standing jump like that?” Estemar asked, referring to the first of the games.
“Wave Motion lightfoot, I think he called it. You never noticed his footwork, how he runs? Of course, way he moves, like his joints got put back together wrong, its hard to see. Smooth, flowing…at least it used to be. More like precise chop now, heh.” The Mror straightened up as his Colonel strode up. “Good show, sir. Should sign up as a pig wrestler, make good coin, sir.”
Marcus’ level stare didn’t chase the grin trying hard not to twitch at the corner of Trencher’s mouth away. “I’ll consider it after you volunteer for a month as a stablehand.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Human!” The rough challenge was warily respectful, if underscored with a dangerous anger and jealousy. Marcus turned around coldly, his expression no more friendly then the challenge. “That blade upon your horse…where did you get it?”
Marcus considered the yellow eyes of the hobgoblin, plainly deciding whether or not to say anything at all. It was the Captain who stepped back first, acknowledging that this was not a demand. “I did not ‘get it’. It found me, in some old ruins wherein some raiding Valenar I was chasing went to ground. I killed the Valenar, their ancestral spirits in residence in the ruins, and the blade rose from the ground to my hand. It had been sitting there for a long, long time, feared so much by the Valenar ancestors they hadn’t even been able to pass on for fear another would wield it. I sent them onwards with my bare hands after the warband leader broke my sword with his skull. I guess they didn’t think that a mere human soldier should be much threat to someone like them.” His gray eyes narrowed, and that killing smile started to form again. “Know something about it, Dhakaani? Perhaps you’d like to take it from me?”
Estemar glanced at the barbed hilt of Thorn, which, oddly enough, remained quite unmoving, very unusual for what he had come to expect of what he was sure was a sentient blade. It was a supremely dangerous weapon…and now the hobgoblin seemed to have recognized it? That meant it had to be old…thousands of years old. He had never inquired about the history of the blade…the Colonel had acquired it before he joined the Wolves…and the Wolves themselves didn’t like to talk about the thing. He suspected most of them had no idea where he’d gotten it, either.
“It reminds me of an old tale, that is all.” A blatant half-truth, but one that Marcus chose to ignore. Something in his pale eyes as he turned back to them gave Estemar the idea he knew far more then the hobgoblin suspected…but then, most people tended to underestimate what the Colonel was capable of.
“Ruddy, extra carrots and sugar for you tonight.” He swung up smoothly on the roan, who neighed happily. With a final scathing glare at the surly, but silent crowd of hobgoblins, and without a hand on the reins, he turned away, and Estemar and Trencher swung into their own conjured mounts easily enough to travel in his wake.
======================
“He recognized Thorn? Is that important?” Hazé wasn’t worried in the slightest at that detail as she turned the Colonel this way and that.
The room was festooned with cloth and thread. Where she’d gotten it all, the men had no idea, but now they were in the dubious position of being fashion dummies for her, as she was quite determined that they were not going to embarrass her in front of the rest of the guests at the gala tomorrow. She’d been waiting back at their rooms, sent them hurtling off to the baths, and then promptly began trying them out in various clothes.
Trencher and Estemar were remaining quite still, the Mror very nervous about the cloth being stitched onto him while he stood in his undergarments, and moreso about the ninth different pattern his hair and beard had been bound in. Even the Colonel was accepting the attention with his normal stoicism, despite his rather fabulous disdain for current fashion trends.
Estemar looked absolutely dashing in his twelfth ensemble, his bronzed skin and dark, curly hair set off nicely by the whites and blacks of what looked almost to be a pirate outfit…or a tago dancer, save for the glitter of gold thread and a rather gaudy show of topaz and tiger-eyes that set off his green eyes. His sash was getting serpentine dragons woven into it as he waited patiently before a mirror, trying hard not to look at himself in some astonishment as glittering beads began to weave themselves onto his tunic’s shoulder and breast.
“It probably means trouble in the offing. It seems surprising no Valenar has commented on the blade…I wonder if any ever encountered it and lived.” He seemed amused as Hazé tugged off his jacket, stepped a couple paces away, and proceeded to reweave the sleeves with a couple gestures. His shirt was pearl instead of white, and the buttons on the jacket were star garnets, with the Wolf Emblem picked out in fantastically detailed mithril thread on the black shimmersilk. “Isn’t this an Aundair cut?” he asked innocently, and got a stern look from Hazé in response.
“The Aundair are using their traditional pleated sleeves…it covers the lack of physique and is more comfortable and showy for their wizards. I’m having problems with yours because your build is fairly unique.” She turned her eyes on Trencher, who hastily began his proper turning around. “Mmm, beard needs work.” She snapped her fingers and a small cascade of glittering crystals and fiery stones descended on him and began to work themselves into his beard. “You need to wear more rings, also. Have you a few more in your purse?”
Trencher coughed. “I believe I can find something suitably tasteless, m’Lady,” he replied quickly.
“Black, red, and crystal stones if at all possible, and use gold, not silver.” Estemar yelped as a glittering gold and emerald earring inserted itself into place. “Yes, that looks nicely done. You shall be quite the feast for the ladies at the party, and I use the term loosely.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He did his best rakish smile, which was startlingly good. “Perhaps we can dance the tago for them, and show them what they are missing?”
She was in his arms and her nose a knuckle away from him in a heartbeat, and his pulse went soaring as he found himself looking very deeply into her huge golden eyes from much too close. “I never thought you would ask, my handsome cavaliar.” The touch of her hand upon his breast was electric, he thought his chest was going to burst. “I shall make very certain we have the opportunity.” She whirled away before he could respond, leaving him inhaling the scent of her and feeling giddy from the perfume. Guiltily, he looked to his Colonel, who just arched half an eyebrow in amusement and shrugged his jacket on, adjusting it snappily.
Trencher motioned him down, and he bent over carefully, loosening a collar that felt much too tight suddenly. “Now you’ve done it lad. She’s going to wear something she can dance the tago in tomorrow. Just imagine what she’s going to look like.”
Estemar did, and swallowed again. Oh, yes, tomorrow was going to be interesting, indeed.
===========================
Of course, it would not do that they not make an entrance, and by the time Hazé got done weaving a hard light wagon for them, a floating carriage that glittered, shimmered, even scintillated a bit, complete with grandiose lanterns cycling prismatic hues, there was no doubt they’d be arriving in style. How she’d gotten the black and silver mithral-polish tack for Sergeant Ruddy was another mystery, but the great roan certainly appreciated it, and the Sergeant had supervised his own brush down so as to look his best.
Of course, Hazé put them all to shame. None of the men were sure where she’d gotten the cloth of her ensemble from, as it flowed from indigo through shadow to shimmering ebons and back again, with a neckline down to there and slit up to there and concealing nothing while not showing a thing on what had to be an idealized Khorovari figure on four-finger heels. Her hair was moving with a life of its own, bound with glimmering dimstars, and her eyes were pure killing mystery, lips deadly promises of poison.
Estemar almost fell over as he saw her, despite himself. They had never seen Hazé dress up, and this vision of sweet toxins and lethal sensuality was not like anything they’d expected. Hazé was bright, cheerful, energetic, vibrant…nothing like this lethal beauty before them.
Trencher, looking supremely wealthy and more pompously important then he’d ever thought he could, helped her into the carriage while Estemar recovered, and then followed her, to the cheers of the hotel occupants and a growing gaggle of the crowd who were taking a break from forced celebrations to watch something truly interesting.
“Devastating, Lady,” remarked Trencher, as Estemar sat down next to him. Hazé waved at Colonel Ruin, who touched spurless heels to Ruddy and led the floating carriage smartly away.
With a shimmering cling, silver coins fell down behind them from out of the air, and the calls and shouts in the air became real cries of glee.
“Indeed. It’s always good to make an impression.” Her eyes spit Estemar like a lancepoint. “And I will be getting a dance from you this day, cavaliar.”
The Topaz knight cleared his throat and felt his palms sweating. It wasn’t fear, but it was certainly close. “We’ll show the Lhazaar how to dance, m’Lady,” he managed to reply with just the proper touch of arrogance.
The widening of her eyes in appreciation was as suggestive as anything he’d yet seen, but she said nothing more as they swept through the town, waving and followed by a screaming crowd holding their hands for silvers raining down from the skies behind them.
“Wasn’t he supposed to send a carriage for us?” Estemar asked, somewhat revoltingly impressed at the pure and appropriate gaudiness of the show.
“I neglected to mention I gave the driver the hour off. He can take us back home.” She made a shooing motion. “So far I’ve counted eight distinct Dark Angels.” She rolled her eyes upwards and down with a cool smile, waving cheerily at the crowd.
==========================
“A challenge, human! With blades, this time, under the eyes of the Prince!”
Captain Nirru’huk had been working himself into a fury all evening, especially after the sleek Dirgesinger he employed finished whispering in his ear. Every time his eyes fell on the four newly mounted mire Dragon heads with their unique smoking green eyes, his mood had only turned more foul. Losing this contest of shooting down these rare and exotic birds had obviously set him off…especially as the Colonel had won so coolly and smoothly no one contested his ability with a crossbow.
Being goaded, and not smart enough to realize it, Marcus judged. He saw the Prince’s lips thin as he tossed his Mror crossbow back to Hazé, who made it promptly disappear in midair without laying a finger on it. Ah, a duel at a celebratory revel…bad timing.
“Hazé, ask Thorn if it would like to drink.”
‘Lady Jetsilver’ raised an artful eyebrow, and whistled merrily. The Prince’s intrigue was matched a moment later by a horrified scream from a different part of the Palace. The screams rose, more pain and fear and a distinctly feminine aspect to them…but not human, oh no.
The Angel came streaking into their presence with a woosh of raven wings, diving into the ground at his feet, scream of agony unstopping. Thorn drove itself into the ground two paces shy of the Colonel.
Her entire right arm was a writhing mass of barbed tendrils, and dark diabolic blood was dripping off of them as the erinyes clutched futilely at the tearing barbs with her other hand.
“Ah, thank you for taking care of Thorn for me.” He took two steps, laid hand to the barbs, and without wincing drew the dark and dripping blade from the ground. The ripping barbs withdrew instantly, shockingly fast, leaving behind yellowish, ichor-dripping bone stripped clean of flesh all the way up to the shoulder…and had been starting to work on that, as well. The erinyes collapsed, shuddering in shock, and the Colonel serenely ignored her and the gaping expressions of the rest of the dinner party. Thorn’s guard wrapped itself possessively around his hand, caressing him with lethal, razored edges.
“A duel of blades. Perhaps you think to win this sword from me, as that dead creature behind me wished to do.” He didn’t look back as the Dark Angel shuddered and began to smoke and molder away. The wine-red skin of the hob’s brutal features were definitely more pinkish. The deadly perfection of the long blade lifted in his direction, and the hob swallowed. “Did someone tell you to reclaim it for the glory of your people? Please. Draw your sword and you die on this blade, Captain.”
Slowly, the hob moved his hand away from his swordhilt.
It looked like he was gliding, so smooth was the pace and the stroke, and a single bright line etched itself across the cheek of the hobgoblin warrior. He flinched, yellow eyes closing, but the Colonel simply stepped back and let that single drop of blood begin a slow and winding descent down the perfect length of the dark blade…and living runes come wriggling and burning to life as the drop touched them.
“First blood. A fine duel, Captain.” There was a hiss and he watched that single drop of blood sink into the unmetal of the blade and vanish.
Calmly, he stuck the blade in the ground. “If one of your Angels would like to watch over this blade for your safety again, Highness, they are most welcome to.” He released it and the barbs released his hand at the same time, leaving themselves wound about the hilt basket-style…but no basket hilt ever bore such edges.
He knew the Prince’s eyes were on him, but he wasn’t really here to deal with a Prince of Lhazaar, no matter how important the man thought himself. It annoyed him that this Lashonna hadn’t shown herself yet.
“Come with me, Captain,” he said calmly, heading back inside the Palace, gesturing the hob to follow him. “We may have some business to discuss.”
The brute hesitated, reaching up to touch his bleeding cheek, and then, with a warning glare at his Dirgesinger escort that made her shrink back in comprehension that he now knew what she’d tried to do, he caught up with the smaller human with a few long strides, and shoulder to shoulder they walked inside.
=========================
Well, the third course was revolting enough, the Colonel thought, grabbing a second helping to the shock of those close by before it could be hurriedly whisked away. He’d had worse…and he was hungry.
The Prince looked somewhat shocked…even the hobgoblin Captain didn’t grab more of the disgusting course that Redhand had 'personally designed'. Probably for the best…the hob was glumly only picking at his food after Hazé had cheerfully and on the sly told him it was poisoned…the Prince’s response to the rash challenge the infuriated hob had demanded of the Colonel. She'd give him something to neutralize the poison before the night was done...which would leave him in the Colonel's debt, and his viper-tongued Dirgesinger no doubt considering fleeing for her life...
The guildmistress had left after a very short conversation with Hazé…before 'Jetsilver' had sauntered up to the Prince and blithely informed the decadent man that the 'old woman' was an inhuman servant of the Lord of Worms, and did he like such creatures being in charge of his merchant’s guild? A couple Dark Angels had been dispatched to find her…Marcus rather doubted they’d find anything, nor that they’d look too hard.
Trencher was sitting next to the other pair of dwarves here…one a merc band under hire from the Prince, the other a member of the Mror clans here negotiating some sort of trade business. They were all talking loudly in Dwarvish, flashing gold and gems at one another, and Estemar’s signing indicated that Trencher was masterfully controlling his temper and the desire to turn both fools to piles of ash…which didn’t mean he couldn’t deal for an edge. The Wolves had a good reputation in Mror, or, at least, Colonel Ruin did.
Estemar had been ‘appropriated’…or perhaps, dismissed, from sitting next to Hazé, as the Prince clearly didn’t want any rival around to distract attention. The Prince of Redhand was clearly enjoying having Hazé around and giving her more then a fair share of his attention…and almost ignoring the lovely Elven lass opposite him at the table. Estemar had already gallantly made their case and got a meeting arranged with her for two nights hence, which left Colonel Ruin alone, with an inquisitive halfling from Q’Barra sniffing for money on one side of him and a gnomish lord from the hinterlands only too happy to keep himself around the dour, grim façade of the human mercenary who simply didn’t react to anything going on. Opposite him, Lord Kilhawk was also engaging enough a fellow, waving his hook around as ably as Marcus did his own missing hand.
It had been an interesting day. He’d made a couple of contacts here at the party that could prove useful, and who were definitely interested in talking to him, and that was fine. Hazé was proving a definite distraction for the Prince, who seemed both delighted and disturbed at the Colonel’s utter lack of possessiveness regarding her. She was definitely the life of the party, and by the looks the Elven lass was throwing at her, she was definitely known by Lashonna. There was definitely some worry behind those looks.
She’d regaled them all with an eerily nerve-crawling story of the last days of a certain pirate crew and ship and how all aboard had had a falling out…a rather thinly veiled account of the last days of the Deeplily. He’d long known she could sing like an angel, and she’d happily shown she could sing like a seductress too…her song of a woman who bartered beauty for gold…a lot of gold…but never gave away her heart, had the Prince’s jester fuming with humiliation.
The fourth course arrived, and he listened to the jester’s diatribe as the freakish manservants hustled around with disconcerting smoothness, snorted, and dug in even as the table was looking his way at his performance during the first three settings. After seeing him down the pudding without the slightest reluctance, and indicate his pleasure, the rest of the table dug into the revolting looking but rather tasty pudding. Then Nirru’huk had made the mistake of boasting about one of his pirate raids, and sparked off a bevy of battle boasts by the enthusiastic warriors present. Marcus had quashed them all with a hackle-raising tale of a stroll through Metrol and the ghost-beasts that dwelt there, and nobody had dared to pipe up after he’d finished. His own people were the only ones there who had ever set foot in the Mournland.
The fifth course, the cake, was almost an unmitigated disaster, as someone in the kitchen had decided to opt out of magical reinforcement and the overly gaudy thing had collapsed into a great mess. Hazé rather marvelously saved the moment by animating all the clean forks and spoons at the table, which had rushed to rebuild the cake in a flurry of silver. The whole of the dinner party had watched in tremendous bemusement as the loyal silverware of Ashkalan had rebuilt the cake under the direction of the animated carving of the Prince in a dance of animated motion complete with tinking tines and glasses, marching up in lockstep and setting to work with a hammering of spoons on plates. The Prince’s anger had been completely mollified watching his miniature self direct it all like an orchestra…and the cake hadn’t been all that bad, either.
That, of course, left the dance after dinner. He reached for his wine to hide a grim smile, knowing that would be quite the talk of the town.
==========================
“I thought his eyes were going to leave his head.” Trencher murmured, hiccupping a spot of blue flame behind his hand. “Of course, I’m still surprised I have a beard. You notice the elfin left half way through your display?” He tilted a knowing eyebrow at a smiling and glowing Hazé, who clearly had enjoyed herself immensely.
“Yes, well, the Elves have their own works of art, and dancing the tago properly isn’t one of them.” Her voice lowered conspiratorially as she leaned towards Estemar, who looked equally chipper despite himself. “That is so much more fun then a mere waltz, is it not?”
“I had forgotten how much I enjoyed it,” the paladine Topaz knight confessed, clearly riding high, and bowing to her in her seat. “And you are magnificent, m’Lady. I doubt I’ve ever seen it danced better. It was an honor to tago with you!”
“My pleasure, cavaliar.” The wink she gave him just made him smile the more broadly…obviously, part of the dance was the flirting afterwards.
“Numbers?” Marcus asked calmly, clearly with his mind on other matters. They were taking the Prince’s carriage home, Sergeant Ruddy already having found his way ahead of them.
“Twelve, now eleven,” Hazé said calmly, and Estemar inclined his head in agreement. “I also got a very good look at their accoutrements…they are the equivalent of diabolic knights, an order of Mortal Hunters. They should be hunting and stalking the people of the city, not playing magistrate. Someone very powerful is keeping them in check, and it’s not the Prince…alu’zu daughter or no.”
“Speaking of which, she seemed rather taken with you, sir.” Estemar looked at his commander strangely. “I don’t think I saw her do more then sneer at anyone else all evening…I confess to being shocked when she did the first waltz with you.”
“Perhaps it was my manly good looks and my kind, caring manner,” he replied crisply, his mind elsewhere, but it drew a snicker from Trencher, and the Cyran had the grace to look chastised. “A man like Kenzeltun doesn’t come to a spithole like this town without being noticed. He was seen with a sage who used to dwell at the temple to Aureon here…a temple, I’ll note, that is not attended currently. We’ll be investigating that…tonight. I hope you all aren’t tired.”
The others looked somewhat startled. The driver probably would have too, if he’d heard anything other then the background murmur of conversation Hazé had set up for his ears alone.
“Very clever, sir…clearly, we’ll be much too tired to actually do anything sneaky tonight.” Estemar stretched out grandly. “I hope the daughter doesn’t come calling on you this evening with certain ideas.”
“She knows better then to think she could enjoy my touch. And if the erinyes want revenge for their slain sister…well, I wasn’t the one who demanded she hold onto Thorn, now, was I? If they wind up watching us, you three will have to go alone and insert via porting. I can read placidly in my seat all night.” He considered empty air. “A fey giant masquerading as a jester. What would be the interest of a spriggan in a dunghole like this place?” The others were looking at him in some surprise. “You didn’t seriously think he was a gnome, did you?”
=============================
White flames ran thoughout the room, divine energies set alight by the killing touch of Thorn. The writhing multi-armed and multi-headed god-thing, seemingly formed out of solid evil, screamed a howling cry of disbelief at their very souls as it was consumed. Stony flesh peeled away from it, went up in white flame as it’s limbs disinagrated, and unwhite fires washed the foul chapel in hungry purity.
“A true divine focus of faith, a living aspect of the forces the creatures here worshipped.” Hazé considered the rest of the temple with a critical eye. “There is a great deal we can learn here, Colonel.”
“And hopefully more behind this wall,” Trencher growled from the end of the chamber. “It’s hollow. Let’s see what secrets we can find here, aye?” His athame Forge rapped on it loudly…too loudly…and the wall began to shudder and crack.
========================
“Locations and names of virtually every Ebon Triad cell in Khorvaire, and more besides.” Hazé closed the ledger carefully and looked up at the Colonel. “What do you want to do?”
“We don’t have the agents in place to eliminate this menace, and we’ve a meeting tomorrow night to take care of. But, I presume that you can get some teams into the proper locations quickly if needed.”
Hazé looked at Trencher, and both of them nodded sharply. “Then the Triad has seen it’s last week on the surface of Eberron, and nobody is going to be the wiser.
“Now, let’s see what the elfin has to say about this.”
==Aelryinth
The next one is even more out of order, and uses a different team then the first stories.
==Aelryinth
Episode VI - The Arena!
You hear the roar of the crowd, you can picture the scene...put an ear to the wall, it’s like a distant scream…
Liiss wasn’t hearing a torture chamber for the damned, however. She was hearing people…people cheering for blood. Up above, the weakest teams were being weeded out in combat with one another…multiple combats over the arena grounds, quick and brutal and disposing of those who didn’t belong in the real fighting.
-The Valenar have made it to the qualifying round!- Sylbul reported on the ring link, earning his keep proudly. –Ahhh! They are being assigned to your Grand Melee!-
Everyone’s eyes turned on Caulver, wondering just who he had ****** off to get them consigned to this very unwelcome bracket.
His eyes were predatory. Caulver didn’t like Valenar, and he and Chugger together didn’t like them a whole lot. The silent half-orc just bared his tusks, and, as usual, said nothing.
“I’m going to be having a word with the hobgoblin over there, if you don’t mind.” He rose from the crude chair that had been supplied us in these underquarters beneath the arena, and strode over towards the camp of the dark-skinned goblins. Their fanged expressions were anything but friendly as he approached, but the snarls didn’t deter him in the slightest as he approached the leader of the band, a tall and slender chainmaster who had an eager, anticipatory look about him as he considered the human’s mangled face, and then waved him forwards. Caulver’s military bearing was so ingrained the hobgoblins were impressed despite themselves at him, and anyone with that many scars was someone to pay attention to.
Therein followed rapidly a guttural exchange in the goblin tongue, and the other members of the goblin band leaned in with great interest. The hobgoblin seemed quite keen on what Caulver had to say, and heads turned covertly towards the Orc and Gnolls making up the last troupe of their Grand Melee.
“He’s making an alliance of convenience against the other two groups!” Barus spoke up, not quite knowing what to think of that. “Is that permitted?”
“It’s not against the rules, as long as it doesn’t prevent us from drawing swords on one another. Merely an informal arrangement, an ordering of priorities.” Her wry tone only made him snort at the maneuvering. “Who do you suppose those Dargunni would rather fight - the Valenar, us, or the Marchers?”
“The Marchers, all the way. Half their decision made for them. That catty female is one of their dirgesingers…she’ll shut down the druid’s magic, and they’ll dominate in melee, one way or another.” Barus’ tone held nothing but approval. “They’ll be happy to leave the Valenar to us.” So was he, as a matter of fact.
Caulver was striding calmly back now, looking as mean and grim as ever as he resumed his seat. “We’ve a clear shot at the Valenar. They won’t interfere until they or us are brought down.”
“Likelihood of the Valenar making such a compact themselves?” Barus mused aloud, knowing the answer.
“In their arrogance?” Caulver almost spit out the words. “In their minds, they’ve already won…we are just minor impediments they have to step over. Two archers who can aid with scimitars, a battlepriest, and a dervish, according to Sylbul.”
“My, don’t I feel threatened today,” Liiss mused, rubbing her fingers together.
“A standard four-man squad, although I’m surprised they’d dare coming into Korralakton for the fighting. Every person in the stands wants them taken down a peg or nine.”
“All the sweeter when they win…which they are bound to do, of course.” Caulver sat back down, frowning heavily as he itched the old scars down his face absently. His sarcasm wasn’t lost on any of them.
“Killing them is not our primary goal, although it will be satisfying to pound them into the dirt.” Liiss hesitated, then kept going as Caulver nodded. “We’ve the owner of this fine establishment trying to kill us, and he’s got connections to this Worm cult we’ve been stumbling into again and again.”
“Easy enough to hire some skilled fighters to cause us an accident in the arena.” Barus’ eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he cleaned his bow for the tenth time. “If he’s involved with the cult, it stands to reason he’s got something to hide…and would he hide it here, or beneath his home, or in some other property?”
“Given the amount of extra space and tunnels, the arena area would make a fine place to hide something,” Liiss agreed, glancing at the Arena’s guards who were seated at their posts, quite bored. “Of course, we have to get out of here to venture into areas where we aren’t wanted.”
“And we still need to locate evidence of what happened to our sponsor’s sister, do not forget.” Caulver made a face…the lyoung officer wasn’t much of one for detective work, but it was one of the conditions for coming up with the entry fee and papers. “Tell Sylbul to keep scouting out the other teams and get a report to us…and especially to report any team that meets personally with our good friend Lord von Iallios. I like to know who is honestly trying to kill me so I can honestly kill them back.”
“Done,” Liiss agreed, relaying the message on. “Do we go exploring before or after our battle?”
The officer’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “After. I will be at nothing less then our best while facing Valenar, and we will be expected to rest and recover afterwards…simply not so quickly afterwards.”
“Taking a chance with our next fight, aren’t you?” Liiss asked, lifting an eyebrow.
“Advance warning is worth a great deal. We need merely change our tactics, since our opponents will doubtless be informed about us…and likely aren’t going to expect that we are similarly informed about them.” His eyes met Chugger’s, and the big half-orc snarled with feeling and agreement. “Did the gnome find out about this great mysterious foe for the monster’s challenge yet?”
“They are keeping it under lock and key…but he’ll do some serious snooping later. It’s amazing what loyal men will spit up under the influence of good mead and a little magic,” Liiss relayed after a moment.
“Excellent. I do so love turning the tables on the treacherous.”
-------------------------------------
This was the big fight of the day. Four teams assembled, a Grand Melee…the hated Valenar elf squad, proud and arrogant and confident (Ancient Glory); the despised Dargunni hobgoblin team (Shackles of Pain); and the mocked Shadow Marchers (Nature’s Wrath). Only the Orcish druid had dared bring an animal companion, an over-sized boar, and with his gnoll followers looked like he might actually be a fight for the hobgoblins.
The Valenar had been smart enough not to bring their horses, or likely everyone would have turned on them first, unwilling to let a lance charge be part of the tactics here. They were coolly surveying the other teams, deciding on whom to challenge first, the younger archers deferring to their battlepriest and the veiled woman who led them with her gleaming double scimitar. As the time drew near, the spellcasters started doing their chants and enhancement spells, bestowing blessings and enchantments and the like upon themselves and their fellows. The Wolves waited calmly, drawing attention for their lack of concern for the magical fortifying of their foes. Of course, that was quite the misnomer, as they were far, far more ready then their opponents had any reason to expect.
Caulver watched the final prayer of the priest go off just as Lord Ialios finished his speech, his hammer descended on the bell, and the Valenar warpriest blossomed to almost twice his former height, and certainly more mass.
And as the bell rang, they were moving.
Speed and coordination was the byword of being a Wolf. They were charging as the sound rolled over them, and Liiss’ weaving collapsed on them and gifted them with spells even as her blurringly fast recitation covered the Valenar in darkness.
Caught in the middle of drawing back bows and taking up defensive positions, the Valenar were momentarily surprised. Certainly they would regroup and fall back, but they couldn’t actually see the Wolves incoming…incoming fast, magically enhanced with speed and flight magic…and prior cast magic letting them see through the magical darkness. Barus had dropped his bow to use his spear, and the three went winging in as blurs of motion.
The priest went down instantly as Barus’ spear drove into him full force, punching through mail and spitting him like a fish, as lethal as any lance charge. Chugger and Caulver said nothing, each taking a blinded archer, bringing their swords down on the bows, chopping through them with axe and sword, and continuing on to rend the unfortunate archers with blurringly fast strikes that had them screaming as they backpedaled frantically…and didn’t make the edge of the darkness before they were down.
The shocked leader ducked and spun and tumbled out of the area of darkness, swinging her dual scimitar in tight defensive array. She came out suddenly into the light, blinked up at the light…and death came down from above.
The volley of fire and silver crescents gave the elfin no time to recover, drawing screams of pain as they tore into her from Liiss, waiting patiently above the darkness to have the angle on her from any point of exit. The next second, a hurled spear caught her side, threw her off balance, and then a roaring blur of a great axe came out tumbling end over end to split her skull like a melon, dropping her before she could even consider surrendering.
All four of them slid out of the darkness as the shocked arena was first silent, then cheered as the globe of darkness was dismissed, and all of the Valenar were revealed, laying sprawled in pools of blood on the ground. Hovering a pace above the arena floor, they waited as the hobgoblins also lept into action, moving with enhanced speed, the chainmaster hitting the charging Gnolls in a whirlwind of motion that had two on the ground instantly, to be spitted by the prepared spear bearers behind him enthusiastically, joined shortly by the third even as it struck a glancing hit on the chainmaster. The dirgesinger female was leaping away from the scaly mass of reptilian flesh that the druid had turned into, working unnatural torpor into the remaining enemies hastily as she glanced up and saw with great alarm that the Wolves had already finished their foes.
The cowardly Gnolls quickly cried their surrender as the chainmaster began flaying the great boar with a shredding whirlwind, and the spearhobs raced with unnatural speed to assault the druid, who was urgently trying to rid himself of the lethargic magic. He managed to do so, but too late to make a difference, as the dirgesinger screamed a single high note that tore up the sand in the path of its force, ripping scales from his hide, and the spears of the lesser hobs found a bloody and deep home. Writhing his full length in pain, he managed to scramble away even as he wildly shifted shape and called out his own desperate surrender.
The hobs whirled around and looked up, and the Wolves went for them.
Caulver led on the chainmaster with a shield charge, striking hard as the chain lashed at him, his target the links of the steel chain. The crowd roared as the chain parted under the adamantine edge of his blade, and he smashed into the hobgoblin with the brutal efficiency of a Rekkenmark warrior, driving the warrior back and following up with a brutal sword thrust that had the hobgoblin spinning for distance and wildly trying to spin a defense with the remnants of his chain.
Chugger drove into the closest spearman, his reddish eyes wide and staring, mouth foaming, but making absolutely no sound. His axe came down and almost broke the lead spearman’s arm behind his shield, and he sent the hob stumbling back and away from his partner.
Fire from above smashed into the second spearman, and he cried out and fell, burning. The dirgesinger might have tried to help him, but she was twisting away from Barus’ deadly accurate fire, the Cyran having retrieved his bow and obligingly opening up on her with deadly intent.
“YIELD!” screamed the commander, as Caulver’s gray blade cut through his defenses again, shearing free the leather bracer on his forearm and leaving a long bloody gash behind. The hobgoblins almost launched themselves towards the ground, rather then endure the continued assault of the Wolves.
The Wolves froze instantly, and backed away. Panting, shocked at the overwhelming speed and coordination of the Wolves, the hobgoblins froze for a moment, breathing heavily, staring at the four as they drifted closer together…and the crowd went wild with approval. While they could appreciate a drawn out fight with good shows, overwhelming assault and mastery of the enemy was a fine thing, too, and the Wolves had certainly lived up to their reputations…even a junior squad on independent assignment, as it were.
-----------------------------
People simply didn’t expect men in full armor to move quietly, a skill the Wolves practiced in great depth, and which was the root of much of their success against the Valenar. The elves loved to employ hunting and stealth tactics too…but they didn’t wear full plate armor as they did it. The idea behind the Wolves was to get close enough that the enemy couldn’t escape…and then kill them.
It worked perfectly well in dungeon settings, too.
They’d penetrated the hidden lair under the arena with stealth tactics no one would expect of a gladiator team. Even wearing the Wolf insignia, the mere idea that they might actually have covert op training was the last thing people thought about after the brutal and effective way they’d won their first two fights. Those poor Breland riders in the qualifying round hadn’t had a chance…
It had served them well here, as well. The priest with the blood of demons had been shut down before he could get started, wrapped up by Chugger and hacked apart meaningfully, shocked the Wolves could get this far without an alarm being raised. Of course, the alarm had been raised…it was just that Sound Bubbles didn’t let sound pass through them, and ringing the loudest gong in the world wasn’t going to make any difference once it was up.
The Demon had been the hardest thing. They’d been lucky Liiss had identified it through her scouting eyeball, and been able to treat their weapons to hurt it. An illusion well-crafted to lure it out of the hallway it had been woven, and they’d been able to cut it down fast enough that it couldn’t escape nor warn the others. The undead had not been that hard, even writhing with the unnatural green worms as they were, as their blades had been treated to butcher undead with great speed after the escalating frequency they’d been running into the things on this mission (and for eventual use in the Mournland)…preparation was always key in things like this.
Now, of course, they were standing before the form of a great slumbering green worm-thing, sealed behind an impenetrable barrier and with ochre, glowing energy of demonic origin pouring into it from the accursed scrolls on the altar in another chamber, also sealed and untouchable.
“Far beyond my power to affect. This would take strong magic…perhaps Hazé, or the Lady Silver could bring this down, not I,” whispered Liiss, stroking back her black hair.
“The thing is monstrous,” hissed Caulver, clutching his blade, the anathemic runes on it blazing with the proximity to the creature. “It’s like one of the green worms, all grown up and unliving! We should be killing it here!”
“And it remains beyond us. The priest probably controlled the means to release it…we must consider that it is probably bound to appear only at a predetermined moment.” Liiss considered her words carefully. “We found the body of the missing girl, and the imprint of Lord Ialios’ ring on her neck. We thus know he is involved with this mad cult. It stands to reason that this…thing…would be tied to events in the arena.” She hesitated, then forged ahead. “Lady Hazé likes to say, when dealing with the mad, think in terms of drama, not sanity. I would like to venture that this creature is intended to be released at the high point of the games.”
“During the final match, or when the Champion is crowned?” Caulver asked uneasily.
“Whatever prophecy they seek to fulfill would likely tell us. We will have to get outside aid to be certain of this, however.” Liiss took a deep breath. “I will inform Lady Hazé of what we have found. We need to have Sylbul visit the sage as soon as possible for as much information as he can provide.”
“Agreed. Let’s loot and clean up as much as we can, and make sure that our time can be vouched for so that the Lord can’t be certain we are behind this.”
Chugger grunted. “Yes, we’ll get the girl’s body out of here for her brother,” Caulver agreed. “Go. Grab what loot you can. Barus, get Sylbul up and about and heading to that sage…tell him it’s an emergency and we need the information as fast as he can get it.”
-------------------------
Mror dwarves, calling themselves the Gray Spades. Berserkers, from one of the northern clans. Actually, ancestral enemies of some of Chugger’s ancestors…his kin didn’t hail from the Shadow Marches. Sylbul had reported they liked to sunder weaponry of their foes, and they’d been visited privately by Lord von Ialios' man prior to the match. Arrangements seem to have been made, as they seemed to be in possession of a couple of extra vials they were clutching at eagerly, working themselves into a frenzy before the fight. Their axes looked ornate, well cared for, and dangerous, and they had grim reputations as very able fighters, overwhelming all who’d been set against them so far.
Caulver just sniffed. As if this was going to be a fair fight. The dwarves were grossly overestimating their chances in personal combat…and the fact that there was going to be a personal combat. They’d been bought off and were going to attempt to kill the four Wolves – no chance of that happening! – and he was going to give them their due.
He studied the arena owner narrowly from behind his helm, catching the older man’s distracted and worried air. He’d told the gnome to be extremely circumspect in keeping track of the noble, especially after finding out what that great green worm thing actually was. It’s name sounded like some fantastic word for vomit, an image that can forcibly to mind every time he pictured it.
Due to the concealing nature of the darkness they’d employed previously, it had been ruled that no combat could take place inside fog or magical darkness, the better for people to enjoy the show. Clearly a ruling against a successful tactic they were expected to employ again. It made Caulver smile as he watched the Mror suck down the potions they’d been supplied with, grip their axes, and as the bell rang, come racing for them through the air.
Liiss was faster. Darkness fell…around them! The Mror shouted and cursed as a great cry went up around the arena…clearly they were in violation of the ruling!
Mere seconds later, the darkness fell, revealing the cursing Mror hovering in midair around an empty spot, swinging their axes at emptiness. Furious, the Mror looked in all directions, trying to determine where the squad had vanished to.
With a blink, the magical effects of the potions on them vanished in a twinkle of silver motes, handily dispelled by Liiss. The Mror fell to the ground with a thump and a thud, shocked, but sprang right to their feet, roaring out challenges to the cowards who weren’t coming out to fight them.
The crowd went silent, peering around intently for sign of the Wolves, who had not shown themselves. The Mror paced too and fro warily, swinging at empty air, calling for a fight…and getting nothing.
A long minute went by, and the Mror couldn’t hold onto their rage, panting and gasping for breath, and then the closest of them was opened up on.
Halfway across the arena, all four Wolves faded into visibility at the same instant, three of them with bows out and leveled. Liiss just watched with fingers steepled as their first arrows slammed home, spinning the closest Mror around with the force of impact, and then the second shots drove in to finish the job and drop him where he stood.
The second Mror looked at his pin-cushioned brother, gritting his teeth, and charged forwards…too slow and too weakly. Buzzing longbow shafts in volley dropped him before he could even get close enough to get a single swing out…and even as he opened his mouth to yield, a cascade of silver crescents had driven into him and smashed him back like the kick of a charger.
Caulver did not look at the infuriated expression of Lord Ialios at the relative simplicity of this kill, and the crowd applauded politely at the display of sound tactics they’d employed, and minimal expense.
======================================== =====
The machinations of the man were getting more and more transparent. He was obviously trying to kill them now…the other two contesting teams, including the prior Champion, were facing off now. The Great Beast, traditionally awarded the prior year’s Champion as an easier battle, was instead being foisted on them.
Sylbul was earning his pay. The accidental conversation they’d overheard concerning the arctic climate and conditions the creature had to be kept in the gnome had scoffed at, quickly digging up the real information on the creature via liberal application of booze, magical charms, and mind-reading magic. Caulver considered it a very fine thing that no one knew the gnome was working for them…not even their patron.
Obvious, too, was the delaying tactics as Wolf Squad Delta waited for the beast to appear. Traditionally, teams wove their buffing magic as they were raised into position on the sands, and the fighting started very quickly thereafter. This was a useless tactic against Liiss’ skills, as she could drop her assembled array of magic on them with a gesture. Lord Ialios had no way of knowing how prepared they were.
Artos Handelheim, the Deneith mercenary who was last year’s Champion, and his wizard companion von Kell, had triumphed over the Shifter-heavy Eldeen team in the semi-final match, setting a fine line for the final match and the Wolves, a proud showing for Karrnathi natives. Sylbul was giggling over how much money they would make if they actually won. Caulver didn’t intend to disappoint the Colonel, who despite being less then interested in actually participating in mere gladiatorial combat, had informed them via Liiss’ talk with Hazé that he expected no less then absolute victory from the squad.
The crowd was chanting the name given the beast, so loud it was almost impossible to be heard…not that they needed the benefit. They’d already rehearsed and run the scenarios, and the rings they wore meant they didn’t need to speak to communicate. Liiss had received a gift from Hazé…a fifth ring for Caulver, to bring the circle of them up to full strength, and allow everyone to communicate freely once more.
The wooden sides of the box slammed down, and the guards ran for it, and the monstrosity inside was revealed in all of its hideous glory.
Froghemoth, it was called. Barus, of all people, had actually seen one before, deep in a swamp that had fed into Lake Cyre…a massive thing mutated from equally massive frogs or toads by the daelkyr, gluttonous behemoths, almost unstoppable, save for their weight and dislike of being away from the water that supported their bulk and kept them cool inside their thick skins. Fire would barely do more then irritate them, and they were hellaciously dangerous, capable of swallowing a man whole, spitting their tongues ten paces to ensnare someone, and of course the damn things stood five paces high even on crooked legs that could send it hopping as easily as a toad.
The huge goggling eyes saw them, recognized potential dinner despite the alien nature of the arena, and it came charging.
At this point, the elemental creature Liiss had summoned arrived, and promptly spit a bolt of lightning at the huge creature, which popped and sizzled harmlessly over the thick skin, but made the weird hop-run of the beast twitch and falter as its muscles quivered like bowstrings under the insulating fat.
The first volley of arrows drove deep into the gaping mouth and skull as the Wolves backed away in good form, off the ground and using flight magic to keep formation and distance.
Liiss’ two bolts of solid frost smashed into the elephantine girth, freezing the rubbery skin, splitting and cracking it. Caulver strongly resisted the urge to look at Lord von Ialios as careful placement of arrows by the Wolves continued, and the strange elemental continued to send tiny bolts of lightning dancing over the twitching body of the froghemoth, slowing it down drastically and not letting it get close to them as they poured in the magical and missile assault, staying well out of range of its attacks.
It took five series of bolts from Liiss, a dozen arrows from each of the men, and continual harassment by the elemental creature, but they brought it down at last, the misshapen head literally pincushioned, the whole front of the beast cracking open and splitting wide as it fell at last, letting out a very unhealthy looking set of massive internal organs to spread out over the Arena sands from within its shattered abdomen. The crowd went wild with the victory, as again the Wolves had taken the victory without a single serious loss. Flamboyantly, Liiss erected a wall of fire on top of the creature to cook it to ash, concentrating mightily to send the thing bubbling and roasting with a truly awesome stench to it in the silver-purple roar of the focused flames, drawing more cheers for the pyrotechnics, if not the putrid odor that accompanied the consumption of the thing.
-Master Caulver, the Lord von Ialios looks like he just swallowed a briar bush. Well done! - Sylbul congratulated him. Caulver could clearly hear the chortle and feel the smile of the Gnome, sitting in the fine seats and sipping an ornate drink as he watched the action.
-Don’t get too smug, Mr. Friggalo. Now you have to get a message to Artos and von Kell, and make sure that they believe it…while concealing the fact that you are affiliated with us. Think you can do that?-
The Gnome’s mental sniff was more then confident, and eager to be involved. –What needs be done, sir?- he asked in a very superior air, as if such matters of intrigue were the easiest tasks in the world to accomplish.
-You need to inform the man that he’s supposed to be the sacrifice for the big worm thing we found down below when we do battle tomorrow. The Prophecy, as Lady Hazé retrieved it, requires the death of a Champion…and that’s him. He’s been doing battle with a bunch of flesh golems supplied him by von Ialios…they are doubtless programmed to turn on him when the Worm appears, and feed him to the thing. He needs to be alert, and prepared, and most importantly, not let himself get eaten.-
-I see.- The gnome hesitated. –And if he does get eaten?-
-Whatever ceremony has been building here will become complete. I’m sure you are far more informed then I about just how bad things can get if insane cults actually complete magical ceremonies that take weeks to set into place and execute?-
There was just the slightest hesitation on the part of the Gnome. –I will make sure that he understands the risk in the clearest of terms, Master Caulver.-
-Excellent, Mr. Friggalo, excellent. We shall see you in two days…but there’s one more thing I’d like you to do for us…-
----------------------------
“Sylbul says he’s prepped…hope he took the gnome seriously.” The crowd was the loudest they’d heard yet, building for the big fight and the following ceremony for this year’s champion.
“Lord Ialios still hasn’t shown in the owner’s podium. His second has given the Marshall permission to go ahead.” The four Wolves looked at one another knowingly. “That rumor of someone buying some valuable magic from a rep of the Twelve looks right on the money.” Liiss steepled her fingers intently, her spells already committed.
“If those bastards betray us…” Barus mused aloud, hands tight on spear and bow.
“The Colonel will kill them…if they survive what’s about to go down.” Caulver wasn’t worried. “If the bastard won’t take the word of another Karrnathi warrior, he almost deserves what he’s going to get.”
Their platform was almost to the surface, the doors were swinging back, letting the sunlight in. The noise level escalated much higher, rumbling the very sands. Cheering as the acting arena manager juiced the crowd with flavor text of the victories and fights that had gone on up to this point.
They blinked in the sun as they came up, stepped off the sands together, and were cheered wildly.
The greeting given the mithral-armored Artos Hendelheim and his black-robed mage partner von Kell as they came up was even wilder, backed by the flesh golems that looked sewn together from unfortunate ogres. Hulking, armored creatures called the Steelbacks, the golems had provided all the punch the Champion needed to walk over his competition up to this point, backed by swordwork both brilliant and showy. Von Kell’s combat avoidance tactics were understood and readied for, and Caulver met Artos’ eyes as he lifted his arms to take in the adulation of the crowd.
They’d sized one another up before, and they did so now. Karrns, warriors…and more then simply dumb brutes waiting to be pointed at a foe, men who’d faced things no normal warrior could and survived.
-He’s ready. We’re good.- The Wolves collectively sighed and drew up behind Caulver as the bell to begin the match was prepared to be rung. Caulver lifted his sword in salute to his foe, and the reigning Champion returned the simple honor with his own flourish.
The bell rang.
The arena floor shook. The golems lurched forwards behind Artos and Von Kell, arms spreading wide.
With a squealing and very inhuman roar, the massive undead green worm-thing exploded up through the arena floor, sending splinters of rock and wood flying, poised less then a dozen paces from the Champion. At the same time, Artos and Von Kell shot into the air and split apart, evading the lunging grasp of the golems and retreating out of range of the worm. Despite himself, Caulver couldn’t help but appreciate the surprise on the face of Artos as things went down exactly as their emissary had described. The golems were even lurching after Artos, trying to grab him and deliver him to the Worm, ignoring his shouted commands.
The Wolves were already moving, of course.
Liiss dropped her Weave and Caulver and Chugger shot forwards, also flying. Past them whistled the first of Barus’ arrows, driving into the hide of the beast and burning the flesh with hot white fire as it sank into the mass of the beast. Both of their weapons bore runes anathemic to the undead, and even as they split to flank it and drive into the writhing storm of hair fine tendrils lashing the air about the thing, those runes were flaring to life.
Liiss’ offensive magic drove in solidly, flaming bolts of magical force plunging deep into the gross belly of the creature and drawing a squeal of agony. On the far side, Von Kell duplicated the feat, looking pale and determined at the same time, as Artos led the golems on a merry chase away from the center of the fighting.
The slashing hairstorm tickled his skin…the stoneskin magic Liiss had laid upon them took the brunt of their force, and he twisted and dodged the instinctive lunge the creature drove at him, letting the bulk of it smash off his shield and knock him sideways, onto the course he really wanted. The reek of the drooling jaws was indescribable, searing his nose, and he lashed his sword up along it’s side, drawing a massive flaming wound as the rubbery unliving flesh peeled away from the edge of his blade. Of course, it was already convulsing in pain as another arrow drove fully into it, anathemic fire blazing at its flesh, and Chugger hit it from the far side with his axe.
That really got its attention, a massive wound ripping the sucker open and exposing blackened flesh and singed fires inside. With incredible speed for its bulk, the worm whipped around and descended on the half-orc, driving him into the arena sands as it wrapped him up in its jaws.
It never got the chance to swallow him, because Artos came winging back in, sword scything, and tore into the head of the beast even as his shield and mass smashed the creature back and away, making it release the half-orc in reflex and pain. Caulver was there as it rebounded, his own blade driving deep into the creature’s flesh, the lash of its razor edge extending out nearly two hands past the blade itself.
With a roar, simultaneous volleys from the two mages detonated together in the belly of the beast, and literally blew it in flaming half from the inside out. Liiss and von Kell looked at one another with knowing smiles, and the warriors proceeded to literally shred the head of the thing into bits with some frenzied hacking.
In weird unison, the two Karrns and the half-orc bounced into the sky just ahead of the reaching arms of the lumbering flesh golems, still under orders to feed Artos to the worm.
Artos looked down at them sadly, floating over next to Caulver.
“Well, both our teams are intact…except most of mine wants to kill me.” Caulver grunted understanding, and then they all turned at a shrill scream of disbelief and rage. Over the edge of the owner’s box hurtled a single man, with two raging dwarves clawing at him with foaming lips and nasty axes. It was a good ten paces to the sands, and when he hit, there was some loud cracks and breaks and he ceased to move. The dwarves hit him a couple of times for good measure, then looked up, found Caulver, and hefted their axes meaningfully.
“Didn’t you kill those two?” Artos asked, a bit surprised at this addition to the events.
“Yes. And they worked for the man they just killed…who also happens to be Lord Ialios’ right hand man. He promised them a substantial reward if they killed us…and to see to their revivification if they died, something he failed to deliver on. I was kind enough to arrange for such on the condition they dispose of the fellow at the right time.”
Artos’ pursed his lips as the two dwarves flew back up over the wall and away, disappearing quickly down the private tunnel there.
“I suppose I’ll have to yield the fight. There’s no way I can beat the three of you.” He sounded disappointed and impressed at the same time.
“We’ll settle this the honorable way…after we get rid of the golems. Let’s see how good you really are with that sword.”
“A duel?” The reigning Champion was both gratified and relieved.
“After we take care of business…and don’t think I’m going to go easy on you!”
“Hah! We shall see who goes easy on whom!” He pointed at the golem farthest to the right. “I’ll take that one.”
“Center,” called out Caulver. Chugger just nodded, and together the three of them plunged from the sky towards their foes, to the hesitant, then approving roar of the crowd.
When the Wolves and Von Kell stood aside to let their leaders conclude the Tournament with a formal duel, the cheering was even wilder.
======================
“We got revenge for him and didn’t even know it.” Caulver considered the grim face of the gnome as he accepted the bundle of notes from the much-smaller hand. “How long was he dead?”
“Less then a day. He was killed sometime last night as he slept. I’ve already contacted his friends, who are making arrangements…he’ll be returned to life if possible, although I doubt it will be simple. He had some important allies.”
“And now he wants us to go back to the man who hired us back in Droogtown?” Caulver shook his head as he rapidly scanned the papers and handed the more technical ones over to Liiss, who repeated the tactic for Barus. “Here I am, Champion of the Games, and I’m running around like an errand boy.”
“You have some time to wind down. There’s nothing indicating massive urgency there,” Sylbul explained quickly, stroking his fine beard. “Enjoy the fruits of your winnings…substantial fruits, I must say.”
That got his interest…he’d almost forgotten about the bets they’d placed. “Ah, just how substantial are we talking?” The gnome grinned broadly.
=================
Hazé smiled as she collected the promissory note from the somewhat disgruntled noble, such a sight mollifying the rather substantial amount of coin the man was parting with.
That had been a clever move on the Colonel’s part, spreading nearly three dozen bets early in the competition against the underdog Wolves, before the odds shifted to reflect their real ability. That gnome had done a fine job underselling them, as had the man who’d arranged for their license.
It wouldn’t do to let Caulver’s team know that she was in town, of course…the young squad leader would be quite aggrieved to know a senior officer was watching over them, even if the real reason was to make a substantial amount of hard coin off noble fools who would never give a band of mercenaries an even chance. It had cost them dearly, and the Wolves were walking off with literally hundreds of thousands of gold in hard coin from some of the wealthiest fools in Karrnath.
Caulver was coming along nicely, it seemed, thrust into strange circumstances and adapting to them quickly. It would be interesting to follow his next steps on the road of the Prophecy that was unwinding itself.
==Aelryinth
And now we skip the second dungeon crawl into the crypt and bring in Colonel Ruin.
I used the swords that are in the crypt as a catalytic to send the lower level Caulver and crew on their way to Hellspike prison, since both forms of elemental damage on the weapons are usable against Devils.
==Aelryinth
Age Of Worms, Part VII
Marcus had not expected to see such relief on Lieutenant Caulver’s face as he was given leave to pursue this new assignment. The gold being offered was substantial, of course, and the rural sage Lustannal certainly didn’t have the money to pay the Delta Squad for what was, in the end, going to be self-directing adventuring.
And sending them off to see the Archmage in Amber, no less…
The dwarf who’d drifted into Droogtown had been enthusiastic about hiring on Caulver’s squad, especially when he saw the blades that Caulver had recovered from the ancient tomb. Something about a prophecy of thunder and lightning nailing a spike into Hell, surely a reference to the road to Hellspike Prison his own feet were set upon.
Hazé had confirmed it…Marcus’ intervention had abruptly shifted the focus of Caulver’s destiny, diluting the impetus of Fate as it always did. The fastest way for the Prophecy to reclaim him was to set him on a parallel course…and Hazé, of course, carried a virtual hurricane of destiny around her, being about as direct a Pawn of the Prophecy as they came.
He’d done well, Caulver had. Undead, dragons, secret cults of Khyber, Prophecies left and right…yes, this was definitely the kind of shakedown no normal man would want to face. His squad was almost looking forwards to the Mournland as a break from all the weird crap they’d been putting up with for a chance at a straight-up fight.
Lustannal was peering over the side of the Stormwolf in fascination. The sage, by his own admission, had only been on an airship once or twice, and nothing like the Stormwolf. This ship was solid…far more solidly built then any Lyrandar vessel, and the cannons and solid railing with recessed shields made it plain this was a ship of war, not some flaming-wheel picturebook toy you could see from miles off. The fanprops were roaring, but ensheathed in sound bubbles, you couldn’t hear even the slightest buzz, only feel the vibration in the deck. The Stormwolf was powering forwards far, far faster then any normal airship, cutting through the winds with impunity behind the bubble-like transparent shield covering the bow now that they were at speed. Caulver and his squad had teleported back to Fort Lewt to prepare themselves for a Mournland excursion, leaving the Colonel to take up the sage’s invitation to go see his former teacher.
The sage had been fairly adamant about not going along, until the Colonel had asked him if he’d rather enjoy a private cabin or be tied up in one of the trunks. Under the gray eyes of Marcus Ruin, the older man had wilted remarkably quickly…but having Hazé around took much of the sting out of it. He had yet to meet any man who didn’t cheer up immensely being the focus of the Khorovari’s attentions.
Johvanfel Vorsteihek, the Archmage in Amber. Probably the most powerful Karrnathi-born mage in the last Century…if he was alive. He’d been reported as missing almost ten years before the end of the Last War…rumors had abounded about treachery involving Arcanix and perhaps even the hag queen Sora Kell herself. Regardless, it seems he had returned…obviously, not even someone as potent at seeing as the Queen of All Hags had been able to outwit the many levels of protections and contingencies about the Archmage’s life.
Marcus was surprised that this was the first he’d heard of this. Vorsteihek was an extremely powerful man…perhaps the most dangerous in Karrnath, all things told. He’d left behind the madness of the Last War almost four decades ago to concentrate on his magic, giving up a prized post offered to him as the primary magical advisor to the King. His public loathing of the necromantic armies and leanings of the nation doubtless had much to do with it, and his spurning of the Twelve and the Dragonmark Houses over numerous issues probably didn’t help.
He recalled vividly the tale of the Twelve sallying into the Heart of Amber to lay claim to Vorsteihek’s many treasures, a mystical fortress probably as old as Karrnath warded by angels. The place was known to be warded by angels and archons…known, because of the dozen spellcasters who’d raced in there eager to lay hands on his lore, only one had escaped, raving madly about the power of greed and flaming eyes. Not even the mages of Arcanix had dared to assault the place after that, content, like the Karrns, to let it lie and not disturb the powers that warded it until someone else could claim it.
That had happened during his days at the Rekkenmark. It still made him smile to think of it. Vorsteihek had withdrawn from much of Karrnathi society, but one thing he’d never given up was his honorary chairmanship of the School of Magical Studies at the Rekkenmark. Certainly, no one had dared to challenge him for it while he lived, and the Order of the Rekkenmark, unlike the royal family, had actually managed to stay on good terms with the Archmage.
How long had he been back? Certainly not overly long…disinterested in mortal affairs or no, the influence of a True Archmage was pervasive just for the power he commanded. Marcus had very little doubt that Ambershore was a potential cesspool of intrigue for all the people interested in what the Archmage had to say about this or that…and what he might be doing next.
And now one of his former students was on board, reluctantly coming back to see his master, and Marcus was going with him.
This was the first time he’d flown the Stormwolf over the central lands of Karrnath, certainly anywhere near a main population center. He was fully aware of just how valuable his ship was, and how dearly certain forces would like it to just ‘fall’ into their hands. He didn’t have any illusions about such things, and anyone who tried such a stunt was going to be very rudely surprised at the reception he was going to give them.
Patience was at the helm, flying it steady and true and level on course. A human might be tempted to play with the Stormwolf, enjoying the great speed of the craft as it cut through clouds and wind…the Forged Captain simply didn’t have such thoughts. Marcus valued that highly…it was the reason he had her in charge of the ship when he was not aboard. Patience had a great empathy with the ship, able to sense the slightest problem as it was aborning, and take care of it. Indeed, the Forged crew considered the great ship like a very big brother they could take care of, and competition among his Forged underlings for positions on the Stormwolf was fierce. The Forged considered the Stormwolf a proper chariot of war, sharing much of his disdain for the Lyrandar airships, especially after seeing them in comparison to the Stormwolf.
Even skirting Rekkenmark carefully, they’d be coming up on Ambershore in only another hour. It was time to get ready to meet a real Archmage.
===========
The Stormwolf came down under cloud cover, moving slowly above the trees to a location perhaps a klik or two from the town. The disembarked on the Wolfskate…no need to reveal the Stormwolf to unfriendly or covetous eyes as yet. While the wolfskate would turn heads, it wouldn’t create the sense of urgency that the Stormwolf did.
Lustanal looked perturbed at the idea of meeting his mentor once again, until Hazé turned her charms on him again, and improved his attitude tremendously within mere minutes. Marcus had to smile thinly as he observed the change from his place in the bow.
The trip into the town took only minutes, the skate leaving the camouflaged ship from where it floated above the trees, masked by illusion, coming down rapidly to the main road into the town, and zipping along briskly as the fanprop drove them along some five paces above the ground, causing more then a few farmers they passed by to gawk after them.
The town itself, while of Karrnathi design, definitely had an atmosphere and hints of Aundairean and Thranish influence. He noted a shrine to the Silver Flame tucked discretely out of the way, and no sign at all of the Blood of Vol…small wonder of that, as Vorsteihek’s loathing of undead and fairly martial stance was common knowledge. There was also a church to the Sovereign Host, one famed for its library and learning, as he remembered it.
And there, across a bridge almost a klik long, thrust out into the sea, the Heart of Amber, gracefully carved of a rock that seemed to ripple like a gentle flame under the sunlight…by all accounts, a breathtaking sight come the dusk.
The Last War had never really touched the ancient fortress. It seemed the powers that dwelt within it had higher callings then the ambitions of nobles and royals, and the proprietors of the place had always among the most powerful independent spellcasters of Khorvaire. There were powerful forces under the Heart, waiting to be unleashed, and the guardianship of angels was the least among them. Thus, the Archmages in Amber had stayed out of the Last War, and the Last War had stayed out of Ambershore.
Lustannal stared at the sight for long moments before looking away, a lost sense of wonder and pride combining to fill his eyes with old memories and dreams. He looked five years younger as he disembarked from the wolfskate, and left his regrets in the launch as it turned smartly and headed back for the Stormwolf.
===
The eladrin kept a careful distance from him, and he could sense her unease at his presence. Of coure, a creature so tied to magic, and not prone to revealing herself to mortals, would hardly like to be utterly exposed just by standing too close to some unlucky fool who just so happened to be Forsaken. Marcus hid his grim smile as he, Estemar, Trencher and Hazé followed who seemed to be a lovely Elven maid with moon-white silken hair and deep, dark eyes across the ancient bridge to the Fortress of the Heart of Amber. He could see Hazé taking a keen interest in the magical defenses of the place…the minutest signs of her eyes shifting focus back and forth told him she was reading more about it then was merely visible with the eye. Trencher, too, was stepping warily, obviously sensing great powers in the stones and soil here. He’d get a fuller report, later. Estemar, of course, was the escort of choice for the eladrin…hardly a surprise for a knight paladine.
It turned out the sage Gol Margham, who had been murdered in Karralakton by the order of Lord von Ialios, had been brought here for revivification, and had actually been boarded in the same inn they’d been referred to. He and his fellow apprentice Lustannal had patched up things warily at first, then with considerably more enterprise once Hazé lit into both of them. He found it very strange, however, that the eladrin calling herself Celeste (of all things) was not on the best of terms with Hazé, and appeared to know her. That revelation had him looking for other signs, and he was seeing them now…Hazé’s expression was not one of wonder and awe and fascination with something new and grand and powerful…that was the expression he could see Trencher stoically trying to mask. It was of recognition, interest, confirmation, reassurance.
She had been here before. He thought of the two sages and their ages, the discussions of their times here…at least ten years ago, from before Vorsteihek’s disappearence. They had not shown any recognition of Hazé, and one thing he knew was that men who saw her tended to remember her in almost exquisite detail…and the women too, for that part.
The eladrin knew her, and Hazé had definitely known Celeste, although she hid it well.
Which meant Hazé knew Vorsteihek. Would the wonders never cease? Marcus eyed the wheeling flocks of bloodhawks swooping overhead and around the Heart of Amber as he considered the fact that the only reason the Archmage might be alive was to satisfy some advisory role needed for this part of the Prophecy, and stifled a laugh.
The most powerful mage in Karrnath, another pawn of dead gods. There were days he truly did not mind being a Forsaken.
================
The interior of the Heart was themed much like the outside, a definite theme of amber and earth tones…warm reds, golds, browns and oranges, a great deal of lovingly carved and oiled wooden items, a feeling of comfort, great age, hidden power, with a strange austerity about it despite the warmth it was meant to project. He was mildly impressed…most homes of magi tended to be in schemes meant to intimidate or impress, festooned with odd symbols and magical paraphernalia and dourly conservative or weirdly eclectic themes meant to convey arcane might and mystic power or wisdom.
This looked, well, more like some wealthy southern Cyran or Brel’s home…although he definitely saw the subtle hints that the wealth here was from more then just mundane sources. Little tricks like how the ambient and sourceless light spread out to minimize shadows to almost nothing; doors opened slightly and beads rustled in the presence of people; the movement of cooling air and temperature controls unrelated to the weather and humidity without; the runic patterns in the borders and inlays that was not merely decorative.
Yes, there was power and age here, and you had to be sharp of eye to notice that it was very carefully maintained so as not to flaunt that power or age. How much of it was due to the Archmage and how much to prior inhabitants of the Heart was a question all its own.
Interesting.
Lustannal had made the trip to finally see his old mentor several hours before, at Hazé’s prodding and with Margham’s encouragement. Marcus had obligingly sent along Caulver’s reports and their letters and research with the sage, so as to forestall the Archmage having to waste time perusing such in a direct face-to-face meeting.
The waiting room they were shown into was well furnished and comfortable, and Celeste brought in drinks and fruit (out of season, that) for them to enjoy while they waited for word to be sent. Marcus waited patiently while Trencher and Hazé began to discuss something of the magic going on here in at least four languages, primarily Draconic and Terran, while Estemar got to enjoy the undivided attentions of an attractive elf-maid. Marcus reflected that he might have to inform the Topaz Knight that he was flirting with a fey celestial, which might be hazardous to his state of heartbreak, then decided that if something as fickle as an eladrin wanted to sample something as pure as the spirit of a paladine warrior, who was he to get in the way?
This, of course, left him alone to lift a book on Galifaran history off the wall and start reading his way through it with the speed of someone who had to handle dozens of reports at a time. It wasn’t one he was familiar with by content, although he had observed the title before…it covered one of the more peaceful periods in the history of the realm, and some of the events that had taken place there, with a focus on magical discoveries and advancements.
He saw the eladrin’s head turn attentively, and shut the book before she spoke the words that the Archmage was ready and would see them now. Her dark eyes flickered his way in suspicion and curiosity intermixed, sympathy warring with distaste at his presence.
==================
Estemar entered first, followed by Trencher…one to the right, one to the left. The Colonel stepped in between them, sized up the situation, and met the eyes of the man rising to greet them.
He saw the man’s momentary confusion and then irritation as their eyes met…and Marcus did not look away. He was a soldier and a mercenary, he was quite proud of that fact, and this man was virtually the polar opposite of what he was.
Vorsteihek was as portrayed…broad-shouldered and thick jawed, with a precise and squarely cut black beard and piercing blue eyes, just beginning to show silver at the temples and jaw line. His chest was thick, and his hands large if nimble, and he carried himself like an important man who knew power and how to deal with those who had power. He was dressed in robes of saffron and gold, the Amber robes of station of the Archmage, humble yet very distinctive in cut and color, slightly shorter then Marcus was. The power wasn’t in the robes, but in the man who wore them…he was the Archmage, not merely the holder of a position and gaining power thereby. There was next to no outward sign of the trials and tribulations that the man must have gone through to achieve the power and place he had, save perhaps a keener gaze and weight behind his stare. He was a common born man who had risen to a great height on his own merit, a noble by his own power.
Marcus, on the other hand, was born to nobility and had lost it all…spurned it and buried it as deeply as he could, as a matter of fact. His scars were a map of a life of struggles and pain most men simply did not want to comprehend, and he’d long ago lost fear of death, magic, horrors from beyond, and what any man could do to him.
Including an Archmage.
The silence as their eyes met lengthened as the tension grew thicker in their air. Marcus could see emotions shifting across the Archmage’s face…disdain and impatience for a mere fighting man turning to scorn and pride at being challenged, segueing into curiosity and interest at who would have the brass to dare his strength in his own place of power, and then wariness and uneasiness as he took fuller stock of the Colonel of the Wolves of the North, and actually began to consider who and what he was.
“Colonel Ruin, I presume?” he asked carefully, and his gaze shifted for an instant right, left, and then behind…to the person he truly wished most to see.
“Master Vorsteihek,” Marcus returned calmly, eyes also moving, finally acknowledging the second man waiting for them in the room. That one actually stood out sharply from the earth-toned theme of what was a comfortable study that had the definite magical paraphernalia of wizardry underscoring it, a bald man with aloof bearing and manner in the whites and golds of a priest devoted directly to the god Aureon. This must then be the Archpriest Hagarth, one of the mightiest servants of the Sovereign Host alive today, and an old ally of the Archmage.
“Your reputation precedes you, Colonel.” The Archmage extended out a hand and took a step forwards, as blatant yet subtle a test of power as a full-blown wizard’s duel. Marcus obligingly stepped forwards, meeting the man’s eyes again firmly, and took the proferred hand.
He felt the warding magicks like gossamer, for an instant resisting…and then breaking and folding under the weight of his Forsaken aura. He saw the surprise in the eyes of the Archmage, who abruptly and suddenly realized how vulnerable he was at that moment to the scarred warrior he was looking upon.
“As does yours, sir. Perhaps one day mine might even equal yours.” He released his grip on the Archmage’s hand, not bothered the least by how carefully the Archmage was suddenly moving to get some subtle distance between them. “I introduce to you Sir Estemar of the Topaz, Knight Paladine; Captain Trencher, Senior of the Spellcasters of the Wolves; and the Lady Hazé.” He stepped aside then to give the Archmage an unobstructed view of the patiently waiting Khorvari.
The light that lept into the Archmage’s eyes was unmistakeable, and the emotions that ranged across his strong features equally so. The man actually had to intake a breath to catch his composure quickly and distract himself…clearly there were some very strong memories at play at this meeting.
Hazé, of course, had her Best Smile on, and even the priest could hardly withstand the blaze of that much pure white teeth. She was broadcasting I’m Happy To See You, Too, and the tension in the room popped and faded away in the face of overwhelming good cheer.
Ah, things were so much easier when Hazé was around hapless men. The priest bowed with suddenly much less stiffness when he was introduced by the Archmage, in turn.
“I came here to discuss some rather important matters dealing with an unveiling major prophecy that one of your former students suggested you might have some insight into.” The Colonel looked around calmly. “If you could send for Master Lustannal, his personal insights should be of use, as he was directly involved in the last stages of the Prophecy unfolding to this point.”
The Archmage’s mouth opened, closed. Clearly, he hadn’t thought his student’s input would be necessary at this stage of the game…but it would be rude to not have him present. He simply nodded and waved his hand, indicating they should find seats. Hazé, sensitive as always to the situation, sat to one side and let Marcus take the central position, clearly indicating who was in command, and by that deferral, that he had her full support. The Archmage read that too, his wariness tinged with surprise as with a gesture he passed out drinks.
A few minutes later, the somewhat startled sage of Droogtown entered the room, accompanied by Celeste, and then the real discussion began.
===============
The door closed gently behind the others. Hazé stared at it a moment, a smile playing about her lips…still, he managed to surprise her. Was it all that obvious? It was not as if she had told him anything of this particular part of her past.
She turned back to Vorsteihek, who looked suddenly much less comfortable and sure of himself. The two of them, alone in his study, for the first time in nearly twenty years. And, as the Colonel had said, they would not be leaving for at least another day.
“Olgerë,” she smiled more widely, meeting the eyes of her old teacher.
“Hazé. My Lady,” he added, blurting it out almost as an afterthought. His hand was white on the top of his desk. “You are looking as lovely as ever. I had expected your beauty to get you rather into more trouble then I’ve heard of. You’ve been well?” His throat seemed rather tight.
To said question, she lifted her hands and spun about gracefully, and his eyes opened much wider then they had heretofore. “I have been…subtle, Olgerë.” She had miraculously closed a full pace between them. “You, however, have not been at home…I have checked up on you, you see.” She put her hands on the weirwood desk, spreading out her long fingers slowly, and leaned towards him. “Or did you think that mere serendipity brought the Walker to your rescue, mmm?”
He blinked, and then a wide smile burst through his dark beard. “Always precocious, Hazé. Does Siberys still prod you on still, and make such a tool of your life?” His eyes were misty now, and amused, and old emotions rising up in them that made his voice gruff and thick.
“I find that being around a Forsaken tends to play marvelous Havoc with the Prophecy’s plans for me. He tolerates my presence for some reason, but he is happily married, and so has an…aversion…to my touch.” Her hand lifted gently, and irresistibly drew his up as well, thicker fingers reaching out, slowly sparkling with a hypnotic array of colors that made him catch his breath at the sight of them, once again reaching out with threads of magic to a similar glow on her elegant digits…a glow of silver and polychromatic radiance and crystalline depths. “It has been some time since we touched, has it not, Olgerë?”
He almost shuddered as their fingers met, closing his eyes at the sudden interaction of their magical ability, the threading of subtle powers moving across and through one another with an intimacy he’d never been able to duplicate.
It had been a very long time. Her aura had grown, grown vastly in depth and complexity, if not pure raw power…the beauty and feel of it was enrapturous, enveloping, conveying everything she was to those strong and skilled enough to sense it.
He thanked the Host that he was one of those.
“If I remember aright, Koldarawn was quite the harpist. Perhaps you would again like to dance with me?”
I would like to do far, far more, his eyes said as he opened them. Her smile was radiance itself as their fingers intertwined, and she made a simple gesture, and they were gone from the study in an instant.
===========
“Why do you serve a mere mercenary, My Lady, especially one as…unnatural as that?” The Archmage’s voice was gruff, gentler then he was used to speaking, and he held her to him almost fearfully, afraid to let go.
“Unnatural, Olgerë? I would say he is TOO natural. He is born without magic, any magic at all. There is none of the supernatural, the extranatural, or the unnatural about him. You can hardly get more natural then the great and dread Colonel Marcus Ruin.” Her playful banter was at the same time very serious, but he was also wise enough to see the misdirection for what it was.
“Do you care for him?” It was an odd question, carrying with it hints of jealousy he’d thought himself far above. Certainly the Colonel was no Karrnathi ideal of male beauty, but his presence and aura of command was incredible.
“Yes.” Her free admittance of the fact made him sigh, and then chuckle to himself. “He is a supremely dangerous man, but extremely honorable, almost thrillingly intelligent and cunning. He has lived most of his life being underestimated, and he makes full use of it. He is not an enemy any sane man wishes to have. He shatters Destiny with every step, and around him lifts men to heights they would never be able to rise to without him there…because as much as the Prophecy empowers heroes, it crushes those it does not favor. Around him, you are not a hero…you are free to rise or fall on your own merits.”
Vorsteihek considered the implications of those words, and what lay behind them. “That would seem to put him in direct conflict with your role in the Prophecy, Hazé.”
“So it would…if I had chosen that role, I would of course be quite offended.” His eyes widened in comprehension.
“He is Forsaken, and so he allows you the illusion of freedom…” he murmured softly, and she sighed so gently he almost felt his heart break.
“When I was in his arms, I could sleep. Sleep, without dreaming of things to come, or things happening…without feeling the stars and the moons crossing the skies, or the eyes of fate moving hither and yon and this great and vast and unknowable pattern binding any and all things. In his arms, I was free, and I was at peace.”
The Archmage in Amber shook at the longing in her words…a longing he knew that, however much magic he commanded, he could not satisfy, he could only make worse.
“And there is one thing more.”
Somewhat startled, the Archmage turned his gaze softly down on the indigo hair, silken threads spun by the will of Siberys, strange locks filled with mystical power and spidery connections to an overarching pattern of will.
“One dark, rainy miserable night some twenty-nine years ago, I awoke on the streets of Sharn with a deathwound to my heart and this damnable Siberys Mark growing upon my back. On that same cold and dreary night in northern Karrnath, a child was born to a noble house famed for its wizards…a child who is Forsaken.”
Vorsteihek held her tighter, despite himself, seeing the instant implications.
“It is said that said that every time a Mark manifests, there is a child born who is Forsaken, as the Prophecy turns to the one and casts out the other. Few Forsaken ever survive to prosper, as they tend to be born to the lowest classes, who are greatest in number, and never realize what they are. But the strength of the Mark a person will bear is measured in the strength they take from another…and I bear a Mark of Siberys like no other.
“Marcus Ruin might have been destined to become the greatest mage of his generation, Olgerë, and the Prophecy stole that power and gave it to me to bind me to it. We are opposite sides of the same coin…he drives himself to power by cleaving through the Prophecy, and I am driven to power like a puppet by its will. I am bound to it like no other, and he is completely free of it…and we are tied in ways that transcend even the Prophecy itself.”
Vorsteihek thought of those deadly, intelligent eyes; the massive scarring and the not quite human manner in which the man moved; travails and troubles worn for all to see, challenges mastered and overcome. Sufferings that could all be blamed at the impersonal, massive contrivations of fate the Prophecy represented.
He did not know whether to feel sorry for the man, or even more afraid of what such a man could be capable of.
“But enough of me and my wanderings.” Her slender fingers reached out to touch and trace the Mark upon his back, and he tensed in pure pleasure at the electric singing that pumped through his veins at the feel of the magic. “I see you’ve also completed your studies of the Cataclysms. Was it as enlightening as you hoped it would not be?”
Her choice of words cleared his head even as her caress steadied and hummed even louder. “Yes,” he admitted hoarsely. “Such insights, such death…small wonder there were such forces gathered to move against me and my colleagues.”
“With great power comes ever dwindling levels of satisfaction.” He grunted agreement with the coolly wry statement. “Of course, with precious little power we can effect our own matter of great satisfaction, however temporairily.” Her hand stole up from his Mark to his head, trailing music in his blood and singing along his nerves, as her flawless face turned up towards his.
Truly, there were many things that great power just was not called for, he thought, and bent his lips to hers.
================
“A scholar’s expedition?” The Colonel lifted an eyebrow at Hazé’s proposal, leaning back in his chair. He showed not the slightest surprise nor interest in where she had been or what she had been doing for the last day, only that she was here now as the Stormwolf was preparing to leave, offloading supplies from the wolfskate to the hold for the trip.
“We are going to explore ruins in Xen’drik. Others have found them before, but the environs are extremely dangerous, and no proper expedition has ever been able to plumb the full secrets of the place. If we are to go public with the Stormwolf, can you consider a grander opportunity?”
He leaned back in his chair, keeping her eyes as he considered the matter, weighing the positives and the negatives. The silence dragged on for a full minute and more, certainly long enough to indicate that he was giving the matter serious thought.
“Money,” he indicated crisply. In the end, that was what it all came down to.
“Sponsorships, scholars, and support,” she agreed quickly. “I understand you have met the founder of the Wayfinders personally?”
“I did some services for him, especially centering around the curse he was once afflicted with, and corruption involving some of the Trustees,” he admitted freely, “as you well know.”
“Well, then, if I bandy your name to him, and I use my contacts in Morgrave, and his in the scholarship community at large, I am reasonably certain we can get funding and numbers involved in the matter of a few days.”
“One would almost think, with a remark like that, that you’ve been involved with planning the logistics of an expedition before.” His voice was as dry and non-committal as before. “I assume you are going to be jumping around the continent like an Orion Courier gone hoppy the next few days.”
Hazé’s fine lips pursed. How had he known her tagline while working for the teleporting arm of the Courier’s Guild had been Hopper? As always, he continued to surprise her with his thoroughness.
“I will pen a letter of introduction for you. Unless, of course, Lord ir’Dayne would recognize you and need no such introduction?” She had the grace to blush under his very unruffled gaze. “I thought as much. Still, nobles do appreciate formality. Keep in touch via Estemar, and I’ll send Trencher ahead to Korranberg to assist you. I’ll head for the Wayfinder’s central hall in Fairhaven, which should be fine enough publicity. Although I imagine when we arrive in Sharn, the reception will be much more interesting.”
=
The sudden announcement of an expedition to a new section of Xen’drik hit the presses like an avalanche, followed up by the first credible reports on the mysterious black ship reported to be in the service of the Wolves of Fort Lewt, the commandoes and looters of the Mournland who ruled over a large number of displaced Cyrans from their aptly named base on the far side of the Mournland. The Wolves were known for their skill and their hatred of the Valenar…the fact they operated an airship and had apparently let it be chartered by Lord ir’Dayne of the Wayfinders was quite a story, and people were clamoring to know more.
The fact that Colonel Ruin himself was going along on this trip sent the readers into another tizzy. His mauling of an expeditionary force of the Acquisitions Directorate of the Twelve while under contract to Lord ir’Dayne, and his subsequent leading the survivors in a months-long trek back to civilization, had firmly cemented his reputation among the mercs and guides who worked the shattered lands of the ancient giants. As a result, there were no shortages of surviving members of that expedition willing to sign up with him again, and eager volunteers clamoring for a place among the expedition. That they might get a chance to ride on the new and fantastic airship which seemed to be in the Colonel’s employ.
When the Stormwolf made the passage from Fairhaven to Sharn in less then a day, streaking by no less then three Lyrandar airships on the way, its notoriety was assured. Landing smack dab in the center of Morgrave University, a task absolutely impossible for a Lyrandar airship, only served to cement the instant fame of the vessel as it took on its second batch of scholars, students and their belongings. It attracted quite a crowd, and only the sight of naked blades in the hands of the Wolves kept excited sightseers from trying to clamber aboard for better looks, and almost caused a logjam in the skies overhead as air coaches kept circling for a better look at the strange and dangerous-looking new craft.
The very next day the Stormwolf pulled over Korranberg itself, and even the gnomes were a-goggle over the capabilities of the vessel…especially considering the utter lack of elementals to move it along in flight. The last set of supplies were loaded aboard, over a hundred expeditionary members waved to the cheering crowds as inquisitives madly scribbled stories for the papers, and the PME’s woke the turbofans to silent, blurring life and the Stormwolf drove south.
===============
“Good morning. I trust you are not unduly inconvenienced by this meeting.”
Sleeping space was at something of a premium on the ship…even three hundred paces of deck got crowded quickly when dealing with over a hundred people, and below-decks birth, and most precious of all, privacy, had not come cheap. Most of the folk were making do with slung hammocks on poles or on the deck, sleeping under the stars… the shocking idea that they would be in Stormreach in only two days made this far less an inconvenience then might be had.
“As you might or might not know, Lord ir’Dayne is not actually in charge of this expedition…I am.” Everyone knew who Colonel Ruin was, but hearing him actually say he had ultimate command of the expedition was actually something of a shock, especially to the scholars. “I have my own reasons for going to the site we are planning, and invited Lord ir’Dayne along as a courtesy and opportunity for him and his people. That invitation has since grown to include all of you who are assembled here.
“But make no mistake, you are here as a courtesy, and a courtesy only. Do not presume to give me or my men orders, to challenge our own objectives, or suborn them to your own. The time you have allotted to you is exactly one month, no more and no less. You will have to plan, maximize the usage of your time and resources, and when your time is up, pull out and leave.”
There were murmurs among the scholars present, but one look at the grim men in gray and black who were not wearing smiles was enough to silence those.
“Also, there is the small matter of intrigue taking place here.”
There was a shout of surprise from the crowd…two, three, and heavy footsteps pounding on the deck as two men and a woman were roughly grabbed by remorseless hands and forced to the front of the crowd.
“Ravindos Orcanthar.” The pitiless gray eyes turned on the thunder guide, one of several hired to keep the scholars alive and provide security for the expedition. “You have been contracted to kill another member of this expedition. You do know the proper fate of assassins?”
The man’s eyes popped wide open in shock. The warforged holding him down quickly and efficiently stripped him of anything valuable as he began to howl his protests, and without a word, hustled him to the side of the railing.
There was no hesitation and no pause for consideration as the man shouted out his willingness to name the ones who hired him, to spare him and he would lead them to treasures and secrets and more. He was simply heaved overboard, and his screams faded into the blue behind and below the ship rapidly.
“Colzetta d’Cannith.” His eyes turned on the woman, watching the fate of the thunder guide with suddenly terrified eyes. “While I admit to a dislike of assassins in my midst with intentions upon my guests, the very idea that one of my passengers would sign on simply for the opportunity to steal the secrets of my ship and sabotage it if at all possible leaves me quite…cold.” He let that statement weigh down on the woman, and turned to the ensign who appeared suddenly at his elbow with a slip of paper. He took it, and glanced at it perfunctorily. “Ah, it appears your masters realize their error and have graciously agreed to ransom back your life. Venri Courlieux of Arcanix, it appears that yours…have not.” The sharply bearded, slender Aundairean’s eyes widened in panic. “Furthermore, it seems that certain representatives of Zilargo have contacted us and made known that your theft of some of their magical secrets has not gone unappreciated. Accordingly, they want you to get a first hand look at one of the wonders of the Stormwolf.” He nodded sharply. “Feed him to the Wolf.”
The mage’s own wadded robes were stuffed into his mouth to silence his screams as the two hulking half-orc Wolves hauled him out onto the stern wing bodily, ignoring his kicks and cries. Two human Wolves waiting there smartly removed the retaining screen from the front of the propeller, levering it up and past the giant, spinning blur of the blades that made the hull vibrate under the feet of the silent, shocked crowd of watchers.
He kicked, he cried out, he was thrown emotionlessly in front of those air-chopping blades. There was a tremor that was felt through the deck, a violent spray of red and a trail of crimson bits suddenly stretching out behind the Wolf a long and sobering distance, tracking a scarlet smear across the wing.
The retaining screen was calmly levered back into position. A slender Warforged trudged up calmly, bucket and mop in hand, to clean up the mess.
Much of the crowd had gone white, and very quiet, indeed.
“Lady Colzetta, you will be graciously dumped naked into Stormreach to find the way to the enclave of your family. Possibly they will have someone to meet you to help you retain the dignity of being a saboteur and a spy for your House. But let me be very blunt and say that next time, I’m just going to feed the Wolf and not bother with niceties. I take a very dim view of those who threaten my ship, my crew, and myself. Do you understand me?”
The slender woman swallowed and shrank under the weight of his stare. “Yes, Colonel Ruin, sir,” she managed to get out, quickly averting her gaze. He jerked his chin, and she was hauled to her feet and dragged efficiently away, not daring to complain.
“Ravel d’Lyrandar. Causen d’Orien. Meldos Zobrenfe.” His eyes moved to each of them one by one, and they all blanched as Wolves materialized next to them…like the others, the Khorovar, man, and gnome had been traveling under assumed names as well. “You will be disembarking at Stormreach. You have paid for your passage. Kindly inform your Houses and associates that next time, you will be disembarking mid-trip. This playing of games tires me out rather quickly.”
They actually agreed readily and rather thankfully to that, seeing as how favorable it was to the fate of those who’d had more active ideas about what to do about the Stormwolf. They did not protest as the Wolves escorted them away.
“As for the rest of you, in a few hours we should have our preliminary maps of the ruins drawn up, and your organizers can start making deployment plans. I suggest you use the time going over your gear for signs of trouble. That will be all.”
Lord ir’Dayne watched his fellow scholars and explorers break up quickly, putting some distance between them and the ruthless Karrnathi Colonel. “A bit harsh on them,” the halfling remarked calmly, fetching out his pipe, eyes steady and yet unmoved.
“Hopefully, this will somewhat more efficient a dig then is normally run by the Wayfinders. I’ve already received word that the Twelve is itching to jump the find…they made the mistake of hiring some of the same Deneith mercenaries that got left behind last time.” His voice held a certain grim satisfaction to that…fighting men remembered their own, House or no.
“Well, now, that is a convenient way for them to lose more airships,” the halfling agreed with a quiet chuckle. “How are you going to be about getting maps so quickly? I happen to know enough about magic, and Xen’drik, that scrying doesn’t quite satisfy the level of detail you’d need to make workable maps.”
“Scrying? Please. I’ve already got men on the ground on site.” The halfling lord blinked at that, looked up at the scarred Karrnathi with new respect. “You did not seriously think I was going to just take the Stormwolf in, park it over the ruins, and challenge all comers to get rid of me, did you?” The halfling puffed on his pipe to hide his sudden embarrassment. “Hazé will be joining us as soon as we get within her range of teleportation. I’ve got four teams and two Captains down there, sussing out the natives and assessing the lay of the land. When the Stormwolf arrives, the first thing we are going to do is make sure the uppity natives get very dead, and the non-uppity natives know enough to leave us alone.”
“And the second thing?” the halfling noble asked, trying to think ahead of the man.
“Taking care of our private reasons for being here.” The knuckles of his remaining hand cracked ominously as he flexed his fingers, looking out to the blue sky ahead. “And the less you know of that, the easier you will sleep at night.”
The halfling considered that point, inclined his head thoughtfully, and turned away. Their previous expedition had shown him that placing absolute faith in the scarred soldier was simply good policy, and he saw no reason to disbelieve him now.
================
Stormreach was far more sobering a stop then it might have been under other circumstances. Wrapped only in a cloak, the Cannith saboteur was met by stone-faced, wand-bearing House Cannith guards whose composure faltered only when they saw Colonel Ruin watching them from the top of the loading ramp. The others were escorted off with their belongings under guard as well, and quickly moved to make themselves scarce.
Word that House Lyrandar was green with envy over the Stormwolf not having to use the landing tower was the latest bit of fluff to make the rounds, but there was definitely excitement and buzz in the air as the experienced and hardened men of the City of Adventure came out to look at the sleek and deadly new airship that had no House affiliation. Marcus also knew that there were many, many people very, very interested in having him make such a vessel of their own…or taking the secrets to do so, House Cannith ranking strongly among such numbers. He was certain that if he chose to retire to a life of building airships, his fortune was made several times over…not that he bothered to think of retiring.
Hazé slid in beside his elbow as he watched the onloading and offloading of cargo. Never one to miss a trick, he’d also taken on several urgent cargoes for delivery and speculative purposes, with Hazé’s presence in Stormreach ahead of time providing all the advance intelligence he needed. The fresh food from Khorvaire alone was being snatched up right and left by interested parties, but basic supplies like cloth and tools were always in high demand in the humid atmosphere of the Shattered Land.
“Estemar and Trencher located the fiend…a denizen of Mabar. They report they should have it firmly dead fairly soon. It was the only major threat in that sector, although it seemed to be trying to arrange for more natives of its home plane to pop in.”
“Excellent. And the beholder, and the serpentfolk?”
“The trolls are likely aware there’s intruders around with those noses of theirs, and we’ve definitely been spotted by some of the serpentfolk sentries. These aren’t the enlightened ones of the Talentia Plains…more the deranged outcasts typical of their kind that you find in more of the serial novels.”
“Hopefully not deranged enough to force me to slaughter them all. Hopefully, the mere fact that we are going to be clearing out some of their rivals should entice them into leaving us alone…and I imagine that after we are done with the temple they are going to want to claim it for themselves.”
“Trencher is already setting spells into place to insure that doesn’t happen. At the very least, they’ll have to dig the whole thing out and build their own temple again, and I don’t believe that is going to happen.” Hazé said that with more then a little satisfaction…one thing Marcus always hated was clearing out some dangerous hole, only to find a week later that some new monstrosity had arrived to threaten the same area again. One of Trencher’s specialties was making sure nothing used such lairs again.
“Any more raw intelligence?”
“The lads are looking forwards to hunting in the northern quadrant…it’s heavy on dinosaurs, oversized beasts and such things.”
“Enough to keep them from being bored for a month? Well enough. Fresh meat never hurt the morale of people.”
“Plenty of undead presence still in the central temple. We should have brought Caulver along despite his protests…he was getting good at butchering them, by all accounts.”
“Let him play storm god on the skulls of some hapless diabolics, or whatever it is he has to do.” Marcus’ eyes looked south and east…the ruins of the temple weren’t actually all that far from Stormreach, the area in between was simply rather hostile. The Wormhead had come here with his followers at the height of the Dhakaani Empire, thousands of years ago, determined to reach godhood and almost achieving his goal. Still, something had gone wrong, and while he’d gained great power and turned his faithful into a scourge that had never been entirely eradicated, he’d never become a true divine being.
Now, at the last, it seemed certain random factors had aligned enough to allow him to finally achieve apothesis. Unless, of course, he were stopped.
Enter, the Prophecy. Or, as Hazé put it, let’s make some Hero-bandages and Apply them, with liberal doses of the Unavoidable Fate and Unlucky Bastards skill. How someone so tied to the Prophecy could make such fun of it, he really had no idea.
“There’s going to be Chamber and Dust Lord agents in this batch,” Hazé warned him in a low voice.
“After you spotted the ones in Ambershore, and given the Archmage’s history, I am hardly surprised.” His watch stopped on one of the random watchers surveying the Stormwolf, for no particular reason, and his eyes narrowed. “Cataclysm Magic. He did well to keep such things secret…I had no inkling he was delving into such controversial lore.”
“The Dragons attempt to slay all those who pursue such findings, hence why he kept his powers carefully concealed behind raw magic. He might very well be the first man to survive the mastery of the Doom of Dragons. He knew of no other with the power, and certainly isn’t about to proclaim it to the world. Likely he’d have Dragons attempting to slay him right and left, and the Twelve and Arcanix seeking to dissect him body and soul to discover the true nature of his power.”
“Archmages lead such interesting lives. You’d think they almost bring it on themselves.”
Her liquid chortle at his droll reply was enough to lighten the mood considerably. “You’d think, wouldn’t you?” She gave a lazy salute as she sauntered away, a sight that had the stevedores turning their heads to watch…until they saw him watching them, and got hurriedly back to work.
==============
The purging of unfriendlies went down rather well. The four teams on the ground, Estemar and Trencher leading them, were joined by the men he had aboard the Stormwolf as it moved into position at treetop level in the ruins. The inertial anchors were deployed, the Wolves dropped in, and quickly ranged through the city.
Vendelheim, the Ship’s Mage, permanently assigned to the Stormwolf, kept the scholars enraptured with his displays of what was happening on the ground below, as the Wolves hunted trolls and strange beasts through the shadows, eventually bringing down the many-eyed horror that commanded their loyalty and eliminating one of the major threats to the expedition. With magic, the creature was rapidly dissected for benefit of alchemists back home, and the massive spherical body rolled to the perceived border of the city claimed by the serpentfolk.
Dire warnings and very grim threats about wandering into the middle of the city were enough to keep the scholars out of there…for now. The scholars disembarked into the most secure area the Wolves could find, fanning out quickly to find places of interest and set up their research digs.
The Colonel and his captains set their sights on the temple itself.
===================
“We’ve been spotted.” Eye in the Sky, Hazé’s personal reconnaissance homunculus, was whizzing invisibly overhead, telescopic lenses seeing as much as possible through the rampant tree cover and frequent mists of the steamy jungle setting. The middle of the ruins, however, had no such cover…merely a broken obelisk atop a stepped pyramid temple…and the mind-searing vision that had set them all gasping as they first laid eyes on it, the Wolves had reported to the Colonel…who experienced no such thing.
“Probably saw the scouts and has been waiting for intruders. What are we looking at?” Marcus asked calmly, automatically glancing at Hazé’s right hand.
Hard light holograms popped into place as energy shards broke apart and reformed into a tactical display. The temple outside in the abstract, zooming in to display the guards on duty.
“Undead soldiers, and what looks to be a pair of giant beetles…probably undead as well.”
“Well, then, if you care to get your defenses up, we’ll head in. Trencher?”
The Mror nodded once, staying put just outside the obsidian ring that contained the squirming, corrupted earth left behind by the sacrifice of an entire city and the ascension of a would-be god. “Powerful magic in this ring, sir. I can make it work for us, as needed.”
“Let’s go kill us some dead things.”
==============
Marcus loathed undead.
He was good at fighting Valenar…you had to be, to keep being able to fight them, or you got dead fairly quick. The psychotic nature of the warrior culture the elves were raised in, their obsessive links to their ancestors, and the grinding despair at the heart of what was essentially spiritual slavery to an idealized version of someone you had no choice in deciding whether or not to follow, forged a death-seeking fey warrior whose only reason to exist was to die fighting with some thirty-millennia-dead elf’s name on his lips. The pure hypocrisy of their belief system and their actions to honor the deeds of the dead disgusted and infuriated him, and he’d gotten very good at killing them as a matter of course.
But the unliving and the undead, they occupied a special place in his heart. Playing with dead things had been one of the great tasks of his family, and it had cost them their lives, their name, their holdings, their servants, and their honor. He was the last of the Ruigan, and he’d seen what necromancy could do with the soul-searing truth of experience far more personal then any mere adventurer normally possessed.
Thorn was keyed into this. The runes on the blade were ablaze with cold white fire, and he was killing these worm-ridden things, swathes of green flame being eaten by white trailing around the lashing arcs of his blade.
The beetles were like giant rhino beetles, the size of cows, possessed of powerful bites and charged with negative energy and dripping worms from inside animated chitin. The soldiers were of two different types, one commanding the other…one had a pair of huge worms bundled up in its head with their leech-like mouths wiggling in the eyeballs of its empty skull, and the other one just had a bunch of worms crawling around on it.
Both hobgoblin skeletons, of course…direct and ancient followers of the Wormhead.
A blast of sheer negative energy hurtled down to smash into them, obviously meant to soften them up…he heard Hazé’s exclamation as streaking blackfires raged all around, parting around him like water, and flailing uselessly on the wardings that she had erected on herself and Estemar.
The beetles scuttled rapidly down towards them at a single gesture from worm-eyes, who raced down after them with the odd agility of the fleshless.
A golden volley of force shards drove into the lead beetle, smashing smoking holes into the thing. Without preamble he intercepted it, taking its charge on his shield and levering it off the ground. Thorn cut upwards, and dripping green worms exploded all around him as he carved through chitin and whatever was inside the thing with a carefully placed blow. A second later, he heaved it over into the path of the second, forcing it to divert or clamber over its companion, also blocking the skeletal worm-eye knight. Estemar drove a glowing arrow into what would have been the head…two of them, actually…and blew that off completely, turning the insides into a flaming inferno of dying green worms.
Again with the negative energy blast…and he understood why, which was instinctively why he’d tried to kill one of the things as fast as possible. The black fires crawled over the undead creatures, healing them even as it might harm living things, a truly nasty magical effect. He could almost feel Hazé’s mind at work as she watched the magic forming…if a negative energy blast like this was possible, then most certainly a positive energy version was, as well, and she was very good with positive energy…
Her second volley punched into the second beetle, but he saw she’d held the second ring of them, and when the skel at the top of the steps started his invocation again, it ate five of the spiraling golden crystals square in the chest, rather spoiling his intentions. Marcus swatted away the greatsword hacking at him with icy disdain, bringing Thorn down on the forejaws of the beetle, hewing away a mandible, punching deep into the central head, twisting the blade and withdrawing before another pair of arrows from Estemar drove into the ruptured shell of its head and blew it apart from within.
The scattered parts of its shell went flaming away down the ziggurat’s slopes, bouncing and tossing bundles of burning worms all about. That left his full attention for this flailing knight, who was cursing at him in hollow, hissing Goblin as it hacked and hewed with great strength, trying to drive him back and down the steps.
The problem with being skeletal is your mass sucks. Sure the worms crawling over it gave it some weight, but braced by his skinplate, Marcus wasn’t having any of that, and this idiot was using a two handed weapon against an opponent with a full shield.
The lunging of the worms in the eyes for his face might have deterred him, if it wasn’t for the fact that the faceplate of his armor had no eyeslits and was quite transparent. Instead, Thorn flicked twice, and both worms went flying wide, cut right off their stalks, drawing a shriek from the bone-hob, which also ended as Thorn graciously removed the remnants of the creature's jaw. His shield drove up with bone crunching force, lifting the knight right off its feat, and without preamble he swept his sword under the shield into the exposed throat and took the thing’s head clean off in one sweeping stroke.
The second bone-hob coming down paused for a moment at the sight of that. Clearly, it wasn’t prepared to be dealing with someone who could dispose of it’s commander so readily…and it had made the fine mistake of using an oversized, ornate greatsword as well.
It didn’t have to dwell long on its troubles. Estemar calmly put an arrow into each of the gaping eyeholes, and then double pinwheels of golden forceshards followed them into to blow the worm-infested skull into flaming dust.
“I don’t think they are going to like you, Marcus,” Hazé reasoned with a slight smile, her next volley of seven and five spinning into counter-cycling existence around her right forearm, like golden crystal spikes, sparkling and poised to fly.
“The feeling is mutual. Get an eyeball up ahead of us.” One series of shards collapsed into a gleaming sphere, which muted rapidly to ghostly transparency, and zipped up ahead of them to scout the way.
===================
Fallen angels. Marcus almost barked out a laugh.
Denizens of the Plane of Battle, twisted and corrupted by worms, then their immortal essence chained here so they wouldn’t be slain and reborn elsewhere. Foes of the Wormgod doubtless summoned by the drow, who had in the end thrown down the remnants of his power after his ascencion.
He could feel Estemar’s hesitation, stricken with horror at the finding of celestial beings brought so low.
Marcus smiled as he met the madly flaming eyes of the Elven-esque creature with shadowed skin and shadowed blade. Was it trying to say something to him? It was saying something in a language he didn’t understand, and there was power in that gaze…killing power, every bit as lethal as the sword it hefted, and in the hands that were springing into unholy black flames for the winged angels that flanked this one.
Some variety of eladrin, if he remembered his lessons right…a contemporary of Celeste, no doubt.
Thorn sprang to guard, and Marcus let his laughter escape him in a low, rasping cough as he kept those eyes. “Estemar, stay back and do not soil your hands with these.” The celestials obviously understood him, the winged ones poised to spring over and past him.
“Sir?” the Topaz asked, unable to keep his disgust and hesitation out of his voice. He wasn’t afraid…he was simply mortified.
“Look at these things. They look on you, and they want to kill you…they can feel the touch of the divine on you, the touch that once was theirs. They can feel the holiness that fires your soul…” he laughed again, and there was a flash and a wink as Hazé calmly erected a screen of force behind him. “But they can see nothing of my soul, and so they hesitate.” He took a step forwards, watched them tense, their eyes turn to the living blade in his hand, begin to move to the sides. “I will inform them that I am most definitely not a holy man.”
His smile was a wolf coming to the feast, and he was coming first for the fallen eladrin.
The evil inherent in the shadowy sword meant nothing to him…he took it on his shield and drove the once-celestial back, high, low, across – his elbow smashed into the noble nose, came down to nearly split its skull, and then he rolled aside as the first of the winged archons drove in at him.
He took its wings off neatly as his shield slammed the lunging arm-blades aside, and the eladrin screamed as its servant drove fully into its chest, the force of the impact literally ripping it apart before the archon drove unstoppably into the wall, nearly breaking its own neck in the process as the glass shattered, and a horde of worms spilled out on top of it.
Disdaining the worms, Marcus stepped in and swept Thorn through the mass, scattering flaming worms and feeling something solid interrupt the flow of the blade for just a moment. Green worms engulfed him with wild frenzy, and he ignored them as they vainly looked for openings in his skinplate to get at the flesh beneath. Under their mass, the flaming armblades of the archon went out, and then a double eruption of spiritual energy as the life force of the celestials was released filled the room with unwhite fires…and falling masses of burning worms.
The second archon had been swooping around for an attack, pulled up sharply as that blaze of released life force erupted in his face.
“Come here!” Dex whipped out, and the startled archon found a gauntlet-covered metal hand about its throat, tightening with strength worthy of a golem, connected by threads of steel to the stump of Marcus’ shield arm. Marcus pulled, and jumped, Thorn leading the way, half-blinded angel dragged to meet him.
One armblade was knocked away by his shield, the other scored the metal along the knee he lifted to intercept it, and Thorn drove fully into the chest of the archon, wrenching horribly in the wound and drawing out a scream of mixed agony and release. Marcus put his full weight onto the blade as they both fell out of the air, using his superior mass and hand-long spikes punching abruptly out of his armor as he came down atop the hapless celestial.
There was a crunch of breaking wings and bones, a crack of a living blade smashing into stone, and a ripping sound of punctured angel’s flesh spraying corrupted blood. Marcus heaved the blade over as the writhing barbed guard of Thorn tore through the chest of the creature, and ripped into the heart.
The explosion of release was enough to drive him away and off it, sending him rolling through the air, riding the impact, and coming down with a weird, heavy grace, slamming to the stones and yet sliding along them like ice, poised and ready.
Stones blasted white by the release of the celestials covered a fair chunk of the room, and the edges of those patches hissed and writhed as if alive and pained by the touch of the power.
Thorn shimmered with wormfires, trailing green and white baneflames, for a moment locked and poised as still and silent as any statue. Then Marcus straightened slowly, lowering the blade, as Hazé shattered her screen of force with a touch. Estemar almost lurched into the room.
“You…almost looked as if you enjoyed that, sir,” the Topaz Knight said, almost but not quite a protest.
“I have been waiting a long time to do that to an angel, but never had sufficient reason until today.” Marcus’ visor opened a slit as he spoke, the plate allowing his words to be heard clearly, showing only his eyes. “Do not be worried…they’ll be reborn in service to the proper ideals they emulate, with no memory of their pasts, new as babes as they spring forth from the Endless Battle. I did them a great service…and a pleasure it was to administer it.” He glanced at Hazé for idle confirmation.
“Their spirits are free,” she agreed with a simple nod.
“You can kill the next servant of the creature that enslaved them, paladine.” It was as much an offer as an order, as Marcus didn’t like having anyone do his killing for them, but it got Estemar’s mind off what had befallen such noble beings and back into the proper mental mode.
“Yes, sir!” The Cyran’s eyes sharpened and his gaze came up as he lifted his bow.
======================================
Six volleys of force shards speared out as one.
Six! That was bloody freaking impressive.
The air was full of deadly green maggot-spirals of force, twisting through the air directly and unerringly for Estemar. Marcus knew the Topaz Knight was highly unlikely to survive such an assault from the undead thing, making the Cyran a sound tactical choice to be the one taken out, and there was precious little anyone could do to stop it. Which hardly meant that he was worried.
The sound of the wormlike, writhing missiles ricocheting off the silver-crystal shields that flickered and blinked and blocked every single one of them in a cascade of deflective magic was like chain splutsplutsplutsplutspluts…droplets of force energy dissipated harmlessly in all directions like dissolving worms.
To say the six-armed thing was a mite surprised that an archer in shining armor had a shielding spell up around himself would not have been an exaggeration. It didn’t get much of a chance to be surprised about anything else, as Marcus was abruptly and clearly in its mouthless face. Perhaps those hand wavings meant it was trying to say something…whatever it was, he wasn’t receiving, and Thorn was only too happy to tear into it as Marcus put two hands on the hilt and proceeded to tear the creature apart.
Whatever defensive magicks it had upon itself…it didn’t. Thorn ripped open the emaciated chest, and the multiple arms spasmed wildly. The thing had no mouth, and so the spasming hands as banefires tore at its undead flesh didn’t have any accompanying screams, which made the ripping apart of the creature oddly satisfying. He did not let up, advancing as it tried to scramble away and weave something new with all those hands…and that didn’t fly with him, coming back with another cut that took off two of the four-fingered limbs and sent them flying, slamming his shoulder into the eviscerated chest for good measure, and as it reeled back bringing Thorn across full force, his hips snapping into the blow, down across the middle part of its skull…decapitation was much too good for something like this.
Its brains blew out cheerily, messily, and fatally. With a wild, writhing spasm of eight shrivel-fleshed limbs, the undead creature died, and he heard a telltale gasp from behind him as it happened.
He looked back in time to see Estemar and Hazé frozen for just a moment by some awful vision or another…this was what, the sixth, seventh one? Whatever, it lasted above two heartbeats, and then Estemar was dry heaving out a stomach already emptied, and Hazé looked…pensive, her eyes all Open and full of stars as she looked at things beyond sight.
The ground suddenly rocked from a distant impact, and the air was rent by mournful howls and souls gnashing ectoplasmic teeth. Currents of vast spiritual energy vented away from this place, the last remnants of the horrible sacrifice that had been made and claimed by the Wormhead to make his stab at godhood…he could feel the movements of tortured souls on levels that weren’t magical in the slightest. What horrors had been unleashed here had stained the very nature of the place, and after long last, were being released so that the land might heal.
“Find out something that was actually useful this time?” he queried the Khorovari sharply, taking a good look around to make sure they hadn’t missed anything dangerous.
“The obelisk which is the focus of the Wormgod’s power, and his prison, was stolen from this place by a great Wyrm nearly two thousand years ago. A Wyrm of Fire, mad with lust for power. This creature -, " she indicated the dissolving six-armed thing "- was the very one, long ago, which set the Wormhead on the true path of power for the Age of Worms.” She stared at the flaming, crumbling remnants of the soulless creature. “A Spell Weaver lich. I would not have thought such a thing possible…surprise, surprise.” Her sudden smile at discovering something new, even in such horrible surroundings, was like a breath of fresh air. “It means they fear death and have goals they place above the natural cycle of their own people as well. That is very interesting to know.” Her Open eyes roved the chamber the creature had dwelt in for nigh on two millennia, and likely been its home for five times that long. “I think we’ll find more, we just need to translate it.”
“How fortunate we have so many scholars along interested in ancient mysteries.” Marcus almost rolled his eyes, but not quite. Haze just smiled and went on.
“The divine power that suffused the structure is gone…the Prophet of Worms, here, was the linchpin of that strength…probably the only being of true importance to the Wormgod. If we’ve managed to scour the truly independent sentients from this place, we should find the worms dead or dying, and what magic empowers the place faded and failing.” Her head tilted slightly, and Estemar looked sharply up and behind them. “Trencher is reporting that the central obelisk fell…he managed to get a wall of stone up in time and deflect it from smashing the obsidian ring, but he reports the ground is bubbling up above…with lots of very smelly green paste.”
“Dead worms. Excellent. Let’s take a once-thru again, and make it thorough, and then get a couple scour teams down here to clean the place out. I imagine you knows which experts you’d like working down here learning everything they can." Haze nodded once. " Inquire of Trencher how his plan is going.”
It was Estemar who replied to that after a silent moment. “With the ring intact, and the divine power cut short, he informs us that the power of the ring can easily be turned to good use in putting this thing down forever. It will take him a couple days to work the proper magic, and he says probably a couple weeks or more for the full effect to happen, but definitely we can keep this place from ever being used again.”
“Marvelous. Just don’t let the serpentfolk know…they probably have some ideas about using this as a fortified lair after we go, since we were so kind as to be about clearing it out for them.”
“He was thinking just the same thing.” Estemar smiled in agreement.
================
“How ****** do you think they are?” Marcus mused aloud.
The whole expedition was crowding to the rails of the Stormwolf as it slowly rose, giving them an excellent view of the true end of the Temple of the Apotheosis of the Wormhead.
“Well, I think you gutting their best four warriors to make a point about playing clever mind-games with the scholars didn’t go over well, but I can see this as firmly putting you on their bad side.” Lord ir’Dayne had to smirk despite himself as he watched the events unfold, balanced easily on the railing itself for a better view, one hand on his pipe, the other a support pole.
The ground inside the Ring of Obsidian that had bound the remnants of the Wormhead’s faithful with the elemental power of the drow and their extraplanar allies was now red-hot…literally. The corrupted stone was shimmering with heat haze, beginning to flow and melt as tremendous, anathemic forces rose up from Khyber to claim their vengeance.
The ground was rumbling and lurching and venting flaming gas and sulphor and belching out mounds of molten rock from wide fissures being rent in the unclean ground, yet none of this power escaped the confines of the Obsidian Ring as yet. The great ziggurat was beginning to sink, slowly at first, then more rapidly as the empty spaces beneath it collapsed, jerking, falling, tilting impossible to one side and breaking open as it did so, and the new volcano a-borning began to force its way up. Flaming dust began to vent into the air, and they could see shadows moving rapidly away from the center of the city as the wiser creatures began to flee.
So did the Stormwolf. It was nearly three kliks away when the power of the Obsidian Ring to constrain the elemental fury being unleashed finally was exceeded, and the volcano blew upwards with a roar and blast of release greater then any thunderclap. Hazé’s shields took the brunt of the shockwave and diffused them into a great wave of motion, picking up and hurtling the ship along quickly without actually imparting any violent cross-forces to it or the people aboard.
The scholars and nobles and reporters cheered at the show and the display as a fine and fitting ending for a marvelous expedition. Only the Lord ir’Dayne saw Marcus’ scoffing expression and understood it…the lesser members of the force had not been informed that it was actually the Wolves who were behind such a dramatic and satisfying conclusion to the trip. Certainly, the novels and stories and bylines to be written about this expedition, and the many trophies of great beasts and meat for exotic dishes and whatnot, were going to make wonderful stories for the masses.
“Are you going to do this to every lair of Worm-talkers you run across, Colonel?” the halfling asked politely, eyes still fixed on the billowing mushroom cloud rising rapidly over the jungle behind them.
“I’ll do worse if I can. They certainly have worse planned for us.”
===Aelryinth
The last section is a killer - 34 pages of word!
====Aelryinth
Episode XII – The Age of Burbur cometh!
“Marcus, there has been something of a new development.”
Hazé’s grasp of dry understatement never worked, because she could never pull it off with a straight face, especially with him. He did dour too well, and she had to play opposite type.
He just lifted his eyebrow, or the scarred tufts that remained of it. He was going over reports and making quick notations…submitted from Fort Lewt and elsewhere. His wife Ana was there as well, the Mouse probably serving as long-range communicator with the Captain’s Ring she wore. Money was always an issue with the Wolves…especially in light of the consumption of magical resources the past few weeks. While they were on their way to self-sufficiency as far as food supplies went, in no small part to the efforts of Lady Silver, war materials and more exotic things still required a fine amount of coinage…and they’d certainly been using up as least as much, if not more, then they had gained as spoils.
“You are referring to the obelisk in Ashkalan.” Her lips pursed slightly and she nodded. He inclined his head at Ana, who tilted her note pad to show a finely drawn line sketch of the great pyramidal structure the Prince had been building, now crowned by a truly momentous, needle-like spire that made Hazé’s eyes go wide with recognition when she saw it. “Our factor there has been babbling about it for the last two hours. It seems our precious dragon-vampiress wasted no time setting things into motion.” He calmly set aside one group of notes. “I’ve already moved Caulver’s squad into the city, much to his dismay. He’s been hacking down undead crawling out of nowhere, making pertinent observations, and evacuating as many civilians as possible. I’d send more aid, but there seems to be a rather widely spread eruption of undead afflicting just about everything and everywhere…I doubt there’s a civilization or old place full of usefully dead corpses that isn’t being rather quickly occupied by what Caulver is calling the “Burp of the Worm”…clouds of gas that seem to be the epicenter of the undead generating effect. He claims they have an unhealthy resemblance to the border mists of the Mournland, too, and there’s something very unpleasant at the heart of them.” He looked her straight in the eye. “Did you have something more to add?”
Hazé loved being positively surprised, and Marcus was always doing just that. “Vorsteihek gave me a call with that information, and that he and his associates were working on a plan. He was also pleasantly surprised to hear his old friend Kenzelstun was back among the living.”
“If he’s going to coordinate with us, invite him aboard and set up a nexus for him. If he’s going to do something and then muddle along on his own, give him a polite answer and get back to work on our own preparations. I’ve no time for an archmage’s attitude.”
“I’ll see what I can do. He also said we might want to, ah make a detour by Karralakton.” Marcus, returning his eyes to the papers he had yet to go thru, returned his steady gaze to her. “It appears the main thrust coming out of the Mournland is heading right there.”
Marcus frowned with irritation. “And the worms conscripted the fourteen major vaults of hidden undead near the city. How unsurprising. Reap what you sow, I gather. Instruct Patience to make the course alterations, and then ask the lillend, Trencher and his Honor if you might have a spot of their time. Then explain to them what a Firewall Sweep is, and how you are going to tailor it to annihilate the undead.”
Hazé eyes flashed Open at the very thought, especially since she hadn’t figured out yet how to customize it…but a challenge was a wonderful thing. “Ah, the Art of war. I do so love it when you start painting, Marcus.”
He just lifted an eyebrow and watched her skip out the door, glanced at his wife, who was torn between amusement and envy, and just shook his head in exasperation.
Hazé did not know, of course, of the tens of thousands of undead shambling south and east from the Mournland, sweeping around Lake Cyre, mauling both Dargunn and plunging into the lands held by the Valenar. The natives of the latter were going to find out that the overlords they’d chosen cared absolutely nothing for them, only for the killing…and the Valenar method of killing was not going to stop an implacable, untiring legion of undead from destroying everything in its path as they raided, ran, raided and ran. The normal folk could only try to flee…not much use against something that never got tired. South of them, the Dargunn were desperately having to organize against the vengeance of a being they had once shut down millennia past, come back to claim his name, place and station among the gods.
Would the Aerenal intervene? Possible. Of course, if he was a divine strategist, the first thing he would have done is infected the Aerenal necropoli, and the elves would be dealing with their own outbreak of hostile undead…including, perhaps, the ancestors of those elves fled to Khorvaire, finally arising to claim vengeance for their deaths. He doubted the Worms could win, without the full force of the Wormhead backing them…but he imagined the philosophical turmoil when the corpse of your beloved ancestor and patron was full of green squirming things and trying to hack your head off.
The Lords of Dust…he had little knowledge of them and their plans, woven across centuries and millennia. The Age of Worms had been brought to a head, and doubtless NOT the way they had planned. Instead of taking place in the Wormcrawl Fissure and releasing the Rajah trapped below, it was happening in a place of utterly no mystic significance or relevance, and the power leeched from the Rajah over those thousands of years being put to use by the Wormhead now. Hazé had confirmed the Dark Angels were from another plane…Mabar, probably…which meant conflict with the Lords of Dust against other immortal beings, aspects of philosophies moving against one another and hiding those self same moves.
It was extremely annoying.
==============================
The land around the city for a solid klik was filled with companies of walking corpses. The vast majority of them were shambling things from out of the Mournland, dripping green worms and pressing mindlessly forwards. However, these things were commanded by skeletons and zombies in fine armor of Karrnathi make, larger worms twisted around and within them, giving orders to the brainless creatures, and themselves being commanded by an advancing hierarchy of worm-festooned skeletal warriors and knights, some riding the great beetles and scorpions as they advanced towards the walls of the city, intent on adding to the numbers of the great horde.
Magical fires ringed the city, raging high, sustained by the desperate concentration of the spellcasters of the city, the only thing keeping the vast numbers at bay. Magical siege engines targeted the larger creatures before they could get too close, and he knew the subterranean defenses would be similarly effective.
But the city spellcasters had to guard kliks of walls, and the enemy only had to bring down one section. The ranks around the city were packed deep at least three hundred meters now, ready and waiting and leaking dread and fear like a black cloud.
The Stormwolf came down out of the overcast skies, and brought glory.
Propellers roaring for effect, the ship came down within seven meters of the ground, turned sideways, and began to sweep over the vast army.
And fires, thick and red, pulled from the heart of the land, blew upwards from the surface to latch onto the brazen plates along the keel of the ship, and get dragged with it.
At the same time, a song went up, impossibly clear and loud, in notes no human throat could possibly sing, and the stars danced and the northern lights fell to play around the great black ship, and poured into that raging red wall of flame, and turned it gold.
Every undead creature along the full hundred meter length of the ship that the flame touched exploded into less then ash. Like a wall of living sunfire, the Stormwolf swept across the battlefield towards the city, bringing with it hope and annihilation.
“Pivot the ship starboard!” roared the Colonel, and the Stormwolf was swung on his keel, the prow coming within mere feet of the looming black walls of the city and the wide-eyed troops gathered above. Thousands of undead, packed like sardines as they waited for their orders, were eradicated to less then dust in an instant, and now the Stormwolf was sweeping along the city wall, moving as fast as a racing charger, and bringing the wrath and glory of the heavens to the undead army.
Patience and her Forged sailors were enmeshed in concentration, orienting the fans and flaps and height of the Stormwolf with desperate speed in response to the changing elevation of the ground below…they had to keep the keel within seven paces, but out of reach of the larger skeletons and desperate swings of longer weapons. Spells were flashing against the singing layers of skyfire woven around the ship, blasts of negative energy and simpler attempts to dispel the magic at work, failing as that terrible and beautiful music sang an unstopping dirge for the undead.
A living army might have broken and hunted cover, but the undead had little idea what was happening until the Stormwolf came around the walls of the city and the wall of fire consumed them. More legions were pressing in behind, or halting where they stood as the more intelligent undead stopped them to process exactly what was happening.
The guns of the Stormwolf opened up, adding a cacophony of sound to the music – ringing bars and bells, thunderous overtures, blasting explosive volleys. The Pups added Barks and Howls to the mess as the swept overhead of the Wolf itself, adding their own sonic cannons to the song, targeting the commanders of the undead horde with meticulous accuracy and telepathic coordination from the girded spotters along the Wolf’s fore and aft.
The horde didn’t so much react as to stop. And where they stopped, they died.
The Wolf completed a full circuit of the city, another, another, and then another. Each time, it looped out wider, swallowed more of the undead in golden fury, and left white dust behind. Where the horde roiled and churned as the commanding undead tried to take action, the cannons unloaded their exclamations to smash them into shards and splinters, and the lesser undead stewed mindlessly.
A final and fifth time the Stormwolf circled the walls, wiping clean the mass of confused undead as those lagging beyond ran into those wandering mindlessly around, and finally the military of the city got the hint and the courage to sound their horns and open the gates and with a great cheer sally forth to mop up the remnants and scattered groupings of the undead.
At least they figured out they needed silver, thought the Colonel, observing a line of horsemen with brightly flashing lances charge up to and right over a knot of milling undead, scarcely slowing. A quick marching line of pikemen bearing the banner of the famous Black Thorns was chivvying another line with brilliant reflecting spearpoints.
“Cut the flame!” His voice carried clearly over the impossibly pervasive and uplifting song Zynshulya was giving full voice to. Arms and wings uplifted, the lillend was wrapped around where Hazé was kneeling, within a circle of the members of the crew who could channel divine energy. Positive energy flowed upwards from the Khorovari, a beautiful and maddeningly complex array of runes spinning, counter-spinning and otherwise revolving about them all in various speeds and inclinations. Runes and music wove the greater magic together, pouring it into the firewall that was anchored to the keel of the Stormwolf.
At the fore and stern of the ship, Lord Kenzelstun and Trencher gasped as one and let their hold on the fire go. With it, went the surge in positive energy that had empowered it, and the need for empowerment.
Zynshulya’s impossible melody faded with a long and trailing note as the Stormwolf pulled up and away. He could hear the cheers and calls and horns and bells ringing out from the city below as the ship pulled away, but that was less important to him then the effect as the wielders of magic all slumped in utter exhaustion at holding such strong magic so constant for well over an hour.
“Chambers,” he waved the crew forwards with a hand chop, and they hurried to quickly move the spellcasters onto litters and make for the main hold, appropriated by the lillend and outrageously strewn with all matter of creature comforts for her to hold court within…and so eminently suitable for exhausted magi to sleep off their fatigue.
Ana moved up beside him, arm stealing within his own. Unlike a spellcaster, she had no fear of spells and wardings to be suppressed and eliminated by his Forsaken Aura. “Exactly how long have you been waiting to pull that trick?” she asked, impressed despite herself.
“I came up with it when I was trying to find my way out of the Mournland with Hazé, way back when. She started blathering about airships and alternate designs and air-lift conversion ratios and things went downhill from there. Of course, having the magi strong enough to pull it off is a completely different matter.”
“Your little trick may have killed more undead then any other battle in history.” She beamed with pride at what he’d done, but wasn’t surprised to see his face grow serious, and his eyes turn east.
“When we kill the Wormhead, we’ll defeat more undead then have likely ever risen in the history of the world. I will settle for that.”
==========================
“So, you’re going to cast this powerful spell that seals the area around Ashkalan against interdimensional travel by anything closely held to the power of the Wormhead. Will it stop the Dark Angels?”
Vorsteihek blinked. He’d expected the Colonel to be impressed by this gambit, which would prevent the underlings of the Wormhead from fleeing…or the god himself, if he was sufficiently depowered. Instead, the mage found himself flushing with embarrassment at the very sudden hole poked into his wonderful idea.
“Ah, no.”
“And even though the fact that there are extraplanars involved in this mess, who are not directly dependent on the Wormhead for power, has been apparent for years, you didn’t think to take them into calculation.” Marcus’ eyes were flat and steady, and the archmage began to get a little hot.
“Now, see here – “
“Shut up.” It was said so coldly the mage went white, and the gray eyes were so pale the mage could feel ice clamping about his soul. “We are facing a god waiting to be born here. Not a Lord of Dust. Not an undead dragon. A God. An immortal, divine thing who wants to cover the world in green worms and make everyone into undead. I do NOT have time for your arrogance or the stupidity that comes from it.” Vorsteihek found himself swallowing despite himself at the looming presence of the Colonel’s Forsaken aura. This was not a good place to get into any kind of a fight. He looked to Hazé for some moral support, and she simply shook her head in warning.
“Tell me what else you have to contribute.” Marcus’ voice was cold…and not very expectant. The Archmage in Amber found himself, of all things, wanting to prove himself to this man less then half his age.
He drew a not-metal rod, about as long as his forearm, out of his robe and placed it carefully on the table. Marcus just glanced at it.
“You found a second piece of the Sevenfold Staff?” Hazé was delighted. “Oh, this could be useful, Marcus! How did you find a second piece?”
“An axiomatic artifact. I suppose if someone could stick it in him, it might discomfit him for a few seconds. Estemar.” Marcus just tilted his chin, and the Topaz Knight gingerly reached out to pick it up.
“Some, ah, diabolic creatures showed up looking for it a day or two after the Colonel handed it over. It seemed they had lost the link until he gave it up.” Vorsteihek cleared his throat slightly...another subtle reminder of the Colonel’s Forsaken aura, he had actually interfered with the legendary linkage between the ancient parts of the staff. “I retrieved the piece from their pit fiend master.”
“Anything else?”
“The location of a sphere of annihilation?” he proposed shortly. Marcus glanced at Hazé.
“The talisman, of course. We’d have to store it in an extradimensional container to move it quickly, of course, but it would be a powerful tool to bring into play.”
“And then destroy.” The Archmage in Amber opened his mouth, then closed it. The look in Marcus’ eyes wasn’t brooking any argument. “Trencher, it looks like you’re going to be playing stoneroll with a piece of absolute entropy.” The Mror just grunted, frowning at the idea. “I assume you think the Hand will be of benefit, Master Vorsteihek?”
“The Master of Secrets won’t get any fresh forbidden knowledge if the world is undead. I don’t know how effective it will be…but I don’t imagine He will hesitate to show His disapproval of some upstart. Gods think of more then short-term carnage too.” The barb completely missed its mark as the Colonel waited silently.
Vorsteihek held up his hands. “That is all I can offer at this time. You seem…adequately prepared otherwise.”
Even the slightest addition to Colonel Ruin’s frown was like watching a sword poised to strike. “I see. Then, the marvelous fact that you are rescued just before the Age of Worms is due to be born and having managed to master the magic of Cataclysms, unlike any other mage before you, simply didn’t enter your mind, either.”
Vorsteihek opened his mouth, closed it, and glared at Hazé for a long moment, who simply smiled cheerily. Kenzelstun looked at his old friend with cool reproof, and the Archmage at last lowered his eyes.
“The penultimate gift of the Cataclysms is the power to summon the Silver Flame. Are you going to attempt to bind the Wormhead?” His voice was heavy, as he knew what the price of such a thing would be.
“That would be both foolish and irresponsible.” The Archmage’s gaze snapped back up, and he cut off his own retort. “When we kill the bastard, we are going to make it thorough. All his power is stolen…stolen from the faith and souls of the servants he sacrificed, stolen from the Rajah who thought he’d fooled a little godling, and stolen now, in the absence of his faithful, from the horror, fear and depression of those nearest the point of his return. When we kill him, that power has to go somewhere…I don’t want an unholy residue of the death of the god polluting my world. I want that power fed to the Silver Flame, burned clean, and used. I don’t think that’s all too much to ask.”
Vorsteihek hesitated, thinking over the possibilities that suddenly opened up, and then nodded slowly. “Yes, yes, I think I can do that,” he admitted, eyes deep in thought. “I will have to summon it as the Wormhead dies, but if successful…the philosophical implications are profound. Feeding the strength of the Silver Flame is perhaps one of the highest goals a soul can aspire to. The influx of so much power…perhaps, perhaps it might even allow a feathered serpent to again incarnate upon Eberron.” His voice had fallen despite himself.
“I’m sure the Cardinals of the Silver Flame will thank us in passing, and say a prayer for our damned souls before claiming the place as a holy site,” Colonel Ruin said dryly. That brought amused smiles from the Cyrans and Karrns present. High Reader Auric seemed particularly amused by that notion.
“Feeding on the Age of Worms seems to be a common theme here. Perhaps we should call ourselves the Heralds of the Age of Burbur?” Hazé ventured smoothly.
She timed it perfectly. The High Reader, Vorsteihek, Trencher, and Lord Kenzelstun were all in the middle of taking drinks. Wine went spraying out explosively as the men tried to hold in their protests and laughter, and couldn’t.
Vorsteihek found himself caught between fear, embarrassment, and trying to hold in the chuckles escaping him as he saw the drops he’d sprayed on the Colonel’s face. Who, it seems, had a rather more thoughtful expression and was completely ignoring the event.
“I rather think good humor is a fine weapon to be used at this point. The Age of Burbur has a suitably ridiculous name that I think will make a fine counterpoise. But only if you call your new spell the Invocation of the Burbur.” He turned his gaze on Hazé, who just lifted her eyebrows.
“But I wanted to call it Hazé’s Classic Counterpoise of Positive Energy Interactive Sphere Invocation!” she whined in mock protest.
“Subtext, m’Lady,” Lord Kenzeltun offered, trying to keep his own face straight.
“Footnote, more like it,” Trencher grumbled heartily, refilling his cup. “To the Age of the Burbur!”
“To the Age of the Burbur!” Even the Colonel got in on the toast, this time.
========================
“How’s the evacuation coming, Lieutenant Caulver?”
“Sir!” The brawny Karrn saluted his superior officer as the Colonel trotted down the ramp off the Stormwolf, which was disembarking half a dozen more teams of grim Wolves acquired by teleporting mages. “We’ve gotten most of the people out of the poorest section of the city and the middle areas. We had some problem with the militia and the temple to the Mockery, extolling the common folk to throw themselves at the undead in front of their own troops, but we came to something of an understanding.”
“How many did you have to kill?”
“About thirty. The rest got the hint, and pulled back into safer ground. For some reason the undead are avoiding holy ground for the moment, and we’ve managed to shove a lot of recalcitrant citizens onto the equally idiotic clergy. The Prince, of course, simply pulled his men back to the Palace and is holding it against all comers. He’s got a fairly tough military…disorganized attacks they can handle.”
“Situation here?”
“Those hobgoblins you recruited are doing the job, and are pretty enthusiastic about it, too. Haven’t had any spillouts make it to the refugees yet. Looted all the food, water and blankets we could on the way out.” Caulver let his eyes run over the ugly tent city that had sprung up several kliks outside the walls of the cursed city. “It’s not the best, but it’ll do until they have to run for their lives, or we win, sir.”
“Good enough.” Marcus eyed the young officer, who looked rather haggard and definitely as if he’d been in a lot of fights. “How are you and the unit holding up, Lieutenant?”
“Sir, there’s no shortage of undead to fight in the city, and bigger things are stirring. We’ve had our hands full keeping up with all the fighting. Liiss is sleeping things off right now, but Barus and Chugger are ready if you need us!” Sparks crackled and thunder rumbled gently as he put his hands to the ancient blades at his waist.
“We will. A guide to show us the hot spots…these ‘Worm-burps’…while the wizards figure out the mystic hoo-doo of it all.”
Caulver’s face lit up despite himself…he was going to get to fight alongside the Colonel himself!
“Find Barus. He and Estemar are going hunting Dark Angels.”
===================
“So, your Honor, what do you think of the décor? Last Millennial Eldritch Thingamajigger is so-so déclassé,” Hazé sniffed. She did a very good sniff.
The old explorer and advisor considered the contraption in front of them, totally ignoring the wailing of the trapped inhuman ghosts dimly beating on the spheres of force that contained them. His eyes roved over the sphere of negative energy, a pinprick of absolute blackness powering this massive device and sending a huge pall of the energies of anti-life over the city.
“Massively complex. It will take time to figure out exactly what to do.”
“Will it now?” Hazé tilted her head with a knowing smile, shards of hard light playing coruscance around her wrist.
Kenzelstun stroked his beard with wise forbearance. “But, my Lady, there is so much that can be learned here, researched, duplicated!”
“Fire, or lightning?” she agreed with a nod.
“You generally do burn bad art.” The crystalline lights around her wrist flared into white-hot daggers. His hands rose, poised like a pianist about to start a concerto. “For the Age of the Burbur!” he exclaimed, and said the words as his fingers danced in ways no pianist would ever think to contort them, doing the final shaping, binding, guiding.
Needles of fiery pain fed into his spell, making him grimace with the utter surge of power as eight balls of superheated flame appeared around him, twin sets of four spinning in opposite directions with the roar of a Jotun’s forge as their power fed into one another, and he brought his hands down.
The telekinetic jolt hit him like a soft wave of immense force, driving them up and back down the entry way and hall as the twinned meteor swarms, both enhanced to the limits of possibility, drove down into the heart of the machine and blew apart with force enough to fill the room with a holocaust of elemental fire.
That naturally also destroyed the regulating devices on the negative energy device. They felt, rather then saw, the surge as it expanded in the heart of the blast, growing massively in size and power output even as it destabilized. Something came out of the blast, only to be instantly annihilated in the contained inferno, and then the negative energy point collapsed on itself, sucking in everything in the room, and part of the room itself as space itself compressed to a tiny point before fixing itself.
“If a ghost screams in Nihility, does anyone hear it?” Hazé wondered aloud, as the pair of them set down.
“A fine question!” bantered back the older mage. “Can a godling of worms gnash his teeth?”
They both laughed, and an eyeball of hard light zipped ahead of them as they proceeded to the next chamber.
====================
Trencher gently tapped the wall, listening to the sound. Zynshulya watched with interest. “Magically treated silver, and there’s a space beyond it. Now who, or what, might want to hide behind a wall of silver, of all things?” He squinted, pointed up with Forge. “Here now, do my eyes deceive me, or is that a crack running along the top of this?”
The lillend lifted her upper torso up the required additional two paces effortlessly. “Indeed. A narrow crack, as if poorly fit…although I see no sign of poor fitting.” She came back down. “Perhaps one of the little worms might fit where the big ones do not.” She gestured back at the four pits behind them, each a towering column of fire, and one of them with a truly awesome sized worm jutting out of it, disintegrating into smaller worms that were instantly flash-fried by the combined heat of the four hungry columns.
“Well, then. A wall with no way of opening, yet it has an entrance…a very small entrance. Why, one might think something in gaseous form could just sort of creep through there.” Mror and lillend exchanged knowing looks.
“Burbur!” the lillend said cheerfully. She had come to like the word. Her tail whisked out and coiled around his thick waist tightly, just as he rapped on the ground, and they sank into the stone as if it were mere smoke.
When they came up on the far side, the lillend was whistling cheerfully whilst playing a harp, and Trencher’s head was bobbing in time as he looked around the room at the caskets up on ledges, and sniffed audibly.
“Burbur!” Zynshulya announced, still whistling at the same time.
The air in front of them exploded with an inferno of diabolic flame, which vented backwards into the face of the very surprised Devil that suddenly popped into visibility. The creature reeled back from the concussion, only to slam into another barrier behind it that blasted it forwards and onto its fanged face onto the floor, visibly smoking.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Did you miss the binding circle I wove into the rock underneath your feet once I sensed you there?” The illusion around it wavered and vanished, revealing a pulsing, gleaming, and perfectly drawn binding circle of purest silver, poured into the stone in one long casting, not a single imperfection in the runes or radii. “All that silver there, had to put it to use.”
The massive pit fiend, its hide so black a crimson it seemed to suck in the silvery light, slowly pushed itself to its feet, hellfire eyes blazing with wrath, wings starting to spread and checking themselves as they sparked against the limits of the binding circle.
His face loomed nearer at them. “FOOLS!” he thundered, the stones beneath him (but not the rest of the room) shaking with the force of his wrath. “DO YOU THINK THIS WILL HOLD ME?”
Mror and lillend looked at one another, and burst out laughing…which still didn’t stop her from whistling.
“It doesn’t have a clue, does it?” Trencher sighed theatrically, drawing a fairly large ball of silver out of the pouch at his waist, and releasing it to crackle and dance in midair in front of him with a building charge of electricity.
“Fernians never do,” the lillend agreed sagely, as lightnings began to dance over the strings of her harp, and between her eyes. “All they do is burn, burn, burn. They never really learn how to dance.”
“Aye, I know their pain.” He waved, and streaking fires bent around the fiend to slam into the silver wall beyond, etching a glowing pattern into the silver.
The fiend’s head whipped around to analyze that symbol, widened, and came back. “DO NOT – ,” he began in terror.
Thunder roared and lightning sang in the depths of the silver vault as Zynshulya sang of elemental fire and fury, of the heart of storms and the power of the living lightning. Eye-popping arcs of massive voltage ran from her harp to the silver ball, lanced across the room, and directly through the hulking mass of the Fernian pit fiend in the way.
Perhaps the creature screamed. It was hard to tell with all the crackling and snapping and eerily clear whistling going on at the same time, and Trencher was bright enough to close his eyes and could still see a dim silhouette lit up before him.
His head was still bobbing to the whistling when the Fernian blew apart into a wave of whiteness and raw power, feeding his accumulated power to the land and blasting the dark stone of the chamber pure white as he perished.
Trencher theatrically dusted himself off of powdered Fernian, took another look around the chamber, and lifted Forge to the lillend.
“Burbur!” they shouted together.
Caulver was almost unnerved by how easily the Colonel was moving. Of course, it helped that this stinking mist parted before him like a curtain, the edges of it billowing out around his Forsaken aura, but the Colonel definitely was prepared for every turn of the street, every pile of rubble, and was never surprised by anything that had lurched across their path so far.
They’d killed a half-dozen roving squads of the lesser undead, most of them former townsfolk slain and animated by the mists, all engaged in digging out or looking for their neighbors to slaughter to join them. The mist closed in on all sides, cloying and concealing, and Caulver was glad of the paste under his nose blocking the reek of it.
The Colonel’s fist came up, pointed. With practiced ease, the Wolves melted up against the wall and ceased to move, instantly becoming part of the landscape.
Except the Colonel, who simply crouched down where he was and waited. It wasn’t like the huge bubble of clear air around him wasn’t going to be noticed.
There was a distant rumble, and for an instant Caulver swore white lights flashed through the air. – What the hell was that?- he asked no one in particular.
- The negative energy field over the city has been destroyed. – Liiss informed him calmly She was some distance away, escorting yet another band of refugees away from the pockets of mist and out of the city. – Mistress Hazé and His Honor have destroyed the machine powering it. -
Well, that was good news. Caulver tensed as the ground rumbled slightly from a heavy footstep, and something huge loomed out of the mist ahead of them.
He didn’t even have to speak, but Caulver was moving as the Colonel was, hoping that he wasn’t in way over his head.
Host, but the thing was huge. It lashed out at the Colonel, who moved with an almost boneless floating grace and dodged the massive lash of the leech-like tentacles, which Caulver knew would be a very bad thing to have hit them. The monster seemed surprised by this, as the Colonel rolled a full somersault in plate mail, lashing with each side to Thorn, trailing green and white fires, and ripped through the weirdly pseudo-bonelike hide of the creature to hamstring it. His motion ended as he did a full spin and threw his sword straight up, gripped by Dex in his off hand, and the gaping maw of the creature, spreading in a horrible roar of pain, was almost cut off by a sharp shriek as he almost severed one of the huge wings attached to its ungainly body.
In a nonstop, smooth blur, he slid away as one wing slammed down for him, hitting the ground as he and Chugger swooped in and proceeded to hew into those squat legs on the very wounds the Colonel had opened. Banefire lashed along the wounds, and timber-thick limbs trembled as the pair hewed into them, Caulver cursing as he saw the lightning of his blade crackling uselessly over the weird hide.
Dex whipped back to the Colonel’s arm, and Thorn seemed to flow rather then tumble back to his sword hand. He was coming in again as with practiced ease and the accelerated speed Liiss had channeled to them, he and Chugger traded places, narrowly avoiding the tentacles crashing down for them.
The thing bent down and vomited up a truly massive cloud of necrotic-laden gas right into the Colonel’s face, moving with frightful speed for all its bulk. The Colonel ignored it serenely, and it parted before him like a wave at sea, taking the opportunity to jump high and take the fight to the worm-like tendrils that surrounded the central jaws in place of a head.
Thorn came across and harvested most of them like ripe grain, drawing another screaming bellow from deep in the bulk of the thing. Negative energy lashed the air wildly, and Caulver could tell the thing had just been almost blinded by the stroke of the Colonel’s weapon.
Chugger’s silent scream of victory as he hewed through his side first and bolted as two tendrils lashed out for him. The Colonel was abruptly in the way, slashing both of them aside as the enraged thing fell heavily, multi-ton bulk slamming to the earth and venting more of the rancid gas as it did.
His own leg finally gushed an artery nearly two fingers across, and he ducked away from the acidic stream that sprayed out, bubbling and hissing furiously on the cobblestones. The Colonel was having none of that, on the creature in an instant, Thorn ripping open it’s corpulent belly and plunging unerringly in for whatever mockery of a heart the thing had, banefire and Thorn’s anathema raging all over it now in hunger and consumption. The Colonel put both hands on his blade and levered forwards and up, pressing against the massive bulk and bone of the creature’s chest, and Thorn tore through jotun-thick bone, unreal hide, and a gory spray of acidic ichor ignited by Thorn to find the center of it’s life-force.
Caulver found the ground suddenly wasn’t underneath his feet…he tried to speak and no sound came out. Then he hit the ground, bounced and rolled reflexively and was on his feet even as he tried to get his bearings and balance.
Not much remained of the creature…Caulver blinked at the mess, and the way the very air seemed to be boiling away, rancid mist chased by shooting white flames.
“Tough bastard thing, whatever it was,” the Colonel said with some feeling, getting slowly to his feet from about three paces further along then Caulver had been thrown. Thorn was still burning happily, white eating green.
“What have Barus and Estemar found?” the Colonel inquired crisply.
“Sir, the aerie of the Dark Angels appears to be empty. He reports having seen one or two in flight around the spire, and that’s about it,” Caulver relayed quickly.
“Get them back here. We got lucky with one of these…if they know we are coming its not going to be so easy next time.” He looked around with approval at the rapidly dispersing mist. “Well, we know one of these things generates all this mist. Therefore we know where they are and where to find them. I noticed your blade wasn’t doing much to them, other then the banefire effect?”
“No sir. I will note that both of the Runes were fully active…these things must qualify as undead or something very close to it.”
“I thought Thorn was hitting them a little harder then usual. Pity the dear things. Get a team in here and sweep it for survivors. We’re heading for the next batch of Worm-burp.” He indicated the direction, and Caulver relayed the orders on.
“Barus and Estemar are on their way. The mages confirm and will be coming shortly.”
==================
Lady Ana finished with both of his blades, affixing a ruby solidly to the guard of both his long and short blades. Both of them burst into flame in his hands instead of lightning and the soft rumble of thunderous sonic energy, and he hoped they would be effective this way. He nodded his thanks, then followed after her as they both hurried to the quick strategy meeting taking place just outside the walls of the city.
They’d eliminated three of the gas-spewing creatures, which left yet half a dozen or more. The mages had confirmed they were vulnerable to fire, at least, so that was good news, but the amount of hits they could take were incredible. Too, throngs of lesser servants seemed to be growing in number in the areas of the mist…not the least because they were being hunted to death outside of it.
Lord Kenzelstun had summoned up an ancient being of Irdian, a great and mighty Angel named Levishiakanan, whose name was a sacred thing in ancient texts that spoke of fighting undead. Clad in nothing but a loincloth and runic paint, the Angel had actually responded to the summons of the wizard and agreed to aid in the hunt of undead.
The Colonel had added one further stipulation, which had irked the celestial being, but ultimately it had agreed. While the ivory-hued solar’s purpose in life was the destruction of undead, what they were battling here was the manifestation of a deity whose very purpose was the creation of countless undead. Therefore, the true battle was denying the deity power, not just mowing down undead. Better it was that the undead were never formed at all…and to do that, you had to combat the forces that were feeding the would-be god.
Thus, the Angel was crisscrossing the city, a beacon of radiant light, and raining down death from on high. It kept strictly to areas where it could see and be seen, shining and glorious as no Dark Angel could possibly be, and where it flew the undead died, and died quickly. Hope followed where it flew, and hope was a far greater weapon against the Wormhead then the death of a few hundred easily replaced followers. Staying high let it be a beacon…staying low would expose the sinners of the city to the force of its celestial wrath and radiance, which probably wouldn’t be as good a thing.
Quite tireless, the solar was swooping about the city, occasionally pausing to send down little pins of light at something below, far in the distance.
Hope feeding on despair. Just like a burbur, mused Caulver.
The two of them came into the briefing room and took their seats without preamble. The last to arrive, the meeting started immediately as they were seated.
“We are in the process of severely weakening the foundation of power of the Wormhead,” Hazé reported with calm serenity. “It has lost the negative energy vortex it needed to empower its servants freely. Zynshulya can smell the taste of freedom in the air as surely as sun follows morning, and has agreed that her place will be the building of morale among those outside the city…and the introduction of some fairly rebellious ways of thought. It, ah, looks like she’s going to be the official tale-spinner of the Age of the Burbur.”
There were some chuckles over this, but the Colonel didn’t bat an eye. “As if we’d be able to get a Muse to come along for anything other then the story rights. I’m more concerned with the statues.”
“Right.” Hazé took a deep breath and glanced at Trencher. “We found a shop devoted to making statuary by various inhuman means…and wombs of stone, carved by no human hands. Notes we translated hinted strongly that favored spawn of the Wormhead were incubated inside them, and direct concentrations of divine power evolved them into the belching monstrosities that are forming the gas clouds in the city.” She only hesitated a little. “From the evidence, I’d have to say potentially scores of the wombs were created, and seeded into the ziggurat. The numbers of those creatures could be vast.”
“Divinations were able to conclude that their might, however, is not concentrated here.” There were audible sighs of relief around the table. “It seems they have been dispersed around the lands to form the backbone of the efforts of the Worm to raise undead…likely to battlefields, the Mournlands, old graveyards and the like…perhaps even to other continents. To truly end the Age of worms, we are going to have to track down each one of these things and eliminate them, or they could, all by themselves, raise armies of undead creatures.”
“Work, work, work,” Trencher mused aloud. “It’s like the gods don’t want us to go back to elf-killing, sir.”
“Oh, I imagine at least a couple of the things are with the horde tramping across Valenar, helping add to the numbers there. They get their own chances at glory. Nevertheless, Ana will be accompanying us on the next series of outings. As cold brought down Dragons, fire will bring down these creatures. We should be able to work through these things far more quickly then before, and with groups running interference, she shouldn’t have a great deal of trouble getting close enough to deliver. Hazé, in the meantime, is going to find out what’s inside the Spire and where, so that when we head up top we can mow through the underlings in fine style.”
His gaze moved over to Lord Kenzelstun. “Your Honor, I believe you will find it personally fascinating to know that the mercenary captain you requisitioned from his vampiric state had some relevant information to relay once he was returned to life. I would consider it a personal favor if you would be so kind as to dispose of the central and secondary repositories of the coffins of the vampires of the occupying force…”
The older Karrn smiled with a kind of cheerful fierceness and deep satisfaction in his dark eyes. “My dear Colonel, I would be most honored to accept such a thankless task from you. Allow me a few hours to prepare, and I will insure my lazy self is properly dispensed to do the job with minimal time and effort.”
================
Four balls of solid fire detonated in the gut of the creature as the path of winds created by Liiss cleared the mist of obstructions and allowed the Little Mouse an uninhibited view of the towering brood-fiend. The thing tottered for a second, and then the explosion blew outwards, with most of the creature’s innards on fire and going with it, and banefire and anathemic flame reached up happily to mix with the magical inferno as the many separate parts of the creature came tumbling to the ground.
“I have SO got to get me one of those,” Liiss told the artificer, who just smiled politely. Working the wind like a water hose, Liiss was quickly driving the stinking mist off and hastening the dispersal of the clingy stuff, allowing the secondary teams in to aid in the house-to-house search for civilians and the clearing of random teams of undead.
The radiant solar swooped over, and paused, glorious wings outspread, a street over. Shafts of light began to streak down from his bow, and a couple spells raged upwards harmlessly to dispute the fact that yes, he was going to kill every undead thing out there. The fusillade actually intensified enough that the solar dropped down, an expression of divine wrath on his face. The Word he pronounced was enough to shake one’s very soul even at the limit of hearing, and the effect on whatever he was fighting had to be catastrophic. About thirty seconds later, he flashed back up into the air, ignoring gravity serenely, and began to circle more widely, looking for more foes to vanquish.
Both women watched him go, caught one another doing so, and giggled together despite themselves.
There was a boom and a roar from a different part of the town, and they looked around to see a vengeful column of blue-white fire blossom at least a hundred paces into the air. Yes, Lord Kenzelstun was being his lazy self.
=================
“The dragoness has expended most of her prepared forces. We’ve gutted the minions she’s made, destroyed her Worm-Burps, reduced her personal stronghold to rubble, looted her treasures, wiped out her assault teams, and removed most of the civilian population from harm’s way. The only remaining danger is the spontaneous formation of more undead, especially the larger worms, which seem to enjoy random property destruction and bring the wrath of an Angel down upon themselves.”
“She is scared,” Kenzelstun judged with a soft voice, looking over the paper before him, the drawing and the details especially for him. “She did not think it possible that such force could be whelmed so rapidly against her, nor that we would root her out like the worm-lover she is. Fanatic or no, she must realize that she is in a desperate situation.”
“She controls the Dark Angels via an artifact forged in Mabar ages ago, giving whoever drinks from it control of an order of mortal-hunting erinyes. These are now stationed in the Spire itself, and await us there…she has assembled the entire order to deny us entry.” Hazé closed the book taken from the dragon’s coffin-chamber by Trencher. “It is likely that she has called for any allies among the Fernians she can, for there were several Diabolics bolstering the more mundane forces, woven into the statues about the guard posts. It is likely that any mass assault will trigger an equally massive counter-assault as she calls on all her forces to defeat us.”
Quiet, intense sets of eyes considered the hologram image of the spire, divided into subsections, and with details of the forces occupying each area of the hollowed out tower.
“Regardless, it seems we have managed to stay well ahead of her timeline for activity. We have breathing room, and she is now under siege.” The Colonel’s eyes narrowed sharply. “If she dares to call on allies from elsewhere, we must kill them or block their arrival, and rather sharply chisel down the numbers set against us. The Angel does an extraordinarily thorough job whittling down the random generation of undead and worms, while keeping hope alive to starve the bastard. So, our primary focus is now the assault on the Spire itself.
“We’ll start with the ground level, and the statues that seem to be keyed to call in Fernian aid. That should bring out their sally force, if nothing else. Trencher, the statues are made of stone, and there are eight of them. They need to be removed.”
“Easily done.” He didn’t bother to say how.
“For the rest of you, here’s how we’re going to play this…”
=============
Trencher smote the surface of the plaza at the ziggurat’s base with Forge.
He was invisible, of course, but not really trying to conceal himself. Pointless, really, as the crack in the worked stone lept across the stones to the first statue of the Wormhead, an inhuman carving wielding that rather idiotic and certainly unwieldy multi-function axe-mace-spike thing, spitting shards of stone as it went, and then tore up the statue with malicious intent. The statue glowed hellish red for just a second, and then blew apart in a spray of razor-sharp shards of once-enchanted rock.
Calmly, he stepped aside and repeated the process on the other statue, twin to the first.
Cries of alarm sounded from within the foul structure, and from up above came the unnatural bellow of the brood-fiends on guard against aerial assault.
The second statue blew apart in another loud display of geotechnics. From within the spire, the guards were mobilizing, and from above, the clumsy winged forms of the broodfiends were descending from far above.
Trencher ignored the motion moving towards him as he slid along dimensional lines and ended up on the next slope of the ziggurat, in the same position. He lifted Forge calmly, and brought it down. Stone split and splintered and ran in a zig-zag line of force towards the first of the next pair of statues, and sundered that one in twain as well.
The guards immediately fell back, and the descending broodfiends checked their progress towards the new source of the attack, altering their descent, but still not quickly enough to stop a second pair of statues from being blown into oblivion.
The ground-pounders were coming at a run, but that didn’t help as he whisked himself over to the opposite side of the structure. Wham, rumble, boom!, he thought, as another statue was blown into shards. The huge gas-belching monstrosities came swooping down from above, screeching their anger, wham, rumble, boom!, and he whisked himself away even as they vented intersecting cones of stinking acidic death to dispose of him.
Of course, there was only one side left, and both ground and air forces made for it at a breakneck pace, bursting out into the weird half-light filtering through the stained clouds above, the fiends diving to intercept him before he could complete his spell, sending out waves of magic to try and stop it.
Too late. Even as the nullifying magic lept out, Forge came down…and the otherwise invisible dwarf was whisked away.
Which left the clattering guard of worm-knights and vampire-fodder clustered at the entryway between the two statues, and the three fiends clustered about his exit point as they slammed to the ground, pulverizing inlaid stones beneath their massive feet.
The split in the ground was now two splits, and it tore through the stone with even greater force then before, the vibrating cracks blowing stones ten paces into the air. The force of the dual strike ripped across the rock like an unseen avalanche and smashed into the statues, raged up them vertically, and blew them apart in flaming ruin…and, not coincidentally, the ranks of Worm-Knights and shadow-clinging vampires too, who’d rather unwisely halted between the pair.
The three meteor swarms that descended down from the spellcasters waiting over a hundred meters away came down at the same time, too.
The combined flames of the assault swallowed the northern side of the entryway, and made the entire Spire shake with the force of the blast, sweeping into the internal area of the Spire to clean up the shredded remnants of the guards there. That anything could survive such an inferno would have been astounding, but the inhuman vitality of the massive brood-fiends was indeed sufficient to stave off destruction, smashed and tottering as their unnatural hides burned and smoked as they might be.
The orbs of fiery light streaking down out of the brazen rod in Ana’s hand calmly blew their upper chests to ash before they could properly recover, and the great unclean bulks fell flaming.
The warriors and archers moved in at a trot, Trencher and Liiss covering them as the main spellcasters swooped down behind.
The interior of the ziggurat was huge and spacious, an unholy cathedral to the Lord of Worms. The light that came filtering in through the ziggurats window slits was fouled and unclean, shadows mixing with light from dozens of bloody-hued crystalline lanterns that warred with the balefire-green light from hundreds of lit candles around the canopied shrine to the Wormhead raised in the center of the chamber.
Motion all around, dark wings spreading wide in the shadows between the fouled light, furtive movements in the darkness as the remaining guards from the other cardinal entry points filtered into the room by shadow and by foot.
Which, of course, is when the Angel swooped in.
He bore a crown of exalted light, blazing so brightly it was nearly impossible to look upon. Shadows burned away under the awful majesty of his combined presence and the magic that girt him, and screams of agony were torn from a score of throats and throatless things as the blessed illumination ate at the very foundation of what they were.
Walls of stone and force lept across the cardinal entry points, emerald panes of solid force slammed tight across the fouled windows. The light encompassed the whole of the chamber, tolerating no shadows, no refuge. Dark Angels and undead alike began to burn.
None of this, of course, deterred the attackers from further adding to the woes of the defenders. The solar’s arrows hissed out with unerring precision, bolts of pure sunlight given form, and the first of the Dark Angels went twisting from the air, blowing apart into motes of flaming dust before she could hit the ground.
Screaming their pain, the armored, darkly ornamented leaders of the erinyes took wing and made for him, barbed tendril-ropes coming alive in their hands, swords poised to slay, while the other Angels dove on the more vulnerable mortals below the awesome spectacle of a true Angel come in all its glory.
The entire chamber lit up with lightning…four virtual archweavers, centered on the solar, loosening a combined swarm of chain lightning that linked every erinyes in the chamber in an interwoven web of sanctified magic. Some managed to resist some of the combined power of the assault…some did not.
The Dark Angel commanders found themselves diving headfirst into a crystalline sphere of whirling blades, fracturing the holy light that was eating them away into a million razored shards of tearing brilliance. The tendrils leaping for the solar were sliced to ribbons, and the erinyes fared little better as they literally hurled themselves into the swarm of blades and were torn apart. For just an instant, bloody shadows impeded the brilliance radiating from above, and then were ripped asunder and burned free by the unstoppable light.
Colonel Ruin severed the skull of one smoking skeletal warrior as he mounted the steps to the altar, where a gleaming dome of invisible force was filling with smoke…smoke pouring off the flesh of the not-elf trying desperately to cover herself from the light pouring down from above.
Bloody red eyes filled with hate looked up sharply as the shadow of the Colonel touched the dome of entrapping force, for an instant shocked at how, despite the light playing all about, his face was dark, his armor dim, and only his eyes stood out on his scarred face.
“Yes, I am fully capable of using magic to get done what I wish,” he stated, his words easily passing the field to find her ears, although she could hear nothing else of the screams of dying erinyes. “And no, I have no need to kill you myself. Just die, and pass to the fate that was denied you long ago.”
Up above, the shell of whirling blades vanished, and the rest of the chamber was abruptly still. The solar floating above calmly moved over and hovered directly above the dome of force, and the dragoness screamed as the fires of the sun began to play across her skin.
She saw one of the mages floating there, and her last expression was a sneering smile as she met his eyes and mouthed, She’s waiting for you.
His eyes were clear and steady as he simply nodded back, and smiled softly. The frustration in her gaze was a pleasant thing indeed to see as, for a fleeting instant, the field of force seemed to be filled with the presence of a great silvery bulk…and then naught but dust exploded within and settled gently to the ground, leaving only a fine dress studded with garnets and a stoppered vial that was smoking under the holy radiance.
Lashonna, Silver Dragon, fallen champion of the Order of the Storm, Hand of the Wormhead, was finally at rest.
======================
“I want a chunk out of every one of these pods.” The Colonel’s voice brooked no arguments. “Every one of these things birthed one of those gas-belching monstrosities, and so every one of these things is a link to it we can use to track them down. We take the time to do it now because they may not survive the battle with the Wormhead above.” He suited action to word by slicing off a chunk with Thorn’s edge, the blade carving the malformed stone like butter. “Hazé, you are on collection duty. Move it, the spells on the weavers won’t last forever!” Hastily, the members of the party spread out, bringing out adamantine blades brought along for exactly this reason, and soon the clatter of chunks of tainted rock hitting the ground filled the air, before telekinetic hands snatched them away and sent them tumbling into a hole in midair for later usage.
It was only after they were done that they realized the Colonel was nowhere to be seen.
===============
“It would not be wise to be here when the solar arrives.”
Merish jumped, and spun, snarling her fear and surprise. Her blades were in hands, and her jaw was unhinged and gaping with sharp teeth, and as she looked at the cold gray eyes meeting hers, she realized that it didn’t impress him at all.
Instinctively she retreated for space, clutching for the shadows and distance, halted herself, unwilling to show fear in the face of a mere man…even this man.
“Why should you care?” she hissed, but her dark eyes flickered towards the stairs from below, and the merest hint of sacred light spilling off the ochre walls made her wince away.
“You wish to see what perfection looks like. The perfection your mother was only a dark shadow of, the perfection your father once served. You are the child of a creature that represents a twisting of lofty ideals, and a fallen, once-noble soul, and so you incarnate both of those.” Gray eyes narrowed, studied her. “Every instinct in my blood cries out to kill you where you stand. You are not a natural creature, and bringing you into existence was a crime against this world…a crime your mother no doubt approved of mightily.”
Merish hissed and tensed. If he could sneak up on her, she had no illusions about her ability to fight him, with his awful aura spilling about him and depriving her of her most potent natural talents.
“But, there is one thing your mother never wishes you to learn, and another that your father knows, however he might deny it.” He took a step forwards, looming up before her, swallowing her in his Aura, and despite her snarls, Merish cringed, waiting for the deathblow to come.
“Your mother knows that you possess the blood of mortals, and that blood allows you to become other then what you are born as. She does not decide your fate…you do.” His gray eyes bored into hers, a living and undeniable exemplar of that very fact. “Your father knows this…that the blood of a Dark Angel, was once, still is, and might yet be again, the blood of an Angel.”
And he reached forwards with his one good hand, grasped the inhuman jaw with its sharp fangs, brought closer the twisted and malformed face, and calmly kissed her on her forehead.
For an instant, it was all gone. The rage, the passion, the pain, the self-loathing and the fear, the dark currents at the core of her soul, swept aside by the pure and concentrated touch of utter normality that swirled about this man like a fog of irrelevance. She could feel every hateful drive and impulse bound into her being as clearly as a blazing sign, feeding and feasting on the very evils they encouraged to drive her onto more.
“Do not let your blood rule you.” He released her as his head tilted towards the lights coming rapidly up the stair. “Go. Be an Angel.”
She pulled out of his grasp slowly, staring at him, unwilling to believe he’d let her live, knowing what she was and the things she’d done and might do. With almost physical shock, the dark elements of her nature re-asserted their hold on her, driving into her mind with hate, envy, malice as she pulled away from him.
A face scarred by pains she had never imagined, a voice like steel on slate, and gray eyes that seemed to plumb her soul burned into her memory, and fought those currents back as she ran from the wrath of the heavens.
If she were to see an Angel, she would make her own.
Caulver was the first one up the steps, sword out and blazing, and still he jumped as the Colonel detached himself from the wall.
“This place is unguarded. Move up.”
He knew very well that hadn’t been the case with the original scouting, and wisely said nothing as the rest of the team came up after him in his wake.
=====================
“Awakened in response to the slaughter of those in the city proper? Convenient,” Marcus said dryly, looking across the flaming remnants of six of the brood-fiends, burning messily away. It was fortunate that the stairs weren’t large enough for more then one to engage them at a time, and so it had been possible to whittle them down with the front line of himself and Caulver holding the multi-ton bulk at bay as the spellcasters and archers tore the half-dozen creatures apart in succession.
“Well, I did report the pods here were intact…not that the gas all about wasn’t enough warning,” Hazé replied merrily, but then her face grew pensive. “That leaves only one last set of guardians.”
Kenzelstun cleared his throat. “Colonel, if you would be so kind, it is time to return that favor I did for you.” Cool gray eyes turned to regard the archwizard.
Positive energy blossomed at point blank range, overlapping Invocations of the Burbur tore at the essence of the undead knights. There was no call for challenges, no exchange of words.
Half the knights died instantly, ripped apart and reduced to less then dust by the wash of golden energy. None of the party advanced on the survivors, save one.
The Colonel had little time for the damaged knights who made for him – Thorn hissed and cut a path of green and white anathema as he glided back and forth to avoid their somehow clumsy strikes.
The last of the knights, cloaked in a dark mantle of her god’s favor, looked on him in surprise, and then lifted past him as skeletal hands clutched one of those silly combination axe-maces in both hands.
“Too scared to take me alone, dear brother?” rasped the hollow, twisted voice, taunting, daring. One hand lifted to beckon him forwards, ignoring the approaching specter of the warrior who’d just cut down four of her knights with as many blows.
“My sister died long ago, creature,” the archwizard replied serenly, floating aloofly in midair, daring to meet her gaze squarely. “You are not she. You are merely the prison for her soul, a twisted and tainted thing, and it is time she was released and given to the glory that awaits her. You will nicely do for making that happen. Or hadn’t you heard…it is the Age of the Burbur?”
Confusion and rage warred for a second as the Champion of Kyuss wondered why his eyes, all their eyes, did not transform to worms in honor of the power of her lord and master. Then her dark eyes fell on the faceless helm of the warrior who had almost reached her, the blade streaming fires feeding on the unnatural energies about, and she realized why.
No insight, no blessings of her god as she stared at him. She could not plumb this one and read his motions and movements, and he was almost upon her…
She tried to pass him with speed, but he moved far too quickly. His Forsaken Aura hit her with almost physical force, stripping away blessings and power, and left her a skeletal thing wrapped in armor.
She was still strong, unnaturally so, but now she felt the weakness and rot at the core of what she was…the dark energies which lifted her to such heights of power withering in the face of the blanket of naught that accompanied this warrior, and something, something within her screamed for release in shuddering realization.
Still, she fought. Her mind was a twisted and slaved thing, and there was real power and fury behind her blows. But the skill that empowered her, the unholy might of her master, faltered, failed, and ran empty.
She realized instantly she fought a master swordsman, one who knew how to use the unwieldiness of her own weapon against her, and who was not the slightest bit afraid of her. Her unnatural strength didn’t deter him in the slightest, nor the lashing worms leaping from her eyes and trying to find an opening in his armor.
Her first few blows didn’t even touch him, and fires began to rage up her arms and ribs as he expertly played on her overconfident offense to not take a single solid hit. Her attempt to break his blade nearly cost her both hands as his shield came down to nearly break both wrists, and her weapon rang impotently off whatever the runeblade was made of.
She landed a couple blows…glancing hits as he twisted aside, letting his shield and mass take most of the force, exploiting the openings thus given to send more flames burning across her torso, girth, legs with uncanny speed and mastery. His blade was the blur that her weapon should have been, would have been had the might of her lord been with her.
But it was not, and this horrible, mundane man, was here instead.
The opening she’d thought she had, to simply stave in his chest from the side, overpowering him with her vastly greater strength, became her final blow. It crashed into the skintight plate he wore, and instead of fighting the impact he simply moved with it, letting it force him sideways even as his blade came in over her strike and drove deeply into her own breastplate, punching into and through it to spit her withered heart cleanly.
His motion didn’t stop as she convulsed at the fires raging all over her now, flaming at the core of her essence, spinning wider to pull his sword free, still moving, shield lifting as the worms in her eyes lashed at him and were batted away by the shield rising to interfere, and he came around and in and down with his blade, driving it deep into her right eye with his full mass as his leg came behind a burning knee, flipping her over and back as his blade drove down and through her helm to nail her to the ground.
She screamed, but it was done. Fires burned away at the mockeries and the darkness thrown over the soul that powered her, light and clarity blazed free for the first time in far, far too long, and Hanalee, sister of Lord Kenzelstun, was free.
The entire chamber went white as the essence of the Wormhead’s champion was set free, and the power imbued in her consumed and destroyed in an instant. Gentle fingers brushed the souls of all present, the shadow of a kiss on the cheek for the watching Lord, and when their eyes cleared, the dais upon which she stood held only stone blasted starkest white, and shining mail stripped of the signs of the Worm.
The Colonel didn’t get anywhere near as misty-eyed as the rest of the crew. He just pointed at the armor as he turned towards the balcony, and Hazé’s telekinetic fingers moved quickly to gather it up. “We fly the rest of the way. I think it’s time a would-be god met his end.”
==============
The sky rumbled and grew dark, lightning flashed, winds howled, dark spirits moaned in the air, the clouds began to spin and extend a long and wormlike tendril down towards the obelisk which had been hopping all over the place since it’s creation.
“Get on with it already,” muttered the Colonel. It was another one of Hazé’s bad serial novels come to life again.
Flash of necromantic energy. Check, death wards in place on all his people, and he waited impatiently for the fireworks to get done with.
Here we are, the side of the obelisk was opening…more like it was parting. Ah, yes, this non-dimensional prison space where the bastard had been quietly contemplating his navel and fate to rule the world, no doubt.
A torrent of worms spilled out, reaching and forming a solid substance…oh, like he hadn’t seen THAT trick before. A second one, and this one was actually clutching a super-sized version of that damnable axe-mace thing…
“Trencher! Mages! Go!” he ordered, rather breaking up the moment as Thorn writhed at his waist, and he moved in.
A hole in space whirled out and plopped down directly in front of that gap as a cowled head jutted forth, dripping yet more worms. The Wormgod looked down, and absolute nihility looked back.
Trencher had been practicing. The looped talisman was in his hand and he was concentrating mightily, perfectly aware the pseudo-god could contest his control over the black ball of annihilation that now rolled along dimensions and up and right into the haft of that oversized Jotun’s Army Knife.
He would have liked to be able to see the expression as the weapon was sucked DOWN, into the Sphere. The godling barely let go before his worm-hand went with it.
The scream…or was it a moan? Hard to tell. Whatever, it shook in his skull with the outrage of the godling just as a full salvo of silvery lights slammed into Wurmkopf…force attacks, erupting into his chest, tearing great big messy holes in the, ah, worm-eaten cloak and armor remnants the Wormhead still seemed to be wearing…
You know, maybe there was artistic justification for representing deities so big. He rather doubted the sonuva***** had been that tall in life…
The god took the hits and moaned, but kept coming. The archers were pouring in glowing arrows as fast as they could draw them, Estemar and the Angel seemingly engaged in a competition to see who could shove the most shafts up his cowl.
Upper body free, and the black sphere made a move on his face. A worm-hand lashed out and actually batted the damn thing away – how do you bat away a hole in space? – and the air quivered and warped around it as it was bounced back and away. Trencher went down on one knee from feedback, spitting blood, came right back up with a nasty look in his eye and the talisman smoking in his hand.
There was a foot. Good.
The godling lurched as another full bore fusillade of silver spheres drove into it with unerring precision, virtually tearing open a hole in his chest. He did look down as the Colonel came trotting up, a forearm long rod in his hand, and drove it down through the robe and the pseudo-foot there, feeling the squishy yielding of the worms and the crack of the rock giving way, before letting go and hopping backwards as he retrieved the second thing tied at the back of his belt.
There was a very sharp and precise flash of light, and the Wormhead’s hateful and surprised shriek accompanied the re-ignition of the axiomatic power of the parts of the Sevenfold Staff that had now nailed his foot to the ground.
With a casual overhand toss, he flung the second object into the big cavity of worms trying to regrow in the center of the Wormgod’s chest.
Yes, that was a highly acidic environment, and ate through the lead covering in mere seconds.
He wasn’t sure of exactly what kind of power the Hand vented, just that the very air warbled and the Wormhead convulsed even as it wrenched its second foot free and stood clear of its prison. Something horribly dead made itself known then, clearly disapproving of exactly what was going on here, and there was an unflash of something in the writhing ribcage of the Wormhead saying goodbye, kiss-kiss, don’t call on me again.
The Wormhead wasn’t doing too well. It’s head was definitely on banefire and holy golden flames were having a cheery old time thereabouts, and the big old hole in its chest wasn’t getting any smaller.
And there he was, right in front of it, as he finally drew out Thorn.
The big ball of nothing came in again, was again batted away, although this time the Wormhead screamed its uluating outrage and pain, um, okay, it just screamed again. The fusillade of force effects drove in again, and the Wormhead actually staggered under the assault, falling to one knee as virtually its entire torso was ripped away by the pummeling force of the bursts.
Hey now, that put its head conveniently low.
One hand rippled across, a great and ancient arcane Word hung in the air, twisting and turning the very flow of time to the whim of the Wormgod.
Or, maybe not.
A dozen and more arrowheads in lieu of a face turned towards him as it realized why he was just standing there. Two more joined the assortment, and now he jumped over the lashing arm as the Wormhead made some sort of ancient curse and threw its whole self at him, attempting to engulf him. That didn’t get it anywhere, but he was waiting, and without any hesitation brought Thorn around to cut the unseen worm-face in two.
He felt the impact through the blade…it was like cutting water that was harder then steel, worms bound together by an unholy divine force in a grip stronger then mere flesh and bone.
Said grip also having the problem of having a few flaming holes punched in it. Thorn’s runes were absolutely ablaze as he took his one swing and cut the Wormhead’s head in twain, and then the final volley of silver spheres came zeroing in as he rolled over the swipe of the second arm and felt worms trying to get past his armor (punch, punch, punch, went the spikes, scissoring them apart) and he got his Aura out of range.
Knowing divine senses, he was pretty sure the Wormhead saw them coming.
They blew apart his head, shoulders, shredded the massive robe instantly, and otherwise removed any remnants of thinking it was going to win in one brilliant salvo of erupting forcewaves…and then the anathemic fires took hold.
Yes, yes, final scream of denial, coming from somewhere down where it’s groin used to be, doubtless. The Wormhead tried to reform, but the fires were raging at the worms, devouring it, and everyone was bailing off the roof as a final cavalcade of Invocations of the Burbur descended to inundate him with positive energy and provide a final capstone for him.
Dex lept out for Caulver’s hand, grasped tight as the whole crew lept free of the tower top, and the Wormhead blew skywards.
Cue the Archmage in Amber.
Swinging freely beneath Caulver, Marcus looked down in time to see the flash of light as Vorsteihek entered normal space at the base of the ziggurat far below, and simply lifted his hands towards the sky. Cracks of light began to shine around the base of the pyramid, no doubt drawn by antipathy and the very sudden and big hole in any resistance.
The Silver Flame blew out of the cracks in the stones below, and like a river of silver, flowed skywards. Which was good, because the ugly unclouds above were collapsing downwards into the obelisk, and said thing seemed to be unraveling.
Into more green worms. By the Host, he was sick of green worms.
The worms began to devour their way down the Spire…oh right, imbued with divine energy, unharmable by mortal hands, that sort of thing. Which, of course, brought them directly into the path of the Silver Flames reaching up for them.
The Silver Flame blew past and over them, a hurricane of holy power, fed on them, collapsed inwards, and began to drive downwards and feast on the unraveling divine vortex as well. The descending mist got sucked into the whirlwind inferno of silver raging there haplessly, clearing the skies up remarkably quickly, and the Silver Flame drove downwards in a remarkably aesthetically pleasing spectacle of liquid light and fury.
It was actually devouring the Spire faster then they were descending – so much for the enduring work of the Gods – and when it hit the top of the ziggurat it continued right on down through, collapsing the structure around it as light and fire flashed within, turning stone to slag and punching down and into the earth…deep, deep within the earth.
=====================
Vorsteihek was conspicuously absent. He had, of course, been wearing a mask…and purple robes, let the Dragons try and figure that one out! With scrywards up, a bit of judicious loss of weight and height, and they’d probably think he was some Aerenal Elflord or something, since obviously his full attention would have been on maintaing the dimensional lockdown.
They set down on the steaming rocks of the ziggurat, burned to a pure white from their basalt and granite roots, flowing in a circular pattern as if draining into the ten meter hole drilled down into the stone of the city. Said rock was steaming, yet cool to the touch.
There was a thunderous BOOM overhead, and Marcus fought the urge to whistle and roll his eyes knowingly at the shining glory of the solar far, far above them. He did glance at Trencher, who just managed to look back in time, and raise the loop and orb device still clenched in his charred fist fractionally.
Why, yes, there was no black dot sitting up in the sky where they’d left it, fancy that. A moment later, there was a final burst of celestial brilliance, streams of rainbow light and sun’s glory racing out and over the city in a very unnecessary yet totally appropriate show of celebration, and then the Angel was gone as well.
For an Angel, he’d been fairly reasonable, the Colonel mused.
Marcus leaned over the edge of the big circle, looking down at a white dot of light…well, silver, a little too harsh to be anything but…burning, or was it glimmering?, down below.
“A temple to the Silver Burbur should be erected prominently on this spot,” Hazé spoke up cheerfully, also peering over the edge, albeit far less cautiously. She, after all, could fly.
Even Zynshulya, in her guise as a flame-haired Khorovari minstrel, was looking over the edge in great interest. “Ohhhh, architecture. May I design it?” she asked, and Marcus might have laughed if she weren’t utterly serious.
“Just stay away from the damn Thranish Flame design. The Host knows I’m sick of it and their preening.” Estemar sighed aloud.
“If the Silver Flame gets any credit for the fight, I’m going to personally hunt down and strangle every minstrel or bard who talks about it. There wasn’t a single priest of the Flame involved in this entire misbegotten tale.” The Colonel glanced at Estemar. “I rather think a temple to the Silver Waters, with the Host being a nice prominent uniting influence, would be more appropriate, and would certainly tweak the noses of the Cardinals in Flamekeep, wouldn’t it?” If anything, that stirred the interest of the lillend even more…mischief in the making. Estemar smiled his approval as well.
The disciplined marching of boots made him turn his head, as a pair of Wolf squads trotted over the stones from the plaza…where a fairly substantial number of people were beginning to gather.
“Sir, there was a bit of problem while you were occupied in the Spire.” The sergeant, Dromos, was an old and hard-bitten hand particularly good at the art of not reacting to the weirdest of orders.
“Yes, Sergeant?” he asked, as everyone else looked on…including a motley and very curious assortment of townsfolk, who yet didn’t want to get too close to the big hole in the ground, and looked very uncomfortable on the warped white stone...rather awed, too.
“It seems that hobgoblin captain you recruited used the opportunity while you were in the tower to assault the temple to the Mockery. He seems to have butchered most of the templars and clergy, looted the place, and fled to the south.” The sergeant pointed at thick plumes of smoke burning not very far away.
“That is a tragedy, Sergeant. Convey my deepest condolences to whatever fine, upstanding citizen is picked as high priest of the day, and assure them that the townsfolk that they so helpfully sheltered, fought for, and defended valiantly will be sure to repay their efforts in the rebuilding process.” His face was, of course, a study in grim innocence.
There was a moment of hesitation from the crowd, and then people began to laugh…hobgoblin guards, human pirates, commoners and craftsmen, sailors and laborers alike. The scarred men in robes among them didn’t look all that happy at the reply.
“Long live the saviors of Ashkalan! Glory to the Vanquishers of the Worm!” Looked like an innkeeper who bellowed that out, and then the cheers went up, and one word began to spread…a lyric the Wolves and a certain lady minstrel had made popular.
“Bur-BUR! Bur-BUR! Bur-BUR!” began the chant, and Zynshulya preened despite herself.
==============
Unfortunately, the giddy praise of fame and celebration gave way to reality and politics all too quickly, as the noise of horses and armor heralded the arrival of the Prince and his personal guard. The members of the party spread out as the celebratory mood of the crowd dampened as they scattered from his path.
“Didn’t take him long, now, did it?” Trencher mused loudly, one hand on Forge while Hazé’s glowing fingers attended to the other. “Is it me or is he actually riding a hellsteed?”
Whatever the Prince had been about to say died as the Colonel stepped forwards then, and Thorn hissed out. Everyone went suddenly quiet as all attention, instead of being on the spectacle the Prince was attempting to create, instead collapsed on the scarred man in plain armor…with the sign of the White Wolf on his shield.
“I have just spent a solid WEEK engaged in fighting nightmares made out of worms, crawling undead, tormented spirits, necromancers, your own Dark Angels, vampires, a traitorous Dragon you clasped to your bosom and finally a thrice-damned would be GOD you couldn’t keep out of your own city, and indeed, by the policies and servants you chose to create, encouraged to come here!” His eyes raked over the attending priestlings and soldiers, who cowered back from that sight…and the runes pulsing on that black blade. “And now YOU, a servant of the evils that drew all this here, come prancing before me on the back of a steed born in the Hells?”
The wrath on his face was like thunder waiting to fall…the horse itself shied backwards as he raised his false hand.
“Hazé! Horse!”
The next second the horse literally blew apart in silver and radiant fire, hurling the Prince off its back before it could even scream. An expert horsemen, the man rolled and was on his feet, his sword coming out and shield to bear as his soldiers cowered back.
“Lord Kenzelstun! Let the Waters judge him!”
Grimly, the old advisor to kings and legendary explorer stepped forwards and made a fist. The Prince of Redhand gasped as his arms were flattened to his sides, and with a casual wave of his arm, the Karrnathi noble sent him winging out over the center of the pit, there to look down upon his fate.
He didn’t have to look long.
The Silver Flame did indeed look like Silver Waters, coming up rumbling as a liquid fountain of fire, tearing the oddly silent Prince out of the grasp of the Lord’s magic, before the eyes of all and sundry, buoying him for a moment on a rolling torrent of sacred glory, and then collapsing back down the shaft with a rolling roar of flame and tides.
If the crowd looked shocked, his team looked even moreso. How in the Host had he done that?
All the good serials must have a suitably dramatic ending, he thought with satisfaction, turning back to face the crowd…and the Prince’s horrified guards and servants.
“If you call yourself a servant of the Mockery, I suggest you leave this place rather urgently, for it was your kind who allowed the Wormhead to take root here, and I rather don’t think you’ll find much welcome hereafter.” There was a quick swelling of angry curses from the crowd, and the pet priests, especially, shrank back from him.
“There are other, more urgent things to be doing then mere celebrating...or butchering fools.” This he directed at the crowd who quieted down abruptly. “There are collapsed buildings with people in them, homes to be rebuilt, restored, or abandoned and torn down. The dead must be laid to rest with flame and honor, that something like this never take root in this place again.
“It is time to rebuild this city into the place it needs to be, and not merely a place subject to the whims of an insane Prince and his pet swords. Let the fools go and decide what they consider greater…faith in a force that offered them up for damnation, or the city in which they dwell.” There was a muttering from the crowd, but none of the soldiers ran away, even as the clergy hastily pressed through them in undignified retreat.
One of the officers, a Captain’s badge on him, stepped forwards hesitantly as he removed his helm. “Sir…what would you have us do?” he offered as crisply as he could under the circumstances.
“Work, soldier!” he shot back, and the man’s spine straightened with sudden metal at the tone. The whole troop suddenly came to attention as his eyes raked them. “Caulver! Get these lazy bastards organized into crews and get me a full status report on the city, and I want it yesterday! Estemar, find out what’s left of the Guard and get them organized to stop the looting! Trencher, get organizing the work details! I need volunteers – you, you, you and you!” he pointed to members of the crowd, older men and women he could see were being unconsciously deferred to, “ – are helping the Mror!” Thorn slid away and was forgotten as he began to ply his true talent. “Hazé, centralize the hospice and get it working…start it right here! And make sure nobody falls into that hole! Lord Kenzelstun needs to go over the books and accounts of the Prince, I want an escort – Dromos, you’re on paperwork detail with your squad! Ana, get ahold of the city blueprints and start making a plan to straighten this damn meandering place out...”
============
“Food won’t be a problem.” Marcus sat back from the desk in his field tent. “I had contracts signed and ready almost three weeks ago, once I figured that the ziggurat would undoubtedly be used for some purpose relevant to the coming of the Age. I’m sure the Aundaireans are going to wonder what I’m doing with so many supplies, but I understand the former Prince’s vaults are fairly deep, and there’s a lot of unclaimed cargo waiting to be sold off due to sudden deaths of entire families.” His grim expression didn’t change over his making practical use of dire circumstances.
Lord Kenzelstun sighed. “You have this city in the palm of your hand. The Princedom is yours, for all intents and purposes…the nobles are terrified of you, the people love you for the moment, and you’ve got enough power backing you and yours that the covetous eyes of the other Princes won’t dare make a move against you. Are you certain you don’t want to claim it?”
“You have been an advisor to kings, Lord Kenzelstun. You are an explorer, a man of the land and seas, a great mage, wise, experienced, and you have been through a special kind of hell that tempers even the most foolish soul. This is a city built on temptation and fear. Military discipline only goes so far, but you, you have seen the very heart of the reason why you do not give in to those vices and ways. So, too, have the people of this place…but they need to find a way.
“You learned your hard, bitter lesson. It is time to teach them how to make use of theirs.” He lifted his glass in a toast to the older man. “Or don’t tell me, you want to go gallivanting about the world again?”
The newly ordained Prince sighed and considered the golden ale in his cup. “Well, I had hoped…” he sighed wistfully, and then chuckled to himself. “I am a fool,” he agreed, and lifted his cup in reply.
Marcus reached over and extracted one neatly written report from a pile…so precise, it might have been done by machine, handed it over to the man who would be ruling the city, although the people didn’t know it yet. The archmage took it curiously, and scanned it quickly.
“Two hundred and fourteen?” he gasped, despite himself. So many of the damnable pods…
“And even the most preliminary of scrying reveals they are all around the world. So, in case you get bored…”
Prince Kenzelstun laughed and raised his glass once again. “To the Age of the Burbur!” The Colonel lifted his glass in response, and they drank together in unison.
==============
Marcus disembarked from the Stormwolf onto the packed soil in the center of the Fort Lewt landing circle with relief. The Wolves trotted off in squad formations behind him, obviously also relieved to be home, although they maintained tight noise discipline until out of earshot of their commander.
The General’s stars didn’t sit well on his collar, but Kenzelstun had been adamant. While he’d quickly found a noble worth appointing as overall commander of his military, even that noble had agreed that having the legendary Marcus Ruin on call would be an immense deterrent to any attackers, and would also cement tighter ties between Ashkalan and Fort Lewt…and better trade ties couldn’t be a bad thing.
Estemar had elected to stay on with the new temple as it was being built…probably as much due to the wiles of a certain lillend as anything else, although he knew the Silver Waters philosophy backwards and forwards and would make a fine head priest. That there was no end of converts willing to hear the new message was doubtless going to sit in Flamekeep’s craw like a hole in the head.
The death of the Wormhead had been felt across the world, as suddenly much of the empowering force of the undead hordes had been sapped from them, their commanders stricken with fear and confusion, and the most powerful monstrosities paralyzed and weakened. Remnants of his might and influence would still exist in dark places…such effects as had accompanied his rise had to be the work of greater powers then one mere godling attempting to rise because of them…but the centralized might and power that had guided them were no more.
The daelkyr in their prisons below, or the Lords of Dust, would doubtless soon suborn them and use them in their own ways.
Two hundred and twelve to go, he mused, looking back as his wife and Hazé came strolling down the ramp, deep in conversation. His Little Mouse’s arm snaked through his, and he didn’t fight much as a trio of smaller figures came racing around the end of the barracks and made a beeline for them.
Few people ever saw Marcus Ruin smile, but as his children came whooping for him, he allowed himself the small pleasure.
He wasn’t a Prince because he had his own people to take care of, and a realm of his own he was building. The Valenar were reeling, the nearest reaches of the Mournland had been almost stripped of danger by the march of the Worm, and his reputation had reached levels that might even give a death-hungry Valenar second thoughts.
There’d be time to rebuild and retrench.
He just hoped some idiot didn’t start up the Last War again in the meantime.
Finis
==Aelryinth
And there you have it.
The original stories, with Bold, Italics, underscores,and most importantly, feedback and commentary, are at the above link on the WoTC boards.
If you like them, please post and say so! If you don't like them, please post and tell me why!
Thanks! Hope you who stuck them out enjoyed them!
==+Aelryinth