Iuz got a bad feeling about this….
Since I had little memory of my first evening in this place, the second provided an opportunity to learn what I could of the village of Threetrees and its news. As usual Viggo was little help in this, distracted as he was by a comely barmaid by the name of Nenia. As Aunt Petunia used to say, “you can take the barbarian out of the Barrens, but that’s about it.”
It didn’t take long to discover that the locals were more on edge than a basket full of knives, whether because of the ever-present threat of Iuz, fears of war, rumours of rampaging raiders, dark forebodings in a local tower, missing sheep, or missing children. It was all very much like a scene out of Edgar Stoat and the Inn on the Eve of Great Evil, but without the itinerant dentist.
The news that two children from the village were missing was enough to finally distract Viggo from his barmaid hunt, for the barbarian always had a tender streak for little folks (halflings included). We were in the process of asking the distraught parents for more details when the local sheriff and mayor burst in. Apparently an outlying farm was under attack by a raiding party of some sort!
Being all hero-y and things, my more-martially-minded companions immediately volunteered to lead a party to the rescue faster than you can say “pack of rampaging orcs.” A half-dozen or so of the locals volunteered to join us, and we all set off to the north.
A
bout a quarter-hour later, we arrived to find a farmhouse in flames, dead livestock (and dead farmers) littering the field, and a group of orcs looting and eating what they could find (including, it might be added, the dead farmers). There were also two terrified children perched atop the roof of the burning building, screaming for help as they were taunted by the attackers below. Clearly we had to act quickly, lest children be added to the menu!
Our contingent of villagers, armed with little more than pitchforks and clubs, looked like they would be about as useful as a nun’s handbag in a fight. We therefore decided on a plan that would hopefully keep them out of harm’s way, while allowing us to conduct a rescue. I would sneak into a position nearer the farmhouse, using a nearby hay cart for cover. The rest of the group would hide in vegetation a little farther away. The villagers would make noise, then feign flight—hopefully luring many of the orcs away. My companions would then attack the remainder, while I dealt with the few near the farmhouse and rescued the children.
It all went to plan—sort of. The villagers did their distraction thing, then ran off like rabbits—luring a half-dozen or so of the raiding party away. I snuck into position, as quiet as a weasel in the wheat. Darion…
..stepped on a branch. CRACK!
Anyone who thinks elves are naturally light-footed has never spent much time with them. They’re like dwarves, only in slippers and with better manners.
The orcs looked towards his direction, and set off at him with a roar. Well, more guttural than a roar. Like a bellow, but more orc-y than that.
The fight was on!
Remembering half-remembered spells from bard college, I managed to sleep one of those still near the children. However it soon became apparent that these were tougher orcs than we expected—just when they seemed about to die they became enraged, and it took another blow or two to fell them. My friends were finding it a very hard fight—especially Viggo, whose innate desire to show off his brawny muscles to barmaids meant that he was chronically lightly armoured, and Dorion, whose need to cast spells meant that he was about as well protected as a parchment pelican. The foe had a shaman with them too, who uttered some dark words and sent Darion scampering for the hills in a panic.
Given how poorly the fight was going, I abandoned my original effort to immediately rescue the children, and instead stepped out from the shadows cast by the blaze to stab one of the brutes in the back as he ran past.
…or try to stab the brute in the back. My blade missed its mark. Moreover, in yet more evidence that rampaging orcs are entirely unreasonable creatures, he hacked at me with his falchion, cutting my arm deeply.
Antonio did his best to heal us, all the time beseeching his god to give him the strength and wisdom to understand the divine rules of healing. Despite my efforts to use my own healing skills on myself, I was knocked bleeding and unconscious by another orcish blow. I woke a few seconds later, thanks to our cleric’s efforts.
In the end, we slew most of the orcs, while the shaman and a few others ran off into the darkness. We then quickly rescued the children, and were about to head back to the village when we were presented with the sight of villagers running towards us—in terror. In our absence the village had apparently been attacked by a much larger force. We would find no safety for the children in that direction. In the distance, moreover, we could see and hear movement, screams, and bobbing torches. An invasion?
We fled from the farm in the direction of the river, but soon decided it was probably best not to travel at night when our foes could see much better than most of us. I found somewhere we could hide, camouflaged it as best I could, and we waited out the dark with Retick and Maisey, our two newly-acquired young charges.
As the sun rose our worst fears were confirmed. Scurrying masses could be seen near the river, whether orcs or refugees we knew not. A tall column of smoke rose in the distance in the direction of Threetrees. We continued on our way towards the river, hoping that we might find a boat and thereby either cross over to Furyondy (would it be any safer) or drift down the river (to where, we knew not).
We stumbled across what appeared to be a pile of bodies from an earlier battle, thrown in a heap either for disposal or for some more nefarious future purpose. Among them was the orc shaman we had encountered earlier. I “relocated” a few valuables and magical items among them that might come in useful in future.
Eventually, amid a mass of fleeing folks, we found a grim and battered cavalry patrol. As we had feared, great evil hordes had descended in the night upon the peaceable principality like so many bedbugs on a beagle. They had little useful aid or advice to give, but they did agree to take the children with them to Critwall.
At this point we seemed to have orcs, or the risk of orcs, on all sides of us. Traversing the river seemed too dangerous for now, so instead we decided to try to make our own way to the walled city of Critwall, albeit with a quick detour near enough to Threetrees to determine whether all was indeed lost there.
Unfortunately, all was. While Viggo, Darion, and Antonio kept watch I crept as close as I could, and found the place overrun with orcs. From the snatches of conversation I overheard, goblin bands and trolls were on the march too, as well as the odd dragon or to. It was indeed a full-scale invasion.
The village itself had been ransacked and much of it lay in smouldering ruins. The three great trees that had inspired its name had been turned into a macabre totem of the orcish victory, crudely carved with the symbol of Iuz and several none-too-clever threats to his enemies. Worse still, it had been adorned with the dead and dying bodies of many of the villagers—including, sadly, the barmaid we had met only a night before. The torture seemed to be overseen by a creature of such evil that it almost defied description—its face seemed decorated with stitches, or perhaps made of sewn skin itself. “Inquisitor Glotta” they seemed to called him. I made a mental note to avoid his inquisition.
Others of the villagers were being loaded into wagon-cages, for transport somewhere. As slaves? Food? Raw materials? I shuddered to think.
I hurried back to tell the rest what I had seen. There were far too many of them, and far too few of us, to rescue what few prisoners the orcs might still hold. As my wise old Dad used to say, the most bitter stew is one you can do nothing about.
And so we continued our journey south, travelling by day and sleeping by night. And on our very first night, in another taste of bitter stew, we would discover what had happened to those missing children we had heard tell of back at the inn.
It was I who first heard it–a shuffling, a snuffling, and what seemed to be the voice of a woman. “You shall eat soon, my sweeties,” she promised someone or something. “Yes, soon you shall feast, and more friends we will find..”
The noise grew closer… it was clearly coming our way. We had stopped on the edge of a marshy area, less out of choice than for lack of a good map and a knowledge of these parts. We could hardly flee in the dark, and the wet ground would soon give away any movement with mucky sounds of mud and swamp weed. We would have to fight, and to seize the initiative while we still possessed it.
I threw a enspelled light-pebble in the midst of the approaching unknowns. In its illumination we saw a woman, dressed in black. clutching a bejewelled skull. And children—hideous, undead, zombified children.
Confronted with this unexpected sight, it took me a moment for my brain to truly comprehend what I was seeing. A skull. With jewels!
I immediately slung a stone at the nearest of the undead, but the blunt object did no damage. Nor did Antonio’s crossbow. Only sharp blades would make an impression on this unfeeling flesh.
The witch (or priestess or headmistress) urged on her necrotic pupils, while casting upon herself various dark majicks that shielded her from our attentions.
The children were proving as ill-behaved as any I had ever met, repeatedly trying to gnaw large pieces from Darion. Viggo charged into them, hacking his way towards the priestess… only too lose all track of her in his mind (such as it is) when she cast yet another protective incantation. I dodged and stabbed and healed our warrior-mage as best I could. Antonio’s aura of inherent niceness sapped at the undead strength of the juvenile abominations.
Finally, the she-witch made a mistake, losing the befuddling beguilement that kept the bitter but brawny barbarian from battering her with his bloody broadsword. She collapsed, and from her corpse rose a puff of smoke, much like the much-less-scary witches in a carnival performance. The smokey sinews then reformed in demony-form, and with a haunting voice that reminded me of one particularly disagreeable teacher I had once known, she utter a series of quite serious threats to our well-being.
Antonio responded with a brief prayer to his god. (My friend was never one to proselytize, and I was still not quite sure which of the so-called gods was his.) Then the demon creature vanished.
I suddenly remembered something very important. A skull! With jewels for eyes! I quickly took what valuables could be found amid the corpse of our defeated foe.
We slept only fitfully the rest of that night. Several more days of journey lay ahead of us before we could reach Critwall—assuming, of course, it was not already in the hands of the dark hordes and evil minions of the Iuz.
A most peculiar dream
Suddenly, as we stepped out of the portal, we found before us a most unexpected sight. A dark and foreboding sights. Mysterious tomes, filled with strange righting. A lighthouse, or temple perhaps. A happy, if overly-friendly pony. Floating snoffleberry pies. Upside-down houses. A musician playing (badly and off-key) The Ambidextrous Sisters of Ahlissa in the distance.
By my curly toe-hairs, this was all this was rather different than I had expected! I turned in surprise to my companions…
…and woke up, on the floor of a tavern, with Viggo grinning down at me. “Did you have good dream, little Arnold?” he laughed. “You sleep like little bunny in winter burrow! Good thing Viggo not let wolf eat you, and spit out your tiny little bones and buttons! ”
I shook my head to clear it, and looked around at to find myself in a simple inn. There were several empty flasks of Laughing Skua rum on the wooden table, an empty plate of ginger-and-snoffleberry pie, and my recently purchased (and yet-to-be-read) copy of Edgar Stoat and the Recycled Rogue. All of it—the zombie apocalypse, the meeting with the King of a faraway (and apparently mythical) kingdom, the Orcish invasion, the Undercroft of Vecna—had all been a dream borne of too much pie, or rum, or both. Even this bit had been, despite its remarkable detail:
The Skua, captained by the grizzled but warm-hearted Finius Stormfroth, was typical of the merchants that ply the dangerous waters of Ellil, carrying wares across the Turest and Copper Seas. Some of the crew had been sailors all of their lives. Others—like Arnold—were variously seeking adventure or fleeing adventures-gone-wrong. The bond between them was strong, however (and to this date Arnold bears a small black tattoo of a skua upon his back as a sign of that brotherhood).
It was while serving aboard the Skua that he had first met Vigyori Estergom in a dingy bar in the port of Yasa, in western Demarackis. Arnold had disliked the place from the start: Empress Tavore ruled her Harael Empire with an iron-fist, as the bristling fortifications and many stern guards of the port indicated. The locals had a fearful, and suspicious, response to visitors. Informers, it seemed, were everywhere.
It was in this context that what started as a ordinary card game with a group of Haraelian sailors grew rather more confrontational after Arnold caught one of the group attempting (with the limited skill of a big folk) to secretly deal himself cards from the bottom of the deck. When Arnold commented on the fact, he had rapidly found himself confronted with a scimitar and several large clubs: it seems his fellow players had been attempting to play not the traditional sailor’s game of Jacks-in-the-Hole, but rather a rather unfriendly game of “fleece the halfling.” A melee quickly ensued.
The sight of the small halfling confronting a half dozen burly sailors quickly caught Viggo’s eye. At first it hadn’t been quite enough to move him from his large ale. Indeed, even when Arnold felled first one, then a second of his opponents with well-aimed bottles, Viggo had been only slightly distracted from his efforts to impress a wide-hipped barmaid with tales of caribou-wrestling during the Solstice Festival back in his native Festung.
That all changed, however, when the ranger was hit in the head by a chair thrown by the largest of the sailors—an angry-looking albino with a ragged scar across his bare, brawny chest. Truth be told, Arnold had quite deliberately leapt on Viggo’s table in the hopes of attracting furniture in his direction, with the precise aim of finding himself an ally. The Haraelian sailor had little chance to explain this, however, for Viggo’s very first blow knocked him out cold.
Over the next several minutes, the ranger from Kuz Valley and the halfling from the south Peithras fought back to back, until finally all six of the foe lay battered and bleeding at their feet. Viggo had wanted to take the battle on to the several dozen guards who, aroused by the commotion, were now rushing towards the tavern. Arnold convinced him otherwise, however, and the two slipped out the back way—carrying a half dozen more purses than they had entered with. Told of the event, Captain Stormfroth set sail immediately, abandoning a lucrative cargo of exotic oils that he had been bargaining to purchase. With speed, guile, and a great deal of luck the Skua slipped out of port, and made it to the safety of the open seas.
From this time on, the burly ranger and diminutive halfling became fast friends—to the point of Arnold renaming his ferret “Little Viggo” in honour of his rescuer at Yasa. The two served together as crew on the Skua for two more months, sailing across the Turest Sea to Tols and then on to Quirim. There, at (big) Viggo’s insistence, they left the ship at Tamarin, traveling on first to Issus (where the two met the redoubtable Grendel twins, Cynthia and Clarissa), and then west (where, several days later, they caught up to the sisters and reclaimed their missing gold).
Finally, Arnold and his ranger friend found themselves in Phirul. This, it turns out, had been Viggo’s intended destination: an inn called the Golden Gryphon, a woman called Aniia Toll, and Arnold’s first introduction to the Legion of Frontiersmen.
Equally, I had never rescued a group of survivors from the zombie plagued (imaginary) city of Phirul—although it all seems so real that I could almost remember their names:
Tavern Staff
Geoffrey Alderman (male human, 42, owner of the Golden Gryphon) Responsible for ration distribution.
Ravaatra Carter (female human, 22, barmaid)
Fhanys Arborshate (female half-elf, 35, barmaid)
Panros Gyrokopta (human male, 40, cook)
- Gwyndolyn Gyrokopta (daughter of Panros and Fhanys, 11)
- Alexander Gyrokopta (son of Panros and Fhanys, 9)
Martin Liggich (human male, 25, cook)
Fruster Stolove (human male 17, scullion)
Timmy Thrungal (human male, 14, server) Attacked by drakes. Survived.
Tavern Customers
The Abzurian (male dragonkin, 56, local fortune teller)
Aliss Chandar (female human, 30, Acolyte of Erathis) Some healing skill.
Samuel Sheepshank (male human, 20, clerk at the local general store)
Karpa Ter (human male, 50, rug merchant)
Edward the Boot (human male, 35, cobbler)
Harvey Bigammer (human male, 45, carpenter) Previously served in city militia.
William Sawsmith (human male, 25, carpenter)
Maxamillian Scribbler (human male, 32, clerk)
Daniel de Lion (human male, 65, florist)
Gertrude de Lion (human female 62, wife of Dan)
Edgar Brick (dwarf male, 45, mason) Previously served in city militia.
Melinda Lightstitch (human female, 56, seamstress)
Jennifer Thimble (human female, 22, seamstress)
Adolphus Mott (human male, 40, barber). Killed by drakes.
Octavia Flax (human female, 18, seamstress) Molested by ruffians.
Billy “Fungus” Neerdowell (human male, 28, ruffian) Thrown off roof by Thoradrin.
Samuel “the Stirge” Bloodcurdle (human male 24, ruffian) Thrown off roof by Thoradrin.
Others at the Golden Gryphon
Miranda Passerbye (human female, 32, housewife)
Glenys Strolls (half elf female, 40, housewife)
Jane Shoppa (human female, 30, housewife)
Dash Dartin (human male, 19, messenger)
Hewards General Store
Samantha Heward (human female, 30, owner of general store)
- Jason Heward (son of Samantha, 7)
Neither had I encountered a complex array of conspirators and others. These, it seemed, were all figments of a sleep-deprived, beer-and-pie-addled mind:
Beauchelain—unknown, a leader of the conspiracy. Likely located in Gloomwrought.
Gatineon Robbs—human prospector, rescued from the Undercroft.
Binwin Bronzehaft—inebriated Dwarven ranger, living in the Vale of Janech.
Caustrex—young grey dragon that attempted to take over Gribold Kobold clan. Not part of the conspiracy. Slain by us at Chenth.
Cony Rhalasse—human prospector, rescued from the Undercroft. Author of the journal discovered in the lair of the Gribold Kobold clan at Chenth.
Cyrroth Darkshield-dwarf, prospector leader, and conspirator. Traveled into the Shadowfell with the Sharshun through the portal.
Falan Dernath—prospector, rescued from the Undercroft.
Greepo—possible sibling of Treepo.
Grimbol Dune—orc chief, and a leader of the conspiracy.
Kalos Invictad—Chancellor of Tamarin. Sent us to locate the prospectors, whom he had in turn to search for platinum. No signs of platinum. Chancellor chose the party leader, Cyrroth Darkshield, who turned out to be part of the conspiracy. Also advised us to tell no one of our mission. Could have facilitated theft of Phirulian gold. The Chancellor himself may be a conspirator.
Korryk Cartamon—prospector, rescued from the Undercroft.
Kalad—Dwarven Paladin, rescued from the orc-infested Monastery of the Sundered Chain.
Kryla Thorgen—unknown. Located Kigsberg at the Fane (temple?) of Orcus. Placed weapons order with the Goblins at Bortho, financed with (stolen?) gold bars from Phirul and diamonds from Narog-Nazu.
Mauthereign—unknown senior conspirator. Knew of our efforts to rescue the prospectors. Possibly an alias of Chancellor Invictad?
Myrissa—shadar-kai witch, sister of Zaelis. Slain by us in the Nexus. One of the Sharshun.
Nalric—possibly a Dark One, and certainly a thief. Stole the Crown of Fate, for sale to the Sharshun. Located in Kalandurren, possibly two leagues from Rimmon’s Cairn.
Nefarus—orc leader, or shaman. Aware of efforts to rescue the prospectors. Also previous involved in an attack upon us-possibly the zombie armageddon itself.
Omin Dran—half-elf who recruited us to help defend Rolus keep. No reason to connect him to the conspiracy—except that he recruited us, and knew of our travel plans. However, Skalrag has worked with him for some time, and vouches for his trustworthiness.
Paelen Browning—human prospector, rescued from the Undercroft.
Rac Founders—human prospector, killed by the dragon Caustrex at Chenth.
Sharshun—secretive cult of Shadar-kai who worship Vecna
Snazzgazz—”lord” of the goblin foundary at Chenth. Slain by us.
Sverizug—Dark One, and trusted assistant to Nalric. First encountered in Phirul during Zombie Armageddon. Slain by Arnold in the Undercroft.
Thulurth Grimfoot— human prospector, murdered in the Undercroft by the Sharshun.
Torg—orc chief. Slain by us in the Undercroft.
Treepo—kobold alchemist from Phirul. I don’t believe him to be involved in the plot. However, he has vanished while searching for his long-lost father upon a clue provided by Zoraster. Possibly headed to Gahnek in Serrale. This may explain the spices found in the Kobold lair.
Tusk—orog chief. Slain in the Nexus.
Urzas Jian—Barghest (“sun orc”) ganoes (warlord) of Narog-Nazu. Part of the conspiracy, but reluctant to embark on full-scale war with Tamarin. The prospectors’ mission may have been an effort to goad him into fully committing to the plot.
Wursop—Kobold servant (“pact adept”) of Caustrex. Slain by us in Chenth.
Zaelis—shadar-kai witch, sister of Myrissa. Slain by us in the Undercroft. One of the Sharshun.
Zleepo—possible sibling of Treepo.
No, none of that had happened at all.
Instead, I now remembered, my companions and I were in the small village of Threetrees, north of Critwall near the Ritensa River. From appearances, it was a simple farming community, known locally for its ivory-white goats. The inhabitants, however, all seemed a little on edge—about what, we did not know.
We had little inkling of the perils that awaited us…
The Great Narrator continues the story…
The Company of the White Goat was forged through the trials of the great zombie plague of Phirul. Also known as the Night of Souls. After escaping the city, the company was sent north to halt an orc invasion and locate a missing group of miners.
Plenty of Plots to Go Around
Our battle had been a desperate one, although we had won in the end. By the valor of Skalrag (how often does one say that?), most of the prospectors had been rescued. However, as we sat a few minutes to gain our breath, my head hurt something terrible—and not just from the heavy axe blow it had taken from one of the orcs now dead on the temple floor. It hurt because this, like every other victory we had won since the Omen of the Goats, only made the whole evil-plot-threatening-to-destroy-all-good-things seem that much more complicated. It all felt rather like trying to unravel a basket of Kalonian water-eels.
Adding to both our information and the complexity of it all were a series of communications that we found on the bodies of our foes. The first was a letter from Nalric to Svernizug, the latter being the treacherous Dark One that we had first encountered in Treepo’s shop in Phirul and which I had now just slain. The second was a message from Grimbol Dune to Torg, the leader of the orcs we had just defeated. The third was from Beauchelain to Zaelis, Skalrag’s nemesis, the shadar-kai witch, together with a letter from Nalric to Zaelis.
In addition to these, we also had the pages from Treepo’s letter and diary, as well as our letter of instructions from Chancellor Invictad, and the weapon’s order placed at the goblin foundary at Bortho.
Aunt Petunia always used to say, “you’ll never keep yer ferrets tidy if you don’t write them down,” so I started a list of everyone we had met these recent weeks, and how they all seemed to tie into this dark plot…
End of Elmban; Out of the Undercroft
…by Scalrag
I knew it.
I knew that coming here was a bad idea. I predicted that we’d gotten ourselves into trouble, and I was right. All I’ve ever wanted was limitless power, vast wealth, a palace and a gaggle of adoring concubines to look after my every need. Why, oh why do the Gods force such tribulations upon us?
I suppose I should be more specific: having defeated the Skeletal Warlord and his equally flesh-challenged minions, we returned to the heavy bronze doors and then proceeded down the left-hand path. Having claimed from the Warlord an obsidian eye that looked like it would fit one half of the locking mechanism, we presumed that the hand-shaped item that would fit the other half would not be far. After descending a set of stairs we came to a grated door, locked. Viggo briefly inspected it for traps and declared it safe, then raised one of his Goblin Stompers and delivered a hefty kick. He overdid it and staggered himself – which worked out because as it happened the door was trapped. As he stumbled back, Viggo narrowly avoided getting zapped by an arc of lightning that whipped from the still-unopened door. Clearly a more subtle approach would be required.
Arnold stepped up, produced his lockpicking tools and set to work. Almost immediately he yelped and ducked another bolt of lightning. The halfling gave us a reassuring smile. “Just wanted to see if maybe it was one of those one-time-only traps,” he explained, and tried again. This time he was able to get nearly ten seconds of work done before he tripped the trap again and had to dive for cover as lightning flashed from the door once more and slammed into the wall.
“Are you done warming up?” Dirock asked.
Before Arnold could answer, Viggo marched up to the door and brought his sword down on the lock with a howl. I shielded my eyes, expecting the ranger to get cooked like a brace of conies, but to my surprise his weapon smashed the mechanism and the door swung open. The ranger smiled knowingly and strode forward. The rest of us shrugged and followed, determined to enjoy our jar of sheep and not worry about how they got in there in the first place (note to self: spend less time talking to Arnold).
We entered a worship chamber. The floor in the center of the room was slightly raised, and there were two waist-high ziggurats to either side. At the far end of the room stood a black monolith, covered in ancient runes. Jutting out of the middle of the floor was a stone forearm. It was quite large – like that of an ogre or troll – but it looked to be the right size for our purposes. Viggo quickly searched for traps; satisfied that there were none, he grasped the stone hand. Remembering how good a job he’d done finding the trap on the door, I prepared for the worst.
I was right to do so: the stone hand immediately twitched and grabbed Viggo by his tunic, and the raised section of the floor began to grind, buckle and crack. I felt a rising panic, no doubt a side effect of my recently-developed landsharkophobia. At the same time there came the sound of grinding stone as hidden doors on either side of the room swung open and a pair of corpulent zombies shuffled into view. The bodies of these disgusting creatures seemed to be alive with necrotic energy, and they tore out great gory handfuls of their own flesh to heave at us! At the same time, a large glass jar floated out from behind the monolith at the back of the room. The cylinder was filled with a murky liquid and something was floating inside it. To my right, Thoradrin gave a cry and then suddenly turned on Dirock, who just barely managed to side-step Thor’s axe. Judging by the shocked looked on Thor’s face (only Dirock seemed more surprised), I surmised that the dwarf was under mental domination, and I began to wonder just what was floating in that jar …
The icing on this horrific cake came from the center of the room, where the floor finally split open and a brutish zombie hulk emerged, still grasping Viggo by the collar. His feet dangling two feet off the floor, my Kuzian companion drew his blades and began hacking at the huge monster. Arnold assisted by firing a magic sling bullet that set the hulk on fire. Nearby, Thoradrin managed to shake off the mind-control and furiously assaulted one of the lumbering corruption corpses. “Oh ye mighty gods!” he shouted as he got to grips with his foe, “ye smell almos’ as bad as the runoff room a’ the Redink Brewery!” As if all this wasn’t bad enough, a swarm of huge spiders emerged from the hole in the middle of the room. No, not spiders … but severed left hands – hundreds of them! I felt my gorge rise as they immediately set upon Viggo and Thor, scratching and clawing. Both warriors crushed many of the hands under their boots, but to little effect. I cast an atmospheric combustion that charred dozens of the limbs (and missed Thoradrin for a change), and Dirock called down Kord’s lightning to flash-fry many more. Finally, Thor swung his axe in a series of wide, sweeping blows that hacked chunks out of the corruption corpse in front of him and shattered another two score hands. At this point, the remaining hands began to flee back beneath the flagstones from whence they’d come. Having dealt with one threat, it was time to address the others.
While Arnold worked his sling against the hulk, I summoned my Glacial Gripper, and a man-sized hand of black ice rose up next to one of the corruption corpses, smacked it and then put it in an icy bear hug. A moment later the monster’s head exploded under Dirock’s divine powers, so I directed the Gripper to attack the floating jar. Viggo finally freed himself of the zombie hulk’s grip by slashing out its throat, causing it to collapse in a stinking heap. Any celebration was cut short, however, as a moment later the beast arose again, shedding most of its skin and battering the erstwhile triumphant Viggo with crushing fists. The ranger staggered under the assault, but held his ground. As I prepared to lend a hand, my mind suddenly reeled; I felt as though I was both falling down and being pulled up. I couldn’t concentrate or even hear anything. It was as if a great weight were crushing my skull. I suddenly realized that I was moving … how? Then the awful, dawning realization: I was not in control of my actions! Whatever had dominated Thoradrin was now forcing me to dance to their depraved tune! I watched in horror as I fired a ray of frost that struck Thoradrin in the back – as if I didn’t “accidentally” hit him often enough!
“Scalrag, ye daft bastard! Wot’ are ye doin’?” Thor demanded, not unreasonably.
“It’s not my fault!” I thought.
“DIE, MORTAL!” I said.
“Oh, very cute,” I thought.
“I’M A WEAK-MINDED FOOL!” I said.
Right – enough of that. I tried to drive the invader from my mind, but it was no use. I lamented that a dwarven warrior with a fondness for some of the foulest brews known to man had quickly succeeded where I, with all my intellect, was now failing.
Fortunately, my friends saved me from any further humiliation. Arnold dodged between the zombie hulk’s legs and slashed its tendons. As the monster stumbled forward, the halfling leapt onto its back and buried his dagger in the back of its skull, putting it down for good. Viggo jumped over the carcass and lunged at the floating jar, his swords flashing. The jar shattered under the ranger’s attack, and a foul-smelling liquid spilled on to the floor. I felt a twinge of fear, but realized that it was not my own – whatever had gotten into my head was retreating in terror – but too late. As the jar crashed to the ground, a brain flopped out of the wreckage and began to slowly crawl away. Viggo spat a curse and kicked the brain against the wall, where it instantly calcified on impact (good thing, too – Viggo was going to stomp it, which would have made an awful mess). Meanwhile, Thoradrin chopped the head off the last corruption corpse, and when that didn’t have the desired result, he buried his axe in the base of its spine. Spurting filth, the cadavre teetered over and lay still – the fight was over.
We quickly claimed the stone arm from the fallen hulk, and as we prepared to leave, I noticed that the hardened brain was radiating magic. Upon closer inspection, it became clear that I could use it to focus my spells as I would a magic orb. Though slightly grossed out, I decided to keep the macabre prize – at least for now.
We returned to the great bronze doors and Viggo and Arnold set the obsidian eye and stone hand into their respective slots. My companions reported that the “keys” seemed drawn to their places and snapped into position easily. After a long moment of silence, the massive doors ground open with a metallic rumbling that resonaterd throughout the Undercroft. We clearly weren’t going to be surprising anyone, and so after waiting for Viggo to finish a prayer to the Raven Queen (my companion had become a most fervent disciple of late), we passed beyond the doors with Thoradrin in the lead.
We advanced through a huge hallway and then descended some stairs to a much smaller corridor. After a few minutes, Thoradrin signaled us to halt. In the dimmed light of our torches and cantrips we saw that we were on a platform at one end of large cavern. Walkways and staircases connected to other, smaller platforms and we reasoned that they must lead to a way out on the other side. Glancing over the edge of the platform, Thor warned us to watch our step – it was a thirty foot drop to the uneven floor below. As we tried to decide which way to go, Viggo suddenly raised his voice and shouted into the darkness:
“Followers of Vecna! Show yourselves that I might mete out the judgement of the Raven Queen upon you!”
I was about to point out that no one could possibly be foolish enough to fall for that … but then an unfamiliar voice shouted back:
“Defilers! Drop your weapons and surrender, or face the wrath of the Lord of Rotted Tower!”
At that moment a dim light arose all around us, enabling us to see to the other side of the cavern. Standing on a large platform across from us was a human in ornate robes, clutching a staff. A group of snarling orcs and a pair of skeletons were at his side. I noticed that the skeletons were holding bows, and an instant later an arrow rattled off Thor’s helm, and another grazed Viggo.
“They’re shooting at us!” I observed. The battle was on!
I headed towards a staircase on our right and sent an atmospheric combustion at a pair of Orcs who were running towards us; the detonation incinerated one orc, but the other continued forward despite the scorching. Thor charged straight up the middle, vaulting the space between two platforms to get to grips with our foes. On our left, a frightening apparation appeared and approached: fluttering over the ground and wrapped in a cowled robe, the figure drew near, a bone scythe gripped in its dessicated hands. Dirock looked at it, then at me. “It’s for you,” he said.
But this was not Death. It was clearly something far fouler, a creature fallen far from grace and here now on unholy business. Viggo drew his swords and vowed to destroy the reaper. Though I had supreme confidence in his abilities, I moved further to the right, just to be safe.
Arnold fired a sizzling sling bullet at the reaper, blasting away its jaw, and I took offence on Arnold’s behalf when that failed to stop it. Viggo rushed into battle, screaming in the language of Kuz and heedless of his own safety. Dirock added to the fight with his divine powers. Things seemed to be going fairly well … until disaster struck – the reaper lunged forward and shoved Viggo off the stairs and into the pit! With a final curse, Viggo disappeared into the darkness and a moment later we heard the sickening sound of shattering bones.
Enraged by the death of his friend, Dirock roared an oath to Kord and heaved his maul at the reaper. The creature was struck full on and vanished in a flash. From across the room, the robed human Ascetic of Vecna snarled in anger and placed a vicious curse on Arnold. I shouted at my little friend to come closer so I could help remove it. A moment later I felt a tug on my sleeve. Looking down, I saw Arnold standing next to me with an expectant look on his face and crawling filth on his arm. “What are you going to do about this?” he asked.
“Aagh!” I replied, “Not so close! You’re going to get it on meeeeee!” Sure enough, the necrotic curse seemed to leap from Arnold onto me, infecting us both. I was able to shake it off, but not before it burned my arm. I fired an acid arrow at the Ascetic and was rewarded when he stumbled back, hit. I then used my orb of unlucky exchanges to pull the necrotism off of Arnold and send it back at its creator!
With Dirock at our side, we surged forward to catch up with Thor, had managed to get well ahead of us and was cleaving orcs left and right as he tried to reach the Ascetic. Dodging arrows and spells, we dispatched the orcs and skeletons (though the latter were very good shots and put several holes in my robes) and Thor was soon hand-to-hand with the enemy leader. As the Ascetic uselessly smashed Thor’s shield with his staff, a hidden door slid open behind the dwarf and to our astonishment Viggo emerged! Without missing a beat, the ranger charged forward with a shout and ran the Ascetic through with his swords. With our enemy dead, Viggo was able to explain that he had survived the fall into the pit because the entire floor was covered with bones – the crunching we’d heard was some poor soul’s rat-eaten ribs breaking under Viggo, and not the ranger’s skull cracking on stone as we’d thought. Viggo told us how “an angel” had appeared shown him a secret staircase out. Along the way he’d passed through several preparation rooms and libraries and had taken the time to do as much damage as possible on his way back up to us. Though dubious of his story about divine guidance, I could not deny the efficacy with which Viggo has desecrated the Undercroft’s sacred vessels. Fortunately, he hadn’t gotten around to setting the various texts on fire, which allowed Dirock and I to save a few spell and ritual books, along with some volumes that we felt might give us some insight into the cult’s activities. We let Viggo burn the rest.
With the Ascetic’s death, Vecna’s power over the Undercroft seemed to be broken. The heavy darkness was lifted and we were able to see normally by our light sources. Moreover, we all shared a sense of great accomplishment and a lifting of our spirits that left us feeling energized and ready for action, despite our great exertions. Viggo told us that the Raven Queen was pleased by our success and that our renewed vigour was her reward for destroying the reaper and bringing down this temple of her sworn enemy.
Flush with victory, we pushed on through another set of doors, down some stairs and into a corridor which opened into a large room, encircled with a raised walkway. Off to one side were several ominous-looking pits and in the center of the room, next to an icon of Vecna carved into the floor, was an altar – around which were five people, bound and gagged! Surrounding them were a number of orcs and several Shadar-kai. As we entered the room, one of the orcs spotted us and shouted an alarm. As the rest of the evildoers rushed to intercept us, another orc drew a dagger from its belt and slashed the throat of the nearest captive! Dirock invoked Kord’s blessing upon us and so empowered we sprang into action.
We clashed a few yards inside the room, and Arnold found himself in an unusual position – he was the first into combat … and he wasn’t even attacking from the shadows! He caught a nasty beating from the first orcs to enter the fray, but Dirock used his healing magics to keep the halfling alive and the rest of us moved in to to help. Even as he reeled under the orcs’ attack, Arnold came under threat from another quarter: some shadows along a nearby wall seemed to fold and from within emerged a small figure in black robe. With tremendous speed, this Dark One closed the distance to Arnold, unsheathing a dark-bladed dagger as it moved. “I’ve got you now,” I heard it say as it plunged its blade at Arnold’s neck. My companion twisted at the last moment and took the blow in the shoulder, then turned to face this newest threat.
“You again!” Arnold shouted through teeth gritted against pain, “I thought you’d had enough in Phirul!” He drew hisown dagger and lunged at the Dark One (Arnold later explained that this was Svernizug, and that the party had met him in the fallen city back before I had joined them).
There followed what I can only describe as a No Holds Barred Midget Death Match. Arnold and his rival danced and twisted through the fight, diving between the legs or leaping off the backs of larger combatants. When Svernizug slipped away to try to stab Viggo in the back, Arnold used his magic vambraces to appear right behind his foe, whereupon he slipped his dagger between Svernizug’s ribs. The Dark One shuddered and breathed his last.
Meanwhile, a roiling melee had broken out and even I was in danger of going toe-to-toe with a Shadar-kai sword fighter. Fortunately, Thor placed himself between me and our enemies, and I blasted spells over his head. Arnold managed to blind a number of enemies by throwing handfuls of dirt and grit in their eyes (followed up with sling bullets, of course). Behind the enemy lines, a Shadar-kai witch and an orc shaman were firing spells into the battle, and back at the altar, the cruel orc warrior had moved and was cutting the throat of yet another prisoner.
Shocked by this appaling display of poor form, I temporarily took leave of my senses: I cast Seven-League Step and rushed past the enemy over to the altar, where I poured my last healing potion down the throat of the nearest prisoner, who was only seconds from death. The man’s wound closed up as the elixir coursed through his veins. The orc executioner came at me with his dagger, but I managed to duck under his arm. Suddenly remembering my days of being bullied in the schoolyard, I responded as I had then: with a boot in the goolies. To my amazement, it actually worked, and while winded orc clutched at his groin, I hastily wrapped a bandage around the throat of the second man, slowing the bleeding. I stood up, feeling pretty proud of myself … until I noticed the Witch and the Shaman were approaching to help the executioner deal with me. I glanced over my shoulder at the brawl behind me. “Uh, guys? A little help?”
Thoradrin chose that moment to charge through the enemy lines and shield slam the orc executioner, sending the brute stumbling back. Meanwhile Dirock created an area of hallowed ground and began moving it towards the altar, intending it to protect and heal the prisoners from further harm. Arnold slashed at the orcs and Shadar-kai warriors, assisted by Viggo, who used his goblin stompers and the power of his enchanted bastard sword to move himself and his enemies into positions more to his liking.
Thor finished off the Orc executioner and brought his axe to bear on the shaman. I circled around the altar and engaged the Witch up close, using my repelling shockwave to send her tumbling head over heels. She recovered with surprising alacrity and rushed at me, invoking an aura of necrotism that burned at my flesh and then punching me with a hand wreathed in evil energies. The second blow had two effects: first, it reminded me of the end of my graduation ball (trying to get “fresh” with Corilane Bonesnap had been a mistake), and second it spun me around and filled my mouth with blood. Badly beaten (by a girl … again), I fled from the Witch and managed to keep the blood out of my eyes long enough to collapse next to Dirock. The cleric expended the last of his blessings and pulled me to my feet even as my wounds were healed. I returned to the fight, though by this point my repertoire of available spells was all but empty. I relied on my shockwave to batter the witch and shaman while my comrades dealt the real damage that would defeat them.
Viggo and and Arnold cut down the remaining Shadar-kai warriors and assisted Thor, Dirock and I in defeating first the shaman and then the witch. At last, our enemies lay defeated and we released the bound prisoners. As we had hoped, these were the missing miners we’d been searching for all this time. It had taken everything we had, but we had prevailed!
Eyeing the Undercroft
It has been one scary place after another since I left Peithras: demon-worshipping Sultorean nobles, angry albino sailors, legions of zombified undead, invading orcs, and even a hungry dragon. As we started to descend the ancient spiral staircase that led downwards into the evil gloom of the Undercroft of Vecna, however, there was little doubt that this was the worst of all. I could almost hear old Uncle Wilburforce admonishing me: “Arr, what ye be doing, yer daft halfling? Ye could be roasting yer toes in front of a warm fire with a pint of Horwhistle’s Olde Best Barley Stout at the Ginger Penguin, instead of creeping toward yer doom in the cellar of a crazed evil god with fewer scruples than eyeballs!”
Viggo must have noticed my fear, for at that moment he slapped me on the back and grinned. “Fear not, little Arnold! The Raven Queen is with us, even here. And not worry about death, for I am sure Skalrag will meet us there!” The mage winced at the reference, and cast his usual cantrip to light our way. It seemed to function much less well than usual, as did my ever-burning torch. The blackness of the Undercroft mocked our efforts.
Despite Viggo’s efforts to keep our spirits up—truly, he is a ranger with no fears (unless that transvestite dwarven hedgehog-juggler in Peyon is counted)—we were a somber and quiet group as we travelled through the dark passages of the Undercroft. I wished Kiira was here, for we could do with her magicks alongside Skalrag’s in this dark place. The eladrin had stayed behind at Binwin’s cabin to do some research (she was none to clear about what), and had promised to catch up with us later. Little had she known, or had any of us known, where we would now be.
After a while, the passage entered into a chamber of sorts. Ahead of us a stone statue of a dark figure stood, holding a silver sword. To our left and right were smaller statues. We stepped in cautiously—it seemed an ideal spot for an ambush.
Indeed it was. Without warning, two figures emerged from the shadows, and attacked. Both were carrying long spiked chains, which they wielded with deadly skill, injuring or knocking prone several of our party.
As if this wasn’t enough, we heard—if heard is the right word—a dark moaning, which rose to a crescendo of anguished shrieks that ripped at our very souls. A hideous incoporeal wraith passed through the largest statue, and also advanced on us.
Viggo shook his head, and first muttering to his grandmama, then uttering words that unleashed the bound-magicks of his weapon. The wraith was thrown backwards and restrained for a time in sinews of magical energy. Skalrag cast a spell—which, oddly, caused the floor to glow a little (he later claimed he knew this all along, but at the time seemed as surprised as anyone). Thor charged at the first of the twirling enemies, and Dirock grabbed at his holy symbol.
For my own part, I drew my dagger, and stabbed at the chain-dancer with little effect. I also backed away slowly from the wraith, having no desire to once more hear its haunted screaming within my skull. Viggo laughed—I swear, he liked this place—and severely injured one of the dancers, which Thor promptly decapitated with a heavy blow from his axe.
The ranger shouted to the other chain warrior, “Szervusz? You with whirly thing? Bozmeg kecske! You see what a sword of the Raven Queen do to your friend?”
Thor interjected. “Aye lad, ye grazed him an’ left the dwarf to slay him…”
At this point, a new foe entered the fray—one of those accursed dark ones that we had first encountered in Meepo’s dye and alchemy shop in Phirul. He stabbed Viggo in the side with his dagger, then vanished.
The wraith, now free of his arcane restraints, once more floated towards us…
“NO! By the might of KORD, I command you BACK, I say BACK foul creature of death!” Dirock’s voice boomed and echoed against the stone walls of the chamber as a searing flash of light burst from the small silver hammer-symbol in his hand. The wraith was thrown back into the shadows.
I stepped into the shadows myself—shadows far across the room from the wraith, I hasten to add—and hid, readying my sling. As I did so, there was a POP, and everything went black.
Thor’s voice called out: “Ah cannae cut th’ heids aff ay these evil folks if Ah cannae see them! Skalrag, whit is gonnae oan?”
“Its not me!” I heard the mage reply.
POP! The dim light returned, and there in the room stood the dark one, ready to plunge his blade into Viggo’s underparts. He didn’t get the chance. I let my sling-stone fly, and it hit the creature square in the middle of the head. It fell dead at the ranger’s feet. The other chain warrior was soon dead too, leaving us only with the wraith to deal with. Skalrag and Dirock made short work of it.
We examined the sword. It appeared to be more ornamental than practical, but it did appear to be made of solid silver. I put it in my bag of holding for possible resale. How much would a sword of the one-eyed one fetch in the markets, I wondered?
Beyond this passage there lay another, the walls carved with strange patterns, scripts, and figures. At one point, however, a carving projected further from the wall than most—a small semi-statue of a figure stood near the floor, its hands held upwards as if to hold some spherical object…
I guessed quickly what the object might be–the platinum eye I had taken from the large orog leader in the Monastery of the Sundered Chain. I had dropped it into Dirock’s pocket, partly as practice, partly as joke, and partly for safekeeping. He hadn’t mentioned it, though.. had he perhaps not found it among the many religious tracts and symbols that he kept on his person?
I brushed past our cleric, and—with a quick covert filch—retrieved it. It fitted perfectly in the statue’s hands, causing a secret door to grind slowly open. “This way, I think…”
The secret passage continued for some forty or so paces before opening up into a chamber with a vaulted opening to our left. The walls here were carved with a scene of stick-men with spears, and some sort of bizarre-looking dragon. A hunting scene, perhaps? But why here, in the Undercroft? We searched, but found no more secret doors. We thus continued on through the opening, and to another passage beyond. It went a further fifty or so paces, and turned to the right—where a large pit blocked our way.
I volunteered to climb down, and have a look. I could find nothing of interest (although Viggo would later find panels in the stone that I had missed), and so I climbed up the other side. My companions all jumped across safely.
We continued on some more. We passed an area of dart-traps, but none of us were injured. Soon, we saw a light up ahead—a stone pedestal stood in a tall circular cavern. A single beam of arcane light shining down upon it from above.
As if that wasn’t marvel enough, there was the even greater marvel of what stood on the pedestal. An ivory goat! As Aunt Petunia used to say, you could have knocked me down with a wet ferret … what was it doing here?
Skalrag walked around the dais, and pronounced that the goat seemed to be magical. Viggo and I searched for traps, but could find none—although we both presumed that this was because we could not find them, not because they were not here. After all, who leaves a magical goat on a pedestal in their undercroft unguarded?
Nevertheless, it was all too much to pass up. As all of us (except Viggo) stepped back, Skalrag used his arcane mage hand to lift the statuette from its location. No sooner than he did so than things began to happen.
RUMBLE! First, the room began to shake, and large blocks started falling from the ceiling.
Next, Viggo grabbed the goat as it floated past him, and thrust it under his cloak.
GRRRRCLICKCLICLCLICKCLICK… as he did so, I heard a grating sound further back along the passage—an iron portcullis was descending to cut off our escape! Faster than you could say “Old Derrick Darrowtoes grows very large Talonian rutabagas in the sunny patch of upper meadow near Farmer Brownlee’s prize cow Bessie and her four spotted calves, one of which he’s named Mildred after his spinster aunt for reasons he won’t divulge, sober or otherwise,” I raced down the corridor, leapt over the pit, and slid toward the grate, desperately hammering an iron spike into the wall in an effort to block its passage. Moments later Thor and Dirock joined me, doing the same (and with rather more success).
As the passage behind us continued to crumble, Viggo ran past clutching the goat. Skalrag followed, turning into the next passage for safety. This wasn’t such a good move, as it turned out.
CRASH! A large stone sphere came crashing through the wall, smashing heavily into Skalrag before continuing down the passage. We chased after it, planning to step out of the way at the next turn in the corridor.
THWORPLING! There was a sound of an enchantment being tripped, and suddenly the chamber that had once featured engraved stick-men and a dragon on its walls suddenly sported a bare section of wall, a dragon, and a collection of skeletal warriors. They clattered towards us.
I stepped aside, waiting for them to come closer. Closer they came too, so close in fact that the dragon knocked Skalrag unconscious with a blast of its fearsome breath weapon. He fell, groaning and bleeding in his traditional way. As Viggo and Dirock bickered over who would save him this time, Thor kept the dragon busy with his axe, cutting into it with powerful blows. I decided to help—stepping out from my hiding place to throw a handful of spinnyblades at our enemies, blinding the dragon and cutting down several of the skeletons. I then used a move that I had first practiced on the gray dragon at Chenth: slipping under it, I stabbed it hard, then kicked it harder, pushing it several feet back. One more cut of my dagger and it was dead. Or more dead, perhaps—it seemed almost stitched together out of dragon parts, an undead zombie draconid of sorts.
Skalrag regained consciousness, muttering something about Death. By now we had grown accustomed to it.
Injured, tired and hungry as we were, we decided to rest for a bit. This seemed as good a place as any to do so—there was but the one secret entrance, which had closed behind us when we had removed the eye-orb from the statue. For good measure we pushed the stone sphere to block the passage, and took turns on guard duty as the others slept. Our dream were haunted by this place, but we nonetheless all felt better for having rested.
After gnawing on some dry biscuits, we decided to reenter the main passage through the secret door, and continue further along it. Eventually it ended in a junction. The passage to right led to a set of stairs spiralling deeper into the Undercroft. The passage to the left led into a large dark chamber. Before us, set into the wall of the junction, was an imposing stone door. It was locked. There were, however, clues as to how it might open: a depression large enough to hold a small orb, and an inset in the wall where one might place something… like a hand.
Dirock looked at it, and immediately recognized the significance. “The lock here bears the iconography of Vecna… the depression for an eye, and a place to put a hand, symbolically representing the very disfigurement of the Whispered One.” We tried the platinum eye we had found, and a skeletal hand, but to no avail. If there were magical keys to be had, they weren’t ones that we yet possessed.
At this point, Skalrag spoke up. “I have an idea.. let us consult the Blue Hand of Wisdom!”
The suggestion brought back memories—I had remembered the Blue Hand of Wisdom playing their ever-popular music at the Harvest Festival, and it was common indeed for an inebriated patron or three at the Ginger Penguin to try to sing their classic “Get Yer Hands Out Me Pockets, I’m Not Dead Yet,” usually loudly, and rather off-key. I was unclear, however, how a halfling fiddle trio could help us out here, or indeed how they could even be lured to perform in the undercroft of a malevolent, twisted god.
“No, no,” Skalrag said as I asked him about his plan. “Not that Blue Hand of Wisdom—they’re good, by the way.. I meant the.. what’s it called? The… Hand of Fate. Yes, that’s it. Hand of Fate.”
The mage opened his ritual book, and murmured an incantation. As if by magic—well, precisely by magic—a large hand appeared, floating in midair before us. It was blue too, which added to my confusion, and possibly his.
“Are you the the Hand of Fate?” asked Skalrag. The hand responded with a thumbs-up, to which the mage winced in reply. He had just used up one of his three questions.
“Which path would most benefit us?” The hand seemed uncertain—clearly, each of the paths had some gain. Perhaps all three of them were even necessary. Skalrag asked something else—I don’t remember what—and then released the Hand. It responded with a V-sign, and then vanished.
We all agreed that it made sense to go to the left and explore the large chamber before descending into the Undercroft further, and so in that direction we headed. Entering the room we found three large capstans set into the floor, each marked from zero to nine in what looked like a giant combination lock. An engraving on the wall provided what seemed to be a clue:
Witness the nascent warlord, once prisoner
He who would unite the tribes around his banner
He who would betray his people in our name
He has come full circle, as must those
Who would witness his reward
What did it mean though? Perhaps we should rotate each of them a full circle to unlock whatever it was they unlocked?
“No,” said Viggo. “Viggo think we must go round like the days and seasons, and the sun in sky, which is 365, except not is 365 of us, is five, so…” He started to do some math on his fingers.
In the meantime we tried my solution. It was the wrong one, and Viggo, Skalrag, and I each received a painful bolt of necrotic energy in punishment. A short while later, Viggo finished his math.
“360!” While his logic was unclear, it did have the advantage of being the number of degrees in a full circle. Moreover, I was quite sure that my capstan, the third of the three, had let out a louder “click” when I passed the number zero, which also buttressed the ranger’s theory. We tried it.
“CLICK… CLUNK…… WHIRRRR.” Rather than more necrotic pain, this time we were greeted with the sight of a secret door opening at the far end of the chamber. We walked over to investigate further.
The door led into a labyrinth of small passages, each more roughly hewn than those we had seen earlier. Moreover, the very walls here seemed to be embedded with bones and skulls, in a sort of macabre stucco. I shuddered—it wasn’t a home decorating technique that I was likely to ever use in my own barge or burrow.
We explored the tunnels for several minutes, and found them finally to converge on a small central cavern. There stood a motionless skeletal warrior, with four arms and a scimitar in each of its four hands.
“Well, as they say–four-armed is forewarned…” My companions groaned.
“Aam sure ‘at if we tooch heem, he’ll jist wake up an’ lat at us.” said Thor. “Ah aam sooo siick an tayerd ay bein’ attacked! Ah say we jist lay intae th’ creature an’ chop it up intae wee shards ay bain afair it can dae much damage.” It was a brutally simple plan. And so that is what we did: we ringed the skeletal creature, and at Thor’s signal unleashed our attacks. As soon as we did so it began to stir, and then lashed out furiously with its blades.
The fight went well enough from my vantage point skulking around a corner and flinging stones at the thing. I became aware, however, of a complication: several skeletons had emerged from the very walls of the tunnels, and were converging on our location. I stabbed at one with Petunia, missing, and then called out for assistance.
Thor stepped back to assist me, and between us we destroyed two of the undead nearest me. In the main chamber, Viggo and the others finished off the four-armed warrior. We all then went skeleton-hunting.
I couldn’t see so well in the dark, but soon heard Thor cursing as he found himself facing another. Unable to squeeze past him to assist in the narrow chamber, I instead ran up, jumped on his shoulders, and tried to summersault over the skeleton’s head.
It was a bad jump, and the creature swung at me with its rusty sword as I leapt past. In doing so, however, he left himself open to the dwarf’s counter-stroke. Thor cleaved it in two. I picked myself up from the ground, and grinned.
“Hawhaw, ‘at was fin, halflin’! Let’s gang fin’ anither!”
It didn’t take us long. Once more as Thor engaged it, I leapt onto his shoulders, and attempted a summersault. It wasn’t much better, and I fell prone behind our foe. I stood up, blade in hand, when I heard Viggo behind me.
“Viggo want to try, like Arnold!” The ranger ran up behind me, and tried leaping on my shoulders. The effect as was might be expected: he knocked me to the ground, barely cleared the skeleton, and started falling toward Thor. The dwarf bashed him down a side passage with his shield, then together he and I finished off our skeletal opponent.
We returned to the small central cavern, where Dirock and Skalrag waited for us. They also had eliminated a skeleton or two, albeit in more traditional fashion.
TO BE CONTINUED
Expedition to Elmban
…by Skalrag
I think we’re in trouble.
It started well enough: we slew the treacherous Lord Snazzgazz and took his stuff (I got new – if slightly malodorous – boots), claiming a princely pile of gems and gold coins and some ledgers along the way. Then we fled the goblin foundry and made the trek back to Binwinn’s cabin.
Binwin was delighted to have his axe returned to him. Dirock had insisted on using the weapon to sever a few goblin necks during our run to the goblin Counter-Weighted Ascending/Descending Conveyance, warning that the weapon’s spirit would be offended if we did not allow it to exact revenge on those who had kept it from its rightful owner. I had not detected any latent sentience within the axe, but I did not argue the point, since I was busy running for my life from the volcanic beasts that were laying waste to the foundry. At any rate, the news that his weapon had been used to kill some of the goblins pleased Binwin, and so I kept to myself the fact that Dirock’s victims had been in full flight and offered no resistance whatsoever.
Binwin insisted on rewarding us for the return of his heirloom and presented us with some useful items: a potion to ward off necrotism and poisons, a bag of healing herbs, and an enchanted whetstone. Pleased that our good turn had been justly rewarded, we ate and drank with our host long into the night, then took a well-deserved rest.
The next morning Binwin prepared us a breakfast of duck eggs and boar back bacon and told us that before we first stumbled upon his cabin, he’d found evidence of a group of humanoids headed North-West from the South. It was a tenuous lead to be sure, but the chancellor’s map did show a possible dig site, code-named Elmban, in that general area. If the tracks that Binwin had found were indeed our lost prospectors, then it was logical that they would be headed there. We bade Binwin farewell and headed into the mountains.
When we first entered the foothills, we saw goats munching on shrubs (“An omen of good luck,” Viggo assured us), birds wheeling overhead and squirrels scampering along tree branches that were heavy with leaves. I even spotted a deer loping through the woods. The road to Elmban was long but not particularly difficult, even for me. In fact, it was a pleasant hike.
The changes came slowly, and I confess that I did not notice at first. Gradually however, we all realized that the further we pushed into the mountains, the more sparse and sickly the trees around us became. I do not know when the birds stopped singing, but the stillness of the air made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. Thick, dark clouds filled the sky above us, and the grey trees that clung feebly to the bare rock looked like skeletal shadows of their healthy forest kin. We halted our march and looked around at our surroundings.
“What happened here?” Arnold’s voice cut through the quiet and startled me.
“I don’t know,” I answered, “but maybe we can find out.”
While Viggo and Thoradrin kept watch, I removed several vials from my pack. Beside me, Dirock knelt and held his Symbol of Battle close to his chest, murmuring quietly. I mixed a few drops from the vials into a cup and added a splash of water. I swirled the concoction and drank it in a single draught, and paused a moment to let it work. Then I opened my eyes wide, trying to see beyond the veil of the corporeal world, to catch a glimpse of the strands of reality. It did not work; my eyes were blind, and I was left only with an arcane aftertaste, like dust on the tip of my tongue. Dirock stood and nodded gravely at me. “Dust and decay,” he said, “this place is touched by death.” Viggo wandered over, and the only thing more unnerving than our surroundings was the serene look on the ranger’s face.
“You want making more silly brew-potion?” Viggo asked, “or you want I should tell you what this is?” I was too stunned to protest, and so Viggo took a knee as we all gathered around him.
“I taste this dust too, Scalrag,” he said quietly. “Dirock is right – death is close, for we are very near to the Raven Queen now.”
“How can you know?” I asked. Thoradrin shushed me and Viggo continued.
“We are never much far from the Raven Queen,” whispered the man from Festung, “always Her realm is close to ours.” He held his hands in front of him, palms facing inward, to illustrate the point. “Sometimes, in some places, is so close,” – he brought his hands together – “that the walls between this realm and Hers is the same, and we pass through without knowing.”
“We are walking in the realm of the Raven Queen,” Viggo finished, so quietly that we barely heard him.
We all stood in silence, entranced by his explanation. It was Thor, ever anxious to get to the root of things, who spoke first.
“Why are ye whisperin’?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Arnold hissed, “but it’s very effective.”
There was a sudden boom from above us and a thin, cold rain began to fall. Viggo ignored the change in weather and rose to his feet. “Come,” he said, “we must to the mountain. There we will see.”
We pressed on through the rain for several hours. It was the sort of rain that doesn’t seem so bad at first, but which gradually seeps through cloak and tunic and clings to the body, chilling you so thoroughly that you forget what it was like to be warm. A few drops splashed onto my lips and I instinctively licked them off. It tasted stale.
The rain finally stopped as we crested a hill. In the distance we could see a lone mountain, a colossus of dark stone crowned with black clouds. If ever a mountain could be said to be threatening, this was it. “That is our destination,” Viggo said, leading us onward.
A cold mist rose around us, turning into an almost impenetrable fog as we drew near to the mountain, until we could only see a few yards ahead of us. Thus we stumbled to a halt as the sheer side of the mountain rose up suddenly out of gloom. A cave loomed before us, crudely framed by three stone columns. We could not scale the mountain, and so we headed into the cave, closing up our marching order as we descended into the earth.
As we proceeded along, we noticed more columns set against the tunnel walls. We assumed they were supports, but Thoradrin shook his head. “Nay, thairr no s’ports,” he said, and patted the wall of the tunnel. “Dun’ need ‘em. The whole tunnel’s solid rrock, as stable and sure as any ah’ve everr seen.”
A little further on, we came to a small pile of rubble. Upon closer inspection, we saw holes and scratch marks on the rock face. Arnold examined these and smiled. “Picks!” he said. “Someone used a pick on this wall – possibly to take samples!” We seemed to be on the right track and so continued along the tunnel, passing a few other spots where our prospectors (?) had left their mark.
Finally, the tunnel narrowed to a sort of doorway, across which heavy planks of wood had once been nailed. Judging by the petrified state of the planks, it was clear that the tunnel had been blocked many long years ago, but the obstruction had been broken down at some point. Only one plank remained intact and on it was an inscription that none of us could read. Dirock performed a Comprehend Languages ritual and then examined the plank. “Turn back,” he read, “this way leads to death.”
I was ready to follow the plank’s instructions, but my companions would have none. If the prospectors had gone this way, then so too would we. Defeated, I followed my friends to what I presumed would be a gruesome demise.
Instead, we came to a large chamber, filled with twenty-five identical stone sarcophagi, arranged in five equal rows. A pedestal stood at the far end of the room, and there were no other ways in or out. Arnold halted us. “These sarcophagi are probably going to pop open and disgorge zombies any second now,” he said, “Get ready.” We prepared to be ambushed by the undead … but nothing happened.
“Nuthin’s hap’ning,” Thoradrin observed.
“Well,” I said, “maybe they’re just regular dead people.” I marched across the room to the pedestal on the other side. My companions tensed, expecting me to be assailed by slavering ghouls or worse, and I admit that I expected the same. Imagine my relief when I reached the pedestal unmolested! Atop it I found a clawed left hand, carved from stone and gripping an ebony scroll case, which I slid free and opened. Behind me, Thoradrin moved into the center of the room, ready to act should my actions lead to catastrophe. I reached into the case and carefully removed the scroll within. I expected it to be brittle and fragile, but to my surprise it was in pristine condition; the author may well have sealed the case a week ago.
I rejoined my companions and read the contents of the scroll out loud. It seemed to be the memoir of some spell-caster:
I was born in a small corner of the valley … Mother knew right from the start that was destined for greatness … I exceeded her expectations … she taught me the Dark Arts …
The scroll spoke of how the young wizard’s father had denounced his own wife and seen her burned as a witch, and how the author had taken his revenge. Who was this person?
As my powers grew, I carved out my own empire … my lieutenant Kas led my armies to victory … but then he betrayed me. My left hand and eye were severed.
Hmm, this is pretty interesting.
Wait – what?
My left hand and eye were severed.
Uh oh.
… when my tainted spirit found its destination, I toppled the master of that dark place. From my black throne, I lashed together a machine of blood and bone and fueled by my hatred for you this fear engine bore a hole between the worlds.
Oh no.
When it began, I imagine you must have heard the sound of children screaming, as though from a great distant. Then, a smoking orb of nothing grew above your head and from it emerged a thousand starving crows.
Oh, oh no.
Tell me, Kas: as I slipped through the widening maw in my new form, did you catch a glimpse of my radiance before you were incinerated? No matter. For as tears of bubbling pitch streamed down my face, my dark work began …
I am leaving this world now. Godhood is my destiny, and I shall wrest it from the very cosmos.
-V
“Demons and angels preserve us,” I whispered, “this is an account of the life of Vecna himself.” We realized then that we had stumbled upon a place sacred to the Lord of Secrets. Arnold suspected that an entrance was hidden inside one of the sarcophagi – all we had to do was figure out which one.
We puzzled over this for a time. We thought of simply opening the center-most sarcophagi, but that seemed too obvious. Arnold lit a candle and walked between the rows, searching for a breeze escaping from one of the sarcophagi – without luck. Thoradrin was in favour of simply opening each sarcophagus in turn, but Dirock warned that Vecna guarded his secrets jealously, and that the penalty for choosing incorrectly would likely be severe.
We returned to the scroll. Could a clue be hidden within its passages? There was mention of a seventh birthday, a decade spent in conquest. Could these refer to specific sarcophagi? It was impossible to tell, for they were plain and unmarked. We read again. Right from the start … if my education was left in the hands of traditional tutors … I grew up to be powerful … Father, I struck you down …
Right, left, up and down. These were repeated throughout the text. Could they be a clue? We decided to find out. We worked our way through the scroll, following the directions in the order they appeared. When we ran out of text, we found ourselves standing around a sarcophagus, no different from the others. We braced ourselves as Thor and Viggo slid the heavy lid aside and let it fall to the ground with a thoom that echoed through the chamber. We all peered inside at a desiccated corpse, which disintegrated before our eyes and left the sarcophagus filled only with dust. We looked at each other questioningly. Had we guessed right?
The sound of stone grinding against stone reverberated through the chamber and the floor began to shift. Remembering what had happened the last time the ground moved beneath me, I scrambled onto a nearby sarcophagus (Thoradrin’s claims that I “screamed like a girl” are slanderous lies, included here only for completeness’ sake, and because I still feel guilty about killing him). The sarcophagi lowered and locked into place, forming a spiraling staircase that descended into the darkness. Apparently we had chosen correctly, but what awaited us in the black?
Lava Life
The encounter with the bullettes had left the whole party on edge: first we (meaning, me) had nearly been slaughtered by the gray dragon Caustrex, and now we had almost been made meals by the land-sharks. Only Skalrag’s cunning stratagem of allowing himself to be chewed on and knocked unconscious multiple times had saved us all from certain death. The Janech Vale was clearly a dangerous place….
Nevertheless, we continued on, looking for traces of the prospecting party as we travelled through the forested valley towards the site marked “Aleid” on the Chancellor’s map. I kept careful eye on the location of the nearest trees as we advanced, ever-ready to scramble up one should the earth once more shake beneath our feet.
A few hours further into our journey, we spotted smoke rising lazily in the distance. Approaching more closely, we found a small cabin, surrounded by a low but sturdy stone wall.
“Viggo thinks someone home, unless is magic hut that makes own smoke,” said our always-sage ranger. The rest of us had drawn a similar conclusion. We cautiously approached, and knocked on the door. After a while, an irritable and very suspicious dwarf appeared—one Binwin Bronzehaft. He eventually invited us in, but only after he spotted Thoradrin, a fellow dwarf, among our group.
After some time, and the repeated application of alcohol, we finally learned a little about our rather reluctant host. He was a ranger, who had lived in these parts for some years. He seemed to know little or nothing about the prospectors. He did confide, however, that he had a friend who had suffered the humiliation of having valuable axe stolen by a local band of Goblins. He—or rather, his friend—would be most grateful to whomever might recover it.
The goblin lair seemed to be near or at one of the sites we needed to check out, so we promised to take this into consideration. I lurked about a bit, and could find nothing in the cabin that cast doubt on his story (although Binwn’s ever watchful hound Timothy would not let me explore the bedroom too closely, and I had no desire to cause a commotion by trying).
The following morning we left our hung-over host, and climbed the hills for several hours to reach Aleid. At the site we found a network of caves, apparently inhabited by giant cave bears, although we saw none of the beasts. We decided not to press too deeply into the cave system, despite Viggo’s reminders about the delights of fresh bear-milk.
Instead, we headed back down this mountain and marched to the north-east, towards the goblin lair and the map-site marked “Bortho.” There we found what appeared to be a large foundry, most of which seemed to be deep in the ground. Steam plumes and the shapes of the rocks suggested that—much like the vents—this was an area of some volcanic activity, and that the Goblins might be harnessing the earth’s very fires for their mysterious activities.
A frontal assault was clearly right out, given our small band and the unknown scores or hundreds that might dwell within and beneath. Consequently, we tried a more direct approach.
“Hello,” I said as I strolled to a small stone keep that seemed to mark the entrance to the foundry below. “I’m Arnold Wurzel of the Glorfindle Trading Company…”
At this, one or two of my companions seemed to suppress a smirk. I’m not sure why, since this much was true, sort of—I had indeed worked for Old man Glorfindle upon the canals, although his rusty barge full of bric-o-brac was hardly a global trading empire. I ignored them, and continued on. “We’re here about a possible order for your fine.. err.. fine…”
“..weapuns?” grunted one of the goblin guards. “Youz hafta talk to da foregobbo, den.” He signaled a companion, who tugged on a thick rope. We could hear the echoes of a large bell clanging deep below.
A few minutes later, a larger and better-dressed goblin arrived. I started once more into my routine—explaining that we were a merchant expedition, looking for new arms supplies that we might sell abroad. We were considering a major order, I added, and so we were hoping to survey their establishment and obtain a few samples for consideration. As I smiled generously, my companions nodded with apparent earnestness.
While the foreman seemed doubtful, he nonetheless agreed to show us the foundry and its products. We entered the keep, and thereafter entered further into an iron and wooden cage, attached to mighty pulleys above and some unknown device below. The foreman pulled a lever, and with a clank we started to descend into the very depths of the earth. As we did, it grew hotter and hotter, until finally our conveyance descended into the centre of a huge cavern. We could see huge vats of molten iron and other metals, scores of goblins hard at work, and rivulets of molten lava that seemed to provide the heat by which the entire enterprise functioned.
Disembarking from the conveyance, we were shown various boxes of weapons as we talked prices, terms, and conditions. All the time I kept up a lively—but, I feared, increasingly less convincing—patter. We asked to see his boss, a certain Lord Snazzgazz. He refused. Not even Kiira’s valiant efforts to use the chilling tone of a chartered accountant seemed to move him (although it certainly sent shivers down my spine, reminding me of nothing quite so much as that horrible day when I was 11 and the inspectors from the Peithris Barge and Waterway Tax Authority caught up to us and took our ferrets).
Instead, the foreman lead us towards a large lake of lava. It was, as my mum used to say, as doubtful as a jar of sheep. We all tensed, expecting an ambush.
It wasn’t long in coming, but from an unexpected source. A strange, fiery humanoid form and two smaller creatures arose from the centre of the lava lake, and started in our direction. As they did so, the largest scooped up some of the molten rock—and hurled it right towards us! Now that was hardly fair. I heard a cry as one of my companions was scalded by the magma.
“Aiiiiiieeeeeeeeee… hothothot…”
I suspected it was Dirock and not Skalrag, because it ended with angry curses rather than sobs or wails. I didn’t have time to turn to check, however, for at that very moment dozen or so goblins were closing on our location from the tunnels, brandishing their picks and other tools as weapons.
Taking my spinnyblade in hand, I backed into a corner, threw it, and felled one of the smaller worker goblins. Several others hurled themselves at Thor, who seemed quite happy to drop the pretense of shopping for goblin blades to return to his more tradition role of cleaving goblin skulls. As the mob around him grew, I leaped to his aid, throwing blade after blade, dropping another and blinding two more. I then drew Petunia in hand, and started to melee. I could see Viggo doing the same off to my right, his twin blades glinting in the torchlight as he thrust both steel and guttural Kuzian curses at our foes. We all had to step carefully, for dangerous channels of molten rock crisscrossed the floor.
BOOM! there was a loud explosion to my rear, as one of the larger goblins threw some sort of explosive pot towards Dirock and Skalrag. Kiira slew a few goblins with her arcane powers, before turning her attentions to the lava lake and the threat there. Fortunately, Skalrag’s icy incantations seemed to have an especially efficacious effects on the menacing magma monsters. Moreover, he managed to do all this without falling, dying, being knocked unconscious, or having anyone jump on him. Clearly he had become a master of tactical flexibility.
The fight went better for us than I first feared. The goblins fell quickly, and the last of the larger brutes with the cinder pots was dropped by my blade (and his pot relocated) before it could do more harm. The smaller lava monsters, scorpion-like in appearance, were slain. Only the larger magma beast remained, and it was clearly weakened.
“Stop! Pleaze…” it was the voice of the foreman, and clearly far more worried than intimidated. He clearly hadn’t expected the havoc we had wrought, and feared for the life of the magma beast as if it were somehow important to their business. We stopped, and glowered menacingly.
The foreman gestured back down the corridor along which we had earlier entered. “Izz all a mistake.. Lord Snazzgazz will see you now…”
We marched in the direction that the goblin indicated, being sure to glower still more as we did. Eventually we were ushered through a tall set of double bronze doors, into a large and ornate room covered with great bronze panels on the floor and walls and a double row of stone pillars rising from floor to ceiling. A half dozen or so goblin guards lined the walls. To our front was a large raised dais, upon which sat a throne, and on that a large corpulent goblin wearing a golden crown. Worried about traps, I made certain not to step directly on any of the panels lest they slide away and drop us into some infernal pit below. Kiira stayed outside, so that she might warn us if another ambush approached the chamber.
WHAT brings you to our foundry? For whom are you working? Why have you LIED to us? What is it you truly want?
The questions all came unbidden to my mind, without aid of the spoken word. Either the goblin chief was a telepath, or the crown on his head gave him such powers, or I was starting to have hallucinations. Judging from the reaction of my companions, it was one of the former.
I stepped forward, and took up an angry tone. “We have NOT, lied.. we are, as we have said, traders, and we’ve been nothing but charming…”
You HAVE lied! The voiceless voice boomed as the fat goblin lord stared at us. I have never heard of this Glorfur.. Glififur…
“Glorfindle. The Glorfindle Trading Company—and there is no reason you would have, unless you’re uncommonly aware of the barge-merchants of Ward Kaloni. It was you who attacked us…”
NO. I did not attack you.
I was growing annoyed at all of this. “Yes, its true—you didn’t attack us personally, you had the lava creatures do it. Any why? What had we done? Had we done anything like this?…”
With a flick of my wrist I drew Petunia, and flung my magical blade at the throat of a nearby goblin guard with one fluid movement. It was a perfectly aimed shot. The guard fell dead to the floor with bloody gurgle as Petunia returned to my hand. I didn’t miss a beat.
“No! We didn’t do anything at all like that at ALL. We just asked about your wares.”
At first, the corpulent goblin boss looked a little perturbed at the sight of the bloody guard on the floor, but then smiled as if to get down to business.
Yes, perhaps… but there is more you seek?
Skalrag stepped forward. “Yes, we’re looking for a group of prospectors. And a missing gold axe, belonging to one Binwin the often-inebriated ranger. Have you seen either? We would welcome news of the former, and might be able to offer something for the latter.”
I know nothing of any prospectors. The axe, I have–the dwarf was trespassing on our lands, and we took it as a rightful prize for his transgression. Still, I might part with it for a price… there is a grey dragon that has been causing us trouble of late, raiding our shipments and carrying off my workers. Perhaps if you slew her for me?…
Skalrag smiled back. “Oh, you mean Caustrex? She won’t be bothering you any more.” With a flourish he stepped forward, and pull one of her eyes from his sack of magical ingredients.
The goblin laughed—a real laugh this time, that reverberated from the metal-clad walls of the chamber. In that case, I have no need of you! He pulled at a lever on his throne, and with a clank (as I had earlier feared) the panel beneath Skalrag’s feet suddenly gave way, opening into a pit of bubbling hot magma below. The goblin threw back his head to laugh once more
Haaahahahahaha.…Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz
THUNK. Arghhh!
The latter sounds, I’ll admit, were of my doing: once more Petunia had come out of her scabbard in the flash of an eye, flying across the room in a blur and cutting Snazzgazz a bloody gash against his leg. As he shouted in pain the fat goblin limped to his feet, and began to stumble down from his dais and to a passage at the back of the chamber.
I stopped just long enough for the blade to return to my hand, and stepped out of sight behind a pillar. I could hear Skalrag wailing (and not, apparently, boiling—he had fortunately caught himself on the edge of the pit rather than plunging into the lava below), the sound of weapons being drawn, the thud of crossbows being fired, and the clash of steel on steel. The fight had begun!
My first priority was to prevent Lord Snazzgazz from escaping, so I raced as furtively and as quickly as I could to the rear of the room, dodging from pillar to pillar. Viggo had the same idea, and rushed up the other side of the chamber—only to be intercepted by one of the guards. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Thor and Dirock rushing to engage the nearest goblins, while Skalrag pulled himself out of the pit and up to (relative) safety.
As I rounded the corner behind the dais, I spotted my quarry. Unfortunately, he was not alone. Some beast was there too—lizard-like and spiky, with a huge bony tail. It looked at me, swung its appendage, and narrowly missed my head. Snazzgazz leaped onto its back, and urged it in my direction. I ran back the way I had just come, the huge lizard thundering behind me. As Dad used to say, fleeing is the better part of valor.
Fortunately, rather than play hide-and-go-seek-the-halfling among the pillars, Snazzgazz and his beast decided instead to charge Thor. By this time, all but two of the guards had been felled, but these last two were giving us some trouble, having wounded both Dirock and Viggo. I heard Viggo shout out to our cleric: “Be not all scaredy, Dirock, for the Raven’s Queen’s blessing is upon you!” Thor laughed so hard at Dirock’s obvious discomfort at the blessing that he found himself hit by one of the guards. Skalrag clambered up to the throne platform, from where he could best hurl his ever-energetic magicks of devious damage against our foes.
I for, one, loosed my sling at our opponent. Somehow, however, the bullet deviated from true, and struck Viggo instead. I then threw one of the goblin cinder-pots that I had earlier relocated, but it too shifted at the last minute and struck Thor. What trickery was this? Was our foe immune from ranged attacks? This rather cramped my style! What’s more, the goblin chief had drawn a wand, and seemed to be calling all manner of foul incantations upon my companions, variously blinding them or setting them alight. Something had to be done!
It was then that I remembered it: Chapter 5 of Edgar Stoat and the Great Jungle Rodeo! While I had only tried the famous move once before—rather unsuccessfully, as a young lad, with Farmer Willowbong’s sheep—it seemed perfect for the occasion.
So I ran behind the unsuspecting goblin… leaped into the air onto the lizard-beast’s back, and pushed Lord Snazzgazz hard in the back—right over the creature’s head. He fell heavily to the ground below As he landed with a thud, I sat down in the saddle, grabbed the reins, and shouted (as Edgar Stoat had done so himself):
“Yippee-ki-yay, featheredmucker!”
Of course, the shout made far more sense when Edgar Stoat had applied it to the mud-dwelling bird-cannibals of the fetid Szudkilian Swamps, but still—it was a move which would have made him proud! The lizard-beast tried to throw me off, but I only held on more tightly, waving my hat in the air. Yippee-ki-yay indeed!
By this time, the last of the guards had been slain. Viggo was slashing at Snazzgazz, as was Thor. Standing above them on the dais, Skalrag prepared some fiendishly cunning ranged incantation with which to incinerate our foe…
Ranged? Noooo…. I shouted out to him, but it was too late.
As might have been predicted, the flames cast by our mage deviated at the last second, and hit the already wounded Thor, setting him ablaze. He tried to swat out the flames, but was unsuccessful. He fell to the ground, unconscious, his once proud beard singed bare.
Skalrag, aghast as what he had done, leapt off the dais and straight onto Skazzgazz, hitting him hard with his staff before running to tend to our badly battered dwarf. Dirock invoked Kord’s mighty healing powers, bringing the roasted defender once more to his feet. Skazzgazz tried again to send clouds of flame from his wand, but succeeded only in killing his wounded mount. I hopped off as the creature tumbled over, and joined Viggo in time to see the ranger at once finishing off the goblin and—curiously enough—urinating on him. As the goblin lord slumped down mortally wounded, Viggo whispered something in his ear that caused his eyes to open wide in horror even as they closed in death’s dark embrace. It was a mysterious Kuzian custom of which I wasn’t previously aware.
As Snazzgazz fell, his golden crown rolled to the floor. Skalrag picked it up. “Its definitely a crown of control or telepathy, and there’s something angry at the other end. It is also getting hot-ttt…”
He dropped it just as quickly. Before our eyes it burst into flames, the gold melting away and leaving only five red gems behind. These I quickly pocketed (for the party, of course!).
It was then that we first felt it: an ominous trembling of the ground, as if something large and terrible had been awoken within the volcanic depths.
As quickly as we could, we searched the bodies, and two small chambers behind the throne that seemed to be a bedroom and an office. This uncovered some interesting documents, a magnificent bastard sword (which Viggo claimed), sundry magical items, some gold—and Binwin’s axe.
There was another rumbling, and the door opened. Kiira poked her head in, and called out to us. “I think perhaps we had best be leaving…” Still more rumbling, and a growing chorus of goblin screams, added urgency to her suggestion.
Reentering the main cavern of the foundry, we could see at once that the eladrin had it right. Dozens of the magma creatures were streaming into the caverns from the distant lava lake, attacking the goblins. They seemed to be led by a huge one of their kind, some 30 foot or more tall. We raced for the conveyances, cutting down the odd goblin that got in our way. Once there, we headed up for the surface.
Below us, there were more screams. There was little we could do, and after the goblins’ decided lack of hospitality, we were disinclined to do even a little.
Instead, with the golden Bronzehaft family heirloom stowed safely in Thoradrin’s pack, we headed back down into the valley. Binwin and his cabin awaited us— and what would doubtless be a much warmer welcome than the first time we had met .
Bulette Time
…by Skalrag
The earth beneath the party shuddered violently once more and gave way as a hulking quadruped with a sharply-pointed head full of sharply-pointed teeth burst forth from underground, showering Viggo, Arnold and Thor with jagged bits of rock. The creature roared and lunged to the attack.
“Lend-sha’rek!” shouted the ranger from Festung, drawing his swords. “Careful – they dig fest end deep!” The Company of the Ivory Goat rushed into action. Blades flashed and spells sizzled through the air as the heroes countered the Land Shark’s assault.
Safely behind the front-line fighters and reassuringly close to Dirock the healer, Scalrag channeled a spell through his magic orb and sent it hurtling towards the rampaging beast. Suddenly, the ground beneath his feet began to rumble and split. He stumbled back and raised his arms defensively as dirt and rocks jetted out of the earth, pelting him and Kiira with painful shards of stone. Lowering his arms, Scalrag found himself face-to-face with a second Land Shark, which regarded him malevolently through glassy black eyes. The Land Shark gave a roar and leaped at Scalrag, catching the human wizard at the mid-section. Pain blinded Scalrag as he was lifted bodily from the ground in the monster’s pitiless jaws…
He found himself standing a short distance away, watching the battle unfold. It was a strange sight, because everyone involved – the nimble halfling, the dwarf clad in plate, the lithe eladrin, the stalwart cleric, the ranger shouting oaths and the two ravenous Land Sharks – was moving very slowly, as if part of an elaborate dance. He watched as the nearer of the Land Sharks slowly shook its great head from side to side, dumped the limp, bloody figure in its jaws onto the forest floor and turned its attention elsewhere. The beast’s fallen prey looked very familiar: he was sure he’d seen that same long black hair, neatly tied back, and that faintly shimmering robe, now shredded and stained dark with gore and spittle, somewhere before. He flicked a strand of long black hair out of his eyes and tugged at the sleeve of his faintly shimmering robe – and stopped.
“Oh no,” Scalrag said.
“OH YES.”
Scalrag turned to face the voice which spoke in tones as weighty as a mountain. Standing behind him was a tall figure, robed in black and faceless behind a drooping hood. It held a large scythe in one skeletal hand, and though the tool was unadorned, Scalrag somehow knew that it held one of the sharpest blades in all of creation. He looked up at Death and despaired.
“Uh … I don’t … that is, do you, um …” Scalrag sputtered. “Look, there hasn’t been some kind of mistake, has there?” he finally managed.
“NO, THERE HAS NOT,” Death replied in tones as heavy as a whale’s heartbeat
“But … it’s just … I mean, just the one bite and that’s it?” Scalrag asked, sounding a little indignant.
“I’M AFRAID SO.”
“Well, it must be a lot worse than it looks,” Scalrag sniffed.
“IT IS.”
“But, what are you doing here? I mean, I’m just a low-level wizard. An apprentice, really. You came all the way out here for me? Don’t you have more important places to be?” Scalrag asked.
“I DO. AND I AM.” Death replied.
Scalrag pondered a moment. “Yes. Well, I guess that makes sense, doesn’t it.”
“INDEED. CAN WE GO NOW? I AM VERY BUSY.”
“But what about them?” Scalrag indicated his companions, still locked in slow-motion combat with the Land Sharks. Very little time seemed to have passed since his mauling; Kiira was pointing at his crumpled form and Dirock had his eyes turned skyward, his lips slowly forming the words of an invocation of Kord’s power.
“I’M SURE THEY’LL BE FINE,” Death said testily, and held out a bony hand. “COME ON.”
“I just want to know that they’ll be alright.” Scalrag said simply.
“I REALLY DON’T HAVE TI – OH, DAMN.” Death said.
Scalrag glanced back over his shoulder at the Grim Reaper. “What’s wro-
Scalrag’s eyes popped open and he gasped in a great lungful of air. He felt as though lightning were coursing through every vein in his body. He shook his head to clear it and took stock of his situation. He was lying on the ground in a pool of what he strongly suspected was his own blood. His whole torso ached, but he was he alive. He tried to spot Dirock to offer his thanks, but found his view was largely blocked by the stamping Land Shark, which had not yet moved on to fresh prey; it seemed undecided between bite-sized (Arnold) and low-in-fat (Kiira). Scalrag seized the opportunity to scramble to his feet and point an outstretched hand at the beast. “I’m not done with you yet,” he shouted and sent streams of freezing cold streaking towards the Land Shark. The spells slammed into its flanks, briefly forming a line of frost across its scales before sputtering out. With awful slowness the creature turned its gaze on Scalrag. It raised a huge paw, covered in digging claws, and brought it around in a sweeping blow that struck the wizard so hard that he saw white. He felt the ground slip out from under his feet…
He watched himself twist and flip awkwardly through the air in slow motion, and sighed.
“WELCOME BACK.”
Scalrag spun around to face Death, his face a mask of frustration.
“Oh, come on,” he protested, “I was plucked from the jaws of … of you fair and square!”
“IT LOOKED THAT WAY, DIDN’T IT?” Death said, and Scalrag thought he detected a hint of amusement in the voice.
“Now see here,” Scalrag said, taking a step closer to the Reaper. “I demand to be sent back. You’re cheating!”
“THIS COMING FROM THE MAN WHO JUST GOT BAILED OUT BY THE THUNDER GOD.” Death replied.
“The point is, if I get saved, that’s too bad for you. This isn’t fair!” Scalrag said, somewhat childishly.
“YOU SHOULD HAVE RUN AWAY,” Death said in a parental tone.
“I don’t run from danger!” Scalrag lied.
“YES YOU DO.”
“Look,” Scalrag said, trying to get back on track, “the point is you can’t just kill me.”
“I DIDN’T. IT DID,” Death replied evenly, and pointed at the Land Shark, which was pawing speculatively at Scalrag’s body as a cat might a dead mouse. Behind it, Dirock rolled his eyes and began praying once more.
“That’s a technicality,” Scalrag said miserably.
“GOOD ENOUGH FOR ME,” Death said – a might too triumphantly for Scalrag’s taste. “NOW, LET’S GO BEF-”
Scalrag gasped, gagged and coughed up a mouthful of dirt and blood. The side of his head hurt like hell and he wasn’t entirely sure which way was up, but he was alive… again. He glanced around quickly and struggled back to his feet; the world wobbled unsteadily around him for a moment. The Land Shark had moved on, burrowing under the earth to emerge amidst his friends who were still fighting for their lives. He caught sight of Dirock, who gave him a “let’s have no more of that” look and turned his maul on the nearest monster. Scalrag collected himself and plunged back into the fight.
The battle raged on. One of the Land Sharks finally succumbed to Arnold and Viggo’s repeated attacks, one of which finally slipped between its thick scales and slashed an artery. The beast crumpled to the ground, blood gouting from its wound as it raggedly breathed its last. The second Land Shark howled in rage and renewed its attack. Scalrag took up a position behind a tree next to Kiira. In the leafy boughs above them, Arnold was reloading his sling. Dirock was close by, beseeching his god to empower the party to defeat the monster. Viggo, bruised and bloody, begged the Raven Queen not to summon him to her side, and waded back into battle. Thor cursed in the language of his forefathers as he hammered at the Land Shark with his axe.
Surrounded, the creature reared back and plunged its head into the ground, burrowing underfoot and out of reach of the party’s weapons and spells. It emerged directly in front of Arnold’s tree, which creaked in protest as its roots were shredded by the Land Shark’s passing. As it erupted from the ground, the monster’s sloped snout projected a stone the size of Thor’s fist though the air; it ricocheted off the tree trunk and streaked directly towards Kiira, who ducked at the last instant and watched as the stone smashed into Scalrag’s face.
Scalrag didn’t bother watching himself topple over backwards, a thick gob of blood spurting from his nose. He spun around and looked Death in the hood.
“BETTER LUCK NEXT TIME,” Death said.
“This is bollocks!” Scalrag screamed, jabbing a quivering finger at Death. “You set me up! You’re out to get me!”
“WOULD YOU HAVE PREFERRED IT BE THE WOMAN?” Death asked. “OR PERHAPS YOUR FRIEND FROM FESTUNG?”
“Whoa now, I didn’t say that…” Scalrag said, raising his hands in a placating gesture.
“I SUPPOSE YOU WOULD BE HAPPIER IF YOUR LITTLE FRIEND FELL OUT OF THE TREE AND WERE TRAMPLED, THEN.” Death said, looking over to where Arnold was perched precariously on a heaving branch, his sling at the ready.
“Don’t put words in my mouth,” Scalrag snapped. “I don’t want any of them to die.”
“WELL THEN,” Death said reasonably.
“‘Well then’? What do you mean, ‘Well then’?!”
“EVERYTHING HAPPENS FOR A REASON,” Death answered.
“Everything … Are you suggesting that one of us has to die here?” Scalrag demanded.
“I DON’T HAVE TO EXPLAIN HOW THIS WORKS. NOT TO YOU.” Death said dangerously.
“Well, I want some kind of justification,” Scalrag said, undeterred. Then he stopped. “Wait a minute – did you say, ‘better luck next time’?”
“UM… YES…”
“Are you … does that … I’m going to be resurrected?” Scalrag asked, suddenly hopeful.
“I DIDN’T SAY-”
“Or reincarnated? Am I going to be reincarnated?” Scalrag could barely keep himself from grabbing Death by the collar and shaking him.
“LOOK, IT’S JUST A FIGURE OF SPEECH,” Death said unconvincingly.
“Oh no – you said everything happens for a reason,” Scalrag retorted. “Ergo, every thing you say, you say for a reason, ergo you would never say anything just for the sake of saying it. QED, I’m not staying dead,” he finished triumphantly.
“RIGHT,” Death said, reaching for Scalrag, “THAT’S ENOUGH OUT OF YOU. YOU’RE COMING WITH ME RIGHT N-”
Scalrag’s eyes fluttered open. He was lying on his back, looking up at Arnold. The halfling didn’t seem to have noticed that Scalrag was awake. The wizard felt small hands rummaging in his pockets.
“Arnold,” he said wearily, “I’m still alive.”
The halfling shrieked and jumped back. “Scalrag! You’re still alive! Thank heavens! I was just checking to see if you had any healing potions I could administer to you.”
“That’s very kind, Arnold” Scalrag replied. “But I don’t keep them in my purse.”
Arnold looked down at the small jingling bag he’d pulled from Scalrag’s robe, grinned, and handed it back. “No, of course you don’t. But I thought maybe you kept your potions next to your purse. As my dear Aunt Petunia always used to say -”
“Not now Arnold,” Scalrag said and got unsteadily to his feet. His forehead was throbbing, his vision was blurry and there was blood trickling from his nose, but otherwise he seemed to be intact. He saw Dirock leaning on his maul and walked over. “I take it I can thank you once again?” Scalrag asked.
The cleric shook his head. “You can thank Kord for His blessings,” he answered, “for the God of Battle has saved you from death and delivered us unto victory!” He pointed to where Thor and Viggo were standing over the steaming carcass of the second Land Shark. Scalrag heaved a sigh of relief – he should be safe from any more close calls for now.
He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see Kiira standing there, holding a familiar-looking stone in one hand. “Nice catch,” she said with a grin, and handed him the rock before heading over to inspect the dead beasts. Dirock began insisting that Viggo set about skinning the Land Sharks immediately – something about armour. Arnold seemed to be trying to calculate the value of the hides on the open market, taking into account the possible cost of shutting down any competitors. Thor looked impatient to move on. Business as usual. Scalrag smiled.
“Better luck next time,” he whispered.
He watched the Company of the Ivory Goat tend their wounds and go through the lengthy and gory process of peeling off the Bulettes’ hides. He watched them pack up and continue westward into the Vale. He watched Scalrag, who was pulling up the rear, glance nervously over his shoulder and then up at the darkening sky. He watched as the band of heroes disappeared into the forest towards an uncertain future.
Death watched them go, and swore an oath.
“I’ll GET YOU, SCALRAG MANDU. SEE IF I DON’T.”
Into the Janech Vale
Returning to Rolus Keep, we soon met up with Thoradrin again. He had been busy in our absence, leading a small band of trainee Defenders to the Xiber Pass where they helped to repel the orcish assaults there. It seems they had slain at least as many as had we during our time in the Nexus.
Although the elders of Rolus Keep had no wish to let their citizens know how close the orcs had come to a successful invasion, they certainly showed their gratitude for our successful mission in the form of an ample reward. We were undecided, however, as to whether we should share with them the real reason for our journey to the northern border: to find the group of miners that had been sent beyond the Slatespire Mountains by Chancellor Invictad to prospect Janech Vale. Finally, after some discussion, we decided to do so.
Elder Morgoff Stonefist was kind enough to see us almost immediately. He was surprised by our news, and surprised that we had chosen to share it with him despite the promises of secrecy we had made to the Chancellor. He was able to reassure us that the prospecting, although secret, was not anything that particularly troubled the dwarven leaders. He also agreed (at my suggestion) to facilitate our surreptitious crossing of the border by briefly reducing the number of military patrols in the area.
Before leaving, we stocked up on the provisions that would be necessary for our long and difficult journey: food, warm clothes, and a hunter’s flint. While Viggo doubted we needed the latter implement, I had no desire to attract unnecessary attention to our campsites and every wish to sleep each night before a warm and toasty magical fire. Unfortunately, it seemed as if we would have to undertake our quest without the aid of either Kiira or Skalrag. Both, apparently, had urgent business with the Mages’ Guild.
As Viggo, Thor, Dirock, and I set off the next day, the weather seemed fine. We had been warned, however, that it would grow far more unpredictable as we climbed deeper into the mountains. Sure enough, after skirting the base of the peaks for several days amid pleasant temperatures, we soon found ourselves beset by chill winds and overcast skies as we began to pick our way through the valleys, passes, cracks, and crevices of the mountains.
It was five days after our departure from Rolus Keep that we had our first hostile encounter: a group of three rat-men, each mounted on a huge wolf, circled us a few times then galloped in to attack. They were, I feared, were-rats—the very same creatures that had once infected Edgar Stoat and his party in Edgar Stoat and the Lycanthropic Vermin of the Great Misty Mountains.
Given our lack of either a nubile Hedazistanian dancing-healer or the requisite handful of rare Fallowroot spores, I hoped that we too would not meet a similar fate.
As Viggo readied his bow, I prepared a spinnyblade until the first rider approached. As it came within range, I threw it low and hard, cutting the wolf on a leg-tendon and causing it to stumble and throw its rider. Viggo loosed his first arrow into the lycanthrope, hitting it. We both then backed up a little.
Meanwhile, the other two attackers were closing rapidly. With a shout, Thor charged one, laying hard with his axe into one of the wolves while it snapped and growled, and its rider thrust at him with his short, sharp sword. The third wolf and rider charged into our flank. Soon they were all upon us.
I glanced over to see Viggo knocked over by the wolf I had wounded, while the rat it had been carrying attacked him too. He waved off my assistance, however, and with a sword in each hand, slew first dire-wolf then its former rider. With my own blade, I dashed over to assist Thor, flanking the wolf before him, and then slipping under it to strike a deadly blow. Thor followed up, swinging his axe to slay a wererat then a second. Finally, Dirock mustered the power of Kord to bring our final opponent down.
All three lycanthropes were dead, with not one of us having been bitten and possibly infected. Moreover, we now had three magnificent dire wolf pelts! Viggo eagerly started to skin our prizes, and would later spend the evening before our magical campfire, scrapping and curing them.
That night Viggo tossed and turned, mumbling in his sleep. It was odd for him—he’s usually such a sound sleeper. When he woke he recounted an odd dream, in which his mother (or grandmother or great-aunt—I can’t quite remember) told him to seek a missing crown. He believed it to be a message on behalf the Raven Queen herself.
After a hearty breakfast of dried biscuits, we packed up camp and headed north, towards the dig-site marked “Chenth” on the map that the Chancellor had given us. It was a much clearer day than most, and around noon we came upon a small box-canyon with a small river running through it and a waterfall at the far end. There was also something else in the valley too: kobolds. Viggo spotted several on guard near the waterfall, and some tunnels in the canyon there that likely marked their lair.
Rather than charging in, we decided to reprise our successful strategy from our very first encounter with the orcs: Thor would stumble towards them, as if lost and wounded. When they moved to attack him, we would spring our trap!
It didn’t quite work out that way. When the kobolds spotted the dwarf, they did not treat him as a hated foe, but rather waved and questioned him in their odd draconic language. When the tongue-tied dwarf failed to respond clearly, they summoned an older kobold female from the caverns, who proceeded to ask Thor his business in the common tongue. This, of course, flummoxed the poor warrior even more.
It was painful to watch. Our Dwarven Defender was known for his cleaving blows, not his conversational skills. I stepped forward to parley, as did Dirock , while Viggo remained concealed and covered us with his bow.
As it turned out, we had an odd tie with the elderly kobold and her kin, for she was none other than the mother of Treepo the Alchemist, whose shop (and clever traps) we had encountered in zombie-infested Phirul. While not being entirely honest about how we knew of her son—neither the word “looted his stocks” nor “killed his annoying imp” passed my lips—we were able to turn the connection into an invitation to meet their chief, one Kurnax Gribold. We signaled Viggo to join us. Dirock quickly cast a ritual that enabled him to comprehend languages (an ability he did not inform the kobolds of, however), and then we all entered the small and twisting tunnels of their home.
Kurnax greeted us with surprising warmth, and for a reason: it seemed he was not so much the chief as the ex-chief of this tribe. Some months earlier a dragon had arrived in the valley, and appointed itself their “Queen.” He was clearly resentful, and hoped that the arrival of a brave and stalwart adventurers such as ourselves might provide him with an opportunity to have the interloper killed and his own position restored. He also told us that at least some of the mining party had been this way a few weeks back, and some had been taken to see the queen—possibly, we feared, as snacks.
We had only begun to discuss all this when there was a commotion outside, and a group of heavily-armoured kobolds burst in. They had, they proclaimed, orders to take us immediately to see the Queen’s assistant, Wursop.
They escorted us warily into another chamber, where a self-important kobold in flowing robes sat behind a desk that seemed several sizes too large for him. He demanded to know why we were there, and what we wanted.
“We’re here about the prophecy,” I replied. “You’ll remember how, in the 12th Verse of the Book of Gar-Inth it is foretold that One day, the four shall come/to see the Queen at once/and to see her they must at once/for if they do riches will abound/or otherwise all will perish.” I smiled my most believable smile, and tried to look slightly prophetic.
“What is thizzz? The Book of Gar-Inth, you sayzzzz?? Wursop looked suspicious, but clearly didn’t want to look ill-informed.
“Ah yes—I can see you’re a kobold of great education to know of the Book and its mysteries. May we see her then?”
“Yezz… but the weaponzzzz you must give meee.” the kobold hissed back.
“But what of the 13th verse?” I asked in mock incredulity. “You know, The weapons the heroes must bear/to honour the Queen/and respect her fair…”
Sadly, he wasn’t having it. He signaled to one of the guards to seize our arms. Before he could do so, I ducked, drew Petrunia, and severed the guard’s arm instead. I then positioned myself near one exit, to stop any from leaving the chamber and raising the alarm. Thor did so at the other end of the room, while Viggo leapt across the desk to slash at Wursop with his blades.
Kobolds are shifty things at the best of times, and these were all better fighters than most I’ve heard of Wursop took several blows from Viggo, an invocation from Dirock, and a spinnyblade of my own before falling dead in a bloody pile. The guards took a little longer, but were soon vanquished too. There seemed to be no general alarm raised, so we did our best to barricade the passage from which we had entered, and then continued deeper into the lair.
I grinned at my companions. “You can’t say I didn’t warn them… or otherwise all will perish indeed!”
We didn’t have to travel far before we entered into a large cavern, open to the sky above, with what seemed to be terraces and primative ornamental gardens of a sort. While my companions guarded our rear and Viggo kept watch to the skies above, I slipped in and began to scout out the place.
I had just spotted what seemed to be a cart and a pile of suplies on an upper ledge when I glanced back just in time to see Thor and Dirock disappear out of sight. Viggo soon vanished too. Judging from their movements, something had come down the corridor to attack them from behind…
Abandoning all caution, I raced back to help my friends. As I did so, I failed to notice the huge grey dragon descend from the sky above. It breathed upon me with a sticky acid that bound me in place even as it ate away at my body, then swiped me hard with its sharp claws. Hard grey spines impaled my body.
Viggo, who had turned back to help the others deal with a lone Kobold guard, was the first to hear my cry for help. He rushed back into the cavern, drawing his bow and firing an arrow towards the beast. Thor and Dirock, having slain the single kobold, also rushed back.
As for me, I had never been so near death. Unable to run and hide due to the sticky glob of acid about my legs, I instead drew Petunia and stabbed at the beast, catching it in the wing with a deep gash. While she might eat me, at least she wouldn’t be flying very far very soon.
The dragon roared in anger and clawed at me again, injuring me grievously. I fumbled at my belt, and drew a healing potion. Moments later, I felt another healing power course through my battered body as Dirock directed Kord’s energies towards me. As he ran closer, Viggo threw me another potion, which I quaffed too in a desperate effort to stay alive.
Thor charged into the fray, muttering a stream of angry but often unintelligible oaths in his thick dwarven brogue as he tried his best to draw the monster’s attentions away from me. “Lae heem aloyn, ye huir. Pick oan someain yer ain size! What’s th’ matter, afreaid ay a Dwarven Defender an’ his axe? Wa, some thes way an’ mah Moradin’s mailed fist Ah’ll chop ye in wee pieces an’ wear yer teeth around me neck!”
The Queen turned and bit at the dwarf, missing him. It then limped higher up the terraces, as Viggo clambered up in pursuit—only to glide back down, attacking Dirock and Thor in turn with its foul breath and terrible spiked claws and tail. Viggo clambered down once more, only to be pinned in position by another one of the Queen’s spikey attacks. His frustration was evident, all the more so because he had dropped his bow further back to draw his swords instead. He could do little else but utter a stream of Kuzian curses.
Thor continued to hack at the dragon with his axe, as Dirock used his powers both healing and offensive.
By this time I had finally worked myself free. I ran past the dragon, stabbing it once and kicking it in the tail back towards Thor with surprising efficiency for such a small halfling boot. I then sought a more sheltered position from which I could launch my spinnyblade at the fearsome creature with maximum effect. As one such throw cut it deeply, it turned in my direction and charged. Once more I grasped Petunia in hand, dodged its snapping jaws, and then lunged in a last, desperate effort….
The blade struck true, cutting the beast’s neck deep and severing an artery. It howled in pain, writhing too and fro and it sprayed a mighty red fountain of its lifeblood in the air and around the dirt floor of the cavern. Finally it slumped down, unmoving.
We looked at each other, battered and bloody, and shared a common thought. The dragon was dead. We were very lucky it had not been the Company of the Ivory Goat instead.
A Wurzel's Wanderings 