# Sir Gerard d'Montfort - In his own words (a tale of Anka Seth)- Updated Nov 11th



## Haraash Saan

When the followers of the god of justice condemned sinners to living death in catacombs deep in the earth, the followers of the earth spirit rebelled. The chaos that ensued tore apart the world, releasing generations of undead murderers, vandals and thieves onto the world. The convocation of clerics are slaughtered overnight and the great society fragments. Some turn to war, some to vice to delay their impending doom as the wave of undead and mutated creatures spread indefatigably.

A Story Hour for this campaign was first posted on Enworld by Fiasco, Anka Seth - The Rise of the Hydra (New Update April 19, 2007) - EN World D&D / RPG News but this Story Hour is in a first person perspective.

The campaign is a based on home brewed 3.5 D&D campaign world that ran for two years.


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## Haraash Saan

*The Chronicles of Gerard d’Montfort*

The Chronicles of Gerard d’Montfort
Chapter 1 – Ringing in my ears 

Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Gerard d’Mowbray, well it is for the moment. My lineage is that of the noble and respected family d’Mowbray. We serve the Baronony of Mendus within the Kingdom of Guerney. Both my father, Sir Reginald d’Mowbray, and my eldest brother, Sir Asquith de Swanton, are knights in the service of the Baron. I will no doubt prove myself worthy of following in their gallant footsteps and enter knighthood in the near future. Once knighted my father will no longer be able to withhold the lands and name that are rightfully mine; Montfort. I know not why he has withheld them from me for so long, after all I have been administering Montfort town and the lands surrounding it for some eighteen months now. The people love me and the town is prosperous and continues to expand. But enough of my family and Montfort, I should move on to begin my tale.

Absquith and I had travelled for many days, leaving the cultured halls of Thessingcourt to go to Halfast, the main port of Guerney. My brother made the journey so that he could enter the annual Halfast Games. Whilst fighting the barbarians on the steppes, he proved himself a skilful and resourceful warrior. My own reasons for our trek through the wilderness were even more ambitious. As I was now of an appropriate age, I sought adventure, its rewards, and of course, fame.

This journal tells my tale and it is my intention to update it as frequently as I can. Hopefully it will provide some entertainment and more importantly, become a document for the ages.

Halfast is a large and thriving city. The commotion, noise, and more than anything else, the odour, engulfed me. I could smell the city several miles away, although to be fair that was downwind. It is a city where every vice imaginable is available and the Duchess Servessa not only ensures that it is so, but is proud of it! After all, we in Guerney tend to worship Laster, God of Vice and Debauchery.

I suspect old Laster would be pretty happy to pass through Halfast. Drugs, temptations of the flesh, alcohol, food and the like are all easily attainable. And that, in part, was yet another reason for our travel to Halfast. We had timed our journey to coincide with Laster’s most holy celebration, All Summers Day, that falls on the first day of the month of Low Summer. The joy of having Laster as your most revered deity is quite simply that anything and everything is available to you. I had always wanted to spend a holy night (or any other for that mater) in the arms of one of Laster’s wonderful nuns, the Veiled Sisters! Extremely talented girls they are! And as it so happened their convent was on the outskirts of Halfast.

Whilst Halfast is a wonderful place, well, at least its lovely distractions are, its chief significance is because of the annual Halfast Games. What to tell? The simplest way to explain the games is that they are a gladiatorial contest that all are welcome to enter. However, most need patrons to sponsor their fee. At five thousand Silver Sickles, entry is expensive. There are four levels of competition: Apprentice, Journeyman, Master and Grand Master for the individual event and also a team event that brings just as much wealth and prestige. As combatants prove themselves they can advance through the levels, and that is most desirable. Financially the prizes are excellent, but the chief reward is the great honour of wearing the sash of a successful competitor. Absquith will be competing as a Journeyman this year as he was most successful in last years tourney at the Apprentice stage. However, I am not too sure how fortunate he will be this year as it is rumoured that the competition will be quite tough. 

We arrived at Cassavary Square, the heart and soul of Halfast, via the North Gate. Above us, black storm clouds menaced from the West. The coming rain would only change the pleasant clime to a hot and sticky one. 

Cassavary Square is the place to go to find anything and everything one desires, including suitable employ for a young gentleman such as myself. I must admit that I was somewhat in awe of the city. It was so much busier than Thessingcourt. Hawkers were everywhere, loudly announcing their wares. A beggar, some poor sod wearing naught but rags, pulled the hem of my cloak. Through a toothless and pitifully sad smile he asked for coin. Carts and wagons pushed slowly through the crowds. A young fop cursed loudly as he trod in the evidence of their passing. His friends chortled at his misfortune. 

A commotion at the North Gate, a great sandstone arch that easily allowed a large wagon to pass through it, caused me to turn. City folk were scrambling aside and clearing a path through the Gate and beyond to make way for a procession of guards in orange and black livery ride big black mounts. The gate keepers did not dare to collect taxes, for amongst the guards was Prince Brand himself! I recognised the Prince immediately, as I had seen him from a distance on several occasions while at court in Thessingcourt. 

With him were five very odd looking servants. Servants probably is not the right word, perhaps companions would be better, but then they did look more like underlings of some special nature. In any case, they were of no concern to me. The Prince, second son of King Thurlland II, thundered past noticing little of the bystanders who goggled at his party. Prince Brand was, or so I had heard, a fine duellist. A master of the blade who I assumed had come to observe and perhaps even compete in the Games. He looked to me to be an angry man, his face contorted into scowl of contempt as he glanced about him which fit well with descriptions I had heard in Thessingcourt. He was not over joyed at being the second son of the King. Not surprisingly, like most men, he was not content with his lot in life and always wanted more. I wonder what the King wanted more of? Many people would think that a Prince would be a true noble, pure of heart and wanting what was best for his people. Those people are deluded and have most likely listened to too many children’s stories.

Absquith left me as the throng began to thicken again after the Prince’s passing, to head to the accommodation of his choice, The Inn at the End of the Road. He told me to have care and join him there later and gave me directions to get to the End of the Road and then left me in the middle of it.

I turned back to face Cassavary Square and once more realised that my senses had not yet acclimatised to the busy port city.  The stench of the unclean, both the city and its denizens, filtered down into my mouth so that I could taste the filth. The sensation caused me to gag. The noise of the busy square made it hard to decipher any particular sound into something coherent and the continual movement of the masses made for sights of turmoil that I guessed Halfast turned out daily for display. 

An old priest of Gerech was spouting the usual nonsense. Stupid bastard! Should be hung, drawn and quartered. A few folk with too much produce bought at the market were using the excess in the best possible way, trying to shut the fool up. 

Off in a corner, under the shade of a fishmonger’s canvas awning were a bunch of Thuusians. Well, I assumed they were as I had never seen Thuusians before. More religious zealots! Thuus was a god of battle and steadfastness, worshipped mainly in the Fastness. His disciples were dishing out soup to the scum that couldn’t afford a meal. Halfast was the start of what was called the ‘soup road’. The story as I heard it was that the Thuusians would offer a free meal, usually soup, to anyone. The catch was that to get the next meal, the recipient would have to travel to the next Thuusian camp which was always a bit closer to Vronburg, a great stronghold in the Fastness. The theory was that if you turned back you would starve. So the hungry just kept going and eventually arrived on the frontline, fighting the ever encroaching Dominion with clubs and rocks and whatever else they could use. At least they died with a full stomach.

But I was not in Halfast for religious brain washing or to be used as a tool for some foreign political power. No, my goal was much simpler; find suitable employ for an up and coming noble ready for high adventure, and all of the notoriety that went with it.


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## Haraash Saan

“Guards! Guards! I need guards for my wagons.” bellowed a fat bearded man.

Promising, I thought, although perhaps a bit below my station. 

“I travel with my goods to Nevitt and will pay well for able bodies to protect my stock”. He said, flashing his yellow teeth as noticed me edge closer to hear better over the cacophony of the square. 

“Yes you my lad.” He did not endear himself to me with his condescending tone. “You look like a likely sort! I see a sword by your side, and I’ll wager you can swing it well enough!” 

Little did the rotund merchant with the grubby smock know that the sword was a gift from my brother, ”To better protect us on the road”, and whilst he did try to teach me of an evening, I found it difficult and cumbersome. I am not a man gifted with colossal strength and even the rapier he gave me was awkward for my physique. We both agreed that I would be better served finding another to teach me its use. 

As the trader looked expectantly at me I realised my poor nose had finally recovered enough to pick up a new odour, dung, and it seemed to emanate from the keen round recruiter. That could explain the stains on his clothing.

“What is it that you transport my good man?” I asked sceptically.

“Um, er, well,” and softly he added “dung.” He then said more loudly “And it is the best this side Port Praar me laddie!”

That excited exclamation made my mind up. There was no way I could possibly act as a guard on a wagon train full of dung. Sometimes I wonder at my own curiosity. I am sure one day it will actually get me into some serious trouble.

I moved along, trying to breathe whilst being continually assaulted by the foul reek of the city, although it was easily less offensive than my recently met mercantile friend. 

Quite suddenly an enormous weight pressed upon my shoulder and I spun quickly, hand clutching for my rapiers’ hilt. 

“Ha, ha!” boomed a deep voice “That is exactly the spirit we seek!” I squinted as I looked into the sun, at the face above me. Intense dark eyes peered down at me from beneath considerable eyebrows. A nose broken too many times sat precariously (it looked like it could have fallen off at any moment) above a beard that could only be related to the enormous eyebrows. The beard rumbled, “I, Cerunos, the Crusader and am looking for recruits to fight the good fight in the name of Gerech!” 

By Laster’s ample backside! Another bloody nutter! Perhaps I attracted the insane? A theory that I will continue to reinforce.

“Thank you sir for your kind offer but I think not. Good-day.” I replied. One thing I had been taught is that politeness will always help. There is always a place for one with manners. 

I dipped my shoulder to remove the brutish hand that rested there. With a quick brush of my collar (who knows when the giant last washed his hands), I turned away looking for someplace, any place, away from Cerunos. The problem with Gerechian’s is that not only are they bloody self righteous, they also fail to accept that their God and his followers almost destroyed the world and effectively unleashed the Dominion upon it. I know little of religion, although I hope to learn more, but I do know that Gerechians are a bunch of lunatics on some sort of ludicrous mission to rid the world of something. With any luck they will fail and it will result in us being well rid of them.

I wandered some more, pausing to buy some excellent sweetmeats from a vendor and better take in my surrounds. There were many more of the spruikers trying to hire people for various tasks, but the one that eventually caught my eye was a well dressed man calling for people to be recruited for a private patron.

“Training, equipment and the glory of the joining a premier gladiatorial company!” he proclaimed. That was much more my style. There is a lot of honour and fame, not to mention finances, to be gained from being involved in a gladiatorial company. 

I pushed my way through the crowd to get closer and better hear what he had to say. Quite a throng had gathered around him and they all were listening intently. There were all sorts, warriors, peasants, even a Gnome! I had not seen many Gnomes in the past. Most lived in Riverglenn, and I had not journeyed that far north east. 

The little bearded fellows that I had seen were affluent traders and merchants that had travelled to sell their wares in Thessingcourt. Whilst I had only seen a handful previously, this one was unlike the others. He was a smidge over three feet tall and clad head to toe in thick padded leather armour and a crossbow jutted out over his shoulder. He looked a warrior, a comical one, but a warrior nevertheless. As I was to learn later, looks could be deceiving.

The recruiter, one Baastian Leville, spoke of training, conditions and more importantly of a patron for the company being assembled. Patrons were several things. They were rich and usually noble, and because of that, they often sponsored entrants in the Games. Leville’s spiel sounded more and more promising. 

Baastian finished his address and extended a lunch invitation for those truly interested in his enterprise and were keen to further discuss terms. I looked about me. Baastian’s crowd had thinned somewhat and those remaining were an odd assortment. The Gnome had stayed, as had three others, all travellers from the look of their garb. I introduced myself, with a flourish of my broad brimmed hat and a slight bow, “I, Gerard de Mowbray, will luncheon with you and will hear what you have to say.”

Baastian rose his fingers to stroke his chin thoughtfully, “Mowbray? As in, Sir Reginald de Mowbray?” he inquired, not hiding his interest.

He obviously knew a little of the nobility, “Yes indeed, I am his son.”

More commotion at the gate interrupted our conversation. Glancing that way I once again saw the sea of bodies part, but this time it was not royalty they made way for, but rather the opposite. A group of eight robed figures shuffled ungainly into the city. No guard stopped them or questioned them. Everyone one shunned them. The noise of the square had subsided. I raised a quizzical eyebrow to the group around me. I heard the word, “Lepers.” muttered in a hushed tone. I knew not who voiced it. The faint tinkling of bells reached my ears. Each of the robed figures wore bells around their necks, just as a cow would. I soon learned that was the one sure sign of a leper. The poor wretches were forced to wear their noisy jewellery so that the good healthy folk knew to get out of the way quick smart. Pretty clever really, but I could not quite work out why the buggers did not remove their jingling trinkets and try to pass for normal folk or as priests of some nature, after all their robes hid their scabs, sores and deformities.

“Let us hurry along. I know of a wonderful inn that will suit our purposes nicely” said Baastian hurriedly, fearing that the distraction would destroy any momentum he had built for his cause. He glanced up at the sky as the first spots of rain began to fall.


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## Haraash Saan

As Levillie moved off I noticed a massive old ugly hound that clambered slowly to its feet and followed him. I had not seen the beast before and frankly considering its size (it dwarfed the Gnome, there’s an unintended pun), I do not know how I had missed it! 

“Food did you say?” rasped a voice from behind us. 

We turned to see a tall, hunched, shambling pile of rags hurrying to catch up to us. The only human traits about it were the bald pate, and its grubby face. The later being a stretch to be recognisably human.

“Yes.” replied Basstian hesitantly, as he turned to face his questioner. I felt that his first thoughts were similarly sceptical to my own. The man, if you could call him that, was nothing but a starving wretch. “If you are truly interested in my proposal.” he added haughtily.

“Aye. I am.” replied the mound with a vigorous nod. That statement told me a little about our new friend. He was from the Fastness, not a local Guernean like me. His annunciation was good with only a slight accent. I have a gift with languages, Fastendian being one that I know quite well.

As we walked through the town, Baastian pointed out some sights, one of which was of particular interest to me. Nightingale Street, where many pleasures of the flesh could be experienced. If I was not to be selected by one of the Veiled Sisters at the Convent of the Doves later that evening, then perhaps I would have to celebrate All Summers Day in the appropriate way here. That was the problem with the convent; the nuns there selected you, not the other way around as may be more familiar.

We arrived at a tavern called the Green Arms just as the clouds burst and rain pelted down onto earthen street. The tavern was named after the pair of green troll arms that hung in pride of place above the door. The story goes that Sea Trolls attacked the drinking establishment one evening years ago. They were defeated quite quickly after the owner of the time slammed the door shut with such force that the arms’ of one of the trolls were severed as it tried to claw him. All that now remained to mark their arrival and swift departure was that very pair of arms. You may think that they should have decayed, exposed to the elements as they were, but that is the very special thing about trolls. The nasty creatures are notoriously difficult to kill because their bodies heal themselves. I would not be surprised to have found out that the armless troll had grown back a new pair of limbs!

Our guide and host pushed open the doors to the tavern to reveal a small and quaint establishment. Four tables were occupied, and they by an assortment of characters. A robed woman sat chatting intently to a sailor at one table. On another was a girl not yet at womanhood clothed in filthy rags. A couple of mugs sat on the timber table in front of her. She looked somewhat out of place, but I expect she was limbering up for the hard night ahead of her. On the third table were two curious folk; a traveller and another Gnome. What is the world coming to?  

Both were watching the door, although not for us as they ignored us completely. Finally there was an ugly hulking man with many scars upon his face and large bare arms. With him sat what could only be described as a wizard. I say this because, well, the spectacles, long white hair, beard and his attire, a robe with moons on it, struck me as very wizard like. Of course he could well have been a loon. I have already demonstrated that Halfast was full of them.

Baastian ushered us to a large vacant table and called for food and drink. The mound looked up expectantly. I swear he began to salivate at the prospect of a meal.

Roast lamb and trimmings were on the menu as was a spicy soup from the Fastness. The mound opted for the later. I mention this because the silly fool actually snorted the spiced powder that came with the meal, much like a gentleman would with quality snuff, but with a bit more gusto. What passed for the mounds’ nose started to bleed. He was definitely an odd one. Best keep an eye on him.

We chatted as we ate. I tried to be polite to the rabble surrounding me but only Baastian and the Gnome, Mortec, seemed to have any culture about them. I will note that if you are every travelling through Halfast, do go to the Green Arms and try their lamb, it truly is superb. Although the mead I drank could not be compared to Astrid’s Marvellous Mead from Montfort.

“So what of this proposal Leville?” I asked, wiping my mouth with a kerchief. I always have some on my person. One can never be without the means to keep clean. “Are you finally ready to share some details?”

He looked at me with a slight smile and a glint in his eye. “But of course. I was so carried away with our delightful meal that I had almost forgotten what had brought us here. I have been asked by my employer, your patron if you accept the terms, to find some suitable folk to become gladiators.“

“So you said.” remarked Argonne, a tallish man garbed in the browns and greens that one would associate with a woodsman. On closer inspection the clothes that he wore were almost patchwork and definitely crudely made. He seemed to have few possessions, the most notable being a staff that leaned against the table. His most remarkable feature, though, was the lack of one. He wore a strange mesh mask across his face that it effectively obscured any detail. How he saw out of it when none could see thorough it was a mystery to me.

“Yes, my impatient friend, I did indeed.” continued Baastian as he absently flicked a golden curl from his forehead. “If you choose to join with me today then your patron will sponsor each of you into the Halfast Games.” He glanced about looking for reaction, and he got it!


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## Haraash Saan

There was a collective of gasp of surprise. I tried not to but even I who had been exposed to wealth from my earliest days, could appreciate the cost involved. As I mentioned earlier it was some five thousand Silver Sickles to enter. Only the mound seemed immune, he was still wiping his bloody nose with what I assume was a sleeve and sculling his soup.

Baastian smiled smugly, appreciating the desired response he received. “Your patron…,” he commenced.

“Who may I ask is our patron?” I interrupted impatiently. I knew that it must be some noble or very wealthy merchant, but before I heard anymore I had to learn whether it was someone that I found respectable enough to be my employer.

“As I was saying, your patron will be the Baron of Yorath, and your training and equipment will be supplied in Yorathton.” Continued Baastian.

What little I knew of The Baron of Yorath informed me that he was relatively wealthy but for reasons unknown to me, had very few knights. He was seen as an eccentric, but had a earned a lot of respect in high circles due to his successes in the Halfast Games. Yorath itself was the furthest Barony of the Kingdom in relation to the capital Guerney City. It occupied the south east corner of the Kingdom which was essentially a natural peninsula, with all but its western border surrounded by the ocean.

Baastian went on to tell us that every year, the Baron formed a new gladiatorial team for two main purposes. The first was to win glory at the Games and the second was to create an armed company that would effectively act upon his beck and call. One does what one must when one has few knights. We would be required to swear allegiance to him and do his bidding as required. You may think that this would not sit well with me, being of noble stock myself and with a knighthood serving another Baron almost guaranteed, and initially it did weigh heavy upon me, but it is not uncommon to serve more than one lord.  

Currently the Baron had two other mercenary bands, the first called themselves the Massive Hand. Six warriors and a minstrel formed the group. The minstrel was in the company to record and proclaim their achievements, although apparently he was also quite deft with a blade. Their principal tactic was to charge their foes quickly and then hack them down even more swiftly. As they were still in existence, it must have been an effective tactic, if somewhat uncouth.

The second band were a collection of mages, each with a different speciality. They had the creative name of Five Kinds of Death. I had only a little knowledge of magic, both my mother and twin sister were secret practitioners, but I knew enough to not want to get on any mages’ bad side. I hoped they did not wear costumes similar to that of the wizard seated in the tavern. It would be too amusing, and their name would lose any fear that it might inspire. Imagine a group of old men dressed in robes covered with astrological symbols pottering about the sandy arena facing an organised, well trained and armed unit of warriors. How could one not laugh?

Baastien continued, “At Yorath you will undergo several tests, team oriented, physical and mental. They will allow the Baron to decide whether you are indeed worthy to be in his employ. If you are unsuccessful you will receive ten Sickles for your troubles and provisions enough to see you back here to Halfast, or anywhere else you wish to go. If you are successful you will be required to swear allegiance to the Baron and then commence your training to better prepare you for the Games. I should also mention that these positions give no pay as such, however, you will be able to keep one half of your winnings from the Games. The Baron of course is making a considerable investment and will take the other half of the spoils.”

The mention of money and perhaps more importantly food, once again had the mound’s attention. “I’m in!” he exclaimed quickly. Baastian did not look too comfortable at the proclamation, but said nothing. The mound then nervously, I took them for nerves at the time, but they were just the shakes, lit some sort of rolled weed and began to smoke. That seemed to calm him.

To me it sounded like a good opportunity. “I accept these terms, Baastian.” I said. “I will accompany you to Yorath to meet the Baron and successfully undergo his tests.”

He nodded to me, pleased at my response. “And you others? What say you?” he asked.

I guess now would be a good time to summarise the rest of my companions. Mortec the Gnome I have already briefly described. The only other thing of note was a small golden holy symbol of an open tome that I was not familiar with around his neck. A quick enquiry gave me my answer. Mortec was a follower of Todesmagie, God of knowledge and enlightenment. I myself have an interest in histories and tales, perhaps I would have someone to converse with other than Baastian on the journey to Yorathton.

Next was the woodsman, Argonne. Seated beside him was a tall lanky man, introduced as Strav, shortened from Stravarious. A man that shortens his name has no self respect in my opinion. Strav was hooded and masked so that his entire face was covered, with only a slit for his eyes. I must have somehow missed the new mask fashion that was sweeping the lower classes. The rest of his attire was that of a traveller, worn and dusty. A rapier that hung by his side was his only apparent defence.

Opposite Stravarious was Morgan, a Fastendian man of medium height and slight build. He had relatively non-descript features and clothing. Later I learnt that his father and brothers were here to compete in the Games, as they had done previously. Smithing was the family trade, fighting a bonus. Morgan did not look to fit the part for either.

Finally, there was the mound. His name was Moxadder, pronounced ‘Mo-hadar’, and was, as suspected, another Fastendian. He was a strange man, older than the other recruits gathered at the table and very jumpy. As he moved (or perhaps twitched, I could not really tell), I glimpsed tattoos through the collection of rags he wore as clothing. At that point I knew little of him other than that he had no dress sense. He had not eaten for some time and he seemed to enjoy his weed and maybe other substances as well.

One by one they agreed to join the company for the journey and the trials that awaited in the South East at Yorathton. 

Baastian introduced us to one last member of the party, the dog called Kuruul. To say that I was shocked is an understatement. I had thought nothing more of the animal than a companion to Baastain. How could the hound be considered a part of the gladiatorial company? Even allowing for the eccentricities of the some of the nobility it remained plainly ridiculous.


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## Haraash Saan

Once I had finished dining I took leave of the group, after dropping my gear off at the room that Baastian had taken out for me. As we were due to head off the next morning, I wished to meet Absquith and see what he thought of my news. Morgan came along too, he was quite pleased with the turn of events and as it turned out his brothers and father were also staying at the Inn at the End of the Road.

The rain had stopped by the time we had finished our meal and we made our brief trip without fear of saturation. We wound our way back to Cassavary Square. It was mid-afternoon and it was a lot quieter than before. I supposed that some of the shops and stalls had closed up for an afternoon rest or to prepare for the hedonism of the coming night. 

I told Absquith my brief tale and he was most proud of me, and pleased for me. 

“Yorath is indeed a suitable liege. I have not met the man but have never heard a bad word said of him. He should be good for you my brother.” he said.

We sat in the tavern on the bottom storey of the inn for a time, toasting my new found success whilst my brother imparted his wisdom and advice upon me. We were not particularly close, Absquith and I, however, he always looked out for me and I appreciated his joy for my success. I wished that the afternoon could have lasted longer, but reluctantly I headed back to the Green Arms and my new comrades. 

Thoughts raced through my mind as I walked. I imagined myself in the arena my new found companions fighting bravely, but they were just a blur. I was who the people had come to see. They wanted to find out if my reputation was deserved. I was like serpent, quickly striking at one foe after another with my rapier, darting back and forth, elegantly side stepping slow clumsy swings from sword and maces and the like. I could not be stopped. Every now and again I would aid a comrade by skewering their opponents, all the while dodging and weaving through my own. I was a dancer, my movements precise, beautiful and graceful. None could stop my lethal thrusts. Then there were no more opponents, only adulation and cheering. “Montfort!” echoed throughout the arena. Over and over again it was chanted and my imaginary self lapped it up, all of it.

I stumbled into a puddle left from the rain and it woke me from my self indulgence. I sighed with disappointment and shock my foot to flick the mud off it. I was near to the Green Arms, and my immediate thoughts turned to celebrating the most holy of days.

Baastian was still at our table, although now he was alone. I nodded politely and went to my room to clean myself for the coming festivities. I mentioned the filth in the city before, but after immersing my boot in the puddle all I really desired was a bath. An unclean man is a man that, like men that shorten their names, has no respect for himself. 

Feeling refreshed I joined Baastian. He had previously indicated that he would take us out to enjoy the occasion. I do believe everyone was quite keen to take up his offer. I for one would kindly accept a guide in this unfamiliar city, to ensure that I at least arrived at the Convent of Doves without too many undesired distractions.

Eventually we all gathered again in the tavern and, with Baastian in the lead, we headed off. Our first stop was Nightingale Street. Not for me. I was saving myself for what I hoped would be an unsurpassed night of pleasure. I was not going to partake in a quick tumble when I owed my full attentions to the Veiled Sister I was sure would choose me.

The others either had similar ideas or were a little timid as there were no takers for the gratifications offered on Nightingale Street. Baastian suggested that to overcome our ‘shyness’ we head to another tavern and have a few ‘looseners’. I did not bother to correct him. Shyness was not the issue for me.

We ambled through town admiring the revellers that had begun to appear and arrived at the docks where our next stop was to be. Even on such a holy day, and with evening just beginning to settle, the stevedores were still hard at work unloading and loading all manner of goods and wares from several ships at anchor. Strange wooden beams with ropes and pulleys that towered twenty feet above the wharves were being used to lift large heavy crates. I had never seen machines like them. It seemed that the ropes and pulleys coupled with the large beams used leverage to move cargo much heavier than a man could shift.

As I was taking in the busy dockside the Duchess Servessa rode into view with an escort of four pikeman. She was resplendent with finery befitting her station but why she was out riding the docks was a puzzle to me, it seemed a temptation of fate. Somewhere off in the distance I heard the jingle of bells. The dock workers heard it too, for they were scrambling for cover. I hazarded a guess that their reason was not the Duchess, but the lepers that rounded a corner. 

Upon seeing the lepers, Baastian inclined his head to a street to his right and said, “Perhaps we had best go this way.”

At that very moment the lepers threw open their robes, drew forth clubs and charged the Duchess!

“Duchess beware the lepers!” I cried out in warning as I ran toward the imminent conflict.


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## Haraash Saan

At this point I should note that weapons are not usually on show in most cities, well not weapons of significance like swords, and as I was expecting a night of passion, not violence, I had left my rapier back in my room.

The pikeman readied for the lepers charge but they were overrun before they had had a chance to set themselves. It very quickly turned into an ugly hand-to-hand melee. The Duchess was trying to control her startled mare. With any luck she would succeed, turn, and flee to safety. She did not. 

I arrived and attempted to slap the horse on the rump with the intent of startling it into a run to break through the lepers. It reared as I swung and my hand made no contact. I swung again, and once again I missed. I noticed from the corner of my eye that Baastian had arrived on my left and hurled a dagger although I did not see the result of the throw. A pikeman on my right went down. I slapped again. Contact at last! I laid a telling blow on the horse’s rear. Startled it tried to burst through the lepers, but the stupid woman astride it managed to hold the animal back. Why she resisted I do not know, but the reasoning of the feebler sex is beyond me.

“Unhand my horse, peasant!” she cried out to me. The lack of gratitude was incredible. I was aiding her, helping her and saving her life and what did I get? Unhand my horse? She must have been in a panic. She did not know what was good for her, and that would also explain her derogatory comment referring to my status. It was quite obvious to anyone who cared to look that nothing about me bore any resemblance to a peasant!

A leper leapt high with club in hand and thumped the Duchess solidly. She was stunned but somehow managed to stay upon her horse.

Morgan and Argonne now joined the fray. Morgan, like me, bore no weapons. Argonne introduced himself to a leper immediately, by forcing him to dodge a hastily swung blow from the staff. Stravarious appeared, whipping out his rapier and swinging wildly. The one glance I managed revealed that he had no skill with the blade.

Beyond the lepers I heard glass break. The fighting reached its most frantic. The Duchess’s horse finally decided to take matters into its own hooves and bolted through a gap in the congestion. Argonne grasped for the reins wildly, but was kicked aside for his troubles. 

Suddenly I realised my precarious position, without a weapon in the middle of a brawl. This was no place for a gentleman. Especially an unarmed one. I grabbed the pike of a fallen guard and used its significant length to puncture a leper. I half expected puss and ooze to seep out of its body. But then, I had not noticed until that moment that we were not fighting lepers. They were normal, healthy men. My adversary turned his attention to me. He took a step forward, edging past the shaft of my pike and swung a violent blow at my head. I ducked easily.

I glanced to my right to see if the Duchess was alright. Morgan had chased the horse down and was now struggling to control it, but they were clear of any immediate threat.

This was not how I imagined my first combat, a gutter stoush, pike in hand facing a club wielding foe. That thought must have distracted me, for my next thrust did not even graze my opponent, though at least I did manage to redirect my assailants’ attack by half parrying it and pushing his club aside with the pike. 

There was a quick movement above the combat, and my instincts prepared me to leap aside. A crate that had still been attached to a crane had been loosened and tumbled down with an almighty crash. I saw that Moxadder had not been idle and had climbed the crane and untied the securing rope and dropped the crate. I could not tell if his plan had any success as a massive lump of wood once again tried to part my head from my neck. Again I dodged and this time responded in kind with another strike that found its target. Still my opponent stood. Blood stained his robes. I prepared myself for another attempt, praying to Laster that if I survived I would truly honour his most important day. My foe ran straight past me. I stabbed quickly but in my surprise failed to connect. Then I saw what it was that he and another leper had run for; the Duchess!

Morgan had been leading the Duchess’s horse away, she still looked groggy, and our combatants had finally resumed there original intent. I sprinted off in pursuit. The two remaining pikeman, (another had fallen at some stage), as well as the rest of the leper colony,  beat me to it. The Duchess’ men thrust at the lepers with their pikes scoring at least one hit and downing a leper. I charged at the last robed figure, the very same one I had been fighting, and rammed my pike home. The force was such that his arms flew up and his club dropped from his hands, but the bastard refused to die. That is until a bolt from Mortec’s crossbow bolt flew true and thudded emphatically into his back. He slumped forward and slowly slid off the end of my pike. We had won the day and saved the Duchess. 

As is always the way with stories and tales of similar ilk, the pounding of hooves announced the arrival, when there was no one left to fight, of the brave and fearful Prince and his routine. The difference in this case was that Prince Brand was quite unconcerned.

“What happened here!” he barked.

“My lord, the Duchess was attacked,” I began.

“And who the devil are you, peasant?” he turned to look down upon me from his horse.

“My lord, I am Gerard de Mowbray, at your service.” I said with another doff of my hat and a much deeper bow than I had offered to Baastian.

“Mowbray? I seem to recall some such peasant nobility somewhere about. And what proof do you have man?” he asked.

I displayed my signet ring. His acknowledgment was a small grunt. “And?” he queried. The high and mighty of the nobility really do go above and beyond the call of arrogance sometimes. I am an intelligent man and accept that my place is above the peasants, however I do try not to treat them with the utter contempt Brand was displaying to me. 

“My lord. Several men posing as lepers,” Brand raised a suspicious eyebrow, almost questioning whether such a thing was possible, “drew clubs and beset the Duchess. We”, I gestured vaguely to Baastian’s company, “assisted the Duchess’s guards, who were severely outnumbered..” I sensed he was not a patient man, so I skipped the details.

“Hmpf.” Another magnificent reply! Obviously the man was a scholar.  

Prince Brand reached for his belt, grabbed a pouch and threw it to my feet. “There is your reward. Now leave! My men will handle this now.”

“Thank you my lord.” yet another bow. This one was deep enough to scoop up the pouch and deftly secret into a pocket. 

“Guardsman, I do believe that this is yours?” I said as I handed the pike I had retrieved earlier to a guardsman. I then turned on my heel and headed back toward my comrades.


----------



## Haraash Saan

As I walked back to the group I saw that not all had been idle. While I spoke with the Prince, Moxadder and Argonne had rifled through the corpses. Peasants, through and through, scrounging for anything of value.

Baastian gathered us together and hurried us along, wishing to leave the scene quickly so that we brought no extra attention ourselves. We ended up back at the Green Arms to discuss the recent events, and more importantly to have a few stiff drinks to settle our nerves. 

I relayed my conversation with the Prince to the group and when it came to the Prince’s reward, I upended the contents of the pouch onto the table. There were maybe fifty Silver Sickles and a few Gold Gromits. These were quickly divvied, but the most impressive object from the pouch was a ring. 

Mortec grabbed almost before it hit the table, saying, “If I’m not mistaken, and I rarely am, this ring is marked with the crown, the royal symbol of Guerney.” 

Baastian looked it over, looked at me and said, “I fear that the Prince did not intend to give you that particular pouch, Gerard.”

I took the ring from him and remarked as I stood, pushing myself from my chair, “I must return it to him and advise him of his mistake.” 

It should not have surprised me that I was almost instantaneously shouted down, but it did. Those gathered clearly saw the ring as some source of income, whereas I saw it returning the ring as the right thing to do. I was no petty thief in the night. That was obviously not a concern of my companions.

I sought to reason with them, arguing that it was not ours to take, especially as it was undoubtedly wrongly given. Baastian sided with the others and argued that the Prince was an arrogant and selfish man and more importantly, had previously not been civil to our potential employer. He had even gone so far as to publicly humiliate the Barony, if not the Baron himself.

Whilst I am in no particular favour of equality, after all it does go against my upbringing and my very nature, I quickly saw that there was no point arguing any further; these people did not give me the respect I deserved. It seemed that parentage did not translate well to the masses, so I washed my hands of the ring and told them that they could do with it what they wished. 

Strav snatched the jewelery from me, I think more in annoyance at my suggestion than anything else, and slid it on his finger. He attempted to muffle his surprise as he said, “Interesting! The crown signet is replaced by a splintered dagger when I wear it.” I did not actually ask what a splintered dagger was, I just assumed he meant broken. I would have to remember that tidbit of information. One day it may come in handy.

My rapier wielding comrade looked thoughtful as some hurried discussion broke around the table. I tried to remain ignorant of the ring, I did not want to be a party to it and turned to Mortec and asked about his family roots. His family was in the armour business, and were very well respected or so Mortec said. 

We stayed a little longer at the Green Arms and drank into more of Baastian’s hospitality. Finally he decided that the others had had enough time to settle their rapidly beating hearts and we headed off for the Convent of the Doves.

By this stage revelry and excitement was everywhere to be beheld. The populace had truly come out to worship Laster in the appropriate fashion. Many were inebriated, they staggered and fell all too frequently into our path. Drugs were evident everywhere, as were their users. People sat in the street smoking, snorting and even drinking various narcotics. They all seemed very, very happy. There were even amorous displays for all to see. One such dalliance was in the mud on the side of the road and another against a wall in an alley we passed. Ah Laster, how proud and happy he would be at such devotion!

We passed a monk of Hutenkama, a strange sect that I knew little of other than that they provided protections and cures from all manner of ailments. I paid for a protection from diseases, often a good idea on a night like this. The monk himself was a small man, maybe a smidge over five feet tall. He wore robes that exposed his hands and sandaled feet. As soon as my coin crossed his palm the little old man began jumping and spinning around me, twisting his gnarled fingers into obscure shapes before finally ending his strange little dance and dabbing some ink on my forehead whilst mumbling some sort of blessing. One can never be too cautious when potentially dealing with diseases of the loins.

I do not quite know what happen to Mortec or Moxadder but they were not with us when we arrived at the Convent. I suspect that Moxadder spent his reward fairly quickly. There were hundreds gathered at the holy site, mostly men but also some women, hoping, perhaps praying for selection by one of the Sisters. Quickly I left the company of the others and somehow manoeuvred my way through the mass of bodies closer to the convent itself, hoping to be more visible to the nuns. 

I had never really doubted that I would be selected although I must admit a small relief that I did not have to go back to Nightingale Street. A sultry seductress had sidled up next to me. I felt her hand gently clasp my own. Her touch sent a chill through me, but it was nothing compared to what I felt later.

I cannot say whether it was luck, the piety of the Sister of the Veil or the monk of Hutenkama, but I never did acquire any disease from that night of unimaginable pleasure. What was experienced that night is between myself and the nameless Sister. All I will say on the matter is that if you do ever get the opportunity to be with one, accept it! I found out the next day that Morgan and Argonne were also selected by a Sister and I have no doubt that they enjoyed the experience as much as I did.

Oh yes, I thought this strange at the time, and I remember it now whilst writing so I’ll mention it. My veiled pleasurer mentioned that she would give me a portent in a week’s time. I have not experienced anything that remotely felt like a portent as yet.


----------



## Haraash Saan

Chapter 2 – An unusual business at Ravenswood

The sun shone in the early morning sky. A good omen and an excellent day to begin our journey south-east to the Barony of Yorath. Surprisingly the entire company, I was sure Moxadder would not return, gathered at the Green Arms as had been arranged. 

Leaving town we stopped a herald to ask him what news there was to hear. The lad, a pimpled and lanky boy several years from manhood, stood proudly in his bright red herald’s tabard, puffing his chest out with ill-conceived importance. The information he gave cost me a copper common and it was barely worth even that. I will record it, however,  just in case it becomes useful. I may judge, but I am always faithful to the events as they take place. The herald told us the following:

Disease was rife in the town of Thornwood. I was stunned. His first utterance was actually useful. We had to travel through Thornwood on our way to Yorathton. 

Troll attacks had been reported not two days from town. This snippet was of little use. What direction? Naturally he could not elucidate this. 

The Prince’s advisors, the five mysterious companions I had seen arrive with him, were unnatural. I took that with a grain of salt. They certainly looked odd, but unnatural I thought was a little far fetched.

The Dominion had defeated an army north of the city of Avinal. I knew little of geography outside of Guerney but I had guessed correctly, Morgan confirmed it, that Avinal is in the north of the Fastness where most of the warring was taking place. 

The boy completed his recital by telling us that Prince Jeremy, King Thurllands’ first son, turned away emissaries from the Fastness without gracing them with an audience. Again this was not really news, Jeremy was known to be against any war effort. All the Fastendians ever asked for were troops. They never got any. However, the soup road seemed to provide them with militia aplenty.

Disappointed at my wasted coin I rebuked the herald and advised him to actually gather some news before pretending to have any. To say he was not pleased with my honest appraisal would be an understatement. 

He yelled at me angrily, his complexion taking on a lovely shade of beetroot, “I’ll wager you can’t do any betta! It’s ‘ard work finding out all that noos it is!”

So furious was he that he hurled his colourful herald’s surcoat at my feet before storming off. Some peasants really over-react. They just do not appreciate advice of their betters.

“Can I ‘ave that? It’s better than what I’ve got.” Moxadder inquired hopefully, eyes wide at the prospect of more good fortune.

“It is all yours my friend, I certainly have no need for it.” I replied cheerfully. If Moxadder was to travel with us then he could at least look vaguely presentable as a peasant. He had been struggling to do that. 

With a few hours of light left on our first day of travel we saw the town of Thornwood in the distance, the very same town that the angry young herald had warned us of. Over the next few miles the boy was proved right. It certainly did look to be struck by the plague. Not a person in sight, none in town and none tending the surrounding fields. Quick discussion led to the decision to skirt the town and ensure that we did not contract anything that would ultimately disappoint our potential employer and ourselves. Not that it was an issue for me as I still had the mark of Hutenkama on my forehead to protect me.

When we were about half way around the village, Argonne stopped. He went down on bended knee and brushed his fingers across the ground. 

“Tracks.” He said matter-of-factly, pointing them out so that we could all see them. 

Moxadder, who seemed most interested, performed a quick appraisal and told us that they belonged to rat trolls. Pesky little buggers, but dangerous enough for an untrained troop such as ours. He offered to negotiate with them if we had to, but advised against it, preferring to increase our speed a little and move on. We all agreed that this would be the most suitable course of action.

Whilst I knew that Moxadder was from a place within a swamp called Irudesh City, I still could not fathom from whom he had actually learnt to speak to trolls. Perhaps I could coax him into teaching me one day.

Two more uneventful days passed. The only mildly interesting thing that occurred was a meeting with some of the odd monks of Hutenkama that travelled in the opposite direction to us. They danced about a little, perhaps for our amusement, before realising we were not interested in their protections. My own mark had disappeared after the first day but I felt no need for another. So, a little despondent they continued on their way. 

The following morning the weather had turned a little. The drizzle that greeted us as we woke soon became steady rain. Everyone was sodden pretty quickly. Sometime near midday Morgan saw what looked to be a ruin of some nature off in the distance. We all hurried to it hoping for some shelter from the infernal and constant rain. Unfortunately there was none to be had but at least it provided some small respite to the boredom of the open road. 

Upon investigation, the ruin was found to be an old temple to Srcan, ironically the God of Hope amongst other things. I for one hoped that the persistent downpour would cease. Most likely the temple was destroyed by the Connvocation, bloody Gerech followers, over one thousand years ago. Further searching about, the wonders of an inquiring mind, led me to find a cave of sorts. It had been dug out by some beast, a squatter troll Moxadder suggested, that had not been back for a long time. He seemed to know an awful lot about trolls did the bald Fastendian. There was only one thing of interest within the trolls’ dwelling, a strange long stick made of bone. It did not seem to be a natural bone, but one that had been shaped or worked in some way. I picked up the curio, fixed it to my pack and then joined the others to trudge back to the road.

The weather only got worse. That evening we made camp under the trees of a small copse, looking to avoid as much of the rain as we could. At least I was not covered in the grime that accumulates when travelling, the rain had washed it from me. My boots however were covered in mud. It sickened me how filthy they had become. I would have to buy another pair to replace them at the first opportunity. 

By the seventh day of travel, the eighth day of Low Summer, the rain had stopped and the temperature had risen. I cannot recall if it was more or less uncomfortable than the rain and storms we had experienced, but at least it was different.

At one point Moxadder, Morgan and Argonne all heard sobbing off to the side of the road and went to investigate. They came back several minutes later with a young lad wearing the white surcoat of a Crusader. They explained that he had been burying several fallen comrades, adults, who had been driven town and beaten so badly that they had died. Not a wonder being Gerechians. I believe I have already mentioned they were not popular. 

The discussion turned to what to do with the boy. Some said leave him to his own devices, some said take him with us. I was in the former camp. I really did not want some young boy being a burden to us, especially when he was a Crusader. They only bring trouble. In the end we left him to his grizzly task. Good riddance I say.

That night during the third watch I was wakened by Mortec’s rasping voice. “Listen!” he said intently. “Screams”. 

I sat up and listened with all my might. Nothing. “There is nothing there, let me be.” I said grumpily as I slumped back down and rolled over. He had woken me from a rather pleasant dream involving my veiled seducer from Halfast.

“Look! Fire on the night sky.” Morgan said in a hushed tone.

Damn them all to hell! This was not a reasonable time to have a discussion! But discuss it they did, and at some ungodly hour we packed up camp and moved off. Baastian was assuring Mortec and Morgan that it was only a forest fire and nothing to worry about. They, however, did not seem convinced by that suggestion.


----------



## Shadow at the Edge

"Fire in the night sky"?

Well? Come on...what happens next?

You can't leave us here! We might as well be hanging off a cliff by one arm!


----------



## Haraash Saan

By sunrise it became evident that Moxadder was not well. He was pale and his eyes revealed desperation. Every now and again one of his hands would twitch as if in spasm and his right eye had developed a tic. I had seen this many time before in others, but the signs were the same. His drug horde had dwindled to nothing and he was now paying the price

The road we were travelling improved somewhat from an indeterminately grass covered path to a discernable cart track. Not much difference mind you, but as Baastian said, “We are getting closer to town.” And as our road crested a rise we were greeted with a wondrous sight. A picturesque bay was the reward for our early start. The sun had risen some way into the sky and its light caused the ocean to sparkle like white gems. I had never seen the ocean before, and it was a sight that I would never forget, so peaceful and so very, very beautiful. In Thessingcourt I had met many artists, several of whom were true masters, yet none of their works came close to achieving this natural wonder. 

The bay itself was well formed with a narrow entrance to the north and even from this distance we could make out a lighthouse atop the north eastern bluff. Away on the eastern side of the bay was a large squat building, Leathes Abbey, so Baastian said. I had heard of the Abbey before. It was considered a very holy site of Laster, but more importantly to me, it also housed a great number of documents and manuscripts, perhaps the best collection in all of Guerney. I have a great interest in history and myth. I love stories you see. 

Mortec was also rather excited by the prospect of visiting the Abbey. In fact I believe he was more excited than me. Something to do with his calling or religion or some such. My short companion sought knowledge of any kind.. What he intended to do with it I could not guess and he had not said.

On the southern shore was the town of Ravenswood. Several small houses littered either side of the road that passed through the town. Boats were moored to jetties, near which were situated three great long sheds. It was idyllic, except for one thing, there was no apparent sign of life. Just like Thornwood there were no children squealing and no mothers chastising them. No fishermen returning with a bountiful catch. Nothing. Just eerie stillness and silence.

There had been no forest fire the previous evening. Whilst most buildings in the town were unscathed, several were still smouldering, wisps of smoke curling from their remnants. Charred timber was all that remained. The boats, small fishing vessels, were low in the water, “Scuttled” Baastian said. “Looks like brigands struck. Let’s hope there are none still here.”

We walked down from our vantage point and slowly, cautiously, made our way to town. Our cart track turned quickly to an earthen road, muddy from the storms that had hit us not two days ago. Still we saw no life. No people anywhere, but no bodies either. Perhaps they had run away? Perhaps they had been carried off? At that stage we knew not the answer. Morgan looked into the first house we came to; ransacked. It was the same for all the houses we saw. Doors splintered where they had been forced open, furniture upturned, floor coverings lifted and thrown about, utensils, those not stolen, had been strewn about as if an almighty wind had formed within each house. And still no bodies, and certainly no live villagers. I thought it, curious that there were also no dogs loitering. Stock animals, chickens, pigs and the like I could understand that they may have been taken, although even to have none remaining I thought odd, but it was the lack of dogs that really struck me. At home, my birth home in Mowbray, my father kept many hounds on the Manor. I had grown up with dogs and tended not to notice them when they were underfoot, but their absence here certainly peaked my curiosity. 

One house we visited, the largest and therefore I supposed, the mayors’ residence, had an open back door that led to a private garden that in turn led to the forest. Argonne dropped to a crouch and looked intently at the ground for some time, “Lookin’ for tracks.” He muttered through his mesh mask. But in the end he found nothing unusual.

Frustrated at the lack of response to our visit, I took it upon myself to announce us. I stood in the middle of the road and called out in my most official voice, “We are Baron Yorath’s representatives and seek to aid you. If you need our help or protection, please show yourselves.” 

Moxadder looked at me in horror, his tic taking on a new rhythm, as if announcing ourselves to the world had caused some sort of catastrophe. It did not, nor did it get any reply. We started to separate, Argonne off to a small beach to relieve himself. Baastian and Moxadder, whom I noticed had very much become Baastians’ shadow, moved to investigate the long sheds near the jetties. Mortec, Morgan and I went to see the boats. Stravarious skulked after Baastian.

I walked out onto the first jetty, choosing to avoid the sheds due to the unpleasant fishy aroma emanating from them, and stood at its end, looking about trying to gauge what had happened. The boats themselves held little interest for me, I had come to the jetty to try to gain a different perspective. I looked closely across the bay to the Abbey. I could see it perched upon a small hillock overlooking the town. Something about it did not sit right with me. It took me some minutes to realise what it was, there was no smoke coming from its chimneys. That was not a good sign. Not a good sign at all. 

A sudden splash erupted to my left. I spun quickly. What I saw was very much unexpected. Morgan was now in the water hanging onto the semi-submerged rail of a fishing boat. Comical is the best way to describe it. I knew that he, like I, and everyone barring Baastian and Moxadder had not seen the ocean before, the docks at Halfast hardly count, but surely leaping in to it was a little much? He explained quickly that he had been trying to leap onto a boat and had missed. Silly fool. However, he did manage to complete his desired task, searching the vessel. His sodden investigation revealed nothing, although once out of the water he did actually change into another set of clothes. 

Baastian and Moxadder, who was by this stage starting to look vacant, emerged from the sheds curious at the noise, other than fish they too had found nothing. The long buildings were just simple storage sheds. Moxadder was muttering something about pirates although we paid our drug savouring friend no heed. He was no use to us in his current state and I doubted he ever would be. The Baron would no doubt see the folly in Baastian’s selection and turn him away.

As we swapped our tales of fruitless examinations, we all heard Argonne cry out. “Look! Up there on the cliffs!”


----------



## Haraash Saan

Gazing up from his pointing finger we saw a small cottage perched high up on the cliffs to the west. Another exclamation from Argonne led our eyes to a beach at the base of the western cliffs, and what looked to be two caves set back where sand met vertical rock face. We decided that despite Mortec’s protests, he wanted to investigate the Abbey, that we would head back west along the cliff tops to the little house upon the bluff. 

There was a very narrow, well worn track etched into the scrub that wound its way up to the cliff tops. Now and again as we walked, I paused to soak in the wonderful view, blocking out the recent tragedy, well apparent tragedy, from my mind. After quarter of an hour we arrived at the cabin. It certainly looked homely enough. A nice vegetable and herb garden protected from the north easterly winds was on the side of small dwelling. There was also a small apple orchard nearby, trees heavy with fruit. Mortec knocked on the door, “Hello?” he queried softly. His poor attempt at attracting attention was never going to raise a reply, so once again I announced our arrival. Once again I received a silent response.

Mortec opened the door, calling out again, and revealed a well ordered and recently utilised home. Everything looked to be in its place. There was none of the disarray that we had seen in the village itself. The small cottage that overlooked the bay had not met the wrath of the brigands. 

Morgan, Mortec and I decided to look for a way down to the caves. We shortly found a trail leading down from the cliffs. Whilst we took as much care as possible, the scramble down the track rewarded each of us with several grazes and bruises. However, it was worth it, Mortec had heard the shrill laughter of a child. 

In time honoured fashion he held his finger to his lips and attempted to creep off. I do not understand that Gnome sometimes. Why sneak about like some roguish cur in the night, when all that was needed was a simple hail.

So once more, much to the annoyance of my small bearded associate, I sung out, “We are Baron Yorath’s representatives and seek to aid you. If you need our help or protection, please show yourselves.” Finally I got the response I had been hoping for.

“Saviours! Someone to save us from the brigands!” cried an old woman that came shambling from the cave across the small beach. Following closely were two young children, a boy, perhaps seven years old and a girl who was only in her fourth summer, clutching the old lady’s skirts. Last in the procession came an old man, gnarled and bent with age.

“Have you come to any harm madam?” I asked. 

She brushed her skirt down, removing some of the sand that had stuck to it and straightened her back. “No, no my dear.” She replied, “We saw from our home that the brigands had come and they had started to burn the homes of our friends. So we doused our own fires and ran here to the caves. Is our home alright?”

“Yes indeed madam, it is as you left it.” I said

The old lady introduced herself as Alice Copthorpe and her husband as Perry Copthorpe. We readily accepted an invitation to come back with them to the cottage for a warm cup of tea. The thought of a fresh cup and perhaps even fresh food was, to me at least, a god send. I had been struggling with the stale bread and dried, salted meats we had been enduring throughout our journey. 

A massive fish leapt through the water near the shore as we walked across the golden sand to the trail. “Dolphin.” Said Perry, speaking for the first time and answering our unasked question. None of us had seen a dolphin before, it must have showed. “Mr. Maron Devlis must be near. That’s one is one of his friends.”

Maron Devlis was indeed close at hand. He met us at the cliff top, after a long climb up the cliff face track. The elderly couple and the children had slowed us somewhat. 

More introductions were made. His full name was Tasmar Maron Devlis, a solid, tall man who in his day had seen too much sun and physical work. He must have been well past his fortieth year, but his sleeveless tunic showed tanned arms with thick rope-like muscles. The weathered man lived on the eastern side of the bay at a bluff, but travelled, often for days at a time, all over the nearby lands. When Morgan remarked on Perry’s comment about the dolphin, Maron Devlis concurred that it was a friend. He did not elaborate any further. I supposed the loneliness of the wilderness drives some people to make peculiar friends. With our new companion in tow we continued onto the hut.

Argonne and Moxadder were waiting back at the hut for us. Moxadder looked as though he had recovered from his recent illness, he had a familiar wary look in his eye. He or perhaps they, I had seen them colluding on our journey, must have come by some of Moxadders’ particular requirements.

When introduced the duo I noticed Alice study Moxadder and cluck something to herself that I could not quite hear. At her invitation we all moved inside and settled wherever we could find a spot to sit or lean. The cottage certainly was not built to accommodate the eight new arrivals, although it did look cosy for the four that made up the family.

Perry, Morgan and Argonne gathered some wood from the pile behind the house, and built a nice roaring fire. Alice put the kettle on and soon after was dishing out piping hot tea. 

“Here you go Mr. Moxadder. This should pick you up a bit.” said Alice.

The tea was excellent, “brewed special” said Alice with a wink when Mortec asked. The only food on offer was fresh apples. I had never tasted finer! 

With the couple now settled and warming by the fire we asked them and Maron Devlis, about the brigands. Unfortunately we received only scant information.

There had been an attack during the night. They had heard the fighting (well fighting is a stretch, from what we could tell there was no resistance) and saw the flames and then ran to hide in the caves. Maron Devlis had found several heavier hobnailed tracks coming from the woods, but had not followed them. None of them knew where the villagers had gone, although Maron Devlis was sure that if any had survived the raid they would have sought the shelter of the woods. They had no other knowledge on the subject, so we thanked the Copthorpes for the tea and took our leave. Alice kindly offered us a roof and a meal for the night, and with that welcoming thought in our minds we marched back to town. Perhaps the Abbey would provide us with some more information about the brigand attack. At least the motives seemed simple, plunder and pillage.


----------



## Haraash Saan

We wandered hurriedly through town. There were still no villagers. Perhaps they had been all taken to be sold on the slave blocks in some distant port? 

After another hour, it was now past midday, we arrived at the Abbey. There was immediate and gruesome evidence that the brigands had called here too. The doors  hung loosely on their hinges, smashed and splintered. The first signs of true violence were revealed, three corpses lay in the courtyard within the compound. The monks of Laster did not seem to have given any fight, yet they were slaughtered mercilessly. The earth was soaked with their blood, a deep, dark stain. 

The Abbey was a simple complex, with gates, now broken, that allowed access to an outer wall, and then the main building itself, again with shattered doors.

I swallowed deeply, trying to avoid looking upon the grisly sight, and once again, as was becoming habit, called out “We are Baron Yorath’s representatives and seek to aid you. If you need our help or protection, please show yourselves.”

For the second time my call was rewarded, this time by a nervous young monk who was preceded by the sound of his shuffling sandals. He appeared from within the Abbey and stood by the doorway, fear etched upon his face.

“It is alright my fine holy friend.” I began, “We are in the service of Baron Yorath and are here to help.” 

As he left the shelter of the doorway he began to introduced himself as Brother Jessop, but then saw the grim sight of his brothers. The young man ran to them, hoisting his robes up his legs, slid on his knees to halt by one of the bodies and clutched it to his chest. Tears streamed down his face. He sobbed uncontrollably for a time, repeating “Not you too Carmichael.” 

I left him in the company of the others and headed into the Abbey. I had no interest in the dead and doubted that Jessop would have had anything useful to say for sometime. I lit a lantern that was hanging on a hook inside the door and moved down the corridor. 

“Wait for me!” Mortec cried out. I had no doubt that he was keen to delve into the store house of knowledge that was the Abbey. 

The first library we found had been violated. Books and scrolls lay strewn and ruined all over the floor. Bookcases themselves had been up-ended. The scene did not improve as we went into the lower levels of the Abbey. Every floor held another library and they were all in the same state. As a lover of stories, tales and history I was seething at the crudity of the brigands. Mortec was worse. He was openly furious, cursing in his Gnomish tongue. The little fellow had been teaching me his language as we travelled and I was rapidly learning it. He may have come from a well off family, but he had certainly seemed to have mastered how to cuss and swear. A good student always knows how to listen and learn from example.

We both thought that it was odd that the library had been ransacked, concluding that there was something very unusual about bandits, common thieves and murderers, scouring a library. By the look of it, they had been searching for something specific. 

We started lifting bookcases and replacing the manuscripts on the shelves in hope that we could find some pattern. Soon after we commenced, Morgan brought in a consoled Jessop who retold us his tale, having already explained it to the others.

Jessop had been deep in the bowels of the Abbey, on the very floor that Mortec and I were tidying, when he heard calls for help from his fellow librarians. Fearful, he crept upstairs to the fourth level and there he heard his fellow monks, Brother Goethra and Brother Tom, being interrogated. From his vantage point he overheard vicious threats accompanied by hard slapping noises and thuds of impact. The questions that were intermingled with the violence and threats all related to the Brothers’ works. The pair were forthcoming with answers, and those answers lead the Brigands to the fifth level. As soon as Jessop heard them coming, he ran downstairs, to the bottom level where, as luck would have it, the monks had been reorganising, and hid himself within a pile of scrolls that had not yet been sorted.

The Brigands came down to the lower level shortly afterwards and sacked the place, searching for what they were after. Precious tomes of knowledge were thrown about in complete disregard of their value. Scrolls were torn, bookcases overturned, and from his concealment Jessop saw it all and prayed to Laster that they found what they wanted and did not search through the pile in which he hid. Every now and again one of the thugs would take a book or manuscript and shove it in a sack before continuing his search. After about twenty minutes they seemed satisfied and left. Jessop was alone and he stayed that way for several hours.

Morgan joined us with the news that Argonne and Moxadder had gone to get the woodsman, Maron Devlis to see if he could help find tracks. He, Stravarious and Jessop stayed and helped us with straightening up the overhauled library.

It took many hours but eventually our efforts were rewarded when Mortec noticed a pattern. He discovered that there were no volumes regarding recent history of the region and none on unusual or mythical creatures, yet a catalogue he had browsed indicated that there should have been. He questioned Jessop about it. The monk was surprised but then suddenly exclaimed, “That’s why they took Brother Goethra and Brother Tom!” we never had found the bodies of those two and neither had Jessop when he had searched the Abbey prior to our arrival, “Their works were predominately about both unnatural creatures and recent history.”

None of us could understand why Brigands would want such things, but all agreed that it had obviously been a targeted attack. They were most likely in someone’s pay, rather than as we had previously thought, the perpetrators of a random attack.

Once finished, Mortec and I chose to wait for the others by studying in the fifth level library. The Gnome and I certainly had a mutual affinity for knowledge. His was more for the sake of having it, and mine was more to gather and tales and stories, but I think it was at that stage that we realised some strange sort of kinship. It was one that I had not expected to acquire, although I must admit it gladdened me. I was not as alone as I had thought.


----------



## Haraash Saan

Eventually Argonne and Moxadder returned to the Abbey with Maron Devlis. They told us that the villagers had returned and only five of their number were missing. Those villagers kidnapped were, the old crone Wilma, Olvan the Boatwright and three girls, Kareena, Lessha and Nadine. Those with the two monks that we assumed were also taken added up to seven missing. Very unusual. The three girls’ use was obvious. Pleasure and then potentially sale on the slavers block, but the two older folk were of no use, and in fact more of a burden than anything else. And the scholars? Well they were very much the target of this strike. But why take the others? Perhaps it was part of some ruse to lead a search in the wrong direction?

They also told us that they had found a dozen tracks made by hobnailed boots, most likely the brigands, intermingled with a few that were recognised by Maron Devlis as those belong to locals. Our missing villagers no doubt. The tracks led south east into the forest where a massive bonfire had been lit. More oddity though, it was not a camp. There was no evidence such as food scraps, flattened grass caused by sleeping men or of bodily waste and the tracks continued into the forest.

Upon hearing their report I decided that the forest was the place to continue our own investigations. My curiosity had certainly been peaked. So we left the Abbey in Jessop’s good hands and then went to pick up the trail the others had found.

We searched the burnt out area comprehensively and found nothing, though Mortec did notice that Strav’s sword was glowing. “Magic?” he queried of Stravarious. The tall hooded man did not answer. After several days travelling together we still knew very little of our mostly silent comrade. Mortec’s question had grabbed my interest and it certainly added to the mystery of Stravarious. Enchanted weapons were rarer than those that wove the spells to create them.

Mortec started examining the area outside of the charred earth and the rest of us watched him curiously. The little bearded fellow was snuffling around on all fours. Suddenly he cried out with joy, “Ah ha! Come look at this!” he beckoned excitedly, “See there are no tracks between the fire and here,” he pointed to place perhaps ten feet from the edge of the blackened earth “yet from this point on there are tracks!” 

Maron Devlis shook his head in disbelief, but confirmed the little Gnome’s observation and added that they were different tracks to the ones that led on into the forest. These tracks were made by softer and less pronounced sailor’s boots.

Moxadder smugly surmised the thought of the group. “Told ya! It’s pirates!” The shambling mound had been right all along. It certainly looked to be pirates and not brigands that we were chasing. Perhaps they had changed their clothing from brigands’ attire to that of pirates, and then burnt the disguises? An elaborate ruse for a raid on some old men and their books.

We decided that this new trail was more promising than the other one which we concluded was a false one to mislead would be trackers. So we followed the new tracks.  They led north east and out of the woods once more. We crossed through gently rolling hills that were east of the Abbey and headed straight for the ocean. The tracks led us to a place called Shallow Cove, a small inlet ending in a narrow beach. We had to scramble down into it from the cliff. Our efforts were rewarded. There were drag marks, long ones, in the sand. “Long boats.“ muttered Maron Devlis.

“I told you so, I told you so!” Moxadder sung as he danced a little jig in the sand and clapped his hands in joy. I am one that believes in credit where credit is due, but right at the moment I just wanted skewer and silence the annoying scum.

I watched the others scamper around, ferreting about for anything that might tell us more. Not really my sort of work, rooting around, looking under rocks, pawing over trodden sand, but it does yield results. Argonne cried out and waved a red cloth that he had found. Maron Devlis knew what it was immediately, sail cloth, most likely from the boats that had been stashed here on the beach. But much more interestingly he also proclaimed it to belong to the ships of the Bloodsails. Cutthroats and pirates they are, pillagers throughout Sorcerers Bay that usually spared no one. Although it did look as if they were for hire, or very interested in something that they should not be.

No other information could be garnered from the sandy cove so we left to investigate the lighthouse. Well, Mortec was very keen to investigate it, I wanted to follow things methodically and convinced Argonne, to go with me back to the forest and the suspected false tracks. I also asked Maron Devlis to accompany us, but he declined pointing out that it was late afternoon now and he had to get back to his own home which was an hour’s walk to the east. We thanked him for his company and his help and parted ways. Moxadder and Baastian, well Baastian and the ever lingering Moxadder, headed off to the Copsthorpe’s hut to spend the night. Morgan and Stravarious followed Mortec to the lighthouse. One last look over the rolling sea and I left it behind me as I strode off with Argonne. 

My masked comrade and I arrived back at the forest and went about finding the trail again. We both found it soon enough, I had stooped to helping Argonne by peering at the ground as he seemed to need a second pair of eyes. It was more to reassure him, as the things that he pointed out completely eluded me. After perhaps a mile the prints disappeared. Whether it was because Argonne had lost the tracks or more elaborate I could not be sure, but it did serve to convince me that the trail went nowhere. Perhaps the onset of sunset helped my decision. 

On returning I went to the Abbey where I opted to spend the night reading and studying in hope that I would come across some interesting tales. Argonne decided that a more comfortable stay with the Copsthorpes’ was in order. We agreed to meet in the morning at the Abbey as it was not far from the road to Yorathton. 

I arrived at the Abbey a little before dark and noted that the corpses of the monks had been moved. Thank Laster for that! It would have been rather uncomfortable walking past their lifeless forms. I lit a candle, and after singing out loudly for Jessop, ventured in. There was no-one about so I found myself the comfiest chair that I could, pulled out some interesting volumes and started to digest their contents.


----------



## Haraash Saan

Maybe an hour or so after settling myself I heard Mortec calling out. I answered in kind and soon he was telling me a remarkable tale. The three, as mentioned before, struck out along the cliffs to the lighthouse. As they wandered forward Morgan noticed that the light was already shining, even though it was daylight. This struck the trio as unusual as they could see no sense in wasting the considerable fuel that the light required, during the daylight hours. Morgan also noticed that the light did not seem to be spinning properly, or perhaps it was partially obscured by something as it did not seem to be as full as it should have been.

My intrepid friends arrived at the lighthouse, and after the usual formalities, borrowed from myself, entered the tower. There was nothing particularly notable about the lighthouse. It was a tall circular building that narrowed as it crept higher until it ended in the great light. It was whitewashed outside and in. The bottom floor held nothing of interest, it was more of a living area, with a cooking fire, crude table and chairs. There was a game of cards for one laid out on the table, unfinished. A store of staples was in a corner near a long bench which held cooking implements. None of it looked disturbed. 

They clamoured up a ladder on the side of one curved wall to the next floor where they found modest sleeping quarters for one. Again the belongings were all untouched. Another ladder. This one led to a storeroom that held several large sealed ceramic jugs. Their labels proclaimed them to be oil. 

The next ladder proved a tad more disconcerting. At its base was a pool of blood, slowly expanding with each drip that slipped from the ladder’s rungs. Its source was as yet unknown. Every rung of the ladder had been soiled by the crimson fluid. A drip of blood slowly swelled on the underside of the top rung, before falling and bursting on the rung below with a thud. It took a moment for them to realise that the sound had come from the room above. Suddenly they were aware of the monotonous rhythmic thudding coming from next level of the lighthouse. 

After minor debate Morgan took the fore and headed up. He was greeted by his second horrid sight for the day. The light keeper, or so he assumed from the simple garb, lay sprawled with a massive head wound. It was his blood that had caused the pool at the base of the ladder. The whitewashed walls had not been spared either, in fact it looked as if they had actually been his demise, a long smear ran down the one that his head now rested against. 

Tearing his eyes from the repulsive scene Morgan fought to control his stomach, although he did not manage it. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, called the others up. They surveyed the grim corpse and the reason that the light had been hampered in its journey. It looked as if a person had been thrown onto the light by the light keeper who simultaneously had been knocked or had slipped backward and dashed his head with significant force on the wall. His assailant had fared no better and when Morgan pulled him free it was revealed that the unidentifiable front half of the man had been char grilled upon the searing heat of the huge metal dish that served to light the perilous rocks below the lighthouse. Finally the thudding stopped and the light spun freely.

Mortec searched the assailant, who for all appearances was no more than a simple brigand. He wore a leather breastplate that went low enough to cover his essentials, Both the essentials and armour were now useless. The rest of his attire was simple and hardy,. His sword lay in the dish, too hot for my friends to retrieve.  More curious though was that his hand was clenched into a rigid fist. Mortec wrenched the corpses fingers loose and saw a red tinged gold coin in the bandit’s palm. A Gnome never shies from a profitable venture, so he casually removed it, upon which, before their very eyes the brigand transformed! His garments blurred for a moment then it was as if he never had been a brigand. No longer was he garbed in leathers, but in the loose fitting clothing of a sailor. 

Mortec looked oddly at the coin in his hand, sure that it had caused the transformation. It was no longer reddish in colour but looked to be a normal gold gromit. Its stamp showing that it had been minted in the Port of the Warlock on Sorcerers Isle, which in itself offered a satisfactory explanation. Baastian later revealed that it was called a Sorcerer’s Coin. These coins usually only had one simple transformation charm that could be invoked by the bearer. 

That coin was the last information of significance that we learned, for there was nothing else we could do here in Ravenswood to provide a detailed report to the Baron when we arrived in Yorathton. 

The night passed uneventfully for Mortec and I. Strav and Morgan had also gone to the Copthorpes for what was sure to be a crowded affair. We both studied quietly long into the night and were woken by our comrades early the next day. Their night had been enjoyable too, with plenty of apple pie for dinner. When passing through town they managed to ascertain that the mayor had not returned from the woods, and it was felt that perhaps, being a man of some importance in the region, he may also have been taken by the pirates, “Or done a runner” as Moxadder put it.

Whilst making final preparations to depart, Jessop returned to Leathe’s Abbey and was full of gratitude for Mortec and myself for assisting him the previous day. Not one to miss an opportunity, I asked whether I could borrow some volumes for further reading but was politely denied, although Jessop assured me that I was welcome back at any time.


----------



## Haraash Saan

Chapter 3 – The birth of the Hydra 

The sun was throwing our long shadows before us when we arrived at Yorathton. After ten days tramping along empty and boring roads, sleeping on the ground, or at best in a chair in Leathes Abbey with a tome as a blanket, we had finally returned to civilisation.

Whilst passing through tilled fields and approached the first buildings of the town I joyfully remarked to Mortec, “It will be a most pleasant night tonight. No more shall my cloak act as a headrest. Tonight my head will rest on a goose feather pillow.”

“I don’t know Gerard,” he replied wistfully “we Gnomes love to be close to the earth when we sleep.”

I shuddered. “Oh no, I cannot image anything more horrid than sleeping another night outside on the hard and uncomfortable ground. I will accept any refinements the Baron will offer me.”

My small companion chuckled to himself and shook his head. I could not fathom why. “Why do you laugh? Have I said something to amuse?” I huffed.

He laughed out loud this time, “Gerard life is not always about the finer things. You’ll learn, quite soon I think, that it is hard work. And not always getting your own way.”

I hmphed and strode away from the disrespectful little man. He was in no position to tell me what life was all about. He obviously had little understanding of how mine had been.

From cradle through adolescence it had been hard. Being a second son is not easy. Absquith was always singled out by Father. He was the firstborn. He was the strongest one. He was the champion of the games. I, however, received little acknowledgement from Father as he always saw me as the weaker son. I was never seen as being able to follow in Sir Reginald d’Mowbray’s footsteps. 

Perhaps I am being too hard on Father. He did try to teach me how to joust and wield a sword or morning star, but I could never satisfy him. My physique was simply not built for such activities. I sorely wished that he could see beyond my physical bounds and judge me on my own merits, not his own. I feel that in many ways I disappointed him because I was not like Absquith. Although to be fair no-one had disappointed him as much as my youngest brother Sebastian. 

Poor little Seb. He had grown into a man with the same lack of control that he had displayed as a child. I remember the tantrums he threw when he was told to do something he did not want to, screaming and carrying on and such. He always tried to push Father and Mother. It started with his drinking. He is a big boy is Seb and oh how he enjoys a mug of ale. He would spend an evening in the Duck by Water and challenge all to out drink him. Sebastian always won the first few contests, but it always ended the same way, Mowbray’s finest carrying him back to the manor.  Blatant whoring joined the queue of the activities that Father disapproved of, but it was the brawling that snapped him. Sebastian was thrown out into the street and to this day Father does not refer to, or recognise, his third son. I felt both sorry for Seb and angry at him. Sorry because I could see no way that he could reconcile with Father, and angry because he caused embarrassment to the family, and that is something that was difficult for me to forgive.

Even little Regina, my half sister from an unwise dalliance of Father’s, has a higher place in the family than Sebastian. At least she is tolerated by Father and Mother and is allowed to live with them at Mowbray.

If Absquith is Father’s favourite, my twin sister Isabella is Mother’s. My beautiful and wonderful sister. I adore her. She is, without doubt, my best friend and confidant. I value her words and advice more than any others. She lives off in Traville, lands that were destined for Sebastian before he was stripped of them by Father for his unacceptable behaviour and given to her. They lie adjacent to Montfort, the lands that I will come to when my liege, Baron Mendus knights me. It will be a happy day when I see her again.

Isabella and Mother spent a lot of time locked away together. For a long time I did not know what they did until finally Izy could not hold the secret from me. Mother was teaching her magics and sorceries! None knew, but Mother was quite an accomplished sorceress. She saw in Izy the same talent that my grandmother had seen in her. Izy showed me all sorts of tricks that she learnt as we were growing up. She created flames that would dance from finger tip to finger tip. Or make trinkets and the like disappear. She and Mother decided it best, very much against Father’s wishes as he was seeking a suitor for her, that she take up residence in Traville and refine her talent away from prying eyes.

Yet I hold no ill will to Absquith or Izy due to my parent’s preferences. I could never remain angry with Izy and Absquith was always looking out for me and tried so hard to help me with the skills that he mastered quickly. 

So I was caught in the middle. I could not vie for either my Father’s or Mother’s affections. I simply could not compete with Absquith or Isabella. In reflection I think that that is why I set out from Thessingcourt; to strike out on my own and prove myself, especially to Father. The Halfast Games, would show him that whilst I am not brawn and muscle, I could still honour the family name, and Baron Yorath provided me with just that opportunity.


----------



## Haraash Saan

Sitting perched atop a bluff, its’ blue stone walls rising dramatically from the earth, was the Castle of Baron Yorath. Beneath it sprawled the large town of Yorathton. 

“Sweetmeats! A tasty treat for the weary traveller”, cried a hawker as he winked at me. It was more than enough to convince me. I bought one, carefully taking the wooden stick that skewered the meat. The first bite sent me to the heavens. There is no way to compare it to the dull and tasteless rations I had been consuming on our journey. I was sure that I would enjoy my time at Yorath.

The earthen road that we walked wound its way through the white-washed buildings of town to the drawbridge that lay across the castle’s deep moat. As we crossed it we were lazily challenged by a guard wearing the green and white of Yorath who was lounging against the open portcullis.

Baastian introduced himself curtly. “Baastian Levillie.” His right foot repeatedly tapping the dust in annoyance at the guard’s derelict behaviour.

“Ah, er, sorry sir.” bumbled the doorman as he snapped upright and brushed his bedraggled uniform down, “I did not recognise you with, um, all of these fine gentlemen.”

Almost apologetically he continued, “May I ask for their names and business?”

Baastian sighed, calming himself. He then introduced and vouched for us. The guard, seeing that his duty was satisfied gave us entrance to the castle. 

Baastian stopped a passing page boy and asked him to inform the Baron that we had arrived. He then guided us to our quarters and told us that this evening there would be a banquet that we were expected to attend. 

Moxadder’s eyes lit up at this news. Undoubtedly he had never been to a banquet before. I predicted that the ‘morrow would present us with a sick and bloated Fastendian.

Prior to the feast our time was our own and our guide left us to attend to some urgent business.  I guessed presumed it had to do with our discoveries at Ravenswood. 

I excused myself from my companions and went to the cabin that Baastian had allocated to me. It was spartan in comparison with what I was accustomed to, however it was so much more than what I had had recently. My first task was to clean myself up, which after summoning a boy to provide me with hot water, I did to my greatest satisfaction. Secondly, I collapsed onto the bed to rest. It was soft and lumpy. Laster himself may have known what lived within it, but at that point I cared not. It was so much more than I had recently experienced, even if the pillow was not stuffed with goose feathers. 

A light rap upon my door woke me. I shook my head, clearing it of a lovely dream involving my Veiled seductress from the Convent of the Doves, and opened the door. And how glad I was that I did! A very attractive woman stood in my doorway. The flesh is so much more appealing than a dream. Her dark hair hung in a single plait over her right shoulder, resting a-top of a beautiful shimmering blue dress that reminded me of the bay at Ravenswood in the morning light. 

She looked at me with an appraising eye. Curling her wide mouth into a pleasant smile she queried, “Gerard d’Mowbray?”

“Indeed my lady.” I bowed with a flourish, my eyes never leaving hers, “And you are?”

“Timandra.” She replied, “I am the Baron’s aide. I am here to request the pleasure of you,, and your comrades,” she added mischievously, “company at the banquet this evening.”

“I would be honoured, Timandra.” I answered.

“Excellent.” She beamed “I will return within the hour to escort you to the great hall. I trust you have appropriate attire for the evening?” 

I laughed and nodded in affirmation, “But of course Timandra. I look forward to seeing you again shortly.”

She smiled, excused herself and turned away. Once again I appreciated her dress, as it clung to her enticing hips as they swayed hypnotically with each step.

I closed the door. Here was a challenge that I could pursue! At that moment I decided to woo the beautiful Timandra. I was sure she would make a splendid conquest.

Although I had already removed the travel dust from my person and clothes, I once again took time to meticulously wash my hands and face before dressing in the finery appropriate for the court.

They say that the clothes make the man, but in my case I managed to make the clothes look so much better. It felt glorious to have shed my mundane travelling attire that had been like a second skin for the past two weeks. 

A delicate knock upon my door signalled the return of Timandra. Unfortunately she had also gathered my companions, spoiling any immediate opportunity to be alone with her. They all looked vaguely presentable, if not comfortable, in clothing that had obviously been supplied by Timandra. Though none were more awkward though than Moxadder. The shambling mound had been transformed into a well dressed peasant. He wore clothes that he did not appreciate and it was clear that they did not appreciate him.

Timandra noticed the look of disdain across my face and whispered “When one has a filthy canvas to work with, one can only produce dirty art.”

We stood in the entrance to the Baron’s great hall. It was resplendent in pennants and flags bearing Yorath’s green and white. Long wooden tables ran its length. Each was well attended and laden with all manner of scrumptious delights. Roasted boar, complete with apples in mouths, legs of lamb, fruits, cheeses and of course ale were all plentiful. The Baron sat in the middle of a table at the far end of the hall. He was reading as he ate, barely noting the excitement around him. He wore a purple coat complete with white ruffles. The man certainly had taste!

Timandra led us to our left, between several tables that seated various vassals, including Baastian, retainers and courtiers. Timandra took us to the lone empty table that was tucked away in the far corner of the hall. I am sure that she purposefully placed us there. At first glance my friends looked respectable, but the reality was that they were peasants. I looked at her pleadingly and whispered, “Perhaps another table for myself, Timandra?” But all I received as a reply was an apologetic smile as she walked off leaving us to enjoy the meal and each others company.

Several belches around me signified that my companions, at least the majority of them, thought that the meal was excellent. Even Moxadder looked as if he had eaten his fill. 

After days of dried meats and stale, crusty bread I certainly appreciated the fine banquet that the Baron had provided. With our dining complete Timandra returned, with Baastian, and informed us that the Baron commanded our audience.

We were led into the bowels of the castle until eventually we came to a large steel reinforced door. Timandra rapped lightly upon it and announced our arrival. A deep gruff voice called for us to enter. She opened the door and ushered us in.


----------



## Haraash Saan

The room we found ourselves in was a library. Books rose from the floor to the ceiling. They sat in shelves that ran the along every wall of the room. I glanced at Mortec and saw he was practically jumping out of his rather small boots. That fellow really needed to learn some control.

The Baron sat behind a large ornate timber desk. His tall frame was again hunched over a book. We waited patiently for a moment before he looked up to inspect his new recruits. 

Yorath had deep, dark, thoughtful eyes, that stared intently at us from under neat black brows. His hair hung loosely to his shoulders. Whilst it had once been black, now it was flecked with grey. Large strong hands came away from the page he had been analysing and clasped together, fingers interlocking, as he leaned back comfortably in his chair.

“My lord.” I bowed with an elegant flourish, “Gerard d’Mowbray at your service.” Nothing like breaking a silence in style.

“Ah yes. Young Mowbray.” He said thoughtfully and with the hint of a smile, “I was most impressed when I heard that Baastian was bringing you to compete in my trials. Welcome.” 

The others introduced themselves in turn, and the Baron welcomed one and all, although he threw Baastian a dark look when Moxadder introduced himself grovelling on bended knee.

After the brief introductions the Baron informed us that the trials were to start on the morrow. There would be seven tasks that were designed to stimulate the mind and test our physical prowess. Any of us successful in his trials would be offered a position on his next gladiatorial team. However, his welcome and the notification of the next day’s activities were not all that were on his agenda.

He dismissed Timandra and barked for a guard. His summons was promptly responded to by a man who came from a side door that I had not noticed. The Baron whispered something to him and the guard swiftly exited through the same door. An uncomfortable silence descended upon the room. The Baron was clearly waiting for his man to return and did not prompt further conversation. Moxadder’s leg began to jiggle nervously and Strav started to hum an annoying tune. Thankfully, before my friends could embarrass me further the guard returned with a portly red faced gentleman and a tall, handsome and well dressed man. He and the little round man must have been waiting in an antechamber close by.

“Gentlemen, may I introduce you to Mayor Moberry of Ravenswood.” The Baron looked at us, with an expression that I can only describe as one of smug satisfaction, “Moberry, please share your tale with our friends here.” The lack of our introduction to the Mayor indicated to me that he was not expected to stay with us for very long.

“Um, er, yes milord. Of course.” The Mayor began nervously “Um, as I said milord I was in my home, um, counting the taxes we had collected, yes that’s right, when I heard a ruckus in the street that was accompanied by screams.” He paused and looked at us with a little suspicion. 

“I grabbed my sword, it is always close at hand, and charged into the street yelling a fury. I saw several men, common bandits by their look, assaulting villagers and beginning to torch several buildings.” His confidence grew and his speech became quicker and louder.

“I ran one through as I dashed past him, not sparing a glance to see if he fell. The others took such a fright they scarpered quick smart.” I could almost see his chest puffing out with pride as he recounted his tale.

“Well I made sure that they had indeed run off and that the town was no longer threatened, jumped upon the nearest horse and rode with greatest speed to inform you milord.” And he bowed slightly, eyes downcast submissively. He grovelled so low in his bow that he almost toppled forward, but managed to catch himself with a steadying foot shuffle.

“Thank you Moberry. What a marvellous tale of heroism that is!” exclaimed the Baron, a mischievous look in his eye. “I now ask you to listen to what these gentlemen have to say.”

With a wave of his hand he indicated to us to tell our tale of Ravenswood. The Mayor went a tad pale as I began to recount my own version of events. I will not bore you with them once more as you no doubt have already read them with keen interest. However, it should be noted that as I spoke, with rather rude interjections from the others that, Moberry’s complexion paled further to be white. 

At the conclusion of my account the Baron smiled broadly and asked the Mayor, “Perhaps we need a new Mayor?” and to the guard, “Please do escort him to some suitable accommodation.” That was the last we saw of the Mayor Moberry.

The other man that had been brought into the room with the mayor now introduced himself as Zmrat, bard of the Massive Hand. He complimented me on a fine tale and continued on to ask us several questions, fishing for specific details in regard my story. After a few minutes the Baron cleared his throat and proposed a toast to our success during the next day’s trials. Soon afterwards he dismissed all of us, including Zmrat, who offered to escort us back to our abode. 

Zmrat and I spoke a little after arriving at my lodgings. He responded to my queries regarding the Baron’s trials, telling me that the tests were different every year. When I quizzed him further on his own experiences from when the Massive Hand was formed he told me with a laugh that he himself had been knocked unconscious in the very first test. This surprised me, mainly because he had been selected by the Baron. He explained cryptically saying “The Baron must have seen something in my brief seconds of action that he liked.” The twinkle in his eye told me that there was more to his story than he was telling me, but that I would get no more from him that night. He departed shortly afterwards, wishing me a good night and good luck in tomorrow’s endeavours.


----------



## Haraash Saan

The following day, the twelfth of Low Summer, I woke to find that the sun was up, as were many notables from the previous evenings feast, including Timandra, today wearing an enchanting emerald green dress, Zmrat and others of the Massive Hand. Morgan, Argonne and the rest had all risen earlier than I, and were standing to one side of the gathered courtiers, talking in earnest amongst themselves.

A canvas awning had been assembled within which were many chairs, presumably for the courtiers and the Baron himself. In front of the awning was a table upon which were six bags. 

The Baron, dressed in a long overcoat and shielded from the rising sun by a cowl, arrived with Kuruul at his side, the two of them strolling like old friends across the grass. The dog, it seemed, did not have to prove himself to make the grade. 

Yorath pushed back his cowl and seated himself in the centremost chair, Kuruul curled up on the grass beside him. The others bustled about and took their places. My party of six, including myself, still stood off to one side looking and feeling, I must admit, a little uncertain and awkward. Finally Timandra stood and called us forward.

“Mortec the Gnome, please come forward and stand by the table.” She called out in an official and authoritative tone. 

“Argonne woodsman, please come forward and stand by the table.” And so on and so forth until I was called last of all.

“Gerard d’Mowbray,” My name sounded like a beautiful song when it left Timandra’s lips. “please come forth and stand by the table.”

How could I deny her? I moved to stand beside Morgan.

“Ladies’, “ the Baron began with a courteous glance to Timandra and the one other female present, “and gentlemen,” a good way to start for speeches I thought. “Welcome to my annual trials. Before you, you see five brave and courageous men, and one Gnome of similar ilk,” he said with kindly smile to Mortec. “Today they seek to pass my challenges. Their reward for success is a place in this year’s Halfast games and my patronage.” There was pleasant applause from all and sundry. 

He continued, “Their failure, well, could be most dire for the individuals concerned. For all tests carry risk, some greater than others.”

“Gentlemen, now you must make your first choice. You see before you a bag.” He was all for pomp and ceremony wasn’t he. “In each bag are ten Silver Sickles.” Only Moxadder drew in a short quick breath. Whether it was excitement or some drug induced respiratory problem I was unsure.

The Baron continued “If you wish you can leave these trials before they commence and take those ten Sickles. They should see you comfortably back to Halfast. Or, you can leave the coins and participate in the trials and perhaps win much, much greater glory. Now choose!” he boomed, adding to the dramatism of his speech. His steely gaze transfixed us.

I stepped away from the table almost instantly, followed quickly by all except Moxadder. He grabbed the bag, fumbled with it, such was his eagerness, and opened it. He peered into the bag, nodding his head as though counting to himself. He stared for time at the contents of the bag, then let it slip from his fingers to clank with finality on the table. He turned with a sigh and joined the rest of us. I do believe that I actually felt camaraderie for my companions for the very first time in that moment when Moxadder stood with us.

A long and wearying day followed. The Baron’s tests were rigorous and challenging. Archery, sword play, horsemanship and jousting allowed us to demonstrate our martial skills. Riddles and an oratory performance tested our mental capabilities. Finally the last trial saw us bond, in our own unique way, as a team. There were simply too many strong and competing personalities for us to operate cohesively, yet we still managed to achieve the desired result and satisfy Baron Yorath. Whilst individually not one of us passed all the tests, we did all succeed in being offered a cherished place within the Baron’s third gladiatorial company. 

I had succeeded in what I had set out to do; receive the patronage of the Baron for the Halfast games and commence on my road to fame and fortune. I really must write to Father and Absquith, I am sure they would be pleased.

The next fourteen days passed quickly. We were given little time to do anything but train. My primary teacher was Zmrat. He, with a little help from the lovely Timandra, refined my knowledge of the courts and how to use my natural charm to best advantage. They also taught me how to listen and watch for mannerisms that may indicate mistruth or distraction. 

Zmrat took me under his wing somewhat, we got along well, and also taught me the art of performance. How could I grab the interest of a crowd? How could I manipulate it, inspire it or captivate it? All these things and many more Zmrat and I spent hours discussing. Usually we sat and talked, or listened mainly for my part, in the ancient amphitheatre on the cliff top that overlooked the waters of the ocean to the east. However, my teaching was not all just the finer points and niceties. It also involved rigorous rapier practice. Zmrat and I would fence as a break from other studies. He was an excellent teacher.

Another thing that Zmrat did was to open my mind and empower my words with such feeling as to create distractions and minor magics, just as Isabella had shown me. It was as if he unlocked some sort of latent power that I knew not I possessed. Unfortunately I am not particularly gifted, and many of things he demonstrated were well beyond my capabilities. I only managed to learn small tricks of light and sound, but it was enough to captivate me. My twin had shown me some of her magics and now I understood the joy of harnessing the energy of the arcane.

A whole new world had been opened to me! My natural thirst for knowledge now had a new topic to pursue. Zmrat knew only the conjurations that he himself had been taught years before. So I thought to ask the mages of the Five Kinds of Death for their wisdom of magic. I had only glimpsed individuals from the group from time to time for they were secretive and secluded themselves in their own rooms.


----------



## Haraash Saan

Even though I was keen to learn more, the mystique and dreadful aura of the unknown caused some hesitation on my part in actually speaking to one of the magicians. I made several aborted attempts to knock upon the door of their apartments, but was too daunted to actually lay knuckle to timber. Eventually I decided to approach one of them alone.  So it was that I found Kassquok, one of the Five Kinds of Death, standing silent and still on the cliff edge late one afternoon. He faced the ocean, arms hanging loosely by his side. Suddenly his left arm rose and his hand darted out of the long loose sleeve that had concealed it. Fingers twitched and gesticulated and his deep voice rumbled, “Destrat e mora”. 

His fingertips glowed instantaneously with a bright crimson fire that grew so quickly in size that it became a ball about the size of a man’s head. A twist of his wrist saw the flickering ball sit in his palm. He seemed to consider it a moment before snapping his arm back and hurling the flame out over the sea. 

Such a throw I had never seen before! It sailed out perhaps half a mile and was just a faint spec dancing away over the deep blue water before, with an enormous audible crack, it exploded. Such was the force of the explosion that I could see, even at the distance, steam rising from the surface of the sea. 

Kassquok grunted with satisfaction as he turned and noticed me for the first time. His steely blue eyes seemed to pierce my soul.

“Mowbray isn’t it, hmm?” he said.

“Um,er yes indeed.” I replied displaying uncharacteristic nerves, “That was quite a display Kassquok.” I continued, recovering from my initial discomfort, “Most impressive.”

“Hmm? It was naught but a trifle. However even trifles must be practiced, else they would once again be difficult. Now what is it that I can do for you hmm?” he said. 

“Ah yes, the reason for my coming to see you. I was speaking to Zmrat some days ago and he taught me to mentally create some minor magics. He released magic within me that I did not even realise I had the talent to conjure. However, I could not master more than the simplest things that he demonstrated.” I breathed deeply easing the frustration I felt. ”What he did do was awaken my thirst for magical knowledge! I want to learn whatever I can about how magic works and how I can best utilise it. Will you teach me?” I blurted excitedly.

Perhaps Zmrat and Timandra had taught me something in the art of speech afterall, or perhaps Kassquok was just very accommodating, but he did seem quite pleased to impart some magical knowledge to me.

As it so happens, magic is just that, magic. No one understands every occurrence of it or how to harness and use it. Some people, like the Five Kinds of Death, are learned men who have unlocked the power of knowledge and use it to their best advantage. They have found or written spells on paper and gather libraries of them. They study their books relentlessly always questing for another way to gain more power.

Some people, like Zmrat and Isabella, have an inherent gift. They do not need to study or learn magic as such. They literally create it. The more talented those individuals are the more that practice will allow them to unlock those talents. 

It is even said that Elves and Gnomes are magical beings, although I have not really perceived Mortec to be a peculiar in any way.

That leads to the most interesting titbit I acquired was Kassquok’s closing remark on the topic. “Magic is perception. That is all. Anyone that does not understand how something works, or how it came to be, thinks that the cause is magic. That is all. Hmmm?”


----------



## Haraash Saan

Theron, the grizzled and scarred captain of the Baron’s guard taught us team strategy and tactics.  “In the games there are three rules that you must follow to succeed,” he said.

“Rule one, strike them with arrows first. Rule two, always concentrate your attacks on one opponent as you’ll down one quicker working together than you can fighting one on one. And rule three, the most important rule, take out the wizards first!” He endlessly repeated these laws until I am sure we murmured them in our sleep.

He went on to explain that wizards often disguised themselves to mask their abilities. Rarely did they wear robes with astrological symbols, but it was also unlikely that they wore armour. They might carry weapons and appear to be ready to wield them, yet would not. They usually did not stand in the front row, although often that was where they were safest at the commencement of the battle. 

There were many more such strategies but I will not bore you with them now. Perhaps as we use them in the future I will have the good grace to mention Theron and his wise ways. 

Another requirement of the Baron’s teams was a name and company colours. Moxadder suggested Hydra as a name. He explained that a Hydra was a strange multiple headed beast that was particularly vicious and dangerous that lived in the swamps near Irudesh City. Without hesitation we all agreed, that it was a fine and appropriate name for our group. Once again Moxadder proved that he truly was united with us. 

Strav suggested black and green as our main colours. Not a particularly interesting combination so I proposed a silver hydra over our left breast and on the back of our cloaks. One must have some contrast to make an outfit really stand out!

So the Hydra was born! Six heads in all, one for each of us. What a strange group that it was too. Unlike the Baron’s other teams; the Massive Hand that specialised in quick decisive melee combat, and Five Kinds of Death that were all wizards, we had no particular speciality. We were all individuals that had different strengths.  

The one thing that we had not discussed was our captain. Someone to ensure that combat went efficiently and that we all followed Theron’s rules. Whilst Mortec, Morgan and Strav all fancied themselves as leaders, I believed it was a role that was to fall upon my noble shoulders. Leading men was in my blood, I was to be a Knight of Mendus. It was my right and there was no way that I would bow to a lesser man. I had no doubt that time and example would demonstrate my leadership qualities to them and they would embrace me as their captain.

On the evening of the fourteenth day after passing the Baron’s trials, Zmrat and I had finished a particularly taxing session with our blades. Old moss covered blocks of stone provided me with a comfortable seat as I rested in the keep’s amphitheatre. Serenity was the player that evening and other than myself, the ocean was its only audience. Every now and again it roared with a thunderous ovation to the silent performance on offer. It was a wonderful place for contemplation and relaxation.

My peace was disturbed when I spied three sails on the horizon. I called for my companions who were still practicing with their swords in the training grounds some way from my scene of solitude. They came quickly at my cry. 

Together we stood, silent sentinels watching the ships sail closer to the Yorathton. Argonne, whose sight was keener than the others, muttered, “Those are red sails on yonder boats.”

We all leapt to the same conclusion. Bloodsails! And their ships were almost flying across the ocean such was their amazing speed.

My first thought was to alert the keep. I ran straight for the closest building, which housed the Five Kinds of Death. I hammered on the wizards’ door, no doubt interrupting some sort of arcane practice, and shouted “Kassquok! The Bloodsails approach.”

Without waiting for a response I bolted for the castle yelling as I went. I stood in the Keep’s courtyard and at the top of my lungs sang out loudly, “Bloodsails in the east!”. And with that I hurried back to the training ground.

I was exhausted when I got back, and was a trifle dismayed to see that the boats were now only several hundred feet off shore. Thankfully the mages had gathered and were preparing all manner of strange of magics. My companions were readying bows and I followed suit, grabbing a crossbow and a case of bolts from the archery range as I ran passed it.

The wizards were the first to launch an attempt to repel the invaders. Tiny glowing darts spewed from their finger tips to the boats. Screams indicated they had found targets. How I did not know because at that stage darkness had well and truly fallen. I could not even see a victim for my quarrel. There was yelling and excitement coming from the ships. Morgan chose that moment to light a torch. Could he be more stupid? The only purpose that it could have ever served was to show him as a target. A soft squelch and accompanying thud proved me right. The surprised exhalation from Morgan confirmed it. Then he flew into a mighty rage.

Cursing and screaming vengeance Morgan dropped his bow, unsheathed his sword and charged off down a narrow trail that led from the cliff top to the rocky beach below. It was also the pirates only path to us.

Below I saw that two buccaneers were outlined by bright purple light. It sparked all about them, showing their forms clearly. 

I shouted a sharp command to target the luminous foes. Mortec took the hint and loosed a shaft, striking the illuminated figure to our left. I took careful aim and let fly a bolt. It sailed true, dropping the corsair.

More glowing darts were released by Five Kinds of Death. Resulting in more cries of anguish in the darkness. One scream sounded out closer than those from the beach, it had the distinct ring of Morgan to it. Immediately there were little fairy lights hovering above the beach and they provided a small amount of extra light. As a child I had heard tell that fairies always lit tiny lanterns so that they knew where they were going. 

“Glowing man!” I shouted and this time Moxadder responded with an excellent arrow that hit the pirate in the chest. His hands groped for the shaft. My second bolt hammered into him. He fell backwards and moved no more. Two glowing corpses now lay on the beach. The remaining Hydra also loosed their arrows into the darkness. I could not see whether or not they had hit a buccaneer. 

Another volley of brightly coloured darts saw the pirates off. “Retreat!” and “Man the ships!” were the calls we heard, and as quickly as the cutthroats had come they had gone, their ships turning tail and then gliding over the water as if there were a massive gale behind them.


----------



## Haraash Saan

Argonne, Strav and Mortec ran to the path with Moxadder and I following more cautiously. More fairy lights appeared over the path, lighting the way. However, they did not help Argonne. In a fit of clumsiness perhaps caused by the speed of his decent, he tripped and slid, landing on the stones below and causing them to grind and crunch against one another. We called out but got no answer. With more care the rest of us managed to scramble down. In particular we avoided a glossy, wet area of the path that had two telling pairs of skids.

Down below, Stravarious found Argonne unconscious and bleeding. Mortec found Morgan who looked even worse than the woodsman. He was covered in cuts and bruises and the arrow shaft that had struck him in the shoulder had been broken off near its entry point. Mortec ripped out some bandages from a pouch on his belt and feverously began bandaging all the wounds he could see. Morgan seemed to have stabilized so Mortec ran to Argonne to see if there was anything that could be done. There was only one serious gash across his chest that was bleeding freely. Again Mortec applied bandages, but the wound was too deep and they could not stem the flow.

Moxadder pushed him aside saying “Let me do it!” and then proceeded to try the same thing. Well, to my untrained eye it looked the same. It certainly had the same result. Moxadder was getting frantic by this stage and with a Fastendian curse he tore open a bag that was secreted within his clothes, grabbed a handful of herbs, packed them into the wound, spat on them and then bound it one more time. This time it worked. The blood stopped seeping, and to everyone’s surprise and relief, especially Moxadders, Argonne’s eyes flicked open as he coughed, spraying a little blood onto Moxadder. 

“Thanks.” He rasped and then passed out once more.

The Five Kinds of Death joined us on the pebbled beach shortly afterwards. They paid us no heed but walked straight to the oceans edge. They stood close enough for lapping water to lick their boots and stared intently out to sea. Strav, having turned to the ocean to see what was of interest to the mages, mumbled something about red sails and began his own silent vigil. It soon became apparent that two of the Blood Sails’ boats were desperately trying to find a favourable wind. But I do believe our wizards were ensuring that what they sought would not be found. Sure enough the two boats seemed to be drifting closer, as if pulled by some, forgive the pun, massive invisible hand. My companions loosed bolts and arrows, as befitted their weaponry. I could not make out what they were targeting, but the screams of shock and pain, told me that they had registered hits. Pretty impressive archery really! I was yet to make out a shape more discernable than the longships themselves, yet those three, Strav, Moxadder and Mortec, were scoring well.

Several minutes went past, in which time Theron and some guards arrived. Eventually the two ships ground up the stones and rocks to be effectively beached. One boat was empty of buccaneers, they had been shot by my companions and fallen into the sea, but there were two corpses in the second boat, arrows and bolts protruding from their chests, and one motionless figure, in a rowing pose. Although the oar itself had slipped from his motionless grip. 

Without doubt it was the strangest thing I had seen to date. Under the direction of one of the mages, guards lifted the still rower off the bench on which he sat. He remained in that same position; leaning forward with hands stretched out as if to complete an oar stroke. Somewhat unnerved I decided that I would try my very hardest not to annoy those that were magically gifted. I would learn what I could from them instead. It was with excited dread that I wondered what else the arcane masters could do to a person.

The guards took him away, none too carefully. We were left with several bodies and two longships to search. Moxadder quickly volunteered to scour the corpses for ‘clues’. I am sure that he was hoping to find some sort of drug stash. I decided that it may be more prudent to search the boats. Mortec joined me. Together we found two things of interest. Firstly there was a map of the castle grounds, with the castle itself circled in red. Secondly we found three holy symbols. Two on the pierced bodies and one laying on the deck of the vessel. All honoured Geduld, God of Death and the ever encroaching Dominion. Not only were we assailed by pirates, now we discover that they are death worshippers who are in league with the horrendous threat that hovers over the Fastness. 

The only other items that we found were of less interest; spears, nets, a barrel of brandy that was quickly confiscated by Mortec for ‘further analysis’, fresh water, rations and the like. 

I showed Theron the spoils of our search and whilst he dismissed the holy symbols as trinkets he was very interested in the map. Whilst it showed and explained very little of the intent of the attackers it did reveal, by its existence, that one of them at least had visited Yorathton before or that there was a townsman or member of the Barons’ own court that was in league with them. 

Strav edged closer, peering over my shoulder at the map. “Interesting”, he muttered. He followed it up with a request, “May I borrow the map for a moment?”

“Of course, but be careful with it” Theron said as he handed it to him. 

Strav was a curious one, probably the most secretive of our little group. I had not really got to know him at all. He mainly kept to himself and his aloofness made me all the more curious. My eyes followed him as if he were a mouse in a field and I a falcon ready for a meal. He approached the congregated wizards and spoke to them briefly. The mage Emble spoke something and waved his right hand over the map, sprinkling a powder as he went. It glowed suddenly, giving off a blue light that eerily lit up Emble’s face. Just as suddenly the luminescence vanished. Strav nodded in thanks, muttered something, and returned to us.

The map he presented to us was now fundamentally different. Whilst the same drawing was still represented, much more had been revealed by Emble’s magic. Now the Baron’s tower was also circled and the path that we had been venturing up and down all evening was clearly marked. Now there was no doubt in my mind. The Baron was the target of the raid. Whether they wanted him dead or alive was another question.

As we made our final journey up the path for the night, I asked Strav how he knew to look for something magical. His reply was typically cryptic. “I have a natural affinity with magic.” And that was all that he would say about it.

Yet another Stravarious mystery. Perhaps he was gifted as Zmrat and my sister Isabella were? I thought about my unusual companion as I drifted off to sleep and realised that I had never actually seen his face. It puzzled me, but not enough to stop me slipping off into my very own dream world.


----------



## Haraash Saan

*Chapter 4  - Revelations and Investigations*

I slept well that night. Very well. The excitement of the previous evening had taken its toll, for I did not hear my usual dawn wake up door pounding; damned pageboys! I had become so hardened since setting out from Halfast some twenty five days ago that I could no longer remember the feeling of luxurious feather stuffed cushions that I has been so accustomed to. Every evening after the rigors of the days training I slumped exhausted into my hard unforgiving mattress and slept more soundly than I had ever before. Amazing what a little physical activity will do for you. When I finally managed to drag myself from my simple bed, I found the others of the Hydra milling about on the training grounds looking perplexed. 

My companions explained their confusion. Instead of disturbing us, the pageboys woke the Massive Hand and Five Kinds of Death and summoned them to an urgent audience with the Baron. So, somewhat neglected, we were left to our own devices. I convinced Strav to fence with me to pass the time. As we duelled we made small talk, I was trying to pierce him with my blade and also his secretive ways with my tongue. My sword yielded much better results than my questions.

It was mid-morning when we were finally called to the see the Baron. The Great Hall was swarming with activity, servants ran about purposefully and the self-important ensured that chaos ensued. They seemed to be catering to the requests of the Massive Hand and Five Kinds of Death, who stood in separate groups some way off. I stopped a young lad to inquire as to what was happening, but the only information I could garner was that the two parties would be journeying separately to achieve some mission of the Baron’s. A hail from our lord cut short any further inquiries.

“Come stand before me.” commanded the Baron gruffly. “As you are no doubt aware we have been having some considerable trouble with the Bloodsails. Cutthroats, thieves and plunderers the lot of them. They are not my immediate concern, but unfortunately their attack has caused your training to be somewhat shortened. I must send your trainers on errands and this leaves me with the problem of how to proceed with your education.

Two solutions have presented themselves, either you stay here and practice with minimal tuition, or you accept a commission that may well accelerate your learning.” 

Whilst the Baron offered two alternatives, I was under no illusion that we had any option but to take his commission.

The Baron continued, “I have a task for you to perform and I am willing to pay for your services. Obviously, your lack of experience comes into consideration and as I am supplying you with all the necessary equipment, including a long boat, your wage will not be high.”

A long boat? A sea voyage obviously awaited us. I hoped our captain was a reasonable man.

“It has become obvious that I have certain enemies and my investigations have so far led to the Sorcerer’s Isle.”

My knowledge of this island was limited to a few smatterings of history relating to its founding. The great wizard Novorod, a follower of Nachtigal, many thousands of years ago had escaped from the clutches of the Convocation. The slippery mage found his way to what is now called Sorcerer’s Isle where he built himself a tower and in it he housed all the arcane knowledge that he had gathered over his many, many years. His divine belief was so great and the tasks that he had performed for Nachtigal were of such importance to his Goddess that his reward was to cheat death, at least temporarily, for he lived for several hundreds of years. Over the years the isle became surrounded by a thick fog of unknown origin. Most traders avoided the fog and its hidden island as if it were the plague, fearing that their ships would crash against hidden rocks. However, eventually the island and its abandoned tower was discovered and Sorcerer’s Isle soon became a haven for learning the magical arts. 

“I require you to travel to this island and see if you can learn who is plotting against me. Who sent the pirates to raid Yorathton and why did they have a map that showed a direct route to my chambers”, said the Baron.

“I wish this to be a,“ he paused, “delicate operation. Draw no attention to yourselves for fear of forcing my enemies into hiding. Your only other constraint is that you must be back here by the seventeenth day of Burn to ensure that you have enough time to reach Halfast for the games on the twenty eighth. If you do not return then my investment in you, and your accelerated learning, will be completely wasted.” 

He offered us one copper common a day, the pitiful earning of a simple guardsman, but we accepted. It would not have been wise decline the first work our Baron had given us. 

Baron Yorath also warned us against attempting to disable or remove his enemies, unless of course we felt that we could achieve this challenge without getting ourselves killed. I believe he was more concerned with the loss of his ‘investment’ than our lives, but nobility has a habit of thinking that way. Trust me.

Mortec was returned the sorcerer’s coin that he had retrieved from the lighthouse in Ravenswood and we were told that we would be well served investigating the Transmuters that operated on Sorcerer’s Isle, as they would be the ones capable of creating such coins. 

Mortec must have been held in high esteem because the Baron also gave him an opaque purple stone set into a necklace. It was the mate of one that the Baron Yorath wore and would allow Mortec to magically communicate with him once per day. Our patron and employer wanted frequent and accurate updates on our progress. I could not comprehend why I was not given the task. It was my right as the only member of the Hydra with any lineage to speak of to be given such responsibilities.

Our final surprise was possibly the most daunting, we had to supply our own captain. Much to my dread it was decided that Argonne, being the only one of us with any sailing experience (he had been taught the art of sailing by one of the members of the Massive Hand), would be the ship’s Captain.  I argued that he was not yet capable of taking a vessel, with his companions, out into open sea by himself? Seeing my companions would not relent on their choice I urged the Yorath to provide us with an experienced seaman. However, he refused my request, quoting what was now becoming a tiresome line, “accelerated learning”. So that was it, our task, our captain and potentially our doom. What a wonderful morning it was turning out to be.


----------



## Haraash Saan

Whilst we could have set out that afternoon, I decided that it would be more prudent to travel at dawn. That way we had the entire day to reach the isle, rather than travelling part way in the darkness, which is what would have happened had we set out that day. The remainder of the day was spent preparing and provisioning the boat as best we could. It was only a day’s sailing if the winds were fair, but one cannot take enough precautions with a novice as our guide. 

Late that afternoon our friend Maron Devlis arrived at Yorathton answering a request from the Baron. I took him to be a gift from Srcan, god of hope, something I was very much in need of with Argonne as captain designate. We queried him on Sorcerer’s Isle and he informed us that he had travelled there a few times and that there really was nothing to be concerned about. Seeing an opportunity to have a companion that had actually been to the island, Morgan tried hard to convince him to come. He declined, citing business of the Baron’s that he would not disclose. He did, however, offer several titbits of information and one very important and very reassuring gift. He told us that there were actually three islands, not just one. Sorcerer’s Isle, the largest and only populated island, was the first, with Bleak Isle and the Isle of the Dead rounding out the small archipelago. The second piece of information, while somewhat cryptic, proved to be useful. “Gather some nice shells for your journey.” He said with a knowing smile. Whilst we tried to garner a reason for this advice, he would say no more on the topic. 

The gift, his most precious possession, was the loan of his dolphin Elwing. He told us that Elwing would guide us to the Sorcerer’s Isle. I was sceptical, but faced with a fish for a guide or Argonne as a Captain I was most pleased to have Elwing along for the journey. It certainly could not be worse than Argonne.

With that he left us, telling us that the dolphin would be waiting by our boat in the morning. We thanked him and went to the beach to gather shells as he had suggested. My search proved to be fruitless, yet whilst I trudged along the beach I recalled a book that I had been reading at Leathes Abbey. It had spoken of a strange people called Tritons. A bizarre race that lived in the oceans and were in someway descended from the Fey folk. They were an odd combination of man and fish. From the drawings I had seen they were essentially men with scaled and finned legs. I recalled two other important things; there was a colony of Tritons that lived in the waters off Sorcerer’s Isle and that in the pictures they had been adorned with many bright and colourful shells. I told the others my recollections and we searched with a little more vigour. Whilst we managed to find several pretty shells it was Argonne who found the prize, a huge shell that seemed to glisten a rainbow of colours when the waves washed over it.

On the morning of the sixteenth of Low Summer we boarded our small longship. It was fitted with eight oars and a mast. I had been told the previous day that the Swift, as our vessel was known, was a sound and speedy coastal ship and was perfect for our journey. However, this was my maiden voyage on the sea, that in itself gave me little confidence and I was yet to grow comfortable with the idea of the forester suddenly being master of the sea. At least the weather was good, or so the fisherman said as they boarded their own boats. The sky was clear, although dawn had not yet crept over the horizon, and once we were clear of the sheltering cliffs, a southerly breeze would only aid our journey. 

At Argonne’s request we boarded our small ship and ‘cast off’, as Argonne put it. That done, his next command was for four of us to take the oars, and for Mortec to keep watch at the bow. Upon his arrival at the front of the boat he called back that Elwing was waiting for us. That was a comfort. I felt I could rely on the fish to guide us. Strav and Morgan grabbed oars on opposite sides of the boat and Moxadder grabbed one behind Morgan. I leant on a rail as I watched, curious to see what they would do next.

“Come on Gerard! Hurry up and grab an oar!” shouted Argonne, annoyed at my apparent tardiness. After several weeks I had actually become accustomed to the common use of my first name.

“What?” I replied. I was in shock.

“Grab an oar so we can start moving.” Said Argonne, barely concealing his impatience.

“You want me to row?” I must admit it had not even occurred to me that I was required for such a menial task. 

“Yes!” cried Argonne in exasperation. I do not think he was handling this captaincy very well.

“You want me to sit on that filthy bench and actually,” I paused as comprehension slowly dawned on me, “row?” Was it possible that they expect me, Gerard d’Mowbray, to row? A boat? Surely not.

“Yes you fool!” screamed an increasingly agitated Argonne, saliva spraying from his mouth. “Sit down behind Strav and start rowing now!”

I heard mutterings of agreement from the others.

“But I am not really a rower. Not much physical strength you see. And think of my hands, I will ruin them. They will develop calluses!” It was my last throw of the dice to avoid this task that was well beneath my station.

“Calluses?!” he spat incredulously. 

“If you don’t sit down now, I’ll throw you overboard.” said Argonne in forced measured tones through clenched teeth as he tried to restrain himself. The others began to murmur their approval of Argonne’s suggested action.

I raised my hands in a gesture designed to placate the mob and said with resignation, “Very well. I will do as you ask.” 

So I shuffled meekly to the bench that Argonne had allocated to me, looked down at it, dubiously pulled one glove off, brushed the seat down vigorously, replaced the glove, and took my seat. I grabbed the oar in my hands and was about to ask how one was supposed to row when I thought better of it. 

Finally we set off and I learnt a new skill. One that I hoped I would never have to use again.


----------



## Haraash Saan

We only rowed for an hour before we emerged from the shelter of the cliffs. Argonne ordered oars up and unfurled the sails. Thank Mühbelung that our toil was over. My gloves were ruined and my blistered hands ached. 

The Swift was true to its name, setting a cracking pace now that the sails were full. Mortec occasionally yelled course adjustments, as indicated by our fishy companion. As daylight appeared over the starboard rail, we could see our destination clearly ahead of us. It was a massive wall of fog that rose on the horizon. 

It took us six hours to get to that mist, and it was not a pleasant time for me. I was ill, very ill for most of the trip. Thankfully I was not alone, Moxadder’s stomach also felt the waves that rolled underneath us. 

Inside the fog, visibility was terrible. I could not see Mortec on the bow . A few minutes after we entered the fog we stopped, becalmed. The wind that had proved a wonderful ally could not penetrate the mists. It meant that my poor hands had only had six hours to recover before being forced once more to pull an oar. I hated boats!

Propelled by our rhythmic strokes, our sturdy little vessel journeyed for another half hour or so before we heard a distant splashing accompanied by a horn. The fog befuddled my ears, I could not tell from which direction the noise was coming. 

“Silence!” bellowed Argonne. And he called me a fool? They were practically upon us before we actually realised they approached from the bow of the Swift. 

We quickly congregated at the front of the boat, crossbows hastily loaded, where we waited for the unknown travellers of the mist. The first thing we saw the heads of four creatures, bobbing in and out of the water as they approached us. Beyond them was a barge adorned with shells and seaweed that they seemed to be  towing. It was as if it were sculpted out of the waves themselves such was its form. There was no doubt that we were dealing with Tritons. Their elfish, narrow features and pointed ears were just like the pictures I had seen at Leathes Abbey.

A voice from the barge addressed us in a strange and melodious language unknown to my companions or I. I answered in my own native tongue, Guernean, but only received more gibberish. I nudged Mortec and suggest he try Arcanum, the language of magic. He had been teaching me it, but I did not yet have the vocabulary to converse capably. Mortec took my advice and shouted a greeting.

One of the Tritons responded in kind and several communications flew rapidly between them before Mortec told us they wished to search the Swift.

“Not a chance!” yelled Argonne in Guernean, confirming that the man often did not think. We had already discovered they did not understand that language.

I hushed him and told Mortec that we had nothing to hide so they were welcome to come aboard. He relayed the message and their barge drew alongside our ship. Now that it was nearer I could see that there were four more Tritons on it. 

Two of the fish men that towed the barge spoke quietly in their native tongue to the one which had been speaking with Mortec, their leader presumably. It responded and the two Tritons water swam up to him. He passed them each a small object and then the pair swam to the Swift and hauled themselves aboard. 

Their torso and arms were essentially that of a man, but from the stomach down they were covered entirely in scales, just like a fish. Whilst they did not have tails, like mermaids were said to have, their legs ended in flippers or fins not feet.

Both had pushed themselves up, with straight arms so that their chests were raised off the deck and their legs and flippers trailed behind them. Then, each spoke a strange word and suddenly they began to change. Their flippers became more rigid and a pronounced joint formed. Then the ends of their flippers seemed to tear and split apart forming toes. Their flippers had transformed into scaled feet.

Sorcerer’s coins! The objects that their leader had given them must have been Sorcerer’s coins enabling them to transform their bodies so that they could more easily search our boat.  If they had access to the magical coins then it was obvious that they had access to a mage who knew how to create them. Mortec leapt to the same conclusion and started vigorously questioning the leader whilst its two lackeys scoured our boat for whatever it was that they were looking for. They did not find it and jumped disappointedly back into the water. Mortec addressed the leader once more in the language of magic.

The Tritons had been looking for pirates, the gnome explained, and had taken us for such. He also told us there was a mage called Quickling who was known to create Sorcerer’s Coins. He lived in the Port of the Warlock. As way of thanks for the information, Mortec offered them our shells . They were delighted, especially with the shell that Argonne had found. In appreciation of our gift they gave each of us a small white cockleshell with a strange symbol etched into it and then let us go on our way. They did not explain what the cockleshell’s were for, but I pocketed mine assuming that if I met a Triton again it may prove to be a useful symbol of friendship.

It was another hour before Elwing guided the Swift through the fog and into the natural bay that housed the Port of the Warlock.


----------



## Haraash Saan

As we gazed at our destination we saw a tall tower on a hill that overlooked the ramshackle town. This was undoubtedly Novorod’s Tower, home of arcane knowledge and its three guardians. Spiralling outward from the tower were all manner of buildings. Some were just shacks that even from this distance looked as if they should have collapsed. Perhaps they were held together by magic? Others were grand mansions circled by high walls. But the most unusual thing about the Port of the Warlock was quite simply the vast array of architectural styles. I had only travelled in central Guerney and from there to Halfast and then Yorath, but this town was unlike anything I had seen. Unfortunately I cannot even begin to describe the types of houses as most seemed very odd and I had nothing to compare them to. The only constant seemed to be that there were many more walled houses nearer to the tower. An obvious sign of wealth and prestige, I thought.

As we docked a busy and officious round man hurried along the pier to greet us. His little legs travelling so briskly that he swayed rather violently with each step. Two burly sorts followed him at what one might call a respectful distance, but their bored expressions showed no respect whatsoever.

The little butterball stopped in front of us, pausing only to mop his sweaty brow with a kerchief, “Good day. Welcome to the Port of the Warlock,” he began haughtily. “I am here to ensure that all of your cargo is legitimate and to collect any fees that you and your goods incur.”

Argonne, puffing out his chest as if impersonating a pigeon, spoke up on our behalf. Captaincy had given him some ill conceived idea that he was our spokesman. “We’ve no cargo other than us.”

The bureaucrat sniffed at this, sensing that there was little profit to made from us. He inclined his head to his two toughs and they immediately went to work searching the boat for cargo. “So if you come with no cargo, what is your business?” he asked.

Argonne opened his mouth but I managed to interject, “We are here simply to seek magical assistance. I understand this is the place to come for such help?”

He admitted that it was and proceeded to collect a sickle from each of us as entry fee into the town. He had almost finished when Argonne spoke up once more. “You wouldn’t know where to buy drugs would you?”

I am not sure who was shocked the most, the other members of the Hydra, or the little fat man. He, unfortunately, reacted first. “Drugs? We don’t allow that sort of thing to occur in our town. Can’t have wizards that are not completely in control of their facilities running around now can we? Who knows what would happen! Ah boys’,“ he beckoned once more to his large assistants, “I think you should search this lot. Look for anything suspicious.” 

Argonne is truly a buffoon. The Baron Yorath’s words echoed in my mind “Draw no attention to yourselves.” What chance of success did we have if simple instructions could not be followed? I would have to buy Argonne a gag, as the mask he wore to hide his face did not muffle the fool enough.

Not surprisingly our biggest concern was Moxadder. The man was probably carrying all manner of narcotics to support himself. And by the look of him he knew he was in trouble. I could see his eyes darting about looking for a way of escape. 

They searched me roughly. I bit my tongue and held my pride in check, it would do no good to complain. It was obvious that they were not trying very hard to find anything, they were just going through the motions, probably thinking of having a nap whilst waiting for the next boat to come in. 

Unfortunately they soon got to Moxadder, who had somehow managed to be the last to be examined. He controlled himself quite well, until they found his stash that is. He snatched it back, eyeballs frantic now. Argonne leapt in once more, “Ah that’s for personal use, isn’t that right Moxie?” 

Moxadder stood mute. His shock and fear did not allow him to utter a word. 

The official and his men turned to face Argonne who had just spoken. Moxadder edged further down the pier, out of arms reach. They saw him move and our podgy friend said menacingly, “Hand it over son. You’re coming for a little trip to the lock up.”

At that point things got really strange. Strav, who had been quiet throughout the entire discussion suddenly pulled down his mask and revealed himself. All of us were stunned, none more so than Morgan. Strav’s skin was black as night, while his hair was white, as though bleached by an eternity in the sun. His eyes burned a vibrant crimson. Structurally his face was that of an elf; fine, angled, chiselled features, long and thin nose and of course elongated ears ending in a slight point.

Morgan’s sword quickly rasped out of it’s scabbard. He was livid! The Fastendian glared at us as he asked “What is the meaning of this? Did any of you know that this,” he paused in mid bluster,” this thing, was in our company?” No one answered so he continued his tirade. “This thing is a Black Elf. Evil to the core and a servant of the Dominion! My people have been fighting these creatures for a hundred years!”

“Morgan!” I hissed with urgency, “Now is not the time! We can discuss it later.”

“Yes.” Agreed the port official. “I couldn’t care less about your bickering. But rest assured,“ he shifted his focus to look squarely at Strav, “I know your kind, and whilst they are accepted here, they are not welcome. I’ll be watching you so stay out of trouble. But right now there is another issue that needs to be dealt with. Boys, grab him and take him to the gaol,” he ordered, pointing to Moxadder who had managed to edge a long way down the pier. 

“Come now sir.” I said, “Surely this is just a misunderstanding. Perhaps I can, offer you a little something to ease your mind about such a trifling matter?”

“Boys, rack off!” he order his lackey’s and then added more softly as they shrugged and headed back down the pier,  “what have you got in mind? I’ll not let those drugs into my town!”

“If we just get rid of the drugs, then they were never really here. Were they? Perhaps this gromit would guarantee that, hmmm?” I said.

With a greedy glint in his eye he snatched the gold coin from my palm and said, “Throw them in the water, and this never happened.”

Moxadder’s eyes widened but he reluctantly threw the bag and its precious contents into the water. Or so it seemed to the official. I saw Moxadder secret the pouch in his shirt as he pretended to throw it. 

In the end it was a good result. We had no more trouble with the Port’s authorities  and I suppose Moxadder was happy. He retained his beloved stash.


----------



## Firedancer

Just a little post to say I am enjoying this storyhour, just the right amount of arrogance for a nobleman.


----------



## Haraash Saan

Glad you are enjoying the SH. Thanks for the kind words.


----------



## Haraash Saan

We found an inn, the Witch’s Brew, that seemed sufficient. Gastok the barkeep saw us to a large room that we could share. I was unused to ‘bunking’, as Argonne called it, with others, unless it was in a more intimate setting. However, I repressed my natural protest as we had pressing matters to discuss. 

As soon as we had entered the room Morgan slammed the door shut and demanded an explanation from Strav. The dark elf, to his credit, fulfilled that request.

He told us the first thing that we needed to understand was that the Dominion corrupted other races and shaped them into new ones. Goblins, he said looking directly at Mortec, were perversions of Gnomes. From Mortec’s reaction I think that he was none to impressed with this slur on his race. In the same way, Stravarious continued, Dark Elves were corrupted Elves. 

In his youth, almost a hundred years ago, Strav and several other elves were in a forest hunting game. They were beset by the forces of the Dominion and captured. They were placed in one of the great Death Barrows created in ages past by the Gerechians. These barrows had been built to house all the criminals that had broken the Gerechians’ harsh laws. Those sentenced had their souls bound to their bodies so that they could not die. The miserable wretches were then incarcerated within the Barrows were they pondered their crimes for all eternity. 

The Gerechians, or Convocation as they had come to be known, were eventually overthrown by the Circle of Eight, a powerful consortium of Druids that could command the very earth to do their bidding. In the last battle some of the Great Barrows were cracked open, unleashing hordes of living dead and strange perverted creatures filled with hatred of those that lived. They were the seeds of what is now the Dominion. 

It was not long after the Barrows were breached by the Druids that Stravarious was captured. He spent several years inside a Death Barrow, all the while slowly being transformed. His physical appearance changed to what we saw now, but his mind had not been corrupted. Although he refused to recall with any detail his time in the barrow, undoubtedly he experienced remarkable horrors. 

One day the earth began to shake with tremendous power. The great ceiling of the Barrow began to crack and sections fell, crushing the helpless. As he cowered in a corner the wall against which he lay was torn open by the violent heaving of the earth and he tumbled out of the Barrow. 

Strav rolled quickly down a rocky inclined, collecting many a cut and bruise before eventually slamming into a boulder. He painfully picked himself up and stood in the gloomy daylight for the first time in years. His first sensation was the rain that lashed him and then the wind that whirled about him, tearing at the remnants of the clothes he still wore. Lightning cracked in the distance and the earth rumbled with echoes of the great quake. 

It was a day after the earthquake that Strav found himself in a forest and stopped by a pool to refresh himself and clean is battered body. It was then, for the first time, he saw what had been happening to him. Staring at the mirror like surface he was aghast. At first he thought that he was about to be recaptured by a Dark Elf, but then realised that he saw himself in the still pool’s water. With what was left of his clothing he fashioned a crude mask to hide his hideous features from the world. He travelled south for many months before finally happening on civilisation in Guerney. 

That was Strav’s story, as much of it as we could get in any case, and a truly remarkable one it was. There were many questions that we asked him, some of which he answered, others which he refused to dwell on. My biggest question was one that Strav could never answer satisfactorily. How much of his fantastic tale was true?

We all sat in silence, pondering the amazing story that we had just heard, even Morgan had no heart to recommence his tirade. 

A deep and rumbling voice from a corner behind us broke the silence. “Now that is an interesting tale.”

We whirled around, swords rasping from scabbards and were amazed to see that Kuruul had been replaced by a large goblin like creature. Instead of the rags normally worn by a goblin, however, he wore fine garments including a splendid red waistcoat. 

“Who are you?” we asked. 

“Who? I am Kuruul. Who else would I be?” he said.

He explained that he was a Barghest, a distant relative to the gnomish peoples with the extraordinary ability to transform their shape into the dog form that we had grown so accustomed to. 

He too had been captured by the Dominion and his original form had been corrupted into the being that stood before us. He, like Strav, spoke very little of the events that took place inside the barrow. The only additional information that he gave us was that the Lord of the Barrow he had been in was named Rawloqu the Transmuter who was one of the great powers of the Dominion. 

Of his past he only boasted that he was the greatest wizard and swordsman of all of his people and that he was driven by vengeance for what Rawloqu had done to him and his family.

This was indeed welcome news! A member of our company had real skills, arcane and martial at that. Sadly Kuruul quickly dispelled any thoughts that he might be of any use by claiming he was only here on the Baron’s request (they had some sort of binding relationship) and was much more concerned with his own epic thoughts. He would not even disclose these, citing “I doubt very much that any of you would come close to comprehending them so I can’t see much point in explaining them”. 

He spoke with Strav for a little while and then transformed back into his dog shape, curled up, hid his big black nose under his tail, and entertained himself with his own musings.

This was all too much for me. After an exhausting day I had heard two fantastic stories, each with a thousand unanswered questions. Even worse, I had my hopes raised that a self professed great wizard could aid us only to have them dashed by that same wizard, who had told us he preferred life as a dog. It was all too much so dragged myself to my bunk (ye gods!) and was mercifully asleep before I could even worry about the bed bugs that were no doubt visit my person later that evening. I cannot recall my dreams of that night, but I did wake strangely refreshed. The world appeared a little different to me now.


----------



## Haraash Saan

That next day we decided to pair off, leaving Kuruul to watch, sleep more like, the room and our gear. Our plan was simple; Strav and Mortec were to investigate the central part of town, Argonne and Moxadder would try the markets and Morgan and I would investigate the rest of the town. All of us aimed to discover who could make sorcerer’s coins, that evening we would assemble at the Witches Brew to plot our next stratagem.

Of the three groups, Morgan and I returned quickest and with the least information. Well, no information. Not even a skerrick. However, while waiting in the tavern for the others to return we overheard other patrons discussing the Tritons. Quite an aggressive and independent lot with no allegiance with anyone it seemed. They were particularly unfriendly at the moment because the Bloodsails had captured their prince. That explained their search of our vessel, they must have been searching for him.

The others returned as we were supping on a reasonable roast lamb lunch. The news was mixed. Quickling, the mage that the Tritons spoke of was a well respected transmuter. Strav and Mortec discovered that his residence was near to the Tower in one of the quality areas of town. They also learnt that another transmuter operated in the market in the morning. He was a dwarf, called Grisha, with an evil reputation and the skills we were interested in. 

Port of the Warlock was indeed an unusual place. I myself had never seen a dwarf, they short, stocky folk virtually never left their mountain home of Kazakash and rarely accepted visitors to their mountain caverns. Moxadder and Argonne had also learnt about Grisha, but had missed him at the markets. However, they revealed that a third transmuter, Messamorph, also operated in town, although his reputed forte was transforming inanimate objects, rather than a living beings.

An idea formed in my cunning mind. We sought information about a transmuter so that we could try to identify which one of them created coins for the Bloodsails. With this information we could try to trace who was organising the pirates and therefore we could discover the identity of the Baron’s antagonist. My plan was this; Argonne covered his face from prying eyes for the simple reason that it was totally deformed. This condition, for want of a better word, was crucial to the plan’s credibility and success. I proposed to the group that I take Argonne to see the transmuters we had identified and ask them if they could create coins to transform him into something less hideous. That way I hoped to learn who could make the sorcerer’s coins and also who would actually bother to do that sort of work. It was decided that whilst Argonne and I the met the wizards, Moxadder would try to learn what he could about them from those that lived near to their homes, or in Grisha’s case, those in the market. Mortec, Strav and Morgan decided that they could be better used by investigating Novorod’s Tower. They offered no explanation so I can only think that they were pursuing some personal agenda.

Quickling cordially greeted Argonne and I. He was a tall, handsome elf with fine angled, almost gaunt features and long blond hair that lay upon his shoulders. His home was lined with shelves full of books and trinkets. It was very organised and neat, everything its place. My first impression was that he was a businessman that knew very well what he peddled. 

“Good day to you sir.” I said with a beaming smile, “I have been led to believe that you are the person to see regarding our very particular needs.”

“Indeed? How may I help.” He said with a polite smile.

“Well, please forgive me for any shock or discomfort you are about to feel.” I warned, and then lifted Argonne’s mask to reveal the gruesome visage.

“Ah, I see.” said Quickling, blanching a little at the sight, which was quite impressive in itself as elves are already quite pale. 

“Yes I do believe that you are right. I can help. What exactly were you thinking?” He continued, recovering quickly as he began to get excited at the challenge that I had proposed.

“I have heard tell of objects called sorcerer’s coins. I believe they grant the temporary ability to change one’s appearance. Is that correct?” I said

“Yes that is an accurate description, but I tend not to deal with such trifling magics. You see I am a great deal more than a hedge wizard with simple tricks. My speciality is more permanent transformations. Gladiators tend to see me regularly come this time of year. They always want to improve themselves in someway to gain that edge in combat.” He said somewhat loftily.

Gladiators, I thought, that was information that might provide useful in the future. “Permanent you say? Perhaps I may trouble you with two questions then. How much would it cost for a permanent change, and, if you would actually consider creating sorcerer’s coins, how much would you charge for them?” I queried.

“Well,“ he began, casting an appraising eye over the two of us, “probably a lot more than you could afford for a permanent change.”

“Nah, Gerard here has bucket loads of money, don’t you Gerard?” interrupted Argonne. 

I honestly could have killed him right then. The concept of subtlety and subterfuge was lost on the simpleton. However, I do not condone needless violence, although this was close to justifiable, so a glare of pure fury was all that he received.

“I am not made of sickles Argonne, thank you very much. How much do you charge for a sorcerer’s coin good sir?” I responded

“I suppose I could create some coins for you.” He said, boredom creeping into his voice, “Twenty sickles per coin.”

I thanked him for his time and told him that we would consider his offer and left. 

As we wandered down the dirt street Moxadder sidled up next to us and suggested we go to a tavern to discuss our findings. I passed on the information that we had gathered, and he responded in kind. He had found out that Quickling had several regular customers, but they usually hid their features with cowls and cloaks and came only once or twice a year. 

Our next stop was to visit Messamorph. His home was surrounded by lavish gardens with unusual plants. Some were twice the height of a man, with succulent looking leaves. Another was perhaps four feet tall and its flower looked to be some kind of mouth, a point proven when a honeyeater looking to draw some nectar fluttered into it. Quick as a flash the mouth snapped shut trapping the poor bird. It flapped about, causing buldges in the sealed sphere as it hit the internal walls of the mouth, but after a few moments all motion ceased. A little uneasy, we moved on and into the dwelling of Messamorph.

The interior of his luxurious abode was decorated with curious art works and a single shelf that bore several books. He reflected his surroundings, odd and effeminate. 

Argonne and I went through our routine once more, although this time we learnt that Messamorph did not lower himself to producing such trivialities as sorcerer’s coins, so we left after some polite chit chat.

We had to wait until the next day to see Grisha, as it was already late afternoon. We decided to head back and wait for the others.


----------



## Haraash Saan

A beautiful blue sky greeted us the following morning. We spent it individually. The others all went and did whatever it was they needed to do while I spent some valuable time writing this journal., I was interrupted by Moxadder who wanted to borrow some coin for information. I hesitated at first, but Moxadder assured me that he would repay me. I relented; trust being the first lesson to be learnt in any team.

Midday came and went, as did Strav and Mortec, off for an appointment that they had made with Gorgonath the Wizard, one of the lords of the of the tower. Argonne and I repeated our tick on Grisha. He was a horrible little dwarf. Ugly to look at and ugly in temperament. He was gruff and rude, but Argonne and I learned that he could indeed create sorcerer’s coins. Not only that, his services were a bargain at half the price of Quickling. We left him soon after with his mocking “That’s fine, drop by for a chat but don’t either of you buy bloody anything, will you. Bastards!” echoing in our ears as we walked away.

Whilst the dwarf was abusing us, Morgan and Moxadder were making inquiries about him. They found out that Grisha lived alone in Stonecutters Cottage, a good half hour walk from town, high up on the bluff that overlooked the ocean and the port. They also learned that that his home was nicely located for any number of unknown visitors to come and go with complete anonymity. Rumour even had it that he worked magics at his home for those customers that wished to be discreet. It was presumptuous, but having met the only other two mages reputed for this sort of work, Grisha did seem our most likely candidate.

That night Strav and Mortec returned with absolutely no news other than the fact that our presence had not been deemed notable by those that sit on high in their precious tower. When questioned further on what they had seen, they declined to give any satisfactory detail claiming that mostly they spoke of personal matters. 

It was nice to see that they were working with the Hydra. I had thought that the Baron had employed us for a specific task, yet Strav and Mortec had not unearthed any information to help us from the two most important and knowledgeable people on the entire island. I do wonder about the sort of people I keep company with sometimes. Somehow Mortec’s and Strav’s agendas had become intertwined. This was yet another thing for me to observe. Thank Mühbelung that I have kept this journal, otherwise I would lose track of everything I have to watch for.

Moxadder, on the other hand, brought some very interesting news. During the morning, he had been approached by a man, Ramain Ornamon, who passed himself off as an information dealer. Ornamon told Moxadder that it had only been recently that the Bloodsails had shown interest in such things as kidnap and local history, most likely because they had been hired to do so. Previously they were simple pirates. Loot, rape, pillage, that sort of thing. 

Ramain went on to say that he suspected they were only interested in the happenings of the last fifty years. More importantly he let slip that he represented another party that was very interested in who had bought the services of the Bloodsails’. He even implied that there was more than one group interested in the very same thing.

His last piece of information was that the last known pirate captain was the notorious Rumscully Jack. Cunning and clever, he had never been captured. From the time he took charge of the Bloodsails some three years ago, their plans and methods improved to become calculated and meticulously planned assaults on specific targets. 

Moxadder also revealed something he had noticed way back in Halfast when the Duchess had been attacked. The lepers bore tattoos of a demonic face surrounded by horns. He remembered this because Ornamon wore a pendant with exactly the same design. 

From the description I guessed that it was more likely to be a devil’s face rather than a demon’s, the difference being that devils oversaw the afterlife of believers in hell, and demons tormented those that had no god in a different hell. It is amazing what titbits one can pick up with enough reading.

“And after all that news, he didn’t even charge me!” said Moxadder rather proudly. 

Did not pay? “Well in that case I shall take my sickles back, Moxadder.” I said smugly.

His shoulders slumped when he realised his mistake. The poor fellow was crestfallen. He told me that he had already spent my coin. I assured him that I would consider it a loan and that he could repay me.

The information that Moxadder shared with us led to several questions. Who was the pirate leader now? If it was Rumscully Jack, then what was his agenda or who had he hired his crews? And of course, we were still no closer to understanding why these attacks took place.

Also of interest was that Moxadder had essentially been given this information, and he had been sought out, showing that finally someone had noticed our subtlety, or lack there of. Who and why was someone interested in our inquiries? Did they seek to help or hinder us? How did the demonic face tie in with Moxadder’s new friend and our own quest? And finally, was the Duchesses kidnapping actually an assassination attempt and was it related at all to the abductions of the pirates. Probably not, but at this stage we had no proof to the contrary.

They were all very interesting questions, but they had started to make me feel that we were getting very much out of our depth. We would need to tread carefully, a lot more carefully than we had done so far.

After Moxadder had spoken we shared our information regarding the dwarf. Mortec was all for scouting out the dwarf’s hut that very night and seeing if we would be lucky enough to spy some pirates rendezvousing with Grisha. Whilst the rest of us argued that it was a pointless idea, not only because it was highly unlikely that the pirates would happen to appear that particular evening and we had no proof that the dwarf was involved in the plot against Yorath, but mainly because night had fallen. Strav, due to his elvish persuasion, said that the darkness would not be a problem for him and he was prepared to scout the cottage. Mortec, becoming quite infuriating, insisted on going along to ‘help’. Strav, I felt could look after himself, but could he look after Mortec too? We found out the answer to that the next morning.


----------



## Haraash Saan

The two of them stumbled into our room sometime after midnight and briefly reported that they had found nothing of interest. During our morning meal they revealed little else. Grisha had arrived after dark and then gone to sleep. With no light on offer they, and by they I mean Strav as Mortec was useless in the pitch black, found a low passage through some undergrowth but decided it best to return as Mortec finally realised that their tramping about was doing absolutely no good. I must admit a small part of me was very pleased to see the Gnome covered in bruises and scratches from his night-time frolicking.

With that distraction out of the way, I decided that we should all go to search the area more thoroughly that afternoon after Grisha had arrived at his dumpy little market booth. 

We waited at the market until the fat little hairy man began to tend his stall and we set off. It was roughly half an hour’s journey to the little cottage way out on the bluff. It gave a wonderful vantage point for the rolling sea whilst also offering a spectacular view of the odd little town and its port. The Triton’s must have let another ship through, I could see its sail being furled as it drew close to the docks.

The cottage itself was unremarkable however the events that followed were not. Let me describe what happened. There was a cat laying on the small porch at the front of Grisha’s house. It was doing no one any harm whatsoever. I admit it was black and if you are superstitious that is not a good sign. 

Even when Strav muttered. “I hate bloody cats!” under his breath, I really didn’t suspect that anything untoward was about to happen. I myself was not particularly fond of them, except kittens, they really are quite cute.

I was doing my best to search for signs of trails, well more precisely I was watching Argonne who was sniffing about, low to the ground inspecting grass and twigs, when I heard a crossbow being cranked. I spun quickly expecting the worst. I saw Strav purposefully winding the crank on his crossbow. It was much bigger than my own, and as I was about to see, did a lot more damage. 

My hand instantly went to my rapier, and my eyes darted this way and that, looking for the enemy about to engage us but I could see none. In fact my companions were now telling Strav to stop being stupid and, this is where things really started getting ridiculous, to leave the cat alone. Did I hear that right? Well, yes, it is sad to day that I did. Strav’s intent was simple. Kill that cat. Argonne argued that it was defenceless and had done no harm. To no avail.

Obviously Strav’s muttered anti-feline statement had a little more meaning than I had first perceived. I tried to reason with him but he was adamant. Argonne was practically pleading with Strav by this stage. It did no good. He ignored us, took aim and released the bolt. 

He is a good shot, I will grant him that. Strav’s bolt struck the witless and previously sleeping cat square in the flank, lifting it and slamming it’s body into the hut’s wall. It was pinned, hanging limply from the bolt that was fixed firmly to the wall. We were all gob smacked. I had never witnessed such pointless violence. Even on a hunt the animals had some chance and were aware that they were to be that evening’s meal. 

Argonne was almost inconsolable. He fumed, saying that he was not going to be a part of a company that allowed such acts. It took me several minutes to calm him down and get him back to tracking. Morgan and Mortec debated pointlessly with Strav. It was pointless because the cat was dead. Strav had killed it with no reason and they did not understand why so they pestered and badgered him about it. I wanted to but just could not see what point there was to it. Moxadder looked on with vague interest.

That was the episode of the cat. One I eventually hope to put from my mind. It certainly left me questioning the complete irrationality of Strav’s behaviour.

Someone, Morgan I think, hurled the bolted cat from the cliff and into the sea. At least he got rid of the evidence of idiocy, well more of our idiocy, several members of the group seemed to have a penchant for it. Perhaps it is a disease, it certainly looks contagious.

The murder Strav had committed had not only been senseless, but perhaps even detrimental. With a little bit of investigation, sparked by the missing cat, Grisha might actually be able to work out that it was us. Who would know what would happen then. Would he take vengeance for the cat slaying? Would he warn any pirates that he might be dealing with that we were looking for them? At that stage I had no idea of what was to come. 

We did not wish to disturb the hut anymore than the hole Strav had left in its wall, so instead we focused on scouring the nearby scrub for any signs of a trail. Fifteen minutes after the cat killing, Argonne finally found what we had been searching for. None of us could see it, but he assured us that he had found a path. It led north east, along the coast and the cliff tops, and that is where we went.

Argonne snuffled along at a snails pace checking and rechecking the track that was evident only to him. Pessimism set in after a couple of hours. It seemed that we were following an invisible trail. None of us were confident that Argonne had actually managed to follow whatever it was that he had found. We were on the verge of giving up and heading back when he told us confidently that the trail headed for a narrow peninsula that jutted out from the cliffs that we had been following. With a collective sigh we resigned to follow him. 

The scrub on the peninsula was thick. Tea tree is what Argonne called it. Its’ branches seemed alive, grabbing, catching and tearing our clothing as we attempted to avoid it. I was directly behind Argonne when he stopped rather abruptly causing me to have to sidestep nimbly in order to avoid crashing into him. I discovered the reason why he stopped when I almost fell in it. 

There was a massive hole, some sixty feet wide and forty feet long that gaped at our feet. It was only sheer luck that enabled me to clutch at a feral tea tree to stop myself from falling in. And it would have been a deadly fall. The drop was at least one hundred feet straight down into the ocean.

“Watch out!” I yelled, “Hole!” It had the desired effect, the others stopped in their tracks.

If only I had seen the long ship with furled red sails moored to one of the five or so piers beneath me before I cried out.


----------



## Haraash Saan

“Bloodsails below.” I added in a whisper, but it was too late. Horns boomed from across the gorge announcing our arrival. And the Hydra showed exactly why it was named that way; each head went in a different direction, including me. I panicked, I admit it, and hid. The horns had startled me, as had the swift disappearance of my colleagues. I was loading my own crossbow when I heard the soft twang of a bow somewhere to my left. To my right I heard Mortec and Strav speaking, although not loudly enough to discern there words. We were out of control and separated. Theron had taught us tactics but the only thing that had seeped through was the concept of ranged weapons first. Unfortunately strength in numbers, and staying together had not. 

I needed to get the others back together. I focused my mind on Argonne, using a technique that Zmrat had taught me, and spoke to him in his own mind.

“Turn back Argonne. Get the others to regroup.” I said. 

In my own mind I could feel his surprise at the mental intrusion, but I lost focus as Morgan stumbled into me, bow in hand. 

“Pirates are coming.” Was all he said as he continued to blunder past, heading the way of Mortec and Strav. 

He was right, they were following him closely. There were two of them, a man and woman. I loosed my bolt at the man, it narrowly missed, and he let out a cry of surprise, then drew a cutlass and came at me. The woman hurled a dagger which struck hard on my hip. I winced, gritting my teeth against the incredible pain, but managed to drop my crossbow and whip out my rapier. My first mistake had been yelling out at the mouth of the sink hole and attracting the pirates attention. My second was to engage in a melee.

This was no like no combat I had experienced on the training grounds of Yorath. It was two against one and on difficult terrain. I ducked, dodged and used the tee trees as cover. We all swung wildly until the pirate bitch stuck me again with a dagger. It staggered me somewhat and I missed with a flailing swipe at the male. I called out for help and was rewarded with an answering shout from Mortec. 

Suddenly he burst onto the scene, thrusting his palms onto the woman’s belly. She shrieked in pain and recoiled. I recall now the murderous intent in her eyes as she slashed her knife at the Gnome with all her might. He ducked and she almost toppled over with the force of her swing. 

I heard a scream and saw a pirate falling from the edge of the gorge a short distance away to my right. Argonne stood at the top of the cliff that had been recently occupied by the pirate. He was preparing to cleave a second foe with his mighty axe.

As I swayed away from a murderous cutlass swipe, Morgan joined the fray, thrusting elegantly with his rapier and wounding my opponent. With a howl, he scarpered, the female not far behind him. I snatched at a bolt and quickly loaded my hastily retrieved crossbow. I took aim across the chasm and loosed the bolt with deadly accuracy. The male pirate dropped, my shaft stuck deep in between his shoulder blades. Combat is not always about honour. In fact it never is, it’s about living at all costs. 

Another bolt struck the woman slamming her into a tree. I guessed it had been come from Strav’s crossbow. The brute of a thing had claimed another life, this time a more worthy adversary.

As we ran to the two downed pirates I thanked Mortec and Morgan for their timely aid, it was only later that I wondered about what power Mortec had managed to harness to cause the woman such hurt. 

Reaching the pirates, Morgan quickly applied bandages to the one I had felled “For questioning later,” he mumbled as he worked. The woman was beyond help. 

Leaving him and Mortec with the wounded pirate, I forged my way along the left edge of the crevasse, eventually meeting up with Strav and Argonne. I was glad and relieved to see them alive and none the worse for wear. 

A cry of pain sounded from where I had come. We spied an archer who had just loosed a shaft and Strav immediately targeted him with a bolt that struck with resounding success. We ran back to where our allies were to find Mortec tending Morgan’s prone form, beside whom lay a bloodied arrow. The arrow loosed from Strav’s recent victim had struck the Fastendian in the chest and knocked him from his feet. 

We cautiously walked to the far side of the sink hole, making sure there were no more pirates waiting to ambush us, before resting in a small clearing. 

As I was making myself more comfortable on the top of a small boulder, Morgan mentioned something about Moxadder and hurried off to the opposite side of the gorge that we had been defending. It was the first I time I had thought of our drug addled friend since I had yelled out.

Morgan stumbled back several minutes later, shaking his head in disbelief, Moxadder not far behind him.

“I don’t believe it.” Morgan said. “You just killed him after trying to heal him. I don’t believe it.”

“Well you shouldn’t have been such a smartarse!” huffed Moxadder in response. 

The story we got out of the two of them was that Moxadder was trying desperately to save one of the pirates that Argonne had taken down so that we could question him, but had only made things worse. Morgan had arrived at precisely the right moment and managed to successfully stop the pirates bleeding. 

Moxadder went into a rage and stabbed the unconscious fellow several times, ensuring that he would never wake. We could only reason that Moxadder did not appreciate being shown up by anyone. I really am in association with some seriously deranged people.

It was then that Strav noticed that the large rock slab against which Argonne leaned looked to be some sort of concealed doorway. But none of us could puzzle out how to open it. Even I began to probe the rock and its surrounds before I realised how filthy I was getting. I stopped immediately and made sure that there was no sign of dirt upon my gloves. I must have looked a frightful mess at that stage. My clothes were torn and bloodied from vicious trees and combat, so I stopped and cleaned myself as best I could firstly by brushing myself off vigorously and then with water from my canteen. 

Finally Morgan finally found the edges of an opening. He traced a line on the rock showing us what he found. With the edge revealed, Strav’s sharp eyes saw the door at once. He pulled his gauntlets off and casually threw them aside to land in the dirt. His black hands raced across the stone, fingers pushing and prodding, testing the surface. It was not long before a satisfied exclamation pass his lips. 

The reason for his self indulgence was that he had discovered a loose piece of rock that he pulled away to reveal a hole with a handle in it. Just as Argonne was reaching in to grasp and turn it, Strav voiced a warning, saying that it was trapped. Upon further examination he determined that when twisted, the handle would release a small guillotine that would have severed Argonne’s wrist.

These cutthroats certainly did not want anyone skulking into their lair. It was an ingenious precaution, although Strav continued his fine work and wedged a dagger in place to stop the blade falling. Then, he turned the handle. The rock face swung open to reveal crudely cut stairs, narrowly winding their way down.


----------



## Haraash Saan

Even I could tell that the stairs were poorly fashioned, the chisel marks were obvious evidence that the masons had done a poor job. I slipped and caught myself twice on the descent, the second time cutting my palm on a particularly sharp rock.

The stairs delivered us to a stone corridor. Sunlight could be seen bathing the stone walls at the eastern end of the hallway. Quick investigation by Moxadder and Morgan revealed that the longship we had seen from above was docked there on a small wooden landing. The pair had also seen that across the water on the other side of the gorge were several other landings like the one that the ship was tied, each with an exit that led deeper into the cliffs.

Argonne took point with Strav close behind as we began to move through a series of winding stone passages. We passed a few unoccupied storerooms, and a couple of exits to the landings before Argonne rounded a corner and Strav stopped abruptly at its bend., “’Ware! Archers behind a barricade!”.yelled Argonne. I heard the whistling of several arrows followed by their clatter as they struck stone. Strav let fly with his massive crossbow, the accompanying thud and curse indicated he had shot true. 

Morgan whipped past me and around the corner. Instead of following him I spun on my heel and darted off down a short passage that led to a landing. From my new vantage point I could that Strav had moved to shelter behind some barrels near an opening to the landings and was on bended knee, busily loading his crossbow. Everything had fallen silent as we, and no doubt our foes, sought to better position themselves.

The landings on this side of the gorge were separated by narrow channels of water. I ran across the creaking boards and nimbly leapt from one landing to another, passing the opening in which Strav crouched and stopping at the next one. I carefully unshouldered my own crossbow and loaded it. 

A bellow burst through the cautious quiet “I’ll chop you all!” Argonne had joined the skirmish with a vengeance. “You’re nothin’ but firewood to me!”

I took a peek around the corner and saw an unmasked Argonne screaming curses, atop a hastily made barricade. Wooden benches and upturned tables provided the bulk while a sailcloth draped over the structure hid our foes. I assumed he had ripped his mask off to drive fear into the hearts of the enemy, personally the massive axe did it for me. He loomed over a pirate and hefted his axe for a mighty cleave, but the pirate quickly loosed a bolt from his crossbow. His aim must have been hampered by the threat of merciless death and the bolt sparked as its head smashed into the ceiling above Argonne. The woodsman swung his axe violently above his head, his eyes ablaze with fury as he let fly with a massive strike that caught archer in the shoulder. 

“Watch out! Rumscully!” called another of the men behind the barricade as an arrow thudded into a table leg next to the weathered and scarred face of a pirate.

So here was the pirate lord, trapped with nowhere to run. 

The cutthroat that cried the warning stood recklessly, an arrow already sticking out from his side and took aim with a crossbow at Argonne not ten feet away. He never loosed his shaft for he arched suddenly as my own bolt slammed into his back. 

The image of Argonne, long filthy hair whipping around the barbaric expression he wore while bravely flailing with his mighty axe stirred my very soul. My sword rasped from its scabbard as I advanced upon the barricade. With blood pounding through my veins I bawled out a salute to my companion and for this battle, our champion.

 “Behold Argonne! Friend of friends and slayer of foes. His mighty axe cleaves them down, even as they pale at his loathsome visage.”

“Behold Argonne! Bravery and madness linked together in a wicked embrace.”

“Behold Argonne! None shall stand before him; all will perish under his relentless blade or cower and weep begging for his mercy.”

I had finally seen some worth in the woodsman. 

Inspired by my words, Strav flashed into view and leapt to the barricade, rapier drawn and swinging wildly. 

More arrows flew into the melee. The Argonne’s axe fell rapidly and repeatedly, downing one of the three defenders. Stravarius’ rapier parried and darted forward like an asp. Another dropped. The third, Rumscully Jack, knew not where to turn.

“Yield! Throw down your weapon.” I said, with as much surety as I could muster. My speech and the run over the gangways had almost ruined me. Even worse, my skull throbbed as I felt myself succumbing to the wounds that had earlier been inflicted upon me. 

Argonne clambered over the barricade and began securing our famous captive. Morgan and Mortec jogged up to assist him. Meanwhile Strav explored the area behind the make shift fortifications. I sat down, my hip aching where the thrown dagger had cut deep, and passed out. 

Strav’s voice stirred me to consciousness  as he called out “Prisoners! And with them the prince of the Tritons!” 

Although I saw no Tritons, I did see that two more pirates had been bound. Morgan explained that on questioning Rumscully Jack, Argonne had learnt of pair that had not participated in our skirmish. They had sheltered in another room and surrendered when they realised that all was lost. 

Now that I had a chance to look about me I can better describe our circumstance. We stood on the outside of the barricade in a large room that looked to me to be a dining area or common room. Cutlery and broken crockery littered the stone floor indicating that the ramshackle defences had been made in a hurry. Unlit torches sat in brackets on every wall. Swords, crossbows and a long spear lay strewn about behind the barricade. 

Like the corridors that we had travelled to come here, the room was a natural cavern that had been crudely shaped by men at some stage. To the north, where I had entered, was the gorge. Three short passages led to it. To the west was a store room. To the south west a corridor exited the banquet area in which we stood.

On the eastern wall on the protected side of the barricade were two more short passages. One led to a kitchen and the other to more stores. Finally there was the path that Strav had taken to the south east.

He had come back to the group and told us he had found prisoners of the pirates; three Tritons, a few older folk and some younger girls, no doubt taken from Ravenswood. They were behind a barred and locked gate a little further down the corridor that lay beyond the defences. 

A quick search of the corpses and the captive by Morgan and Argonne revealed no keys., so I politely asked Rumscully Jack about them figuring that he would be the one to have them.

 “Don’t have nah keys matey.” He replied smugly.

“Where are they Jack?” I asked in a measured patronising tone. “You’re the captain, you have them So where are they?”

“I found me some doors.” Sang out Moxadder. I had forgotten him. Again. “They’re locked though.”

“It looks like we need another set of keys Jack. Be a good prisoner and tell us where they are.” I said.

“I’ll chop ‘is head off!” interjected Argonne abruptly. I turned to see that Argonne had one foot placed very firmly between the shoulder blades of one of the captives’. The buccaneer was kneeling with his head laying sideways on a chair. Tears ran down his face, his eyes wide and darting about from each of us as if seeking some sort of mercy.

Personally I would not have employed such a simplistic and violent threat to garner the information we sought. However, I could not argue with its effect.

“Awright, awright. They be behind that door your friend found.” He said, indicating in the tunnel that Moxadder had explored. I was not convinced. It seemed pretty foolish to lock your keys behind some doors that were locked.

Mortec, who had gone to the south west corridor to look for Moxadder, saw him standing in front of a pair of double doors. He told Moxadder to try and force the locked doors. Bad move. I heard something whistle through the air and then something heavier thump to the floor.

“Moxadder’s down!” cried Mortec shrilly. He began to sprint down the corridor. 

“Todesmagie give me strength.” He said and then was gone from sight.

Suddenly Argonne’s axe flashed down from above his head where he had been waving it threateningly, into his victims neck. Metal through bone, the blow mashed the man’s spine into wood as the force of the swing continued, shattering the chair that the pirate’s head had been resting on. It was a sickening sound, a gruesome sight. The head bounced several times before rolling to a horrific stop, lifeless eyes still staring wide. Blood oozed from the gaping wound of the headless corpse.

 “Where are the ing keys!” roared Argonne, the same fury reflected in his eyes now as had been in battle.

“I don’ have ‘em!” screamed Rumscully Jack. A pool of urine forming at his feet.

“Well its’ dying time den ain’t it?” threatened Argonne as he strode purposefully toward the quaking pirate king with every intention of making good his threat. But he halted suddenly, peering over my shoulder.

“This aint Jack” he hissed suddenly, and then he was off, charging past me.


----------



## Haraash Saan

We all turned to see a large man, his face hidden by with a long red wavy beard, standing at the furthest passage that led to the gorge. He wore a long navy coat concealing a rapier that appeared in his hand quicker than I could blink. 

The man laughed loudly, even as Argonne charged to meet him. “Who dares trespass in the domain of Rumscully Jack?”

Argonne tried to silence him. He swung, intent on another beheading, but the real Rumscully Jack easily dodged the clumsy attack. He replied with a sudden thrust which missed when his front foot slipped on a loose stone. The lunge which should have pierced Argonne’s heart fortunately only flicked his shirt. 

The rest of the Hydra rained arrows and bolts into the melee but none hit their mark, clattering uselessly on the rocks. Jack realising that the old adage, “discretion is the better part of valour” was true, ran across the water. That’s right, straight across the water of the gorge as if it was solid ground. Still cackling his annoying little laugh he stopped in the middle of the gorge and turned to face us.

Moxadder, now with a rolled weed clinging to his bottom lip, ran to a mooring and let fly with a dagger. How he managed I do not quite know as he had been felled. Perhaps Mortec’s faith in his god had paid off? Somehow he had managed to revive a man I assumed to be dead or close. The little bearded bastard had not offered to help me! I did have two obvious wounds and a ruined blood stained shirt to prove my need.

Standing on the surface of the water Jack made a fine target. Missiles came from everywhere. Several struck true. His chortling became more boisterous, as if he thrived on the pain he was in. He reached within his cloak and brought forth a fine golden horn, put it to his lips and blew a single mighty note.

Fog quickly spewed from the horn’s mouth, surrounding and enveloping him. We hurriedly loosed more missiles at him, once again several struck. His laughter changed to violent spluttering and coughing, the silly fool was sucking in the fog that he had somehow created. Sometimes people just need to learn to get on with things without over embellishing them.

A long howl pierced the laughter. Like Moxadder, Kuruul was easy to forget. Easier in fact.

The mist that had been sheltering our foe slowly dissipated, tendrils still clung to the mouth of the horn but they quickly succumbed to whatever it was the Kuruul had done. I assumed it was Kuruul, as he had claimed that he was some sort of wizard. We had finally seen some evidence of his claims.

Rumscully Jack, however, was not to be thwarted that easily. He sheathed his sword as quickly as he had drawn it, grabbed another horn from within his coat,, this one encrusted with beautiful shells, and blew a deep rumbling note.

The water at his feet began to bubble and spit as if boiling. Then, suddenly, six Tritons erupted from the depths. They gazed about uncertain of their environs, almost as if they had been wrenched from elsewhere to the waters of the gorge. 

“Attack ‘em!” commanded Jack, now without any trace of his maniacal laughter. 

They tritons obeyed, kicking their powerful legs and swimming toward us. Each held a cruel trident, and it was the Hydra that they were aiming to catch upon their wicked forked spears.

Another volley of missiles was our response. More pierced Jack; he was beginning to resemble a porcupine. Others splashed harmlessly as they hit the water.

My own archery talents had deserted me. I had only managed to score one hit on Rumscully Jack, and now I faced an advancing threat. One triton was coming directly for me. My rapier would be next to useless against and the reach of its trident, but I remembered the long spear that I had seen behind the barricade. I dropped my crossbow and dashed to retrieve it.

It lay exactly where I remembered it. I gathered it up in both hands, my memory flashing back to my success with the pike on the docks of Halfast, and charged. My boots slapped against stone as I thundered toward my waiting opponent. He set his trident to receive me, but I knocked it aside with a nudge of my shoulder and rammed the spear home. It slid easily into his chest, so easily that I almost overbalanced and toppled into the water. I managed to catch myself, waving my left arm for balance whilst holding to the spear in my right hand. My victim slid off the spear and only left a dark stain on the waters surface to acknowledge his passing.

Argonne appeared on the opposite side of the gorge and leapt onto the moored longship. One swing from his axe effectively loosed the longship and set it adrift. He gave it a mighty shove, and jumped in, crying curses to Rumscully Jack as the boat slowly moved toward him.

A bolt whizzed passed my right ear and thumped satisfactorily into Jack’s chest to add to his increasing collection of protruding wooden shafts. 

“Take that ya octopus!” screamed Moxadder in defiance. 

One glance confirmed my suspicion; Moxadder had taken too many drags on his weed. It was no longer in his mouth and his twitch was more pronounced. The poor man was obviously becoming delusional. His eyes were dilated; I could see that even at some distance. It is quite amazing that he did not take my ear off! 

Strav, who had been sharing the same stretch of landing with me ran past and into the banquet hall. He hurdled an upturned table that had formed part of the defensive barrier and snatched a large sword from the ground. He rushed down the corridor that led to the prisoners.

I turned back to the battle and once again I grabbed my crossbow and began to loose bolts at Jack. Meanwhile, three Tritons were trying to engage Morgan on a landing, but he had the sense to leap out of reach of their tridents. The other two had reached Argonne on the ship, and he was valiantly defending against their thrusts.

Heavy footfalls behind me announced the arrival of Strav. He carried two Tritons, one supported by his right arm, the other unconscious over his left shoulder. At first I had no idea as to what he was doing, then it dawned on me. He sought to free the triton prince and get him to command the Tritons to stop attacking us.

The stumbling Triton looked sickly and dehydrated. His skin was pale blue, instead of the usual deep blue of the other Tritons we had encountered. It was cracked and peeling as if he had been overexposed to the elements. I supposed that he had, after all his usual environment was the water, he probably had not been submersed in days.

I quickly retrieved the cockleshell we had been given from my pack and as they passed me I thrust it into the triton’s hands saying. “We are here to help you. Call off your brethren!”


----------



## Haraash Saan

He looked at the shell in his hands, turned to me and nodded weakly. Then Stravarious pushed him and his friend into the welcoming water. 

It was almost as if I then witnessed a miracle. The triton looked to be waiting for death to claim him, yet upon entering the water he suddenly seemed invigorated. His skin was now a more vibrant blue and the scabs on his arms and body peeled away. His face emerged from the blue and yelled something in his own strange tongue, his voice strong and commanding. The other Tritons stopped their assault immediately, shaking their heads as if they had suddenly woken from some strange dream. They looked about them and on seeing their prince recognition flooded them as they put words, speaker and Rumscully Jack all in the right context.

The tables had turned. Rumscully Jack was immediately surrounded by the Tritons. Our foes were now our allies. Jack dodged and jumped thrusts and prods from five tridents as he managed to break through the hedge of metal forks that encircled him. He ran without a splash across the water towards a narrow tunnel in the eastern rock face, leaving a diluted bloody trail behind him.

Argonne saw the danger of his potential escape. He ran and then leapt from the bow of the boat in an attempt to drag Jack to ground, well water. Argonne is not a small man, but then neither is Jack. Arms outstretched Argonne sought to grasp his quarry, but Jack was nimble, Jack was quick (I apologise but even though it is a child’s rhyme it somehow seems appropriate as I write it). He saw the flying assailant and managed to push him away. A huge splash marked where Argonne struck the water.

More arrows flew at Jack although did not strike their target, they speared the waters or clattered against the rock walls that were in front of their quarry. The Tritons sought vengeance for the imprisonment of their prince. They swam after Jack, encircling him once more. Two tridents penetrated his flesh and Jack screamed in pain and panic. He moved again once more to break free of the prince’s men. He managed to shake the persistent Argonne loose, who had managed to grasp onto Jack’s ankle in an effort to avoid drowning. Jack had almost reached the entrance to the tunnel, and freedom. If he managed to escape our mission would fail and I could not allow that!

I grabbed my spear and with four bounding steps across the rickety landing I jumped. Time slowed, as it seems to in these life or death circumstances. I screamed. I cannot recall what it was that I screamed, but I can recall feeling anger and fear. 

The mighty leap cleared maybe ten feet of water before my spear bit deep into Rumscully Jack’s side. My momentum thrust the spear through his body and out of his belly and drove us both deep into the water. I released the spear and flailed, trying to swim. It was not something that I had ever been taught. We of noble birth do not swim, we bathe in scented tubs. 

Strong scaly hands gripped me tightly and hoisted me onto the landing. I coughed, spluttering water from my mouth. What I sight I must have made. My clothes were saturated and my hair hung dripping into my eyes. I must have looked like a drowned rat. My hat, broad brim ruined, bobbed up and down on the ripples beside Jack’s body.

He was still alive, although only barely. The spear wound was deep, but after towing him to shore Mortec managed to staunch the bleeding. Rumscully Jack would hopefully provide some interesting answers for us.

Moxadder quickly searched our new captive, finding some keys. Doubtless they would unlock the doors that had caused Moxadder such pain some minutes earlier. He and some of the others scurried off to investigate the locked room. I unsheathed Jack’s rapier. It was an elegant weapon of excellent workmanship, with the name “Eldritch Light” engraved at the base of the blade. It had a beautiful fine guard fashion with intricate curves. I gave it a few appraising slashes, tearing some of the sail cloth that had formed part of the barricade. It sliced through them with ease. Now I freely admit that I am no expert on swords or weapons, but this one was obviously far superior to my current rapier.

Whilst I fenced shadows, drip drying in the process, the others returned. They were carting with them two chests that they had found in a concealed cavity in the wall of the room which proved to be Jack’s abode. The two chests contained a piles of coins, including some that were tarnished and dark. 

Morgan grimly muttered “Dominion coins.” And gave Strav a suspicious look. When pressed Morgan revealed that coins that spent significant time in the lands owned by the Dominion became blackened. Most common folk however cared not, for silver was silver, even if tarnished.

Also amongst our spoils were vials of liquid. I took one that had instructions written on the label; ‘Understand the mind of men. Concentrate and nothing will be hidden from you.’ There were also various weapons of good quality, some rings and well made armour, including a suit of knights’ mail. I checked carefully for insignia but could find none. I had thought that it may belong to a family that I was familiar with. Finally there were the two horns, the first was Jack’s and had emitted the fog and the second had called the Tritons from their watery home. This horn was given to us as a gift by the Prince, who on parting from us said that if we needed his help, blowing the horn would summon his folk to our aid.

The fish Prince also left us with advice as to where we may find a protected cove to sail Rumscully Jack’s longship which we had decided to take. 

All of our plunder was divided amongst the group. I kept the rapier and picked out a suit of light leather armour to replace my own which had had several cuts and slashes, and although repairable I saw no need as there were several excellent undamaged suits to select from.

Whilst the others loaded the ship with anything useful that could be found I looked for some dry clothes. I did find some that would fit, however they were much too poor quality for me to bother with. I would have looked destitute, perhaps like Moxadder, if I had worn them. In the end I stuck with my own wet clothing and hoped that the breeze and sunlight remaining would dry me as we sailed.


----------



## Haraash Saan

On our short journey to the hidden cove we questioned the prisoners Strav had freed about their abduction and how they had been treated by the cutthroats. Their answers confirmed our deductions about the Blood Sail’s raid. They had been taken from Ravenswood the night before we had arrived. Two of the older folk were none other than Brother Goethra and Brother Tom from Leathes Abbey. The others were those that had also been taken from the town. The fate of the girls was obvious. Torn clothing and bruises confirming what Moxadder had put so bluntly to them, “So you been raped then?”

Honestly, the man has no tact or compassion, although the way he had unconsciously rubbed his backside made me wonder about his own experiences in the slums of Irudesh City.

Just as the twilight was fading Argonne steered us into the cove. We dragged the boat up onto the beach, covered it with scrub that we found and then made a fireless camp. Thankfully my clothes had dried, and my dip in the water had even cleansed them somewhat of the dirt, blood and sweat that had covered them. Still, I would have to see a tailor soon to see if he could mend my shirt and pants. For now I realised grimly, they had to do, at least until tomorrow as we all desperately needed rest. 

A fantastic, vibrant orange sky greeted my eyes as they slowly flickered open and registered that dawn was upon us. The spectacular backdrop was highlighted with crisp white streaks of clouds whose underbellies glowed with bright sunlight. Whilst waking at dawn is something a little foreign to me the sight almost made it worthwhile. I arched my back to stretch, attempting to re-mould it into its usual shape as opposed to the stiff plank it had become. Sleeping outdoors was something that I never wanted to get used to. It felt as though I had slept on a bed of broken glass, but it was only the rocks that had penetrated my mattress of thick ship’s blankets.

It took most of the morning to decide on a line of questioning for Rumscully Jack. He was not yet conscious, but his condition had improved overnight. Mortec was hopeful that he would wake by early afternoon.

He finally came to just after midday. I was sitting on a rock nearby, idly sharpening my rapier. Jack started struggling against the bonds that Argonne had excellently tied. Two pale blue eyes blinked rapidly, accustoming themselves to the bright sunlight. His red bushy brows gave them no respite. He turned his head away from the light and rolled onto his side and registered that I was there, watching his struggles.

“Good day Rumscully Jack.” I said jovially. “Oh sorry. I must apologise for the inconvenience of the gag. My associates and I were a little concerned about you causing a ruckus,” I continued with mock concern as I freed his mouth.

His eyes darted about, taking in all of his surrounds. 

“Who are ye? And what do ye want with me?” he rasped.

“Forgive me.” I said, “Perhaps some water would clear your throat.” Never let it be said that a Montfort abandons courtesy even when interrogating a prisoner.

I helped him to a sitting position and he gulped down the water I offered. “Thank ye. Now what do ye want me?” he said.

“Well, as one business man to another…” I began.

“Business man? He’s a bloody pirate.” Interrupted Morgan hotly.

I glanced contemptuously at him. These people do not know the meaning of discretion and subtlety. We had learnt through Moxadders’ source that Jack thought himself more of an entrepreneur and business man than a pirate. Piracy was just another job to him that had certain benefits.

“One business man to another.” I started again, “I believe we can help you to help not only us, but yourself. We just want to ask a few questions.”

“Ah. So information is what ye want. Well ye aint gettin’ it from me. I have nothing to say to ye.”

“Come now Jack, may I call you Jack?” he did not respond so I carried on, “We only want to know a few things and then we will be happy to let you go.” This was partially true. I had nothing in particular against Jack, and providing I did not think he would threaten us I was willing to let him go. 

“I would like to achieve this peaceably if at all possible. We do not want it to resort to violence, now do we?” I said in a mock concerned tone. I did not want to hurt him either for that matter, but I would if I had to. Being of noble birth does expose you to some things. I remember a time when my father had caught a hunter illegally shooting game on his lands. Father questioned him most unpleasantly about a second hunter, for father had found a second animal, along with the captured hunters’ own prey, yet with different fletching to that of the prisoners arrows. He got his answer in the end and used crude but effective methods to get it.

“Nothin’ ye do to me can be as bad as what they’ll do. Kill me if ye wish, it’ll be better for me.” He said matter-of-factly.

Who were his employers? We had threatened the man and he did not care. If only he would give us some clue as to who they were, at least then we could follow that trail. As it stood we were very much at a dead end.

“Jack, Jack, Jack.” I said in a consolatory tone. “Who said anything about death? We just want information. Who hired you to capture the Tritons hmm?”

“Ye’ll get nothin’ from me I told ya. Right now my employers know nothing of what has taken place. I probably haven’t been missed yet. However, in a few hours, or days,“ he added quickly, noting our interest in the time mentioned, “they will notice my absence, and they will ask questions. There is nothing I can do to stop them getting answers. And that means they’ll find ye. Best head back down the path ye came down and let me go.” He said.

“Let you go?” I chortled in surprise, “Why would we do that? You have given us no reason to. Give me some answers and then we can talk terms.”

 “I already told ye, ye’ll get nothin’ from me.” Then stared straight at me and repeated slowly, “Best head back down the path ye came down.” I noticed a glint in his eye as I held his gaze. “Free me and leave me in peace and we can make it look as though none of this happened.”

Silently I chastised myself for not noting his subtle hint the first time around, but it had finally dawned on me. He had said, “Best head back down the path ye came down." It was obvious! The path he meant had been the one we had followed to the dwarf’s house. So, it was at Grisha’s home we would find more answers.

 “If we were to let you go, how could we be sure that you would do us no ill?” I asked.

“Why would I harm ye? All that would do is bring attention to ye. And that is something neither of us want.” Replied Rumscully Jack.

After quick discussion with my companions it was decided that there was no benefit in keeping him captive, not if we wanted to keep up any pretence of secrecy. 

“So what is it that you propose?” I inquired casually whilst wondering who his employers might be and how it was that they held such a sway over him.

“Well, you have borrowed one of my ships. I’ll say that it was lost in a raid. They won’t question that too much.” He winced a little. I reasoned that he would be questioned, and none too pleasantly, but it certainly was a plausible explanation. It would also result in less pain than the truth. Jack guessed that if his employers found out what really happened it would be a long and painful exercise for him as they extracted every last detail. 

“I’ll not mention you, this conversation, my capture or anything else for that matter to anyone at all. To do so would only cause me more grief,” he said. “It’s best for all if ye just let me on my way and this whole little incident is not spoken of again.”

As he finished I could see a glimmer of hope on his face. It was well placed. I could not see a flaw in his logic. If we kept him there would be many questions asked by his employers. I had no doubt with a little persistence they would find us. I had even less doubt that if they found us, our lives would be forfeit. The conviction with which Jack had spoken had convinced me that we were dealing with a foe that was much greater than anything we could conquer. 

Letting him go would of course huge risk for us, but seeing that I am not a cold blooded murderer, I was not going to kill him and I could not fathom any reason to keep him. It was in everyone’s best interest to let him go. So we did, much to his surprise and relief. With a wink and a nod he plodded through the scrub toward his hidden dock.

This really was getting a lot bigger than I liked and we still had no proof for the Baron.


----------



## Haraash Saan

After Jack had disappeared through the scrub we considered our own situation. We had no need for a second ship considering our own was still moored in Port of Warlock. Although, as some argued, we could sell it for considerable gain, however it needed to be out of the region so that it could not be spotted and discredit Jack’s story. In the end we decided to give it to the freed folk of Ravenswood and let them sail it to their home. That way we would be rid of it and the obligation to them, although I was sure I could have consoled the lasses about their harrowing ordeal.

As the sun began its descent in the west we watched the departure of the longship. After it had left the cove we turned our thoughts to more pressing issues. It was decided that we would rest for the remainder of the day and that on the morrow we would revisit the site of the cat slaying, the dwarf’s home, and see what we could discover.

I awoke feeling refreshed. We had a clear direction and we had a plan, of sorts. My wounds had finally healed and I felt like a new man. Then I moved. I have already mentioned my dislike of sleeping in the wilderness. Two nights in a row did not make it any better. As soon as I moved I felt like an old man. Pain shot through my lower back. Several stretches did little to remedy it, although eventually the walk to Grisha’s cottage did.

We hid amongst some scrub that was on a small hillock that overlooked the dwarf’s abode. I felt like a bandit awaiting his prey; I did not enjoy it one bit. I was not about to duel over a lady, her token scarf wrapped around my wrist. I was not in the arena listening to the adoration of the people. No! I was lying amongst the long grass, on my belly, in the dirt and peering through some brush. It was not at all what I had thought my life would come to.

We waited for several hours before Moxadder had had enough. I watched him run in a hunched gait to the rear of the house before skulking slowly and carefully around until he was out of view. I cursed. We had decided to wait until the dwarf had left to go to the market, as he did daily at noon. But no, idiocy had once again planted a seed into the mind of one of my companions. We only had perhaps another hour to wait and he would have left and we could have examined his property at our leisure. 

It horrifies me that I can actually write that. How low have I fallen? Am I now just a common thief? Well no. I can justify it as I was following the orders of my liege and I could think of no other way to get the information. Somehow asking the dwarf never really did come into our calculations. His demeanour had not enamoured me to him and I did not honestly think he would help us. Why would he?

Mortec was the next to move. It was an amusing sight. The grass was almost as tall as he was and it looked as though his head was somehow floating just above the sea of green, cheeks puffing out in exertion as he ran down the hill.  He followed Moxadders trail to the front of the house. Argonne and Morgan left soon after. I know not where Strav was, but with a shake of my head and muffled prayer to Srcan asking for success in our endeavours, I joined the others. 

Morgan disappeared around the other side of the house, the opposing route to that taken by Moxadder and Mortec. Argonne waited by a shuttered window, flat against the wall. I went join him, sucking in deep breaths as I ran. As I approached he swung his mighty axe into the shutters. They exploded inwards. With momentum behind me I dove through the now open window, landed in a roll and sprung to my feet. 

I found myself in a bedroom. There was a bed in one corner, a small chest at its foot and a writing table with inks and parchments in another corner. I heard Grisha’s gruff voice on the other side of one of the inner walls. There was a door that provided an exit to the room. Crossbow still in hand I flung it open.

Grisha stood in the corner of a large room.. At least it looked like him. Beard, angry snarl and beady eyes, but he was now huge! He stood over ten feet tall and had to hunch his neck forward to avoid brushing the ceiling. In his hands was a tree trunk! Well it was the size of a small one and it was heading my way and wielded with rage. I squeezed my crossbows’ trigger and the bolt slammed into the dwarf’s (and I use the word with some trepidation because he was no longer a dwarf in the true sense of the word) chest just as his massive staff crashed into me. The blow sent my crossbow spinning out of my grasp and numbed my left shoulder so that my arm hung useless by my side. Nausea struck me immediately and I blinked back tears as my vision blurred. 

Once I regained focus I saw that the others had not been idle. Another shaft stuck out from Grisha’s arm and the grey mass that was Kuruul leapt at his throat. He swatted the mutt away as if it were a gnat, giving me an opening. I summoned the last of my strength, whipped out Rumscully Jack’s rapier and with one stride thrust it into Grisha’s belly. I started to cry out a remarkably witty comment but I fear I cannot recall it for darkness engulfed me.


----------



## Haraash Saan

Chapter 6 -  Horrid little Rodents

I woke from my unconsciousness to find myself laying atop my bed in the Witches Brew. My left arm ached, but that was not my main concern. I was still dressed, and filthy!

My companions were not there, although Kuruul lay asleep in a corner, so I called a serving boy to organise a bath. In the time it took to arrive I managed to brush off most of the dirt from my clothing and retrieve a fresh clean set from my pack. The bath was terrible. Frightfully cold and with none of the oils to which I am accustomed, however, it did allow me to wash myself thoroughly. 

Dressed in my spare set of clean travelling clothes I felt much better, even my arm was less painful. I headed to the common room to get some much needed nourishment. I was famished.

It was there, well after the sun had passed noon and during my third glass of wine for the day, that my comrades eventually found me. Each had been off on various personal businesses. Once all had returned we retired to our room to discuss the events of the previous day.

I was surprised to hear that the fight had continued after I bravely fell. I had been sure that my strike was deep and would have caused Grisha to fall,  however, it was not the lethal blow I had assumed. The rather tall dwarf managed to down Kuruul and a defenceless Argonne. The shaft of his huge axe had split apart from a wayward blow. In the end it was Mortec who killed Grisha, apparently by draining his life from him. Morgan, who had not been shy with his archery during the combat told me that Mortec’s hands blazed with white light the moment they touched the dwarf’s calf (a Gnome does not have a great reach) and that Grisha rapidly emaciated until he became a withered husk! Normally I would have laughed off Morgan’s words as a tall tale, but I did not take him for a liar and had seen too many strange things since journeying from Halfast.

When I questioned Mortec about the incident he simply responded with “It was the will of Todesmagie.” and left it at that. Todesmagie seemed to be a curiously vicious god considering that knowledge was his province. Unless of course he could somehow learn from the soul that his power had claimed.

After bandaging the fallen the others searched the cottage on the bluff and discovered several things, most importantly a note that read;

“Grisha,

The last dispatch you sent was detailed. I trust that they were accurate and complete. The Arcanists are more advanced and numerous than we supposed. Keep them squabbling!

Our master is missing one of his children.”

The next sentence began with an indecipherable name.

“was supposed to be our agent of destabilization in Halfast. He has not been heard from, nor does his Gem respond.

Find him. He has local knowledge. Memorise the sketch then burn it.

If you require further resources feel free to find them yourself. Kill someone. I care not.

Do not fail or you will be my next cat skin hat!

Hurak”

The note gave us the one thing we sought, another lead, and Mortec had already followed up on it. He visited his friends in the Tower of Navrod and they informed him that Hurak was a general for Strav and Kuruul’s nemesis, Rorlock the Transmuter. 

After all of our efforts with pirates, oversized dwarfs, Tritons and even bureaucratic port officials we finally had an insight into the those responsible on the attack on Yorathton; the Dominion. Armed with that information Mortec clasped the gem around his neck and communed with Baron Yorath. I heard his reply.

It was only a brief conversation, the end result of which was that we were commanded to return to Yorathton.

In short time we had settled our debt at the Witches Brew and set sail in the Swift.

After many hours at sea, fighting a swirling and unpredictable wind, we found ourselves once more pulling oars through a calm ocean. We knew not where we were as the winds had turned us about several times before dissipating entirely. The general consensus was that we were lost. Argonne denied it, and whilst his facial covering could mask any look of worry or concern, his voice betrayed him.

“We’re fine. No problems at all. Just waiting for the wind to pick up before we head, er, that way.” Argonne said waving a finger nervously in an arbitrary direction. Excellent to have at your side in a sortie, but I maintain he has no real comprehension of boats nor the art of sailing them. 

You may recall that we had a dolphin, Maron Devlis’s animal friend, Elwing, to accompany us and act as our guide. He left us shortly after we embarked on our return voyage, another animal demonstrating way too much knowledge of the human tongue, after a drug addled taunting by Moxadder.

“Come ‘ere little fishy.” Moxadder had commanded. “I wonder if ya’re a tasty little fishy. I could eat ya all up. I’m starving.”

With an angry flip of its tail the dolphin had disappeared from sight, apparently unhappy at the lack of respect it thought it deserved. I still do not understand. It is a bloody fish! Undoubtedly an oversized and impressive one but a fish nonetheless. How it could come close to understanding our idiotic companion is beyond me.

The crew, everyone bar Argonne, was getting restless. The tightly knit unit we had become was fraying rapidly. Abuse was hurled by all at all, although Argonne seemed to be on the receiving end of most of it.

Frustrated and annoyed at the ceaseless bickering and whining I withdrew from my comrades and pulled out one of two books Mortec had found in Grisha’s cabin and began to scan through it.

It was the dwarf’s book of magic. Within the leather-bound tome were instructions and recipes for such things as; The Pounce of a Lion, Ariso’s Spell of Many Faces and The Vanishing Word. They were written or described as incantations of some sort and sounded most intriguing. 

Whilst my companions continued to cast blame I became more enthralled with Grisha’s spells. I followed the instructions for Morice’s Majestic Muscles, gesturing with fingers and sounding out unfamiliar words yet I found that my muscles remained as elusive as ever. Somewhat deflated I stashed the book away.

The second book proved to be much more interesting.


----------



## Haraash Saan

A quick note to apologise to readers. I accidentally double posted previously but have now fixed the error. Post number 20 is now correct.


----------



## Haraash Saan

The Book of Ruftameon was emblazed with beautifully intricate gold script on its cover. Ruftameon, as Mortec informed me (he too was sick of the squabbling and had started reading over my shoulder, so to speak), was the head librarian of the Tower of Todesmagie, a very significant and powerful member of his religion. How his book came into the possession of Grisha was a mystery. 

The book itself was very unusual. I opened it at a random page upon which was an illustration of a tall beautiful man. He held an arrogant pose, arms crossed and head held high demonstrating his pride. His garments were gorgeous. He wore a long emerald green silken coat that was open, revealing a muscular chest. His matching trousers, wrapped with thick white scarf fell to his exposed feet. However, it was his face with its narrow nose, thin lipped smile and piercing red eyes that I was enamoured with. Such a beautiful face I had never seen before. It was though he was perfect, except for the reddish tinge to his skin.

I shook my head to clear it and asked Mortec, “Who is he?”

“Who? The page is blank you fool!” he snapped, agitated and impatient to get his own hands on the tomb.

“No, no. It is you that is mistaken. I can see him here as clear as I see you.” I said.

Our debate shifted the focus of our companions from themselves to the topic of our conversation. I described the man in the book as I showed them the picture. Each responded that they could not see anything other than a vacant page.

“Here then.” I said somewhat huffily. “You take it and see what you see.” 

I handed the book to Mortec. As soon as it left my hand it snapped shut of it’s own volition. Mortec opened it to a random page and described the picture he saw. A room, similar to a study, with a bag full of coins in it and a picture frame on the wall that had no painting within it.

It was my turn to be sceptical. I could see no such drawing on the page he had opened. After some experimentation we managed to discover that every person saw a different image and no other person could see it, and every time the same person opened the book, the same image was shown. It was indeed a very unusual book. We mused over it for some time but drew no intelligent conclusions. Eventually we decided that we should ponder it no longer and continue our journey.

Finally after many more hours we saw the cliffs of Yorathton and landed on the very beach that the pirates had stormed. 

Upon climbing the stairs from the beach we were confronted by a page boy. , “The Baron wishes you to join him in the library immediately.” He said with as much self importance as his breaking voice could muster.

Collectively we sighed wearily and trudged to our cottages to stow our gear

I quickly washed the sea salt from my hands and face, threw my travel clothes onto the floor and attired myself in something more suitable. It simply was not appropriate to answer the summons of the Baron in weathered and worn clothing!

The Baron sat behind his immense desk. He looked haggard, as if a great many things had occurred, or been occurring in the few days we had been on Sorcerer’s Isle. His look suited his current demeanour.

“About time you were back. Fill us in with what you have found.” he barked.

The ‘us’ he was spoke of were himself and another man seated in the study. The wrinkles upon his face and the grey beard that attempted to mask them betrayed his age.

“Forgive the Baron.” said the old man in a kindly tone, “Recent events have taken their toll.”

“My name is Ruftameon,” he paused, his eyes twinkling as Mortec and I exhaled sharply. Ruftameon was the author of the mysterious book we had found and opened that very day. That seemed a strange coincidence to me.

He continued, “a scribe from Riverglenn.”

“Yes, yes.” Interrupted the Baron impatiently. “Hurry and tell your tale!” he directed to us.

I am free to admit that I was flustered by meeting Ruftameon, so I quickly blurted out our tale instead of giving it the artistic license it was due. The pair listened intently, the Baron shaking his head in disapproval at some of our actions, but remaining silent. 

Ruftameon smiled smugly when we mentioned his book, “I thought it was down this way somewhere. You see I loaned it to someone, and, well, they, misplaced it. But I shall be glad to have it back.” Of course we obliged and returned it to him, but not without some queries. 

We discovered that the book answered questions both thought and asked, if the reader was clear of mind and purpose. The random fashion we had read it suggested that we were clear on neither, and hence the responses the book gave were answers to questions and unasked and unknown . The book had simply shown us pictures that related to our past, present and future. Ruftameon told us that each of the images we had seen reflected some sort of relationship that we had or could have with the people or groups illustrated. In some way we were tied to great events that were taking place. When queried further Ruftameon proclaimed that without further study he could not tell us more other than to be aware and perhaps even wary of any encounters with the aspects from the book. The Baron made it clear that we had no such time, as further training, especially group tactics, was required before the games. 

It was obvious that we had been dismissed, but Moxadder, once again demonstrating that he had no social etiquette blurted out, “I also found some tatts. Tattoos that is. Found ‘em on the plague boys necks I did.” 

Moxadder’s disregard of the Baron’s dismissal did yield some interesting answers. The scribe Ruftameon perked up at Moxadder’s news, and explained that the symbol described was one used by an organisation called Orsa Terminus whose existence he had suspected for some time, despite having found little proof. The rumours that he had gathered over time suggested that the group seemed to have its hand in many different and apparently unrelated events.

“Although they would never actually attempt something so bold, or so open.” said Ruftameon thoughtfully to himself. “No, they use others to do their work. What you have found is that someone, most likely the Dominion, was attempting to place blame for the Duchesses assassination, thwarted or successful, on Orsa Terminus. Why they would do that I cannot quite fathom. I must ponder this news. Well done.”

More questions without answers! It was obvious to me that the Dominion did not wish to be linked to the Duchesses assassination attempt, but why? And for that matter why would the Dominion bother with trying to cast suspicion on a secret organisation like Orsa Terminus, that hardly anyone even knew existed?


----------



## Haraash Saan

Over the next ten days we sparred and trained, relearning tactics and honing skills that the Baron deemed necessary. 

It was the second day of the month of Burn when we once again set off from Yorathton, although this time we had thousands of Silver Sickles in our packs to pay for our entry in the Gladatorial Games of Halfast.

I sat astride my newly purchased horse caressing its neck and reassuring it. I too had sunk to talking to animals; amazing what a few experiences will do. Morgan had also bought a mount. The others stood in the mud milling about waiting for Moxadder. An unseasonal drizzle fell steadily. Through its haze he finally arrived, boots splashing through the mud, spattering it in all directions. He ran up puffing, “Sorry. Just had to get me some supplies.” 

“Yes. You couldn’t do without them could you?” spat Morgan sarcastically.

That was the scene as we left Yorathton. Heads bowed against the drizzle instead of held high and proud as entrants to the games should look. Foeld, the nature God, had no sense of occasion. He could have at least provided us with fine weather.

The rain cleared by late morning, making our midday meal that little bit more enjoyable. As we travelled on into the afternoon it became apparent to all that we were being watched. From under bushes and in the long grass by the road way we passed pairs of rodent eyes peering at us. Every now and again we saw a rat scamper across the trail. 

Sometime near late afternoon we saw a column of smoke away to the south. Soon after spotting it we crossed a branch in the road that headed in that direction, so being the dutiful representatives of the Baron that we were we decided to investigate. 

We wandered down the road perhaps a mile before coming to a blazing homestead. By the look of it there was nothing we could do to save the building, and as we came closer, probably nothing we could do for the owners either. Goat carcases lay with massive bite wounds in a pen near the road. Argonne and Moxadder were quick to find evidence of Rat Trolls and rats. A gasp and a pointed finger from Argonne confirmed it. A small scaly face peered at us from the scrub not one hundred yards away. Some huge rats appeared from within the house, they also eyed us intently. There was nothing to be gained by staying so we hurried back to the main road to continue to Halfast. 

A wary bunch we were when it came to settle for the night. We chose to establish watches to ensure that nothing crept up on us. My vigil was uneventful and it was only in the morning as we were woken by the rays of the sun breaking through the clouds left from the previous day that we learnt that Morgan and Mortec had seen ghosts walk straight through our camp. 

The rest of us laughed heartily and scoffed at their silliness, but they would not be dissuaded. They claimed to have seen shimmering semi-transparent figures, adorned in white Gerechian robes and tabards marching down the road, then through our camp and off again. When hailed the spectres did not respond, they just continued on their way. So adamant were the pair that I almost started to believe their ridiculous tale. 

That day, just after we had passed the temple of Srcan where we had attempted to shelter from the rain all those days ago on our original journey from Halfast to Yorathton, we found more rats.

Several of the large ones, perhaps a dozen, were feasting on something that lay in the middle of our path. Strav and Argonne ventured closer to identify the dead thing. Two rats looked up at them in annoyance, disturbed from their meal. “Blimey! It’s a Squatter Troll! There ‘aint no way these blighters could have taken it down.” Argonne called back, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Come on! They’re only rats.” said Strav, “Let’s just kill them and be on our way.”

His little speech seemed to have sparked interest in the rats. They started squeaking excitedly as they forgot their meal and began to leap about as if in great anticipation of something. 

 “Do you hear that?” asked Mortec softly.

“What?” was the general reply.

A low rumbling cut short any response Mortec considered. It was as if thunder was rolling in across the ground. Little stones started to shake on the road. I could feel the vibrations accompanying the deep, booming and loudening sound. 

Then we heard the squeaking. As if a thousand rats were charging our way. I was wrong. It was more like a million! And with no less than a Squatter Troll fleeing before them. each massive step bringing the ominous booming sound closer to us.

“Run!” I screamed. No time for decorum. I grabbed Mortec by the scruff of the neck and hoisted him up to my mount, no mean feat for a man of my strength, but it has been said that fear enables a man to achieve more than he normally could. Even so, I thank Srcan that Mortec was a Gnome. I doubt I could have lifted anyone else. I spurred my horse off the road, angling away from the rat horde that threatened to swamp us. The others followed, Morgan riding at my heels, the others running as fast as they could.

A glance over my shoulder allowed me to see the mighty troll fall, finally overcome by numbers. He was swamped instantly but the plague continued its ferocious journey toward us.

My horse galloped through long tussocky grass, a few minutes later we crested a hillock and saw a remarkable scene, as if the one behind us was not enough. Several peasants toiled in a field to the side of a large hill. That in itself was not odd, but the fact that there were a few rats about gnawing on them as they worked was. I swear, as the farmers swung their hoes into the earth, or what was left of their broken and rotted tools, rats ate their fill of them. The people did not even seem to notice the rodent feast that they had become. 

I turned my mount to see whether the rats had stopped pursuit. Morgan and I seemed to have out distanced them, but then came the rest of the company. Strav was leading the way, his feet barely touching the earth before they launched another long stride. Moxadder was next, moving very quickly although puffing hard. Finally came Argonne and Kuruul. The lanky woodsman was holding his newly repaired axe in one hand as he ran. Kuruul loped easily beside him, as if acting the guardian.

Behind my friends stormed the rats, screaming their shrill shrieks and quite simply intent on devouring us. I wheeled my horse around, almost losing Mortec in the process but his stubby fingers gripped firmly into my waist, saving him from a tumble, and headed for the peasants.

“No!” bellowed Strav urgently, “The hill! Open the doors!”

What doors? And then I saw them. Two massive bronze doors set in the hill. I urged my mare forwards as Morgan did the same with his mount. 

I leapt off my horse and began to pull at the handle. It was no good. The massive doors must have stood fifteen feet high. Morgan and Mortec were trying to tug open the other door and with similar lack of success. In frustration I stepped back and looked up at the immovable barriers and noticed for the first time the crudely drawn crossed stakes painted in dry blood. A temple of Geduld, the death God, was not a place that anyone, especially uninvited, wanted to enter. 

Strav arrived and threw his weight into aiding Morgan and Mortec with the door. Soon after came an exhausted Moxadder. He immediately bent, hand on knees and gasped in huge breaths. By the time Argonne arrive the door had still not moved. He rushed to aid the others, hurling the Gnome aside and taking his place. 

There was no room for me to help so I stood back. I had never envisaged dying to a rat plague, gnawed to death. It did not seem a particularly noble way to die. 

“Gerard! Look there! Behind the symbol.” said Mortec excitedly bringing my thoughts back to our immediate situation.

I looked. Mortec had spied a symbol behind Geduld’s mark. I brushed off the blood with a gloved hand and revealed a hub with twelve arrows radiating from it. This was marvellous. Not only was I going to be eaten alive, it was going to be in front of a Gerechian temple. Perhaps Gerech himself was free of the Lightstone and was delivering his justice upon to me after I had spoke ill of him and taunted his followers.

The rats appeared on the crest where I had turned to observe their progress. Their cries became more excited. Their prey had stopped.

A large creak to my side signalled that the trio had made progress. The bronze studded door had opened a crack. Morgan, Argonne and Strav were frantically pulling it open. Moxadder, Mortec and I ran to assist by bracing against the closed door and pushing the opened one. The crack widened. Mortec slipped through, pushing from within. It inched open some more and Moxadder, Kuruul and I followed suit. 

The vermin were very close now. Perhaps only seconds from their meal. Another moment saw the others dive through the opening dragging the horses with them. All of the sudden we were pulling madly.

The screeches of joy were upon us!

Boom! The door slammed shut. Darkness engulfed us. Only our ragged breathing could be heard.


----------



## Haraash Saan

To those that had been following the tales of Sir Gerard d'Montfort I apologize for my lengthy absence. I hope to be back to posting twice a week from here on.


----------



## Haraash Saan

Chapter 7 – In Gerech We Trust

I started a low chant that Zmrat had taught me and opened my palm. A small, dim ball of light appeared in my hand. Slowly but surely the sphere grew in size and strength until it provided enough illumination for us to see where we stood.

It was a large chamber, we could barely make out the stone walls on either side of us and could see neither ceiling nor an end to the room.

We moved forward warily, our boots scuffing dust from the cobbled floor.

“Wait” whispered Strav, “I hear, singing”

I strained my ears but could not hear the voices that Strav’s keen elf ears had heard.

Once more we moved forward, this time even more slowly, listening for the song that Strav had heard.

_ “Persecute the pagans and bring us joy
Create a world we can all enjoy
Praise be to Gerech, Lord of Light, 
Bringer of Law, and the just fight”_

I sighed, Gerechians. Damn them all. Whilst I am the first to appreciate that we were in a temple of Gerech, one would have thought that the bloodied crosses on the door would have signified the end to any Gerechian presence here, but no. Instead, my poor ears were tortured with damnable Gerechian chanting.

At the end of the chamber we could now see six white robed figures facing another who had his back to us. These curious people began to sing yet another Gerechian hymn. 

For my own sake I interrupted, “Hello my good man.” I felt it necessary to be polite so that we could get some assistance, although the last thing I wanted to do was be nice to a Gerechian.

The leader turned slowly, a frown crept across his very pale face. His skin was so white that it seemed he had not seen daylight in many years. “Shh.” He said putting his finger to his thin lips. “We are practicing our praise to the Lord.”

I hate these self righteous bastards! Trying to keep calm I persisted. “I am most sorry to disturb your beautiful songs, but we need sanctuary. You see we have just been forced upon your hospitality by a plague of rats.”

His frowned deepened. At least I was annoying him. I took some pleasure in that. “You must seek the temple,” he said gesturing to two doors on either wall. With that the choir leader turned and struck up another hymn. That was enough of a sign that it was time for me to exit.

“Well if you do not mind, can you please watch after my horse.” I concluded as I dropped the reins and headed to the wooden door on my left. 

As I reached for the dull brass knob I heard a muffled gasp and an accompanying thud.  My hand went to the hilt of Eldritch Light as I spun. A few feet away from me Morgan lay on the ground, hands clawing at his face whilst his body writhed on the cobbles.

The thing he was clawing at was a strange mask depicting a stern-faced man. It had been bought on a whim by Argonne at a market on Sorcerer’s Isle and the woodsman had gifted it to the warrior. 

“Get it off!” Morgan whimpered in pain. He was tearing at it, trying to pry it loose but his efforts were in vane. The mask would not budge. The Fastendian warrior moaned in pain, “It hurts,” he sobbed. “Please get it off me.” His voice was muffled and sounded weary, as though he had undergone some massive struggle. 

Argonne stooped over our fallen comrade and tried to pull the mask off, but he had no luck. The mask would not be shifted. Mortec closed his eyes in concentration and began to mumble an incantation of under his breath. The gnome slowly probed forward with his hands spread however as soon as he touched the mask he leapt back, crying “’Tis a foul artefact of Gerech that has imprisoned our friend!” 

Morgan roughly pushed Mortec away as he struggled to his feet. He was staggered momentarily but then shook his head and steadied. “That’s better,” he said, his voice no longer muffled, but strangely deeper than the norm. “It doesn’t hurt any more.”

The mask itself appeared different. Its surface looked fluid, like water moving under a thin sheet of ice. It no longer had the same stern face upon it either. Rather it was now more of a hybrid of Morgan’s face and that of visage on the mask.

“It’s speaking to me!” rumbled Morgan in surprise. “Can you hear it?” 

None of us had heard a word, other than his own.

First speaking dogs, now silent speaking masks, does everything possess the power of speech? I stared at the brass knob in front of me, waiting for it to say something. 

“It claims it is Valintin’s mask and that this was once a mighty Gerechian Grand temple run by the head priest Constintine Seth.” He continued, the timbre of his voice was somewhat disconcerting.

Perhaps that is why Morgan had felt compelled to put it on, maybe the artefact had felt the presence of the temple

The word Seth was an Old Gerechian honorific meaning great father. It was a title given to the most significant and powerful priests of Gerech in times before the Connvocation were overthrown. Valintin, however, was not a name that I was familiar with. Whoever he had been he certainly had owned an interesting mask.

Morgan continued to question the mask, but he relayed no further answers to us.

Glancing to my comrades, all shared similar expressions of doubt and wariness. My general curiosity was somewhat curbed by a sense of foreboding. One of our group was now directly in contact, or so it seemed, with ancient Gerchian power. I could not see how this was a good thing. At least this time I felt confident that I would not be alone in watching our friend.

Stranger still the choir of Gerchians had not dropped a single note and their hymns continued uninterrupted.

The left door opened into a long corridor lined with lit torches. My ball of light was no longer required, so I clenched my fist over it and watched it blink out with audible crackle. 

The torch light revealed that we stood in the presence of six bejewelled stone statues. Each held an arrogant standing pose holding some object of significance. I brushed my gloved hand over the dust that had settled on a golden name plate, “Artyom Seth, Eight Lord of Light” it read. In his hand he carried an ornately carved sceptre. There was something unusual about the statue, his face was blank, impassive, unlike the statues on either side of him. They were looked pleased and satisfied with themselves. 

The name sounded familiar when I mumbled it to myself. Then it struck me! Artyom was one of the Lords of Light that lead his legion from Godsheim to challenge the Dominion’s forces. They were wiped out, never to be seen again. 

I voiced this knowledge to my companions hoping that it might spark their memories of the other Gerechian Lords, but to no avail. They knew nothing of them.

It was at this point that I noticed Argonne and Moxadder speaking softly between themselves. “How much do ya reckon they’re worth?” asked Argonne as he nodded to the jewels on the carved forms.

“It does not matter how much they are worth.” I interjected. “We are not taking them. We are not here to loot a temple that is still used! Even if it is a Gerechian one.” I added

“But,“ began Argonne.

“No. Let us move on.” I said.

They never cease to amaze me. Common thieves and plunderers they were, the pair of them. Now they wished to desecrate a holy site. There was no way I would allow it. It does not pay to upset the Gods. 

We left the statues, intact, and found another door at the end of the passageway. This door led to another long corridor, however, this one was occupied. Several pallid, robed people stood some way away on either side of what looked like a pit. 

“Hail good people.” I sang out, “We seek sanctuary. Can you help us?”

They turned to face us and slowly plodded along the cobbles towards us. The white circle of Gerech that each wore around their necks swayed in time with each step.


----------



## Haraash Saan

One approached me, a concerned look upon his face. “Do you know the way to the chapel?” he asked.

“Um, no.” I replied slightly taken aback. One would think that a worshipper in his own temple would know where the chapel was. 

“We seek sanctuary good sir. We have just escaped a plague of rats and seek to recuperate in your temple.” I continued, recovering myself.  

He looked confused for a moment before asking once again, “Do you know the way to the chapel?”

Now it was I that was confused. The man seemed to ignore everything that I had said. “Excuse me?” I queried gently, “I do not know where your chapel is, but we would appreciate any help you could give.”

“Do you know the way to the chapel?” he responded.

I HATE GERECHIANS! How much more annoying and unhelpful could a person be. My patience was wearing thin. “No.” I said sharply as I pushed past him. 

There were two doors along the wall on either side of the pit. I hoped they would lead us to someone more intelligible than the chapel obsessed Gerechians. Alas, the first was a weapons room that had been looted, although Morgan did spy some spears and halberds that had not been taken.  

The second was much more interesting. It was empty other than a set of breast plate that lay of the floor. Emblazoned upon it was a stylised Gerechian symbol; a small white circle with the straight arrows radiating from it.

As Morgan walked toward it, no doubt to examine it further, Strav caught him on the shoulder.

“Stay your feet friend.” He said pointing at the wall.

The word ‘Mine’ had been written on it in blood. Even though it had dried an age ago it still sent an eerie shiver down my spine. 

“Perhaps that is for the best, Morgan.” I said, supporting the Elf.

Morgan hesitated, then shrugged Stravarious’s hand off his shoulder and strode purposefully forward. He knelt and lifted the armour, turning as he did so. “No, I think I’ll be fine.” He said with a sly smile and with that removed his own armour and donned the other.

I wonder if that mask had told him to take it. He cut the figure of a fine Gerechian crusader in that armour and the mask of Valentin. Interesting, perhaps the young Fastendian was turning away from his beloved Thuus and being converted by Gerech. It was bad enough being polite to Gerechians, but calling one comrade was surely going too far.

One thing had become clear to us. This temple was not one that was practicing. Words written in blood were not the work of Gerechians, that was much more styling of Geduld’s followers. So why on earth were there Gerechians still here? Why had they not been killed by the followers of the God of Death? It was they that had marked the doors of this temple and apparently looted and defiled it. Why had the Gerechians made no effort to clean and cleanse their holy site?

We turned our attention to the pit, an obvious obstacle to the other doors and the exit to this corridor. Gerechian corpses, old and new almost filled it. Their white robes stained red with blood from where massive spikes that rose from the pit had punctured them. I looked away with a grimace of distaste. Whilst I did not like Gerech or his followers and I did not feel any sense of loss for them, I did feel rather nauseous at the sight of their rotting bodies. 

A decision was quickly made to avoid attempting to cross that foul pit and go back to the entrance chamber and try the other door. 

With the live Gerechians in tow (Argonne the intelligent had told them we were looking for the chapel), we headed back. That boy does not think sometimes. I cannot fathom why he would want those cretins following us about and I was even less pleased when the choir decided to join us as well.

Our swollen party passed through the other door and were greeted with a very familiar sight. Six more statues lined one wall. One wore the same vacant look that Artyom had, but three, including one Valentin, the apparent owner of Morgan’s mask, wore expressions of anger and frustration.

“Why is the statue angry?” asked Morgan.

“How would we know?” said Mortec sharply, less than impressed at Morgan’s Gerechian attire.

“I was asking the mask.” Morgan responded gruffly and chose to keep any further discussions with his mask to himself.

Just as with the first statue-lined corridor there was a door at the end of this one. It opened into yet another passageway also containing four doors along the wall. Gerechian architecture seemed to be based on a principle of order. The similarities we saw in front of us when compared to the previous corridor were disturbing enough for Argonne to order the Gerechians following us to lead us forward. I arched an eyebrow in his direction. He touched his finger to his nose conspiratorially. I got the distinct feeling that a wink accompanied the gesture but due to the mesh cloth that covered his face I could not see for certain (with Morgan joining Argonne and Stravarious in wearing something that obscured their features I was beginning to feel that I was associating with bandits!). Then it dawned on me; the concealed pit! 

“Oi you lot! The chapel is way down this corridor, behind that door yonder.” He said pointing vaguely to the door at the very far end of the corridor. He had recognised the similarities and decided to use expendable Gerechians to test his theory.

Callus it may be, but they were only Gerechians. It was not as if Argonne was sending useful people to their doom. In any case the deed was done. They plodded forward in their catatonic state. Fortunately, depending on your point of view, they traversed the cobbled floor without incident. 

Our confidence reinforced by our new and willing explorers we undertook a quick search of the four rooms. I was quick to snatch the only things of interest; a map of the city of Godsheim, the original home of the Gods, now deep within the Dominion, and a book entitled Crime and Punishment, Laws of Gerech. I was not sure who was more excited by the find of the book, Mortec or I. 

The others urged us to hurry along, impatient swine. I conceded that now was probably not the best time to advance my knowledge and stashed the book and map in my pack. Mortec was aghast, as if a little boy had had a brand new toy taken from him. 

Argonne’s zealots milled about in front of the door at the end of the corridor, apparently unable to open it. Strav pushed them aside making a path for the rest of us and opened the door. Joy of joys, more Gerechians. I almost damned Geduld for not doing the job right, but bit back my words. No point bringing yourself to the attention of the God of Death, probably no point damning the God of the damned either for that matter.

Several more of the white robed Gerchians stumbled about the large room slowly. Upon seeing us they asked the same question that their brethren had, “Do you know the way to the chapel?”

I ignored them and took in the surrounds. The walls of the room had once been beautifully painted, I could still make out vibrant colours in some places, but now they were mostly covered in blood and symbols of the death God. Wooden benches and tables lay in ruin and torn paper was strewn all over the floor. The people we found in this room all clutched torn pages and appeared to be reading them. It was as if they did not realise that the books that had once held the paper were long gone. 

The poor blighters were not only cursed by worshipping the loathed one, but they also seemed to be in some trance, perhaps cast upon them by the Geduldian priests and doomsayers.


----------



## Haraash Saan

A door and an archway allowed exit from the room. The door was stuck, so Argonne felt it necessary to apply a little force to open it; he kicked it in. Timber and splinters exploded inwards revealing an empty display room. Cabinets, cases and the pedestals on which they had sat had been violently scattered about the place. 

The archway led to another passageway. I followed my companions, all bar Moxadder who was in the ‘reading room’ lighting some rolled devil weed. The bald one obviously felt he needed to settle his nerves. 

There were several brass fountains that ran down the middle of the corridor. The sight of them repulsed me. Thick, yellow viscous fluid sat in the first one I came across. A faint odour of mould and decay emanated from it. I blanched, and reached for my kerchief to cover my nose and mouth. Thankfully not one jet of that foul liquid was being shot into the air. Or so I had thought.

Just as my hand entered the pocket of my trousers to retrieve my kerchief the vile stuff launched at me. I lurched back attempting to avoid it but my reflexes were not quite quick enough. It splattered all over my chest and its spray sent droplets on my face!

“GET IT OFF!” I screamed wildly clawing at it with my gloved hands. I managed to scrape it off my clothing and face before I retreated to the ‘reading room’ to better inspect myself.

Someone chortled from the corridor. The ingrates have no appreciation for ones appearance or for fine clothing! I had purchased my shirt from Lasoon himself, the finest tailor in Mendus, and now it was ruined. To add further to my woe my spare clothing was on my horse. I sighed, for now a thorough inspection would have to do.

“Watch out!” I heard Argonne cry, closely followed by the clang of forcibly steel on stone.

“Behind you!” yelled Morgan in warning. 

What was it that they were fighting? With a final brush I grabbed the hilt of my rapier and began to move to the slimed passage. Moxadder joined me, dagger in one hand and in the other was his precious weed, smoke curling from its lit end. 

Something brushed my calf. I stepped away and looked down. A strange rodent with two feathered antennae was flitting about my feet. Glancing about I saw that Moxadder also had two of the vermin pestering him. Mine lunged at me suddenly. I dodged its desperate attack, whipped out Eldritch Light and ran it through but the resilient little bugger did not die. No, instead I swear it tried to bite the blade that had impaled it. With a flick of my wrist I sent it sailing across the room. It slammed solidly into a wall and lay still.

Moxadder had also dispatched one of the rodents challenging him and the other decided that fleeing was its best option. It managed to escape under a hail of Moxadder’s curses and daggers. A long a final draw on his weed and he was calm again. 

Turning our attention once more to the corridor with our friends, we saw a flare of bright light come from within.

“Well that’s that.” I heard Argonne say, “We’ll have no more trouble from that stuff.”

As we entered the corridor we saw a strange sight. Both Morgan and Argonne had splotches of the yellow fluid on them, but they also sported burn wounds of some sort. Mortec was trying to tend them as best he could. An area further down the passageway had been charred. The stone walls that edged a pair of strong iron bound double doors had been blackened by some sort of blaze.  

Mortec quickly filled Moxadder and I in on what had happened in the passage. Whilst Moxadder and I had dispatched the annoying rodents the others had been attacked by slime. Apparently the fluid had been some sort of creature intent on taking us as its prey. 

Keen to be away from the fountains Strav pushed open the heavy doors. They creaked loudly as they resisted him, but Strav won the battle and the doors finally gave. Stairs spiralling down into darkness were the reward for Strav’s effort. We decided to leave them unexplored and seek our exit on this level of the temple.

We passed the last of the muck filled fountains warily, although none lashed out at us, and stepped through an opening at the end of the corridor. I was trailing the group, stepping cautiously and attempting to avoid any further filth on my clothes and boots. When I arrived at the chamber I was greeted with a thousand images of the others. A hundred Mortec’s gazed about in curiosity, and an infinite number of Argonne’s displayed their horrendous visage. The room was filled with wall to wall mirrors. Only two doors, one closed and one shattered broke the reflective magnificence. An opportunity like this did not come along often; I found a free mirror and thoroughly examined my clothing, boots and face for any mark of that repulsive muck that had assailed me. 

“Take a look at this!” yelled Moxadder. There was no need to yell as we were all well within earshot, but that is Moxadder for you; never really aware of his surroundings. 

His request penetrated my intense inspection. Satisfied that I had cleansed myself of that horrid slime I joined the others who now milled around Moxadder. He stood just inside the bashed in doorway. What was left of the door hung on the one hinge still attached to the wall. Before him was a massive pile of furniture; benches, tables, ornaments, weapons, general furniture, all thrown together to make a mountain of debris. 

Mortec threw himself at the pile with gusto. His little hands and feet began scrambling up the stack. He offered a shrill commentary of the various things that he found, but none were of any real interest. Moxadder too decide to better inspect the pile. The gangly Fastendian looked like some sort of spider as he climbed quickly to the top to join the Gnome.

“Hey! What’s this ‘ere?” Moxadder said to no-one in particular.

I could see Moxadder standing on the peak of the mountain stabbing into the ceiling with a dagger. Then suddenly it collapsed, showering him with dust and stone that continued to tumble down the pile and threatened to dislodge furniture. The place where Moxadder had been vigorously prodding was now a small opening. 	

He hoisted himself into the dark space. I heard him make some gurgling noises of satisfaction followed by, “Mortec grab this.”

Moxadder passed down several objects to Mortec, who in turn pocketed those he could and set the others down carefully on the pile. Shortly afterwards the pair had scampered down with their booty.

Moxadder’s cache contained several strange objects, each marked with the sign of one of the Gods. There were three glass cubes that had the tome of Todesmagie etched into them. Mortec snatched them hurriedly and sat himself in a corner to ponder them and perhaps to commune with his God. There was a small shrine to Gerech that Morgan looked over with curiosity. His actions provided further evidence that he was somehow being converted by his mask. His desire for the breastplate we found earlier did not help my perception. A sudden burst of light from behind him! I saw him for what he was becoming, a crusader of Gerech. Then the light went out. Mortec had discovered that the cubes, when aligned, gave off light. It was that light that provided the holy-like aura that had basked Morgan. Just as well. 

The third religious artefact was a beautifully polished dark wooden box that held a pair of platinum eye lenses with the towers and stars of Thuus etched into them. A net, similar to the fishing nets we had seen in Ravenswood although this one had small serrated blades lining its edge, bore the mark of Srcan. Finally there was a small copper censer that was filled with an earthy coloured powder. It was adorned with blue crystals which marked it as an artefact of Uramei, God of healing and health.

None of these divine objects interested me so I let the others squabble over them. In the meantime I explored the corridor through the intact door in the chamber of mirrors.

My initial reservations at looting an occupied temple had disappeared. We had encountered nothing but strange catatonic people, feral slime, and the sign of Geduld was everywhere. There was no doubt that some Gerechians remained, but they seemed unable to fend for themselves. This temple was somehow cursed, and not just by Gerech.

The door led back to the original corridor with the spiked pit and, unfortunately two more Gerechians.

“Do you know the way to the chapel?” they asked.

I ignored them. The first door on this side of the pit led to a room full of destroyed tapestries. On occasional piece I could make out fragments of great Gerechian moments and battles, but the prize was an entire tapestry that I found secreted under some of the ruined ones. It was worn and well faded, but I could just make out a scene of a robed man, one Cardinal Holton, or so the tapestry claimed, leading a band of people from a temple. Holton’s most remarkable feature was his breastplate. If it was not the very one Morgan now wore it was its perfect partner. And written faintly across it was the word ‘mine’. 

The second room had been cleared to make space for a circle of ash that had had blood spilt all over it. Four stakes with decayed leather straps were pegged in the cracks of the cobbles. Some poor wretched had been held here, and no doubt tortured. An involuntary shiver ran down my spine. The whole room felt unnatural. I muttered a quick prayer to Laster, and hurriedly closed the door. Once I closed it I felt as if a weight had lifted from me.. Maybe Laster had made good on my hasty prayer.

Having discovered that we had explored the temples’ top floor and had still found no alternate exit we decided that we would gather our rations from the horses and rest. We had had a long and arduous day. No doubt we would feel refreshed on the morrow. 

After we retrieved our rations, and a clean set of clothes for me, Argonne led the Gerechians from the ‘reading room’ to the entrance hall with promises of taking them to their chapel. At least it cleared the room. 

This place seemed to have a strange effect on all of us. There was little discussion of the day’s discoveries, each of us choosing to spend time in solitude with only our thoughts for company.


----------



## Haraash Saan

Thankfully the night passed uneventfully, unless of course you include Moxadder’s raking coughs. 

Argonne gave me a cheery greeting when he saw me awaken. I just growled at him. How had I gone from my goose down pillows to stone cobbled floors? This is not at all what I had envisaged as life for a successful swordsman.

Within the hour we stood at the top of the spiralling stairs staring down into the dark. Silently, perhaps all of us bar Argonne felt as uncommunicative as I did, we began the descent. The only noise that accompanied us was the constant dripping of water from cracks in the ceiling. We followed the trickle that it made down to the base of the stairs.

The staircase opened to a wide antechamber. Like all the previous rooms this one too had been ransacked and vandalised. The tapestries that hung on the walls were torn, burnt or bloodied. Not a single piece of furniture was left in the room.  I let out a heavy sigh when I saw five Gerechians waiting outside another set of solid double doors. This temple was really grating on me. Filthy, wet, slimy, uncomfortable, dark and worst of all full of Gerechians; at least they were not preaching to us or trying to kill us for being non-believers.

Strav was obviously fed up with them too. He pushed passed them impatiently provoking several glares and grunts of annoyance. That at least was an improvement from the ones upstairs, they would not have reacted at all. 

The elf dramatically pushed open the two doors and stood confidently in the centre of the doorway as if issuing a challenge. A massive hall supported by columns was revealed. Openings lined both the left and right walls of the room but the feature of the room was a large rectangular pool of fetid water. Repulsive as it seemed, several Gerechian bathers were swimming through the ooze. One sat on the edge idly dangling his legs in the viscous yellow liquid causing slight ripples to radiate from his gentle kicks. More people huddled together in groups near the pool. It looked as though they were discussing some conspiracy in hushed tones. 

I watched the pool closely, fearing, that like the fountains on the floor above, the ooze may spurt and ruin another garment. Suddenly a bather that had been slowly paddling disappeared under the water as though sucked down my some massive force.

Strav, who had not noticed the disappearing bather, stepped down from the doorway and strolled boldly into the room. Before I could alert them, the others followed his lead. I trailed them somewhat more cautiously. 

Upon entering the chamber a Gerchian wearing a more ornate robe than those we had already encountered, turned to face us, glaring at us with chilling expressionless eyes. A low chant began to issue from his cracked lips.

“Urum, tonum, barum.” He repeated rhythmically.

A thick black fog began to form, twisting and writhing around our ankles in rhythm with the incantation. Then everything seemed to happen at once.

The Gerechians turned and began to nimbly ran at us baring vicious clawed hands that slashed at us menacingly, low growls emitting from their throats.  

I leapt aside to remove myself from the unnatural mist. Without thought my rapier was in my hand and I was thrusting, parrying, dodging and ducking. I saw an opening and pranced forward, my rapier piercing the Gerechian’s heart. To my surprise he did not even notice! What manner of beings did we fight?

So furious was the assault that I had no idea how the others were faring, then suddenly Mortec, who had been beside me, stepped away from the melee. I turned to chastise his cowardly behaviour only to see him holding up his arms, and call out in Gnomish, “Nachtigal! I call upon you to cower these creatures of the dead!”

It struck me in that instant that it was very odd that the little priest of Todesmagie was calling upon the God of Magic and Death. Surely the gods would not look favourably on their priests calling upon other powers? I was wrong.

Such was the power of his prayer that even I lowered my guard in awe. The Gerechians ceased their onslaught and turned fearfully to face Mortec. 

“Quickly now, “urged Mortec, “they are people no longer. They are in a state between life and death. Dispatch them before the divinity turns his attention elsewhere.” 

I was not one to argue with someone with such a close ear of a god. I thrust and slashed with my blade until I had felled four of our foes. Not once whilst under the gaze of Nachtigal did they raise a claw in defence or attack whilst they were slaughtered.

I slumped in exhaustion. My attack at Mortec’s insistence had been frenzied and tiring. My sword arm ached. Unfortunately I could not sit on the ground or lean upon a wall, they were far too wet and grimy. 

Morgan and Argonne had not fared well. Both lay sprawled and unmoving beside the corpse of the Gerechian priest that had conjured up the black fog. They had succumbed to the many gashes inflicted by our foes. Even Argonne’s axe had suffered. It lay once again headless beside him. Mortec and Moxadder bandaged them as best they could and managed to staunch the bleeding. Whatever it is was that Mortec did to Morgan, the Fastednian suddenly erupted from his unconscious state and started screaming Thuusian war cries. At least he had shown he was not possessed by Gerech, he still could cry out to his own God. The enraged man began hacking into the corpses of our former opponents with great gusto. I had not seen him like this since the trials at Yorathton where he had been bitten by a fish. He was savage and uncontrollable. I moved back to the doorway wary of attracting his attention. I did not want to be responsible for slaying a comrade, but I would if he came against me.

With his mayhem completed his screaming also ceased and instead he started prowling the edge of the pool, glaring at the water. I sheathed my sword and loaded my crossbow. I feared Morgan was going to disturb whatever it was that had taken the swimmer so quickly. I was right.


----------



## Haraash Saan

The water exploded outwards! A massive shape shot up, splashing the yellow mucous-like water over the edge of the pool. I was glad I had moved away from it as I doubt I could ever have cleaned that substance from my boots.

Several tentacles flailed about wildly, groping for something, anything, to grapple. In fluid motion Morgan ducked as one passed over his head, then thrust at it with his sword, sinking it deep. The creature let loose a pain filled roar and directed all its energy at squashing the cause of its grief. One violent swing crashed down beside Morgan, and he just managed to leap aside from another as it smashed into the recently vacated space. The tiles where he had stood shattered and shards went flying. I let loose my bolt just as a tile spun towards my throat. My reactions saved me as I swayed to my left but the movement was enough to cause my bolt to clatter against the wall behind the monster.

Suddenly the horror shuddered as a green beam of light struck it. The light surrounded and encased the beast, causing it to shudder and convulse. The light faded causing one the creature one last spasm before it again focused its energy on Morgan. I spun around to see the cause of the strange green light and saw Stravarious, standing well back from the pool with his right arm and index finger outstretched. My companions continued to surprise me. 

I concentrated on helping Morgan as best as I could. As I loaded my crossbow I glanced up to see it lash out at Morgan once more, this time with its injured appendage. It thundered down on to the tiles but this time they did not give, the tentacle did. Brown blood gushed from the wound, saturating Morgan as the limb swung wildly and the creature screamed in agony. The detached tip writhed uselessly on the mucky floor. 

Strav threw his arm forward and more green light streamed from his index finger. As it slammed into the beast I noticed its muscles seemed to decay. The remaining tentacles seemed to shrink in diameter and then the monster toppled into the fetid pool to sink beneath the surface. The only trace of its passing were the radiating ripples of the water where it had fallen, and the twitching tentacle tip beside Morgan.

Strav had demonstrated an awesome display of power against the creature. If I had never shown him respect before, I would not make that mistake again.

Through luck and quick reflexes Morgan had avoided injury, our foes could not say the same. The bodies of our Gerechian assailants still lay strewn about the floor and the pool was now still, the horror within would not worry us again.

We spent most of the day investigating the room and a dozen or so small chambers that opened into it. They had nothing of interest, so we turned our attention to the massive chamber itself. 

After some investigation Strav called out that he had found something and he began scraping muck and mould from the wall opposite the entrance we had come in. “Methinks I’ve found a door.”

Morgan and Mortec rushed over to aid him in his repulsive endeavour. I watched with interest, peering over the book of Gerech that we had found the day before. I had been pouring over it hoping to find some sort of clue as to how to leave the temple. It was a faint hope, as it was a book concerning crime and punishment, but it was a damn sight better than immersing myself in filth!

“Hey!” called Argonne from a corner where he and Moxadder where searching, “We’ve found ourselves a tunnel.”

Well this was interesting. First we have nothing, now we have two places to explore. Argonne the impulsive and Moxadder who was probably beginning to feel at home in a grimy hole, were quick to wander into the tunnel despite our immediate protests. Reluctantly we followed the pair, knowing full well that we would be best served by staying together.

The tunnel that they had found looked to be a natural corridor in the rock. Its entrance had been hidden behind coloured tiles that depicted some Gerechian conquest. Moxadder had noticed it when examining the fresco. 

We could see Argonne’s torch bobbing in the distance. It stopped and we heard Argonne curse loudly and complain of stubbing his toe against the uneven tunnel floor. Rocks jutted out from the floor and walls of the tunnel, but if one was careful it could be traversed without difficulty.

We caught the intrepid pair soon enough and after a few chastising words we continued on.

Eventually the corridor branched. We chose the right fork as the left, no more than a fissure, seemed to head further down into the depths of the earth. Perhaps five minutes had passed since moving off along the right fork when we heard a strange chittering ahead of us. 

“Shh!” Moxadder said abruptly, putting a finger to his lips. 

The lanky man cocked his head and listened intently. Another few moments and the cause for his concern became clear. 

“! Rat Trolls!” He said as he pushed passed us and ran as best as he could back down the passage.

“Best leave now.” Argonne urged, concern evident in his expression.

We had encountered Rat Trolls once before, in the burning farm house, but then they were only eyes peering at us from within it. Now they seemed to be a real threat. The chittering was getting louder. As they say, discretion is the better part of valour. We used our discretion and fled. 

The clattering of claws upon the rock could now be heard, and it was increasing in speed. They had heard us. We reached the branch. Moxadder was waiting there, leaning against a rock. He looked like I felt, exhausted from our flight. I puffed and panted, hands upon knees. I looked back down the dark corridor praying first to Srcan that the Rat Trolls had ceased their pursuit, and then, as I heard their chittering getting louder, to Thuus, a God I rarely invoke, for courage. I could not out run them, I had to make a stand. We had all come to the same silent decision, time to stand and fight. I loosened my rapier in its sheath and loaded my crossbow.


----------



## Haraash Saan

Their screeches sounded in the darkness, louder and louder as the creatures came closer to us. Strav shouted a word and suddenly there was flare and three horrid beasts were illuminated, their terrible forms lit with bright green auras. They were no more than fifty feet away from us. One bounded along the ground, another scrambled along the ceiling and the third leapt across the tunnel from wall to wall. The uneven surfaces were no obstacle, rocks just provided foot holds for the trolls. 

I loosed a bolt from my crossbow. It struck home with such force that it sent the ceiling climber to the ground in a heap. Jubilation coursed through my body but it was short lived. The beast was on its feet and trailing its friends as though it had only slipped. 

I heard and felt other missiles whiz past my head, including a bolt of energy that Strav had conjured. Several of the missiles found their targets, but still the Rat Trolls came on. My crossbow clattered at my feet as I whipped out my rapier and prepared for the inevitable onslaught.

In an instant ferocious jaws were snapping an inch from my face, the rat troll’s rancid hot breath engulfing me. Bile crept into my throat and as if that was not enough, it clawed at me with its forepaws. I managed to twist away from them and thrust Eldritch Light into its muscular shoulder. Screaming in pain it renewed its frenzied attack. 

A dagger flew over my shoulder and buried itself to its hilt in its chest; Moxadder was near. Beside me Morgan was trying to hold another at bay. Kuruul, the enigmatic dog, now in humanoid form, flashed at my opponent with his rapier. It took yet another blow, but did not look to weaken.

The third troll, the one that I had struck with my bolt now joined the fray. It leapt over the front rank of battle to take on those providing support from the rear. Mortec was knocked away and sent sprawling behind me by the trolls’ gashing claws. The one that faced me turned its attention to Kuruul but before it could gouge or bite him it shuddered as vibrant green light crackled over its body. Kuruul and I seized the moment to simultaneously deliver telling blows. It fell at our feet, green energy still licking around its corpse before that too expired. 

A scream of agony erupted behind me. I spun to see Mortec with both hands upon the third troll, chanting to his god. It too slumped, shrivelled just as Grisha the dwarf had been.

The remaining troll took its cue from our earlier actions and turned tail and fled. Morgan struck it as it turned, staggering it momentarily. I dropped my rapier and retrieved my crossbow, quickly fumbling a bolt into it. I took quick aim and loosed the bolt. It thudded home, striking the foul beast in its back. It crashed to the ground and tumbled to a halt.

A quick survey of the party found us all alive although several with new injuries. Argonne, however was nowhere to be seen. It turned out that his fear of the Rat Trolls was so great it had prompted him to continued to run. We found him later cowering behind a massage table in one of the rooms that led off from the pool chamber.

Moxadder quickly instructed us to burn the Trolls, “They don’t stay dead unless the fire gets,‘em,” he said. I had learnt to pay heed to Moxadder’s intimate knowledge of Rat Trolls, so we burnt the bodies as best we could.

Warily we continued down our original path, and perhaps ten minutes after the point from which we had fled we found a cavern. It, like everything else we had found in the temple complex was filthy. Rubbish and refuse lay scattered everywhere, piles upon piles of it. The others kicked their way through the junk and filth but I could not bring myself to do it. I was almost retching just being in the place. The stink was terrible. Several half gnawed corpses were revealed lying beneath rags. 

Our rummaging caused a stirring in one of the piles. We readied our weapons in an instant but they were not needed. A thin and starved man emerged into view. He wore the white, well they were once white, robes of a Gerechian. The symbol around his neck confirmed it.

“Thank you, thank you, brothers!” he cried, “I feared all was lost.”

At least he was coherent, as opposed to all of the other Gerechians we had found in the temple. 

“Who are you and how did you come here?” I asked unsympathetically.

“Ah,” he looked worried, “I am Sneefal the Pius, acolyte of the Great One. Who are you?” he added nervously.

“Adventures seeking refuge.” was my curt response.

“Ah, I see, you do not follow the Great one?” he said. Our blank response gave him his reply. “Well you’ll find refuge here in Artyom Seth’s ancient temple. It has been unoccupied for centuries.” 

“You are mistaken.” I said, “This is Constatine Seth’s temple in the Barony of Yorath.”

“What? How?” he exclaimed in surprise.

Further questioning, by both parties, revealed that he had been in the mountains north of Riverglenn looking for Artyom Seth’s lost temple, when he finally stumbled upon it. He worked his way through the levels, until he finally encountered some demonic black robed figure with piercing red eyes. He fled in terror and then encountered the Rat Trolls. He had been imprisoned here ever since, some ten days he guessed. Strangely his greatest concern was for a baton that had been in his possession. He would not explain to us its significance, but I knew it was of some great import, at least to the young priest.

Out of pity we allowed Sneefal to accompany us. 

With nothing further to explore along the corridor we re-traced our steps back to the fork and headed down the unexplored passage.


----------



## Haraash Saan

Dark and dank, it wound downwards. It was cruder than the other passage and at points it narrowed so that only one of us could squeeze through at a time. Eventually it lead to another Rat Troll lair, thankfully with none of the monsters lurking there. It did, however, have something even more remarkable, dwarfs. 

Unconscious, pale and near death, four of the cave dwellers lay in an unceremonious pile, trussed and gagged. In short time they were free of their bonds and with the aid of Mortec’s god (I am not sure which one), they were brought to consciousness.

Whilst they were wary to begin with, they were certainly less aggressive than Grisha, the dwarf wizard from Sorcerer’s Isle. Three of their party were escorts to the one female, Rokana Silverseeker. They had been travelling in the Spine (the great mountain range that split the north and south of Anka Seth) when they were ambushed by Dark Elves. I glanced at Stravarious and saw him pull the wrap covering his face a little higher. Some of their party were slain, but the four had managed to find reprieve from pursuit by entering a ruin. They ventured down further into the ruin and it became evident that it was a temple to Gerech that they entered. Eventually they found a circular chamber with twelve doors.  One door was open. It was at that point that they heard their pursuers clambering down the stairs. With little choice left to them they scrambled through the door. Momentarily free of the Dark Elves they caught their breath and walked for sometime before eventually appearing in a similar chamber. 

At that point their story began to corroborate Steefal’s. They too encountered, battled and fled from a red eyed demon and worked their way upwards before, exhausted, they succumbed to the Rat Trolls. 

It was an astounding tale. How could they have travelled so quickly under ground from the Gerchian temple in the Spine to the one here in the Barony of Yorath? Not only did a sea separate them but so did thousands of miles! 

Whilst they spoke Moxadder rooted about in the refuse of the Rat Trolls lair, turning up the dwarfs gear; various hardy yet dented and worn armours, shields, weapons and one amulet of a scythe, the symbol of Muhbelung, God of Toil. Seeing this last item the eldest of the dwarfs, Togale, snatched it with glee, looped it over his bald pate and began to murmur some prayers.

The day had been a long one. We had fought feral Gerechians, a terrible beast, and finally Rat Trolls. We all agreed that it would be best to take rest. We fortified the one of the rooms on the top level as best we could and rested uneasily, trying to sleep as best we could.

My rest was dreadful. The stone floor had wracked my back, causing it to ache and lancing my shoulder with pain. The ever cheerful Argonne did not make the new morning any better.

“Wakey, wakey your highness.” He said as he leered over me. “Plenty more exploring to do today.”

Insufferable bloody peasant! However, he was right. We had to get moving, no-one knew how long it may be before we find another exit to this damned temple. It was that or brave the rodents outside the front gate.

Our new companions looked refreshed and recuperated. Obviously we could not offer them comfortable beds and quilts but for the first time in days they had been able to rest without the fear of rat troll fangs.

We suited up for war. Armour and weapons were prepared and checked. The dwarfs were fearsome in their specially crafted gear. They looked more like boulders of steel with sharp protrusions than the stout and stocky men, and woman, that they were.

I felt much more the warrior with my small buckler strapped to my arm. Usually I held shields in disdain as they were cumbersome and more importantly inelegant, but on this occasion the sombre mood of my companions inspired me to be more cautious.

Clanking and clattering echoed through the vacant corridors and halls as we moved through them until we stood once more in the bathing room facing the double doors 

Stravarious assumed the lead, as had become his wont of late, and pulled the large tarnished ring on the door. The door groaned with strain as it opened. Before us was yet another hall, this one furnished for dining. There were several Gerechians seated at long tables. Each looked to be enjoying its meal of brambles and thistles, no doubt farmed by the peasants that we had seen outside the temple. I saw several rat trolls lurking in the shadows of the room staring at us intently. Suddenly a troll’s arm shot out and dragged a Gerechian off his place on the benches and then the pack was upon him! The rat trolls piled on top, screeching in pleasure as they tore him to shreds. I looked away from the gruesome sight. Not even half-live Gerechians deserved such brutal treatment. I think the worst thing was the man had not made a sound; no scream of terror, no cry for help. It was as if he had accepted his fate, although having seen these men and women before, I wondered if they even knew what was happening to them.

“Close the door!” Argonne shouted, wisely fearing that we were next on the menu. He shouldered the door closed with such force that the boom resounded about the room.

“Why did you do that? We could have strolled right passed them. They have enough food to last a while.” huffed Strav.

“They’re bloody rat trolls ya idiot!” exclaimed Moxadder, “They’ll save ya up for later. Just like they did with the little dwarfs and the scrawny priest.”

Then the bickering really broke out. I let them be. I had no wish to enter into a petty argument, and in their mood they would not listen to my thinking in any case. 

The result of the angry tirade was a plan. Who would have thought that they would actually concoct a plan to deal with a problem? I cannot recall them ever having managed it before without my significant input.

The plan was simple. Lure the rat trolls out only a few at a time so that we could more easily dispense with them (our confidence was high after the previous day’s victory). Then do it again until we had killed all of the rat trolls. As each troll was downed they would be tossed onto a fire that Moxadder had made from the broken furniture we had found earlier. He assured us that fire was the only way to destroy them.

Kuruul, deemed to be the fastest was to run in, get their attention and lead them out the door. The dwarfs were to slam the door shut and hold it firm against the other rat trolls whilst we eliminated the ones that got through.

Simple. Well I thought it was. I should have known better.

We took our designated positions. Mine was beside Mortec and Strav, some thirty feet from the door, directly in front. The second door had been wedged so that it would not open. 

Seeking to inspire my friends I began to recount the famous tale of the fifth siege of Avinal. Where the hero, Guideon, held the wall and routed the hordes from Buramas.  He had launched an arrow blessed by Thuus himself into the oncoming masses and struck down the Dominion General, Balrus. His act had saved Avinal that day. Morgan inclined his head in appreciation, and the others all seemed to stand a little taller as they heard Guideon’s story.

My final words echoed in now silent room and suddenly the unspiked door was yanked open by the dwarves. Kuruul, in his goblin like form, vanished. Literally. I am tempted to say “with a puff of smoke” but there was not even that. There was some commotion from within the room, and then just as suddenly Kuruul had returned.

“There are twelve trolls.” He responded nonchalantly as he inspected his finger nails for dirt.

We waited. Through the opening we saw the vacant Gerechians eating their mock meal. Mortec raised his arms and cried out in the language of the Gnomes, “Nachtigal! Vanquish my foes!” 

His call to his second god did not have the desired effect. Whilst it certainly attracted their attention, it failed to vanquish them as it did the day before. Even from this distance I could see that their once blank expressions had turned to hatred. And it was with that demeanour that they now began to advance, discarding their meals to try and claim our souls.

“Brilliant, Mortec!” bellowed Argonne, “they were ignoring us until…”

The rest of his exclamation was drowned out by the excited screams of the trolls as they burst through the open door. Arrows, including my own, slammed into the leading troll. Unimpeded it leapt over to Morgan and Moxadder, who had taken cover behind an upturned table. Several more trolls followed by the angered Gerechians entered the room. For some reason the door had not been closed. The dwarfs had not closed the door!

Instead Strav ran from my flank, hurdled a rat troll that desperately clutched at his long legs and slammed his shoulder hard into the door. It swung violently shut, smashing a Gerechian in the face in the process. I saw no more as I had my own troubles.

One of the trolls charged at me. I dropped my crossbow, unshouldered my buckler, drew my trusty rapier and slashed. It was a clumsy attempt, missing the beast’s head by a clear foot. In a flurry of claws and teeth it flailed at me. I dodged its claws and managed to ram my buckler into its face as it sought to bite my mine with its huge canines. 

It was momentarily staggered and on the back foot. I saw my opening and lunged forward. 

Unfortunately, my strike did not meet flesh, something grabbed me around the throat and pulled me backwards!

Long talons dug into my neck sending piercing pain throughout me. Then an instant later cold, calloused fingers began to crush my windpipe.

I tried to scream out and pry the steel-like grip loose but it was to no avail. In my mind I could hear my words sound clear and strong, but my ears could only hear my strangled gurgling. 

My chest heaved quickly, repeatedly, as I tried to breath, but again the grip firmed. All I could see now were thousands of white spots floating in a sea of pitch black. I gave one last effort, twisting my body and prying with my fingers, and somehow I was free!

I staggered forward, bumping a stone column and almost falling. “’Ware lurkers in the dark!” I shouted huskily.

I turned quickly and thrust into the gloom with my rapier. I had somehow managed to keep hold of it in the struggle. My strike bit nothing but air. I almost toppled as I had not expected to miss and I had overbalanced, I was sure that my assailant had been right there. In an instant its gnarled digits once again grasped my throat.

This time I was not hauled backward as before, this time I was dragged upwards! The grip of the clawed hand was stronger this time, and I could feel my own weight drag on neck as I was pulled upwards. 

“Where is he?” I heard a frantic Mortec say, and then it was dark.


----------



## Haraash Saan

Chapter 8 – Deeper into the Dark

Laughter was the first sound I heard, quickly followed my music. My eyelids flicked open to see a starless night. I could feel cool grass beneath me. I raised myself onto an elbow and looked around. Flickering torches in tall stands and several massive bonfires provided light. Silhouetted figures moved in a wild and uncontrolled dance around the flames. I stood and became aware that I was completely naked. I turned at the sound of laughter close behind me to see a man and woman coupled in erotic embrace. Leaving them to their pleasures I wandered forward to the nearest of the bonfires. I passed several other people in various states of sexual orgy.

“You’re new here aren’t you?” purred a soft voice. I turned to face my questioner.

A stunning, nude woman stood before me. I goggled at the sight of her exquisite beauty. She smiled seductively, “You’ve got that unbelieving look. It gives it away.”

She reached forward and embraced me, her lips like velvet on mine. I responded in kind and then dragged her down to the cool grass.

I pursed my lips to taste her once more, but was puzzled by a strange new sensation. My eyelids flickered open to reveal that my gorgeous seductress had been replaced by a wiry beard and a pair of deep set beady eyes glaring back at me. 

“He lives. Muhbelung be praised.” said Togale gruffly, the stink from his breath invading my nostrils. 

A strong hand grabbed my shirt front and hoisted me to my feet. “We thought you be dead.” said Argonne, his ugly face awash with concern.

“I was.” I sighed with a rasp. I had no doubt that I had arrived at Pandemonium, the heaven for the true followers of Laster. 

I coughed and tried to clear my throat. It was no good. It ached. A quick rub with my hands found the tender spots where the pressure had been applied and also the clotted blood from the talons. No doubt I was bruised and battered and looked an awful mess.

“Good. He’s up. Let’s get moving.” said Strav. I searched for a hint on concern in his voice, but found none. Perhaps he had known I would be alright, then again perhaps not.

“You OK?” queried Morgan.

“I feel horrible. What happened?” I replied, with a voice that was every bit of rough as I felt.

My companions quickly briefed me on what had occurred. Mortec had heard my call and came quickly to try to aid me, but it was Kuruul’s keen eyes that saw me dangling from the ceiling, my neck being throttled my some strange beast that clung to the rafters. Then Kuruul had created a light that illuminated my attacker and I so that the others could shoot us down. Just as I was about to question how they would prevent my death from the uncontrolled fall Argonne told me how he had grabbed the net of Srcan, and with Moxadder’s help, managed catch me when Morgan threw Iron Gut, the very spear I had thrown at Rumscully Jack, at the beast, striking its arm and causing it to drop me.

Moxadder was the first to react when he saw my grave wounds and tried to bandage them as best he could but it was Mortec that managed to stabilise me and Togale that resuscitated me. I owed them all my life. And it was a debt that I was glad to have.

I thanked them all for their help and then realising I was once again filthy from where I had been lying in the muck of the bathing chamber, I excused myself to get changed.  

Perhaps half an hour later I returned to find that my comrades had moved on. 

I stepped over and around the corpses of the Gerechians (the Rat Trolls had been burnt) and proceeded into the dining area beyond the pool room.

There were more Gerechian corpses. Some created by the blades of my comrades, others torn to shreds by the feasting trolls. I heard Morgan talking in the distance and followed the sound of his voice, quickly passing several doors and rooms.

Rounding a corner I found an unusual scene before me. In front of an altar was a rat troll wearing all the splendour of a priest of Gerech. In one claw he held a small baton that he waved to and fro as he preached in terrible Old Gerechian. 

Standing infront of him were Morgan, Argonne and the priest Sneefal, who was imploring the troll to hand over the sceptre. Moxadder was carefully making his way to a pair of Gerechians that sat in one of the pews. Strav, Mortec and the dwarfs stood just inside the entrance. 

I took in the strange scene for an instant, for that was all I had, before the violence began again. 

Sneefal launched himself at the rat troll mock priest only to be struck down with a tremendous blow from the baton that he had sought. He crumpled, falling across the altar of his god.

A twang from beside me turned my attention to Stravarious. He was hunched over his massive crossbow, aiming at the troll, but his bolt missed its mark. Instead it slammed into the masonry behind him.

I saw Moxadder draw a blade across the throat of one worshipper, but the Gerechian spun suddenly, and lashed out at Moxadder with a clawed hand. The follower beside him also stood and bared needle like teeth at Moxadder.

Without thought I burst into the room and ran down the aisle to aid Moxadder. As the second Gerechian prepared to bite Moxadder, I vaulted a pew and thrust my thin blade into his neck. 

“Ah ha! Take that, foul Gerechian!” I cried triumphantly as the corpse slid from my sword.

A quick thrust from Moxadder which buried his dagger and almost his fist, into his opponent saw a quick end to our foes.

At the altar Argonne, still making good use of the net, tangled the rat troll which enabled Morgan to relieve it of the baton.

As the Fastendian grasped it he was irradiated with a burst of brilliant white light. We all glanced in his direction as he spoke.

“Valentin tells me this is Artyom’s Sceptre, another powerful relic of the Gerechians.” he proclaimed. Another conversation with his mask and another cause of worry for the rest of us methinks.

“Well you best keep it then. You’re gathering quite a collection aren’t you.” muttered Stravarious. It was a thought that I shared. 

In short time the rat troll was smouldering, he would trouble us no more. Our only casualty was Sneefal and I admit I cared not for the loss.

There was only one other exit from the room, a staircase that spiralled down further into the bowels of the temple. Quick consultation with the dwarfs confirmed that it was from these stairs that they had come after fleeing from the red-eyed demon.


----------



## Haraash Saan

We could not see down them very far, not so much due to their spiral but more so the strange fog that hung in the staircase. That did not deter Moxadder, he was quick to go down, despite several appeals from us to regroup and rethink. 

“That’s interesting.” pondered the lanky, hunched Fastendian to himself as he skulked down the staircase. He faded into the mist.

Argonne soon followed the drug addict, “Best I keep ‘im outta trouble.” he said. 

The dwarfs ambled down too, and then Morgan. I did not understand. There was little or no consultation, people seemed drawn to enter the fog enshrouded staircase with its slime covered dank walls and steps. 

With a shrug Strav and Mortec joined the others. With a curse I reluctantly followed, another set of clothes was going to be ruined. I really needed to find a tailor as soon as we were out of this horrid place.

I trudged down the staircase, the muck squelching under foot. I could barely see Mortec’s tiny shape just ahead of me so dense was the fog. Fingers suddenly clutched at my shirt! I leapt to the side avoid their grasp. Misjudging the opposing wall due to the mist I slammed into it and felt yet more hands groping me.

I spun away, this time drawing Eldritch Light and commanding it to illuminate with the words Zmrat had taught me. Lashing out with my glowing sword, I met flesh that offered little resistance. The light it cast revealed a more gruesome sight than I had imagined. No living thing had grabbed at me, I wish that it had. The slime covered walls had human body parts jutting out from within them. I felt myself dry retch as I gazed upon this horror. Arms that I must have brushed against, legs and even the odd torso were embedded into the walls. It truly was a grotesque vision. Viscous ooze dripped from the fingers that sought to grab me. I shuddered as I realised that the sleeve that had been plucked at and my back had been coated in the stuff that clung to the walls. With a deep breath I controlled my natural revulsion and moved on to catch up to my companions.

A corridor lay at the base of the stairs and I could hear one of the dwarfs saying gruffly that they had fled from the red-eyed demon just a little further on. Argonne brightly encouraged all to move forward. I passed several closed doors before almost trodding on Mortec.

“Sorry my little friend.” I apologised.

“I’m not that small!” he answered huffily.

We stood in an open chamber. Several pillars supported the ceiling and various pots and jars leant against the walls. Moxadder and Argonne were discussing their contents.

“Some sorta goo.” said Argonne.

“I’ll bet its some religious stuff. Ya know, sacred or somethin’.” replied Moxadder with conviction.

But before they could go on a deep rumbling voice boomed from the within the relentless mist. “Who comes to seek the blessing of Gerech,” it said.

A tall looming figure, wisps of mist trailing off the black robes that enshrouded it walked into view.

“Who comes to seek the blessing of Gerech?” it repeated.

The power in its words sent a chill through me and I seemed to be drawn to its stare. Its’ red eyes seemed to look through my soul. I assume the others felt the same as it shifted its gaze to each of my companions. 

Stravarious was the first to recover and answered in the only way he knew, with violence. Thin bolts of light sprung from his fingers and struck the figure in the chest. It stumbled slightly and groaned with pain. Even I did not think the black elf’s approach was inappropriate, although it did attract its attention.

 “So you besmirch the name of Gerech!” it roared as its head twisted to stare straight at Strav. 

Stravarious howled with pain, clutching his head. He fell to his knees as blood began to flow from his ears, eyes and nose. Groaning with the effort, or pain he stretched out his arm and pointed once more at the black figure with a bloodied finger. Another bolt of light shot out from its tip and struck his assailant. Then Strav fell face forward onto the dank flagstones.

His fall stirred me from my stupor. I hurdled him and charged forward, rapier cocked back for an impaling thrust. The demon brushed me aside as if I was of no consequence, but my effort enabled the others to act.

Missiles flew at him, some striking home but most clattering uselessly on the cobbles or sinking into the horrid walls. 

In a display of genius Moxadder called out to the dwarfs telling them to coat their weapons with the supposedly holy unguent that he had found on the jars by the wall. 

“You cannot harm Holton the Imperator!” it laughed as it carelessly shrugged off more missiles.

After following Moxadder’s instructions Rokana led Rahurt and Hakad into the fray, flailing at our foe with their weapons. Each struck true and their coated weapons caused Holton to howl in pain. 

Again I slashed and again Holton turned away my blade. It was as though he could sense my strikes before I delivered them. Another bolt of light struck him. I looked and saw Strav with Togale beside him. The elf’s hand was thrust before him in the act of hurling his magic. It was the perfect distraction.

Argonne seized the moment and charged Holton seeking to grapple him and take him to ground. Effortlessly Holton pushed the woodsman away. 

Morgan pulled the strange sceptre from his belt and suddenly his muscles seemed to tighten, his back arched and his head snapped back, his legs stiffened and his arms stretched out from his sides. A golden light radiated from him, burning away the mist in the immediate vicinity. He brought his head down and staring at Holton, he strode forward.

Holton noticed Morgan immediately. “Mine!” He hissed as he stared at the breastplate worn by Morgan, the very breastplate Morgan had found on the first day of our exploration of the temple, the very breastplate that was in a tapestry on the level above with that very word scrawled in blood on it. But before Holton could lay claim to the breastplate Morgan smashed the sceptre into his chest. The monster screamed in pain. The blow had left a searing golden glowing wound across his chest.

It was Holton’s turn to retaliate. He shrugged aside another of my blows and that of one of the dwarfs and grabbed the breastplate that Morgan wore. It shone brighter than before and smoke began to come from the Holton’s sleeves. He jerked his hands back from the pain, the stink of burning flesh now hung in the air. 

Argonne, now armed with the torch he had been carrying, crashed a blow into Holton’s back. His robes flared as they caught fire. 

“Enough!” commanded Holton as he clapped his hands together. The clap caused a massive boom to resound through the room. It was so strong that all but Morgan fell to the ground. 

I looked up from my disadvantaged position to see the imposing figure of Holton raise his hand to strike Morgan and again it was he that was struck by Strav’s bolt of light. Distracted Holton turned once again to Strav. It was to be his undoing. Morgan brought the sceptre down across the side of his head. He was staggered and that gave Mortec the opening he needed. As he had done with Grisha the dwarf Mortec leapt forward his right palm out thrust. The little hand latched onto Holton’s thigh and dark power flowed into it. Holton screamed in agony and then crumpled to the ground.


----------



## Haraash Saan

There was no joy in Holton’s demise, just a feeling of relief and exhaustion. I cannot recall how long it was before we managed to gather ourselves and move on, but it must have been close to an hour. 

Strav, as was becoming his hallmark, led the way into the unknown from whence Holton had come. A short corridor led to a massive circular chamber with a sunken floor, perhaps ten feet below the level of the passageway. A stone jetty that maintained the corridors’ level led into the centre of the room. The rooms stretched beyond the range of our torchlight. 

Continuing to indulge his ceaseless curiosity the black elf moved out to the end of the jetty, away from our flickering flames.

“Finally I am away from those infernal lights.” he grumbled to himself.  “I can see a little further.”

“How curious.” he muttered “Very curious.”

“There are twelve pedestals against the wall, each with what looks like a door on the wall above them. I’ll take a look.”

With that he nimbly jumped down onto the sunken floor and strode out of our sight.

“This is weird.” We heard Strav call back to us. We had now moved forward to stand at the end of the jetty, but could no longer see any walls. 

“Well,’ he continued, “those doors I mentioned. They’re not doors but paintings of doors. But the really interesting thing is that there are indentations on the top of each of the pedestals. It looks as if you have to put something in them.”

“Let me have a look.” said Morgan impatiently. He too jumped off the jetty, torch in hand.

Our eyes followed Morgan as his torch began to illuminate the scenario that Stravarious had been describing.

I asked the dwarfs whether they had come here via this room. They responded that they had, but were unsure as to which door they came through. Such was there haste to avoid Holton that they barely took in their surroundings.

At this point we spread out, each keen to do our own investigation. I inspected several of the pedestals and saw some writing in Old Gerechian. Each pedestal seemed to be some sort of mechanism for either communicating with other Gerechian temples or a magical doorway to them. That explained how the young priest and the dwarfs had come to be here in Yorath, hundreds of miles from the mountains north of Riverglenn. 

The indentations Strav had mentioned looked very much like those symbols of power that we had seen on the statues on the upper level of the temple. I reasoned that one had to place the particular item, say the sceptre of Artyom Seth, into the appropriate pedestal, and a doorway would be opened.

Morgan, keeper of the sceptre, tried the idea. It almost worked. The sceptre indeed fit into the pedestal, however, no door was produced. I called out for Mortec, hoping that his immense knowledge might be able to aid us. His name just echoed around the immense room but I was surprised to get no answer. I felt concern for the little Gnome, not that I should have after seeing him suck the life (or unlife perhaps) out of Holton, so I sent Argonne off to find him.

Morgan decided to ask the mask of Valentin for its thoughts. Even as I write this I feel strange. A mask that thinks?

Anyway forgive me. Morgan asked the mask if it knew how to open the doorway. It told him that we needed an incantation spoken by a priest of Gerech while performing the right ceremony to open the door. The only Gerechian priest we knew that had not yet tried to kill us was now dead. Poor Sneefal. Perhaps I had been too harsh on him. It was not his fault that the world was the way it was. But still, he was a Gerechian which means he believed that all that Gerech had done was right.

Gerech, god of all that is right and just, or so he was proclaimed. Long ago Gerech decided that he was to be the one god because all the others bickered and fought amongst themselves. There was no order amongst them, nor their followers, so Gerech would deliver order to Anka Seth. So whilst his worshippers warred with those of the other gods, his priests created the Lightstone, the portal that allow Gerech to manifest himself in the world. Thankfully Navorod and Cassovary tainted the creation process of the Lightstone and Gerech was trapped within it. However, his followers were triumphant and began to rule the world with their extreme laws, persecuting those that did not adhere to them. It was more than a thousand years before the Druids finally brought an end to the Convocation of the Gerchians, but in doing so they released the horrors that would become the Dominion. Now all of Anka Seth was in peril due to one god trying to enforce his will upon it.

Without a priest it did not look like this was going to provide the exit we had searched for. The dwarfs were not able to return the way they had come so instead would have to come with us to Halfast via the only way we knew, the temple entrance.

We spent little more time in the chamber of the doors, as I began to call it. As we were preparing to leave Argonne returned, “Mortec is doin’ somethin’ to that corpse. Rubbing it and oiling it up. He said something about releasing it’s soul.”

Soul? Surely that had left when the servant of Geduld had turned into whatever he had been before we killed him. We left the chamber of the doors and found Mortec kneeling over the body.

He was muttering something in the gnomish language that he had been teaching me. Mostly it was a ritual of some sort. Here is an example:

“Todesmagie I beseech thee. Traverse the void and find this man’s soul. A soul is knowledge and knowledge I seek for thee.” 

I interrupted him. “Mortec my good little fellow, what is it that you are doing?” 

“I seek his soul. It must be released from the void to be judged. It will find no peace in the void, I must release it.” he said.

It was all cryptic to me. I knew only a little of the workings of religions and much less of souls. From my childhood instruction I knew that each religion offered two afterlives; the first was in heaven by your gods’ side (In my case Pandemonium at Laster’s side) the other in one of the hells (and no one wanted to go to hell now did they). 

We let Mortec be, telling him that we would explore the doorways and passages that we had passed on our journey from the staircase. The Gnome did not even acknowledge us, so deep into the ritual of soul retrieval he was.


----------



## Haraash Saan

There were several empty rooms, and several that bore such an air of foreboding that we chose not to explore them. Best leave some things as they are. The only really interesting room was the one which had been Holton’s personal chambers. Figuring he would no longer need his possessions, we looted the room. We found hundreds of coins and several jewelled trinkets, but the most impressive discoveries were a broken symbol of Gerech and a scroll written in the language of the Dominion. Strav was quick to read it and I peered over his shoulder. Dominus was another language I had been learning, this time from Strav.

The scroll was a contract or pact that surrendered Holton into the service of Geduld. Nasty stuff. People in their right minds do not sell themselves to the God of Death. The scroll made me think back to the tapestry that we had found that had the figure of a Gerech priest leading his followers. The text mentioned Cardinal Holton, the very same Holton that became Geduld’s servant. Then I remembered the ash near the four stakes with leather thongs were someone had been tortured. It very much seemed that Holton did not sign over to Geduld of his own free will. Perhaps Mortec was right to attempt to free his soul.

Of course, in case that did not work we decided that the best thing to do was to burn the contract. Surely it could not hurt.  We reassembled the symbol of Gerech as best we could and placed the parchment atop it. Morgan, in Holton’s breastplate no less, sparked a flint onto the paper. It took quickly, a little too quickly in my mind. Black smoke curled up from it as pieces began to flake away and still glowing with flames, float up into the air. 

As the final discernable scrap burnt to a crisp I thought I heard a shrill but almost silent scream, and just as suddenly it was gone. Only ash remained of the contract Holton had made with Death.

There was nothing else for us here, so we gathered our booty and went to collect Mortec. 

“Come on, we just burnt the contract Holton signed with Geduld. His soul should be fine now.” said Argonne bluntly.

“What?” cried Mortec in an anger that quickly subsided to annoyance, “The contract would have made freeing his soul so much easier.”

“So you are not done then?” I asked hesitantly. I feared his answer. I was right to.

“Finished? Of course not! This will take many days, depending on how willing the soul is to be judged.” snapped Mortec.

Now it was Morgan’s turn to be annoyed. “Days! We’re not waiting days for you. We have move on and get to the Games.”

“You do remember that is what we were supposed to be doing don’t you.” Morgan goaded.

“Yes, yes, but this is much more important. I’ll catch up with you in Halfast if I must.” replied Mortec anxiously.

And so it went on. We all chimed in until it was decided that we rest upstairs where we had set up a camp of sorts. Stravarious was the only one that sided with the Gnome. So it was he that carried the dead Holton to the upper levels where Mortec was to continue working on him.

Exhausted I slumped into the corner of the room I had made my own I pulled my knees up to my chin and made myself as comfortable as I could. My slumber was short lived. 

I woke to the sound of the earth groaning as if it too were being woken from a deep sleep. The very ground shook. Dust which had been undisturbed for a century vibrated off walls. I coughed as I scrambled to my feet. 

“Let’s get out of here!” shouted Argonne over loudening rumbles. 

No one disagreed. I hurriedly gathered those possessions that were not already in my pack, and followed the loping woodsman from the room. A glance behind me saw the others in pursuit. 

We quickly arrived at what was left of the Gerechian choir in the entrance hall. They had obviously gone back to what comforted them best; their dreadful singing. Snatching the reins of my horse I ran to the double doors. The thought of rats did cross my mind, but I preferred to chance them rather than stay in an ancient temple that was being shaken to pieces.

Someone had had enough foresight to light a torch. I could see it bobbing violently ahead of me, before stopping abruptly. They must have arrived at the doors.

All around me I could here the earth protest. The floor began to crack. Tiles fell from the ceiling, shattering as they hit the stone floor. The noise had become deafening.

When I arrived at the doors Strav, Argonne and Moxadder were tugging them open. A shaft of sunlight split the torch lit gloom. The doors were open! I was blinded by the harsh sunlight that bathed us. That minor setback did not stop me stumbling forward.

I coughed and spluttered as the fresh air washed through my dust encrusted lungs. It tasted so sweet and so alive compared to the stagnant, cold air of the temple.

A final ominous crash rumbled from behind us, followed by a massive cloud of dust, and then all was still. I managed a surveying glance to make sure we had all made it out of the temple. Everyone was there, including the corpse of Holton. How Strav managed it I still do not know.


----------



## Haraash Saan

*Chapter 9 – My oh my, what a comfy bed*

The morning sun revealed the desolation that surrounded us. The rats had moved on but not before having eaten every living thing, including the farmers we had seen during our flight. Broken brush and dirt was all that remained.

No one had been significantly injured during our recent flight, however, because he was carrying Holton, the extra weight had caused Strav to stumble as he charged through the doorway. 

As the dust settled an argument began.

“It’s not natural!” fumed Argonne as he pointed to Holton’s body. “He’s dead. He should be buried or burnt, not oiled and fawned over.”

“You don’t understand, you simpleton!” Spat back Mortec. “I am trying to save his soul. A lost soul is terrible thing. Imagine its pain, wandering forever with no peace.”

“He’s dead.” Argonne repeated as he reached into his pack. After a moment his flint was in hand. “Morgan surely you of all people would understand. Gather some dry brush and we’ll burn the corpse.”

“No.” commanded Strav as he stepped between the body and Argonne. “Mortec says he can release its soul. And so he will.”

Argonne took a step toward Strav, who tensed, hand moving to the hilt of his rapier.

 “Um, who’s that?” queried Morgan casually, completely diffusing the tension.

My gaze followed his finger to the lintel set above the great doorway of the temple. A man sat cross-legged upon it. His hair was wild, knotted and unkempt in contradiction to his serene and peaceful face. A long bone pipe rested casually between his lips, its bowl clasped between thumb and forefinger. Somewhat disconcerting to me was that he appeared not at all concerned that we were now aware of him.

Always the spokesman I introduced myself, “Hello good sir. I am Gerard d’Mowbray and these are my companions. May I ask what it is that you are doing perched atop that lintel?

Our mysterious watcher pulled the pipe from his mouth and smiled as he replied. “Merely contemplating my surrounds.” He drew a long breath on his pipe.

“And how long is it that you have been sitting there contemplating?” I asked sounding friendlier than I felt.

Another inhalation followed by a moments pause, “Most of the morning I would think. It seemed a nice place to relax.” Said the stranger.

With that he leapt off his roost and landed nimbly in a crouch. Standing up, he said “My name is Zhontell.”

Our concerns regarding Holton were ignored as Zhontell explained that he had been travelling the peninsula of Yorath for some weeks, wandering with no purpose or destination. 

As Zhontell spoke I realised that he was no man, but an elf. His face was angular, even more so than Stravarious’, but his skin was pale, not black. 

His loose homespun tunic did not hide his large and toned muscles, unusual for an elf, and the reason I had initially taken him for a human.  The ash staff he carried was the only sign of a weapon.

My initial suspicions faded, there was a calming air about him. He seemed a likeable fellow so at the conclusion of his story we invited him to join us on our journey to Halfast.

Such was our trust we allowed Zhontell to lead us across country to shorten our trip. Once again the travelling party has grown; first with dwarfs and now this odd elf. The mood was light and relief at escaping the Gerechian temple was obvious, but our initial boisterous conversation faded quickly. We were simply too tired to continue. 

The elf led us to the ruins of the temple of Srcan where we had previously sought shelter from the rain more than a month ago whilst on our original journey to Yorath. 

Seeing the ruins again caused me to remember the strange bone that I had found on our earlier visit and ignore my fatigue. After making camp I pulled it out of my pack and studied it intently. It was slightly curved at each end and there were unusual markings, very much like writing, on one side of it. My fingers traced gently over the inscription. I had never really taken time to study it before, not that I would have made much of it.

A shadow, flickering in the camp–fires light, loomed over my right shoulder. “May I have a look at that?” ask Zhontell.

“But of course.” I said as I handed it to him. “Can you read it?”

“Hmm? Yes.” said Zhontell as he looked it over, “The writing is in the language of the Fey. It says ‘Strong arm to the mistress of the strike.’ A saying usually attributed to the followers of Srcan.”

 “So what is the bone for?” I asked, seeing an opportunity to build a rapport with our newest companion.

“Ah, I thought you knew. It is a bow. It simply needs a string and it will make a fine weapon.” he said.

I chuckled. Well that was one question answered. All this time I carried around some sort of holy weapon. 

“May I have it?” asked Zhontell.

I had no need of it and I recognised another opportunity to learn more from our friend, so I agreed on the condition that he teach me the Fey language. He agreed, and so began my lessons in Fey.


----------



## Haraash Saan

The next two days passed quickly for me. I spent my time between the dwarfs and Zhontell learning all I could of their respective languages whilst I had the opportunity.

The countryside had gradually changed from open flat scrub land to the scattered woods we now travelled in, all evidence of the rat plague long gone. It was late afternoon on the fifth day of Burn when we heard voices on the around the bend on the road ahead. 

“Come now lads. Put your backs into it.” cried Zmrat’s familiar voice. 

As we rounded the corner we saw that he was standing beside the road and directing the others of the Massive Hand to haul a huge tree that had fallen over the road.

We quickly exchanged greetings and salutations and went to work helping the Massive Hand. Manual labour is not my forte but my horse was happy enough to assist.

It was dark by the time our task was complete, so we made camp and I swapped adventures with Zmrat until long into the night.

The only unusual circumstance of the next few days travelling was a mysterious figure that Zhontell saw hiding in the scrub. Investigation only confirmed that someone had been there. Our observer had quickly scarpered into the brush when he realised he had been seen. 

Zmrat seemed unconcerned, dismissing the incident. “So the intrigue begins,” he said. “He was no doubt a spy out to see who we are and how much of a threat we are to be in the Games.” 

The Halfast Games were always dangerous, more so outside of the arena than in. At least in the arena there were rules, when an entrant was not competing all manner of mishaps could befall them. ‘Accidents’, unfortunate injuries, poisoning and even murder were all pitfalls of participation in the Games.

Whilst nothing else of particular interest occurred during those hot and dry days, I took all chance to continue my lessons with the Rokana. Dwarven was a hard language to master but I had started to get my tongue and mind around its guttural harshness. It was so different to my native Guernean. 

Of an evening I took to trying to decipher the books of magic that we had taken from Grisha the dwarf. I spent many candle lit hours scouring through them attempting to discern any patterns or similarities.

It was midday on the eleventh of Burn that we returned the town of Thornwood. The stillness loomed thick and demonstrated that even in the forty days since we had last passed this way that the danger of plague still lurked.

I was all for passing through town, surely there was little risk now, but others were doubtful. To put our debate to rest Togale gathered us to around and proceeded to bless us in Muhbelung’s name. He reached down and grabbed a handful of earth in his fat palm, then raised both of his stumpy arms into the air, closed his eyes and called out to the skies. In an act of finality he scattered the dirt over us and said, “The great Muhbelung has blessed us. We are free to pass through the village without fear.”

Whilst I am always one to be grateful for a divine benediction, I was abhorred to have soil thrown over me. I did well to control my anxiety, but as soon as the cleric had turned away I ferociously brushed myself down and made sure that I removed all traces of the dirt from my person. I caught myself before I verbally damned Muhbelung and his filthy ways. As I have said before, there is no point angering the Gods.

So it was with holy intervention that we entered Thornwood. An eerie warm wind whistled down the vacant main street. Buildings had been looted long before we had arrived. Doors were smashed in or swinging on their hinges. Every home or shop we passed had the dishevelled look of a ransack about them. 

At least the town provided some respite from the biting sun. For days we had travelled with little shelter from its unrelenting heat. With that in mind the decision was quickly made to take a long midday break.

One of the dwarves found the smithy and fired the furnace and began to tinker with some of scrap metal that was about. After paying my respects in the desecrated temple of my own God, Laster, I found an empty building with a solid chair and sat myself down to study my magic books. I passed most of the afternoon with my nose firmly planted between their pages with the thin and shrill hammering from the forge as an accompaniment. 

Some hours later a loud hail roused me from my studies. Strav, rapier swishing menacingly in hand and the others were standing in the street facing an elderly black robed man. 

No one spoke for a moment, then I heard him say, “Yes, good, all here” as he opened a scroll tube and unrolled a parchment.

He hacked through a cough to clear his throat and called out, “I seek a member of the Hydra!”

Strav stepped forward, “I am a Hydra. What do you want?” he said disrespectfully.

“Yes, good. This is for you.” The old man said as he hobbled forward gently palming Strav’s rapier aside as he handed him the parchment. 

He then turned on his heel and shuffled off, much to my amusement. None had even thought to ask his name before he had rounded a corner and was gone.

We crowded around Strav as he read the paper that he had been given;

“To the team from Yorath known as the Hydra.

It is with pleasure that we offer you an invitation to participate in the annual Halfast Games.

Registration is to be completed in Cassavary Square in Halfast on the Twenty Sixth Day of Burn.”

So our official invite to the Games had arrived. How the old codger had known to find us here in Thornwood was a mystery. On inquiring of the Massive Hands’ invitation Zmrat slapped his breast and said “Already received ours back in Yorathton. They must have missed you when you were away on the Baron’s business.”

The sun had slowly begun its descent so we decided to move on and journey as far as we could in the pleasant warmth of the evening before settling for the night.


----------



## Haraash Saan

It was mid-morning three days later as we approached the sprawling city of Halfast when Zhontell noticed smoke coming from a large copse of trees a few miles off the road. Whilst no one else thought it important he was curious enough to decide to investigate and told us that he would meet us that evening at the Inn at the End of the Road. 

The dwarfs too finally took their leave of us. They wished not to be noticed, as dwarfs always do in the cities of men, and chose to skirt the city before continuing on their own journey. 

It was good to be back in civilisation, even if it was the pit of Halfast and not the cultured halls of Thessingcourt. Excitement radiated throughout the populace. Every person within the city was keen to see the Games. Who would win? Who would be killed? What amazing magics would be seen? All these questions and a thousand more were on everybody’s lips. The Inn at the End of the Road was no different.

A typical assortment of patrons occupied the common room, but there were several that I noted. A large man sat perspiring in one corner counting a pile of coins. A mug of beer rested untouched in front of him. He snorted so violently that the fat that kept him warm in the winter jiggled uncontrollably. A thin and scrawny old merchant sat at a table in the middle of the room. Upon the table lay a ledger, a pot of ink and a fine quill. A small locked chest sat beside the ledger, and every now and again a patron would approach the table, have a quick word and then pass him some coin. At the end of the transaction he fished an iron key from within his robes, unlocked the chest and deposit the coin within and then once again locked the chest. As the merchant took another wager the process was repeated. However he was at no risk of it being removed for it was under the watchful eye of giant of a man who stood behind him. No less than six and a half feet tall and all of three hundred pounds. The man was a mountain! His small beady eyes stayed focused on a point not quite at the bar but not quite on anything in between either. A large bludgeon hung loosely from his rope belt. It somehow seemed an appropriate weapon for the shaven headed giant.

There was a wizened priest of Todesmagie sitting thoughtfully near the door but more importantly a very attractive wisp of a girl sitting with a heavy set woman who was armed to the teeth. The girl was certainly one to draw attention to herself, not only pretty but an albino as well. Her white hair fell across her face and covered one eye only adding to her mystique. 

Morgan was quick to make her acquaintance. Mortec spotted his brethren and, after a grabbing a mug of ale, made his was to the priest. The others ordered likewise and sat themselves at a vacant table. For my part I simply asked for the best room and for a hot bath.

It was a few hours before I rejoined my merry comrades. Many empty tankards sat on their table. I went to the bar to order my companions another round when I saw a bottle of Montfort’s finest, Astrid’s Marvelous Mead on a shelf behind the bar. No wine for me, no indeed! 

A delightful creature served me. Mousey hair framed an angelic face. All my thoughts of the wispy girl vanished when the angel smiled. I introduced myself and asked for her name. 

“Melinda my lord.” She replied bashfully, her big blue eyes fluttered as they looked away from me.

To say it was a wonderful night would be understating it. Not only was I back in the civilised world but I had managed to savour the delicious mead of my home and also shared my bed with a beautiful and energetic girl. 

The next day I discovered the Zhontell had returned after I had turned in for the evening. He had found a clearing with no less than seven corpses. They had once represented a team that had previously competed in the Games and was expected to do well this year. One, a sentry, had had his throat slit, the others had been poisoned. 

Zhontell also found their assassin hiding in the brush. At least he died knowing his killer. The murderer wore a small badge that a lucid Moxadder confirmed to be the emblem of the Silent Way, the local guild of thieves and cutthroats.

Days earlier when Zhontell had spotted the watcher on the road just before we arrived at Thornswood we had disregarded any threat to us, but his latest news had us all on edge. Obviously someone would go to any lengths to have their potential opponents eliminated before the Games.

So impressed with his tale my drunken friends offered him a place on the Hydra. At least they added the provision that he must pay his own way as there was no way we could raise the five thousand sickle entry fee for him. And so it was that we found an eighth head for the Hydra. I hoped that we would not regret it. We were yet to see him fight, only hear his own tale of his victory over the assassin.

Morgan’s evening had not been fruitless either. He had befriended the albino, who went by the curious name Ship’s Cat, and her companion, a woodswoman by the name of Delpheen, self proclaimed ‘Ranger of the Dawn’ and another competitor at the Games. Morgan’s initial plan had taken an interesting turn when he had left with Delpheen and not Ship’s Cat as he had originally intended.

My first task was to find my brother Absquith. A simple task it proved to be. I quickly discovered that he was staying at rooms nearby to the Inn at the End of the Road of which he was a regular patron.

I quickly located his lodging and pounded upon its solid oak door. “Absquith!” I bellowed, “It is Gerard come back from Yorath. Open up!”  

In only a moment the door swung open quickly to reveal a beaming Absquith.

“Ha ha! You’re back at last! I was beginning to think that you had become lost!” he said jovially as he pulled me into a strong embrace.

"Lost? Unlikely dear brother. You know that I would never miss the games!” I responded. “How good it is to see you! How have you fared and what news of the family?"

“The family is hale, though your twin makes herself more and more absent from Mowbray. Isabella has secreted herself away near her dismal trading post, and spends much time with some odd woman from Montfort who sails up the river to visit her. In the last month I passed though Montfort to check on the mead brews, they look to be good for the next few years, and to check on her. She misses you as dearly. You would do well to write to her.” He said.

“Yes indeed. I must write her. I have not had a chance to write since succeeding in the Baron’s tasks. And so much has happened since then!” I said.

Absquith keenly listened to the tales of myself and my companions. He was most impressed with my adventures with the pirate lord Rumscully Jack and our unexpected exploration of the Gerechian  Temple.

“I can hardly believe my own little brother capturing Rumscully Jack! Or even more surprisingly venturing into the dark and dirty depths on an ancient temple! Ha ha, magnificent!” he laughed as he slapped his knee, “Father would be most impressed I am sure! You must look forward to being knighted? I'd say a couple of victories at the Games may well be enough to satisfy Mendus!”

Baron Mendus was the lord of our family lands and the man whom I would serve when I was knighted.

“But of course dear brother. A couple of victories should be no hard task!” I bragged, “I am certainly a changed man since I left Halfast. I have learnt so much and cannot wait to test myself in the arena!”

We spoke until the shadows of the sunset descended upon the city. Absquith told me that when he was not training he had been courting the Countess Bontein. It would be a fine match for Absquith. He was after all a knight and she a Countess of the Fastness! Whilst he did not feel confident he hoped to impress her with his performance in the Games. 

He told me of various rumours and court whispers that he had heard and also of the growing ill health of the King and how the kingdom prepared for his passing.

It was sad news. Thurlland II was a good King that had done much for the unity of Guerney and the prosperity of its people. 

“So Absquith what chance are you in the Games? Will you win a bout?” I asked with smirk trying to goad him.

“Win? Of course, I may even win a few bouts depending on my opposition. But alas it would take a good draw and some luck for me to be victorious in the Journeyman division.” He said. 

“But I do know that I’ll do better than you little brother!” he added with a chuckle. “You’ll not win one match methinks. I’ve even wagered against you!”

“Against me?” I was momentarily aghast before I realised it was he that had goaded me, “Well I will take your gold big brother. I will win my first tourney!” I said with confidence. 

Of course I would win! How could I lose? I was like a serpent with my blade, striking before an opponent knew that I was there.

He accepted my wager and I bid him good evening, I wanted to catch up with my comrades and more importantly Melinda.

“One last thing Gerard. Isabella sends you this.” said Absquith as he handed me a red scarf.

“It came with this note.” He added as he passed a rolled parchment with the seal of Treville on it.

I thanked him and went on my way wondering what Izy had written in the note.


----------



## Qwernt

This is EXCELLENT writing!  Love the style!


----------



## Haraash Saan

Thanks very much for the kind words. Much appreciated.


----------



## Haraash Saan

Back in my room at the inn I hurriedly broke the wax and unrolled the note from my sister. Written in her careful and considerate flowing hand was; 

“Dearest Gerard,

Please accept my small gift. Wear it and speak to me of your thoughts brother. It will be as when we were young, when our thoughts were one.

With my love,

Isabella" 

I examined the scarf. It was clearly well made but it did not seem unusual in any way. But my sister was blessed with power and I trusted her. So I tied it around my waist so that its ends hung from my hip. Inwardly I chuckled at the memory of how she and I used know how we felt by simply thinking of the other. How we could share our thoughts and have conversations in silence. Funnily I had never really given it much thought until now. I had never really considered why or how we could do it. I suppose I just attributed it to Izy’s gift.

I must admit I felt a little foolish when I called to her with my mind, as I used to when we were children.

“Isabella?” 

“Dear brother, I see that Absquith gave you my gift.” Isabella’s reply blew into my mind. 

I was so startled that I jumped. Momentarily my mind felt violated as if my thoughts were no longer my own, but then her thoughts seemed to blend with mine, and my anxiety was replaced with the comfort that I remembered from long ago.

“Beloved sister, I had not imagined that we would ever converse like this again. It’s been so long.” I said.

“Indeed it has.” laughed Isabella, “But fear not, for I can sense some fear in your mind, I can only hear those thoughts you direct at me. I cannot read your mind, well not without touching you.”

We spoke for hours. I told her of all my adventures and she spoke of her rural life and her experiments with her sorcerous talents.

“What of your own talent Gerard? Have you been practicing?” she inquired.

“Indeed I have. In fact I was being taught in Yorath by a worldly fellow named Zmrat. But I fear I have very little of the gift that you are blessed with.” I said, “However, during my travels I have seen many wondrous magics and even found some books that discuss all manner of spells and tricks. I have been trying to decipher them but am having a great deal of difficulty.”

“Hmm, book magic. How interesting.” She replied thoughtfully. “Perhaps you could find Leo’s apprentice Freydis. She is in Halfast gathering all manner of things for old Leo. She may be able to help you unlock the secrets of your magic books.”

Leo was an ancient, hobbled wizard that had retired in Montfort. He was very strange but very clever and studious in the arcane arts. Freydis learnt what she could from the old man and repaid him with errands such as the one my sister had mentioned. She may very well be able to teach me how to understand the power within the parchment of my books. 

“And what of you gorgeous one?” I asked, “No doubt you have some rustic knight or three swooning over you.”

“No, far from it. Since running from Mowbray and Father’s selected suitors none have been interested in courting me. I keep to myself, inland from the trade dock.” she replied, “I spend time with one of your less forthcoming subjects, Grimhilda. I am not sure you would have heard of her, let alone collect her taxes each month. She lives on your north border, closer to my cottage really. 

“Perhaps she should be my subject?” Isabella added with a laugh. “What of you, the great adventurer Gerard de Mowbray? My handsome brother must have all the ladies of the court chasing him hmm?”

“Whilst it should be so I have not really been presenting myself in court. I have been avoiding it truth be told. And in any case I have a beautiful lass that is providing me with company.” I said, telling her of the delightful Melinda.

Isabella feigned shock that I, son of Sir Reginald de Mowbray, would dare share my bed with a peasant. We both laughed for our half sister Regina came from a similar indiscretion of my Fathers. 

Our talk moved to more benign topics. Izy had been creating an ‘herb’ garden, ‘Recreational herbs’ she described her produce. Immediately I thought of Moxadder and how he would enjoy a visit to my sister’s home. And then how the honey had been excellent in Montfort and Astrid, brewer of Astrid’s Marvellous Mead, had had a fine year.

“But dear brother not all is well here in our lands.” She said sadly. “Barbarians have been spotted by trappers on my northern borders. And whilst they seem to pose no threat, I am still worried that they will venture further south.”

It was unusual that the violent and uncultured creatures would be so far from their usual haunts of the mountains and the steppes. I myself had not seen a barbarian before, but I recalled Absquith’s tales from the borders of Guerney where he fought the barbarian hordes. They were a tough and hardy nomadic people that lived off the flesh of anything that they could find. Their skin was the colour of the night sky and he said that in the darkness only their yellowed fangs and red eyes could be seen. Fell and repulsive to look upon they were ferocious warriors. I certainly did not want these beasts near my sisters or my lands.

“Grimhilda has also brought news of several bandit attacks on merchants. Some were attacked coming down the river to Montfort, others on the road North from Thessingcourt.” Isabella continued. “I think it would be best if you came home to see for yourself what is happening in your lands.”

“Indeed I will my dear one.” I said with conviction, “I will come North. North to my home and North to ensure that you are safe.”

And so we ended our conversation, my mind still tingled with her lingering words. 

A few days after having conversed with Isabella I ventured to a herbalist to see if there were any plants, berries or potions that may be able to aid me in the Games. After seeing the effects of drugs on Moxadder I was almost certain there must be some good to be found in the plant world.

“These will make you feel more energetic and more powerful young Master.” said Miscrott, the hook nosed proprietor of the store as he offered me some small purple berries.

I purchased them with a little scepticism but thanked the little fussy man for his wares and help. He told me to take them just before entering the arena so that they would give me the best effect.

As I stepped from his quaint little store back into the sunlight of the chaotic street I noticed, though squinting eyes, a familiar face. In fact it was really an unforgettable face. 

The nose that sat upon it was broken and crooked. The left eye was half closed through some strange affliction and several large warts congregated on its chin. 

“Freydis!” I exclaimed as I recovered from my natural repulsion, “How good it is to see you.” It was an interesting expression in her case.

“Milord?” she said

“Yes indeed Freydis.” I confirmed jovially. “How are you and how is old Leo? Causing no magical mischief is he?”

“I am well milord. Thank ye for asking. As is Leo, although I fear his mind may be slipping in his dotage.” She replied sheepishly, no doubt uncomfortable speaking to her master.

I explained my circumstance and asked her if she could help me with interpreting my books, offering her payment of the knowledge within. She was most excited by the prospect of taking me on as her pupil, but also at the chance of acquiring more magical knowledge.

In those days leading up to the Halfast Games I spent my mornings sparring with my companions or Absquith, my afternoons locked away in my room at the Inn at the End of the Road trying to decipher my magical books and my evenings enjoying the inn’s hospitality and later Melinda’s.

She was a delightful girl, and I must admit to beginning to fall for her. She had strange sort of innocence that one doe not find in the ladies of the court and she quite simply adored me (which of course was understandable). Although perhaps that was because of the mistreatment she had experienced. In recent months one nefarious scum, Vrsock, had taken an interest in her, at first he himself took her forcibly but then began paying her for her company to make her ‘safe and secure’. I was mortified that she had been raped by him and then essentially used her has his own personal prostitute. The thought of this Vrosck character forcing my Melinda to lie with him made me furious! I made a vow to myself to catch him and make him pay for harming her.


----------



## Haraash Saan

During that period we, the Hydra, found Ship’s Cat to be a wealth of knowledge. For a small fee she provided us with all sorts of information on the Games; who we may meet and what threat they posed, various attempted maimings and ‘accidents’ and even a list of the prices that various gamblers were paying a victory in the first round for all of the know competitors. She proved to be a friendly and helpful girl.

It was now the twenty fourth day of Burn, two days before registration in the games, and all of us, barring Moxadder, who we had rarely seen over the last two weeks were enjoying a fine evening meal. Although Ship’s Cat who had shared our meals since we made her acquaintance was yet again (it had been the third night in succession) absent.

Moxadder burst into the room, violently pushing open the door to the common room where we sat. Suddenly self conscious, most eyes had turned to see who had made such a grand entrance, he hunched down into his cloak, still worn despite the heat, and slithered quickly toward us.

“Come, quick.” He whispered, peering about conspiratorially for any eavesdroppers, as he beckoned us to follow him.

Curious we did, wondering what the most dubious of the Hydra had to say. We led us to his room, which was a tight squeeze for the seven of us, but I managed to find a relatively clean wall to lean upon. 

Moxadder looked about nervously, ensuring that both the shutters on his window and the door were closed before in a hushed tone he said, “Found that Ship’s Cat girl.” 

He paused, eyes darting about. We waited for him to continue, but he did not. His expression glazed over and his left cheek twitched uncontrollably. 

“Well! Tell us of Ship’s Cat!” I spat, annoyed that Moxadder had not been able to stay focused long enough to give us any more information.

“Ship’s Cat?” He said turning his dumbfounded gaze to me. “’S right. I found her. Behind a door in an alley screaming real loud and painful like.” He winced at the recollection.

“He must rescue her!” exclaimed Morgan as he slapped his fist into his palm. 

We threw many ideas about as to how to rescue Ship’s Cat that varied in complexity. But in the end I managed to convince them that simple and quick was the best. If we could not fool them into opening the door for us, we would simply break it down.

“Are there enough of us?” ventured Mortec.

It was at the coincidental moment that there was a hard knock on the door. “Gerard? Are you in there?” boomed Absquith’s voice.

“Who’s that?” hissed Moxadder, a dagger suddenly appearing in his hand.

“My brother you fool! Put that away.” I said. I shook my head, bewildered at the suspicious nature of the Fastendian gutter rat.

I opened the door and greeted my brother. He had heard my voice and come to Moxadder’s door instead of my own. I made quick introductions and then filled him in on our plan.

Absquith was keen to help, “I’m spoiling for a good fight! I’ve been caged in Halfast too long waiting for these infernal Games to start.”

“I could rustle up plenty of men to assist that would appreciate a real combat rather than the constant sparring they do.” He added. 

“Martigan you said your name was?” Absquith turned to face Morgan, who confirmed that was indeed his family name.

“Surely your brothers would appreciate an invitation to the little adventure? They are staying in the same apartments as I am.” Absquith continued.

And soon the eight heads of the Hydra stood assembled with Sir Absquith de Swanton in full kit including his breastplate that was emblazoned with a white swan’s head, his own crest. Also with us were Morgan’s three brothers, Cereef and Kerim who were accomplished warriors and Petuvary a priest of Thuus, and also the Massive Hand, that I found when Absquith, Morgan and I were collecting Morgan’s brethren. So it was that our expansive armed and somewhat boisterous company set off to rescue a damsel in distress. 

My nostrils were almost inflamed; the alley stank of the muck and refuse of the city. I pulled a kerchief from my pocket, one can never have too many kerchiefs handy, and tied it across my nose and mouth to stifle the stench, drew Eldritch Light and moved forward.

At the end of the alley Thronis, a hulk of a man from the Massive Hand, Mortec and Moxadder stood at the door that Moxadder had heard Ship’s Cat’s agony previously. I heard Thronis pound on the door.

“Let me in! Heinrich sent me!” he bellowed, trying a bluff that the resourceful Moxadder had suggested.

I could not hear the reply but the door did not open. It seemed to me that the bluff had failed. I muttered to Thronis “I do believe that the door needs to be opened.” 

He looked at me, comprehension completely vacant.

“Break the door down.” I said gently.

His eyes widened and with a bellow he thudded into the lane and crashed through the door. Light spilt out showing not only the filth in the alley but Thronis’s massive silhouette. Chaos was immediate.

I managed to squelch my way quickly through the gunk. I was faced with a huge empty room, well empty of things, not people, they were everywhere. At the back of the room about two dozen red robed and shaven headed women were leaping to their feet. A few local rogues and cutthroats that were in the warehouse were grasping for weapons. Ship’s Cat lay naked, strapped to a wooden table near the wall opposite the door. 

“Vrsork.” hissed Moxadder from my left. 

I followed his gaze and for the first time laid eyes on my lovers rapist. He was standing next to Ship’s Cat prone form. I dashed to him and as I thrust Rumscully’s blade into his chest I shouted, “Die scum. You will not touch Melinda again!”

His expression of shock and fear were immediately replaced by pain and anger. His rat like features contorted into rage as he hacked at me with his own sword. 

I twisted away from his more swing and punctured him several more times whilst evading his pathetic swordplay. He dropped to his knees and threw his sword away. “Doan kill me.” He whimpered, tears rolling from his eyes.

My rapier was quick to sit against his throat. ‘Why not fiend?” I spat.

“’Corse I got info.” He screamed in a panic, “Yeah, yeah, info you wanna hear.” He continued quickly when he realised he was still alive.

I relaxed momentarily to hastily survey the carnage of the room. I had been so focused on Vrsork that I had not noted what else had happened in the battle. 

The thugs and thieves lay dead about the floor. With them were several of the red robed women. But most it seemed had rushed the door and escaped. Thankfully none of our company had been downed, and those that had not pursued the women were tending to an assortment of nicks and gashes.

Mortec had rushed up, standing upon a chair that he had found, was administering Ship’s Cat as best he could. Petuvary offered his assistance, but soon took over from the Gnome who had managed to bind the albino’s wounds but not revive her. 

“Moxadder!” I cried out.

He glared pure venom at me. It was only now that I remembered that earlier he had asked that he not be named. It was the most focused I had ever seen him.

But it was too late to conceal his identity, so I did not bother.

“Come here and question Vrsork. You seem to know more of what is going on than anyone else.” I said.

He strode angrily passed me and kneed Vrsork heavily in the face. Vrsork groaned and clutched his nose. It was smashed all across his face.

“Tell me what I wanna know or yer dead!” spat Moxadder.

I remembered a vial of strange liquid that we had found in the lair of Rumscully Jack and I had claimed. Its label read ‘Understand the mind of men. Concentrate and nothing will be hidden from you.’ It was still in a pouch on my belt. I unstoppered the bottle and with a shrug discreetly swallowed its milky coloured contents. It tasted sweet like honey, but with a vinegar aftertaste that made me blanch involuntarily. My mind was suddenly a buzz with thoughts. There were so many I could not distinguish them. My head began to hurt and then I recalled the lessons that Isabella had taught me for using her scarf. Focus, concentrate, dismiss the irrelevant. 

I turned and stared at Vrsock who was now mumbling a reply through teeth clenched in pain. I heard his words and then almost suddenly his thoughts leapt clearly into my mind, all other thoughts had been vanquished.

He was saying that he did not know what had been happening here. His part of the deal was to get the girl here.

As he relayed that information an image of a thin, drawn male face crept into his mind. A scar ran down the man’s left cheek. Vrsork’s answered Moxadder’s question calmly, his nerves seemingly settled, but his mind betrayed a chilling fear of the man he pictured.

Moxadder was not impressed. Neither by his prisoner’s answer nor his cool demeanour. A dagger appeared from within Moxadder’s shirt. The rogue idly used its point to pick the dirt from a fingernail, all the while never dropping his penetrating gaze from Vrsork’s eyes. 

I had never seen the Irudeshian so focused! His eyes were normally a strange glossy lustre. Not so now. 

“Don’t feed me that sewer troll !” spat Moxadder, “Tell me what yer and yer friends was doin’.”

Vrsork wiped the spittle from his cheek with his shoulder and sighed, “Awright. I’ll tell ye.”

Soon the villain was telling us all he knew. The man his thoughts had revealed to me was called Daregushi. Daregushi had organised to buy a huge amount of poison so that he could supply the red robed women who were actually devout followers of Geduld. 

I think it was at about this time that I really began to think that fate existed. And I got the distinct impression that my own fate was inexorably linked with crazed followers of the evil death God. Just about every event that I had come across since originally arriving at Halfast had somehow been tied to the Dominions’ dark God.

Ship’s Cat had been brought in by himself because the Geduldians had thought she was asking too many questions and poking her little nose into things that it should not be in. She found out something about the purpose of strange women and she ended up in the warehouse to answer their questions.

As Vrsork spoke my mind read his. His thoughts revealed that he really was a nobody in the grand scheme, just a bit player who was scared of just about everyone else and terrified of the bald women. 

The thief, Vrsork was just that, worked for the Silent Way, the local guild of cutpurses and racketeers. He mentioned that he answered to Decestratus and that he would not be happy with this evenings outcome. Decestratus was not one to be trifled with. An image of a stylish and well dressed middle-aged pudgy man leapt into my mind. A second picture follow it. One of the head of a many horned devil, just like the one Moxadder had found tattooed on the lepers that had attacked the Duchess and also on the pendant on the information broker Ornamon that he had dealt with on Sorcerer’s Isle.

Moxadder sensed the bravado returning to our most helpful prisoner and punched him once again in the face. Vrsork screamed again in agony.

“Doan get cocky now littl’ man. Moxy’s calling the shots now.” Moxadder grinned evilly as he relished the position of power he held.

“So did the big man Descestratus hook yer up with these Geduldians? Were yer doing a job for him?” probed Moxadder.

“Yeah, yeah, ‘sright. He set up the meet and the job.” Answered Vrsork quickly. 

His mind betrayed him. It showed two cowled men each baring a ring with a broken dagger etched into it. I suddenly remembered the very ring that Prince Brand had thrown me when we had rescued the Duchess Servessa when she had been assailed by the lepers. These faceless men were Brand’s men, the very men that escorted him into the city all those weeks ago.

This was a most interesting development. The good Prince was somehow mixed up with the Geduldian’s and the poison. But who was to be poisoned?

“Wha’ ‘bout Heinrich? How is he involved?” blurted Moxadder. I did not understand the question as I had no idea who Heinrich was, although Moxadder did try to gain entrance to the warehouse by using that name.

“Heinrich? He aint involved. No need to get him to look the other way is there?” replied Vrsork as blood mixed with saliva dripped from his mouth.

My mind held yet another face. A grizzled man in his mid-years with many scars criss-crossing his face. His grin, that sat beneath a many times broken nose, showed several gaps amongst his yellow and brown teeth. There was no fear accompanying the face, just a feeling of respect.

“Heinrich is involved!” hissed Moxadder through suddenly gritted teeth. “Tell me wha he’s upto or I’ll gut ye right now!”

Panic spread through the wide eyed Vrsork. “Ok!” he screamed.

“He is in’on it  or at least paid off but I ‘aint dealt wif ‘im about it.” Sobbed Vrsork. “I honestly dunno what how much inoo it he is!”

Moxadder fought to calm himself. 

I called my comrades out of Vrsork’s earshot and whispered what I had learned through reading his mind. At first they were startled that I had been able to do such a thing, but after explained what I had done they were much more accepting of what I had said.

“How much more worth is the man?” said Mortec, a faint gleam in his eye.

“None!” said Moxadder abruptly.

“I agree with Moxadder.” I said.

“So what do we do with him?” asked Morgan.

Moxadder walked to the bound man, leant over him and whispered something into his ear. Vrsork’s eye’s widened and his mouth opened to speak, but before he could Moxadder rammed a dagger into his chest with such force that both his victim and his chair fell backwards onto the dusty warehouse floor.

Moxadder’s grin faded and without retrieving his dagger he turned on his heel and stalked out from the room.

Some of my comrades were aghast at Moxadder’s action but I was pleased. I did not want to kill the man in cold blood, but Moxadder demonstrated why he can be such a useful member of the Hydra. He was willing to do whatever was necessary.

And Vrsork’s death was exactly that. We could not have freed him for it would have endangered us and alerted the poisoners as to how much we knew. We could not hand him to the city watch because whilst we were performing our civic duty they would not see the unauthorised violence that way. No, there was nothing else for it, he had outlived his usefulness and Moxadder had removed his weary soul from the world and from Melinda’s life. Both would be a better without it.


----------



## Haraash Saan

Argonne and the Martigan brothers volunteered to clear the room of the corpses, the river would be full in the morning, whilst Mortec, Stravarious and I checked with Petuvary on Ship’s Cat.

Petuvary shook his head. ‘Nay. I’ll be here all night trying to free her from the forsaken place where her soul is trapped. And even then it may be beyond my skill to heal her completely. Only time will tell.”

The brothers Martigan agreed to stand guard over the girl and the holy man, after they returned from dumping the bodies, the rest of us disbanded into the night, each going back to our own inns or apartments.

I was bursting to tell Melinda about the fate of Vrsork, sure that she would be pleased to be free of him. She still was still serving at the Inn at the End of the Road when I arrived back at the inn. 

Her face beamed as she saw me stride into the room. She flashed me a gorgeous smile as I pulled up a stool at the bar and called to the barman for a tankard of Astrid’s Marvellous Mead. I swivelled on my seat so that I could watch and appreciate her fine form.

My sweet was delivering a tray full with mugs of ale to a rough and tumble group of warriors. One, with a particularly devilish leer, slapped her across the buttocks as he guffawed his thanks. His comrades could not contain themselves, laughter erupted from their group.

Every muscle in my body tensed. I could feel the outrage welling within me. Melinda must have seen it too for she came straight to me and clutched my right hand. It had found its way to the handle of Eldritch Light.

“Ignore them lover.” She soothed.

“No man should treat you like that!” I hissed. 

She inclined her head and smiled affectionately and said “Ah, Gerard. Forever the noble born. Always seeking to protect me. But alas, not even the great Gerard could take on five warriors at once.” 

I frowned, knowing that she was right. Three perhaps, but not all five. I swallowed my pride and said sternly, “Yes my dearest you are right. But I want you to promise me to be more wary of the gropings of the patrons. You do not deserve to be fondled so idly.” 

She blushed at my concern, but almost instantly her eyes widened and her delightful smiling mouth dropped agape. “What happened? You’re hurt!” she said noticing for the first time several cuts in the cloth of my tunic and spattering of Vrsork’s blood upon it that I had not noticed.

“Ah,” I grinned falsely, beginning to feel unease at the state of my dress. “Fear not my dear. This is not my blood, but the blood of a slain foe.”

“In fact my dear I believe you will be most pleased with the news that I bring.” I continued as my confidence returned as I thought of her joyous reaction to my words. “Vrsork will no longer come between us.” 

“What have you done?” she said fear and panic rising in her voice. It was not the reaction I had expected.

“I have done nothing more than what was required. Vrsork is dead. He will trouble you no longer.” I said,

“Who will look after me now? Who will take care of me? You Gerard? What will happen after the Games? Will you stay with me? Will you support me? Or do you expect me to be a whore to earn my keep?” she barraged, the volume of her voice rising with each question. 

“Do you want the likes of them,” she pointed at the warriors, “to pay me for my services?”

I was shocked! Every question that was spat toward me made me reel just a little further. I almost toppled from my stool but I managed to catch myself on the bar. 

I reached for her hands as I stood, noting that the bar had become silent and watched our discourse with amused interest, “Of course not my dearest.” I said as I tried to ease her increasing anger. “I would of course help keep you when I leave.”

It was obviously not the right thing to say. Quicker than one of my thrusts with my rapier her palm struck me with ferocity on my cheek. She threw her apron onto the bar top and ran off sobbing upstairs to the living quarters.

A roar of laughter exploded from the witnesses of my embarrassment. The leer who had slapped Melinda’s rump earlier stood with his tankard aloft and bellowed, “You have won the respect and esteem of a table full of drunken barbarians! Be proud!”

More mirth echoed around the room. Only my father had made me feel so shamed before. I so desired to scurry away and hide away from the choked laughter and humiliating looks of the denizens of the common room. But I steeled myself, refusing to give the crowd the satisfaction.

I smiled with false confidence and strode to the warrior who had addressed me seeking anonymity, a new feeling for me be assured, amongst his friends.

“I am Gerard d’Mowbray.” I said as way of introduction.

“Roroxs!” said my saviour as he slapped me hard on the shoulder. Perhaps slapping was some barbarian custom? “Well met!”

He introduced his companions as Urb the Quick, Vasques the Magnificent and Brome and Brask the Sword Twins. One and all members of the team Hammerfist that were due to compete in the Games.

I endured Roroxs’s boasting of his personal and Hammerfist’s successes and glories before telling some of my own stories of adventure. They were most impressed with my tales, although somewhat sceptical that I could have performed so many feats with the blade.

“You’re so small.” Said Brome. “Puny even.” Brask said backed up his brother. Both were the size of small houses and covered in rippling muscles that they were happy for all to see.

I offered a disagreeing smile. “Small I may be.” I glared at the twins, “But I am nimble and lighting quick. I am yet to meet my master with the blade.”

Vasques, so far silent in our discussion, raised an eyebrow. “Really? I am a fine duellist myself.” He patted the pommel of his rapier as if to confirm his own words.

I spent the next hour talking to Hammerfist. Whilst most were rather rough, Vasques was certainly good company.

“Perhaps we will meet in the tourney?” I said to him as I left, “I look forward to the opportunity of testing your prowess.”  

“Indeed d’Mowbary.” He said with a smile. “I would relish the challenge.”

None really noticed me as I left Hammerfist to their drinking and ascended the stairs in search of Melinda. I really did enjoy the girl’s company. She was clever, funny and an exciting lover. 

I approached her door with some trepidation, for I could her sobbing from within her room. I tapped gently on the door. “Come now Melinda. Let us talk.” I said quietly. 

Her response was sudden and violent. The door shook with the impact of something heavy that had been thrown at it.

“Leave me alone!” she said as she choked back the tears.

“Melinda.” I sighed deeply, “In two days time I compete in the Games. I want you to be there to see me triumph. I want to wear your token. I thought that you loved me and that ridding you of Vrsork would make you happy.” 

As I spoke my heart grew heavy, I really did care for her. “Perhaps it is that I was wrong. Perhaps you do not love me.”

It seemed like hours past as I lingered by my lovers door before she responded, her sobbing subsiding. “You really love me? You won’t leave me after the Games?”

“My dear all I want at the moment is to be with you. You are the only rose within the thorn of Halfast. You are my light, nay a shimmering diamond with the blackness of the pit of that is this city. You are the beacon that calls me, nay commands me to come to you.”

There was movement behind the door. The latch clicked and the door opened a crack. “You really want to be with me?” said Melinda with a sniff.

“Of course my dear.” I assured her. “I will dedicate my victories in the Games to you! That is how important you are to me!”

“And you can really stay and look after me?” she said quietly.

“I will look after you my dear. You are too precious for me not to.” I replied.

The door swung open. Melinda stood a step behind it. Her cheeks were still moist with the tears that I had caused. I smiled and gently drew her to me as I my foot softly kicked the door closed.


----------



## Haraash Saan

*Chapter 10 – Fun and Games *

The shrill chirping of birds outside my shuttered window roused me from my sleep. Melinda lay beside me her breathing deep with slumber. A smile of affection crept across my face at the sight of her hidden under the bed sheets.

I rose quietly and took my usual care to dress prepare myself for the day before I snuck from my room and down the stairs to join my comrades. 

“Where’s Gerard?” queried Morgan in annoyance. “He should hear this.”

“Good morning!” I said cheerfully to one and all. “Here I am. Now what is it that you wish me to hear?”

“Tell ya story again Moxy.” grumbled Argonne. Obviously he had not had the blissful evening I had, but with a face like his it was not surprising.

I turned my attention to Moxadder. The purple bloated bags resting beneath his bloodshot eyes made him look somewhat more haggard than usual. He pushed himself from his seat and leant forward over the table.

“I got me some news.” He rasped as he stared intently at me.

I cocked an eyebrow to encourage him to continue. 

“Dat poison we heard about last night, the stuff Daregushi supplied those weird women?” he punctuated his words with a particularly horrendous hacking cough. “Well it’s to be used tonight at the banquet.”

He raised a hand to placate the question that rose to my lips and continued, “I couldn’t find out who it was for. But my guess is that with the amount of stuff they had that it will probably be used to poison everyone, regardless of the target.”

Moxadder had indeed been busy last night. After stalking away from his murder of Vrsork he had used his vast array of disreputable villains and scum to piece together the story he had briefly relayed to me. 

He had also discovered that the guards had been bribed to be stationed away from the banquet festivities that celebrated the commencement of the Games. 

It was obvious to all that the assassins plot could poison everyone attending the feast, including ourselves. The Duchess, Prince Brand (no great loss) and a hundred other nobles could all be struck down leaving Halfast in even more chaos than it was accustomed. 

We quickly decided to notify the priests of Laster about the scheme. They would be best positioned to act as they were the ones that actually presided over and run the Games.

Argonne and I had no luck at the Convent of the Doves; all the priests were busy in the city preparing for the Games. We were told to speak to one Father Hendus who was to be found at the registration desk.

We hurried through the ever increasing crowds. It was nearing midday and the place was abuzz with excitement. 

“Place your wagers with one-eyed Casto!” bellowed a well dressed man with a beaming smile and a patch over one eye.

I noticed the thin old man from the Inn at the End of the Road, complete with his personal walking mountain, limp past Casto and offer his competition an evil glare and his potential patrons some free advice.

“Don’t let Casto trick you into one of his famous ‘safe’ bets. Do yourself a favour and see me, Fentoon for an honest bet.” 

Elsewhere were the usual suspects of Cassavary   Square. Merchants spruiked their wares. Zealots preached their scriptures. Even the old priest who had been calling all to praise Gerech when I had first come to Halfast was still there. He looked just as he done then, and even now the odd fresh vegetable was thrown in his direction. 

Argonne and I found Father Hendus and carefully explained our discoveries. He was unperturbed.

“I hear the same thing every year.” He said in a bored tone. “Poison, murder, cheating. It’s all the same. We always find out the truth and stop anything from impacting the Games. Tonight will be no different. Laster will look over us all.”

There was no convincing the fool. He refused to listen and quite rudely sent us on our way. 

My bright morning mood had ebbed somewhat to be one of slow burning anger. Why did the priest fail to see reason? Why had he not taken us seriously? I was Gerard d’Mowbray after all and I would not lie! Priest or no the man was an idiot!

On our way back to the inn I called in to Absquith to warn him of the peril that awaited us at the banquet. He had heard Vrsork the previous evening and was wary enough to ensure that the Massive Hand, Five Kinds of Death and the brothers Martigan would be told of the plot.

Morgan met us back at the tavern with some interesting news of his own. He had been to visit Petuvary and Ship’s Cat to check on her progress. She was conscious but rather groggy and she looked dreadful, but she was over the worst of her ordeal.

Ship’s Cat had said, in her lucid moments, her primary tormentors had been Daregushi, two robed men that had a sulphurous odour about them and a third cowled man that smelt of the sewers. They had thought that she knew about the plot to poison the banquet, but she had denied the claim with all honesty. She even maintained to Morgan that she knew nothing of it.

“She’s a resourceful one!” said Morgan. “Even as they tortured her she managed to somehow slip a ring off one of the sulphurous smelling men.”

As he said this he opened his palm. Within it sat the partner of the ring Prince Brand had idly thrown me. It had the crest of the splintered dagger.

So the young prince was further implicated in the dastardly plan.

Another quick discussion saw us dismiss any further thoughts of getting any authority to pay our warning any heed. Instead we decided to be ever vigilant that evening and ensure that nothing untoward would occur.

That afternoon the Hydra officially registered to compete it the Halfast Games, as did each of its members for the individual tourney. Thankfully Father Hendus was not taking registrations when we arrived.

I spent the remaining hours before the banquet sourcing some berries that I had overheard some fellow competitors talking about that apparently gave their consumer prodigious strength. Those berries were certainly something that I could use to my advantage in the Games!


----------



## Haraash Saan

The banquet was an enormous affair! Guards, contrary to Moxadder’s information, surrounded the edge of the arena, although they were some distance from the gathered masses. A huge ‘U’ shaped table was setup in centre of field of battle where we would compete the next day. There must have been more than three hundred guests and gladiators all told. All sitting under the glittering stars of night sky and the stern and proud gaze of a bronze statue of Riork, one of the champions of yesteryear. He was rumoured to still run a gladiatorial school somewhere on the southern coast of the Fastness past Port Praar.   

Knights in full plate armour sat beside mages and rogues. The colourful sashes of previously successful competitors were on display for all to see. Crimson, yellow, green and silver were on display, a different colour representing a different stage of success in the Games. I even saw a few gold sashes. They signified the victors of Games past. 

A second table was set a little away from the open end of the ‘U’. It seated not only Prince Brand and Duchess Servessa but also King Thurlland II himself! I had not realised that he would be here to view the Games. I thought him too ill. Even as I took my own place beside my fellow Hydras at one corner of the ‘U’ shaped table I saw him rise, assisted by a young man that had been discreetly standing behind his throne. 

A pompous looking official, complete with long silk robe, marched purposefully into the middle of the arena. 

“Gathered friends and competitors.” He bellowed, his voice so loud and clear that it drowned out all conversation. “May I present your King, Thurlland the second!”

The hundreds of guests burst into a rapturous applause that was quickly waved down by the flunkey.

“Welcome to the eighty seventh Games of Halfast.” said the King, his voice too was strangely amplified so that even those placed furthest away from him could hear it clearly.

I will save you the details, it was long and uninspiring, but the gist of it was a welcome to visiting nobles and wishing the combatants all the best.

Finally he gave a clap of his hands that rosed me from my doze, and declared that the feast was to commence. The old man collapsed into his throne and then I could see him no more for attendants had arrived with the first course.

Collectively we of the Hydra were wary of the magnificent dishes being presented to us, but Mortec reassured us by blessing our meals in the name of Todesmagie. Religious assurance was all I needed to before I devoured all that was before me. And I was glad that I did for it was truly delicious.

Several more dishes came and went and no one at the banquet appeared to be any worse off than they had been. Perhaps the priest had been right and Laster had ensured a safe feast for all. Sadly, for the first time in my life Laster disappointed me.

I was already half way through a succulent roasted pig when Strav whispered a warning. “My blade glows!” he hissed. “There is strong magic nearby!”

My fork paused in its journey to my mouth as I took in what Strav’s declaration could mean.

“And the serving staff have changed! They’re now all women wearing hats or scarves on their heads.” whispered Moxadder before standing suddenly and running off.

It was at this point that I really began to worry. I swallowed what I had been chewing reflectively and regretted it instantly. I was slow to pick up what my companions had already concluded. There were bald women serving food to all and sundry. The Geduldian women that had escaped us the night before had shaven heads. I had just been poisoned! And it was such scrumptious pork too!

Moxadder appeared in the corner of my vision a fair way down the table from us. He was excitedly talking to some dangerous looking black armoured warriors. They were the Son’s of Light, a faction of Gerechian’s that were even more vehement in their worship of Gerech than most.

The bearded warrior to whom Moxadder spoke rose from his seat and stretched out his arms before suddenly clapping his hands. A deep rumbling thunderclap emanated from the palms that he so swiftly brought together. 

The boisterous noise and accompanying atmosphere instantaneously ceased. Heads turned this way and that trying to spy the source of the deafening sound. All soon found themselves facing the tall severe warrior that had disrupted the feast. I found myself strangely drawn to watching him. There was an awesome and frightening power about the man. I could not even bring myself to look away from him.

“There are enemies among us. They deal in deceit and lies. Even now as you chew the morsal in your mouth you taste the bitterness of death.” His voice boomed and all listened with fearful rapture.

Once again he lifted his arms, this time to the heavens. “Beloved Gerech.” He began. Just what we needed, an insane Gerechian calling to his dead god. 

“I, Abbot Yodfor, call forth the Black Lords!” he cried out.

I recalled a snippet about the Black Lords. They were a legendary outfit of knights that for along time before their gruesome deaths had held the wall at Vronberg from the Dominion.

A strange black mist began to swirl in the centre of the ‘U’ shape banquet table. It turned, twisted and writhed upon itself, all the time becoming thicker. So thick that soon I could not see through it. Out of the fog stepped seven black knights. Each with the symbol of Gerech, twelve evenly spaced white lines radiating from a small white hub, emblazoned on their breastplates. As one their blades rasped from their scabbards as they took their first steps forward.

“Reveal yourself Geduld!” roared the Abbot. 

The waiting staff screamed and convulsed. Some even fell to their knees. The wide open mouths of others began to foam, spittle dripping down their chins. Then the carnage began. The Black Lords launched themselves at the bald women, tendrils of the black fog trailing each of their movements.

A cry from Stravarious caused me to turn. He launched himself at the girl who had just brought us more poisoned delights on which to dine, but she nimbly stepped aside from his clumsy clutches. She did not evade Eldritch Light so easily. Whilst still seated I whipped it from its scabbard and managed to thrust it deep into her thigh even as she turned to flee.

Morgan struck her too. His Gerechian breastplate glowed an incandescent blue as power seemed to surge through him and the baton of Artyom Seth that he wielded delivered a telling strike to her ribs.

But it was not enough to fell her. She managed to scarper all the way to the waiting picket of guards. She was no longer my concern. I glanced to my left seeking a new opponent and saw Zhontell in single combat with another bare headed woman. The elf was throwing punches in rapid succession, but the Geduldian was weaving past Zhontell’s attempts as though she anticipated them before Zhontell moved. 

I pushed myself up so that I could run to render assistance. But suddenly felt as though I had had too much wine. My mind was adrift and my vision was slowly spinning. 

Moxadder revolved into view, still near the Abbot Yodfor. He was in hand to hand with one of the poisoners. And then he too slipped from my view. 

I pinched my eyes forcing them to refocus. I looked again. Zhontell still needed my assistance. In a moment of clarity I saw only one route, the others all congested with chaos of battle and confusion. 

My foot propped onto the bench on which I had been sitting, I pushed myself onto the dining table and ran. I skipped over whole roasted pigs, danced amongst the goblets and mugs and jumped over a man slumped face first in his dinner. Nary a drop was spilt or meal trodden until I prepared for the final leap that would send the thin steel of my blade through the heart of Zhontell’s opponent. I took a short step as I looked for the best point to leap from then I took the last stride designed to propel me into the fray and to skewer our enemy. 

It was at that moment a wave of nausea and dizziness hit me. My stomach cramped in agony. Bile rushed upward into my throat. My vision blurred, and I missed the vital step. I stood in something, I do not know what, but I do know that instead of piercing the assassin’s most vital organ I slipped and crashed into both her and Zhontell. 

The three of us lay momentarily dazed in a sprawl of arms and legs. The Geduldian was the first to realise her predicament and react. She stood and raced away from us. 

Zhontell was also quick to recover and sprinted after her. I stood somewhat more warily and absentmindedly brushed myself off. Thankfully Halfast had had no recent summer rain, there was only dust on the leg of my pants not mud. I grabbed Eldritch Light that had been dislodged from my grasp upon my somewhat crude contact and followed in pursuit.

When I caught them they were once again caught within their melee. I could see that Zhontell had landed some telling blows, the woman’s eye was already bruised and swollen, but it was two lightening strikes from my rapier that ended her life. Thankfully that was all that was needed. The pain struck me again. My blood felt as if it were boiling inside me. Each heart beat sending more lava through my veins. I clawed at my heart, trying to bore through my chest and rip it from my agony wracked body.

Just as suddenly the pain stopped. I staggered, exhausted from the effects of the poison, and trod on my victims arm. A crackling boom sounded in the distance. As I turned my attention to the noise the very corpse under my foot violently exploded in a ball of flame. The force catapulted me from my feet. As I slammed into the ground the air was pushed out of my lungs and I desperately tried to suck in more of the precious stuff. 

Zhontell quickly hauled me to my feet and slapped me hard on the back. I hacked a Moxadderesque type cough and finally drew in the sweet nectar of life. It was then that I realised that my leg had been quite badly burnt, and my pants were ruined. That was my last thought as once more pain erupted from within me and I blacked out.


----------



## Haraash Saan

My own recollections of what happened in the twenty minutes or so after I first lost consciousness are vague and blurred, so I will recount the tale that Mortec told me.

The whole banquet was in chaos. Many of the feasters were lying just like me, unconscious and drifting off to death. Others, more important sorts like the King, were being tended to by Urumei’s healers. They were present throughout the festivities of the Games to tend the injured. I doubt they had anticipated that their God and their gifts would be needed before the tourney had commenced.

Mortec left me with Zhontell and desperately tried to coax one of the priests of Urumei to tend me. Unfortunately for me they brushed aside the Gnome citing “people of consequence” to save.

Morgan sought the aid of the Son’s of Light, appealing to Gerech that I be saved. Whilst impressed with radiant adornment of the Fastendian they refused their aid. They would not help a heretic, and there was no doubt that I was exactly that in their eyes, and mine.

Morgan was undeterred. A thought struck him, on a previous evening when he had been prowling some of the taverns near the docks he recalled an overweight and dishevelled priest of Urumei that had moaned how he had not been selected to attend the banquet. So it was to the docks that he raced seeking the drunken priest.

Even Moxadder sought to assist me. His own thoughts obviously bent toward the healing properties of herbs. In a rare moment of useful clarity he sped to Miscrott’s shop hoping to find something to cure me.

At some point during my companions valiant efforts to save me I regained consciousness. All of my senses were dulled and my head throbbed as though as smith’s hammer rhythmically pounded it.

I saw a burly man on hands and knees with a massive sword on his back tugging at the blue frayed robe of a monk of Hutenkama, the very monk that had blessed me months ago as I prepared to celebrate All Summer’s Day. I stumbled toward him. The monks had strange and bizarre powers, perhaps he could vanquish the ever spreading toxins from my body.

“Aye man I ken save you.” said the monk to the groping gladiator.

The big man thanked him profusely and began to fumble with his coin purse. He managed to drop several gold gromits at the bare feet of the monk. The Hutenkaman smiled, pleased with the offering and nodded his acceptance before beginning a strange dance that saw him hop side to side from foot to foot all the while chanting.

The gladiator was paling more and more, as I arrived I saw his pleading eyes focused solely on the gyrating monk. 

I lurched forward and roughly grabbed the monk of Hutenkama and rasped, “Heal me now!”

“Nay, ah already have a paid customer. Leave me be to finish the blessing.” He said roughly.

The gladiator was at first aghast by my action but then relieved at the blue robed man’s words.

My head lolled toward him as I dug into my coin pouch. With all my effort I kicked the kneeling man over into the dust, then thrust a platinum pound, worth many more gromits than the other had donated, into the monks’ palm.

“I am dying. Heal me now!” I hissed through clenched teeth.

I waved in the direction of the twitching man I had knocked over, “He is not your problem now. I am!”

“Right. Aye. Ah see that ah was mistaken. And by the look of ye, ye needs are much more pressing.” He said as he pocketed the platinum coin. 

He added in a softer mumble, “And no time for the usual show either.” 

The rich monk then dipped his fingers into a pot that hung on his belt and smeared a crude symbol on my head. “There. Ah have done all ah can for ye. Pray to whomever ye favour and go with ma blessing.”

I murmured my thanks, not feeling any different, and stepped over the still form of the gladiator. Callus as it was I do not regret my action. How could I? I am still here to tell the tale.

Morgan arrived supporting a heavy set brown robed Urumeian priest. Argonne thrust the holy sensor of Urumei that we had found in the desecrated Gerechian temple into the priests hands and Morgan urgently said, “Now heal him.”

The fat man rolled his blood shot eyes toward me, blinking once or twice and said, “I can do nothing for him. I can shee death ish coming for him.”

At this stage I could no longer speak, it was too much of an effort. My eyes implored him to try. Morgan articulated the same desperate thought.

The priest shrugged and began an incantation to his God. “Oh divine mashter, tenderer of the shick and inshured,” he paused a moment to take a breath, “redeemer of the losht. I besheech thee to grant me your grace to remove the shpectre of death from thish man.” 

As the words slurred from his tongue he placed both of his hands atop my head, my hat had been lost in the earlier fighting. On his last pronouncement he thrust down with his hands. I crumpled to my knees, and then spluttered through another cough. Again I clutched my chest, it felt as though I was burning in the very pits of hell.

“Shee. He ish a dead man. I need a drink.” Said the priest as he turned and waddled away into the panicked crowd.

From my subservient position, to all bar Mortec (I was at his eye level), I eyed each of my comrades in turn. Morgan, his boyish face almost in tears as he looked at me. He turned away before my gaze shifted. Argonne, stoic and accepting of my fate. Stravarious, blank, unemotive and unreadable. Mortec, grim and resolved. Zhontell weary and worn. Moxadder had not yet returned from his quest to save me.

Even seeing the faces of my companions with whom I had shared so much I refused to accept my death. I could hear the laughter and music of Pandemonium that I had visited once before. I had no desire to return. No! Gerard d’Mowbray would not be struck down by mere poison!

I closed my eyes and isolated myself so that I could sense nothing of the world. All that was important was to focus on me. I reflected on my life; my happy childhood, my tortuous teen years and my more recent adventures. I was not finished! I had more to prove. I had more to do. I was not ready to die.

A beautiful young male face leapt into my mind. It smiled magnificently at me as a perfect hand brushed a golden curl from his forehead. “You are right my child.” He said in an angelic soothing tone, “You are not ready to die. I still need you in Anka Seth.” 

A second hand brought a cup full of wine to his lips, and as the image faded, he drank deep from the chalice.

I know not how I knew, but I did. Laster had just come to me! 

My eyes flicked wide open and I gasped, once again breathing deeply and filling my lungs with air. My body went into a spasm as I felt the burning pain rescind from veins. I had survived.


----------



## Haraash Saan

We sat on one of the banquet’s benches and listened to Mortec tell the tale that I have just repeated for some ten minutes before the little Gnome was rudely interrupted.

The same self-important lackey, silken robe now somewhat dishevelled and stained with the evening’s meal and also dirt, looked a little paler than before. “Silence!” he bellowed, however its dramaticism was lost as he broke into a coughing fit in mid-command. 

He cleared his throat nervously. “Silence.” He said less forcefully. 

“Your majesty, King Thurlland the Second commands your attention.” He added as he bowed low and backed away.

Before the enormous and still hysterical crowd the King now stood. He looked even frailer than he had prior to the feast. “Ladies and Lords, honoured guests and” he began before the lackey, who was now off to the side of the King’s table, coughed and spluttered anew. An evil glare from Thurlland saw his man shrink and choke back another fit of coughing.

“and competitors.” continued the King. “Today we have witnessed a vile and contemptuous plot to assassinate not only your King, but one that also sought to stop the Games of Halfast.”

There was another long pause from the old man as he gathered his breath, before once again he continued. “Today we were also fortunate enough to witness true Guernean spirit. A love for our realm and its honoured traditions that is not as often seen as it should be.”

“Where is the young man? The one in green that bravely launched himself from the tables yonder at our foes.” He said as he vaguely wave an arm in the direction of the middle of the ‘U’ table. “That so valiantly fought traitors of the kingdom? It is his spirit that this kingdom was built upon. It is his spirit that took to action to protect us all.”

Mortec nudged me, “It’s you Gerard. He wants you!”

Even I was dumb founded. Mortec was right though, tt was me that the King described. I wore my green Hydra outfit, made for just this occasion. It was I that dove from the table in an attempt to skewer Zhontell’s adversary.

I rose and strode forward. Perhaps my friends would recall it differently. They told me later that it was more of a staggering lurch. What should be expected of a man that had only minutes before shaken off death?

I strode forward. “Yes, you are the one I seek.” said the King nodding in confirmation. 

I sunk to one bended knee, in some part from fatigue, in most part out of respect. “My Lord.” I said as I doffed my regained hat, swept it low so that the feather (the antennae of the rodent that I slew in the temple of Gerech) lightly brushed the ground, and bowed my head.

“I recognise that ring.” said the King, obviously noticing the signet ring that I wore, “Mowbray isn’t it?”

“Yes my lord.” I answered.

“Good stock from Mowbray. Who are you lad? What is your name?” queried Thurlland.

“I am Gerard d’Mowbray, my lord. Second son of Reginald, Knight of Mendus.” I said, puffing my chest with pride.

“And what lands will you come into young Gerard?” he inquired further.

“If my lord Baron Mendus sees fit to knight me I will come into the lands of Monfort.” I replied.

“Very good.” He said to me and then he turned his attention to a servant standing at his right. “Theodus, bring me a sword.”

My mind started to spin. I was feeling quite feint. Realisation had begun to creep into my recovering thoughts. 

“Gerard.” The King’s voice sounded loudly above me. “Look upon your King.”

I looked up to see Thurlland’s kind hazel eyes looking upon me. And Prince Brand’s puzzled face, no doubt trying to recall me, peering at me from the King’s left.

The King whispered with slight smile, “Now Gerard, be still. My arm is not quite what it was. We don’t want an accident do we?”

And then in a loud and more confident tone than he had used all evening. “Gerard d’Mowbray, for service to your King,” he said has he lowered the blade he now held shakily onto my head, “and your country.” he slowly pushed it to my chest so that it’s point rested over my heart. “I bestow upon you the Knighthood of the Barony of Mendus. Arise Sir Gerard d’Monfort.”

I placed my hands on my bended knee and pushed up with all my strength so that I could stand before my King. “Thank you my lord.” I was so caught in the moment that the words rasped gravel-like from my lips.

“Good luck on the morrow young Gerard. I’ll be watching you with keen interest.” Said Thurlland, as Brand still glared at me trying to place me.

The rest of the evening was a blur. There was much back slapping and celebratory drinking until the early hours, after which I spent in the loving embrace of Melinda. Thankfully the Hydra’s first event was drawn late in the afternoon.


----------



## Haraash Saan

*******

“My friends,” I roared as I spread my arms to include one and all of the enormous crowd that surrounded us in the arena.

The spectators of the Hydra’s first bout in the Games cheered as I began my introduction.

“You have come to be entertained. You have come to see blood.” The masses appreciated that! 

“You have come to cheer on your champions. “ I continued, emphasising the last word.

“We have come to entertain you. We have come to be your champions. We have come to defeat Estrangular. We are the mighty Hydra! A slavering ravenous beast with many heads, each one with its own methods of deadly combat.“ I said, milking every moment of their adulation.

“We cause pirates to flee in terror. We smite evil. We are troll slayers and adventurers. We are here to fight. We are here to win. We are here for YOU!” I shouted.

This time there were louder cheers.

“May I introduce,” my voice rang out before adding in a sinister soft voice, “the many deadly heads of the Hydra.”

“Here stands the defender of Avinal. Scourge of the Northern Hordes. He has learnt his trade against the living dead! When he’s not defending the Fastness from the fell devils of Buramas, he is here for your entertainment. Here he is, The Beast from the East, Morgan Mortigan!” I swung my arm to the Fastendian warrior. He looked somewhat stunned at his introduction but managed to raise an arm in salute.

“His guise as the humble woodsman fools most, but he is the Pirate Slayer who strikes so powerfully that his very weapons shatter! No longer does he hew wood, no my friends, now it is necks he seeks. Raised by debased boars in the uncharted wilds, he is as ugly as he is dangerous. I give you, Argonne the Axe!” another wave, this time to my masked comrade. Argonne was much more into the spirit of my speech. He let out a wild cry and shook his huge axe above his head.

“May I present the next Hydra.” I continued, “A man that has lived through unmentionable torments! Whatever you do, do not show him your cat. He has looked death in the eye, and scoffed. He has too many talents for me to list. It is said that he has dined with kings, and stolen secrets from the sages. The question you should ask is what will he do today? Stravarious the Mysterious!” Strav raised both his arms and waved his gloves arms to the now Hydra adoring crowd.

I walked slowly to Mortec as I sang out, “His stature may be slight. His hands may be small,” I tapped my nose and winked suggestively “but the most miniature Hydra is a most fearsome weapon. Knowledge is his power and none know how to use it like he. In his native burrow he has outwitted foxes with his cunning! Please bow done so you can look him in the eye, I give you the dread Gnome Mortec!”

The little Gnome was none too pleased at my reference to his height, but the glare he threw me eased as he basked in the cheering and clapping dedicated to him.

“Hailing from Irudesh City, he learnt his cunning on its streets. He is the outcast, the disgrace of the Fastness, a dirty fighter whose tactics would bring shame to a sewer troll! So frightening that none dare call him friend. His family are the blades he carries and they feel most at home when buried in the flesh. Look upon Moxadder!” 

Moxadder hunched a little, making his lanky stature somewhat smaller. He looked uncomfortable under the staring eyes of the crowd. 

“Gaze in wonder at Zhontell.” I cried with my mouth agape in fake awe as I looked upon the elf, “A decade spent in solitude, honing skills and learning the power of the body have turned out a most subtle killer. Wonder at its ambiguous beauty, but beauty deceives my friends, I beg you beware. It can seduce you and lull you. May I present the Hydra’s own dancing death, Zhontell!”

There was no indication from Zhontell that he had even heard what I had said. He stood rock still, focused and staring directly at our opponents who were shifting restlessly on the arena sand.

I scratched Kuruul’s ear, more to wake him than anything else. He had been sleeping in the warm Burn sun. “Ferocious, merciless. He is the Divine Canine.” I bellowed as I turned to face Estrangular, “’Ware your throats, for he will go straight for the jugular. The hound spewed forth from the Hells themselves, the Savage Snarler, the Master of the Maul, Kuruul.”

“And finally may I introduce myself. Bane of the Pirate King Rumscully Jack. Duellist extraordinaire. Only my rapier is keener and more deadly than my wit. A thrust here and taunt there, my foes are utterly confounded. My name, Sir Gerard d’Montfort.” I bowed low, one leg slightly forward and swept my broad brimmed hat across the sand before flicking it stylishly back upon my head.

The crowd erupted in joy. The chant, “Hydra! Hydra!” echoed throughout the spectators that sat some fifteen feet above the ground in seats the ringed the walls that encircled the arena. 

I soaked in there adoration, pleased with my little introduction. But now came the real test. 

“Teams,” cried out the master of the Games from his position in the stand, “fight!”


----------



## Haraash Saan

The next minute or two are somewhat a blur.

Estrangular planted huge shields, each five feet tall, in the sand before them creating an impenetrable barrier for the arrows that rained down from each of the Hydra.

Seeing the lack of effect, only my crossbow bolt scored a strike and the pleasant accompanying yelp, we discarded our bows and charged forward. As I leapt forward I felt a strange dizziness overcome me and the ground rushed to meet my face as I realised that I was under the influence of some magical command.

A sharp pain in my side roused me. I found myself lying in the middle of the arena, hardly the position for a knight of the realm!  Moxadder stood over me, “Ge’ up Gerard!” he screamed as he wound back his foot for another kick. Seeing I was conscious he thankfully ceased the motion and let fly with a dagger at a foe I could not see, before whipping another from a sheath and running off.

I clawed for my rapier that had been dislodged from my grip and jumped to my feet, absently brushing the sand from clothes. I did not know how much I had missed, but it was obvious that the battle had moved on. All of my companions were engaged in hand to hand combat except for Morgan who was pulling down the shield wall. A huge beast with head and wings of an eagle and body of a lion was tearing through one of our opponents. I quickly reasoned that it must be some beast that Kuruul and called to aid us, for no other Hydra could do such a thing.

Feeling somewhat uncomfortable ogling my comrades I cried out “Montfort!” and charged into the fray. 

Perhaps a minute later it was over. The Hydra had triumphed. Members of the team Estrangular lay sprawled and were being tended by the healers of Urumei.

The crowd was rapturous in their applause. Everything I had desired and come to fruition.

The Hydra was on everyone’s lips the next day. There was no doubt that we were the darlings of the Games. A first time team was not meant to win, teams and gladiators had to first serve (and survive) their apprenticeship. They were supposed to fight bravely and lose gallantly. Not actually defeat an opponent!

We were to face Tundra Storm, a team of crazed barbarians and woodsman that venerated Srcan and honoured her by hunting the forces of the Dominion. From what I had heard the night before our bout with them, when we had been celebrating our victory, was that they were mad bunch and almost to a man insane.

Most of those that placed a wager on the fight saw no value in our brilliant victory against Estrangular, although as we once again stood within the vast arena there was the odd cry supporting us.

I turned from my survey of the crowd as a guttural beast-like war cry rose up from the Tundra Storm. They stood slightly hunched with legs apart and proceeded to unleash more bestial sounds, this time accompanied by some bizarre tribal dance which included some chest beating, thigh slapping and rather a lot of stomping.

I do believe it was some intimidatory tactic, but it was so absurd that it just provided me with amusement and some inspiration for the introduction of the Hydra.

   “You have seen us before. We strangled Estrangular. We cut them down with ease! So much ease that I actually took a nap whilst my comrades dispatched our foe.” I proclaimed, much to the enjoyment of the gathered crowd.

  “We are the Hydra. Let me reintroduce the heads of the beast.”

  “Do not let him reveal his face! It is so foul, so physically repellent that his own parents left him to die in a snow drift. When he was born, the midwife slapped his face, mistaking it for his arse. This is a man so ugly that he inspires tears of pity in a Barbarian!” I turned and waved towards our opponents, who, now done with their dance stood completely still and just stared grim faced at us.

  “And the face maketh the man. A vicious killer, he could kill you hunting and he could kill you drinking. I give you Argonne, the Repulsive!” I roared out the woodsman’s name. This time Argonne was even more receptive to the cheers that greeted him. He waved both hands in the air and then gave a couple of big swings with his axe.

  I continued on “You may find him cute. Perhaps even cuddly. To you appears a child or perhaps a midget or jester. He looks such a funny little fellow. But you judge him poorly! He sucks the very souls from men. He drains them so that they wither and die! Their bodies are dry empty husks when he is done. He is Mighty Mortec, Devourer of Life.” This time Mortec did not even bother to glare at me, he just took it in his small stride and moved forward.

  “What can be said about the next head of the Hydra? He once stood a-top the walls of Avinal and single-handedly drove away the Hordes of the Dominion. So fearsome is his rage all that stand before him quack with fear. Already once has he taken a life in the Games. And I think he is just angry enough to kill again. I give you Mad Dog Morgan Martigan.” Morgan put on an evil wolfish grin as he too stepped forward to be beside the Gnome.

  “I have no doubt that my next companion is totally insane. More insane even than the Tundra Storm. He is so devoid of sense that, unprovoked, he taunted and antagonised an undead priest in what was once his church. It should have been his last taunt because that priest killed him.” I paused for effect, “That’s right my friends this man has already died once and that did not stop him! He is back from the dead just for you! Like the cats he hates, he has nine lives, and every one a nasty one. He is Stravarius.” Strav threw his arms up and allowed every pore of his body to soak up the attention that was his and his alone.

  “He is vile. He is despicable. There is nothing he will not stoop to. He has no morals. I have never met a nastier man. His behaviour make Gerech’s Angels cry in outrage and even Demons turn pale with disgust. He is a Hydra yet I don’t trust him. How could !? He is just as likely to stick me as one of our foes. He is our very own, Moxadder.” The Fastendian was still no happier to receive the claps and cries of encouragement from the assembled masses. Once again he shrunk within his clothing and impossibly tried remain unnoticed. 

  “My sixth companion is beauty personified. So in touch with his own body that he disdains the sword or axe. His very hands deliver death. Do not let him touch you, not even in that special way, for it will be the last thing you will feel. He is Zhontell.” I cried, hoping to elicit some response from the elf, but again he did not move, just focused on our enemies and plotted their demise.

  “My next companion only eats flesh and bone. If he does not kill you with his crushing jaws and dreaded fangs, his breath certainly will. It reeks of blood and death. I present, the Prince of Drool, Kuruul.” I bellowed and gestured to the mutt, who as usual chose to pay no attention whatsoever and even began to lazily scratch behind his left ear.

  “And finally, I present myself. None is handier with the blade. I toy with my foes. A prick here, a slash there. I choose to play with them so that you, my friends, are entertained. They laughably try to fell me but they cannot for I am as nimble as cat. Their blows pass only through the space I once occupied. I am none other than the saviour of the Games, Sir Gerard d’Montfort.” I bowed low and, as I had done before, swept my hat low across the arenas’ floor. The crowd burst! They cried out encouragement and cheered the Hydra even though they thought we had no hope in surviving the Storm.

  The Master of the Games somewhat petulantly, his thunder stolen, yelled, “Fight!”

  It was utter chaos. Both the Tundra Storm and the Hydra loosed some arrows and then charged at one another. My blade was in my hand in an instant and rapidly thrusting into a chain mail clad foe. I easily dodged his own blows whilst piercing him several more times in a flurry of attacks.

  A beam of light flared from the other end of the arena and struck Moxadder, who had been beside me. He did not even have a chance to shield his eyes, he fell motionless beside me. 

  Obviously Moxadder and I were perceived to be the most significant threats; another thrust from me proved the later view as my opponent slid lifelessly from my steel. A moment later it was confirmed as an arrow struck me deeply in the side. I stumbled, somewhat fortuitously, as at that moment another of the Tundra Storm appeared and launched a mighty blow aimed to hew my neck.

  As I recovered and prepared to parry the next awesome strike that the sword he wielded in two hands was about to deliver his back arched, throwing his chest forward. I twisted my rapier from its parry and stabbed with it. I felt its point puncture flesh and then an intense light blinded me and I fell.

  My eyes flickered open to see a cowled, clean shaven face peering at me. “You were injured in the battle, but now you are well. Blessed be Urumei.” The priest of Urumei said in a husky tone, before moving away looking to tend others wounds.

  As I gingerly picked myself up from the sand (this was becoming too much of a habit for me) my ears registered the roaring crowd, “Hydra! Hydra! Hydra!” My heart leapt for joy, we had won again! Only two more gladiatorial teams stood before us and the glory of being hailed as the champions of the Games!

  Later, my companions told me the detail of the melee. When I had gone down Kuruul had summoned more of the eagle headed creatures that aided our first Games victory. With their aid, primarily fighting enormous apes that Tundra Storms’ priests had called, a long and bloody fight eventuated in our victory. Moxadder, myself and Mortec had all been downed at various stages during the combat. Mortec had suffered most dearly from the battle. The mighty Gnome, no more than four feet tall faced a huge gorilla in single combat. It had ended badly for the brave Gnome. The great ape had torn Mortec’s left arm from its socket and then hurled the bloody limb into the roaring crowd. Thankfully the priests of Urumei managed to save the Gnome’s life, but not even they could use the God of Healing’s power to repair the damage that had been done only remove the pain so that he could compete again.

  Argonne, Kuruul and Morgan had managed to fell the priests that they opposed and then concentrate on the remaining enemies. Morgan, from all accounts was the hero of the Hydra, his arrows flying true he had felled two of the Tundra Storm, and with his blade he had aided the incapacitation of two more.

  We were celebrating long into the night at the Inn at the End of the Road, before we received some dreadful news.


----------



## Haraash Saan

A fat little page boy puffed his way through the overcrowded tavern to our table. “Milordth.” he lisped in salutation as he took a deep breath and wiped the sweat from his pig like brow, “Milorth, the Black Lordth have eathily defeated Harbringer. You are drawn to fight them on the ‘morrow.”

So we were to face the Black Lords. They had fought Five Kinds of Death in the second round contest and obviously defeated Yorath’s first team. That in itself made facing them a more frightening proposition.

My comrades had quickly fallen silent at the news. The Black Lords were those very same dire individuals that had exterminated many of the assassins that we had discovered at the banquet. They were a very formidable team, much more powerful than the Hydra. They had competed several times in the Games, and even won once before. They were not to be trifled with.

I tossed the pudgy bearer of ill news a brass bit for his trouble and he quickly left the sight of our sour faces.

There was some brave talk after we had summoned the courage to discuss our impending battle, but in the end sense prevailed.

For the third time in as many days we stood on the sands of the arena. This time there was little cheering for us. It had been replaced by hushed and excited whispers that sounded like the apiaries of Montfort on a spring morning. 

I waved for silence attracting the crowds’ collective attention. 

“We the Hydra, vanquishers of Estrangular and quellers of the Tundra Storm, have provided you, our most beloved audience with much pleasure during the Games.” This brought forth a cheer that confirmed my words.

Once again I signalled for silence. “Yet, this time we can provide you no entertainment. Alas, we recognise that the most esteemed Black Lords are our betters for this fight and we honourably concede this fight to them.” I sighed, my heart full of regret at our chosen path, but understanding the sense of it. If we were to fight the Black Lords, there would be no doubt as to the conclusion of the melee. We would lose, and several of us would most likely die. 

I inclined my head, eyes downcast submissively, as formality decrees, to the Black Lords. I stood tall once more, feeling uncomfortable in such a pose, and so one of the Black Lords, the one that stood in the centre of their group, inclined his head to me in acceptance of our withdrawal.

The crowded turned on us as they heard my words. There were catcalls and mocking cries, until one voice sounded more loudly than the others. “Hydra!” it roared. Everyone fell silent. 

“Hydra!” it now screamed.

“Hydra!” more joined the chorus.

Soon our name echoed throughout the stadium. My heart lifted from the dark place that it and fallen. It soared through the heavens. Whilst we had not won the tournament, we had won the crowd and we would be remembered. We were the Hydra, and we would compete again in the next Games of Halfast.

The next two days went quickly. The Black Lords fought a hard battle against Tigris to narrowly defeat them and achieve the ultimate success of the team tournament. Then the Games moved into individual contests.

The evening before I was to fight, Zmrat found me sipping a cup of delicious Montfort mead at the Inn at the End of the Road.

He spied me through the throng and with a wave and a wicked smile, approached the table I shared with Morgan and Argonne. 

“Hail my pupil.” He said boisterously. “Congratulations to the Hydra and its valiant efforts.”

“Thank you Zmrat.” I replied, appreciating his approval, “Your own Massive Hand fought a brave fight before succumbing to Juggernaut in the first round.” I added with a sly smile.

“Yes, well we were unfortunately dealt a harsh blow by facing such an accomplished adversary.” He said as a frown crept across his face. 

“But no matter.” Zmrat said in a cheerful and dismissive tone, “The individual tourney is the more prestigious event. It is what the crowd really wants to see.” He punctuated is words with another knowing smile.

“I sense that perhaps, my mentor, that you have something you wish to share? Perhaps tomorrow’s draw?” I said. I had not seen who was to be matched up against whom in the events of the next day.

“Yes indeed!” chirped Zmrat. “I have. And you my student, face none other than,” he paused before bowing with a flourish, “myself.” He chuckled, obviously delighted at the thought. 

I controlled the annoyance welling within. He would do well to respect my abilities. In the months since his initial instruction I felt that my skills had been battle honed. He would not have an easy win, I would make sure of that.

“Excellent!” I said clapping with approval, “What a fine duel it will be!”

“Indeed my friend,” said Zmrat, “it will do you well to learn some of the more complex ripostes that I had not had the chance to teach you.”

“Ah, I am always the willing student Zmrat. It would be a pleasure for me to learn from the master. But perhaps you should also take note of my skills. They are somewhat more advanced than the fundamentals that you taught me.” I responded.

“Another round?” Zmrat offered with a smile.

We bantered in this way for hours, allowing our bravado to take over any conversation that I had been having with Morgan and Argonne. Soon the patrons of the tavern all clustered around us to listen to our repartee.

There was no doubt that the morning saw my bout with Zmrat as the most anticipated of the day.

And they came to the arena in their hordes. They came to see Sir Gerard d’Montfort, the most recent knight of the kingdom to duel his mentor and teacher. We did not disappoint them.

During yet more verbal sparring, the Master of the Games, rudely interrupted us with his ever so boring call of commencement, “Fight!”

My nerves caused my crossbows’ aim to be off. The bolt I loosed speared the sand several feet from Zmrat. He smiled, then mouthed some words, whilst stretching out his arm and twisting his wrist and fingers. I felt a wave if dizziness hit me as I dropped my bow and groped for the hilt of my rapier.

I shook my head to clear it and sprinted forward to my puzzled opponent. Zmrat had obviously thought to end the fight quickly with magical aid. My blade was clear now and even as I approached to deliver a blow he once again mouthed the incantation. However he had not appreciated my speed and did not deliver the accompanying hand movement. Instead he snatched at his own rapier that hung from his belt.

He whipped it out just in time to fend away my opening thrust, and in a blur of swordplay had managed to get me on back foot desperately parrying the whirling blade the struck at me like a serpent. 

Just as suddenly he leapt back. His face once again grinning confidently and chanted the words of power. Yet again he threw his arm forward and completed the intricate gesture. I was instantly hit by fatigue and tiredness, just as I had felt when I had charged Estrangular. The recognition helped me steel my mind against attack. And throwing off its shackles I thrust like lightening and struck Zmrat deeply in the chest. 

His grinned stopped and his mouth opened wide in shock at the realisation of the pain that I had inflicted. Blood started to soak his vest. I had no mercy for his stupefaction. Again I scored a hit, this time a gash across his arm.

That wound woke him from his stupor, his face contorted to one of rage and je launched a second ferocious assault upon me. One blow was too quick for me to avoid and it struck me in stomach. My left hand clutched the wound as I exhaled sharply, feeling the acute pain he had caused.

Zmrat smiled once more, “Enough of this. Time for you to fall, pupil.”

Momentarily I felt defeated. I had tried yet, he had prevailed. I was not his match. But then a clear voice rang from the crowd, “For Montfort!” it was Absquith, who no doubt saw me dwelling on the occasion. 

It was a perfectly timed inspiration. I grinned wolfishly through my pain and laughed loudly, “Nay Zmrat. I wish to play with you some more before claiming my victory!”

Simultaneously I leapt forward and delivered a thrashing assault. His sword could not defend all my blows and I managed to strike him several times. Before I struck his blade near the hilt and it snapped clean in two. 

“I could ask you to yield,” I said confidently, “but the crowd wants to see more. Draw a new blade.” I commanded.

Zmrat snarled and his eyes burned with hatred as he threw down his useless hilt and drew the spare blade that most competitors, including me, carried in the Games. 

“You will pay for that student!” he spat as he thrust forward.

It was a clumsy attack. With a flick of the wrist I sent his second blade sailing through the air where it landed point first, biting deep into the ground beneath the sand of the arena, swaying with the vibration of the impact.

I had no chance for another witty comment for he ripped out a dagger, his only remaining weapon, and foolishly attacked me. I easily avoided the awkward slashes of the knife and exploited my rapiers length and caused several more cuts and gashes on Zmrat.

My adversary was clearly staggered. He bled from a dozen or more wounds and his face was duly ashen. Zmrat breathed heavily for a moment, taking advantage of a pause in our conflict before raising the dagger above his head and punching it down with all his strength. 

His short and my long blades met, and sparks flew as the knife edge ran the entire length of my sword before forcefully meeting my sword guard. The thin knife was not up to the impact. It too shattered at the hilt, leaving Zmrat overbalanced, and conveniently open for another strike. However I showed mercy on my master. I held the thrust that would no doubt have felled him.

Zmrat glared at me, realising that I had deliberately not taken the opportunity. “I yield!” he bellowed, “I cannot defeat you with my bare hands.” he added in exasperation as he stormed from the field.

A deafening roar filled the arena as I, with outward calm that suppressed the ecstasy of my greatest triumph, wiped my blade clean and sheathed it with finality. I then walked to the centre of the arena, determined to drink in every glorious moment, raised my arms to acknowledge the crowd and then swept them down into a great bow, doffing my hat in the same motion. 

I Gerard d’Montfort, had defeated my own teacher Zmrat before the assembled masses. Even I had not truly believed that I could have, yet I beat with wit and more importantly with my steel. Perhaps I should offer him lessons in the art of sword play?


----------



## Quartz

Encore!


----------



## Haraash Saan

The following glorious day, in what was becoming a routine, I woke late and prepared myself for yet another combat. My opponent was to be none other than the newest Hydra, Zhontell. He had easily defeated a wizard of some repute by amazingly withstanding his magic assaults before shooting the mage from the sky to which he had magical fled.

My ever growing confidence took pause as I considered my adversary. He was a reasonable archer, so it would do me well to close early, however that would bring his awesome power into play. I had watched his fists and feet delivery almighty blows as they rained down on his opponents. Whilst I felt I could avoid most, he was sure to land a few blows and batter my slight frame.

However, the battle did not follow the course I had predicted. Zhontell was frightened of closing with me, obviously fearing my great speed and the deadly accuracy of my rapier. So instead he chose to attempt to exhaust me.

He would aim and loose a shaft, I would easily dodge it and then charge him down and usually manage a strike through his poor defence, before he ran away and hastily let fly again. 

And so it went on. The crowd grew restless, perhaps Zhontell sensed it too, for finally, after sending his tenth shaft at me and bleeding from more than a half dozen wounds, he threw down his bow, stood his ground and did what I had been concerned about. He pummelled me.

The first punch that struck me felt as though I had been slammed in the chest with a boulder. It winded me and caused my own thrust to go awry. I managed two more strikes, staggering Zhontell, but my now ashen faced foe managed one finally almighty blow. I felt it lift me from my feet, but I was unconscious before I hit the ground. 

And so the Halfast Games ended for Sir Gerard d’Montfort. With my brilliant swordsmanship I managed to out duel Zmrat and win glory in the individual tourney. And with the other heads of the Hydra, we managed two unlikely victories and an honourable withdrawal from a definite loss. No doubt Baron Yorath would be pleased.

Of my comrades, both Mortec the one armed and Zhontell were the most successful. Both reached the third round of the Apprentice division of the individual Games.

Most impressive was Mortec’s third round bout. He drew a Gerechian Knight, one of the few remaining. Their scarcity indicated that in all likelihood the plate mail clad fanatic was to be a very difficult opponent for a tiny Gnome. But as I have said before, do not underestimate Mortec. 

The priest of Todesmagie stood undaunted in the immense arena. His adversary stood calmly opposite him, massive sword gripped in two hands. The crowd sat with baited breath, hoping to see Mortec pulped to a bloodied mess. 

“Fight!” came the cry.

The crowd roared and I watched Mortec, unmoving other than his lips calling to his god. The knight rushed forward. Thirty feet away, then twenty, and then a mighty crack appeared in his breastplate. He paused his charge and looked down. Another crack appeared, this one right through the centre of symbol of Gerech painted upon it, and even as he gazed down to his chest his armour exploded!

His helm flew from his head and shards of torn metal struck him, drawing blood from dozens of cuts. The largest impaling itself in his thigh. 

It was the laughter that struck me next and then I realised what it was that caused such mirth. The great Gerechian Knight, bloodied and bleeding, was now stark naked, his sword lying useless on the sand and his privates covered by his cupped hands.

A thin lipped smile crept onto Mortec’s face as he strode (with such little steps) forward with palm outstretched, no doubt ready to cause some grievous magical wound. But the knight recovered his awareness of the occasion, uncovered his unmentionables and groped for his sword.

Mortec’s stride turned to a run as he realised that he had no time to soak up the moment, but the knight was faster. His hand found the sword and he swept it from the sand, steel glistening in a wide arc as it struck Mortec with such force that he was lifted from the his feet and thrown some five feet before landing in a crumpled mess.

The little gnome may have lost but the fight but we certainly won the day.

Zhontell’s exploits in the third round were of much less note. He was quickly dispatched by an archer, without landing a retaliatory strike.

Morgan was the only other that achieved a victory. In a grim match and bloody contest he ended the fight by slaying his adversary with a magnificent final thrust through his heart. I could not have done it better myself.

We stayed in Halfast for another two weeks, resting and lapping up the recognition that came with our successes. I spent my time either with the most delectable Melinda or with Freydis studying the magical arts. 

The ugly wizardress taught me more about interpreting written magic and even how to copy it down into a book. I asked dozens of questions about how magic worked, or where the power came from, but each time Freydis answered the same way, “It is magic my lord. It is not to be analysed, but harnessed. Do not seek to understand just value and utilise it.”

It was a balmy evening and I was idly chatting about the deeds of the Hydra to some wide-eyed locals in the Inn at the End of the Road. Melinda worked the bar and I was waiting for her to finish for the evening. Thankfully it was a quiet night so that meant she would be free to pursue more pleasurable pursuits sooner.

The large double doors, suddenly swung inward and a bedraggled Moxadder rushed into the room. His head swung around whilst seeking his comrades. Even from my vantage to one side of the room I could see that his eyes were bloodshot and he was under the influence of some narcotic.


----------



## Haraash Saan

For those of you that were reading, and hopefully enjoying the tales of Sir Gerard d'Montfort, I apologise for the significant delay in posting. 

Once again I will try to post more often. 

For those of you that may not have read about Sir Gerard, please start at the beginning, which as they say, is an excellent place to start.

And without further preamble, the story continues....


----------



## Haraash Saan

He spied me and strode purposefully to my seat, caring not a jot for the attention that he drew to himself.

   “Gerard!” he hissed. 

  Inwardly I shuddered. Why was it that my companions continued to use my given name when they addressed me? “Sir Gerard” or “Sir d’Montfort” was how they should have addressed me. Even “d’Monfort” offered some sort of respect. But what should I expect from peasants that have become too personally familiar with their betters?

    “We gotta get out o’ere.” He continued, to addled to notice my discomfort at his frankness in a public room. “Those assassins is after us!”

    I smiled to the small crowd that had been hanging on my every word and politely excused myself and my companion and I ushered him upstairs toward my room. As he tramped up the stair case he kept trying to utter similar statements, each time I hushed him with a stern look and raised finger to my lips.

    In my room, I sat him down and attempted to stop his incoherent blathering. Now that I could pay him due attention I could see that he was having one of his worse episodes. He was twitching and his hands kept wiping his clammy face. 

    His eyes danced on his face until a firm slap across his cheek managed to settle him enough to make sense out of him. 

    He had overheard a conversation between some rather nefarious and well know ne’er-do-wells that the “Hydra was going to get what it had coming to them.”  And that the Daregushi was going to get his vengeance on spoiling his banquet plans.
    Even as Moxadder said the name “Daregushi” he shuddered and started to convulse with fear. I could get no more from him so instructed him to wait there whilst I assembled the others.

    I was not particularly worried. After all why would we expect any retribution for our actions at the banquet some two weeks after the event. Surely it would have already come? In any case the others needed to be told.

    At my request the barkeep organised some boys to find my companions and bid them to return to the inn.

    Eventually, after some hours, we had all gathered in my now quite cramped quarters. A quick discussion was held and it was decided that we best depart the city for safer climes. Personally I did not feel the need, but we were a company together and they were lost without my leadership. I could not abandon them. 

    As I had intended to visit Montfort, especially after my knighting and discussions with Isabella about the encroaching barbarians, I decided that we would make our way there. Everyone had unfinished business, even the flighty Moxadder, to attend so I decreed that we would leave the next evening. 

    Ship’s Cat, fully recovered and very much our friend, was asked to find us a berth on a ship that could take us to the river mouth. A journey by sea would take days off the overland journey.

    I chose to spend my last evening with Melinda as blissfully as possible, deciding that telling her of my imminent departure could wait for the next day under more appropriate circumstances.

    In the morning I bought what provisions I needed, informed Freydis of our plans and organised a delightful picnic lunch for Melinda and I. A few silver sickles to the barkeep saw him allow her the afternoon for herself. 

    Pleasantly surprised, and not at all suspicious, she gladly skipped up ahead of me as I lugged the feast behind her. I had chosen a lovely spot in one of the olive groves that overlooked the sprawling chaos that was Halfast. 

    After we had eaten, and a rolled in the grass beneath the silver green leaves, we sat quietly for a time.

    Melinda’s soft and loving voice asked the obvious question. “Why did you bring me here? What is so special about today?”

    I knew it would come. Her early enthusiasm had only delayed the questions that she had asked. 

    In all honesty I fought myself for the right response. One part of me wanted to ignore the intent of the afternoon and leave the day unspoilt, but the other part knew that I did not want to leave her that way. I did greatly care for the girl. No doubt she was a magnificent tumble, but she also was someone I could have a conversation with. Someone that I felt comfortable sharing my thoughts with. And someone whose thoughts and dreams I wanted to listen to.

    I rose to my knees and knelt above her. Clasping her hands I said, "My dearest. I have been called away to my lands Montfort. There is unrest there and I must quash it. Whilst I do not wish to leave I must. Duty and obligation call me."

    A small gasp escaped her lips and tears welled in her eyes. "But you can take me with you, can't you?" she whispered, choking back the tears.

    “I most dearly wish to but alas I fear that the journey is far too dangerous to risk you my fair one.” I replied with all sincerity, “I would never forgive myself if something happened to you on such a perilous adventure.”

    And it was true. I did want to take her with me, but the open road in High Summer is no place for a city woman to travel.

    “And who will look after me if you’re gone?” her response gilded with the anger that began to well within her.

    “You will not have to worry about that my beautiful one. I have some funds that will keep you well and I will endeavour to send more when I can.” I said.

    “But even though I want to I cannot stay.” I added as I looked deeply into her eyes.
    She turned from my stare, and we sat silent once more for a time, there was nothing more I could say. I lay back on the grass, closed my eyes and reflected on the wonderful times we shared.

    After perhaps ten minutes it was my turn to release a gasp. This time it was because Melinda had leapt upon me! My eyes flickered open and I feared the worst, but instead I saw her grinning wickedly.

    “I’ll wait for you Sir Gerard d’Montfort, but if you don’t return I’ll come looking for you!” she hissed in mock anger before launching herself passionately onto me.

    The sun was low in the sky as we trundled back down the hill and through the gates of the city. We said our farewell in my room. I could hear Melinda’s soft sobs as I closed the door and headed to the harbour.

    The sun had set when I arrived at the dock. My comrades were already gathered, even the strangely sober Moxadder, and waited to board the ship. With us were Freydis, who had accepted my offer as escort on her return journey to Montfort and Ship’s Cat who sought to put recent events behind her and start out afresh.


----------



## Haraash Saan

Chapter 11 – Home Sweet Home

  The night passed uneasily for me. The crash of waves against the timber hull and the constant lurching of the vessel had me somewhat fearful. It did not help that the thoughts that plagued me were of our cowardly flight.  I too had been keen to leave Halfast, although admittedly I had made no effort to organise my departure, and had succumbed to the apparent urgency of our changed circumstance. However now that I could reflect, it seemed inappropriate to flee under the cover of darkness and not allow the still adoring Halfastian’s the thrill of seeing their heroes once more. In fact I was actually angry that we had left like beaten dogs, tails trailing between our legs. It was not a fit way for a knight of the realm to travel!

  The taste of salty wetness woke me. I spat and groped in the darkness for my skin of water and rinsed my mouth from the ocean water that had dripped into it from the timbers above. I rose cautiously, grasping the walls to steady myself against the constant rocking. 

  As I stumbled to the door Morgan, who I had not realised was also awake, called out softly from a corner of the room, “It is no use Gerard, our hosts have barred the door and it is stuck fast.”

  “Barred?” I stated incredulously. “What do you mean barred?” I continued somewhat foolishly. It was quite obvious what Morgan had meant.

  I sighed, sat down, leaning against the wall, and waited. It must have been close to midday before we heard the bar being lifted. During the morning my companions had woken, argued and yelled out. Argonne wanted to break the door open, but I managed to dissuade him. Whatever it was they wanted it would be easier to discuss their terms if they were not angered by our actions. 

  The door was pulled open, the rusted hinges groaning with effort. A hooded lantern shone into our prison, and was hooked on a nail beside the door.

  It took me a moment to accustom myself to the light. A large and burly man stood in the doorway, behind him I could count at least seven others crowding the corridor.

  “Mornin’ me lads.” He said jovially to us as he licked his cracked lips. “I’m Trev, firs’ mate aboar’ the Blue Mongrel.”

  Before any of us could protest at our treatment Trev continued with another lick of his lips, “De ‘onorable Blue Pirat’ Platard wants ‘is payment.”

  “Excuse me, Trev, but we have already paid your good Captain his fees.” I replied rather naively.

  “Ah yeah, that you did. But  the Cap’in wan’s ‘is otha money. The way ‘e sees it, you owe him anotha two hun’red sickles each fer safe passage. So be good and cough it up.” Said Trev with a wicked grin and another lip lick. 

  Well, to say we erupted would be an understatement. Harsh words were spoken by all. Weapon’s were threatened to be drawn, Trev’s boys tensed, but in the end Trev averted violence. “Firs’ly, you reckon you lot, can take on the entire ship’s crew, landlubbers the lot of ye? I think not.” 

  At this there was more bravado from the Hydra, but with raised hands Trev hushed us once more. Again his tongue forked out across his dry lips, “Are you gunna pay or not?”

  “No sir we will not!” I exclaimed defiantly.

  The smug first mate smiled, his tongue once again ventured across its crusty path, and closed the door. As the bolt thudded back into place we could all hear the laughter from Trev’s men.

  We chose not to resist because Trev was right, there was no point. We would have lost our lives trying to engage the entire crew. So now we grumbled and waited once more. It was not a long wait.

  A bead of sunlight suddenly lanced into our dingy quarters. A small hole, no larger than a fist, had been uncovered directly above us. Morgan was the first to act, he quickly organised to climb Zhontell’s shoulders and plug the hole. He stood a moment on the elf, a strange totem the pair made, reaching to stuff a cloth in the hole. But then with a splutter and a cough he fell with thump to the floor. As Zhontell strung his bow (somewhat pointlessly), Mortec assessed the fallen Fastendian. 

  “He’s unconscious!” the Gnome rasped, coughing a little. 

  A twang and accompanying thud sounded the result of Zhontell’s first and last arrow. He never managed another shot because he too fell unconscious to the floor.

  “Their poisoning us!” cried Argonne as he dragged his shirt over his mouth, but alas it was too late, he fell face forward, thankfully across the prone Morgan.

  I grabbed a handy kerchief and quickly tied it across my own and surveyed our situation. The women had slumped in a corner. Strav was trying to cast some strange magics, we never found out his intent because he did not manage to complete his spell. Moxadder seemed unaffected by the gas that was being pumped into the room, but then he had contributed nothing to the days proceedings thus far as he had taken his own narcotics the previous evening and was yet to recover. Mortec and I still stood.

  The mighty hammer of Holton, Mortec’s prized possession lay against the hull, beside were he had slept. 

  “Grab the hammer!” I yelled whilst pointing to the door.

  The little Gnome reacted instantly, cursing himself for not thinking of it earlier as he swung his first blow against the thick wooden door. 

  Bang! The massive hammer’s head smashed against the door. Three times the Gnome struck it, before he too succumbed to the noxious vapours. It was left to me, to try to breakthrough and suck in that sweet salty air.

  Bang! Bang! Bang! I relentlessly pounded the door with all my feeble might. My lungs felt heavy with the gas and my arms ached at the effort of swinging the huge hammer. Nausea and dizziness began to creep over me. I mouthed a silent prayer to Srcan goddess of both the bold enterprise I was attempting and the hope that I had and swung my last blow against the timber door. 

  There was an almighty crash! The door exploded outward, ripped off its hinges. The hammer was torn from my grip., embedded in the hole that it had rent in the door.

  I lurched forward, propelled by the ship’s roll and  hands upon knees, gasped in dank air whilst coughing out the poison. 

  “Ha ha ha!” laughed Trev. “Now wha’ you gunna do?”

  Slowly I raised my head and smiled. “Negotiate.” 

  After Trev and his boys’ mirth had subsided I managed to convince them, with brilliant bluster, bluff and double talk, to accept three hundred silver sickles (one hundred more than they had wanted in the first place I might add!) from each of us for the safe passage that Blue Pirate Platard promised, instead of killing us and taking all of our possessions.

  Three days later they set us ashore at the mouth of the river Rarnas as originally planned. We had all of our belongings, sans a significant amount of money, and other than our pride, we were unharmed.


----------



## Haraash Saan

Our journey to Montfort continued along the dusty and barren roads of Guerney. Due to the oppressive heat Burn was never a good month to travel, yet because of the timing of our journey thankfully we met few travellers and experienced no hostilities. We rested in villages and hamlets when we could, but for the most part spent the cold nights camped under the stars. 

It was a difficult and dreadfully boring journey but eventually after many days and with only a minor, and fruitless side trip to Thessingcourt (I had intended to present myself to the Baron but he was not holding court during Burn), our party arrived at my beloved Montfort, sans Ship’s Cat, who stayed in Thessingcourt.

By the time we could see Montfort the air was already thick with the sickly aroma of honey from the surrounding apiaries. Montfort was famous for its honey and more importantly the mead that it produced. 

The town itself was nestled in the meeting place of the great river Arinas and its tributary Cel. Although the land itself was flat other than the hillock from which the town got its name. Over one hundred years ago, before the Convocation of Gerech had ravished the lands ‘cleansing’ it of heretics, there stood a modest tower that acted as a sentinel for the river traffic. Now not even rubble remained. Stone was a valuable commodity and it had been stolen from the site over the years to help with constructions of the expanding town. 

As we approached the first of the timber buildings of the town proper, a nasally voice called out to us, “Hail travellers! Welcome to Montfort.”

A wiry man sat in the shade of a house, his chair leaning back against its wall. 

“Thank you.” I said, as I rode up to him striking my most regal pose.

“That is a splendid mount sir.”  Said the man, commenting on the stead I had purchased in a hamlet many miles before. “But unfortunately I’ll have to ask for ten sickles for its entrance to town and another three for you and each of your companions.” He added with a sly smile.

“Really? You Kerik,“ I had recognised my tax collector in the instant I heard his whining voice, “tax me, Sir Gerard d’Montfort?”

So startled was he that he leapt from his comfortable seat, sending his chair tumbling to the dust.

“My lord! Please forgive me, I, er, must be suffering from the intense heat.” He bumbled in apology.

“Ha ha.” I chuckled good naturedly, “Have no fear Kerik I appreciate your vigilance.”

I reached into my coin purse and threw him the appropriate coinage to cover the tax. You may think I am mad for paying my own tax, but my reasoning was simple. Firstly I will get most of it back, and secondly, my companions were also forced to pay tax after following my own example. I can afford none charity, after all, lording over a town sucks significant expenses.

Word spread quickly, I know not how, but before we had travelled half way along the main thoroughfare there were townsfolk peering out of the windows and children laughing and cheering as they ran alongside my party. Before long there was quite a procession following us.

We rounded a corner at the Drunk Duck, a fine establishment where I had enjoyed many a mead, and I saw my mayor, Hallkel, a tall and lanky man, well past his fortieth year, fussing over his coat and studiously brushing at his sleeves. 

“My lord.” He said bowing low. “What a great and unexpected pleasure it is to see you back home.” He was not much one for toadying, and he had been a faithful and trusted advisor of the family for many a year, so I graciously accepted his words.

“Thank you Hallkel. It is good to be back.” I said.

Whilst my companions took quarters at the Drunk Duck I spent the rest of the afternoon with Hallkel discussing with the affairs of Montfort, with Kerik discussing the financial state of the town and also with Valgerd the captain of the few guards I kept and the peasant militia.

Hallkel confirmed Isabella’s rumours that barbarians had been sighted in the lands of Treville directly north of Montfort, although none had been seen on this side of the river.

He also spoke of the unusual reports that children had been kidnapped by the denizens of the forest. Some farmers had even been found naked and with no memory of their own abduction by the wicked beings of the forest depths. 

Further, the tales mothers told their children to frighten them off venturing into the forest, were still being told. Strange lights and music were often seen and heard on the eaves of the great woods. It was all nonsense of course but as I sat an listened I displayed a face of thought and care.

Montfort was essentially surrounded by forest. North and also east across the rivers, the trees continued for what would be several days walk. Even to the west and south, passed the tilled lands of Montfort lay more forest.

The news that was most disturbing was that of bandits who had raided both the river trade and the merchants’ wagons on the road to and from Thessingcourt. They had caused cessation of trade to and from Montfort due to the fear that merchants’ guild had over their stock and, to a lesser extent, their guild members safety.

My first order of the day was to send out trackers into the woods to see if they could find any sign of either the barbarians or the brigands. My theory being that if they could find the bandits lair then I could resolve that problem and then ease the fear that kept merchants travelling through Monfort and hence be able to once more tax their goods.

Moxadder and Argonne joined the contingent of five trackers that left Montfort the next morning. They each travelled in a separate direction with instructions to travel one and half days into the forest, before returning by a different route.

The next three days passed quickly. I, for the most part, saw townsfolk that requested my audience and dealt with more affairs of the town. Although one evening I did manage to communicate with Isabella by using the scarf she had sent me. Unfortunately she had no news of barbarians, and had only heard rumours of the bandits. They were yet to cause impact to the one inn in Treville.

The trackers found little in regard to the brigands other than older tracks, but Moxadder and Argonne both had interesting stories to tell.

Argonne had found many very recent barbarian tracks on this side of the Arinas. This raised my fears somewhat as it was the first notification that I had had that they were so close to Montfort, if not already past it.

More interesting was an encounter that he only narrowly escaped. On the evening of his return journey he had sighted a flickering flame in the forest. He carefully crept up to a clearing in which the blaze had been lit and saw strange beings from myth and fable.

Three huge brutish men, at least ten feet tall and weighing over eight hundred pounds, sat around the fire and spoke in some strange bestial tongue. They wore crude clothing made of animal hide, and one even wore a horrible necklace of skulls. Argonne’s description very much fit the tales I had heard of a race of Giants that lived in the mountains north of Guerney. Not only was their very existence a shock, but the fact that they were in my lands was possibly even more puzzling. 

Quite wisely Argonne decided to avoid any contact with them, and he made camp elsewhere that night.  The next morning he once again surveyed their camp, but had found that they had already gone. Further investigation showed that they had indeed come from the north and were heading roughly south east. 

As always Moxadder’s news was somewhat suspect, but it ended up being the only real information that I could use to track the brigands.

Not only did he find fresh barbarian tracks, but also recent tramplings of the sturdy boots of men. Of course I was somewhat sceptical after he revealed that he had found them after he had experienced what I could only call a drug induced fantasy.

On his first night away from Montfort he swore that he was visited by glowing fairies that tried to tempt him with promises of the flesh. Whilst we all thought it a complete fabrication he brought back with him a strange bone spear that was etched with Faerie markings that Zhontel recognised. He had found it the next morning, not far from his camp site, amongst a group of naked and very dead humans. It appeared that not only had they been seduced but the smiles on their faces showed that they had at least enjoyed their last moments. However the most interesting thing was not the confirmation of an old wives tale, but the fact, according to our very dubious source, that two of the corpses bore the same tattoo of a demonic skull that symbolised Orsa Terminus. It seemed that the bandits in the forest very no ordinary roughians and thugs. They were agents of the Dominion.


----------



## Haraash Saan

It was a bright a warm morning on the fifteenth of High Summer when the Hydra set off to learn the origin of the dead men that Moxadder had found. We crossed Cel with the rising sun just beginning to creep over the seemingly endless forest.

  Moxadder was quick to find the corpses, now somewhat ravaged by the forests animals, but discernable in any case. The smell was most foul and I left it to Argonne and Moxadder to try and find any tracks that they had left. 

  “This way.” Waved Argonne as he rose from ground on which he had knelt and inspected. 

  I hurried off quickly, thankful to away from the stench of the corpses. Not even my kerchief could mask the vile smell.

  A few more hours past whilst we slowly followed the dead men’s trail until, with darkness slowly washing over the surrounds, we discovered a stone wall. It was as good a place as any to make camp, and with the light almost gone we had little choice.

  The new day revealed that we had camped against the outer wall of an ancient ruin. After a brief search Zhontell revealed that it was Elfish in origin, although he knew not for how long it had stood, nor when it had been destroyed.

  Curious though I was we had a more pressing agenda, so once again Argonne took the lead and we marched off through the trackless forest. 

  During the days journey Moxadder often scampered off this way and that, looking at various shrubs and trees, and occasionally scratching up some dirt. He was looking for various berries, tubers and roots that he no doubt hoped would provide him with another concoction to experiment with. It really was quite remarkable that he was alive. The amount of herbs and poisons that I had seen him readily, if not eagerly, inhale or ingest was incredible.

  However his activities did provide some unexpected information. A half hour after our midday break had concluded his head popped up through the branches of a small shrub and said somewhat sulkily, “This is odd. There aint no berries or nuthin’ ‘round here. All the plants have been picked clean.”

  Argonne looked up from the path he had been following, “Means that someone lives close by. They’ve been harvesting.”

  As soon as he said this we became suddenly wary. Swords were loosened and arrows were nocked. No person in their right mind lived this far into the forest, so it could only be the brigands. We were close to our prey.

  Once again we set off, although this time there was no idle discussion as there had been. No, now we were alert and each one of us were listening and looking for any trace of the brigands.

  An hour or two before dusk Argonne broke our silence. 

  “You don’t see that everyday.” He spat out in surprise.

  I followed his gaze off to the right and saw three massive skins that had been spreadeagled and nailed between several tree trunks. Stupefied at what could have done this to three huge creatures we wandered over to further inspect them.

  They looked very much to be the remnants of the giant creatures that Argonne had seen a few days earlier. Moxadder found that signs of a recent battle, maybe only a day old, between the three giant brutes and a massive number of barbarians. There were some crude broken weapons strewn about a large area that had the vegetation flattened by both the large feet of the giants and the hobnailed boots of the barbarians. Eventually Mortec found twelve burial mounds each with a small totem that I recognised were those used by the barbarian folk.

  After his first campaign to the wilds of the north, Absquith had brought me back one such totem that had been worn by a barbarian that he had killed.

  Our curiosity sated, and feeling a little relieved that the hordes tracks had continued due south, we moved back to the trail we had been slowly following and continued our own journey.

  At mid-morning the next day we were once again stopped. This time it was Zhontell that called to cease the march.

  “I can smell smoke burning a little ways to the south.” He said, eyes closed and head tilted back a little.

  “Oh yeah. I smell it now.” said Argonne. “We had best go investigate. You lot wait here for us.”

  It sounded a prudent plan, they were the two most useful scouts, discounting Moxadder who had been smoking something all morning. It may be the brigands, so it was worth further investigation.

  An hour later Argonne returned bringing news of an old woman living alone in a cottage. He had left Zhontell there to further question the crone, and come back to report the situation. 

  “She’s the one that has been gathering all the berries and such.” Argonne said. 

  At least we did not have to be so watchful for brigands. It seemed that we had been mistaken and we were not as close to them as we had thought.

  Whilst they had been away a steady drizzle had started and we were all rather irritable and miserable, so there was no hesitation in deciding to go and see the old lady ourselves.

  Soon we stood huddled around her small cooking fire trying to dry our sodden clothes.

  She was a weather beaten little thing who was a very long way past her prime. “Come, have shum shoup.” she said with a smile that revealed toothless gums.

  Whilst I declined, after my ordeal in Halfast I was still a trifle suspicious of food I did had not seen prepared, the others heartily accepted her kind offer.

  After my companions had had their fill, and incidentally drained the previously full cauldron we set about questioning our host.

  As it so happened she had secretly left Montfort many years ago after “troublesh in Montfort.” There had been a death and she, Yasmina and her sister Imelda had been implicated. Yasmina, the eldest decided to flee the town and therefore assume guilt, so that her sister could live an unhindered life.

  She knew nothing of the brigands, nor the barbarians. “No one ‘ash come calling exshept for you and occashionally my shishter. Perhapsh you could ashk the Foeldiansh. They ushd to live shum three daysh from ‘ere but I ‘aven’t sheen them for a long time. Sho I don’t really know if they are shtill there or not. But if anyone can ‘elp they will be able to.”

  The rain eventually cleared and we once again set off, after thanking Yasmina for her hospitality. An hour or so later Morgan approached me and whispered, “Gerard have you see the large orange and black cat?” 

  I had no idea what the Fastendian was talking about and told him so.

  He quietened me with a sharp “Shh” accompanied by a finger across his lips. 

  “I don’t want Strav to here about the cat. You know what he gets like.” Said Morgan softly.

  How could I forget the incident with Grecha the dwarf’s cat? I could still see the harmless creature nailed with a crossbow bolt to the wall of the dwarf’s home.

  “Well what about this cat?” I questioned.

  “A few of us have seen it over the last day or so. It is as big as the lion we poisoned during the Baron’s trials. We think it is following us. We must be cautious. If you do see it let everyone bar Strav know.” He said.

  Most unusual.  I would have to keep an eye out for the cat. I certainly did not want to become its dinner.

  The rest of the day and indeed that evening passed uneventfully, however not long after we commenced the days travel we arrived at the crest of a small hill. It afforded us the luxury of our first real look at the massive expanse of forest before us. As far as the eye could see there was a sea of green, rippling like waves in the light breeze.

  “What’s that?” queried Morgan as he pointed off to the east, a little off the route we had been taking.

  I squinted but could not make out what it was that he was gesturing to.

  “That’s smoke, that is.” Said the eagle eyed Argonne. “There you can see a column of it yonder.”

  Again I peered off in the direction that was indicated, and again I could see nothing, however the others grunted affirmation.

  Our curiosity was peaked and we were hopeful that we would find the bandits that we sought near the source of the smoke so we changed course and trekked once more through the wilderness, this time toward the smoke.

  Several hours passed before Zhontell scented the ash smell of smoke. “We are near.” He said. “Perhaps another hour, not more I wouldn’t think as the wind is not strong enough to push the smoke further.”

  Soon the smell of the fire was obvious to all. We decided to send Moxadder forward to scout the lay of the land and see what it was that was burning.

  We waited maybe ten minutes before we heard our unreliable friend emit a high pitched squeal. “Don’t shoot me!”

  Then chaos erupted.


----------



## Haraash Saan

Quick as a flash my friends’ weapons were drawn and they charged off through the trees to aid Moxadder. 

  I entered a clearing to see my companions in close quarters with several armed men. Just beyond them was the source of the smoke, a huge pyre had been built and the smoke that it made wafted across the battle field.

  My rapier was in my hand in an instant and soon it joined the fray. Whilst I cannot recall much of the detail of the encounter I can say we eventually triumphed and took three captives.

  Two were poorly clothed, they wore simple woodsman’s garb, and were armed with hatchets. The other man wore a suit of leather armour and had wielded a short steel blade. It was he we questioned first.

  As it so happened their group was a company of brigands headed toward the Montfort – Thessingcourt road to work their mischief. However they themselves were assailed by a large group of barbarians.

  Moxadder confirmed that the barbarians had indeed been at the clearing as there were several wicked and crude blades not the make of any that a civilised man would carry.

  The bandits had been outnumbered and quickly tried to cut their losses by fleeing. The ones that we had just fought had returned this morning to burn their dead. Hence the pyre. 

  Upon hearing this news and realising exactly what it was that had been burning all this time I gagged a little and quickly fixed a kerchief across my nose and mouth. I doubt even Todesmagie knew what breathing in the dead would do to someone.

  Unfortunately for us our questioned captive became less helpful when we asked for details regarding the bandit camp. Try as we might he would yield no more information, so Argonne took matters into his own hands, well his axe’s blade.

  Before any of us could even think to protest that evil axe had plummeted upon the man’s wrist and severed his hand. I was too shocked, in retrospect I know not why, to act, however Morgan quickly assessed the situation and acted to cauterise the wound in the hot ash at the base of the fire.

  The man screamed in agony as the heat seared his wound, the pain so great that he passed out. 

  “So, are you two going to be helpful?” said Argonne with a cocked eyebrow to our two conscious prisoners.

  Two hurried mute nods gave him the answer we all wanted. They told us that they were Foeldians, worshipers of nature and peaceful folk that lived in the forest. Some months before their leader, Hermaeon, had returned from a trip to Thessingcourt with several new ‘friends’. These ‘friends’ were revealed to be brigands and in time, with Hermaeon’s blessing, they had introduced their friends into the Foeldian community.

  Such was the trust that the Foeldian’s had in their leader that none openly questioned his motives, but it became apparent very quickly that their lives had changed to be that of outlaws and bandits.

  Soon they were being organised by Hermaeon’s ‘friends’ into groups like the one that we just defeated to raid the roads and rivers north of Thessingcourt. Whilst the Foeldian’s disliked their new life they accepted it because their leader had sanctioned the activities. 

  However not three weeks ago Hermaeon disappeared and Korb, the leader of the newcomers had assumed leadership of the Foeldians and they began to realise that somehow Hermaeon had been tricked with false promises.

  One of the newcomers that Korb had brought with him was a man named Saeff. I knew him from the courts of Thessingcourt. He was a weasel of a man, barely tolerated by most in the court as he was the bastard son of Sir Gwan of Stowmarket and some whore that he bedded. Stowmarket was the most immediate lands to the North East of Montfort, and the town there was significantly larger than Montfort. Sir Gwan, a fierce knight of Baron Mendus, had died several years before on the steppes fighting the barbarians, and it is said the his wife Lady Gyda, also a knight of Mendus, slew the chieftain that had slain her husband and caused the rout of the barbarian tribe. Since his fathers death, Saeff had become even more ostracised by the nobility. Lady Gyda would not have him in her keep at Stowmarket. So he fell in with some ruffians and eventually was seen as one with some talent in the arcane arts and trained by the great court wizard Lamron. That was the last I had heard of Saeff, but it appears that his fall from society had continued and that he had ignored the redemption offered to him by Lamron.

  Many of the Foeldians secretly left the camp to start afresh elsewhere, but to put and end to their manpower leaving the bandits held the remaining Foeldian men’s families prisoner and forced them to continue their evil work.

  So distrusted had the Foeldians become that they were blind folded when they left and returned from the camp. The bandits camp was a series of caves that held a lake that in turn fed a stream that exited the caves’ mouth, yet Ty and Ob, the names of our remaining captives, knew not the specifics of its location. 

  We bound them, unsure as to what to do with them. I pitied them somewhat. They had just been used and their families threatened and had no love for their present predicament. I could not blame them for the thievery that had been taking place, but I longed to meet Korb. He had an appointment with either the hangman’s noose or my blade. 

  Meanwhile Moxadder had continued to search the battle field and found only one thing that was interesting. It was a map! It had been tucked into the shoe of one of the well armed corpses. Not surprising really that Moxadder found it. 

  It was a small piece of hide that had been crudely drawn on. However it gave us enough information to set off at once. We changed our heading to back to the south east and made our way to a stream that had been marked on the map as one that ran from cross on the map marked ‘Caves’.

  We camped, Ty and Ob in tow (the handless prisoner had died during our conversation with the other two), by the running water. I was exhausted and quickly fell asleep with the sound of water splashing over rocks echoing into my dreams.

  I woke in the darkness of the early morning to the crack of thunder overhead. Even as I rubbed my eyes the rain started to come down. 

  It was a miserable mornings travel, for the storm did not pass until after midday, but we were glad when it did. We were all thoroughly sodden and drenched. Only Argonne, who had begun to whistle a tune, seemed to be chirpy with our situation.

  Not long after the rain had passed to wash some other part of the forest clean, a huge black and orange cat walk straight across our path. It and we momentarily stopped. We stared at it and it stared right back. 

  Strav broke the eerie scene by choking a cry out. “Cat!”

  The spell seemed broken for it bounded away into the forest with Strav in hot pursuit screaming all manner of angry obscenities. 

  “I’ll get him.” said Argonne as he too joined the chase.

  I hoped he meant Strav, that cat looked as though it could tear them both to shreds. An idea that was proven soon after.

  Mortec and Morgan chose to investigate where the cat had wandered from and found a mauled corpse of a trapper that I recognised as one that serviced Montfort. He was a long way from Montfort lands, but it looked as though he had got more than he bargained for when he tracked the cat that was to be is ultimate prize.

  We waited perhaps an hour before a frustrated and still angry Strav was escorted back to us by Argonne. Thankfully they did not manage to find the cat. The consequence of course was that we had to put up with his cat curses for the rest of the day.

  A good nights sleep was again not forth coming. A scream, Argonne’s, woke the entire camp and quite possibly the entire forest just after midnight.


----------



## Haraash Saan

We found him soon after, charred, burnt and in shock. He mumbled something about being attacked by something from within a tree. 

“Arms came out of the tree!” he spouted excitedly. “They tried to drag me into the tree but I managed to fight them off.”

“Then a horrible tree like face with fangs came from within the tree and tried to maul me!” he continued.

I do not doubt that the others felt the same as I, Argonne was hysterical. It had been his watch, and there was no doubt that something had happened, but nothing he had said so far sounded plausible.

“But just as it launched itself at me again a huge lightening bolt struck the tree sending me sprawling and totally destroying the tree and hopefully the thing in it.” He said breathlessly.

Just as I was about to pacify and calm him in an attempt to ease his delusions Moxadder spoke.

“Sounds to me like a Tree Troll.” He said in a rare moment of clarity. “I heard me about them. Real nasty buggers. Best keep our eyes open for it. I doubt that lightening would have fried it.”

Even as we tried to get more information from the Fastendian his eyes glazed over. He was back in his happy place.

An uneasy night followed. Nightmares of wicked trees trying to catch me as I ran through a forest consumed my mind.

I was exhausted when I woke, but relieved that only my mind had tried to torment me.

At midday we found the source of the stream. The map had been right!

A large pool had formed underneath a waterfall that spewed forth from a cave mouth some fifty feet above the water. This was the bandit’s lair! Or so we thought.

As we peered at the landscape before us a strange little blue creature popped out of the water next to the waterfall, fish in his mouth, and scampered up the slippery rock face before disappearing into the cave.

My first thought was that it was some strange pet of the brigands. As was to be proved later I was not entirely wrong. 

We watched the cave and its environs for two hours and saw no more sign of life.

There was no obvious path to access the cave and the sheer cliff above it allowed us no entrance if we were to climb the hill that it sat in.

“I’ve an idea.” Said Mortec slyly.

And so he did. He had discovered some time ago that a ring that he had fancied and taken as part of his share of Rumscully Jack’s treasure was one that enabled its wearer to walk over water! 

He suggested the Moxadder borrow the ring, use it to cross the pool and try to make his way up the cliff, then drop a rope down for the rest of us to climb.

It was a sound plan with only one catch. There was no way I was going to swim in some unknown pool, filled with who knew what. 

The others, full of empty sympathy suggested that I act as the rear guard. Taken aback at their lack of respect I huffed away and tried to find another way up to the cave.

I found a worn animal track, to narrow for a human, that seemed to wind its way up from the right hand edge of the pool, to somewhere near the cave mouth. 

With this new news I hurried back to the others to find that, to a man they had already taken Mortec’s damp route. Even as I looked Strav clamoured over the edge of the cliff. He stood for a moment as if assessing what was before him, blew the horn he had taken from the booty of Rumscully Jack, and charged into the cave!

Something was happening, but from my vantage at ground level I could not see. Nor could I hear over the pounding of the waterfall.

There was nothing for it. I had to swallow my pride, and private fears, and braved the waters. I stripped down to my undergarments, strapped my rapier to my back and strode into the chilly waters.

I shivered involuntarily as the water soon engulfed me and I swam as best as I could to the dangling salvation that was the rope.

The water itself was refreshingly cold. There was no imagined slime or grasping plant, but I still paddled with apprehension. I would be much happier with earth (or rock) under foot.

The roar of the waterfall crashing against rock and water alike was deafening. The rope swayed, moved by the force of the falling water, as I groped for it. My grasping hand closed, once, twice, three times on air until finally I managed to clutch it. 

I hauled myself slowly out of the water, and managed to prop my legs against the rock wall. Hand over hand I took care to check my grip each time I pulled myself up the rope. 

Even as I child I had never been a climber. I had not ever had a need to climb. Perhaps that is why I felt strangely invigorated by such a simple thing. I could feel my lungs puffing and my heart pounding within my chest. My arms felt knotted and I felt alive.

In short time I stood at the cave mouth, covered with dirt that clung to my saturated undergarments although at that moment I did not realise it for I now understood why Strav had charged into the cave.

Even though there was the remnants of a strange fog still licking at their heels, I could see that my comrades were hard pressed in combat. Mortec, Strav, Argonne and Zhontell stood toe to toe with a huge monstrous tree like creature and a huge wolf! The Forest Troll, for that is what I took it for, towered over them, and even as I witnessed the spectacle it struck Argonne with a mighty blow that crashed him against a wall. Morgan already lay in a pool of blood at its feet!

I felt something within me stir. I was furious! Even now I know not why I felt the rage that I did. Was it the mortal peril that my comrades faced? Or perhaps it was the contempt I felt for myself for not being here with them earlier? Whatever it was it woke some strange power within me.

I strode forward and cried out words I did not understand, and unconsciously thrust forward my palm. A jet of flame shot out from it and struck the troll in the chest with such force that the massive creature stumbled back, fighting for balance as it slapped its chest trying to put out the flames that now encased it.

My comrades wasted no time! They renewed their efforts and began hacking and slashing it with great gusto seeking to gain the advantage. 

Mortec, perhaps sensing that Morgan was losing his fight for life took the opportunity to lay his hands upon him whilst mouthing some ancient prayer to Todesmagie.

Morgan’s eyes flickered open and in an instant he had leapt to his feat, sword in hand and delivered the killing the thrust that penetrated the trolls bark-like skin so much so that the sword was buried to the hilt in the beast and was ripped from Morgan’s hand as it fell backwards.

The wolf, seeing the troll downed, fled past the blades of my comrades and disappeared out of the cave mouth.

“Come back ‘ere!” screamed Moxadder from behind me.

I spun quickly, for I had noticed him before. He had been in the shadows of a natural passageway fighting (judging from the three corpses) strange little blue creatures like the one we had seen crawl out of the pool.

Now I saw Moxadder running, screaming toward the edge of the waterfall. He was in hot pursuit of one of the creatures. However it took no heed of the height of the cliff and dove straight off to plummet into the waiting pool below.

Such was Moxadder’s determination and catching his foe that he almost followed suit, but managed to catch himself even as he slipped at the lip of the rock. Instead he sated himself with more cursing.

I discovered that my comrades had encountered several of the large wolves and the blue creatures in the caves and had been attack by them. Whilst the combat raged the Forest Troll had appeared from a corridor had had decisively swung the confrontation in our opponents favour. Thankfully I had arrived when I did to tip the ultimate balance to our advantage. 

Although my companions questioned me ad nauseam I could not satisfy their, or my own, questions about what it was that I had done to cause the flame. There was no doubt that it was magical, but it was almost as if I had been acting without will. I would have to query Isabella about the strange event. If I could learn how to control it, I would have a powerful weapon at my disposal.


----------



## Haraash Saan

We spent several hours searching the cave system. It was not brigands lair as we had guessed. Within what was the Forest Trolls adobe we found several crumbling pillars that were etched with strange runes and words. Argonne surprised us all when he translated it for us. He could not explain how he could read the ancient texts but he was positive that he read them correctly and they identified this place as a place of worship for Foeld.

Whilst that was a curious discovery in itself, more interesting was the contents of the troll’s larder. Other than various mauled animals, birds hanging from hooks, fish that had been strung up and barrels of vinegared wine, we found a man. More amazingly we was still alive, and given that one of his legs and been literally torn off.

There were more surprises to come. The prisoner was none other than the Foeldian leader, Hermaeon. After tending to his severe wound, including more blessings from Todesmagie, and removing the unusual poultice that was in place on it, we managed to hear his tale.

Several weeks before, during the middle of the night he was woken from his cot in the bandits’ caves by a gag being shoved into his mouth. He fought his assailants back but his resistance was short lived. A whack to the back of his head was the last thing he felt before walking in bright sunlight by the edge of the pool, now bound and trussed like a pig.

From there he had been taken by the Forest Troll and kept, starving, in the larder until this very morning the troll had decided to tear his leg from its socket and devour it. He regained consciousness when he heard our fight with the troll and its minions.

Even though Hermaeon had been so grievously injured he was more than willing to answer all our questions regarding the his old home.

The route to get there was quite simple. The map we had followed had deliberately set a false trail that would lead us to this cave, however it also contained information that would lead us to the bandits.

In the centre of the map was a circle marked with the word ‘Menhir’. That marking indicated a large rock that stuck out from the earth and was used by the Foeldians as a landmark to guide their way home. For their own home, more caves, were located only three hours due east from the menhir.

He even sketched a map of the cave system of the bandits on the dirt floor of the larder. It showed the main entrance, trees that were used as sentinel posts and even, perhaps most importantly, a hidden entrance to the caves.

We quickly formulated a plan of attack on the bandit lair. Under cover of darkness we would avoid the guards in the sentinel trees and use the hidden entrance to gain quick and unnoticed access to the caves. 

Once inside we would murder, for there is not other word for it, the brigands that slept in the main chamber of the ground floor, for there was a lower level where most kept their quarters. Once that foul work was done we would reassess our next course of action. 

We reasoned that twenty bandits that were asleep on the upper level could be nullified quickly and quietly by the Hydra, but for the others perhaps another plan would be required. 

That evening, for it had taken the rest of the day to search the troll’s home, question Hermaeon and slowly gather our possessions and carry them up the ridiculously narrow track I had found earlier, we freed Ty and Ob from their bonds and reintroduced them to their former leader.

Their joy was quickly replaced by anger at the betrayal that had been suspected but was now confirmed. The Hydra had just managed to recruit two more willing bodies in our fight against the brigands.

There was one cavern in the cave complex that seemed to have been unoccupied, so it was there that we bedded down for the night.

When we woke Strav had his own tale to tell. His watch during the previous evening had been somewhat exciting, well for him in any case. The large orange and black cat had appeared at the edge of the pool, and after lapping some water (whilst Strav was fumbling for his crossbow and a quarrel), it sat down and watched the entrance to the cave.

Strav had felt it too good to be true, so when he finally and loaded the bolt he took careful aim and let it fly. The satisfying, to Strav in any case, howl of pain signalled that his aim was true. And with that the cat bounded off back into the forest.

The morning had also revealed that a storm was once again pelting the forest with rain, so we felt no great urgency to move on from the dry cave. 

A few hours into the day Morgan returned to our cavern, he had been on watch at the cave mouth, and said “The cat’s back.” And with a glare at Strav he added, “And it is limping.”

What did this cat want with us? Why was it watching us? 

Even as these thoughts crept into my head I saw Strav scrambling once more for his bow.

“Stop him!” I cried, “He will do more harm than good.”

But it was too late, Strav had already dashed to the cave mouth, bow and quiver in hands.

We arrived moments later, just as he was once again loading his mighty crossbow, only to see the cat give us one last look before hobbling into the forest.

“Damn!” cried Strav as he snapped a bolt in his hands, such was his frustration that he had not been able to loose another shaft and the defenceless feline.

His anger made me happy. I saw no reason behind his actions. The cat had done nothing to us, and if anything it was a curiosity that was worth investigating further.

As we turned to head back into the cave the rain stopped and the sun burst through the clouds. We could finally continue our journey, this time heading toward the menhir. 

Hermaeon would not be left behind so Argonne quickly fashioned a stretcher and Ty and Ob acted as its bearers. 

Several hours after departing the Forest Trolls cave, Morgan called out, “There!” and pointed, “The menhir.” 



And there it was, no more than one hundred feet off to our left. A giant rock, fifteen feet high, protruding out of the ground. We saw that it was in the centre of a clearing and was covered by vines that also radiated out from its base. Underneath the vines that enshrouded it there were glimpses of bright silver. Like metal reflecting in the sunlight. 

We all had moved into the clearing and Argonne had decided to take a closer look at this unusual monolith. As he stepped onto the vines, he cried out in surprise. The vine on which he had trodden on had whipped around and grappled his leg. Even as he tried to free himself he was suddenly lifted high into the air, almost directly above the menhir!


----------



## Haraash Saan

As one the bows of the Hydra were nocked, shafts were loosed into the vines. Unfortunately they seemed to have little effect, for the vines at the base of the menhir scrambled away and cleared a space. They revealed a most unusual sight, if the vines actions in themselves were not unusual enough. A strange plant like maw with large spikes stretched out of the gap that the vines had made and snapped enticingly at Argonne, who was still being swung about by the vine that had grabbed him, and then it let go! 

Argonne fell straight toward the gaping mouth and in one giant bite he was gone. I watched wordlessly, feeling useless. Zhontell however was not. Instead of looking on dumbfounded like I was he leapt into the writhing mass of vines. He dodged, hurdled and tumbled his way through them until he stood over the great mouth that had swallowed our companion. 

It was insane! There is no other way to describe it. Zhontell began to flail at it with his fists. Suddenly Moxadder and Morgan were right there with him, each attacking with dagger and sword respectively. 

Inspired I shook myself free from my stupor, threw my bow down and leapt into the fray. However my grand plan for aiding my fellows was thrown into chaos as I was immediately faced with a vine that intended not to grab me but smash me against the earth. 

Again and again I thrust and slashed at it with my trusty blade. As I fought I could see the ongoing battle at the plants mouth. Whilst Morgan and Moxadder were attacking Zhontell had managed to open the great orifice, reach in and wrench out Argonne! As he was pulled free, the hand that Zhontell had clasped transformed before my eyes. Fingers became feathers and where Argonne’s hand and arm once were was now a wing!  Suddenly from the mouth of the planet a great eagle flew out and to safety beyond the reach of the vines. 

I saw no more as the vine that had engaged me renewed its attacks and I had to use every bit of my agility and luck to dodge its flurry of blows. It reared up in front of me. The vine, as thick as a Halfastian wresters arm, slammed down hard but I just managed to leap backwards before it thundered into the space I had just vacated.

I took a moment to gather myself before once again entering the fray when I saw that miraculously the brave Zhontell and Moxadder had feed themselves from the plant. Zhontell stood calmly to one side, appraising the situation, whilst Moxadder sat hunched and bleeding from several gashes he had sustained from the bites of the plants mouth. 

Where was Morgan? An immediate answer was forthcoming. He was now trapped in the vines grasp. 

Above us the great eagle screeched and swooped, but just before it landed its talons morphed into boots, and the rest of it followed suited, transforming into a man. Finally as its beak opened once more they transformed to lips, and its head to that of Argonne.

“Release my companion!” commanded Argonne. 

I glanced quickly to see who he was addressing. It was none other than our feline observer, the orange and black striped cat. It prowled through a strange and thickening fog that began to spring up around us. 

Stravarious too caught sight of the beast and let out a triumphant holler. “The cat! It’s mine!” he screamed. But as soon as he uttered his ecstatic cry the fog thickened and surrounded him. 

“Damned fog!” he wailed, “Can’t see the cat! Where are you kitty? Strav’s got a present for you!”  

“Release my companion!” demanded Argonne once again. The cat, now only five feet from him, turned its head as if to consider him and the vines ceased their strangling grip on Morgan. He slumped to the ground and sucked in precious air. 

What was this cat? It controlled the plants and the called forth mysterious mists. It made no sense to me. 

Further to the peculiar situation, the cat then gently grabbed Argonne’s sleeve in its mouth and pulled him toward the menhir. As they both approached the vines that had covered the mighty menhir slid away to reveal it in all of its glory. The huge rock stood defiant encased within twelve bands of bright white metal. 

Argonne was transfixed, his eyes wide with an excitement that I had never seen before. He reached out to touch one of the bands. 

Morgan, at last satisfied that he could breathe again, cried out, “Don’t touch the bands!” 

But it was too late! There was a loud crackle and the band that Argonne touched emitted a violent blue spark. Argonne screamed in pain and fell backward, grasping his burnt hand. I could see that it actually smoked such was the energy that had struck him. 

“It is the symbol of Gerech! Twelve lines of white!” continued Morgan. 

He was right of course. Gerech’s symbol was a hub that radiated twelve white arrows. I should have understood the significance all along. This menhir had been trapped from some reason by the Gerechian Convocation over a hundred years before. 

We had all been struck dumb by what we were witnessing, but Morgan’s cry had alerted Strav, who had been calling out to the cat all along, and given him a direction to travel through the mists.  

He appeared, like an apparition, mist from the thick fog that had enshrouded him clinging to his frame. The cat was his target. He saw it instantly. Strav’s arm rose quickly and from his fingers came a green crackling light like lightening. It slammed into the cat before it could react. The huge feline was thrown to the ground with a thud. 

“No!” cried out a shocked Argonne. 

Strav, ignoring the woodsman’s order, cackled manically to himself, “Puss, puss. Come to Strav. I so would love you to come to me.” As he strode forward he stepped through the vines that had been stilled. Suddenly they once again came to life! In an instant they had Strav entangled in their grasp and had him spread-eagled so tightly that it looked as though his limbs would be torn from their sockets. 

Then I reacted. “Wait!” I commanded to the cat, who had now staggered to its feet. 

“He offers you no more harm. Leave him be.” I continued, hoping against hope that I could reason with the orange and black striped beast. 

It turned its attention to me for the first time. I felt a bead of nervous sweat roll from my forehead down to my cheek. And then its gaze moved back to Argonne. 

Strav, although unable to move, no longer seemed to be in any harms way. The vines had eased their grip so that he was no longer in any obvious pain. But he was completely immobile, which was the perfect position for him in his current state of madness. 

“We must break the bands.” said Mortec “Once we do that, I think everything will become clear.” 

I could see nothing wrong with the thought. If the Gerechians had sealed the rock then it was most likely something that was used against them. And in my opinion then that is no bad thing. Bloody Gerechians. As for Strav, he could wait. He could do no harm where he was.

Argonne tried his axe, a branch as a lever and countless other methods, but the bands stood fast. Eventually night fell and the exhausted Argonne joined the rest of us. 

We had been talking amongst ourselves, too excited by the days events, while Argonne had whacked away and Mortec tinkered with some strange gadget. 

Argonne found no respite though for we bombarded him with questions about his transformations, although his answers were in no way useful at all.


----------



## Haraash Saan

Over the last few months, perhaps since we originally had left Halfast, Argonne had been feeling that he was somehow in tune with the world. He said that it was as if he felt all the living things around him and he knew when things were not as they should be. As the weeks passed the feelings were more intense. He did not understand why he was feeling what he did or how it was that he felt it. It just was. 

When we questioned him, rather directly I might add, about his miraculous transformation into the eagle he was no more confident of his answer. 

“It was the right thing to do.” He shrugged. “I was inside that plant. I could feel it trying to swallow and then Zhontell managed to pry its mouth open and haul me out. And then I was different.” 

“I felt different. The sky was my haven and I reached out to it. I flew to it. It was wonderful.” He said, eyes glossing over in reflection. “I knew I was an eagle and I knew that I should be an eagle. And then I spied the cat in some long grass by the side of the glade and realised that I needed to be me again, so I was.” 

“I don’t know or understand what happened. But it did.” He continued. “I don’t know if it will happen again, but I most certainly hope it does.” 

I was mesmerised by his tale. I could feel the freedom he felt and it hurt that I could not truly experience it. 

There was a lot more to the young woodsman than perhaps even he had known. 

Mortec’s shrill voice interrupted our conversation. “Come here! Look what I have done! I am brilliant indeed!” chirped the Gnome excitedly. 

Although there was some moonlight it was still hard to make out what it was that he pointed to at his feet. The little fellow was so excited by whatever it was that he was dancing a little jig of joy around it. 

I uttered some words of magic to conjure light and slowly but surely a tiny ball of faint light grew in my palm until it was the size of an orange. I directed the light the object. 

It was a strange metal gauntlet with its fingers clenched into a fist. “Isn’t it beautiful?” cried out the exuberant Gnome. 

We looked at each other skeptically wondering what it was that was so interesting about a stylised gauntlet. 

Suddenly a massive crack of thunder sounded directly above us, and from the sky came a bolt of lightening! We dove for cover as it struck the gauntlet. I thanked Srcan for her blessing for I, and my companions were all unharmed by the lightening strike. The gauntlet seemed, other than a small wisp of grey smoke that curled up from it, also undamaged. I meticulously brushed myself off from the dirt and leaves that now clung to me as I stood. 

Then suddenly the fingers of the metal glove creaked ominously open and I noticed a small forearm growing from out of the glove. As soon as the fingers of the gauntlet had completely uncurled the limb levitated into the air and floated toward a gleeful Mortec. 

He thrust out his own stump so that it faced the flying limb. The forearm, as if sensing its target and intention, put on a burst of speed and slammed into the Gnome’s stump with slap of flesh, a crunch of bone and an accompanying scream from Mortec. 

Such was the force of the blow that it knocked him down. But as he pulled himself up we saw, with amazement, that he pushed himself up he used the very hand and forearm that were now fused to his body. 

Mortec had his arm back! 

He explained, after our excitement died down, that ever since he lost his arm in the Games, he had been working on creating himself a replacement, and with the blessing of Todesmagie he had finally achieved his goal. He was once again a whole Gnome. 

Wonders will never cease. A Gnome that makes himself replacement limbs, a mad black elf, a drug addict (Moxadder looked the most normal of the group!), a warrior of Thuus that is enslaved by a magical mask of Gerech, a strange and predominantly silent unarmed elf, a simple woodsman that turns into a bird and a dog that turns into ‘the greatest anything of his race’. How is it that I managed to mix with these very, very strange people?  

That night I had drifted off into a deep and refreshing sleep. It was like none that I had ever experienced before, but when I woke to the pleasant calls of birds, I felt better than I had since I had left my comfortable apartment in Thessingcourt to journey to Halfast with Absquith. 

The next day the strangeness continued. The birds I had heard on waking were not all that were about. Hundreds, nay, thousands of the forests natural denizens sat on the fringes of the clearing; bears, dear, rabbits, badgers, foxes and many more. All sat or lay around the edge of the clearing of the menhir and the great orange and black cat that lay near its base. They must have gathered during the night, although none of us had woken at their arrival. There was an unusual expectant air about them. Not a one of them paid us any heed, they all stared as one at the menhir.  We broke our fast in silence. Truth be told we were frightened that we would attract the attention of the animals that surrounded us. As I ate I looked at the menhir trying to think of a stratagem that would break its bonds and release its secrets. 

Mortec was the first to rise from our morning meal. He walked to his things that lay nearby. As he went past me I saw a steely look in his eye that complemented the grim look of determination that was set on his face. He stooped, not very far mind you, and retrieved his hammer, the very one that I used to break down the door when we were trapped in the pirate ship. The cat looked up curiously. The Gnome, now oblivious to the gathered horde, strode to the menhir and without breaking stride swung the hammer, with both hands, new and old. It struck one of the bands! The blow caused a loud ringing to be sounded, almost like a bell, but then the band broke and slid off the menhir! 

I had known there was something unusual about the hammer when I myself had wielded it, but I had no idea that it was that strong! 

With arrogant disdain (I actually believe he realised that he could not reach the top most bands to strike them), Mortec dropped the hammer at the base of the menhir and went back to finish his breakfast. 

Argonne eagerly took up where Mortec had left off. And when it came to the last remaining band the sense of expectation in and around the clearing was at bursting point. The strange cat looked up in anticipation, the hammer fell, the final band shattered, its pieces falling to the ground. 

Even as those last shards of metal fell to their resting place, a deafening cacophony of noise erupted from the assembled animals. It was if they were cheering. Bears growled, wolves howled and birds squawked and chirped. 

The clearings’ orange and black striped guardian let out a massive roar that drowned out all of the other beasts and birds. They all stopped. All was quiet. 

And then before our eyes the cat began to change. It shrank as it underwent its metamorphosis. Paws slowly formed hands and feet, fur turned to clothing (of a sort) and the beasts’ tail receded into its body. Before us was now hunched a man!


----------



## Haraash Saan

He lifted his ancient head and regarded us carefully with his deep brown eyes. 

His crusty lips opened and he tried to speak, although it sounded more like his throat was clearing. “Thank you for freeing me.” He rasped. 

Argonne was immediately by his side and providing a supporting hand to help him to his feet. The weathered old man stood maybe five and a half feet tall, although his prodigious stoop indicated that in his youth he had been much taller. Long thinning grey hair sprouted unevenly from his pate, cheeks and chin. It barely hid his earth coloured skin. 

“I sense you’ll be no trouble.” He muttered to himself. And with a casual wave of his hand, the vines that bound Stravarious released him. He was not happy, looking like a hunter that had been robbed of his prey. 

“You.” He pointed with a knobbly and gnarled finger to Argonne. “We have much to speak about.” 

I was still in a state of shock. Just as Argonne had transformed into an eagle and back again, this ancient had done the same from a large cat! How? 

“Who are you?” I whispered, aghast at what I had witnessed. 

“Hmm? Who am I?” he turned to face me, his voice sounding like gravel crushed under foot. “I am Lorcan of the great Circle of Eight! And you, “he waved his arm to include us all, “have just freed me from over one hundred years in the form of a panther.”

Lorcan claimed that he was one of the eight druids that, over a century ago, had stood at the gates of Godsheim and had demanded that the Gerechian’s, then its rulers, cease their control over life and death. 

History and stories say that their request was refused and those druids, in all their combined glory caused the very earth to rebel against the Convocation. 

The earth quaked and broke, swallowing sections of the cities whole. Lightning blazed across the sky and fire spewed from the great cracks in the ground. And the Gerechian’s trembled at the might of the druids and their God Foeld. 

Unfortunately for all those gathered, and even now for the peoples of today, what the druids did not anticipate was that their cataclysm would breach some of the death barrows that the Gerechians had assembled and filled with those they condemned to be trapped and undying for eternity. From within them came the horrors that were to become the Northern Horde, the Dominion. 

The druids fled, the Gerechians in Godsheim were slaughtered by those they condemned. Lorcan managed to escape to the menhir, his most powerful conduit to Foeld. However the Gerechians further south chased him to the spot and, upon seeing the menhir and knowing its purpose bound it with via the power of Gerech. 

As soon as it was bound with the symbol of Gerech it trapped Lorcan in the form that he was in, that of a panther. And so it was that he prowled the forest for the next hundred years, until this now. 

After his story was complete, he and Argonne spoke quietly amongst themselves. I know not what they said even though I used all the skills Timandra had taught me in Yorath to eavesdrop but I did not understand the language that they spoke. 

Any interruptions were waved away and persistence was met with an angry glare from Lorcan. 

For hours they talked before finally their conversation had finished. The look upon Argonne’s face was one of enlightenment, as though he finally understood why it was he was here. Why he was alive. He was a man with purpose. 

Whilst we pried he would give us no hint as to what it was that he had learned other than to say things like, “I am of the world and I am for the world.” 

It was decided that we would rest ourselves for the remainder of that day so that we could begin our assault on the bandits lair, which lay no more than two hours from the menhir, late that night.


----------



## Haraash Saan

*Chapter 12 – Skunks, Intrigues, Invasions and a Flurry of Feathers*



It was after midnight and the thick layer of cloud aided our cautious approach to the hidden entrance of the brigands lair. We stood assembled before the cave, and after several reassuring glances between us, moved in. 

Once safe from the prying eyes of the sentinels who were camped at the mouth of the cave, whom we managed to stealthily evade, I conjured a ball of light the illuminated the rough hewn corridor. 

Moxadder took the lead, due to his upbringing in the sewers of Iruudish City he needed only faint light to see almost perfectly clearly and also he was without doubt the stealthiest of the Hydra. He crept maybe twenty feet ahead of the main group. 

As anticipated we encountered no guards on our short journey to a store room. Here we armed ourselves as was our want and made ready to carry through with the first violence of the plan. Mortec blessed us in Todesmagie’s name and also used the gods will to bless a small pebble. The effect of which was that anyone near the stone would be completely silent. No noise left the area it affected and none passed into or through it. 

Thus prepared we once again set off, Moxadder again in the lead although much closer now. Before us we could see a flickering light dancing in the shadows of the craggy walls. I pinched my conjured light to dismiss it. It seemed as though we would no longer need it. 

Moxadder moved cautiously forward and stuck his head around the corner. His own shadow was now cast on the corridor wall behind him. 

Suddenly he stepped into the opening in which he had peered and let loose with two daggers. They flashed in the light before disappearing from my sight. 

I charged, rapier drawn. As I rounded the corner I saw a large room with six sleeping men laying in crude cots against the caverns’ walls. In the middle of the room was a small square table at which four men, one with a knife protruding from his thigh, were scrambling for weapons that lay near by. A candle sat in a pool of wax in the centre of the table, scattered at its base were playing cards. 

Leaping into the room I thrust my blade into the belly of the nearest man, he slid off it with a soundless scream and then I jumped onto and then over the table top to get to another. 

The combat lasted less than a minute, the four men than had been awake had been quickly dispatched by the Hydra and Moxadder had slit the throats of four before they even could even wake. 

You may think that we are heartless and evil men, but you could not be further than the truth. These were bandits, murderers and law breakers. They were only going to get strung up in any case. This way they died peacefully. It was too good for them, in my opinion. 

The remaining two, obviously sensing something unusual in their sleep woke in silence and surrendered immediately upon seeing the carnage that surrounded them. 

Mortec placed the silent stone at the entrance of the room, “To give allow us to question them, without their screams waking anyone.” he explained once away from its influence, his tone betraying no emotion. 

“So what have you got to say?” I asked our captives, a pleasant smile accompanying my cold eyes. 

They were both stunned mute by the scene before them. 

“Well let me start you off. How many bandits are on this level and on the level below.” I continued. Hermaeon had explained that the top level only had this sleeping chamber for the guards, and the level below housed the leaders of the bandits and the majority of their men. 

Still there was no response. It was then that Argonne decided to accelerate the interrogation. Quick as a flash his axe swung down upon the neck of one of our prisoners. With a bone grinding crunch it passed through, a severed his head from his shoulders. The head flew passed me and hit the ground with a sickening slap before rolling to a stop at the feet of Zhontell. The headless body sat still for a moment before slumping forward and dropping to the floor, blood spurting from the massive wound. 

I gagged I was so sickened by what I had witnessed, but it had the desired effect, eventually.

It was several minutes before our remaining prisoner (and the others of our party) had recovered from the shock of seeing his comrade so brutally murdered enough to finally give us some details of the scenario below us.

He, and his butchered friend were Foeldians. They had only been working with the brigands as their families were being because they had discovered forcibly held by Korb and his wicked henchmen.

Remorse momentarily flooded across Argonne’s previously stern and blood thirsty gaze and he knelt beside the headless corpse of the man he had killed. He placed his palm on the dead man’s chest and began what looked like some sort of prayer. Perhaps he was begging for forgiveness?

I turned my attention back to our prisoner. Some thirty or so bandits acted as a guard down on the lower level in the main chamber. The caverns below also housed the core of the outlaws’ leaders, including Korb and two mages that assisted him in his evil endeavors.

Argonne, his prayer now finished, became distracted. As the prisoner continued with his information, the woodsman began looking at the ceiling, and then the floor. He shifted the dead with his boots and looked underneath them. He was looking for something and getting more anxious as whatever it was could not be found.

As I watched him, a skunk rounded the corner from the passage we had come from. I was too perplexed to realize the danger I was in. 

It waddled up to Argonne, who upon seeing it, let out a relieved sigh. 

I interrupted our captive with a raised hand, looked incredulously at Argonne and posed him a question, “What is that?”

“A skunk.” He said matter-of-factly.

“I can see that.” I replied, my patience with him easing.  “Where did it come from?”

“Hmm? Come from? He has been here all along. Well he was gone for a few minutes, but everything is OK now. He is back.” Argonne rambled in reply.

Seeing that each one of us had absolutely no idea as to what he was saying, he gave an explanation that was just as ridiculous as his last comment.

“Him.” He pointed to the decapitated corpse, “This,” now pointing to the skunk, “is him as Foeld intended him to be. He says his name is Zwingly.”

If it were physically possible I am sure my jaw would have shattered as it hit the ground. Once and for all Argonne had lost his mind entirely. There was no doubt that the appearance of the skunk had given him a bizarre avenue to ease the guilt he felt of what he had done.

Mortec was more understanding than I. “So you brought him back? The skunk has the soul of that man?” he queried. 

I could not believe the Gnome was entertaining Argonne’s delusions, but he was a priest of the god of knowledge, perhaps he knew something that I did not.

“Yes. That’s right.” Nodded Argonne rapidly, relieved that at last someone understood him.

At that moment, the skunk, in Argonne’s hands, turned to face us, lifted its tail and with a small hiss from its rear did the one thing that I had forgotten to fear. 

So repulsive was the stench that had drenched Argonne, that not a one of us did not cover our mouths with something to try and avoid it. I even ignored common sense and fled the room to stand back in the corridor trying to suck in sweet cave air.

As I ran, I heard Strav remark, “Well he obviously isn’t pleased that you killed him is he?”


----------



## Haraash Saan

It took several minutes for the general stink to dissipate, but no one went near Argonne. His only salvation would be a long bath. 

Argonne coughed and spluttered as his eyes watered, “Perhaps I’ll put him in my pack.” 

So he unshouldered it and gently placed the Zwingly inside. “There you go laddie, make yourself comfy.”

There was another hiss, this time from within Argonne’s pack. The skunk had been quick to claim it as his own.

We had previously decided that our biggest threat were the wizards. We could not even fathom what they were capable of, ignorance breeds fear. They were to be our preliminary target. If at all possible we were to remove them from calculations as quickly and quietly as possible. 

The route down was via a ramp that continued down from the corridor that we had entered this room from, and it was always guarded by sentries. And if they were alert, then we would not stand a chance against alerted bandits and their magicians. Another plan was needed.

The rough map that Hermaeon had sketched in the dirt had indicated that the room that we were now in was almost above the wizards personally chambers. Why not dig down, I thought out loudly. 

The others laughed at my idea. How would we dig through rock? We did not even know how deep it was. I could appreciate their impertinence and felt myself flush at the stupidity of the idea. None of us carried tools, shovels and the like, and it would take days to make a hole big enough for a man to squeeze through.

However Argonne, the madman, did not laugh. He looked at me with a puzzled expression and then started clawing at the floor, pushing and prodding it with his fingers, testing it. 

I watched him, hoping to distract the others from my silly suggestion and focus their attention elsewhere. He seemed to find the spot he had been trying to locate, and placed both palms against the earth. His eyes rolled back into his head, so that only their whites could be seem, and his lips began to recite some soundless chant. 

His arms started to tense as he began to push with all his might against the rock floor, and then, the rock moved. He was pushing the very rock downward! At first it was only a small impression the size of his hands, but gradually it became deeper and more rounded and with a few minutes there was an obvious hole.

As it got deeper his hands seemed to push, rub and smooth. The hole got wider as his hands worked against the sides of the stone basin he had formed. Minutes turned into an hour, and all the while we gathered around him silently and watched as he formed a larger and deeper hole. 

The only thing he said the entire time he moved the rock, and that was in a harsh whisper that reeked of strain, was, “Rope. Ankles. Take my weight.”

We quickly satisfied his request and tied a rope firmly around both of his legs and Morgan, Strav and Zhontell ensured that they kept the rope taut to take his weight.

They did well! When he finally broke through, his legs were all that were visible and they stuck straight out from the hole. He broke through some four and a half feet down. He slipped about but the trio managed to hold and then pull him slowly back and out of the hole.

His face was dripped with sweat, such had been his exertion. Hunched against a wall he rasped, “Corridor.” in between deep breaths.

I was too bewildered to say anything more than, “How?”

His weary face turned to my question and smiled, not something one should ever see the repulsively ugly Argonne actually do, “Foeld will always show the way.”

His discussion with Lorcan had obviously revealed some new path for our woodsman. He was definitely a strange one. Just maybe the skunk was the incarnation of the beheaded Foeldian.

Moxadder in a rare turn of coherence suggested that he “Nip down and take a look-see.” 

Better him than me I thought, as he scampered into the hole using his long limbs to prop himself against its walls and climb down the shaft.

“Wait ‘ere.” He said as he disappeared from sight.

It was not long before we heard the Fastendian’s soft whisper from the beneath us.

“The hole drops into the corridor that leads to one of the wizards rooms. It should be safe enough to drop down as the mage is now dead. But throw down the silent stone first. You lot make so too much noise.” He said.

Mortec dropped the stone down the hole. And then one by one we followed.

We stood in another tunnel that had been widened in places to allow a person to travel easily to the room at one end of it. The other end had a thick curtain blocking it. Moxadder stood by the curtain. He seemed to be listening for any activity.

Strav, Mortec, Argonne and I went to search the deceased wizards room. He lay, quite motionless, on his bed. A small oil lamp flickered on a shelf giving the room adding to the rooms already eerie atmosphere. 

The wizard, Saeff (Hermaeon had told us that there was only one male spell weaver), was drenched in his own blood. He had been reading when Moxadder had caught him unawares. The book, Laster’s Ribald Bedtime Tales, was splattered with blood from the artery that Moxadder had cut.

A quick rummage in Saeff’s room revealed several books, of which Mortec and I would investigate later, some papers that I sensed were infused with magic and several vials and bottles with curious labels such as, Fleetness of Foot and Balm of Lilly. 

Behind the curtain was a common room of sorts. Tapestries hung from the wall depicting varying scenes, from a battle to a maid by a stream. The central feature of the room was a large table with four chairs placed around it. On it were various writing implements, and a crude wooden plate on which lay the scraps of a forgotten meal. 

There were three other curtains covering exits from the room. The one immediately to our right was made from a blue cloth with a large bat embroided on it. By our reckoning this was the Sorceress Polema’s room. She had come here with Korb and had seduced Hermaeon. 

Raedemass’s cave, the woman Polema replaced as Korb’s partner, was opposite Saeff’s quarters. The entrance to her room was covered with a green silk that featured fey creatures of myth and legend.

The final curtain led to the corridor beyond the wizards dwellings and it was there that Morgan and Argonne tip toed to so that they could stand guard to the chamber.

Figuring Raedemass was a potential ally, being a Foeldian not an usurping bandit, we sent Moxadder to investigate Polema’s cave. It was empty. There were only simple furnishings that included a cot that had been unslept in.

Moxadder found Raedemass snoring in her bed, blissfully unaware of the fate that was about to befall her. She woke with a start, but she was sensibly silent.

Our sneak stood over her, one hand clasping her mouth shut, the other holding a dagger across her throat. 

I pushed the green silk aside as I strode into the room. “Raedemass. We are friends here to free you from the bandits.” I spoke quickly and urgently. “We have Hermaeon with us”

Her eyes widened in disbelief at that news. “Yes its true. Korb and the others left him as a gift for the Forest Troll that lived in the cave above the waterfall not two days away to the west. We killed the troll and freed him.”

“I will not hurt you, but my friend,” I gestured to Moxadder, “could afford no sudden noises as the other bandits may be alerted. Will you help us?”

Her eyes immediately reflected a steely resolve at my request. 

“Good. Moxadder, release her.” I ordered.


----------



## Haraash Saan

In short time we filled Raedemass in on our activities within the bandits encampment. She, unfortunately, had no news on the exact whereabouts of Polema and Korb, however she did confirm that Felt, Saeff’s bodyguard (obviously she had not done a particularly good job) should be in her room across the corridor. She also verified that the Foeldian women and children were in the main chamber of the lower level and were guarded by the remaining bandits that were not out raiding.

  As it happened the room the Felt was using also had an exit to that main chamber. So it was there that was out next destination.

  We all snuck out into the corridor and through another curtain into a short passage that led to Felt’s quarters. 

  Moxadder stepped from the passage way into the opening to her room.

  His reaction betrayed the circumstance in which he saw Felt. His jaw dropped and his eyes widened in surprise as his free hand fumbled for a dagger. Instantaneously I was on the move. My blade appeared in my hand as if by magic and I sprinted around the corner.

  Felt stood, her own rapier already unsheathed, in a classic defensive parry. Her light tunic was bathed in sweat generated from her practice sword play. 

  Unfortunately for her she did not expect such an assault. The thin steel I carried pierced her once, as I leapt into a thrust and again as I twisted away from her unprepared attack.

  My companions were swift to aid me and Moxadder landed the telling blow. She slipped, surprise still registered on her face, from his dagger and crumpled. Her long blonde hair laying in the blood that pooled from her wounds.

  It was not a deserving end to someone as talented as Felt. I had heard of her. She was a master duellist from Thessingcourt and was a prized body guard for the rich, of which there were many in Mendus’s capital.

  However any remorse I felt at her murder, for that is what it was, and my part in it were gone quickly. After all she was no more than a bandit, she got what was coming to her and at least she did not have to wait for hangman’s noose she would have got in Montfort.

  We gathered in the corner of Felt’s room and began organising our next plan of attack. As we spoke of bursting into the main chamber (a simple plan is often the best), a quizzical expression passed over Morgan’s face and he asked “Where’s Strav?”

  Strav was not with us! Somehow he had been separated from us. An ear splitting wail broke through our hushed whispers. Strav had been found.

  Mortec was first to react. He ran from the room incanting some prayer to Todesmagie. Morgan followed him, knocking an arrow to his bow. Bloodied rapier still in hand I charged off in pursuit of my comrades.

  Down the continuation of the passage that went through Felt’s room I ran. Morgan stood by the curtain covering the opening to the main cavern readying to loose a shaft.

  With a swift slash I sliced the cloth the impeded my view. Mortec was in the centre of the room, arms stretched above him and chanting loudly, “Todesmagie aid me!” A dark mist seemed to form around his hands even as the bandits closed in on him and covered his tiny frame from my view. 

  A twang beside me told me that Morgan had found a target. Then it was my turn once more to face a foe.

  ********************

  I breathed heavily as another brigand dropped to his knees in front of me before falling on his lifeless face.

  After repelling the assault on the passage we had been approached from behind by four more bandits. It was then that Morgan showed a side of him that I had not seen before, cowardice. Shame radiated from his face as he left me to face the four scowling men alone. 

  “Coward.” I muttered as I prepared myself once more to taste their blades. At that stage I already had received a couple of minor cuts, outnumbered four to one, I figured I would receive a few more.

  I was right, but it I also managed to slay two of the four before the others, wisely noting that they were out matched threw down their weapons and begged for mercy.

  Meanwhile Mortec was calling forth Todesmagie’s divine magics to allow him to withstand his own foes. Morgan, the valiant, had managed to down another from a safer distance with his arrows and Argonne held the southern exit to the cavern. Instead of charging forward with Mortec, Morgan and I, he had run down the corridor to hold the exit and encourage the women and children to flee to him.

  Moxadder, who had been skulking in the shadows waiting for his opportunity had finally taken it when Korb and Polema entered the battle.

  Moxadder sensing that the fight would turn in our favour if the leaders were dispatched materialised in front of Polema to offer her a taste of his daggers. But she was too quick! She carried an enchanted flail that she used then to great effect. Instead of metal balls on chains, her flail had the heads of serpents! With a flick of her wrist they spat their venom at the surprised Fastendian. He cried out in pain as the acid of their poison struck his chest Dropping his dagger he clawed at his chest, tearing off his shirt.

  But, as if sensing his own peril, just as Polema drew wrist back for another strike, Moxadder recovered his wits. His hand went to draw forth another dagger, this one coated with a vile poison of his own. 

  Polema’s wrist snapped forward again. Moxadder dove forward, ducking the globules of venom that struck the wall behind him and thrust upward into Polema’s abdomen. It was her turn now to shriek in pain! But it was more of a gasp as her body went rigid, the poison taking effect, and she toppled to the ground.

  Korb, seeing his lieutenant fall down beside him and noting that the battle ran in our favour turned on his heel and ran! The brigands, their confidence already shaken threw down their weapons and knelt grovelling before Argonne, Mortec and Morgan’s knocked bow. 

  Whilst I had heard the appeals of surrender I was unaware of Korb’s flight, so I forced my own two captives into the main chamber and began ordering them to tie each other up. Some of the Foeldian women came to help. They knew not who we were, but they did know we had claimed victory over their persecutors. 

  As I did this, I heard Moxadder rasping voice echo through the cave system, “Argonne! Korb is coming your way!”

  Before I had a chance to command Morgan and Mortec to watch the prisoners they had disappeared! Morgan ran passed me into Felt’s room and Mortec ran passed Polema’s prone form.

  A minute or two passed before they returned, although they were without Korb. As it happened Korb and run into the entrance chamber of the lower level that held an underground lake. Argonne had managed to strike him hard in the back with a sling stone, but he dove into the lake. Fearing he would escape with a quick swim to the other side of the lake and then up the ramp to the upper level Argonne took drastic action. 

  He called out to Foeld once more, but this time he did not part the stone has he had before. No, this time he called forth own of Foeld’s creatures, a shark. 

  Needless to say that Korb never did reach the other side of the lake. With a prayer of thanks to Foeld, Argonne then dismissed the shark and sent it back to the ocean from whence it had come.

  The bandits were bound and questioned, and remarkably Polema was too. It so happened that the poison Moxadder had used on her only caused her body to be rigid for a few minutes. When that time elapsed she was free to move once more. Or would have been had Moxadder not returned and bound her, after poking away her flail that was attempting to slither on the ground nearby.

  Polema, sensing her current employer was not longer able to pay for her services, was more than happy to cooperate.


----------



## Haraash Saan

Korb had recruited her in Halfast some ten months before and from there they had gone to Thessingcourt and met with Saeff, who had been an old acquaintance of Korb’s, and Felt. Together they recruited the brigands. 

Their objective had been simple. Infiltrate the Foeldians and use them as a resource to further their quest for loot and plunder. And it worked. Polema had seduced Hermeaon and then Korb and Saeff had captured him and given him to the forest troll.

From that point it was simple enough for Korb to gain absolute power of the Foeldians. However he did not count on their resistance. Thrand, who had been Hermeon’s second and snuck away with more that two thirds of the Foeldian’s. That action prompted the scenario that we had just resolved, the remaining women and children being held captive whilst the remaining Foeldian men were forced to do the bandits bidding.

However during the last few months at the Foeldian camp Polema had overheard Saeff and Korb discussing such things as “destabilisation” and a man called Decistratus. From what she had caught in snippets of conversations, Decistratus was the leader of a group called Orsa Terminus. 

Obviously that was astounding news to us! Whilst Moxadder had found the many horned demonic head symbol of Orsa Terminus on a brigand that he had found dead in the forest we had found no such markings on any of the captive or slain bandits. Not even what was left of Korb’s body or Saeff’s for that matter bore any mark of the group.

Korb visited Guerney City perhaps once a month and Polema suspected that those regular visits were tied to Decistratus. 

Searching through the brigands possessions uncovered several interesting things, including a room full of merchants goods that had been taken. The most interesting two objects had belonged to Korb. There was a map to the Rolling Lady Inn in Guerney City, an obvious tie in to Decistratus, and a marble statue to Geduld. 

The statue was the only evidence that we found that Korb had been in league with Geduld and therefore the Dominion. There was a lot more to these bandits and their activities than we first thought.

Piecing together the information we had it seemed quite simply that the banditry had been a means to an end. The end was to cause chaos in this region of the Barony of Mendus. They deliberately had disrupted previously safe trade routes and begun to sow the seeds of discontent amongst the local populace. 

We found many other trinkets and valuables, but the one I think I will value the most was a necklace. It, along with its five companions, was a simple stone with a hole in the middle of it. It does not sound particularly important, but that is because I have not shared Raedemass’s information yet.

The barbarians and giants had only recently moved into the forest, and with them there seemed to be many, many more of the Faery folk. Usually the forest housed a very small population of the mischievous sprites (and I had thought them a tall tale!), but of late they had appeared in epidemic proportions. And as Moxadder could attest, their tricks were both cruel and lethal.

The river stones on the necklaces had been naturally worn through by the water passing over the rocks. It was said that stones formed like this served as a protection against the Faeries. That is why I treasured my necklace.

We stayed within the caves for another day to rest and recuperate. In this time we discussed topics such as loot and its equal division between the Hydra and the Foeldians, transport of booty back to Montfort and more importantly to me, the prisoners and the relationship between the Foeldians and Montfort.

It was agreed that the Foeldians would establish a private trade route with Montfort so that the town and the people of Foeld could provide each other with goods and information. There was nothing I wanted more from them than friendly relations and information sharing. I saw no benefit in trying to control them, as it was they fell well outside the nominal bounds of Montfort. Their cave dwellings were subject to Mendus if anyone. 

To begin this relationship on the right track I negotiated with them to accept three of the thirteen bandits we had captured, including Polema, and they were to deal with the others as their own laws so fit. 

Hermeaon and Raedemass also raised concerns for their safety, especially from the barbarian hordes that had so recently moved into the forest from the north, so it was agreed that the entire Foeldian peoples, including those that Thrand had taken to a place called the Riven camp, would come to Montfort in hope that the barbarians would move on, driven out by the pestering Faeries.

It did not quite turn out how we planned. 

From the moment we left the caves and journeyed to the Riven Camp we were in strife. Even though Raedemass managed to hold the fey people away from causing us much trouble, barbarian scout parties held skirmishes with us almost all the way to Montfort.

We managed to capture one of these hideous and deformed looking creatures and interrogate him in his own guttural tongue before Moxadder slit his throat.

They, and the Giants, had been driven south, far from their mountains homes, by strange well armed and armoured creatures. They had either been small, wiry goblins who were plague like in numbers or their stronger and more intelligent cousins, hobgoblins. 

Even the common folk knew what those two types of creature symbolised, the Dominion. They were the primary foot soldiers of the Northern Horde, the very evil that the Gerechians had unwittingly created and that the Druids, Lorcan the master of the menhir being one, had accidentally unleashed on the world. The very group that had been “destabilising” this region via Korb and his cronies.

However its most interesting information was easily the most pressing. It had belonged to a tribe, one of many in the forest, and they were now being driven west by the constant and lethal threat of the Fey folk and their wicked games.

Close to three thousand barbarians, including more than fifteen hundred warriors, were headed for Monfort! Their scouts had already seen the end to the forest and the river that acted as a natural barrier between town and tree. 

The first of the tribes would reach the river in two days and soon after the entire barbarian horde would be on Montfort’s doorstep! There was only one shallow ford that made the river crossable, and that led straight into Montfort. It was not even half a mile from the first homes of the town.


----------



## Haraash Saan

Preparations began in earnest. I had managed to rally most of the population to stay and defend their homes and livelihoods, but a few hundred men, women and children packed what they could and decided to head west to the grassy plains of Gwaren. Our new friends, the Foeldians, ably led by Hermaeon, chose to stay and fight.

Everyone was immediately put to work. Hallkel, the mayor organised work groups to be directed by Ingolf, my trusted sergeant-at-arms. They began earth works to surround the town with a trench and build up and earthen wall. 

Scouts, led by Moxadder, were sent out to harass and slow the barbarians as well as to feed me with vital information on their movements. Argonne summoned Lorcan from the forest to aid the defence. He came quickly, very quickly. There was no doubt the strange Druid had used the power granted him by Foeld to travel so speedily. With him he brought five large wolves that he gave to Argonne. The hunched ancient stayed only a day but his effect was monumental.

When told of our plight he gave only a moments thought before ambling off, the Hydra and several important townsfolk following discreetly, to the ford. He stamped up and down a bit, mumbling something to himself as he went, on the bank of the river before he seemed satisfied. 

The Druid then sat cross legged and began rubbing his palms on the earth. To accompany this action was a low almost animal like chant. We watched him for maybe half an hour before leaving the crazy old man to his bizarre devices.

When I questioned Argonne he tried to reassure me that Lorcan was working great earthen magics and calling upon Foeld to aid him. At dusk that evening I went back to see what, if anything, had happened at the ford. Lorcan was gone, but he had left us a mighty gift from Foeld, a stone wall!

Across the entire length of the ford now stood a smooth stone wall. Witnesses later described to me what had happened. Lorcan continued his massage of the earth until, after some hours, the place that he had rubbed began to slowly rise. As it rose he crawled along, all the while rubbing the ground. As he went the wall began to spring from the very ground that housed the stone from which it was made. The end result was a magnificent wall, perfect for our defence of the ford.

Meanwhile, any Foeldian or townsmen with any skill in fletching or weapon smithing worked at increasing our arrow and spear stocks. Montfort was not a well defended town. There was no wall, although the earthen one was beginning to take shape, and the town was open on all sides. Montfort was in the very middle of Guerney, and not since the Convocation had there been any war or conflict that had come its way.

Before the Convocation it had been a reasonably sized river trading port, and an important point near the junction of three rivers and the most direct north-south road to Thessingcourt. Then the Gerechians came. They reduced the fort that sat atop the rock monolith from which the town had got its name, to rubble, and Montfort had never recovered its economic power.

Geographically it was almost as though it was in a giant clearing. The forest went for hundreds of miles to the north and east. It traveled almost to Thessingcourt, three days south, and for fifty miles to the west. There was only one gap in the south west that led to the plains beyond that had long ago been cleared by farmers.

The land itself was rich and flat, making it excellent for all manner of agriculture. In fact the only thing remarkable about the geography of Montfort was the massive rock that stood on the river.

It rose sharply some two hundred feet from the waters on its eastern side. Both its north and south sides were just as steep. Only its western side made it accessible, for it sloped down gently east to west. It was a natural sentinel n the river and for an age the keep that sat upon it kept order in the region.

Morgan, who was the only one of us that had been involved in a siege before, and I formed all the able bodied men, and those women that chose to fight, into several squads. Those with the least experience we stationed on the southern earthen rampart and the north rampart. The rest we stationed at the ford, for Moxadder and his scouts had told us that the barbarians searched the river for a suitable crossing.

During the next few days several barbarians were seen across the river. We loosed a few shafts even managing to kill a few, but the damage was done. They had found the ford.

On the third day since arriving back at Montfort word came from a scout to the north of town that a massive tribe, some five hundred strong, was building rafts to cross the river.

I was ready to send a squad of one hundred men to try and delay them. I knew that they would be lost, but my hope was that they would cause many barbarian casualties before succumbing and therefore giving the town a better chance of survival. But Argonne interjected.

He smiled at me, and there was a strange glint in his eye. “Gerard, save your men. You will need them here. I will take care of the barbarians to the north.” 

Before I could even protest the smile slowly transformed into a slavering grin. His ears became pointed. His hands and feet turned into paws and his body became covered in hair. Argonne had become a great silver maned wolf!

In an instant he was gone, loping off through town, his pack of five following him eagerly. 

I shook my head in bewilderment, unsure whether he had ever truly been just a man. 

In any case, he had claimed that he would defend the north, and for some incomprehensible reason I believed him.

Zhontell also went north, “To watch for him. Lest he do something stupid.” The elf said. He knew Argonne well.

News from the south was that a smaller band only one or two hundred was also trying to raft across the river. Raedemass and Leo, Montfort’s aging if spritely wizard, led a squad south to meet them and effectively protect our flank.

Within the hour of Argonne and the southern contingent leaving the horde was upon us!

The first wave burst through the trees. A great mass of black bodies stormed across the ford. They screamed their foreign battle cries and waved their crude swords above their heads as they charged.

Their sheer numbers decimated my first squad, who had only been farmers days before, but not without taking heavy losses themselves. My three squads of archers stopped them advancing further than Lorcan’s wall, but even as their remaining number fled, another larger group flooded the ford.

There must have been seven hundred at least, and they charged ferociously at the five hundred I had on and around the wall. They were simply going to overrun us with numbers. It was no good directing the battle anymore, it had become a massive bloody brawl.

I leapt from my vantage point, whipped out my rapier and charged into the fray! I fought long and hard, chanting battle cries seeking to inspire the men as I slew barbarian after foul faced barbarian. 

I could feel myself giving ground. The Montfortian defenders were wavering. 

Far to the north I could see a summer storm brewing. Thunder boomed and forks of lightening lanced out from the sky.

All of the sudden there was deafening bellow that caused one and all to glance at its source. What I saw was remarkable! A glowing white figure astride a white horse, screamed his god’s name, ‘Thuus! Thuus! Thuus!” over and over again, each cry being reinforced with a thrust of his long spear into the air. It was Morgan! Of all people I did not expect him to be the saviour of Montfort.

Then he charged!


----------



## Haraash Saan

Emotion swept through the tiring defenders! They pushed forward. Inspired by the white warrior I landed three quick thrusts and managed to reach the wall, which some time ago had been taken. I hauled myself up on it, lifted my rapier in the air and added my own simple cry of defiance. “Montfort! To me!” and leapt down onto the muddy bank into the massed barbarians.

How we actually turned them I do not know. How I survived I do not know. But sure enough before long Montfort had reclaimed the wall and driven the assault back. The barbarians, routed, fled back across the ford to cower in the trees.

We began to regroup and remove our wounded from the field so that the women could try and save them. 

I rested, sitting casually on the wall, my feet idly swinging back and forth when into view flying at great speed, low across the water was an eagle. One that looked remarkably familiar. Even at this distance and its speed, it was an ugly, ugly bird. Argonne!

Pursuing him flew, for there is no better way to describe it, a mighty chariot pulled by a dozen huge reindeer. They galloped through the air, hooves magically propelling the great vehicle forward. The charioteer was just as peculiar as her carriage. A beautiful giant of a woman, taller than two men, who was completely naked, held the reins of the chariot in her right hand and a giant spear in her left. Her expression was not one of happiness. In fact, she seemed to have singe marks on her back. 

Trailing her were a dozen mounted elves. Each rode a magnificent white charger.

The elves also carried spears and they too did not look pleased. What had Argonne done?

The eagle banked sharply and flew straight through the trees and into the encampment of barbarians. Its hunters followed. So intent on Argonne had they become that they ignored the cowering barbarians beneath them.

I could hear many crashes in the trees, before suddenly the eagle burst through them and sped with all its might straight at the monolith of Montfort. It flew so fast and so direct that I doubted Argonne would have time to avoid the massive rock. 

He did not. With an eruption of feathers Argonne the eagle slammed into the rock face of the monolith. I cringed at the ferocity of the impact. Surely my companion was dead.

But there was little time for mourning. Almost the instant that Argonne had dashed himself against the rock the barbarians chose to flee the forest and the great huntress within it and fling themselves once more at Lorcan’s wall.

Injured and poorly armed most were cut down by the last of our arrows. Those that were not were quickly killed.

The barbarian threat, at least for the moment, had passed. The Battle of the Ford was over.

One hundred and thirty nine Montfortians and one hundred and four Foeldians lost their lives on that fateful day, more than one third of the men available to me. Hundreds more were severely injured, it would take many weeks to recover.

We had managed to kill over sixteen hundred barbarians, including those injured that we found and ceased their suffering, almost eight times the number of our own losses.

It was a terrible and bloody day and one that I would ensure that the people of Montfort and Guerney would not forget.

**********************************************

That evening, whilst we celebrated our victory and mourned the valiant who had fallen, we were treated to one last surprise. The Hydra were sitting quietly together, reflecting upon Argonne and his insanities when finally I stood and raised a mug of Astrid’s Marvellous Mead, as my companions also pushed themselves up from their seats, “To Argonne. Brave to a fault and somewhat disturbed, but he was our very own and will be always remembered as our comrade and friend.”

“I should think so!” came an unexpected reply.

We turned and to our great bewilderment there was Argonne, striding through the masses, a big, lopsided, and deformed grin etched on his face. 

Assailed by hugs, joyous laughter and a torrent of questions, eventually we calmed to listen to his tale.

Argonne had gone north as he said, but his intention was never to take on the horde with only himself and his wolves, oh no he was much more ambitious! He had somehow summoned the Goddess Srcan the huntress and her entourage! He commanded them to hunt the barbarians, which they did, but when their bloody work was done they turned on their summoner, Argonne, who in the battle had accidentally burnt the Goddess (which explained the singe mark on her back).

It was then that he saw the flaw in his plan, commanding Gods is not something one should trifle with. So he transformed into an eagle and took flight.

We saw what happened next, although even he was at a loss as to why Srcan did not follow him from the forest in the moment before he smashed into the rock face. Perhaps, because like us, she thought him dead, and with her quarry gone there was no need to continue the pursuit.

As we now knew he did not die, no, instead he had merged his body into the very rock. But he had become disoriented after being wolf, eagle and finally rock that he had been trapped for several hours before regaining his wits and, in his words, “swimming” through the rock and once again out to become a man once more.

If anyone else had told this tale we would have laughed uncontrollably at his foolishness, but this was Argonne, and after what we had seen over the past few days it seemed perfectly normal. And it was good to have him back.


----------



## Haraash Saan

*Chapter 13 *



The next two days were a blur. I ran myself ragged trying to consolidate the population of Montfort and prepare for any other barbarian attacks; scouting expeditions so that we could be forewarned of any other barbarian incursions into the Montfort region and a small consolidated force was ever vigilant should Montfort be assaulted again. Thankfully the barbarian threat troubled us no more.

Those brave unfortunates that had fallen to the cruel blades and vicious arrows of our foes were prayed for and dedicated to Laster. He would see to it that they enjoyed their afterlives in Pandemonium. I said a very personal prayer for Valgerd, the captain of my guard, Kerik, my astute tax collector and Hroald, an old family retainer that had worked for my father and had come to Montfort to manage my residence there. All had died in defence of the town that they called home.

I sent riders to Thessingcourt to inform the Baron Mendus of our victory and the situation that had unfolded. Mayor Halkell I dispatched to attempt to convince those Montfortians that had taken their families west before the battle to return to their homes. Whilst I myself set about convincing as many Foeldians to stay here at Montfort and create new lives for themselves. In this endeavour I was marginally successful. Perhaps a hundred and twenty of the forest folk chose to stay and build their homes in the town. 

The defences of Montfort were also worked upon. A small tower now stood upon the hill. Once again a fort looked over the town and the surrounding lands.

Somehow in those two days I also managed to establish a small group of townsfolk to act as mercenaries in my employ to assist in the protection of Montfort. They were to be trained, although they had come to my notice through their efforts on the battlefield. There were nine members in all including holy men, magical adepts and of course skilled warriors and trackers. To lead this band I chose a woman. 

She drew herself to my attention during the second assault of the barbarians when, she threw herself into the fray. Her spear stuck one of attackers, felling him, but it was her next action that was remarkable. A comrade of the foe she had slain launched himself at her in a rage and attempted to avenge his friend with one fatal blow. Ingrid crouched to duck the blow, as she did she thrust her left palm into the fellows stomach. On contact there was a terrible flash of flame and her would be killer was catapulted ten feet into the air before crashing, quite dead, on another pair of barbarians. Quite calmly she wrenched her spear out its resting place and suddenly she erupted in a bold cry, “Montfort!”. Those around her were so inspired by her actions they managed to push their line forward into the oncoming horde. My attention was drawn elsewhere after this and I saw her not until just before the barbarians launched their final assault.

I had been preparing the defences and encouraging the troops, a great leader will always personally inspire the men, they draw courage from the sight of their general amongst them, when I saw the same woman from the battle standing atop a small pile of barbarian corpses. She was urging all around her to be prepared for the inevitable charge of the men from the mountain steppes. She spoke passionately of Montfort and its people. There was pride and power in her voice, she commanded people to listen, and even as they did I could sense that they were responding to her impassioned speech. 

She finished her urgings, to a rousing cheer from those assembled, I approached her, keen to learn more about her.

“That was a wonderful speech.” I said softly.

She turned, flicking her bloodied long wavy hair across her shoulder, to see who it was that addressed her.

She recognised me, as she should, in an instant. “Thank you milord.” She responded, eyes never wavering their gaze from my own.

There was a steely resolve about her. Her head was held high, she was no mere peasant. She wore tight leather travelling pants and a hard leather vest laced somewhat revealingly across it’s front. Her clothes were stained with her own blood that had seeped from half a dozen small gashes and those of her foes.

In fading light of dusk she looked like some sort of warrior queen, proud and beautiful.

“What is your name?” I queried.

“Ingrid milord.”

“Well Ingrid, when this fight is done with, come and see me. I believe that we could have much to discuss.” I said.

“Indeed milord?” she responded with a cocked brow.

“Indeed.” I replied with a smile as I left her to continue my work.

Ingrid did as I asked. She told me of her love of Montfort and how she wished it to be a true power in Guerney. She envisioned it being a hub for trade along the river, allowing better access to Thessingcourt for all manner of goods, as well as being a gateway to river traffic to Guerney City in the east. Her passion was a breath of fresh air to me, reigniting my own thoughts of restabilising Montfort into so much more than a small hamlet in the middle of a forest.

We spoke long into the night, before I allowed her to seduce me. I was so very glad that I did.

I said earlier that I had brought together a small group of Montfortians to act as mercenaries to aid the defence of Montfort, in actual fact it was Ingrid that organised everything, awaiting only on my approval of her selected men and one other woman. 

On the third day after the battle I was feeling rather exhausted after yet another late evening with Ingrid and I had chosen to continue to slumber well into the morning. However I did not quite achieve my desired rest.

“Milord.” A voice called, stirring me. Then the knocking started, “Milord.” A little more urgently.

Then the pounding started. Too much of Astrid’s Marvelous Mead shared with Ingrid I suspect. 

The voice spoke a third time, “Milord. I have news of your sister.”


----------



## Haraash Saan

I leaped from my snug surrounds, dragging a sheet with me to afford me some modesty, and yanked the door open. A guardsman, most startled and bemused at my state of undress, stood and spluttered. “The woman Grimhilda, has entered the town and requested an audience milord.”

“Very well, give me a moment and then send her to me!” I commanded, both embarrassed at my personal state and nervous at the news the Isabella’s friend would have for me. 

The poor woman was in a terrible state. Her clothing was torn and bloodied and she herself wore cuts and grazes that were intermingled with dirt patches. I shuddered inwardly before asking her my most important question.

“Is Isabella alive?” 

“Yes milord.” Was Grimhilda’s husky response.

I have no doubt that I have ever felt as much joy in that moment as I had ever had in my entire life. I slumped into a chair and urged her to tell me her tale.

She had been visiting Isabella when my sister’s simple cottage had suddenly had a portion of its roof torn off! Peering into the sitting room that the women had occupied was a huge, hideous leering face.

Before either of them could react two massive hands reached into the room and grabbed them, none so gently, so that each was held within the creatures grasp. They were lifted outside the house and there they saw the strangest of sights. 

Five huge humanoid forms stood in the large clearing that surrounded Isabella’s cottage. They were creatures that had stepped straight from the tales told to children by their mothers to frighten them, giants!

I of course knew that they existed. I had seen large prints that their feet and boots had left. I had heard the tales from Moxadder if their encounters with them in the forest, and of course I had seen the massive skins that had been strung out in the forest by the barbarians that had fought and killed them.

The two captives, still held within their fingered prisons, were quickly taken away, north into the depths of the forest. After several miles, Grimhilda was not sure as her captors strides were so much larger than a normal mans, the party of giants stopped in a rocky clearing that they had made their home. 

Perhaps another three dozen giants waited in the clearing. The largest rose from the boulder he used as a chair and asked in some sort of strange guttural bastardization of Guernian, “Rilak, what do you bring?”

The giant that carried the women answered, “More animals to feed us, but also these two.” As Rilak said this he thrust his hands forward to show the large giant his captives.

“Hmm.” Said the large giant contemplating the prize offered before him.

It was at this point that Isabella spoke, “Oh mighty mountain lord, please do not harm us. There is much that we could help you with.” 

Grimhilda could not recall what else it was that Isabella had said, her voice had seemed distant, yet comforting and Grimhilda felt a great sense of peace come over her, before slipping into unconsciousness. 

When she woke, she found herself laying on a thick bed of fresh leaves and saw that Isabella was free and sitting upon the largest giants knee and talking to him.

Later Isabella had told her that she had used her talent, to bend the thoughts of their captors to be more accommodating. Isabella had then instructed Grimhilda to come to Montfort and tell me what had happened, and that she could not contact me as her scarf, the matching one to the one I wore, had been torn from her in the journey north with the giants. Isabella had told Grimhilda to tell me that she was safe, and that there was no need for alarm, or concern that the giants may be a problem.

This fantastic tale brought me much relief and happiness, however I still wanted very much to see Isabella, my darling sister.

No sooner than I had sent Grimhilda to freshen herself, take some food and prepare for a journey back to the giants to lead me to my sister than I heard a trumpet from somewhere outside.

I wandered from my room and went to investigate. My Montfort residence was a modest house, perhaps a little larger and more kept than most, but modest nevertheless. It was centrally located on the town square and adjacent to the barracks.

In the centre of the town common sat astride a horse was a herald wearing the red and gold livery of the King of Guerney. A trumpet rested by the saddle held by a special loop made for the very purpose. In his hand he held a rolled scroll.

Seeing me, and I noticed his eyes flashed to my finger, no doubt checking for my signet ring, he dismounted and bowed low.

“Milord, Sir Gerard de Monfort?” he probed.

“Indeed.” I said, curious to know what information the Kings man had for me.

The herald unrolled the scroll he bore, cleared his throat and called out, “Sir Gerard de Montfort, his Majesty, King Thurlland the second, wishes you to attend him at the palace in Guerney  City.”

With that short announcement he quickly rolled his scroll and tucked it under his arm. Then, from somewhere secreted upon himself, he retrieved a small wooden box, approached me and said somewhat more softly, “Sir Gerard, the King wishes you to have this gift. I believe that there is a message within the box, that perhaps you may wish to read privately.”

“Thank you good man,” I said as I accepted the box, “please fresh yourself and rest a day or too. No doubt you are weary from your ride.”

“Thank you Sir Gerard for you kind hospitality, but the King’s messages are never delivered quickly enough. With your leave, and perhaps a fresh horse, I will be off at once.” He responded politely but with a smarmy and arrogant undertone.

“Of course,” I replied shortly as I summoned my stable man to replace the herald’s horse. I then turned on my heel and once more took to my room to reveal the contents of the King’s gift.

With legs crossed and boots resting on my writing desk I rocked back on my chair and contemplated the small box. It was quite a simple square box with no royal designs or intricate carvings. I tumbled it between my fingers, it was no larger than my hand span. 

Ceasing my fidgeting I regarded the clasp. What was it that the King could possibly want me to have? Whilst I freely admit I always leave a lasting impression, I was almost certain that he had forgotten my deeds in Halfast. 

Curiosity overcame my wandering thoughts. I placed the box on my desk and sat up, crouching over my prize. I flipped the brass latch and with both hands delicately raised the lid.

A sharp hiss caused me to recoil immediately, knocking me from my chair! Within the box was a small coiled pale green serpent, its forked tongue darted out from its mouth tasting the fresh air.

Eldritch Light had somehow appeared in my hand as I scrambled to my feet and faced the snake, making sure that it was at least the length of my blade away from me. 

Why would the King seek to kill me? Surly my quick reflexes had saved me! Was the herald the King’s man at all? Did he just wear the colours? Who conspired to have me poisoned?

My flashing thoughts were broken by a soft lisping hiss, “It iss good that your are caussious Ssir Gerard. But in thiss casse you have nothing to fear.”

I wheeled instantly to face the intruder, only to find that no one else was in the room. What magic was this?


----------



## Haraash Saan

Once again the soft voice rasped, “There is no one elsse here but you and I Ssir Gerard. And ass I ssaid, you have nothing to fear.”

It was the viper that had spoken! Turning slowly and somewhat incredulously I said, “Forgive me my scaly friend. You startled me.”

I should have guessed. Several other animals I had encountered on Anka Seth seemed blessed with speech, in fact my magical education had revealed that all manner of things had the gift of tongues, but no matter how many times I heard animals speak I could not quite get used to it.

“My friend serpent, how is it that I may help you? I believe you are a gift from King Thuurland the second?” I continued, quickly regaining my composure.

“Indeed I am Ssir Gerard. I am called Ninfuss Nex and am only one ssmall part of the gift that the King hass granted you.” Replied Ninfus Nex, his emerald green eyes seemed to twinkle as he spoke. “I offer my sservicess, ass I have to many before you in the Order of the Wyrm. I come to insstruct ass well ass to sserve.”

The King had indeed singled me out for a very special gift. The Order of the Wyrm was a most prestigious group. Essentially, as Ninfus explained, “The lawss of the Order are ssimple: Protect the Kingdom, Protect the Faith and aid your brotherss in need.”

There were only twenty four members of the Order at anytime, I only knew of one other that Ninfus Nex had mentioned, Sir Aeron de Ellesmere, one of Baron Mendus’s other knights.

“There are many wayss I can sserve you my Lord, but to be mosst effective I need to be closse to you.” As he said this he glanced at the aggressive stance I still held, “Perhapss if I wrap mysself around your ssword it would be mosst appropriate?”

“Um, yes, certainly, if you think it best.” I stammered, overcome by the enormity of the Kings gift.

As Ninfus Nex slithered around the guard of Eldritch Light, curling himself around it as he went he told me of some of the services he could provide.

“On your order I will sspit my venom upon your sswordss’ blade sso that any opponent sstruck will feel ass if they had been bitten by me. But be wary, I tire eassily and can only produsse a limited amount of poisson each day.”

He continued, “Ssecond when you presss your ssword point againsst the throat of your foe I will be able to tell you the truth of their wordss. And finally I will be able to offer you my knowledge and thoughtss if they can be of any help.”

“You must make haste to Guerney City to be officially welcomed to the Order! I will be here when you need me.” said Ninfus Nex, and with that he wound himself once more around my hilt before appearing to become one with it. His pale green scales were now the colour of the steel of my sword, only his emerald eyes sparkled as if they were gems. Ninfus Nex was now a most unusual ornament for my sword hilt.

There was one other object in the box, a green brooch of a snake that was intertwined around a silver staff that acted as the brooch’s pin. I carefully secured it to my doublet, and proceeded to the Drunk Duck. If ever there was a time that I needed Astrid’s delightful brew it was now. 

I spent several hours contemplating all that I had just learnt, before Moxadder approached with an expectant expression etched on his face.

“Gerard,” he began, once again ignoring my title, “you can read lots of languages can’t you?”

I sighed, wishing he would leave me be.

 “What’s this say?” he said as he thrust a dagger toward me.

Recoiling a little from the close proximity of the blade, I took it by the point and inspected it. It was no ordinary dagger, that I could see and I was no weapon smith. It was beautifully crafted, interlocking leaves of steel formed the guard and it was very well weighted. No doubt it could be thrown a distance accurately but also had enough weight to deliver a murderous stab. 

Most curious, for I was curious now, was the writing that was on its blade. 

“On the Third day Geirr, the steadfast one, killed two thousand men, and had his tower reduced to rubble around him but still he fought. His foes then tried to woo him with offers of wealth and peace and maidens if he would surrender and tell to where his people fled. Geirr was not tempted and slew himself at the setting of the sun of the third day.”

It was inscribed in the old formal tongue, used during the Convocation, Old Gerechian. Not a common language and usually only used in formal procedures or in the names of the children of old families. Tasmar Maron Devlis, the loner from Ravenswood with the dolphin Elwing that guided us to Sorcerer’s Isle, was one whose name was in the old language.

“Really?” said Moxadder, wide eyed by the translation. He then somewhat sheepishly added, “So who’s this Geirr anyway?”

It was not as foolish a question as the Irudeshian had thought. I had knew only that Geirr was a saint of the Thuusian faith. 

The next day, even as I prepared to travel North   West to Treville to call upon my sister and her new found friends, a familiar gentle voice purred into my mind.

“Gerard?” called Isabella.

“Isabella!” I cried out loudly in my excitement, and then realising my mistake I repeated her name with my thoughts.

“Dear brother I have found my scarf, one of my friends, whilst returning me home, saw it snagged on a branch and fetched it for me.” She said.

“That is excellent news! Even as we speak I am packing to come and visit. It has been too long since I have seen you Isabella.” I said.

We discussed a great many things. I painted her a picture of my most recent exploits and the great battle for Montfort, and she in turn told me that the giants that she had befriended had found a rocky valley deep in the forest of Treville which they now called home. I was alarmed by this news, but she soothed my anxiousness by explaining that she and they had an understanding and that in effect the giants were our allies, providing we did nothing to harm them, they would do nothing to harm us.

In fact, I reasoned, they would be most advantageous if the Dominion was indeed marching South through the mountains and into Guerney.

I told her of Saeff, the bastard son of Sir Gwan of Stowmarket, she told me that regardless of Lady Gyda’s disinterest it would be remiss of me if I did not visit by Stowmarket and deliver the news of her husbands son’s death.

When I mentioned to her that I was to welcomed into the Order of the Wyrm Isabella became quite excited. “Gerard, you will have to postpone your visit to see me! You must make all haste to see the King and receive this most prestigious honour!”

She continued to say what I myself had thought, that perhaps my visit to the spinster Lady Gyda could be more formal and that I should commence courting her. It made sense. Lady Gyda controlled a powerful trading town and it was adjacent to my own lands. It would be an ideal situation to marry her so as to gain a significant land holding in the Barony of Mendus. I hoped I liked her.

So it was settled, whilst it pained me to do so, I did not visit Isabella. Instead, at her insistence, the Hydra and I set off, once more travellers of Anka Seth.


----------



## Haraash Saan

After travelling down the river for most of the next day, spending the previous day provisioning for our journey to Guerney City, we arrived at the walled river town of Stowmarket. 

At least twice the size of Montfort the river port was well situated, having been built at the fork of two prominent rivers. On its southern bank the river flowed east to a the smaller town of Tilsborough were the it met the road to Guerney  City. On Stowmarket’s western bank flowed the Tarnus that came all the way from the icy caps of the mountains that the barbarians and giants and recently called home. Both rivers carried significant trade traffic and therefore Stowmarket became a merchant’s haven. It was an unusual locale though. In the heart of the forest, and with very little land to grow crops it survived on the very trade that passed through it. There were only two roads leading from the town, a rough track not fit for a wagon that led to Montfort, and a slightly larger one that led to Tilsborough. 

The few times I had travelled to Stowmarket in the past it had been a bustling river port with several markets that were brimming with all manner of common and exotic produce and goods. However that seemed a reflection of better times. It was obvious that the threat of barbarians and bandits had severely impacted the majority of the trade that passed through.

Lady Gyda, upon hearing of my arrival, met me formally and offered my companions and I lodging for the evening at the small keep in the centre of town.

She was a handsome woman, although she did not have the soft look of a lady of the courts, there was a hard edge to her. Perhaps it was her proud bearing or her aloof demeanour, or maybe it was that her skin had not been protected by all manner herbal treatments like so many ladies that I had known in Thessingcourt.

Her raven black hair was worn in a single plait that ran almost to her waist. Crowning her head was a thin circlet of silver with a single small ruby in its centre.

I must admit that I felt an unusual attraction to her. She was a woman different to most of those I had met. In fact she reminded me a great deal of Timandra, Baron Yorath’s aide. They were both desirable, perhaps it was because they seemed unattainable. Timandra, because she, like Lady Gyda, mourned her husband, and Gyda because she also had a reputation of turning away all suitors.

That evening I managed a brief audience with Lady Gyda, as she too was preparing to travel to Guerney City after receiving a summons from the King. 

I told her of the fate of the bandits and Saeff’s involvement with them and his most unfortunate demise. She took the news well, in fact there was barely a flicker of acknowledgement in her eyes. 

“That boy was always going to cause trouble. It seems he finally got what he deserved.” She said coldly.

The information of the barbarians was of much more interest to her than the death of her late husbands bastard. She was keen to hear the details of the battle and nodded her approval for the most part, but now and again she would mutter and shake her head, disagreeing with the approach I had taken. Nevertheless she was most pleased that the barbarian menace was no longer an immediate threat, “Who knows how long it will be before more succumb and move south?”

The rest of our conversation was made quite brief when she excused herself so as to be prepared for her journey. 

“Of course My Lady you are most welcome to travel with myself and the Hydra, as we are also going to Guerney  City.” I offered.

It was an invitation I was most pleased that she accepted, although her teenage son Havold was none to pleased at the prospect of his mother travelling with someone he saw as a potential suitor. Apparently he was very much against his mother remarrying, and worse still, handing over control of the lands of Stowmarket.

There was no doubting that Lady Gyda was capable. The morning saw her dressed prepared for any encounter. She wore a chain mail shirt atop a sturdy leather jerkin, under which was a quality silk shirt. This warrior woman also chose not to wear the more conventional dress and instead wore leather riding pants and boots. Strapped to her side was a broad sword and on her back was an unstrung longbow and quiver.

She really was a woman different to any I had known! 

With her was a male squire, a strong and likely sort, that carried her round shield and other belongings and six mounted guardsman in the livery of Stowmarket.

After two days of river travel we arrived and Tilsborough on the eaves of the forest and there mounted horses and rode east for almost three weeks before arriving at the capital of Guerney, Guerney City.

Larger than both Halfast and Thessingcourt, Guerney  City, that I had only visited once before, was a hive of chaos. The noise, after spending so long in the wilderness or in Montfort, was extraordinary, and the smell, well it required me to keep my kerchief close at hand.

Thankfully it was not one of the winter months and at least it was dry so the streets were not churned with mud. Only when we arrived in the inner part of the city did the horse hooves finally strike cobbles.

The castle sat upon a small hill, the hub of a city that continued to expand well beyond its defences. It was there that he made for and soon we were being shown to our lodgings. I was shown to a spacious and quite luxurious room and my companions, much to their annoyance, and my pleasure (it really was about time that they stopping believing they were above their station), through to some much smaller rooms in the bowels of the great fortress. 

A tall but plump man with a shock of silver hair called Hrast introduced himself as my butler for the duration of my stay. There was no doubt that Hrast knew his position well, the man was a true gem! I had never been so efficiently served in all of my life. Upon complimenting the man he only bowed low and said somewhat cockily, “The King only hires the best milord.”

I had two days to recover from the long journey before once again facing the King. 

Other than the time I spent with Gyda I tried to discover who it was that had come to the King’s summons. All manner of nobility had come, including Sir Aeron de Ellesmere, also of the Order of the Wyrm and his wife Lady Kiera de Ellesmere and most significantly was young Prince Brand and his advisors. Upon learning this news I left no stone unturned in attempting to discover his advisors identities.

Eventually I learned that his party comprised of; Hugh Phargus, a warrior of some repute, Pomerial of the Birch, an elf with mystical powers, Larran Susspuruss and Trovi Negatus. There were also three strange folk that were rumoured to have the blood of demons running through their veins; Voltaire, another mage and Tobey and Tallbott both accomplished scouts and warriors. Finally was Daregushi, the very same man that had been implicated in the poisoning attempt on the King in Halfast, and the man that Moxadder was mortally afraid of.

If Brand and his cronies were in the city then we had little doubt that there was some sort of plot afoot. From the moment I met him all those months ago in Halfast I did not like him. We would have to be watchful.

More distressing than Brand being in Guerney City was the news that some two months ago, when we had been travelling to Montfort from Halfast, Prince Jeremy, the King’s firstborn, had fallen in a riding accident and been killed. This was terrible news! Although Jeremy had shown no inclination to pay heed to the threat from the Dominion, he had been a wise and intelligent man who one day would have become a good King, now Brand was one step closer to the crown. Only the King’s poor health and his elder sister Princess Isabella stood in his way.


----------



## Haraash Saan

Before me sat King Thurlland II. He coughed violently, his clenched teeth muting the rasping gurgle. Thurlland’s wizened face looked to have aged years since I first knelt before him in Halfast not two months ago. His cough abated and he gazed down upon me with his sunken bloodshot eyes. There was no doubt that his illness was causing his health to rapidly deteriorate. 



The High Priest Prelate Gosforth and the Abbot Masbank continued their long and tedious incantations. The ceremony itself had long lost my interest. At first my chest had swelled with pride, but after awhile and with no end in sight, even I got bored at an occasion that was essentially held in my honour. I had been kneeling on a splendid lush red carpet for more than an hour and still Gosforth had not reached his climax. 

Beside me knelt a horrid looking woman. My first glance at her had been enough to convince me not to look upon her again. Buckteeth rested beneath a thin top lip. A large a bulbous nose, that caused a frightful snorting sound each time she inhaled matched her frog like bulging eyes. Her name was Irviel and she was a silk merchant and magistrate from a small town near Riverglenn. She was being inducting into the Order due to her extreme diligence at upholding the law and her swift and harsh justice. 

Queen Helena sat beside the King in a matching throne of polished dark timber and gold with red velvet cushions. A polite smile was etched onto her face as she blatantly ignored the tedium and stared off into the distance. 

My parents and a few other notables had gathered to witness the event, even the Hydra had come along, although I know not why as they had shown very little interest or appreciation for all that I had done. Not everyone helps to save the King’s life or orchestrates the successful defense of a virtually indefensible town. 

Finally, after another hour the agony was over. Prelate Gosforth stepped aside, head bowed and King Thurlland struggled to his feet. A boy carrying a green cushion on which rested a gnarled stick about two feet long, knelt before the King, presenting him with the wooden branch. 

Thurlland took it up in his right hand as he tried to suppress another cough that raked his body with pain. After a couple of deep breaths to settle himself he looked at me fondly and smiled, “Sir Gerard d’Montfort, present your left wrist.” 

I was puzzled by his request, but acceded and pulled my sleeve up and expose my wrist. 

“Serpentus!“ commanded the King in a deep baritone that in no way suited his feeble disposition. 

I could sense the power in his voice. He had called forth a great magic in the ancient tongue! 

Suddenly the branch in his hand started to writhe and wriggle. As it became more flexible, the hard and gnarled wood slowly change into shiny green scales. As I stared at the transformation I realised what it was that was happening. The branch had transformed into a snake.

Its’ head bobbed this way and that, as if sizing me up and deciding whether I was worthy. Its’ forked tongue flicked in and out of its thin, cruel and almost mocking mouth and in the next instant it launched itself at me. It took all my courage to stop myself from turning away from the inevitable. 

I felt the serpents fangs sink deep into my wrist. A wave of nausea struck me as the poison flowed in my veins. Then the pain started. It began as a numb ache very quickly became agony. I vaguely heard the same address to Irviel as I concentrated on not collapsing face first into the plush carpet beneath me. 

Just as I felt I could no longer cope with the pain without screaming, my brooch, the second of the King’s gifts which I had worn deliberately to the ceremony, radiated a soothing heat to my heart over which it sat. Instantaneously the pain subsided until I could feel it no more. 

“Rise Sir Gerard d’Montfort, and welcome to the Order of the Wyrm.” Said the King. 

I stood, somewhat shakily, took the King’s hand and kissed it. “Thank you my lord.” I whispered. 

He repeated similar words to Irviel and the ceremony was finally complete. 

After the ritualistic formality of the induction into the Order of the Wyrm there was a much more informal celebration. Those gathered thronged about talking in small clumped groups while servants provided refreshments on platters. I tried to maneuver to myself to a position in which I could speak to the King but Irviel had managed to corner him and was in earnest conversation. 

Instead I made polite conversation with Queen Helena and just as she had finished telling me that Princess Isabella was currently in Morannin in the Fastness learning the ways of the foreign court, that Argonne’s voice burst across the room. “Assassins! The King is hurt!” came his cry. 

I sprinted to his side and found him kneeling over the King and reciting a Foeldian incantation. The King was ashen! He lay behind a desk, on his back, in a small antechamber that adjoined the throne room in which we had all been milling. His crown had toppled from his head and rolled to a rest in a corner of the room. 

“Mortec!” I yelled, hoping that Todesmagie, in his great wisdom, could save the King. 

I knelt beside Thurlland and clutched his hand to my mouth praying softly to Laster. He felt my presence for he clasped my hand strongly and lifted himself up to me until he was no more than a few inches from my face. His eyes widened and he hissed desperately, “Avenge me!” before collapsing back to the floor.


----------



## Haraash Saan

His command stirred me into action. I raced into the throne room with Eldritch Light clutched in my palm. I saw a flash of cloth disappear around the entrance to the great hall and I tore off in pursuit. 

I burst into the waiting chamber, a massive room with large tapestries that captured moments of Guerney’s glory hanging from the walls. Across the other side of the room I saw the Zhontell flailing his fists at Irveil, and Morgan was fast approaching. 

Irveil broke free of Zhontell’s fierce assault and ran from the room. The Elf and Morgan were close on her heels. I sensed Moxadder only steps behind me, and together we followed as fast as we could. 

We whipped down a long corridor and through another doorway before finally arriving at the scene of a ferocious battle. Zhontell was once more pounding the hapless magistrate, and as we rounded the corner Morgan launched himself into a flying tackle. Sensing the danger Irveil twisted aside from Morgan’s attack, sending him sprawling to the ground. 

However, the failed maneuver bought precious seconds, allowing Moxadder and I to arrive and confront Irveil. 

“Yeild!” I commanded, pausing momentarily to await her reply. When one was not forthcoming I drove my rapier deep into her side. 

Moxadder also struck her with a dagger, but she was resilient and would not fall. 

Our blows seemed only trifling to her and with contempt in her eye and a cruel smile upon her lips she barked a magical command. How a magistrate had skills of magic was beyond me.  

She wore an expression of smug confidence. Appearing suddenly, two massive walls of fire blocked both our exits; from whence we had come and from the doorway at the far end of the corridor. They were so tall that the flames almost licked the ceiling, close enough to blacken the panels with their heat. We were trapped. I had thought that outnumbering her four to one gave us the advantage, I was no longer so certain. Irveil’s words did nothing to comfort me, “Welcome to hell in Dominus.” She said.  

She brushed aside our next feeble assaults with ease. As she sidestepped my clumsy attempt to pierce her I saw a tapestry begin to burn. Previously it had been well out of range of the fire, but now the flames seemed to be advancing toward us! As she stepped away from my blade she pulled a small glass sphere from her skirts and threw it to the ground. 

It burst open and out of it rose a frameless mirror of liquid that was the height of a man. The strange black stuff rippled as it reflected the flames that surrounded us. 

Following the motion of her throw she spun and darted towards the mirror seeking to run through it. Morgan, however, had other plans. He dove straight into her with such force that both he and she were knocked to the ground. 

The force of the tackle drew an inhuman wail from Irveil’s lips. Her very cry felt like it cut through to my soul, instantly weakening me. I was so disoriented that my next swipe caused me to stumble. The room had begun to swirl before my eyes, the creeping flames spinning into one orange and yellow blur. 

With unexpected strength the magistrate threw Morgan off her and then let loose another command. I shook my head trying to clear my vision, and whilst I succeeded, I continued to feel dreadful and I liked not what I saw. 

Several of the King’s guards had rushed bravely through the flames looking rather singed and frightened. Whilst this instantaneously brought me a feeling of relief, the moment was just as quickly lost, for three unearthly beasts stepped from the flames that now almost surrounded us. They looked like strange lizards, though they walking upright and wielding weapons like men. I could not see a thread of clothing on them for they were bathed in flames that danced about them as if they were fire in humanoid form. 

The largest of them, at least a few feet taller than I, thrust its mighty spear at the recently arrived guardsmen. The effect was gruesome. Two guards were impaled so that they now resembled some horrid kebab from Irudesh City.  

Another of the lizards took a swipe at me with its vicious curved sword. Irveil forgotten, I in turn thrust at him. My rapier clipped his flank drawing sizzling blood. What manner of hells spawn did we fight?  

Zhontell, meanwhile, had finally managed to land a series of blows on Irveil. The elf pummeled her repeatedly, until finally he rocked back onto one leg and smashed the heel of his other foot under Irveil’s jaw. Her head jerked back with a violent snap and she was flung backwards where she landed in a crumpled pile. 

From the woman that had been Irveil there rose a ghostly apparition. First it’s transparent head and then its shoulders and arms. Its hands somehow pressed upon the corpse that housed it and pushed upwards, as if in a struggle to release itself from its mortal shackles. 

Moxadder, none too phased, or perhaps too panicked to react rationally (which was always difficult for him in any case), slashed at it with a dagger. The blade passed harmlessly through where its jugular would have been. Ignoring the attack from Moxadder it continued its struggle until it seemed to leap out of Irveil’s body. 

Before us hovered a ghost! The shade let loose with a cry, a low moan that seemed to echo throughout our flaming prison. It was the most terrible noise I had ever heard. My left hand clawed at my chest, for my heart went cold and still. I could feel my limbs shivering and my fingers go numb. I was filled with the utmost dread. 

Moxadder must have been similarly affected, for he ran passed me and straight at the wall. Just before I expected to see him crash headlong into it he leapt forward with feet and hands splayed before him and seemed to stick to the wall! The leap slowed his momentum not one bit, for before I could blink he has somehow climbed the wall and crouched, upside down, on the ceiling, quietly rocking back and forth. 

I could not gaze upon the apparition, and I have no shame in admitting it. I was petrified of it. The battle continued around me but, I was too distraught to know it. 

The thing that brought me out of my hopelessness was the unusually calm and strong voice of Morgan. I looked upon him and gazed in wonder. He radiated pure white light. In his right hand he held the scepter of Artyom Seth. “Gerard. Moxadder. Come back to us.” He said softly. And then in a deep and rumbling command, “COME BACK NOW!” 

His last word snapped me from the darkness that engulfed my heart. Before me stood the man-lizard. Beyond him was Morgan, no longer bathed in white, but still wielding the scepter against the evil shade. Zhontell stood beside him, fists ready to strike at thin air. The guards all lay dead, strewn about as if a child had thrown his toys. 

Even as I saw the scene before me, Mortec stepped from the flames that were so close now that I could feel their burning heat. Smoke seemed to come from every pore on his body. His face was blistered and his clothing charred, but still the brave Gnome had come to the aid of his comrades. 

Such was the power in Morgan’s call that I paid no heed no my assailant until it was too late. Steel flashed down at my skull, I ducked and instinctively threw my left arm above my face in an attempt to block the killing blow. 

I screamed in agony as the blade passed through my wrist, severing my hand completely. Blood spurted from the wound, covering the man-lizard. 

Morgan’s voice yelled above my screams, “TO ME!”, and at once the man-lizard and its friends stopped attacking my companions and I and instead began raining blows upon the ghost. All bar the ghost seemed to answer Morgan’s call. 

I felt myself tumble to the ground. Once again my vision blurred, but not before I witnessed Moxadder launch himself from the ceiling. The dagger of Geirr held with both hands above his head as he fell. 

With a scream of vicious hatred he swung his arms forward in mid-descent just as he reached the shade. Somehow the point of the knife struck true, and with one final scream the ghost was sucked into the blade of Geirr, as if it had sucked an oyster from its shell, even as Moxadder landed with an uncontrolled thump into the stone floor. He cried out in pain, but was quickly to his feet looking for another foe. There were none evident. With the demise of the apparition the man-lizards had also disappeared. 

So shocked I was that I ceased my cries of pain. My wound still spurted blood with each beat of my now freed heart, but the pain had become so much that I could no longer feel anything in my arm. My blood loss was almost too great. I could feel myself slipping in and out of consciousness. 

The searing heat I had felt, suddenly disappeared and I saw the tall figure of Argonne lurching down the corridor, walking through what was left of the inferno that Irveil had created. Small flames still burnt in patches, but for the most part the fire had been quenched.  

I blacked out once more. When I came to, it must have only been a few seconds later, I rolled and saw Zhontell peering at the mirror, whilst Morgan and Argonne moved toward Mortec, who was looking very uneasy on his feet. They too must have seen Zhontell’s interest in the liquid, for as one they cried, “No!” 

It was too late. Zhontell leaned forward and stuck her head into the mirror. 

As his head struck the mirrors’ shimmering surface the liquid rippled violently before emitting a deafening roar. I sat bolt upright and covered my ears with both hand and bloody stump. Morgan, Moxadder and Argonne were knocked off their feet, but Mortec fared worse.

The Gnomes mouth dropped in a soundless scream and his eyes widened, and then in a bizarre implosion, his skull caved in on itself as blood burst from both his ears. He fell to his knees before slumping, lifeless to the flagstones. 

That horrifying vision was the last thing I saw before darkness took me.


----------



## Haraash Saan

A drum beat, slowly, repeatedly. I heard a harp join the beat and some pipes add an entrancing melody. My eyes flickered open and I winced in the bright sunlight. I stood on a hill that sloped gently away in front of me. At the base of the hill was a glorious palace, it was from here that I heard the enchanting music.

I ambled forward through the long wavy grass. It rustled soothingly as my legs brushed against it. A cool breeze blew across my face taking some of the sun’s heat from it. A bird swooped in the near distance. I hear the familiar buzz of bees collecting nectar from the wildflowers. I felt light, and at peace. 

Soon the cobbled floor of the palace echoed as my bare feet slapped against the stone. Columns surrounded me going so high that I lost sight of them in the darkness of the ceiling. 

It seemed as though I had walked for an age through the great columns, but I kept moving toward the lovely music.

As I walked the illumination provided by the torches slowly began to dim. The music, which was at first crisp and clear, was now dull and muted. I began to run. 

The stone carved columns flashed past me as I ran. And soon the torchlight ceased and I was running in darkness, trying to reach the music. Then all was silent. I was left in the noiseless dark. I tried to turn around, thinking to return from whence I had come, but found that my feet no longer felt the cobbles beneath them. 

Then I heard Laster’s powerful and beautiful voice, “Gerard d’Montfort. Now is not your time. I still need you.”

It was early evening when I woke. “’bout time.” Grumbled Argonne. “Obviously Foeld didn’t think that you needed to be hurried, but I’ve been sitting on my arse waiting for you to wake for hours.”

Once again I owed my life to my friends. It was Morgan’s quick action that stifled the bleeding from my stump, and Foeld’s blessing given to me by Argonne that sealed the wound. Without them I would have stayed in Pandemonium, but Laster had obviously still not finished with me.

Mortec had not been the only casualty of Zhontell’s ill thought out action, Zwingly, Argonne’s skunk had suffered the same fate. However Argonne was unperturbed. “Foeld will return Zwingly to me, perhaps in a more useful form.” He said somewhat casually.

Argonne also revealed that Morgan had discovered that Prince Brand had already taken swift action, most likely to seize the throne for himself. He had dispatched five of his cronies to gather up his armies and march them to the capital. Not the action of someone that was happy to rule as regent until his sister returned.

The woodsman explained that Moxadder had been able to identify the ghost that was trapped in his dagger. For indeed it had been sucked into the blade as I had thought, not destroyed. Somehow it resided within the magical steel of the dagger of Geir.

The ghost was one General Narblec, an important minion of Arcanus, one of the Dominions barrow lords.

That was most disturbing news. We had just captured one of the Dominions favourite tools. If that was discovered we could only expect swift and painful retribution. 

However, the news did point to one thing, that the Dominion was involved in the assassination of King Thurrland II.

Soon after Argonne had completed telling me the latest developments, the others began to trickle into my room. Moxadder brought with him the possessions of Irveil that he had managed to ‘borrow’ from the corpse but it was Zhontell that brought the most surprising and wonderful thing, Mortec!

Immediately after falling, the little Gnome had been scooped up by Zhontell, no doubt feeling guilt at causing his death (and nearly mine), and rushed with all speed to the High Priest of Laster, Prelate Gosforth. A donation of an amazing sum of sickles to the church ensured that Mortec’s spirit was brought back from it’s journey to The Outlands, the heaven in which Todesmagie resides. Why a Lasterian priest would spend so much effort (for I have been told that such favors from the gods cause considerable physical distress to the priest) reviving the follower of another faith is beyond me. Well perhaps not. Afterall a large donation is always appreciated by the church. Mortec had obviously not finished his unwitting work for Laster either.

Mortec looked quite pale and a little bewildered, not surprisingly considering he had been dead. It would be several days before he recovered his strength enough to join us once more but after seeing my own situation and wanting to keep busy, he offered to construct me a prosthetic hand.

It was the first time since I had woken that I realized that my hand had been severed. There was no pain, perhaps I was still in shock. However as I gazed upon the thick bandage that hid my stump I started to panic. How would I survive without my hand? How can one do the simple things in life? More importantly, how would I be perceived, with sympathy? As a helpless cripple?

No! At that moment I refused to let my misfortune affect me. It was something I would cope with. After all I was Sir Gerard d’Montfort, not some mere peasant that would be crippled by my injury. 

With those thoughts racing though my mind I realized that Mortec’s offer was one I could not refuse. “My dear friend that would be wonderful. I will be forever in your debt.” 

The possessions of Irveil yielded little information. There was nothing out of the ordinary except for a small ceremonial hammer that Morgan pointed out was similar to those used by devout Thuusians in the Fastness, and a leather satchel with a stylized clasp of six women stretching out a white cloth between them. This I recognized to be Thuusian symbol of healing.

Why would a Lasterian who had been inducted into the Order of the Wyrm be carrying Thuusian religious items? It was first question on all of our lips.

Moxadder had also managed to fetch the brooch of the Order of the Wyrm from the piled possessions, this I took for safe keeping, as well as the strange orb that Irveil had thrown down to create the liquid mirror. Apparently after the ear splitting boom that had Zhontell had caused when he stuck his head into the mirror, it had transformed once again into the sphere.

When asked, Moxadder revealed that he had not had a chance to search the body, so we had no idea if there were any significant marks on it. For example, the demonic symbol of Orsa Terminus. My noble upbringing and recent indoctrination into the Order meant and I was best suited to convince the guards to let me examine the corpse to search for any such tattoos. 

Argonne had managed to nullify the pain from my stump, and in actual fact I felt rather sprightly all things considered. I eased myself from my bed and set off for the small chapel that Moxadder informed me housed the body of Irveil.


----------



## Haraash Saan

There were only two guards, both whom I recognized through reputation. The first challenged my approach. He was Saint Incyneryte, a priest of Laster, and patron Saint of shellfish. A curious eccentricity of the Lasterian faith is that we believe that Saints should be hailed in their life, when they can appreciate their canonization. And there are an awful lot of Saints. If you were holy enough and could do something better than anyone else, it usually led to Sainthood. In Incyneryte’s case, he loved devouring shellfish, so to a Lasterian it seemed perfectly sensible to recognize this with Sainthood.

Saint Incyneryte was quite a large man, tall and wide. He wore a breastplate emblazoned with a wine cup spilling over two dice and a shellfish.  Another trait of the Lasterian faith is to identify a worshipers significant vice and include it with Laster’s own symbol. A sparse, wiry and unkempt beard partially covered his ruddy cheeks. I had heard the he had not shaved since his canonization so that the juice of the sea creatures he so delighted in would be trapped in his facial growth allowing him to later suck upon it and once again experience the taste of the shellfish. I need not mention that he reeked of a stench one found when near a fishing fleet with a full catch. It was not dissimilar to the unpleasant odor I had smelt near the fish sheds of Ravenswood. 

The second was Sir Calladan, Guardian of the East, and holy knight of Laster. He was a small but powerfully built man. A long dagger was sheathed by his side and a mighty sword on his back, with its’ impressive pommel fashioned into a dice, sticking out over his right shoulder. Underneath Sir Calladan’s surcoat, that bore the device of Laster, was a fine suit of linked mail armour.

“Name yourself.” Commanded Saint Incyneryte in a nasal whine. 

I was taken aback at his voice, it most definitely did not fit his significant size. 

“Er, Sir Gerard d’Montfort, Order of the Wyrm.” I replied recovering from my shock. “I wish to examine the corpse. I am hopeful that it may reveal some clue as to who she answered to.”

“Ah, of course, Sir Gerard. I can see no problem with you taking a look, afterall the word is that you were one of those that stopped the assassin.” Saint Incyneryte said.

“My thanks good sir.” I replied as I made my way past him and began to study Irveil.

I fully expected to discover the now familiar tattoo of Orsa Terminus, but, I was very surprised to find no trace of it, nor any other distinguishing mark on her body.

The other thing that I had expected to find was her serpent. Just as I had been given Ninfus Nex she no doubt was given a similar snake, a fact that Ninfus Nex confirmed to me earlier.

“Yess, milord. All that sserve the Order ressieve one of my kind ass giftss.” He had hissed.

Yet, I could find no trace of it on her body, nor was it with the possessions that Moxadder had pilfered.

I hunched close to my rapiers hilt, feigning a close inspection of Irveil’s leg, and very quietly asked Ninfus Nex if he could sense another of his kind near by.

“Yess.” Was his simple reply.

I muttered a simple incantation under my breath and waved my hand across my chest whilst waggling my fingers in front of me. The corpse suddenly began to glow a strong white, but its left arm radiated a deep red colour. Thankfully the magic I had called upon was visible only to myself, so both of Irveil’s keepers saw nothing extraordinary. 

Unfortunately I could not tell what each coloured glow represented, but I did know that Irveil’s corpse had at least two different magical effects upon it.

“Saint Incyneryte.” I beckoned the man over to me. “To your knowledge has anyone blessed or probed this body with magics?”

“Why yes.” He said, his voice betrayed his curiosity.

“Because I can sense that it radiates two different magical auras and I was wondering what they might be?” I asked.

“Two? That is most unusual.” He paused, lifting his hand to stroke his spartan beard in thought. “There is no doubt of one, for I myself called upon Laster to bless the corpse. With rumours of ghosts walking the halls I thought it prudent to ensure that she’ll”, he indicated to Irveil, “not be giving us any unnatural trouble.”

“But two? Let me have a look.” He said before he himself began a short chant.

“Yes I see what you mean.” Said Saint Incyneryte a moment later. “Best we be rid of these magical things of which we know naught.” 

“Um, before you do,” I interrupted, I had had a thought that if somehow Irveil had disguised her marks that she might actually be one of Geduld’s assassins, a burning monk. If so, just like those that we had killed in Halfast, this one was liable to explode if the magics were removed.

I explained my concern to Saint Incyneryte, who merely laughed. “Surely you jest! I’ll wager ten gromits to your one that the corpse will not explode.”

Being a Lasterian I had little choice but to accept the bet, in any case I am always partial to trying my luck.

Saint Incyneryte intoned a quick prayer to Laster to release the body of its magics. As he finished beseeching our god, the body shimmered as if it were a mirage in the hot desert sun and revealed not Irveil but someone else entirely. Instead another woman was in her place. She too was quite dead.

She was also completely bald and wore a loose red robe, just as the burning monks had. I turned, expecting the body to destroy itself and scorch the three of us, but nothing happened.

“See!” cried Saint Incyneryte triumphantly as he extended his hand, “No exploding monk!” Begrudgingly I handed over the coin that was his prize.

The body was unremarkable except that it was covered in tattoos. They depicted bloodied brass knuckles or a green and gibbering ghastly face. I was not familiar with the symbols, but later after telling the others of my discoveries Morgan and Moxadder agreed that they were the devices of two rival gangs from Irudesh City, Moxadder’s reputed birthplace.

All of her body was covered in those designs, except for her chest and left forearm. Across her breasts and down to her belly was a pentagon, the symbol of the Fastness. 

Whilst her painted body provided interesting information, it was her left arm that provided what I had initially been searching for. She wore a stylized armband of two snakes entwined just above her bicep and a tattoo of a serpent on her inner forearm. I removed the armband and then called forth Ninfux Nex. 

He unwound himself from my swords’ hilt, and in doing so returned to his natural bright green colour and raised himself up to face me. Sir Calladan and Saint Incyneryte, both recoiled in surprise.

Ignoring them I pointed to the snake of the corpses arm and asked, “Ninfus Nex, can you tell me if that tattoo is one like yourself?”

“Yess it iss milord.” he answered.

“Can you call it forth? I do not know how to summon another or the Order’s serpents.” I said.

“Of coursse milord.” He hissed.

Ninfus Nex slithered from my sword and across my arm, then onto the painted belly of the woman. Then he raised his green diamond shaped head an inch above it and started swaying. Whilst his head swayed back and forth he hissed, changing his tone ever so slightly with each sway.

The tattoo, responded. Beginning to move, as if it were a live snake that was under the skin of the Fastendian’s forearm. It’s head pushed and prodded for a moment before breaking through the skin, and then slithering out from within her. It was a most unusual sight, more so because there had been no blood. 

“Who sso sssumonss me from my hosst?” it hissed.

“I, Sir Gerard d’Montfort.” I said.

It turned its copper head toward me. Its forked tongue flicked out of its mouth as it hissed, “Ah, my lord of the Wyrm, thank you for freeing me. I have been trapped within thiss imposster trying ass hard ass I could to bite and poisson it. But alass I had no effect.”

“The imposter is now dead.” I replied.

My unusual conversation continued for a short time, whilst Sir Calladan and Saint Incyneryte looked confused and bewildered. Thankfully they did not interrupt.

Ssaruss Ssni, as the copper coloured snake was called, told me that it was only about six hours before that the woman called Irveil had placed him on her forearm and commanded him to become a tattoo. 

The timing placed the event immediately prior to the ceremony in which Irveil and I were sworn into the Order of the Wyrm. From the moment he and finished his transformation he had sensed that his host was not who she was supposed to be. He had been biting her from that point onwards.

The plot had begun to reveal itself a little more. I suspected that the woman’s motives were to cause war between the Fastness and Guerney. However I had no idea as to why. Perhaps the power hungry and war mongering Prince Brand was behind the assassination. With his father dead he could usurp the throne and satisfy his lust for violence.

The Fastendian, obviously a passionate one as most would not tattoo the pentagon of the Fastness on their bodies, had magically disguised herself so as to infiltrate the palace to carry out her mission.

Another point that was unclear was whether the ghost of General Narblec had tried to escape, or whether it had intended to kill its host and therefore shift blame for the assassination onto the Fastness, thus causing war between it and Guerney.

I thought this plausible as we had already learned that the Dominion was attempting to destabilize Guerney. The pirates and their raids for information along the coast of the Bay of Misfortune, the poisoning attempt on the King in Halfast and even Korb and his cronies in the forest of Montfort causing the cessation of trade along the river. It all pointed to a cunning Dominion plot. 

I was certain of one thing. I did not want Prince Brand to discover the truth behind Irveil. A bribe took care of that.

“This flesh need not be of the world. It’s spirit needs to be freed to travel to wherever it is going.” Winked Saint Incyneryte as he magically cremated the Fastendian woman.

Excited by my discoveries, I headed for my room, where the others still waited. After I had explained what I had found they all agreed that we needed to determine what the orb actually did, as it appeared that the General and his Fastendian host had attempted to escape through the mirror it had created. We decided that in order to experiment with orb and not draw attention to ourselves we would set off on the morrow to a secluding clearing in the forest nearby. I knew just the spot.


----------



## Quartz

> Saint Incyneryte




Groan.


----------



## Haraash Saan

Quartz said:


> Groan.




Don't blame me! It was the DMs name


----------



## Haraash Saan

The following morning I had just finished my breakfast when Hrast rapped on my door, “Sir Gerard, there is a Lady Gyda who wishes to see you.” He said.

Standing, I brushed my clothes down with my right hand, recalling how awkward it had been getting dressed with only one hand. Thankfully, due to the restorative powers of Foeld, through his tool Argonne, there was no pain whatsoever in my stump. In fact, so accelerated was my healing that my stump had sealed over during the night so it was no longer a bloodied mess exposed muscle and bone.

I opened the door, “My Lady Gyda, what a pleasure it is to see you again. Do please come in.” I said happily. I dismissed Hrast with a look and welcomed Gyda into my rooms.

Her face was stretched with concern, “Gerard, how are you?” she began as she stared wide-eyed at my stump. “I heard the news only this morning and came straight to see you.”

“Dear Gyda, thank you so much for your concern, but I am as well as a man can be under the circumstances.” I said nonchalantly.

I went on to tell her all of what had happened, finishing with, “So I believe that it is my duty, as a member of the Order, to seek out Princess Isabella and bring her back to Guerney City so that she can claim rightfully claim the throne before Brand usurps it.”

“But, that will mean that you will leave the city,“ said Gyda sadly, “and me.”

“I wish it were not so. I have truly enjoyed our recent time together. I can think of nothing more desirable than being with you. I dearly wish that we could spend more time together, but my duty must come before my personal desires. I must act to uphold what is the best for the Kingdom.” I said loftily.

For a while we did not speak, we merely enjoyed each others company in silence.

Eventually Gyda broke the quiet of our introspective thoughts. “Well, no doubt you must prepare for you journey.” She began. “And I must too depart to prepare Stowmarket’s and Montfort’s fortifications for any further incursions from the north. I will organize Hrast to get the appropriate papers drawn up so that, as we agreed, I will administer Montfort until your return.”

“Yes, yes.” I replied absently, my thoughts suddenly a more pressing notion. “Do what you must to ensure the safety of Montfort and Stowmarket.”

“My dear Gyda,” I continued nervously “I know this is extremely hasty, and very forward, but,” at this point I knelt, “would you consider taking my hand in marriage.”

I had not planned to ask for her hand in this way, but circumstances had changed since I first thought about marrying a woman I had not met. Originally I had sought an alliance to strengthen my lands and my standing in court, but in the few weeks of travel that we had had together I must admit I developed an affection for Gyda that I had not expected. With my imminent departure and several suitors waiting in the wings who had tried to court her officially I decided that I did not want to lose her.

I offered my right hand to her, expecting her to at best postpone an engagement until we had had more time together. She gazed upon me for what seemed an eternity. What a fool I was to blurt out such a request! Melodramatically she looked away from my pleading face for a moment before turning once more to face me. Looking straight into my eyes she clasped my hand between both of hers and said, “Gerard, it is with a joyful heart that I accept your proposal.”

Typical of our whirlwind romance we only managed a few more moments alone to bask in our joint happiness before Morgan pounded on the door. “Gerard are you coming?” he called. 

“Yes!“ I paused as I fumbled from Gyda’s grasp, “Yes indeed.” 

The pair of us quickly achieved an appropriate level of presentation and I opened the door to show Gyda out. “Thank you Lady Gyda for your concerns. Your thoughts are much appreciated.” I said, although my eyes and hers lingered before she turned away and walked off in the direction of her lodgings.

A few hours later we stood in the very same clearing where Gyda and I had lunched on pheasant, bread and cheese. The silver orb lay in the center and the liquid mirror hovered above it, rippling in the breeze that gusted through the trees.

The others were arguing about how we should best proceed, as I absently watched a leaf twist and turn on the wind. It struck the mirror, and passed straight through the other side where it fell to the ground. I mentioned this to Moxadder, who happen to be close by and also ignoring the heated discussion.

He picked up a small stone and threw it through the mirror. The stone did as the leaf before it, and passed straight through.

We interrupted the others to share our finding, and then they, taking the new information on board, continued to bicker.

Moxadder, fed up, wandered off. Minutes later he returned holding a wriggling rabbit by its long feet. He walked purposefully toward the mirror. Immediately realizing his intent I made haste to take shelter behind a tree outside of the clearing. The others, seeing my movement and then Moxadder, reasoned as I had and followed suit.  Argonne’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped, horrified as he realized his friends’ intent, but he said nothing as he too ran to hide.

The Irudeshian stopped several feet away from the artifact and set himself to throw the hapless bunny into it. He was not of course entirely fool hardy. I saw that his stance was more to the advantage of dodging any ill effect of his action than succeeding in his throw.

Swinging his right arm slowly back and forward, once, twice, on the third time his arm rocketed forward and he released the rabbit.

It flew through the air, squirming to get its feet beneath itself in preparation for a landing it did not know was never to come.

As the little creature hit the mirror, there was a massive boom so powerful that the grass in the clearing some twenty or more feet was flattened. The rabbit, was not so lucky. On contact it exploded. Small red and fluffy chunks of the unwitting animal showered the clearing. 

Moxadder seemed unaffected by the result of his experiment. His throw had been much more than just that. He had used it as leverage to complete a standing somersault, in which he had twisted so that he landed with his back to the mirror. His feet had struck the ground even as the rabbit touched the liquid surface.

As he landed he launched into a diving tumbled that managed to take him just outside of the blasts effect. It was definitely the most remarkable maneuver that I had seen him perform, other than his inexplicable climb to the ceiling when we had fought the ghost.

He had proved a point, much to Argonne’s anguish. Living things seemed to trigger the blast.

Once again we began to argue as to the importance of this, and slowly the argument changed to thoughtful discussion Kuruul broke with tradition and proved to be surprisingly helpful. He had transformed from his normal vicious dog like appearance and into his other form; that of a horrible deformed goblin. 

“May I have one of your magical elixir’s?” he asked of Morgan. During our travels we had picked up a great many potions and droughts along with more noteworthy items like my sword. 

Morgan dug into his pack and fished one out. Checking the label to ensure that it was not one of his more valuable vials, he threw it to Kuruul.

Kuruul caught it, quickly wrapped it in a strip of cloth, then took two steps before launching it into the reflective liquid. Like the inanimate leaf and stone before it fell through the other side and fell on the grass. 

He collected it and unwrapped the cloth that had protected it from breakage and said to me, “Gerard, perhaps you could tell us whether the elixir still has mystic properties?”

I shrugged, muttered the same incantation that I had used over the corpse of Irviel and said, “No, it has none that I can detect.”

“As I thought.” Said Kuruul smugly. And with that he transformed once again into a hound and ambled off to a nearby tree, cocked his hind leg and relieved himself.

Instantly annoyed at the self satisfied mongrel, I curbed my frustrations and concentrated on what his experiment had proved.

We now had two pieces of vital information. The first was that living creatures could not pass through the mirror without it being affected by the deadly sonic burst. The second was that things with magical properties were stripped of their powers when they tried to pass through it.

Argonne and I came to the same conclusion at once. We spoke over each in earnest to explain what it meant.

The Fastendian woman disguised as Irviel had merely been a pawn. She had been provided the magics to mask herself and commit her foul deed by the very foe that all Fastendians fought against, the Dominion. The poor girl had never been meant to escape. Their wicked plan was to have her assassinate the King and, in the course of her escape, use the mirror to flee. There was no doubt that she had been told that the mirror was a magical means of transporting herself to another place. Her masters had intended that she step into the mirror and in doing so her sorcererous disguise would be stripped from her and the resulting eruption of sound would kill her.

The result would be that a dead Fastendian woman would be found and all would assume that the Fastness had assassinated the King. This would no doubt bring war between the two allies, and allow the Dominion to watch while each weakened the other.

It was a cunning and masterful stratagem. What they did not count on was the desperate tackle of Morgan and the swift vengeance of the Hydra.


----------



## Haraash Saan

Our departure from Guerney City to Morannin in the Fastness, where Princess Isabella currently resided, was delayed by two days. An opportunity I took to spend with my darling Gyda. 

There were two reasons for the delay. My personal reason for the wait was to give Mortec more time to complete work on my replacement hand. He was quite the craftsman and demanded more time to complete what he called his ‘masterpiece’. The other reason was that Moxadder had investigated the map to the Rolling Lady Inn that we had found amongst the bandit leader Korb’s possessions. The seductress Polema had claimed that Korb met regularly with someone from Orsa Terminus at the inn.

What he had done, through bluster, bluff and luck, was to pretend to be Korb and arrange a meeting with ‘the Master’. This was our chance to finally learn something of the mysterious Orsa Terminus. 

Moxadder’s plan was simple and violent. “Gi’me two minutes and then come in and kill everything!” 

Looking back it did not seem an impassioned speech, but somehow he roused us into a bloodlust and we agreed that violence was the most appropriate solution.

The night of the infiltration was cool and crisp. As I walked to the Rolling Lady, my comrades beside me, I felt the chill of the anticipated bloodshed, and a wave of guilt at the murders I was to commit.

The inn was busy. Raucous, drunken men and women were crammed into the place. Smoke curled its way up the chimney above the fire pit in the center of the large tavern. 

A young man, barely standing, such was his intoxication, clumsily groped a pretty barmaid. Unfortunately for him the barkeep, a bald and burly man, saw his fondling and, quick as a whip, a cosh was in his hand. His blow was delivered with such force that the man crumpled instantly, blood trickling from his temple.

A few old folk that nursed their drinks clucked to each other at the silliness of youth. “In mah day I’s only a tried dat when ‘e wasna lookin’.” One muttered with the certainty only an elder has.

We found a seat and waited until a man approached the barkeep. This was not in itself unusual, what was unusual however was that the man was the identical to the dead man, Korb! 

Thankfully Moxadder had told us that he would be disguised, for we would have assailed him if we had not known, so convincing was his disguise.

Moxadder and the barkeep chatted a moment before the barkeep gestured to Moxadder to follow him through a curtain behind the bar.

After the prescribed two minutes neither had returned so I stood and walked up purposefully to the bar, beckoning to Morgan, Argonne and Zhontell to follow.

A stout serving man ambled over to me, “What’ll it be?” he said gruffly through a large drooping moustache. 

“We are Korb’s men. He told us to meet him through there.” I said bluntly as I inclined my head to the curtain.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He replied, only his eyes betraying his suspicion. 

“Do not mess me about.” I hissed with feigned anger. “Show me to Korb now or you will have to answer to his master!” 

His attitude changed immediately. “Er, yeah, right. Can’t have that now can we.” He said nervously. 

“Go through.” He added as he jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

A storeroom awaited us beyond the curtain. Although there were no apparent exits, Argonne’s keen eye saw that behind a beer keg was a concealed door. We stepped through it and entered a pitch-black corridor.

I summoned forth my magical light and we entered the unknown.

We must have walked for half an hour before we saw a light bobbing toward us. Shortly after we spotted it approaching, the torch stopped. “Who’s that then?” bellowed out a voice. 

“We are trying to find Korb.” I called out. “We work for him and he was supposed to wait for us before going to the meeting.”

“There aint no Korb down here mate.” came the reply. “You had best push off back from where you came.”

“No need to be rude. Just take us to Korb and his Master will not be displeased with you.” I said trying my gambit once more.

It was to no avail. “Mate, you push off now or the Master is going to have your balls for breakfast.” said the voice.

Morgan and Zhontell could see that my ruse had been unsuccessful and they both charged off into the darkness, intent on ending the stalemate.

Hearing their approach the man ahead of us turned and fled, his light bobbing erratically as he went. There was nothing for it so I ran off in pursuit of the others, leaving Argonne to guard our rear.

In moments I passed a heavily breathing Morgan, who was slowed by his weighty breastplate. Ahead of me I could hear Zhontell and the man both cursing as their blows failed to find their target. Zhontell’s foot speed was tremendous, he had already managed to engage our adversary.

Minutes passed as the frantic chase continued, the flat slap of boots on the earth and strained breathing the only thing that could be heard. 

Finally a crunching noise and a cry of triumph from Zhontell! When I arrived shortly afterward, the barkeep who was holding his cosh looking for an opening to strike a weaving Zhontell, who himself sought an opening. Blood ran freely from the barkeeps mouth, staining his chin. His mouth displayed the gaps of several newly missing teeth.

“Come now.” I said trying to calm the situation for fear that he might yell out and alert others that may be lurking further down the corridor. 

“Enough of this! Zhontell, stand down, and you, put down your sap.” I said to the barkeep.

Zhontell shot me a glare, but stepped away, still wary of his opponent. The barkeep took the opportunity to turn and flee down the corridor.

There was another glower at me from Zhontell before once again he sprinted off in pursuit. I sighed with resignation and took up the chase once more.

There was another light in the distance. It looked like a room for the light was stable and did not bounce to and fro like the barkeeps torch. 

Zhontell and the barkeep were within the room, once again facing on another. It was a huge hall, sconces providing ample illumination. At the far end was a door and it was to this that the barkeep was slowly progressing.

Once again I tried to reason with them, this time Zhontell paid me no heed, and in fact used my distraction to his advantage. The barkeep glanced in my direction as I spoke and this provided Zhontell the opening he desired. One sudden upward thrust of his palm smashed the underside of the barkeeps nose, driving the cartilage into the poor mans brain. He collapsed, dead.

Once again I sighed. The barkeep would give us no information now. Morgan and Argonne arrived soon after his demise. 

“Right, Zhontell, stay here with the body. We may not want to be too hasty.” I said.

Even as I spoke, Argonne opened the door at the end of the hall and strode through, axe in hand. Morgan and I rushed to follow him.


----------



## Haraash Saan

What looked to be a large antechamber awaited us. Along the two side walls sat a row of benches, upon each one sat a variety of people. A lady of the night, rogues, merchants, even a priest of Laster, sat within the waiting room. All looked anxious and afraid. They did not want to be there, but it seemed that they had little choice.

Korb/Moxadder sat patiently on a bench near the doorway, no doubt having been the most recent arrival.

At the end of the chamber was a small podium, behind which stood an older man wearing grand robes of rich burgundy. On the lectern rested a large volume, an ink pot and a large colourful quill. 

The robed man looked up at us slowly and opened his mouth to speak, but Moxadder interjected. “Forgive me men.” He apologized, “I told ‘em to wait outside, but ya knows ‘ow ‘ard it is to get good ‘elp.”

And then to us, “Sit ‘ere and shut up!” he ordered.

Biting my tongue at the role I was forced to play I did as commanded and took up a seat beside him as did Morgan. Argonne blinked stupidly for a moment before doing likewise.

Korb’s double beckoned us to crowd round him and he brought his finger to his lips. “Change of plan. I’ve managed to get an audience with the Master. I’ll see what I can find out and then we’ll just leave, quiet like.” He said in a whisper.

Moxadder was right. This was no time for a rash act. Firstly, there were too many for our small band to defeat, and secondly, what we needed was information, not violence. We needed to know more about the Master and the Orsa Terminus.

As soon as he had finished speaking, the door we had entered by opened and in strode Zhontell, the deceased barkeep over his shoulder. So much for no rash actions.

Moxadder leapt to his feet and in another moment of inspiration hissed, “What’re you doin’? What ‘ave you done?”  

Zhontell stood mute, although I could see him taking in the situation.

Changing his audience, Moxadder bowed his head in supplication and then addressed the robed man, “Please forgive dis idiot for the interruption.”

The man behind the podium shook his head, “The interruption is not the issue here Korb. I think your problem is that he killed one of the master’s faithful servants. Why would he do that?”

“He refused me entry. My employer Korb had ordered me to attend him.” Answered Zhontell matter-of-factly.

Moxadder glared at Zhontell with a menace I had never seen him display before and then spat, “I’ll ‘andle dis.”

As he spoke he whipped a dagger from his belt, one of his favorites, and strode forward to Zhontell, jaw set in determination. With a rough push into Zhontell’s chest he forced the elf to stumble back through the door.

The door slammed behind Moxadder and then all was silent. No one in the room moved, all eyes turned to the door.

A horrid scream shattered the silence, and then the door suddenly flung open. Moxadder stomped back to his seat, bloodied dagger clenched tightly in his fist. “It’s sorted. I’ll explain it to da master.” He said to the robed man. 

I dared not ask the Fastendian what had happened. I could see that he was still furious and I did not want to tempt his anger.

Moxadder paused as he passed me and turned to face me. An evil smile crept across his face and he casually leaned across and wiped the blood from his weapon on the leg of my pants.

I was horrified! How dare my trusted companion, a man I almost treated as an equal, treat me with such disrespect! I was so shocked that I could find no words or actions to seek retribution. I just sat completely rigid, every muscle tensed, such was my fury.

Moxadder ignored me completely, calmly play acting his role as Korb to perfection, and resumed his seat. It took a few minutes to regain control of my emotions and realize why he done it. But still, that evil grin was out of place. I swear that he had deliberately chosen me to clean his blade on.

After half an hour there was a piercing scream from the room beyond the podium. Taking this as his queue, the robed man called Korb forth saying “The master will see you now” then he drew a line across one of the names in his book. That was certainly one way to end an audience.

Moxadder rose and approached the door. Argonne stood, unbidden and followed. Moxadder pretended not to notice, no doubt seeking no more unusual interruptions. 

“My man will come wit’ me. I wanna present ‘im to da master.” He said ingeniously. 

They were ordered to leave their weapons in the antechamber, and after complying they boldly entered the master’s chambers.

Fifteen minutes passed. There had been no sign of Zhontell and I began to wonder if Moxadder in his rage had slain our comrade, but I dared not stand and check lest I once again draw unwanted attention. My thoughts were interrupted as the door behind the robed man opened and Moxadder and Argonne returned to room in which we waited.

Both were pale and Moxadder held his bunched and bloodied shirt tightly to his stomach. 

Without a word they walked forward, Moxadder’s right boot squelching with each painful step, and left the antechamber. Morgan and I followed. I smelt an unpleasant odour that seemed to linger behind Moxadder, but I dismissed it because as I rose from the bench I caught a glimpse of a familiar face in amongst those waiting, Ship’s Cat.

Last to exit the room I shut the door behind me firmly before saying, “Ship’s Cat was in there!” 

Morgan nodded in confirmation and said “Yeah, I saw her when we first went in.”

Zhontell was waiting for us and his face betrayed no sign of the Moxadder’s assault. His shirt offered more evidence, it was soaked in brown dry blood.

Without another word we departed and made our way back to inn, leaving the body of the barkeep unceremoniously in a corner.

We agreed to separate, and meet up later in another tavern, The Dueling Ducks, to discuss what we had learned. I stayed behind in the Rolling Lady to wait for Ship’s Cat and try to learn what she was doing here in Guerney City. When she’d left us she was some thirty days travel to the south west in Thessingcourt.


----------



## Haraash Saan

I managed to drink several goblets of reasonable wine before she finally appeared. She saw me at once and continued on her way out of the inn. Leaving my wine unfinished, I also exited the inn. She was waiting outside.

As I opened my mouth to speak she whispered harshly, “Not here.”

I nodded and told her to follow me, leading her to The Dueling Ducks. Inside we found the others waiting for us. They were huddled around a small table looking inconspicuous. 

Ship’s Cat identified the Master as Decistratus, the name Polema had given us in the bandits lair. Ship’s Cat had left Thessingcourt soon after her arrival. Decistratus had found out about her whereabouts and commanded her to come before him. Whilst she was not a tattoo wearing member of Orsa Terminus, she knew of Decistratus and was scared enough to answer his summons. His interest in her was limited to the events that had occurred in Halfast some months before. Such was her fear of him that she kept no secrets from him. Decistratus was well aware of the activities of the Hydra and how we had ruined the first attempt on the Kings life. 

We could hold no grudge against her, she did what she had to survive. After her tale she left us to our own devices fearing that we might be noticed together. We chose to retire to my quarters in the castle to hear what Moxadder and Argonne had learnt.

Decistratus had sat before them in a large chair, beside him lay two carefully groomed ornamental dogs. The room itself was empty other than his throne, although remarkably unusual. Two long pits of fire edged the walls leading up to his throne. Their flames licked and charred the images that were painted on the walls.

From their description I deduced that they represented the nine levels of hell, although strangely there was a tenth layer depicted. It had very mundane scenes, of note was a temple in Godsheim, Decistratus himself, the great temple of Gerech in Riverglenn, the Halfast arena and the walls of Morannin. All religious teachings that I had learnt taught of the nine levels of hell, each one for a different type of heretic. Devils were their keepers, and they ensured an afterlife of torment and pain. But never had I been told of a tenth level. Did the scenes illustrated insinuate that Anka Seth was a level of hell?

It occurred to me that this mysterious painting must be in someway tied to the man that sat before Moxadder and Argonne, for Decistratus translated from the Old Gerechian into ‘Ten Layers’.

Decistratus was initially suspicious of Korb/Moxadder but as our doppelganger managed to fumble through his tale of the bandits failure, told mostly with fact, his suspicion waned and was replaced with annoyance.

The lord of Orsa Terminus then suggested that Korb/Moxadder should be killed and Argonne take his place, Moxadder once again was inspired, no doubt because of his sudden impending doom. He weaved a cunning lie. The clever Irusdeshian came up with a scheme to impersonate me and take over Montfort. In the process he would capitalise on my obvious wooing of Gyda and seize the lands of Stowmarket as well. 

The gleam in Decistratus’s eye proved that he was enamoured to the plan but it did come with a simple proviso, “Fail me again Korb and you will not get off lightly.” And to Argonne he added, “You had better be ready to take his place if need be.”

Whilst speaking one of his dogs had stood and padded over to Moxadder, sniffing him with great zeal. In the ultimate act of disdain it lifted its leg and relieved itself on Moxadderm urine running down his leg and into his boot.

The Master continued with an evil grin, “ Rufus is not amused by your incompetence. He wishes you to prove yourself to me. You must pay for your failure.”

Argonne explained to us that Decistratus had desired a simple sacrifice, a finger removed perhaps, but Moxadder failed to reach that safe conclusion and proceeded to disembowel himself, hence his obvious pain.

Surprised, but satisfied Decistratus called an end to the meeting and the pair left his presence.


----------



## Zen_Pollo

Great read!  Keep it up!


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## Haraash Saan

*Chapter 14 – When the Monk met the Gerechian *



A bright morning greeted us as we prepared for our departure. Morgan had discovered that there was another Gerechian temple a days ride South East from Guerney City. We thought that it would be worthwhile to investigate it as we had learnt from our previous visit to an ancient temple of Gerech that the priests had devised a way to travel instantly between temples. If we could understand how they could do this then we might be able to magically travel to a temple near Morannin instead of trekking for a month or two to get there.

Mortec had completed my new wooden appendage and had enchanted it in such a way that I could force its fingers into desired formations. For example I could use my other hand to shape the fingers on the wooden hand so that they could grip a cup.

I could not thank the little gnome enough, so pleased I was with his generous gift. 

“Think nothing of it Gerard. You will need all the help you can get.” He said. 

“Unfortunately I cannot make this next journey with you. I have been summoned by the Order of Todesmagie and must answer their call immediately.” He continued.

My jaw dropped at this revelation. Mortec had been the sturdiest of my companions throughout our adventures. He was an integral member of the Hydra.

He smiled as he saw the shock upon our faces and said, “Fear not friends. Todesmagie shall be with you and it is my hope that I will soon be rejoined with you again. But I must do the bidding of my Order.”

Sadly we said our goodbyes to our stout comrade, wheeled our horses, and rode off through the southern gate of the city. 

Argonne had a new beast, a giant black stallion with a splash of white on it’s nose. He noted my curiosity and chuckled, “I told you. Foeld has unfinished business for Zwingly.”

As we left the outer city and rode through farmland, my thoughts turned to Gyda. I already missed her, even though the night before we had passionately said our farewells. Over the last few weeks I had fallen quickly and surely in love and it was her that I would miss the most. What stung the deepest was that I was not even certain of when I would see her again.

I was so immersed in my own thoughts that the day passed quickly. That evening we rested at a roadside inn not far from the abandoned temple. We arrived there in the first hour of the morning.

Morgan’s Gerechian contacts had warned that it had been overrun by the unclean, but we had not expected to see monks of Hutenkama.

The temple was a basic wooden structure made with a slightly pitched roof. Before it was a small tent town, its occupants the brightly robed and very lively Hutenkamans. They danced about in their primal way, screeching unknown hymns and blessings between themselves. 

It was some time before one actually noticed our gawping and approached us. “Do you seek a blessing?” he inquired.

“Er, yes. Yes we do.” Replied Morgan.

Quite pleased, the monk called some of his brethren and, after we parted with some significant coin, there was a small throng of them prancing about and painting our foreheads in a variety of earthen colors.

When they had finished I asked if it were at all possible to learn more of their culture, thinking that perhaps their own temple was built on the ruins of the Gerechian one we sought.

The original monk who had spoken to us cocked an eyebrow and said with skepticism, “Why is it that you are interested?”

“Er.” I bumbled not anticipating that there would be any chance that we would be able get any information from them. I had expected a simple ‘No’.

Recovering, I continued, “We wish to learn more so that we too may follow your path.”

Even as I spoke the words I cringed inwardly at that lack of plausibility of what I had said.

But to my relief the monk beamed a smile at us and said, “Excellent! You must see the Oracle!”

With that he turned and gestured for us to follow him through the tent city of the Hutenkamans. Stravarious was in no way interested so he decided to stay with Hrast who was tending our horses.

The interior of the wooden structure was simply adorned with colorful hangings but little else. We were led through the temple and down a staircase into a warren of stone chambers. 

What was once a natural cave structure had been crudely worked into a series of rooms. Our guide pointed out simple facets of the Hutenkaman’s way of life of the as we walked. It was a basic existence but relatively self-sufficient. Although I did wonder what they did with all the money they accumulated from their customers.

After passing through a couple of rooms we stood in a large chamber. Along its center stretched a deep pit that was too wide for a man to jump across. On the other side of the pit were some expensive furnishings amongst which a small robed figure absently wandered.

As we watched in silence I noted that the cushions and divans that were scattered about the inaccessible half of the room were actually quite mottled with age. Some were torn and all were well worn.

The place had an evil stink about it. Undoubtedly from the small piles of waste and decaying food that lay strewn about.

Upon the walls were crude representations of the symbols of the gods. All ten were represented, but strangely there were four more designs alongside them. One I had seen before on the garments of the barbarians that we had slain at the siege of Montfort. The others however remained a mystery to me.

“Oracle.” Called out the monk that had brought us before him, “These people wish to join The Beast.”

His words triggered a memory. I recalled that the Hutenkamans were also called ‘The Beast Cult’ and that they awaited the ‘coming of the Beasts’, whatever that might be.

The robed figure ceased his meandering and turned to face us. Thin scaled hands reached out from within the sleeves of his robed and pulled back his cowl.

I breathed in sharply. The creature was like nothing I had seen before. Other than his eyes, lips and two small slits for nostrils his head was featureless. There was a slight sheen to it caused by the reflection of the torchlight on the pale scales that covered him.

He regarded our group for moment before staring at each one of us in turn. 

The Oracle spoke with a lisp like drawl, in a language I had never encountered, to Morgan before he turned to Moxadder.

Moxadder muttered an incantation under his breath as the creature spat out the same sounds in regard to the Irudeshian. 

“’e said I’m not worthy.” translated Moxadder. 

Moxadder confirmed that the Oracle had said the same of Zhontell and myself before pausing as he considered Argonne and hissed his proclamation.

“’e could be worthy but ‘e ‘as chosen another path.” said Moxadder

His assessment over, the Oracle turned and resumed his meandering.

“The Oracle has decided, you are not worthy.” Said the monk as he gestured for us to leave.

“Really? How unfortunate.” I said with as much sincerity as I could muster.

“Please could you tell me about those symbols?” I asked as I pointed to the four unknown designs, ignoring his gesture.

“The last,” he said of the one I had recognized, “is what I have heard the Oracle call ‘The Wickerman’, a deity worshipped in wilds by the barbarians of the steppes. The others I know nothing of. They were drawn by the forefathers of the Oracle.”

I turned once more to regard the Oracle and addressed the same question to him. 

He looked at me for a moment before continuing walking. I tried in each of the languages I knew but it was to no avail, he paid heed to me no more.

There had been no evidence that this place was a Gerechian temple. It certainly did not have the same well fashioned interior as the Konstatine Seth’s temple we had been chased into by the rat plague. Still, I was intrigued and wished to learn more.

“My Hutenkaman friend,“ I said as I beamed a smile at the monk, “would it be at all possible to see more of your wonderful culture? Even though the Oracle has deemed that we are not worthy to join you, I would very much like to learn all that I can of your ways.”

He was happy to oblige my request. We saw a few rooms of little interest, the kitchen, living quarters and the like, before he took us to a remarkable cave that had been much less, if at all, worked by man. Within it rested perhaps fifty intact three foot tall stone eggs. When asked, he explained that these were the eggs from which the Oracles were hatched. When the current Oracle passed on the Hutenkamans would forcibly break open an egg and a new Oracle would take the deceased one’s place.

At the other end of the cavern was a tarnished metal door. The monk told us that it led to a large empty chamber that they did not use. I asked him if we could explore it and he simply shrugged and said “There is nothing there, but if you must examine it please do.”

We stepped through the nest of eggs and after the significant efforts of Morgan, Moxadder and Zhontel, the door creaked open.


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## Haraash Saan

Zen_Pollo said:


> Great read!  Keep it up!




Its really encouraging to get the feedback Zen_Pollo. Appreciate it, thanks.


----------



## Haraash Saan

Morgan pulled a torch from its bracket and we ventured into the room. The monk had been incorrect, it was not a large chamber at all, it was massive! We walked for a few hours, curious as to what purpose the massive cavern had, along the wall edge before finally seeing daylight ahead of us. It came from a cave mouth that sat a hundred feet above the great forest that spanned from Halfast all the way to Montfort and beyond. Moxadder muttered another charm and proclaimed that he would explore the outside of the cave. Standing at the edge of its mouth, he simply placed one hand on the outer wall of the hill that we were within and began to climb up its sheer face. I had seen him do this only once before, when we had been in the palace fighting the ghost of General Narblec.

Zhontell, not to be outdone, used more natural means to achieve the same result. Whilst I saw no benefit of a second climber, it seemed he wished to prove a point.

Before long the two returned saying that we had come through the hill that the Hutenkaman temple stood in front of and that, obviously, the land sloped away quite steeply into the forest.

Argonne, who had been quiet throughout our journey through the caves finally spoke, “I feel nature callin’ me. I must go.”

“What do you mean?” inquired Morgan curiously.

“I mean that I have to leave. Now. Don’t know when I’ll be back, but I’ll find you.” As the woodsman said this he stepped from the cave mouth.

Horrified we crowded the lip of the cave mouth and stared as he fell, cloak whipping about him. As we watched he thrust his arms out, and from them sprouted long feathers. His body also transformed, into that of a sleek and powerful eagle. His final he threw his head back to reveal that he now resembled a hook beaked eagle. His wings pushed once against the air rushing past him and suddenly he soared up and flew above us. With a farewell screech he disappeared into the sky and out of our sight. And so it was that the second of my companions had departed in the space of two days.

Saddened by his sudden an unexplained exit we returned our attention to the cave. It had been a frustrating experience so far. We had only been able to search one wall as the other was too far to be seen by our torchlight. Annoyed and angered at the situation I whipped out Eldritch Light, and tangible tool for the destruction that I wished to cause, and yelled, “I wish we had more light!”

As if in response to my command the blade of the sword began to glow, emitting a bright, powerful light. It was much stronger than that given by a torch and it allowed me to walk along the center of the chamber and see both of the side walls. So that is why Rumscully Jack’s sword was called ‘Eldritch Light’, it provided a magical light source. All this time I had thought it just a name of fancy.

Perhaps half way through our return journey we came across a mound of rocks that appeared to be piled in the center of the room. The mound was perhaps wider than four men laying head to toe, just as high, and at least fifty feet in length.

There was no evidence of a cave in as the ceiling was still whole. It was a curiosity that Moxadder and I wished to investigate further. However hard labour was what was required to move the rocks, and hard labour and I do not walk the same path. It was then that I recalled a magical summoning in a book that I had read in Leathes Abbey. Concentrating I recalled the words of the spell and somehow, managed to summon two man-at-arms! I dubbed these dutiful servants Pierre and Michel and put them to the task of removing the rock pile. I wished to see what, if anything, it buried.

After half an hours digging they had not uncovered anything but more rocks, and Morgan was frustrated by their lack of progress. “We should go!” he said angrily, “We have been away too long and are achieving nothing!”

I had no chance to reply, because Pierre cried out, “Sir! We have found something!” And they had indeed, and I could not help myself looking at Morgan and smiling smugly.

In the large hole that they had created was a solid stone monolith. Further digging revealed that the monolith was detailed with what appeared to be scales.

Whilst my interested was piqued Zhontell took this discovery somewhat differently. “We should go, now!” He said, rising panic evident in his tone. 

“What? Why?” I asked incredulously.

“Because I have seen this in my dreams.” He replied.

We all looked at him quizzically and thought the same thing; “Dreams mean nothing.”

Reading our skepticism he continued, “I had a dream the night before we left Guerney City. I was in a dark tunnel and in it was a gigantic beast. I knew it would kill me. This is that beast!” He said, obviously frightened at the premonition of his death.

“This my friend,” I said in a measured tone as I tried to calm myself from the rising anger within me, “is just a big carved rock. It is not alive and it will not kill you. Shall we get back to work?” 

But he would have none of it. He was near panic and was demanding that he leave at once.

Annoyed and angry at his silliness I snapped at him, “Fine! Leave brave adventurer. Flee the stone. Be a coward!” I spat viciously.

I had shamed him and he would say no more, but he did stay with us.

Another hour or so of moving rocks and we had unearthed what I can only describe as the head of a massive lizard. Its teeth were longer than my legs. While quite impressively detailed, it was in no way alive, despite Zhontell’s fears. It was a monumental carving of a beast, perhaps the very Beast that the Hutenkamans awaited the return of. 

My sword hand and my upper forearm both suddenly felt very hot, and I realized that Nifus Nex and Ssaruss Ssni had stirred.

“Ssir Gerard.” Hissed Ninfus Nex excitedly, “You have uncovered one of uss!”

Puzzled, I prompted him to go on and he revealed some most startling information.


----------



## Haraash Saan

According to Ninfus Nex, in the time before man walked upon the face of Anka Seth, it was ruled by a race of enormous winged beasts called Dragons. What we had thought was a carved stone statue lying before us, was in actuality the body of one of those magnificent creatures. For many centuries they did as they pleased, untormented and untamed. The fourteen Gods came and disliked what they found, Dragons doing as they pleased with the world.

So powerful were the Dragons that the some of the Gods hatched a plan to eradicate them from the world so that they themselves could claim it and give life to new races without threat of having them devoured. One Goddess, Kalseru, warned the Dragons of the plot against them, but it came too late. For her efforts she was not heard of again.

The other Gods had orchestrated to tear the souls out of the Dragons, and that was exactly what they did. The Gods had not anticipated the strength of the Dragon’s souls, however, and found they could not destroy them. Instead, through their divine powers they housed them in the bodies of tiny serpents. Over ages they had been forced to serve many masters and now those very serpents served the Order of the Wyrm.

I stared at the little snake as he hissed through his fantastic tale. Never before had I heard of Dragons! Nor the sacrilegious thought that there had been a power before the Gods themselves had come!

The two serpents were bombarded with questions, but they knew little more. They suspected that if they found their own bodies they could once again join them, with significant divine or arcane assistance, and become Dragons, but they knew not where their own bodies lay.

When we asked about the Oracle, Ninfus Nex explained that its kind were just lowly servants to the great Dragons. The stone eggs we had seen were laid by the Dragons themselves, for they could chose what they gave birth to.

Thinking that there own bodies were destroyed Ninfus Nex and Ssaruss Ssni were quite keen to see if they were incorrect. If they could be found then they could regain the power that they once held.

It dawned upon me that finding their bodies may not be that difficult. If the Hutenkamans worshiped the Beast, then wherever they had temples it was likely that we would find the body of a Dragon. Perhaps these Dragons could be valuable tools for us in a war against the Dominion? 

We had been searching the chamber for more than half the day and it must be have been close to evening, so with nothing more to be gained from the corpse of the ancient Beast, we returned to the Hutenkamans.

We found a good two dozen of them in various states of bliss. Some lay snoring peacefully, others just sat cross-legged on the dirt with a smile upon their faces. They surrounded a giant water pipe, its mouth piece being casually passed between those that had not lost consciousness.

The air was heavy with the all to familiar aroma of Devil Weed, Moxadder’s drug of choice. It became clear on what they had spent their earnings on. 

There was little point staying there as they were in no fit state to answer my queries regarding other Hutenkaman temples, so we went outside to join Hrast and Stravarious, both of whom had been minding the horses.

“About time you lot reappeared,” said Stravarious. “Whilst you have been prancing about with the cultists I have been doing some investigating of my own.”

Without giving us a chance to pass on our own findings, he briskly walked off behind the temple, urging, “Come on, follow me.”

I sighed at his impatience but wondered at what could get the usually quiet Stravarious so energized.

As we rounded the final corner of the temple we understood what he was excited about. In the side of the hill were two massive steel double doors, covered with rubble and debris at their base. Emblazoned on the doors was a familiar symbol, twelve arrows that radiated from a central hub; the mark of Gerech. Stravarious had found the Gerechian temple that we had sought.

We stepped carefully up to the doors, noticing that the Hutenkamans had used the place as a privy. I made sure to hold a particularly thick kerchief over my nose and mouth so that I could not inhale the foul stink.

The doors were so heavy that it required everyone’s strength to swing one open. It protested our efforts but finally creaked open enough to allow us entrance to the Temple of Artyom Seth.

As we gathered our breath, either sitting on the rubble or leaning against the doors for support, Morgan spied dust churned up from the hooves of horse on the road from GuerneyCity.  

They were headed to the Hutenkaman temple so I asked Moxadder to take a discreet look at who they were. The Irudesian slunk off without a sound and disappeared into the undergrowth.

Not five minutes later he reappeared, “Bloody Crusaders of Light.” He said as he cleared his throat and spat his disgust into the dirt.

It was most likely the same Gerechians who had told Morgan about Artyom Seth’s temple. We decided that they would not take kindly to us if they were to discover us entering the holy site of their God so we leapt through the opening we had made and with a mighty effort pulled the door shut.

Once again Eldritch Light provided us comfort and illumination in the deep darkness. Now it was Morgan who took the lead. He placed the mask of Valentin Seth on his face and commanded it to lead us to the transportation chamber we knew was housed in each of the Gerechian temples. If we could unlock its secrets then we might be able to return here from another temple if the need arose.

Only a few paces into our journey Morgan stopped us. “I sense that there are others here, and they are saturated with the foul reek of the Dominion. We must tread warily.”

We moved carefully through the ancient ruin, heeding Morgan’s warning. Evidently it had been sacked many years ago, but had then remained undisturbed for a long time. We stirred a thick layer of dust from the stone cobbles as we strode down corridors and through rooms.

Morgan led us down from the upper level and into the depths of the temple. We came to a place that was a replica of the storage room where we had battled the undead Priest Holton in the temple  of Konstatin Seth. The star chamber, as the mask had called it, was at the end of the corridor that led from this room. 

As we filed into the room Moxadder hushed our murmurings by softly ordering for our silence. We fell quiet. I could see him straining, listening for something ahead.

He gestured us to come close and whispered, “I am sure I heard voices ahead, but when we stopped talking so did they.”

All it took was a collective glance at Moxadder to send him on his way. He sighed and shrugged and skulked off into the shadows.

A few minutes later he returned bearing bad news. “There’s an ambush being set for us.” He whispered. “Must’ve seen our light.” He added matter-of-factly.

“Not seen the like of ‘em before neither.” He continued, “Big lads they are though, and damned ugly. ‘Round a dozen of them.”

How was it possible for them to have gotten here? I thought. It was Morgan who provided the obvious answer.

“They must have come from another temple.” He said.


----------



## Haraash Saan

It was quickly decided that we would stay here for a while before heading back to the top of the staircase to lay our own ambush, whilst Morgan would return to the temple of the Hutenkamans and ask the Crusaders of Light for assistance. It was doubtful that our small band could take that many down in a combat without their help.

Unfortunately our wait at the top of the stairs was all too brief. Morgan had not yet returned with aid when we heard the heavy thud of hobnailed boots climbing the spiral staircase. Then in a rush they were upon us.

Whilst my comrades downed the first ranks, we were soon struggling to maintain our supremacy. 

Moxadder had taken several wounds and suddenly he flew into a blind rage. Instead of biding his time and striking like a serpent at his foes weak spots he flailed with his knives. His ferocious onslaught took down several of the enemy but in turn his recklessness allowed them injure him further.

A large body appeared before me and with a war cry I thrust at an opening in its heavy breastplate. The blood rush made my strike err and stab the armour instead. Such was the force of my thrust that Eldritch Light bent, and to my horror, snapped, just as it had when I fought the bandits in the forest of Montfort.

The ugly brute grinned evilly and took a swipe at me. I was too shocked to evade his blow and it hit me solidly in my left arm. Warm blood oozed from the wound. 

It was Zhontell that gave me time to reach my saddle, for we had taken our horses into the temple so that the Crusaders of Light did not know we were there, and retrieve a spare blade. His fist smashed into the jaw of my opponent cracking it and dropped him to the ground. In the next instant Zhontell leapt further into the fray.

To my complete frustration my second blade suffered the same fate as the first. It was as if Laster himself, after turning me away from Pandemonium two times, had finally deserted me (or was that readying to welcome me). I was to die weaponless in an ancient temple, useless to my friends.

Determined not to give in to Laster and his tormenting games, I foolishly threw the hilt of my second broken sword into the nearest enemy. It only acted to draw his attention to me. I fumbled for my crossbow and a quarrel to load it with as he took a menacing step toward me. He got no further for Kuruul leapt high and his powerful jaws clamped tight on his throat, tearing it open. I had been saved once more.

I could see Moxadder was bleeding from several wounds as he single handedly held off three assailants. One presented his back nicely to me and with a wolfish grin of triumph I took aim. As I loosed the bolt the bowstring twanged, snapped in two by the pressure. The bolt fell useless to the stone floor. WHEN WOULD THIS INDIGNITY END!

“What have I done to offend you Laster?” I screamed in frustration and fury as a dug into my pack for another bow string.

Suddenly Morgan appeared holding the scepter of Artyom Seth high above his head, “I command you to cease fighting.” He ordered. 

Just as I had done when we fought the ghost in palace of Thuurland II I was overwhelmed by his sheer presence and for an unknown reason I felt compelled to listen to him. I felt my eyes drawn to him, like those of a doting dog watching its masters every move. 

Everyone, barring Zhontell, seemed to have listened to Morgan’s command. All lowered their weapons and just waited for him to utter more words of wisdom.

Zhontell, however, used the moment to full advantage. He launched a savage attack on the opponent nearest to him. Morgan also saw the advantage once more uttered a command, “Hydra’s defeat our foes!”

My companions, now free of his first order went about his second with gusto. Unfortunately the slaughter was short lived for from the bottom of the stair case I heard a word of power and suddenly our foes were active once more.

Morgan was quick to resume control. He ordered our foes to retreat down the stairs, and in doing so gave Kuruul, Moxadder, Stravarious and Zhontell a much needed respite, I was still struggling with my damned bow thanks to Laster’s pranks.

From beyond the corridor in which we fought we heard the clanking of armed warriors. As we looked to the source of the sound we saw fourteen crusaders round the corner. 

With a quick glance the lead knight surveyed the scene and muttered with disdain, “Best run off and leave this to the experts.” Before he and the other crusaders marched down the staircase. 

Morgan seeing that we were injured, especially Moxadder who was ashen and was bleeding freely from at least a dozen gashes, and in exhaustion cried out, “Hydra, I release you!” and then said, “Time to leave.” 

We took his advice and ran from the temple as fast as we could dragging our horses behind us. Even as our boots slapped against the stone I heard the clash of arms from down the staircase. The Gerechians had engaged the forces of the Dominion. Morgan yelled back one final command, “Forces of the Dominion, drop your weapons".

Our flight was almost complete. I could see the massive doors open before us, when Moxadder stumbled. He crashed to the cobbles and was almost trampled by the steed he had been dragging behind him.

Morgan threw the reigns of his horse to me and then crouched and felt Moxadder’s pulse for signs of life. “He’s alive. Zhontell, carry him!” he barked urgently,

He then grabbed Moxadder’s horse and commanded “Let’s go.” 

The sun was already low in the sky when we emerged from the Artyom Seth’s temple. Morgan was doing what he could for Moxadder, who now lay on his back, arms folded across his chest. 

“His wounds are significant, but I have made sure that he’ll not bleed.” He said. “I don’t know how long he’ll be out, so get him ready to travel, we may have to ride out in a hurry. Gerard, you and I are going to find out what happened to those Gerechians.”

Morgan had really grown in recent weeks. It began during the defense of Montfort, where he inspired the men and defended stoutly on our makeshift wall. Now, in times of turmoil he had taken charge and led us to safety. The young warrior, defender of Avinal was now truly a leader of men and it is without shame that I followed him once more into the heart of the temple.


----------



## Haraash Saan

Swords drawn we crept down the corridors, bypassing rooms and heading straight to the staircase that we had held. Halfway to the stairs we he saw a flickering light bouncing of the walls. It was accompanied by the heavy clank of metal. 

We doused our own torch and ducked into an alcove, ready to ambush whoever it was that labored toward us. 

From our nook we spied six of the Gerechian knights. Each carrying another over their shoulders. Still wary, we stepped from our concealment.

They stopped, regarding us a moment before one of their number, a large bear of a man gruffly pronounced, “Turn around. Be gone from our temple.”

 “Just here to offer our assistance.” I responded.

“It’s not needed. We can take care of our own.” He replied in turn.

I was not impressed. Even a Gerechian could acknowledge that we had held the gathering forces of the Dominion. Sensing my rising annoyance, Morgan filled the silence.

“Of course. We were just making sure that you didn’t need our aid.” He smiled, “You seem to have defeated those that we had left.” He added.

“Nay, only held them at bay for a moment. We must leave our temple. Their numbers are too great. We can do no more good here.” said the large man.

I opened my mouth to utter my contempt, how could they not have defeated unarmed foes, yet once again Morgan managed to interrupt me. “Then truly there is no aid we can offer.” He then turned and with a nudge prompted me to retreat back to the fading daylight.

As it turned out the Gerechians had already entered the temple and were fighting the creatures of the Dominion in other chambers even as Morgan had initially set out to look for them. Their horses, unseen by the Fastendian, had been hidden in the brush near the entrance to the temple.

From one of these the large man retrieved a double bladed silver axe. His companions laid the deceased that they had been carrying in a row.

Curious I asked what sort of rite they were doing. “A cleansing.” was the curt reply.

With that, their leader, the man that had spoken to us, quickly raised the axe. It reflected a blood red tinge as it reached the zenith of its ascent. The sun had set leaving dark crimsons and vibrant oranges on the horizon. In the next instant it flashed down, through the neck of one of the fallen, biting deeply into the dirt. The man’s head rolled off to the side, lifelessly gazing at the wondrous spectacle of nature that was painted in the sky.

Too shocked at what had happened, I could not tear my gaze from his grizzly work as the remaining five bodies were likewise decapitated.

Seeing my expression of horror he grimly said, “They have been touched by Geduld. We must ensure that they do not return under his influence.”

Morgan later confirmed that he himself had seen the stout men of Avinal do the same on those killed by the priests of Geduld during the Dominion’s assaults on the city. “Uncleansed they could return as the walking dead, undead servants of the Dominion.” He explained.

After his men pillaged their dead comrades the large man introduced himself, in a roundabout way. “I Abbot Yodfor, Son of Light and servant of the almighty one true God, I hereby arrest you for crimes against the one true God.”

“What?” I cried out incredulously. “On what charge and whose authority?”

“Entering holy ground and desecration of that holy ground. You are heretics and must be punished for entering our temple.” Abbot Yodfor replied.

This was an outrage! The Gerechians were tolerated in Guerney but by no means respected. They had no authority to charge any with their laws, and I told the Abbot as much.

He would have none of it. Not surprising when you consider that I was dealing with a religious zealot of the God that had caused the creation of the creatures of the Dominion. Bloody Gerechians.

“You will come with us to Riverglenn to stand before Eamos and answer these charges.” Continued the Abbot.

It was Morgan that again interjected with calm reason. “Abbot Yodfor, you can see I wear the tokens of Gerech.” He still wore the mask of Valentin and the Gerechian breastplate looted from the temple of Konstatin Seth. “And I bear Artyom Seth’s own scepter. I will not allow myself or my comrades to be forcibly arrested. How do you propose that you and, what, one other injured man arrest us?” asked Morgan. It was true. Their four remaining companions could barely stand let alone force us to do something we did not wish.

“We have no desire for violence. We also travel to Riverglenn. We will agree to come with you as companions for the journey and will see your Eamos on our arrival there.” He added diplomatically.

The Abbot glanced about at his fellows and with a sigh conceded the point. “I agree to these terms. But we had best make haste. They”, he jerked his thumb over his shoulder to the temple, “will not be long in reorganising and leaving the temple.”

He was right of course. He had already indicated that there were many more inside. We warned the Hutenkamans, who were still in a drug induced state, that they best flee, strapped Moxadder and the four unwell knights to their horses (so that their hands were bound to their feet under their horses’ belly) and set off into the ever encroaching darkness.

Abbot Yodfor was convinced that the Dominion forces that we had unearthed would pursue us, lest we spread word about them, so we decided to ride through the night.

We stopped after midnight when Moxadder’s cursing alerted us that he had regained consciousness. Once his wounds were tended to by Morgan, and he had taken a few ‘medicinal’ herbs, we explained the situation. Although he cocked an eyebrow when told we were technically under arrest he said nothing. I think that the herbs may have had something to do with his calm disposition.

“Abbot Yodfor?” he inquired of us. We confirmed that that was the crusader captain.

And then he addressed the Abbot. “I know you. ‘member the baquet at the ‘Alfast Games?”

Yodfor looked at Moxadder intently before suspiciously replying, “Yes.”

“Well it was me that asked you for ‘elp to kill those Geduldian monks.” Said Moxadder. “You’re one of them Son’s of Light from the Games.”

“Ah yes,” Abbot Yodfor responded. “I thought you looked familiar, you’re a long way from Halfast.”

“As are you.” I added with finality. I wished to share no information with the Gerechians. Who knows what they would do with it?

Our mounts moved off slowly, Moxadder covered their tracks behind them for perhaps half and hour before he too remounted and we continued our journey.

Exhausted, dawn offered a few hours respite, for we had not slept since the previous night. Abbot Yodfor and Morgan changed the bandages of the Gerechians as best they could, but they were not healers, just battlefield medics. I doubted they would all last the trip to Riverglenn. 

We traveled through the untrailed forest into the early evening, avoiding the road so that we would not be so easily followed. The only occurrence of note was that we passed what looked remarkably like a menhir, similar to that of Lorcan the Druid. Wisely none of us made comment of it to the zealots. 

We made a fireless camp by a creek and ate unpleasant rations in silence. Our tiredness had not improved either the Hydra’s or the Gerechians mood with one another. 

Zhontell interrupted our thoughts. “I’ve seen this before. I’ve dreamt it.” 

Not another dream! The last one almost ended in the elf running away in fear from a pile of rocks. Admittedly, there was something under them, but it was in no way going to harm us. 

“This stream leads to a lake. At the edge of the lake is a boat. We must find the boat.” He continued.

Our questions would get no more from the stoic fey. In the end I think curiosity overrode our fatigue and doubt (perhaps it was that we wanted to finally prove Zhontell wrong) and we set off again into the night.


----------



## Haraash Saan

Another two hours following the stream and, much to my surprise, we found the lake. We would have made quicker time but we avoided using torches and the moon was clouded and provided little light for us to navigate by.

The lake was strangely still and there was an eerie feeling about the place. No frogs croaked and no fish splashed. It was as though nothing lived there.

We split up to skirt the banks and search for the fabled boat. Another hour and Zhontell was calling for us to join him. When I arrived I could see a dark shape in the water. He had indeed found the boat, but from the look of it, it had long ago sunk and was now partially submerged.

Zhontell waded into the freezing waters and secured some ropes to it. These in turn were tied to our horses. With significant effort, they slowly pulled the wreck from the mud in which it had been glued.

It was a longboat, perhaps big enough to hold thirty people. To me it looked more like a coastal vessel than a river boat, but the sea was a long way off. It was covered in thick, oozing mud and its figurehead had been broken off.

The figurehead was obviously important to Zhontell, for he immediately asked us to help him search for it, whilst he himself dove into the lake to scour its bottom.

We had no luck in the reeds and rushes on the banks, or even in the surrounding grasses. It was nigh on impossible to find anything in the dim light.

Moxadder stripped down and dove in to help Zhontell. For my part I conjured a magical light that I placed on a stone and threw it into the water so that the pair had some way to see what they searched for.

Almost immediately after the light had entered the water a carven figure of a winged woman broke the surface of the water. Following it came a gasping Zhontell. Once again the fey had found the missing piece to a puzzle only he understood.

Under torchlight Hrast quickly reattached it. He had some carpentry skill learnt in a former life. As soon as the figurehead was in place the boat began to change. The mud that filled its deck seemed to melt away and the paintwork that time had worn or flaked away slowly began to reappear. A pattern of bright green interlocked leaves soon decorated a bright white hull. The figurehead too had taken on a new guise. Its wings were now the browny-grey of an eagle. Its face was a healthy pink and the dress it wore had the same bright green of the pattern ringing the hull. Around its neck was a carved medallion, and on it was a symbol that we had seen before. It was a green circle with leaf like patterns protruding inward, just like one of the symbols in the Oracle’s cave.

No sooner had Hrast affixed the figurehead then the boat began to move of its own volition. Slowly at first, but then with increasing rapidity, it slid across the grass toward the lake.

Zhontell was quick to act. He jumped inside it as it passed him, falling clumsily onto the deck. He stood and threw his arms into the air and yelled an unrecognisable command. The boat responded and ground to a halt only a few feet before the waters edge. 

“Quickly!” cried Zhontell urgently, “We must be away.”

Moxadder, Morgan and I exchanged glances and collectively sighed with resignation. Then, with our horses in tow, we boarded the unusual vessel. 

The Crusader’s said nothing, looking uncomfortable as they too clambered aboard. I remarked to Yodfor about this and he replied, “We don’t like using heretic transport, but you are our prisoners and we’ll not let you escape.”

I chuckled at his persistent insistence that we were his prisoners. We all knew that we stayed for convenience and that if we chose to go our own way we would be victorious in the inevitable confrontation.

The long boat could not hold the deceased Gerechians horses, so they were set free to roam the forest, probably a lot happier too for not having to carry the armoured Gerechians.

At Zhontell’s command the boat slid gently into the lake and once more it began to increase in speed. It entered a small river that exited the lake and sped along as if acting on its own free will.

I took the opportunity to rest, and as my eyelids slowly closed I saw that the entire inside rail of our longboat was carved with simple animal shapes and symbols. My dreams were of the carved creatures acting as if they were alive and in their own habitat. Bears fished in rivers, eagles soared seeking rabbits and deer grazed on lush grass, oblivious to everything.

I slept well that night.

A movement woke me. The boat had bumped against a landing. I stood and saw a marvelous sight. As far as my gaze went to the north there was an ancient ruin. The remnants of stone buildings and pillars lay before me, crumbled through the millennia. Vibrant green creepers and vines clung to everything. 

I alighted the boat with my companions. There was no doubt that this had been its destination. The river flowed no further, it turned quickly into a swampy marsh. Tussocks of reeds clumped together, islands of vegetation in the still waters.

We spent the rest of that day exploring the ruin. Zhontell confirmed that it was elfish in design and construction, but even he was in awe of its age. 

After midday we had managed to arrive at the center of the city. A large tumbled down building, the biggest that still at least partially stood yielded only a little information as to who the inhabitants had been. 

Morgan discovered a life sized statue that had toppled and was overgrown with grass. When he cleared it he discovered that it was another representation of the lady on the figurehead. It was carved predominantly from some semi-precious stone, but was way to heavy for us to lift and carry with us, much to Moxadder’s annoyance. We left her resting where she lay.

In the same area Morgan also found an emerald inlaid box. On its lid was the same religious symbol that had been displayed by the figurehead and the statue.

There were no obvious hinges or lock, yet it could not be opened. I then recalled that an obscure magic that I had learnt from one of the many magic books that we had found on our travels. I began the incantation as I stretched my fingers out and then, above the box, made a circular pattern in the air with my hand. Finally I delivered the last verse of the spell, and rapped the lid once with my knuckle. 

There was a scraping noise and the lid lifted from the box. We crowded around to see what treasure awaited us. It was neither gold nor jewels, it was simple a white powder. 

Quick as a serpent Moxadder struck. In one smooth motion, learnt from years of practice, he grabbed a pinch of dust and snorted it.

His eyelids drooped and a silly smile crept onto his face before he dropped to his knees and then planted his face into the moss at his feet.

Morgan reassured us that he was alive, but then startled us by saying that he was very much asleep. He gave a sharp kick to Moxadder’s ribs and with a groan the Irudesian woke. “What’dayoudo dat for?” he asked, “Dat stuff is fantastic!” he added as he groped for the box. 

I swiftly pulled it away. “Sorry Moxadder. Until we know more about this I do not think we should be sampling it carelessly.” And, much to his dismay, I pushed the lid back on the box.

We continued our exploration through to the other side of the city and other than finding a few places were we found carved animals, just like those in the boat, the only other thing of interest was a medallion of the green circle. It was soon discovered that it acted as a key to the box. When it was pressed into the corresponding symbol on the lid of the box, the lid was able to be eased off. Unfortunately a slip of the tongue alerted Moxadder to the news and, knowing his drug appreciating ways, we were very mindful of his proximity to the box.

That night, wishing to discover more about the mysterious powder, and after ignoring Moxadder’s pleas to be the test subject, we agreed that Zhontell could inhale a dose.

He lay down and placed the powder on his tongue. In an instant he was sleeping soundly. We all followed his cue and also sought sleep, although the more natural kind.

The next morning Zhontell still had not woken and I decided to further our experiment. We tied him to his horse, just as Moxadder had been when he had been unconscious, careful not to wake him, and then mounted our own horses and set of into the forest, leaving the magnificent ruin behind us.

That day and following night passed without incident, and still Zhontell slept.

In the morning I begrudgingly allowed Zhontell to be woken. I was none to pleased, firstly because I preferred the Fey’s company when he was asleep, and secondly because the experiment had not been concluded. He had displayed no adverse effects to the enforced and extended sleep, but neither had he woken of his own accord. I could only conclude that the sleeping dust put anyone that inhaled or ingested it into a deep sleep that could only be woke by a solid impact. It was Morgan that delivered the required impact, a boot to elf’s ribs.


----------



## Haraash Saan

None too pleased at being woken to pain, nor having been left to sleep for more than the initial night Zhontell saw fit to take his annoyance out on one of the ill Gerechians.

The condition of the four seriously injured knights had not improved over the last couple of days, in fact two of them had declined and were near death. 

Unwittingly it was upon one of these that Zhontell chose to release his anger. He walked up to the sick and still sleeping man and gave him a sharp boot to the ribs. Wishing to cause the same distress he had felt to another. Why he chose to do this to a wounded man is beyond me.

The Gerechian spasmed sharply and then with a shudder moved no more. Zhontell had killed his man.

Abbott Yodfor leapt to his feet. “What do you mean by kicking my man?” he said, not realizing that the blow had delivered his comrades death. 

Zhontell was also unaware of the results of his action and responded lamely, “I was just waking him. It’s time to move on.”

Yodfor looked at the man. His eyes widened and his top lip curled into a snarl as he realized what Zhontell had done. “You have murdered him.” He hissed.

Now Zhontell looked again at the man he had killed and saw that what Yodfor had said was true, “He was going to be dead soon anyway, It is no loss.” said the elf with callous stupidity.

The muscles in the Abbott’s thick neck tensed and a vein on his forehead raised to bursting point as rage built within him. He slowly walked to his horse and drew the mighty silver axe from its loop on the saddle and held it in both hands before him. There was no doubt as to his intent.

He addressed the rest of the Hydra in cool a measured tone, “Who of you wish to side with this murderous creature? Who of you is neutral? And who of you will stand with me and justice?”

Morgan was the first to reply, “He is stupid and careless, but I cannot allow you to slay my comrade.” He said bravely.

Moxadder chose to fill the silence next, “Per’aps if ‘e was to atone? Do some great deed in the name of Gerech?”

The Abbott stroked his chin in thought, “Will you commit yourself to a life of crusading with Gerech against the Dominion and Geduld?”

A contemptuous snort from Zhontell provided his answer. 

Moxadder sighed, “I don’t want to, but as he,” he inclined his head to Morgan, “said. I’ll stand by a fellow ‘ydra.”

To fight would most likely mean victory for us, it would be four against two and both of them were injured, but it did not sit well with me. Whilst I did not like Gerechians, at least they acted against a common foe. 

Seeing my doubt Yodfor said, “What would you do to me if I murdered one of your companions?”

It was a good question, and one I answered truthfully. “Kill you.”

“So whom will you side with?” he continued.

“Surely in this case violence is unnecessary. “ I said in a careful and considered tone. “Zhontell has made a dreadful mistake, but it was in no way his intent to kill your man. Can you not see that Zhontell is a warrior against the Dominion and Geduld and has countless times fought them. He is a tool in your war, even if not with your reasons. He, like us seek to remove their foul evil from the world.” I said.

“No I don’t.” interrupted Zhontell. “It is in no way my wish to exterminate the followers of a God.”

“What?” I spat. This was news to me. Through all our of our squabbling and individuality I had thought that the one consistent thing that gelled us together was our common hatred of the Dominion and Geduld. I was evidently incorrect.

“How can you say that?” I continued, feeling my own rage growing. How stupid was the elf? Not only had he outright rejected two possible ways to save his life from a religious zealot hell-bent on justifiable revenge, but now he spurned the very comrades who had chosen to stand with him.

“It is simple. I will not exterminate the Dominion or Geduld.” He said.

It was too much for Moxadder. He stepped back and raised his palms, “’e’s all yours Abbot. ‘e’ll not ever get my aid.”

Morgan sighed and shook his head, “After all that I have seen I could not now with a clear heart stand with you.” And he took step back to stand beside Moxadder.

The followers of Geduld have dogged us in all of our travels. They attempted to murder my King and myself in Halfast. They attacked those that I safeguarded in Montfort and sought to disrupt trade along my river. They successfully assassinated my King on their second attempt and now they had infiltrated my country with their troops. How could I stand by this Fey?

“I will not and cannot travel with you any longer. You spurn my beliefs and what we as a group are fighting for. You are no longer our comrade or a Hydra and I will in no way assist you.” I said before turning to Abbot Yodfor and saying, “Do what you will. My companions and I will not stand in your way.”

Throughout my impassioned speech Zhontell remain impassive. Bravely, and with more stupidity, he stood before Yodfor and said, “I’ll not fight you. This was an accident. I meant no harm.”

“Too late now. You have made your bed, time for me to make you lie in it.” He responded as he strode forward. 

There was a blur of silver and Zhontell was knocked off balance. He righted himself and placed his fingers on the deep wound on his shoulder. ‘you cannot make me fight you.” said Zhontell contemptuously before he turned and fled into the forest.

“You cannot flee from your fate, may you die the coward’s death!” cried Yodfor. 

My heart was momentarily heavy with darkness, such was the power of the curse that the Abbot invoked.

We never did get to find out what happened with Zhontell’s dreams when he was under the influence of the sleeping powder.

A strange uneasy wariness fell over the camp as we ate our morning meal and prepared for the day’s journey. No-one wished to discuss Zhontell’s hastened departure.

For me there was not much more to add, I had said my piece to Zhontell, and whilst I wished him no particular harm, he was now no longer a concern of mine. He had made his own choices and would live, or die, by them. However, I felt that his choices somehow had betrayed what the Hydra had come to stand for. 

Throughout our many adventures we had developed a common goal. We were now single-mindedly unified against the Dominion and their god, Geduld. Zhontell’s contrary position had further clarified this for me and for my comrades. That day we stood united, closer than we had ever before.


----------



## Quartz

Ooh! I presume this was Zhontell's player leaving the campaign?


----------



## Haraash Saan

Quartz said:


> Ooh! I presume this was Zhontell's player leaving the campaign?




Actually no, that wasn't the intention. At the time the other players and GM thought that it was some very odd behavior from Zhontell's player. It was very much roleplayed as I've written it.

However, it did turn out to be that player's last session as they opted not to create a new character.

As an aside, my personal rules for writing the story were based on making it as accurate as I could (within the constraints of Gerard's view of the world) to what actually happened.


----------



## Haraash Saan

*Chapter 15 – Libraries, a place for quiet contemplation*

As we broke camp and saddled the horses Morgan cried out in surprise, “Someone’s approaching!”

Following his outstretched arm I saw a burly man casually step into the clearing. His long vest of strange interlinked mail clinked against his powerful thighs as he strolled forward. He wore two sheathed swords on his belt and even though his arms swayed with each step his hands were never far from their hilts.

My own blade was out of its scabbard in an instant. Moxadder already held two daggers and Morgan had knocked and arrow to his bowstring. Stravarious just sneered.

“Hail Hydra!” spoke the stranger. 

His familiarity did nothing to ease my mind. I tightened my grip on my sword as I replied, “Indeed you do hail the Hydra. Who are you and what is it that you want?” 

“I am Kir and I bring word from Baron Yorath. He has not heard from you in many months and wishes to know of your intended actions,” he replied. “But of more immediate concern are the Barrow Dwellers that track you.”

“Track us?” spat Moxadder “They’ll not be following our trail.” He assured us that he had cleared the trail and that the warriors of the Dominion from Artyom Seth’s temple would not be able to follow us.

“I’ll grant you were clever, but your attempts did not stop those that are coming. There are at least five not more than an hour from here.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ” You can’t defeat them, not in the open, so we must run. Todesmagie’s Tower is no more than two days away. We may yet make it.”

My intuition told me that Kir spoke the truth, and I saw no harm in moving out, especially as we were practically ready to ride in any case.

Moxadder must have felt the same, for he looked at me and said, “I’ll look into it. You lot ride out and I’ll catch up.”

I agreed. There was no need to take unnecessary risks. I did not quite trust Kir, but I was sure that we were more than his match if it came to that.

Kir mounted Zhontell’s horse, Morgan led Moxadder’s and we rode out in the rough direction Moxadder, indicated.

The Gerechians led the way followed by Kir with the remnants of the Hydra trailing. Morgan whispered to Strav and I that he had seen Kir before, in the gladiatorial pits of Morannin. He was the apprentice to Riork, the famous gladiator whose bronze statue graced the arena in Halfast. If it were true, he may well be more formidable than I first imagined.

Light drizzle began to fall, only making us more uncomfortable and edgy. First there was the incident with Zhontell and now the appearance of Kir and his knowledge of the Baron and also warnings of foes previously unknown.

Two hours passed before Moxadder returned. “He’s right.” He said inclining his head to Kir, “There were a dozen cat like things. Each had two tails but stranger than that was that they walked on two legs. With them were five hooded men. I reckon it’s time to move on a bit faster.”

I saw Stravarious’s eyes widen at the word “Cat”. He would have to be kept in check. I still did not understand his hatred of the animals.

On Moxadder’s advice we pushed the horses into a trot and continued our journey from the hazy rain. 

As we rode Kir told us a little of his tale. Like us the Baron was also his employer. He too was part of a gladiatorial company, Stilleta. We queried him on this and he explained that it was the Baron’s first company. They had been asked by Yorath to retrieve a parchment from a ruined manor in the heart of the Dominion lands. However they were discovered and were forced to flee. Only he had survived. From that point he had been operating in the Fastness with instructions from the Baron, via Lady Timandra. She had been in Morannin when she had instructed him to come and find us.

It was an interesting story. That, and his dagger that bore the spear motif of Yorath, eased our minds a little of most doubts we had of Kir, but not enough to be entirely trusting.

Later than morning we heard a strange shriek in the distance. I turned cautiously trying to place the direction it had come from. Lightning flashed several miles behind us. That was not a good omen.

The rain steadied and we heard no more from our pursuers that day. We decided to make a short camp to tend the wounded Gerechians and rest the horses.

Once again Moxadder volunteered to see if he could find any trace of our foes.

I found some shelter under a tree, and it was a small relief from the constant rain. Even if we had dared we could not have lit a fire. So instead we sat and shivered. 

I had the unsettling feeling that I was being watched, but every time I turned I could see nothing but brush swaying in the breeze. 

“What the?” began Morgan.

“What?” I said as I faced him.

“On Thuus’s sword I swear that there was a floating eye watching us!” he vehemently replied.

An eye? Floating? Surely he had been seeing things in the rain and encroaching darkness. However, I said nothing. This was not the time to cause internal strife.

Half way into our break Moxadder ran into the camp, mud splashing from every heavy footfall. “Mount up! They’re only minutes behind me and they’ve got wizards!”

That explained the eye Morgan had seen. I mouthed a prayer of courage to Thuus as I ran to my horse and swung into the saddle.

Yodfor looked grim. He drew retrieved his axe and quickly ended the lives of the three Gerechians that had to be tied to their horses. “They’ll slow us up, and now at least they can’t be taken by Geduld.” He said matter of factly.

Night fell quickly. The rain became heavier again and thunder boomed ominously. 

Cries of “Eye!” came often, although I never saw one. 

We rode slower than I would have liked, for the horses were exhausted and even then they often stumbled over unseen roots. At least our pursuers had the same conditions to conquer and would be making little if any ground on us.

A fork of lightening jagged across the sky as we crested a hill. Behind us more than a dozen figures trudged perhaps a mile away. I was wrong, they were gaining on us!

Mental and physical fatigue set in sometime well after midnight. In my minds eye I saw the laughing faces of cats mocking me from the trees and dismembered eyeballs dancing just out of my rapiers reach. 

“Ride now! As hard as you can!” Kir’s cry cleared my delirium. The darkness and dissolved into a grey gloom. The rain still fell but it was morning.

Kir spurred his horse forward. The others followed. With a glance behind me I saw the catlike creatures running from the cover of the woods that we had just left. Cowled men followed in their wake. 

My horse, sensing the urgency reared up on its hind legs, flailing its forelegs into the sky, before launching into a fast gallop. I did all I could to hold on, for I was no longer in control of the beast. Fear was its master.

All I could see was my companions riding to what we hoped would be our salvation, the Tower.of Todesmagie. It loomed up in front of us, a beacon of light in the grey.


----------



## Haraash Saan

With another glance over my shoulder I saw that we had put some distance between the creatures of the Dominion. They themselves had given up the immediate chase and now walked, following us intently. Loping behind them was a huge figure that I had not seen before. It was at least one and half times the height of a normal man and perhaps twice as broad. 

I finally managed to end the fight for control of my mount just as we approached the wide staircase that led to the only door. We dismounted and led the exhausted animals up to the large entrance. 

Morgan pounded upon the thick oak, “Let us in! The forces of the Dominion approach!”

Half a minute elapsed with no response, so once again he hammered the door.

This time we heard the sound of sandals slapping on cobbles approach the door. A bolt clanked and two eyes peered at us from a peephole in the door.

“What is all this commotion?” queried a nasal voice.

“Good man, “ I began rapidly, interrupting Morgan before he could speak, “We are travelers that seek the knowledge of Todesmagie. And we seek entry to your Tower.”

“Hmm, I’ll have to check with Lord Steven.” He replied and his eyes disappeared from the slot.

I thrust my left hand into it just as he tried to slam the bolt home. I mentally praised Mortec’s handiwork as I continued, “Friend, we need to come in now.” I said with finality. “Just open the door. I am sure Lord Steven would not be unimpressed with our own information.”

“Umm,” he replied with uncertainty, “What information do you have?”

Morgan lost his patience. “Open the damn door! The forces of the Dominion are about to attack your tower!”

The Fastendian’s outburst shocked the man into action. He quickly raised the bar and urged us to come in before dropping it once more into place. 

We were safe, at least for the moment. We were led down a covered causeway to a court yard within the tower. There was only one door in the courtyard and to one side was a small stable. Hrast took the horses there.

Our guide, a short thin man wearing robes and a talisman of Todesmagie around his neck, told us to wait there whilst he delivered our information to Lord Steven.

He quickly exited through the door. I heard a bar fall into place against it. We would not be able to easily follow him had that been our intention.

A few moments later we heard him call down to us, for he appeared in a window above the door through which he had gone. “Lord Steven says that Todesmagie will provide a solution.” And then he popped out of sight before we could hurl abuse at him.

Todesmagie will provide a solution! Thank you so much for your help oh mighty lord of knowledge. 

There was a heavy thud against the main door. The Dominion had arrived. 

We assembled ourselves as best we could with Kir, Yodfor and his only remaining companion, in the front rank. Moxadder, Stravarious and I made the next rank. Morgan stood off to one side. We all had our crossbows or bows loaded or knocked.

Several more thuds before an almighty crash. They were through.

Arrows and bolts flew down into the causeway. Screams of pain confirmed that at least a few of the missiles had found targets. Then with a rush the cats met the front line.

Yodfor fell instantly, and Strav capitalized on his demise. With a word a glowing curved sword appeared in his hand. He cocked his arm over his shoulder and with a blood curdling laugh threw it with all his might.

End over end the blade spun ploughing through the cat creatures before burying itself in the last one in the column. All that it struck yowled with pain. Whilst his magic took none down it certainly hurt at least half a dozen.

I leapt into the breech made by the fallen Gerechian and slashed wildly with my sword.

I drove home a sure strike. Inexplicably I missed my mark. Then I realized that the creature was shimmering, like the reflected heat on a hot summer’s day, making it nigh on impossible to focus on. It had no such trouble and it struck at me with its clawed hands and its tails. A tail hit me solidly numbing my sword arm.

Morgan cried out “Defend the Tower!” but his command was punctuated with a loud crack. The scepter of Artyom Seth was no longer and his command fell on deaf ears.

Kir threw a handful of dust onto his foe, and it was suddenly very visible, no longer shimmering like the one I faced. That was all Kir needed to cut it down.

As we fought these strange creatures I became aware of a low chant from the robed figures that was becoming louder. “Geduld acra nema.” Repeated over and over again. 

I gasped as I saw ghostly dismembered hands appear in front of the chanters. Slowly they began to float forward as if their fingers dragged them through the air.

Kir let loose with a panicked swipe at one that hovered into range, but it missed wide of the mark. Suddenly the hand sprung forward digging into his breast.

Kir dropped one of his swords and clawed at his chest where the hand had struck. His feline adversary capitalized on his pain and lashed him with each tail. The Gerechian beside me slumped to the ground. From beside Kir, Moxadder also cried out in agony, another ghostly hand had found a victim.

I was instantly aware of yet another dismembered claw that floated inches from my chest. Before I could react it struck me. In a horrifying moment there was a wave of cold that passed through my body. I shuddered as I felt weakened and staggered against the causeway wall, managing limply to defend myself.

Moxadder was ashen. He had experienced the same mortifying chill as I had. Kir fared no better. He had also suffered several vicious wounds from the cat creatures that faced him. With Morgan no longer able to call on Artyom Seth’s scepter to enable him to command our foes our situation was desperately bleak.

The feeling of cold left me but the weakness had not. I could barely lift my blade. I was desperate. I lunged with all my might at my adversary but, as it had before, it disappeared and I missed, the thin steel of my blade snapped as it struck the stone floor. Laster had deserted me once more, or perhaps he enjoyed tormenting me.

Enraged I whipped out my spare sword, I now carried two blades for just this occasion, and once more launched myself at the servant of the Dominion.

Luckily I managed to land a few telling strikes by swinging full slashes rather than precise thrusts, that overcame the cat’s disorienting appearance, but it was Kir who felled him. He stepped over the corpse and strode forward. Was he mad? But then I saw his reason. There were already several of the beasts lying dead in the corridor. He wished to take the battle to them.

Sensing that the fight had turned to the favour of the defenders, the hulking man that waited behind his minions, grunted a single command, “Withdraw!”

And they did. They fled from the Tower. There was no way we could pursue them, for after a day a night in the saddle and now having fought for our very lives we had not the energy.

Behind us someone clapped. “Well done,” said Lord Steven. “Todesmagie has provided a solution”. He added smugly.

“Indeed he did,” rasped an old man that stood at Lord Steven’s shoulder. It was Ruftameon, the sage that we had met long ago in Baron Yorath’s library and to whom we returned a book. 

I began to voice a thousand questions but Lord Steven only smirked in amusement. “There is time for questions later. Now you all should sleep.” 

It was then that I realized that I was thoroughly exhausted. It had been days since I had slept and finally, with the excitement of our escape no longer fueling me, fatigue set in.


----------



## Haraash Saan

************************

Sunlight streamed into the sparse room that I had been shown to the evening before. A dreamless night had refreshed me and left me feeling better than I had done since before the assassination of the King. 

By the time I found my companions in a large library, they had already breakfasted. Even Yodfor and his companion were there, looking a lot perkier than when I had last seen them being dragged into the tower by Morgan and the thin man that had allowed us entry into it. 

We were left to our own devices until after luncheon when Lord Steven joined us. 

“Lord Steven, thank you so much for your kind hospitality.” I said 

“Weary travelers deserve respite,” he replied graciously, “whoever they may be. Todesmagie will not judge you.” 

He paused, looking at me intently whilst stroking his short, trimmed black beard and saying, “But come now, I am told that you have knowledge that you wish to share.” 

And so it was that I told him of the death of the King, our encounter with the agents of Dominion in the Gerechian temple, the ruins of Green Lady’s city and our most recent flight from the cat-like creatures and their masters. 

If I had told Lord Steven anything that he did not already know I could not tell, for he raised not even so much as an eyebrow at my tale. Ruftameon, who had come into the room halfway through my discourse nodded occasionally, as if I was confirming something he suspected.

We spoke long into the afternoon, answering questions and asking our own in turn.  

By now, the sun had slunk behind a low cloud in the west and the sky began its beautiful metamorphosis from blue through orange and dusky pink and finally into darkness. 

A pounding on the bolted doorway below roused us from our intriguing conversation. The skinny man scampered off to fulfill his welcoming duties. Soon after, he re-entered the room and bowed low to Lord Steven, “A Mkilejthe to see you my lord.” 

As his name was mentioned the enormous man that had led his beasts and wizards against stepped into the room. He was so tall that he had to duck to squeeze through the doorway, and so broad that he his shoulders brushed its frame. 

In an instant a rapier flashed into my hand. Likewise my comrades sought their preferred arms. 

“Gentlemen!” called Lord Steven loudly. “None shall harm my guests in MY house.” As he spoke he glared at each of us in turn. His gaze lingering longest on the hulking most recent arrival. 

Mkilejthe the Fleshgolem, General of the Dominion, earlier in the day we had learnt our adversary’s full name, stood at least ten feet tall and wore a massive robe, secured with a rope. Its sleeves were so long that they concealed his hands and its cowl completely hid his face. 

“What is it that I can do for you Mkilejthe?” Lord Steven asked, his voice now perfectly calm and hospitable. 

“Turn them over to me.” Rumbled a reply that sounded as though the very earth had gnashed boulders together. 

“I cannot force my guests to leave.” Countered Lord Steven, much to our relief. 

“If they are not given to us by tomorrow evening, we will come and raze your tower” stated the Dominion general. “The choice is yours.” 

With that he turned and descended the staircase. 

Mkilethje’s request had left us stunned. It was a demand that would fall on deaf ears. It was preposterous that these men of knowledge would even consider giving in to the Fleshgolems’s command.

Lord Steven broke the silence, “I‘m sorry my friends. I will not risk the knowledge housed in this tower.”

I felt my jaw drop. I must have looked like a fool. Had I heard him correctly?

“You must leave here before dusk on the morrow.” Continued Lord Steven.

We were dumbstruck by his decision. Moxadder stalked from the room, no doubt to seek solace from some herbal remedy. Stravarious sat silently, his mask hiding any sign of emotion. 

Morgan leapt up in a rage, fists clenched so tightly that they shook. “Throw us to the wolves will you?” he spat.

“We have no allies and seek no enemies. We only seek knowledge. “said Lord Steven calmly. “It is unfortunate that this has come to pass, but as I said before, I will not risk losing the knowledge we have acquired here.”

He would be drawn no further into discussion, and eventually he raised his palms and bid us good night. 

Yodfor sat sharpening his sword with a whetstone unperplexed by Lord Steven’s declaration.

As I watched the head librarian exit the room I noticed that as he passed a shelf a book fell with dull thud to the floor. Lord Steven seemed not to have noticed and left the library.

I picked the book up and brushed off its cover with a kerchief. Embossed in gold on the ancient brown leather were the words ‘The Battle Circles of Thuus’. I idly turned to a page and read it.

‘Once activated the Battle Circle cannot be breached until the contest has a victor.’ 

Intrigued I read on. The Battle Circles of Thuus were used in ancient tournaments or to settle disputes. Consecrated by the priests of Thuus, the circle was laid out with ten standing stones. At the commencement of combat the circle would be activated by a Thuusian chant. 

After the battle had commenced the circle would prevent most deceptions and death magics from profaning the sanctity of the combat. I prayed to Thuus that my interpretation of this was correct and that the Beasts of Zzart, as Lord Steven called the cat creatures, would no longer have their peculiar ability to seem to be in a place that they were not.

Most importantly there was a chapter on the locations of the ancient Battle Circles of Thuus and there was one somewhere very near the tower.

I called the others, all expect Moxadder, who was too addled to be of any use, and explained what I had learnt. In Moxadder’s absence Stravarious volunteered to find the stones of the circle outside the tower.

“I have some magics that will ensure that I am not discovered.” He said confidently as he strode from the room.

At one stage whilst awaiting his return we heard the screams of the cat-like creatures. It was not really that surprising, Stravarious had not doubt taken the opportunity to indulge his hatred of felines yet again..

A few hours later he returned and proclaimed that he had found all of the stones and uncovered them from the overgrowth that had hidden them.

There was nothing more that we could do, so we each headed to our beds and restless sleep.

************************


----------



## Haraash Saan

We stood within the perimeter of the battle circle. Morgan had strung his bow and absently strummed its string, all the while staring coldly at the trees in the distance that sheltered our adversaries. Stravarious casually sat upon a near by standing stone that marked the border of the circle, his great crossbow loaded and resting on his lap. 

Moxadder, hopped from one leg to another and clapped his hand across his chest and arms in an effort to fight the autumn chill. 

My rapier was in my gloved hand. I swished it twice in impatience. When would they come? 

And then, as if my thought had prompted them, they came. 

They approached in a rough line. The remaining Beasts of Zzart in the center and the wizards on either flank. Mkilethje, like most generals, led from the rear. 

They strode forward in calm and measured steps. They sensed victory, and why should they not? They more than doubled our number. 

Unwittingly they entered the circle. I voiced a quick prayer to Laster and begged for some luck before joining Morgan, Moxadder and Stravarious in the Thuusian chant that we had learnt the previous evening. 

“We the brave stand before you mighty Thuus.” Our chant began. 

“We call upon you to bless this Circle. Those with courage shall be victorious.” 

A loud snort on the northern edge of the circle caused me to look up. A fine black charger with a white flash upon its nose galloped within the standing stones. The steed looked remarkably familiar. Its rider wore strange armour of gnarled wood and guided the horse toward us.

“Those without shall perish.” We called in finality.

Was the new arrival friend or foe? I shifted my stance so that if need be I could more easily react to any malicious actions.

A sudden gust of wind rushed through the circle, sending my broad brimmed hat sailing off my head and tumbling through the grass, and the standing stones each radiated an unearthly blue light. The Battle Circle of Thuus was sealed. 

The minions of Mkilethje were momentarily confused. One of the mages regretted it. He was peppered by two of Morgan’s arrows in rapid succession, the bolt of Stravarious and another pair of arrows from Moxadder. The battle had commenced. 

I leapt forward to meet one of Zzart’s creations. Quick as lightening I pierced it twice. As I suspected its unnatural abilities did not confound us within the Battle Circle. I skipped nimbly away as it clumsily waved a paw at me. It earned two thrusts for its trouble, the final one skewering its throat. 

“What sort of strife are we in now?” called the rider. The familiar voice revealed him to be none other than Argonne! 

At the other end of the circle Mkilethje’s conjurors were bewildered as to why the magics they attempted failed. I could see them mouthing incantations and weaving complex gestures with their fingers but nothing seemed to happen. Nothing, that is, until a huge flame erupted from the earth beneath one and enveloped him. He let loose a chilling cry of agony before his charred body slumped forward still smoking. It seemed Argonne had no issue calling forth Foeld’s power.

Finally the Dominion’s wizards found something that they could do. Coloured glowing orbs appeared in their hands. These they launched at Argonne, who they realized and been the perpetrator of their comrades demise.

An arrow, closely followed by another, whooshed passed my ear. A cat screamed as the two shafts from Morgan’s bow thudded into it in mid pounce. I dove to my left, landing gently on my shoulder and immediately rolled into a fighting stance. There was no need, however, Morgan’s arrows had struck true and the creature lay dead. 

In thanks I pretended to doff a hat, I had not yet reclaimed mine, but saw Morgan struck by a strange orb of power, staggering him. His bow slipped from his fingers. Two cats bounded forward on seeing his predicament. They leapt high and pounded into his chest spending him sprawling. He forlornly tried to throw one of the beasts of him, but it was no use, they tore him to shreds with claw and fang. There was a sudden movement in my periphery. I twisted aside as a claw lashed out at me. My thoughts of Morgan disappeared as I fought for my own life.

Their numbers dwindled rapidly as the Hyrda’s collective fury at losing Morgan was unleashed. Soon only Mkilethje stood before us. 

I gasped for breath. My left side ached, a wizard had blindsided me with an energy orb that had knocked me from my feet. 

The point of my sword probed forward, seeking for an opening in Mkilethje’s defense. His underlings lay strewn about the battle field whilst the those of the Hydra still standing encircled the General. 

My remaining comrades had fared no better than I, each of them bore a variety of wounds, all except Argonne that is. Perhaps it was his armour, or perhaps he had hung back and called upon his earth magics to aid us and hence steered clear of confrontation, I do not know. 

Mkilethje looked worse than all of us. He had been struck by steel and magic time and time again. Our blades had bitten deep but it he seemed impervious to their effect. Moxadder, Kuruul and I provided a feeble frontline to distract him from the more effective magic of Stravarious and Argonne. So far we had succeeded and they had worn him down considerably. His skin was blistered from a constant barrage of flame conjured by Argonne and Stravarious continued to siphon his strength.

The General’s huge club thumped into the space I had recently occupied. If the Dark Elf and the Woodsman could not bring him down soon I would be too fatigue to dodge another thundering swing. 

Another assault by Argonne and Stravarious saw the giant stagger. I considered calling on him to yield, but thought better of it. He had provided us with no options, and in the end he was our most hated foe, a servant of the Dominion. He deserved no mercy. 

His massive club swung up, preparing to unleash an almighty blow. It was the opportunity that we had waited for. Moxadder leapt at the Fleshgolem’s back and buried a dagger from each hand into it. Yodfor hacked at his stomach and I managed to drive my blade into his flank. 

But it was a green ray the burst from Stravarious’s gloved palm that knocked the General down. With a muted groan Mkilethje shivered, dropped his club, and fell to his knees, all strength sapped from him, before finally toppling forward and kissing the bloodied dirt. 

There was a crack of thunder overhead. The standing stones briefly flared into incandescence before disappearing altogether. We were victorious, but at a dreadful cost.


----------



## Haraash Saan

What was left of Morgan lay beside his broken bow, trampled in the battle. His chest did not move and his face was drained of colour. Argonne, who had been first to arrive, knelt above him muttering a strange incantation. 

We stood beside our fallen comrade each left with our own thoughts. He had been brave and loyal. I could not have asked more from him. Even this day he had saved my life with his quick hand and uncanny eye. He was a stout companion and one that I would miss. 

“Stop moping!” commanded Argonne, “He is only recently dead, I can feel that his soul clings to the world to which he was born. If you leave me be I may be able to call him back.” 

Only after Argonne confirmed that, Foeld willing, he could revive Morgan, did I manage to mouth silent prayers. First to Laster for the luck he granted me and also because he saw fit not to cause my blade to break as they had on so many occasions in recent times. Then to Thuus for granting us the courage we needed to succeed. And finally to the earth spirit to give Argonne the power he needed to bring back our friend. 

While Argonne tended Morgan, Moxadder scoured the field for the spoils of battle. He found a rapier of unusual quality that he gave to me. “Should replace your broken pin-pricker.” 

It was made of a strange black stone that Lord Steven told me was virtually unbreakable. It was indeed the perfect weapon for me, although something told me that if it could be broken I would unfortunately find a way. Carved into the blade was the word ‘Switch’. The swords pommel was a silver skull that I sensed radiated magic. 

Later, after consultation with his books, Lord Steven told me that the black blade was an ancient artifact that granted the power to absorb the magical properties of another sword, hence it’s name.

At Lord Steven’s suggestion a mass grave was dug. “I will consecrate the ground and ensure that they’ll not rise again to cause more anguish.” He said.

It seemed to me that he was suddenly taking an interest. He revealed the Mkilejthe was not in fact dead, but temporarily unconscious. However, instead of removing his head and burning the body as Stravarious volunteered to do, Lord Steven proposed that the Fleshgolem could be pressed into his service.

“If you allow me I can use Mkilejthe. I have a large library and an enormous amount of work to do. I am quite sure that he would make a fine assistant.” He proclaimed.

When questioned how he would be able to control the General, he smiled and from within his robes he produced a simple leather collar. Seeing our skepticism he said with a grin, “Please, do not be concerned. I have been saving this item for just such a special case. It will allow me complete control over him.”

We conceded to his request, as it was a much simpler proposition. In return for our gift of the General, Lord Steven informed us that if we skinned the Beasts of Zzart that we could get their pelts tanned and made into cloaks that would provide their wearer with similar disorienting abilities as the cats had themselves. Moxadder went to work skinning the strange animals, for other than Argonne he was the only one with the skill for such a task.

The afternoon progressed and storm clouds thickened in west. They rolled in over the mountains. Thunder rumbled, lightning cracked and then the rain poured. 

All bar Argonne sought the refuge of the Tower but he still crouched in fervent prayer to the earth spirit Foeld. His fingers began to trace patterns in the mud, patterns that were almost instantaneously covered again by the thick ooze that the battle circle was becoming. He continued unperturbed. 

As the storm reached its peak the woodsman threw his arms, outstretched into the sky. “FOELD! REBIRTH HIM!” he screamed, ending the ritual that had taken the best part of the day.

As if in reply the sky roared and in a blaze of light a bolt of electricity cut through the air and struck the earth that Argonne had been working. He was thrown back, arms flailing before his body struck the mud some fifteen feet from where he had worked his rite.

The mud boiled and steam spewed forth and suddenly, from the point of the lightning strike, a child’s hand burst from the earth. Argonne was instantly back on his feet, showing no ill effects. He grasped the wrist, it’s hand in turn locked onto his wrist and with a mighty haul he dragged out a child from the earth.

Hands on knees it began coughing dirt and filth from its mouth. The rain began washing away the mud from its naked body and it began to examine itself. Looking first and its hands and feet and then finally noting that Argonne towered at least two feet above it. It began to cry, sobbing uncontrollably. 

Argonne scooped it up, hugging it to his strange armour and sheltering it in his cloak, then ran to the tower.

I had been wrong. This was no child of man, it was one of the little people, a Halfling. They were a strange race that looked more like elf children than men. Slight of build and with slightly elongated features, they were noted in the Fastness for their nimble fingers and their keen eyes. Small colonies existed there and they fought the Dominion with as much passion as the men of that realm. Acting as scouts and hunters they had a reputation as being formidable foes.

“Foeld granted us our wish. He has returned Morgan.” Announced Argonne.

Morgan? Surely it could not be, but it was. The brave Fastendian had been reborn in the form that Foeld had thought was most appropriate, that of a Halfling.

Whilst we were initially startled by the returned Morgan, we were also overjoyed. However it was him that I feared for. 

I had no cause for concern for he was of staunch stock. His family had stood the walls of Avinal for generations. He was determined to adapt and learn what this body could enable him to do.


----------



## Haraash Saan

The following day we rode to Riverglenn to restock and supply before continuing our long journey to Morannin.

It was during that ride that we could finally question Argonne as to where he had been since mysteriously flying away from the temple of Hutenkama. He revealed little, however, saying that he had needed to refresh himself and immerse himself in Foeld.

The Gerechian crusaders, a little more rejuvenated after a days rest, accompanied us, determined to present us to their masters for judgment of our heresies in the temple of Artyom Seth.

It annoyed us somewhat to appear to be in their power, prisoners as such, but we had decided the previous evening that it would be easier this way. We did not desire to be persecuted by the Gerechians. They might be extremists and very much insane, but they were renowned fighters and could very well be a valuable tool in our fight against the Dominion. So we bit our collective tongues and allowed Yodfor to take us to the temple of his master.

The grandiose twin cities of Riverglenn were split by the mighty Anderrin river which blasts through a jagged spire of rock some hundred feet into the air before crashing back down and flowing on once more, weaving its way intothe country side. This spectacular natural wonder greeted us as we made our way into the city. On the eastern side of the great river the tall, beautiful spires of the Elven Lords, last bastion of their race. It overlooked the structured and regimented city of men, the most militant in Guerney.

We spent most of the day passing through the outer edges of the city of men. It was huge. Housing a population larger even than that of Guerney City, it seemed to sprawl endlessly. Eventually we arrived at the temple of Arkadiy Seth, the center of Gerechian faith since the fall of the Connvocation. Imposing statue-like men stood blocking its entrance. Their polished breastplates emblazoned with Gerech’s symbol, twelve straight arrows radiating from a single hub.

At the sight of Yodfor they lowered their swords and stepped aside without a word. Yodfor guided us through torch lit corridors to a large stark chamber where more guards stood stony-faced. Upon a single throne of ancient timber sat a man in simple white robes. 

Yodfor did not break stride, nor succumb to any sense of ceremony. He walked right to the foot of the throne and said, “My lord Eamos. I present Sir Gerard d’Montfort, Moxadder, Stravarious and,” he paused for the first time betraying some uncertainty, “Morgan the Halfling.”

We each acknowledged our names as they were called out. Argonne, who had not entered the Aryom Seth’s temple, stood silently behind us.

Yodfor continued, “These five are charged with sacrilegiously entering the temple of the great Seth Artyom.”

“A most serious charge.” Said Eamos in a soft and genteel voice. “What say you?”

“Lord Eamos,” began Morgan, “We entered the temple to purge it of the evils that we had heard had taken it over.”

“And why would you, a heretic, care for the well being of one of the Connvocation’s temples?” asked Eamos.

I interrupted Morgan and said, “Because we hate the Dominion, and it was the Dominion that had taken up residence in your temple.”

“Is this true Yodfor?” queried Eamos.

“We certainly found them fighting the forces of the Northern Hordes. And it is true that they fought bravely.” Replied the Crusader of Light.

“And is it not true that since then we have fought by your side against the Dominion.” I added. “And is it not true that we disabled the General Mkilejthe? We are your allies not your enemies. Drop this charge and let us be on our way.”

Eamos ran his ran from his cheek to chin and pondered what I said. Unfortunately, his thoughts were disturbed when Argonne said aloud what we were thinking. “Yes you stupid gits! Stop all this foolishness.”

“We went into your temple and purged it of the Dominion. Where is mighty Gerech now in this hour of need? I’ll tell you where, in a great big rock, and that is where he has been hiding for the past one and a half millennium. Gerech’s in a rock. Gerech’s in a rock." chanted Argonne as he danced a little jig.

Inspired his rant continued, raising into a fervor pitch, "I mean how hard is it to get in and out of a rock? Not that hard I tell you. Even I can do it." He snorted “And, anyway, if it wasn't for your meddling we wouldn't even be in this position in the first place. It’s the self righteous ambitions of you and your Seths” he spat with scorn, ”that have lead to this situation. I mean how contemptible to actual lock all the things that you didn't like into an ever increasing number of holes in the ground, and actually think that one day they might NOT want to come out and kick your miserable self flagellated arses! I will not wait judgement from the moral equivalent of a psychotic rat troll. You can stick Gerech were he fits. His only use now is as a parchment weight" With that final statement he turned and began to march from the room.

Eamos, to his credit, had obviously heard this type of thing before. There was no anger in his voice when he simply called for the guard. Four burly sorts strode to Argonne. 

Sensing that Argonne would cause great havoc if they barred his way I leapt in, “Come now. My friend is but a yokel and has no real understanding of the wider world. “ Argonne stopped and shot me a glare, but I continued regardless. “He speaks of the ill informed that have yet to move on from blaming the Convocation for the rise of the Dominion. This is a new age and we all have a common enemy. To succeed we must work together.” I pleaded. At least my last words were true if the others were mostly a lie.

The Gerechian Lord raised his palm and ordered his guards to stop. “Let him go.” And with a conceited smirk etched upon his face Argonne left the temple.

Eamos then continued, “I suspect that you entered the temple of Artyom Seth for other reasons than those you have mentioned. My lord Gerech has left me with some power at discerning your lie. Tell me now why it is that you entered our holy site.”

I saw no point in continuing our roundabout conversation. “It is true, we did have another purpose. To discover the temple’s Star Chamber and use it.”

Eamos and Yodfor both exchanged a quick look. That piece of news certainly sparked an interest in our calm interrogators. 

“You, Sir Gerard and Morgan come with us.” Said Eamos as he beckoned to Yodfor to join him. 

He led us through a door to a small antechamber and said. “Tell me what you know of the Star Chamber”

There was something in his voice that compelled me to answer him. I told him what we had learned from Lord Steven and also from piecing together the information we had garnered from our journeys. To activate the Star Chamber the pedestal that symoblised the temple to which one wished to travel must have an offering of the same nature as the Seth’s favoured device. For example, a scepter would be needed to travel to the temple of Artyom Seth. Ointments be smeared on the foreheads of the travelers and they must also carry with the actual artifact of the Seth whose temple was to be traveled to, just like the scepter of Artyom Seth or Valentin Seth’s mask, both of which Morgan carried.

To say that the pair of Gerechian’s were astounded does not do justice to the distance their jaws dropped. Their calm exterior’s melted, and it took them a moment or to reconstruct their personas. 

“You knew that and sought to use the Star Chambers?” Yodfor asked incredulously.

“Yes indeed. Our plan is to get to Morannin, as you know. But if we knew that Artyom Seth’s temple was safe then we knew that we could come back to it via Rodian Seth’s temple in Morannin.” Lord Steven had provided us with the knowledge that Rodian’s temple was somewhere near Morannin.

“That raises another point,” said Eamos, his composure regained, “You have two artifacts of Gerch. What are your intentions for them?”

“I thought that was obvious. We intend to use them to activate the Star Chambers. And no, “I continued, pre-empting the question forming on Eamos’s lips, “we do not intend to give them back freely.”

I admit to a touch of nerves as I took a stand. I had meant what I said but I prayed that it would not come to violence.

My prayers were answered. “I am sure you fully appreciate that we could take them off you.” Said Eamos.

“You could try!” bristled Morgan, who was still very attached to the artifacts of the trapped god.

“Yes we could try and our numbers would dictate that we would succeed.” Continued Eamos, raising a hand to stop the impeding interjection of Morgan, “However, I have listened to what you have said and I have seen the truth in your hearts. You are not our enemies and we do indeed share a common foe. I will allow you to use our temples.”

He added, “And more than that I will take you to Vronburg, that will significantly reduce your trip.” 

So the Gerechians had at least recovered one item they had lost, the armour of Pyotr Seth, lord of the temple near Vronburg.

I was only partially correct. “For I am the Eighth Lord of Light, Pyotr Seth, and I will ensure that you arrive safely.”

It was our turn to be shocked. Before us stood one of the twelve Seth’s! A man from an age before our own. A man kept alive for an eternity by faith and his god’s last remnant of power.

“Fyodor,“ said Eamos, addressing the man we knew as Yodfor. “I know that you trust them, let us hope that your trust is not misplaced.”

This was another surprise. Eamos had just revealed that Yodfor was none other than Fyodor Seth, another of the original Lord’s of Light!

And so, after much discussion it was decided that we would leave in a few days, allowing us to gather supplies and at least rest for a day before once again setting off into the wilds. 

The only sticking point was Argonne. Initially the Seth’s were adamant that he could not enter another temple, but eventually we convinced them that he was of more use to us than they knew. So it was that on the proviso that he be blindfolded during his journey in any temple, that Argonne could travel with us.


----------



## Haraash Saan

Over the next three days we left each other to our own devices. My first business was to find a suitably skilled tanner to prepare the skins of the Beasts of Zzart, and then a tailor to create our cloaks. The remaining time I spent with a jovial wizard by the name of Kasrian who was willing to teach me some of his magics in return for some of the spells that I had mastered. 

It was wonderful not to have to travel and to be able to study and learn new magics, but more importantly to ignore the heavy burden of our quest. But all too soon the time was spent and we were once again set for another journey. 

We stood deep within the temple of Arkadiy Seth within its Star Chamber. It looked identical to the one we had seen in Konstantin Seth’s temple in Yorath. 

Morgan took charge of our preparations. First the Halfling anointed us with the oil that was found in drums in the entrance hall to the Star Chamber. We knelt so that he could mark our foreheads with the stuff whilst he muttered a short Gerechian prayer. The oil stung our skin. It was as if Gerech himself was protesting that heretics were being blessed in his name. Its effect on the blindfolded Argonne was even more pronounced. He screamed violent curses and thrashed in agony as the viscous liquid touched his skin, causing cracks and blisters. 

Eamos grinned slyly throughout the woodsman’s ordeal. No doubt relishing the heretic’s pain. 

Next, from a sack that Morgan dragged beside him, he produced a small replica of each of the artifacts that represented the Seths and placed the in the corresponding indentations on pedestals in the center of the chamber. 

There was a low hum and suddenly from the pedestal’s platform a red glowing bridge appeared. It stretched out to one of the doors that encircled the room. 

Eamos said, “Come now. The portal is active.” and walked onto the incandescent path. I shared a nervous glance with Moxadder and then followed the Crusader. 

Without hesitation Eamos swung open the door that the bridge led to and passed through it. Again Moxadder and I exchanged a dubious look. He shrugged and followed Morgan who had already boldly stepped into the darkness. I went next and then Stravarious who held a cord that was tied around Argonne’s waist. Each of us tugged hesitant horses in toe.

I felt strange. My foot did not find anything to stand on, yet I did not fall. I took a tentative step and felt the same sensation. It was as though we walked on air. 

The darkness that enveloped us suddenly looked like the night sky. Pin pricks of light in on a pitch-black canvas. 

As we moved forward the stars began to spin as if whirling around a radiating hub that we walked on. Soon they moved so fast that they appeared to be huge circles of light that surrounded us. The glare was so bright that I was forced to squint and shield my eyes. 

We traveled like this for what seemed to be hours and then suddenly the circles of light slowed and once again became stars. Quite quickly they too faded and the deepening darkness once more surrounded us. A door in the distance opened and light spewed forth, illuminating the darkness but revealing nothing. For there was nothing to see where we were, just an infinite empty space. 

I stepped through the door that Eamos held open for us and was most relieved to have my foot touch something of substance. We had entered another Star Chamber. This one had a blue glowing path that led to the raised platform in the center of the circular room. 

“You are in my temple now.” Said Eamos. “I trust you’ll not disturb anything and do remember to keep your comrades’ blindfold on until you leave this place.” 

I heard Argonne grind his teeth at Eamos’s last remark but wisely he said nothing. 

“I give you one final piece of information.” said Eamos. “You will find it difficult to use Rodian Seth’s Star Chamber, for Rodion Seth is alive and well, although long ago he shed his Gerechian heritage. He now goes by the name Mecros and is one of the Black Lords.”

With that, Eamos turned on his heel and stepped once more through the doorway, pulling the door closed behind him. 

The Black Lords were familiar to us. Fallen Gerechians that hated the Dominion but realised that they could not quash it without Gerech’s power. So they had found some other divine or mystical ally. They were the ones that aided Yodfor when he called out for their help at the banquet when King Thurland II was almost assassinated and they were the ones to be our opponents in the the Halfast Games, a round from which we wisely withdrew. 

We had already avoided the Black Lords once in Halfast. It seemed that we were destined to at least meet with one in Morannin.

With the aid of Eldritch Light, whose magical properties I had transferred to my new black blade Switch, we quickly traversed the familiar layout of the Pytor Seth’s temple. The Gerechians, masters of order, had only one design for their temples. We had now been through four of the Seth’s temples and each had been laid out identically.

Puffs of dust rose into the air as we trod through corridors that had been unused for a century. There was no evidence at all that the temple had been occupied or even visited since the fall of the Convocation.

Soon we stood before a pair huge bronze doors, beyond which lay open plains. We would travel south, to the river Narn, the natural border that separated the Dominion and the Fastness. It took all our strength to tug the massive metal doors inward enough to allow our horses the room to squeeze through.


----------



## Haraash Saan

*Chapter 16 – Welcome to the Fastness*

A hazy gloom greeted us. We were in Dominion lands now, where stories told  the sun no longer shone. We had traveled more than a thousand miles north east of Riverglenn and the temple of Arkady Seth in only a few hours. The Star Chambers that the Gerechians built were truly a marvel of magical craft. I could not begin to fathom how magic could be weaved in such a way as to allow such an amazing journey.

Argonne led us confidently along what he perceived to be the most direct route to the river Narn. Our plan was to ford it and then head due east until we intersected a road that came from the southern reaches of the Fastness. We would follow the road north to the city of Vronburg and from there assess our options as to how best get to Morannin and Princess Isabella.

When we arrived at the river we found that it would be a difficult crossing. Seeking an alternative, Argonne bade us to be still and then pressed his palms into the muddy bank and closed his eyes. A moment later they flickered open and he shook his head. “We’ll find nothing better for thirty miles up or down stream. We’ll have to cross here.”

I had no concerns. My steed wore the shoes that I had won so long ago in Halfast. They were enchanted and enabled the horse that wore them to move an inch or so above the ground or water. I recall thinking little of the gift when it was awarded to me but had since realized how useful they were. In many months riding through the wild I had not once been splattered with mud or clods of dirt because my mount never churned the earth with his strides. The horseshoes were truly a marvelous reward.

The others had more trouble. I managed to ride back and lead Moxadder’s horse and then Hrast’s through the river safely to the other side. Moxadder, Stravarious and Hrast managed the swim easily enough, but I went back yet again for Morgan.

Argonne crossed last of all. He slapped Zwingly on the rump and said, “Come on. In you get.” Zwingly of course would have none of it. His rear hooves lashed out at Argonne, who just managed to evade what would have been a skull crushing blow. Unfortunately for Zwingly, his kick over balanced him and he fell with an enormous splash into the twisting waters of the Narn and in an instant he was washed away.

Argonne, who to this day felt guilt for killing the man that now lived within the horse, leapt into the air, transforming himself into an eagle as he jumped. He flew down the river in pursuit of Zwingly and then plummeted straight into the swirling waters and out of sight.

A moment later a bedraggled Argonne clambered to the southern shore, reins in hand. With his other hand he clutched a dead tree root that had once drunk deep from the river. Zwingly was dragged, reins tightened almost to breaking point, by the power of the flowing water to the shore where he managed to scramble onto dry land.

With his companion safe Argonne used the root to drag himself up the bank where he collapsed onto his back exhausted.

It took an hour or so for Argonne to calm Zwingly enough for him to be led (he would not allow Argonne to mount him), but soon enough we were heading due east scanning the horizon for a road. 

We tramped through knee high brown grass for perhaps two hours before finally intersecting the road. It looked well worn, with several wagon wheel ruts and sunken cobbles. An age ago it would have been a well maintained thoroughfare but now with the Fastness bending all resources to the war against the Dominion it had been left to fall into poor repair.

After a short break we turned north and followed the road to the fortress of Vronburg. It was late afternoon by the time we saw the huge walls of the castle sitting on the banks of the Narn. Vronburg was not a city as such, although in years past it had been. Now it was the most northern outpost of the Fastness, with a population permanently at war.

Ever-alert sentries stood before the narrow gate. “Who are you and what’s your business?” barked a guardsman as we approached.

We introduced ourselves and explained that were traveling to Morannin.

His thick moustache jiggled as he chortled, “Morannin. You’ve come to the wrong place lads. Head back down the road for fifty miles and then take the road to the east. That’s how to get to Morannin.”

“Indeed that is one way. Unfortunately my good man, we are in quite a hurry and thought that there would be a quicker way from Vronburg.” I replied.

He sighed, “Have it your way. Gestle!” He called back over his shoulder. 

A small wiry man who had been sitting cross legged against the castle’s wall sharpening a sword slowly picked himself up and ambled toward us. He looked us over, before tracing three towers in the air in front of his face and muttering a Thuusian chant.

He ran his hand over the stubble on his chin before nodding and saying, “There is no taint in them.” With that he resumed his seat and resumed the care of his blade.

The guard huffed loudly and called out, “Open the gate!” In a normal tone he added, “They’ll collect your entrance tax inside.”

The great single gate of Vronburg creaked open and we filed in. There was another guard waiting within for us. He acted as the tax collector for the Knight Protectress, Igane, of Vronburg. And he did his work well. We left him significantly lighter of pocket, but with directions to make our accommodation in the Eastern Quarter. We walked through streets empty other than the soldiers that appeared at most corners. Many houses were unoccupied; such was the high mortality rate of those that were garrisoned in the fortress. Once we arrived in the Eastern Quarter we found one that had been more recently abandoned and made ourselves as comfortable as we could; there were no inns any more, they had become barracks for the Soup Roaders. Those scum, mostly from Guerney, who had been promised food before being thrown against the Dominion. 

I was keen to learn of any other routes to Morannin before the fortresses curfew commenced. The staunch Vronburgians took no chances with the unearthly manifestations of the Dominion. Anyone seen on the street after curfew was killed on sight by the ever watchful guardsmen. I spoke to one soldier who directed me to the keep of the Igane. I learnt from him that the only other way to Morannin was via the barges that the Knight Protectress sent there for supplies. Only Igane herself granted passage on the barges, and only she knew of their departure times. Such precautions were needed to allow a safer journey up the river. Without them the forces of the Dominion would be prepared to attack any boat that hazarded the trip.

A brief consultation with the sentry at the keep eventuated in an offer for my request to see the Knight Protectress to be passed on to her. Not overly impressed at his attitude I insisted that I see her immediately. “Tell her that I am here with the gravest news and that she will definitely wish to hear it.” I hissed in impatience.

Noting the raising ire in my voice, and no doubt uncertain about the legitimacy of my information he asked me to wait there whilst he consulted with his captain.

Soon enough another guard, a little older and a lot more scarred, approached with two soldiers. “Sir Gerard d’Montfort?” he asked in a tired tone. I confirmed that I was and he grunted apathetically, “Remove your weapons and follow me.” I sighed and shook my head at the lack of formality, left my weapons with the guard and then followed my weary guide into the Keep with the two soldiers on either side of me. 

We arrived at two solid oak iron bound doors. Without ceremony he pushed them open and we stepped inside. He beckoned for me (and my escorts) to stand to one side, “You’ll be called when the Knight Protectress is ready.” The captain then trudged back through the doors, pulling them closed as he left.


----------



## Haraash Saan

The chamber in which I stood had once been some sort of throne room. A dais was at one end of the room and but the two gilded chairs upon it looked unkempt and disused. Stone statues of previous rulers stood in evenly-spaced alcoves on both walls that led from the door to the thrones. A few smaller doors were spotted along each of the walls of the chamber. In the center of the room was a large table on which was spread out a large map. Nine men and one woman surrounded it, all were in heated discussion about the location of current Dominion forces and what their tactics might be.

“It’ll be an all out assault!” belted one ancient warhorse. He was so incised that a vein on his bald pate threatened to burst.

“Don’t be stupid!” countered another contemptuously. “They’ve never done that before and they’ll not do it now!”

The Knight Protectress idly scratched the neckline of her chain mail and sighed. “I want all your thoughts. Hector,” she said to the elder man that I had first heard speak, “why would they change their tactics now?”

He mumbled something that did not seem to convince Igane. She sighed again and then looking up, she noticed me. 

“Montfort was it?” she said.

“Indeed my lady.” I responded.

“Well come over here and tell us what grave news you have.” She ordered.

I walked forward, aware that all conversation had stopped and all eyes were upon me. “Knight Protectress, what I have to say is not for all ears. If we may have a moment in private?” I asked.

“Fine.” she said curtly and then to the others, “By the time I am back, and I won’t be long, I want an answer.”

Igane led me to one of the smaller doors that was next to a statue of a scrawny royal with a leering smile and evil eyes, and opened it. We stepped into a small room devoid of furniture. 

“It has all been used in various fortifications.” said Igane, answering my unasked question. 

“So tell me what it is that is so important as to interrupt my war council?” she continued, betraying only a modicum of annoyance.

“Please forgive me Knight Protectress, but I come to ask a favour, and bring you news that will perhaps explain why I ask it.” I said.

“First the news, then the favour.” she said.

“Yes, of course.” I did not wish to test her patience any further. I told her how King Thuurland had been killed and that our enquiries had revealed that it had been an entranced Fastendian woman bearing devices of women holding a white cloth outstretched between them.

“I suspect that Prince Brand aims to seize the throne for himself, but I cannot allow this to happen. Firstly because as a member of the Order of the Wyrm it is my duty to bring the rightful heir to their Kingdom, and secondly because I am not sure what Brand will do. He is a hothead and a warmonger. If he were to find out that a Fastendian was the tool that murdered the King, the Dominions desire of a war between Guerney and the Fastness could be realised. I do not believe either of us want that.”

Igane’s steely disposition melted immediately. She drew a sharp breath and her eyes widened as she came to the same conclusion I explained. 

“This is very true. The Fastness needs an ally in the fight against the Dominion, not another enemy. What is your request?”

“My lady, the Princess Isabella is currently in the court of Morannin. I must return with her to Guerney so that she may claim her rightful place on the throne. It is my hope that she is sympathetic to our cause, I too wish the Dominion destroyed. My companions and I need to get to Morannin by the quickest means possible. You send barges down the river, I would like my comrades and I to be on the next boats that leave. Is that possible?” I asked.

“Usually no.” she said bluntly, “But this is not a usual circumstance. My mind echoes your thoughts and fears so I’ll grant you passage on the barges. Their departure time is not yet set. Tell the guards outside where you are staying and you’ll be sent for. Be ready to leave when they come for you as they’ll take you straight to the barges.” With that my interview was successfully concluded.

After my meeting with Igane I wandered the citadel for a while before I found myself on the battlements. To the north rolled the desolate lands of the Dominon. It was a great expanse of empty plains. There were no monuments. There were no hills or lakes, just a great flat nothingness. 

Outside the fortress, on the southern bank of the Narn, stood a host of Thuusian clerics. As one they raised their arms and begun a low rumbling chant. They called to Thuus to provide them courage and to protect them from the Northern Hordes of the Dominion. At the climax to their prayer the head priest drew his sword and immersed it in the river. A faint orange glow emanated from the sword, the light spreading through the running waters. Soon the entire river radiated with orange fluorescence. And then, just as quickly the light that winked out and the cool blue of the Narn flowed once more. Thuus had blessed the river, stopping the dead that walked from crossing it, as he had done for ever night for one hundred years.

The spectacle of the river blessing was over and the light of the day had begun to fail so I quickly made my way back to our lodgings.

On returning I found Moxadder standing in the center of the room addressing the others, “You see, I’m on the Blood Road. It’s a mob that will do whatever it takes to rid the world of the Dominion.” He spat the last word in distaste.

“My bosses ‘ere in Vronburg ‘ave told me to introduce you to our ways.” He went on to say that his ‘cult’ was a secret sub cult of the main Thuusian Religion. Its’ members were few, but each tried to find redemption through the slaughter of the Dominion. Their tactics were vicious, and unlikely to be approved by the main body of the Thuusian church.

“Tomorrow I’ll take you to Taen the Dark Witch. I need to get some, erm, things from ‘er and she wishes to meet you.” Moxadder added.

Moxadder’s revelation had left us gob smacked. All this time we had thought that our comrade was just a troubled soul who had not the will to make peace with himself, but he was more, thankfully, much more. He followed a dark path, but one which fitted well with our hatred of the dominion. 

It had been a long day of travel so after checking the bed that I had claimed for any bugs and other unwelcome crawlers I collapsed into a deep a trouble free sleep. The night passed quietly. Vronburg was safe, at least for one more day.


----------



## Haraash Saan

Hovel is probably an understatement. Taen’s den was a shambles of filth, refuse and barely standing rotten timber walls. I know not how it even stood.

There was no door as such just a triangular entrance formed by two planks butted against one another. A tattered and patched curtain was all that provided privacy, although here in Vronburg the stony faced residents had little concern of the private affairs of others, each had their own issues and internal demons.

Taen seemed to be the perfect denizen of her home. The old crone wore a dress very similar to the curtain in her doorway and her stooped posture allowed her easily to move within the shack. Her face was carved with not just the lines of significant age but all manner of blotches and sores.  

Moxadder made hasty introductions and then crouched quietly to one side, allowing the rest of us room, if somewhat cramped, in Taen’s abode. 

I was feeling rather distressed and uncomfortable, the scent of decay and herbal remedies bubbling from several small cauldrons did nothing to make me feel at ease. I must admit, that I lost track of myself and it suddenly, as if a spell had been broken, Taen rasped “Sir Gerard, what is it that you desire?”

Bemused I laughed, and then requested the impossible, “If one of your brews could regrow my hand,” I said as I raised the wooden left hand that Mortec had made for me. “then I would be forever grateful.”

“Ah, is that all?” she asked, her mouth twitching into a knowing grin. “I’ve just the thing.”

She rummaged around the shelves behind her for a moment before she chuckled gleefully. “Here it is! I knew it was around here somewhere.” In her hand was a small glass vial with a dark blue liquid in it. 

Taen passed it to me and said, “Here, take it Sir Gerard.” Her eyes twinkled mischievously. “But know that I found it a long time ago. The seller assured me of its restorative properties but could not guarantee exactly what would happen.”

I looked at the vial of deep blue liquid that I held in my hand and then at the expectant stare of the witch. Shrugging I pulled the stopper and with one swig downed the bottles bitter contents. Laster would protect me, would he not?

Nausea washed through me. I felt my breakfast begin to creep up from my gut. Bile rose up into my mouth and I fought the urge to spit. My stump began to itch furiously. Then Mortec’s beautifully crafted appendage shot off from it, exposing a horrid lump of skin. The itching intensified as five points in the stump began to push out from it as if probing for an exit. I felt strangely detached from the surreal experience and watched with morbid fascination. 

The skin on the stump stretched as each of the cylindrical probes pushed further forward. Suddenly there was a burst of blood and five fingers, my fingers, broke through the skin. As they grew I flexed and curled them, reassuring myself that my hand was growing back. Soon the palm that was attached to the fingers appeared from within the bloodied stump and then a wrist. 

Finally the skin from the wrist and the edge of the stump began to knit over the wound so that there was not even a scar. It was a miracle. I stared, mouth agape in wonder, at my new hand. The itching had stopped. I flexed the regrown hand, once again making sure that it was no trick and that the hand was very much my own. It was.

I beamed a smile of appreciation to the witch, but before I could register her response I began to choke. My hands went to my throat. Something was very wrong. I could not breathe. I gagged as I sought for air. The inside of my throat seemed to tear in several places. I sank to my knees, feeling faint from lack of oxygen. Then just as suddenly I managed to suck in a breath. I coughed loudly, twice, as I tried too quickly to gasp in more air, and then I was breathing normally. I rubbed my throat, massaging it. Something felt rather uncomfortable, well not uncomfortable but unusual. 

“Are you alright Gerard?” said a concerned Morgan.

“Yes. Fine, I think.” was my slightly strangled reply.

I stood and gazed at my new hand. It was indeed a marvel. It was exactly as I remembered it. Somehow the magical elixir had regenerated it as it had once been. But then it began to itch once more.

The webbing in between each of my fingers tingled and I suppressed the urge to scratch them. A wave of fear passed through me as I realised it was not just my new fingers but the digits of my other hand and my feet now had the same itch! What was happening to me?

I held my hands, fingers spread, in front of my face as I looked at them wide eyed in horror. The webbing expanded, climbing along the inner edge of each finger until finally it ceased at the last joint. Once more the itching stopped, this time for good.

My hands, my beautiful hands, were now almost fingered flippers. Without removing my boots I knew what my toes would look like. And then I it hit me. I knew what had happened to my throat. I had grown gills. I was no longer just a man. I was half triton!

I slumped into a chair, exhausted after my transformation and distraught at its consequences. What would Gyda think or Father for that matter? I would be cast out, renounced from the family and my titles. I almost sobbed at the thought, but caught myself, as I saw the advantage that I now had. I would be able to swim like a fish and breathe underwater. I was sure that could become tremendously useful. My only physical deformity was the webbing between my fingers and toes. No-one would have to see that. I would wear gloves and boots. Gyda, I was sure, would not care. She continued to love me without a hand, and now I had it back again, with improvements. No, my transformation was not something to be distressed about, it was something that could only be positive.

Taen clapped with girlish glee. “Marvelous!” she giggled “You’re half fish-man!” and then more softly as if to herself she added, “I always wanted to know what that potion did.”


----------



## Haraash Saan

The next two days passed without incident. My companions had each received some sort of ‘gift’ from Taen, although none as harrowing as my own. Whilst I longed to try my new deformities and see if I could actually breathe underwater I resolved to do so in a more appropriate place. I did not think that the priests of Thuus would take kindly to me frolicking in their holy river.

We were rudely awakened on the morning the third day by a loud thumping on our door. “Wake up! You board in fifteen minutes.” 

After a very quick scramble we managed to board the second of three barges just before it launched.

The precautions that Igane had taken proved successful. No incidents befell our sturdy craft to its first port of call, Avinal, Morgan’s home. The only event of note was that at one of two ruins we passed my curiousity got the better of me and I chose to examine one of them. I took opportunity to dive overboard and test my new gills and webbed appendages. It was just as I thought, I could indeed breath underwater, and so much more exhilarating than I imagined!

The ruins were remarkable. Firstly because they were unexplored, (the Captain of the barge I was on told me that none had managed to gain entrance to them) and secondly because I found Dwarfish runes inscribed on them. They had been built in ancient times by a Dwarfen tribe called the Stonecutters. If the boats had not kept going up the river I would have spent more time examining the fascinating ruin, but I only managed to discover, via magical means, that there was a door that had been magically sealed. I thought that I might be able to open it somehow, but would need time, that I did not have, to study it. It was with some annoyance that I swam back to the barge.

We spent one day in Avinal, Moxadder with his Blood Road friends and Morgan with his family. No doubt that was an interesting meeting considering that he had returned almost half his previous size and no longer human. The Halfing returned just before we launched and explained that it had taken some time to convince his family that it was really him. He had accepted his change, just as I had mine. In true Fastendian fashion they chose not to judge him on his physical appearance but his deeds, and when they had heard what he had achieved they were not only pleased, but very, very proud. 

One the first day from Avinal we passed a massive rectangular stone monolith that jutted from the ground. The crew informed me that it was a new addition to the landscape as they had not seen it before. We rowed close enough to it for me to make out the large lettered inscription on it. It was written in the language of the barbarians, the same race that had attacked Montfort. It read ‘Grushhelt, hero of the Rashrid’. It appeared that the barbarians were still being driven from their homes in the north.

The next day this was proved to be true. A horde of them massed on the northern bank of the river, desperately seeking someway to cross over it. However, it had widened somewhat since we had forded it days before and now was at least a couple of hundred feet across and the water flowed even faster. On the horizon we saw the cause of their angst, a thick mass of fog, the same fog that preceded the troops of the Dominion.

We kept close to the southern bank, and although they shouted several war-cries at us, they chose not to waste their shafts on a foe that would be gone soon enough.

On the afternoon of the third day from Avinal, no more than an hour from Morannin, we finally encountered something that we could not avoid. 

Floating above the river was a massive purple-black blob. How it managed to hold itself in the air I do not know, for it had no wings or other means to hover. Lighting cracked around it, revealing the irregular curves of its shape, almost as if it was a storm cloud, but it had too much substance and form to be one.

It had no discernable features; no limbs and no head or face, yet somehow it sensed us. Even more lightning crackled around it and slowly it move toward us.

“It is a thing of Dominion, created by Xvart!.” Said Stravarious confirming that it was something that was an enemy of ours..

As it crept forward the Hydra and the armed guard of the barges loosed waves of arrows into it. What good they did I do not know for the shafts that struck true seemed to be absorbed by its mass.

The Captain ordered the barges to the southern shore, so that we could not be sunk by the aberration and so that if need be we could all flee our separate ways.

It had managed to move close to us now, close enough to reveal its intent. A deep rumbled of thunder sounded from within it and suddenly a mass of purple-black tentacles shot out from its body. As each reach its full extension a bolt of lighting flashed from each tip. Nine bolts found their mark, each downing a brave Fastendian. One had targeted Moxadder. He saw it come toward him and miraculously dove to his left at the same instant that it smashed into the ground where he had recently stood. I shook my head in disbelief, I had never seen a man move that quickly before. In one moment he had been about to die, electrocuted like the others, then the next he had tumbled away to safety. 

Another wave of arrows flew into it. I had lost count how many had struck. It had stopped now, its tentacles with in reach of their targets. I could see no way of destroying it. The blob seemed impervious to our attacks. But it was then that Stravarious let loose a magical green blast from his hand. The whole creature was momentarily outlined in pulsating green light and it sunk a little lower than it had been before. Kuruul also leapt into the fray. He was in his canine form and let loose and mighty howl, the blob paused a moment and once again floated closer to the river. It’s revenge was not as potent as its first assault. This time it could manage only one bolt of lighting. It’s victim shuddered violently before slumping, smoking, to the ground, but now we had the ascendancy. Stravarious continued to throw his green light at the creature. Slowly but surely its strength waned and it floated lower and lower to the water until a single arrow loosed by a guardsman struck it and the blob fell perhaps twenty feet into the Narn. The water hissed and crackled as the electrical charge of the blob was dispersed in the river, all the while the massive corpse slowly sinking into its depths.


----------



## Haraash Saan

An hour later the monumental walled city of Morannin was etched on the horizon. The colossus that was the city loomed ahead of the approaching barges. Morannin was a hexagonal fortress with each of its six walls at least one hundred feet tall. The polished black walls looked as if they were made of glass and reflected the afternoon sun.

The barges moved into the small lake that the Narn flowed from and made their way to jetties that struck out of the southern bank like so many fingers. Once they docked we alighted and made our way to the great iron gates. As we walked forward, leading our steeds, we noticed a large man wearing a full suit of black plate armour sitting on a bench next to the entrance to the city. He saw us looking at him, rose and waited for us.

One of the barge crew noted the armoured mans interest in us and whispered conspiratorially, “Bes’ do as he says. He’s one of Mecros’s boys. An’ you don’ wan’ oo mess with a Black Lord.”

There was nothing for it, we met his gaze and walked towards him. 

“Hail Hydra. My master Mecros wishes you to meet with him.” said the armoured man in an emotionless voice.

“So it seems.” I replied. “Well, if you give us directions I am sure we will be able to meet him as soon as we have attended to our own business.”

“My master wishes to see you now.” He said in the same stony tone.  With that he turned on his heel and began to walk through the gates.

Whilst I was intent on locating Princess Isabella as quickly as possible I thought it prudent if we got the meeting over and done with. Somehow Mecros had learnt that we were coming to Morannin, and that led me to believe that he knew at least what we may required of him.

Unlike every other city we had entered we paid no tax when entering Morannin. Our guide invoked so much respect that the guardsman looked us over once and then just waved us through.

We wove our way through the cobbled streets. Industry was rife and all of it was bent to the war effort. Wagons coming from the southern gate rolled through town bearing all manner of foodstuffs and raw the raw materials for weapons and armour. Weapon and armour smiths lined several streets that we passed. The clamour of their hammers tinging against iron replaced the more expected cries of hawkers spruiking their wares. Morannin had few hawkers for this was a city with one purpose only, to supply the soldiers of the Fastness, not only here in Morannin, but also Avinal and Vronburg. Those three cities were all that held the might of the Dominion from sweeping through the land they loved and cherished.

Every now and again we passed a manse with a pristine garden reflecting the wealth of the home’s owner. The green of the gardens seemed very much at odds with the rest of the city, but like all places were people lived together, other than perhaps Vronburg, there were those that lived to excess.

We approached one such building. It was three stories tall and simply built, but the garden that surrounded it was of exquisite beauty. Even now in late autumn it still had flowers blossoming in whites, reds and blues. Tall evergreen conifers lined the paved path that led to the iron bound timber door.

Our armoured guide opened it without pause and ushered us into an antechamber before he himself left telling us to wait.

No more than a minute later a tall man wearing a deep blue silk tunic and black leggings stepped into the room. “Welcome to my home.” He said.

Smiling I said “Thank you so much for your, “ I paused, “invitation.”

Mecros snorted a small chuckle, “Indeed. Please step through and help yourselves to my hospitality.” With a sweep of his arm he indicated that we move into the adjoining room from which he had come.

A large dining table had been laid out with all manner of wonderful food. Roasted pig, sweetmeats, platters of fruits, some of which I did not recognise, and a cask of wine was spread out on it. 

Moxadder, never one to miss a free meal, dove into the banquet. The others and I had a little more decorum, we waited for Mecros to seat himself at the head of the table before we assumed positions on either side of him.

As we supped he spoke, “It has come to my attention that you have a request for me.”

“Indeed we do. We would very much like to utilise the Star Chamber of your temple, Rodion.” I said,

Again he chuckled amused at the use of his old name. “Ah, so you have been speaking to Pytor have you? It is as I thought.

“It seems odd that you travel so far so quickly only to wish to depart once again. May I ask what your business is here in Morannin?”

“Forgive me if I do not reveal our intentions.” I replied. “Rest assured I do not believe they will impact you in any way.”

He sighed, disappointed, “Ah well. So be it. I am a curious fellow so I had to ask. However I will of course allow you to use the Star Chamber, “this time it was he who paused, “if you face the challenge that you stood down from in Halfast. In fact I’ll make it easier for you. All you have to do is best me in the arena.”

None of us was prepared for his price. We had expected a service or financial payment, not combat. Our thoughts created an awkward silence. 

“Interesting.” I said breaking it. ”We will consider your offer and let you know what we have decided.”


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## Haraash Saan

We spent the evening in a tavern, all except Moxadder who had once again disappeared on his own business. We soon learnt that the Princess had left the city some two weeks previous and was currently in the Convent of the Six Sisters, a nunnery of the Veiled Sisters of Laster. It so happened we would leave Morannin quickly. More quickly than I had anticipated, and we decided not to respond immediately to Mecros’s request, but perhaps take him up on it on our return journey.

The next morning we mounted our steeds, Morgan having purchased a pony that was more to his size, and headed south to the convent.

Moxadder chose to join us in the chill of the morning with the cold visible on our breath. During the course of his evening activities he had observed a man passing some coin to the patrons of a tavern. Whilst Moxadder nursed an ale he overheard the man asking about the princess. This peaked my Fastendian friend’s curiosity and he followed the fellow to a couple more taverns where more coin was flashed about and similar questions were asked. 

At the third tavern the man must have finally been satisfied for he allowed himself a toothy grin and dropped a heavy purse onto the table of the grateful guardsman to whom he had spoken. 

Unfortunately Moxadder became distracted, as only Moxadder could, and his quarry had slipped out into the night. 

Our horses stamped shod hooves on the cobbles, keen to get underway. All except Zwingly, Argonne’s steed. He stood still, muscles tensed and nostrils flaring angrily. Not surprising really considering he still despised his owner. 

“Tha’s ‘im.” hissed Moxadder, finger stabbing to his left. 

We turned and our eyes followed his outstretched arm, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. 

“Who?” I inquired, not understanding his reference. 

”The man from last night.” He said with urgency. 

I looked again and spied a hooded man throwing his leg over a bay mare. With a gentle kick he prompted it to toward us. As he approached I stepped into his path and said, “Good morning sir. I trust it finds you well.” 

He reigned his horse in and stared at me. 

“I understand you have been inquiring of the whereabouts of Princess Isabella,” I said matter-of-factly. There was no point in avoiding the issue. I felt it best to confront him and observe his response. 

“Eh? Dunno what ya talking ‘bout.” He grunted and tried to nudge his horse to move passed me. 

I moved to block his way again and with a smile said, “Come now. Hop off you beast and let us have a chat.” 

With a snarl he hammered his heels into his mounts flanks and charged at me! I leapt aside with a muttered curse. 

“After him!” commanded Morgan. 

“I’ll get ‘im” said Argonne calmly as he strode forward. He raised his arms from his body as he walked and they began to sprout feathers. His torso followed suit and his legs transformed into those of a bird, ending in cruel looking talons. Turning his head to look at us we no longer saw his concealed face, but the glare of an eagle. With a powerful flap of his wings and accompanying shriek he launched himself into the sky. 

We mounted our horses, and with Zwingly being led by a wary Stravarious we followed at a more leisurely pace, confident that Argonne would stop the rider. 

The southern gates of Morannin loomed before us when we heard the clatter of hooves fast approaching. Argonne’s prey appeared a block ahead of us, apparently having tried to lose any pursuit before leaving the city. The rising sun momentarily silhouetted a great eagle that once more let out a shrill screech.  There was a surprised oink and suddenly the rider was pitched forward, sprawling on the road. Stupefied he rolled onto his back and his jaw slackened as he saw a pig standing where his mare had been! It trotted up to him and lovingly nuzzled his boot. 

We ourselves were wide-eyed for a moment, before bursting out in fits of laughter at the ridiculousness of the situation. 

Argonne the eagle landed gracefully beside the bewildered man and transformed back into Argonne the man. “So can my friend have that talk now?” he asked. 

The rider leapt up, screaming in fear and rage and charged Argonne with flailing fists. The shape changing woodsman shoved aside his assailant, causing him to stumble. He managed to recover his footing, however, and continued to run through the southern gate. 

I rode up to join Argonne, wiping the tears of mirth from my eyes and barely keeping laughter in check. “Leave him.” I said as I put a hand on his shoulder. “He will not get to the Princess on foot before we do.” 

“Yes.” Agreed Morgan. “And we’d best move off quietly before any guards notice us. Be thankful that this is the southern gate, it is not as heavily watched as the north gate that faces the Dominion.” 

Argonne scratched the pigs head. “I don’t suppose you want to stay a pig do you?” 

The pig looked up at him with big brown eyes. 

“No. I didn’t think so.” said Argonne. He then called out some strange words and the pig was transformed back into the bay mare. The horse nuzzled Argonne in thanks and then trotted back toward its stable.


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## Haraash Saan

Wow! 10,000 views. Just a quick note to say thank you for the great support over several years.

I'm through all the material I had finished writing about 3 years ago, but rest assured the story (and campaign) continued. So now I'll be creating fresh material, hopefully my writing has improved over time and not gone backwards.

I'll try to post once a week, but I can't give any guarantees. 

Haarash Saan


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## Haraash Saan

Two days later we were still chuckling to ourselves. The Convent of the Six Sisters was still many days ride away across more desolate emptiness, and Argonne’s retelling of his tale lifted our spirits. 

We crested a small grassy hillock, and finally the landscape offered us something different than cracked earth and tussocks of grass. The road dipped down into a valley that stretched before us. A river, reflecting the afternoon sun lazily meandered through a sparse forest with a small village nestled on its edge. With a delicate kick I urged my horse forward, hoping that we might find some shelter from the cold Fastness nights.

The village of Sari-well was not much more than a waypoint for travellers. By the time we had reached it only the pink dusk guided our way. A few homes dotted the road but it was the Inn of the Green Serpent, the largest building by far, which shone welcoming lights. 

A cheerful tune greeted us as we pushed open the heavy door. An old man with a clay pipe between his white whiskered lips sat on a stool in the centre of a large room common room playing a lively song on a battered old fiddle.

Several others, farmers or woodsman by the look of them, stamped and clapped in time with the old man, whilst the barkeep, a ruddy cheeked man kept their tankards full. 

“Hail travellers!” he said “A bed for your weary bodies perhaps? And an ale for your parched throats?”

The Green Serpent was a far cry from the Fastness we had thus far been exposed to. This was more like a small version of my own home in Montfort than an oppressed and militant Fastness community. We enjoyed the company of the locals and their stories; one in particular captured my interest.

A few years ago a group of Hutenkamans started a settlement a day’s journey east through the forest. Whilst typically Hutenkaman in their ways, they were peaceful and were very much part of the greater Sari-well community, often coming to town to offer their blessings on locals and travellers alike. However, it had been about a month since the last Hutenkaman priest had been sighted.

I was all for exploring the settlement, but the rest of the Hydra voiced their reservations. 

“What’s it got to do with getting the Princess?” said Morgan.”It’s completely irrelevant to the task at hand.”

I could not disagree with him, or the supporting chorus of opinions that my companions offered, and after only little resistance we decided to ignore the settlement and continue on our journey south.

However, once alone in my room I heard a familiar voice.

“Masster. We musst sseek the temple. We musst ssearch for my brethren. To closse to jusst pass it by.” rasped Ninfus Nex.

My thoughts grew clouded as he spoke, and I found my mind bending to his will, “Yes indeed Ninfus. I think you are correct.” I replied, and then quickly fell into a heavy slumber.

The chirping of birds woke me at dawn, and during a hasty meal of fresh eggs and bread I informed my companions that I would be leaving them temporarily to investigate the Hutenkaman settlement. My declaration was met with angry and annoyed objections, citing the need for us to remain together and to have as few delays as possible. Eventually, however, they accepted that my decision was made.

And so it was that after getting some directions from a local woodsman, I set off, alone and single minded, to the east.

Although the forest had no real paths, I had been directed to follow some hunters’ trails, it was not thick and allowed me to ride at some speed. All the while Ninfus Nex, now coiled around my bicep, hissed reassurances that we were doing what must be done.

Even with my mind somewhat fogged by the serpent’s words, I could still enjoy the freshness and greenery of the forest, and for the first time in what seemed an age, the joy of being alone. For so many months it seemed I had been travelling with my companions; I now felt liberated and free. At times my thoughts would drift back to the forests of Montfort and a time before the Hydra had formed and recall the simple pleasure of riding through the woods, unburdened with worldy matters.

It was in this state, after perhaps six hours, I arrived at a dreadful scene.


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## Quartz

Bumpity-bump!


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