# Lazybones's Keep on the Shadowfell/Thunderspire Labyrinth



## Lazybones

Greetings to my regular readers and other ENWorlders. I am continuing my newest story that started with a run through _Keep on the Shadowfell_, bringing in some new characters for _Thunderspire Labyrinth_.  As I did with my original _Travels through the Wild West_ story hour, I decided to write a story using the new 4e modules as a way to help familiarize myself with a new rules system and setting.   

The thread begins with _Keep on the Shadowfell_; go forward to page 8 to go straight to _Thunderspire_.  

Thanks for your support!

LB

Prologue, Part 1


The road was quiet, approaching desolate, a few hours out of Winterhaven.  A brisk wind, cool if not quite cold, blew down out of the north.  There was little to see save for the trees that flanked the road to either side. The road itself was frequently lost in the twists and turns that were necessitated by the natural contours of the terrain, but it wound steadily upward into the hills.  The forest had started to reclaim the road, but the weeds and scattered brush that marked the packed earth had not yet thickened to the point where they became a real obstacle. 

Five travelers were making good headway on the road, moving with purpose. They were armed, all of them, and scanned the surrounding woods with wary eyes as they followed the path deeper into the hills.  The two in the lead were warriors, but a more mismatched pair would have been hard to find.  The one on the right was a dragonborn knight, armed with the customary straight sword and shield, and clad in heavy plate that had obviously been constructed specifically to fit the irregular outline of his frame.  His companion was a dwarf, clad in the heavy shirt of glittering metal scales favored by his race, and armed with a maul that was almost as tall as he was.  The two kept pace with each other, but did not engage in casual chatter.

About ten paces back with them, another two men were engaged in quiet but earnest conversation.  One was clad in armor like the first two, but wore no helmet; his facial features identified him as a half-elf as clearly as the sunburst sigil at his throat marked him a priest of Pelor.  The man he spoke with was likewise almost certainly a magic-user, his exceptionally-cut and obviously expensive garments decorated with the small pouches, belt loops, and potion crèches that were the common adjuncts for wizards.  He too wore a medallion, a silver disk marked with runes, but his seemed more for decoration than for utility.  A long quarterstaff marked his pace, one iron-shot end stabbing into the ancient ruts of the road with each of his long strides. 

The last member of the group walked off to the side, a small envelope of empty space separating him from the others.  He was a halfling, clad in plain but functional leathers, a brace of knives tucked into his belt, with another slung in a holster riding low on his left thigh, within easy reach.  Because of his size he had to walk two steps to each long stride by his taller companions, but he seemed to have little difficulty keeping up with the brisk pace.  He seemed troubled, though, distracted, and spent much of his time scanning the surrounding forest, his dark eyes shaded under the lip of a faded leather cap that had clearly seen many days. 

“Ho, Jayse, what troubles you?” the cleric finally said.

The halfling slowed his steps until he was walking abreast the priest and wizard.  “I don’t know, Kevan,” he said to the cleric.  “Something about these woods is... not right.”

The wizard snorted.  “There are threats real enough standing against us, Master Feldergrass.  There is no need to manufacture spooks and wraiths to frighten us.”

The halfling glanced up at him; he had to crane his neck to meet the tall man’s eyes.  “You hired me for my knowledge of these lands, m’lord Zelos.  I know these woods, and I’m telling you, there’s something at odds here, something new.”

Kevan nodded.  “What would you suggest, Jayse?”

The halfling drew off his cap and ran his fingers through his brown hair, which was starting to run to unkempt.  “I don’t know.  Maybe it would be a good idea to fall back to Winterhaven, recoup our strength.  After the kobolds...”

“Those little yappers were but a nuisance,” Zelos interrupted.  “Hardly worth the title of ‘brigands’ given them by the village folk.  They might have been threatening enough to a farmer worried about his herd, but not for seasoned travelers like ourselves.  That ‘ambush’ was a trivial distraction.  Marak barely needed to earn his pay, what with our spell-power and the fast sword of Sir K’thar.  And your daggers were used to excellent effect, as I recall, Master Feldergrass.  I trust your wound is not still bothering you?”

The halfling rubbed his shoulder, and shook his head.  “No, and I thank you again, Kevan, for your healing magic.  But... well, I knew this wizard once before, and we had a priest in our village, and doesn’t your magic... well, run out?”

The mage laughed.  “Fear not, Master Feldergrass.  While it is true that certain powers may only be utilized once per day, Kevan and I have plenty of magic still in reserve.  Anything we meet today will find that we are far from helpless, I assure you.”

The cleric placed a hand on the wizard’s arm.  “But Ahlen... maybe our companion has a point.  Those kobolds might have just been a test, to gauge our capabilites.  There may be a greater danger ahead of us.”

“Indeed, my friend, I have no doubt that there is.  Or have you forgotten why we have come here?”

Kevan colored slightly.  “I have not forgotten, nor has my commitment wavered.”

“Good.  No, I am sorry to have questioned your motives.  We are all dedicated to stamping out the foulness that has taken root here.  But that is all the more reason to press on.  If the kobolds were in fact allies of this death cult, we need to find them before a warning may be spread of our coming.”

“That is... logical,” Kevan acknowledged.  

The wizard looked back down at the halfling.  “And we will rely on your knowledge and skills, Master Feldergrass, to keep us alerted to any threats that may lurk in these woods.”

The halfling nodded, although he still looked dubious.  He opened his mouth to say something, but was cut off at a call from up ahead.  The dwarf and dragonborn had reached a bend in the trail, and paused to wait for them.  

“What is it?” Zelos asked, as they joined them.  K’thar merely pointed.  

The trail continued its winding course up ahead, but they could see what had alerted the warriors.  Between a break in the hills, maybe a few miles distant, they could see the familiar outline of walls atop a flattened hilltop.  Even at this range they could clearly note the poor condition of the site, but the ruins could only be their destination.  

The Keep on the Shadowfell. 

“We’ve made good time,” Zelos said.  “We have plenty of daylight left; let’s move out.”

The warriors nodded and started forward along the trail.  Jayse Feldergrass started after them, but slowly.  He frowned, looking around at the surrounding woods.  To the left, the ground sloped upward off the road; the remains of a fallen tree, moist with rot, marked the boundary between path and forest.  Up ahead the road continued more or less straight for a good fifty paces before turning again to the left.  Nothing out of the ordinary. 

No.  It was quiet.  Too quiet; even the birds had stopped their chatter.  The halfling felt the hairs on his arms rise; all of his experience and woodslore whispered _something is wrong here_.  He wasn’t Jaron’s equal in woodcrafting, but he’d spent enough time in the forest to know its moods, the subtle rhythms that filled the woods like the beating of a heart.  And here, it felt as though that heart had skipped beating, and was quiescent, silent, waiting. 

He turned back to the wizard even as he heard a new noise, a faint whisper like a sudden breeze.  But the warning he’d been about to issue caught in his throat as he saw the wooden shaft jutting from Lord Zelos’s shoulder, the bright red fletchings shaking from the force of the impact.  

For just a moment, a fraction of a second, he froze.  Then another whispered hiss ended with a second bolt striking the wizard in the throat.  The missile went _through_ the man’s neck, and for a moment Jayse though that the shot had missed, until a fountain of blood, startlingly red, erupted from the vicious wound.  He’d only hesitated for a split-second, but it felt as though he’d been standing there for an hour.  

“AMBUSH!” he yelled, but as more bolts slammed down into them from above, he knew it was already too late.


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## Jon Potter

*Up to your old tricks?*

Killing off the wizard first in 4E too, I see.  

I've been following your story hours for quite some time, and it's fair to say that I'm looking forward to your take on KotS more than I am the actual module* itself.

Is that wrong?

*And I think I just indicated my age by calling it a module, didn't I?


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## Cerulean_Wings

Way to go, Cliffhanger King, you've done it again! 

Love the characters: their personalities (what we've seen so far), dialogue and even their names. 

What's with killing wizards in 4e? They're no longer the same nuisance for you the story-writter that they were in 3e 

Unless you're used to the tactic through repetition in Doomed Bastards


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## Lazybones

Prologue, Part 2


Kevan grabbed Zelos before he could fall, dragging the crippled mage into the shelter of the rotted log on the side of the road.  As both men all but fell into the shallow cover, Jayse could see that there was a bolt jutting from the cleric’s leg, a few inches above his left knee.

Another bolt thudded into the dirt between the halfling’s legs; that was enough to propel him into action.  He leaped forward and dove forward, into the cover of the rotten log.  A bolt narrowly missed him, its steel head slicing through his trousers and leaving a slight stinging sensation in its passage.  Jayse risked a quick look out from behind the log, darting back into cover before his movements could draw another shot.  

The sniping seemed to be coming from further up the hillside, where the archers were apparently quite well hidden, as he saw nothing other than bushes and trees.  

He glanced up the road toward the warriors, and saw that the dwarf and dragonborn knight had their own problems.  A small group of enemies had emerged from around the bend up ahead, and were coming steadily closer.  The group included three humans and four goblins, all heavily armed and armored.  The men were big, taller even than Zelos, but it was the smallest of the three that drew Jayse’s eyes.  That one’s eyes were shaded within a helmet decorated to look like an animal’s skull, but somehow the halfling could feel the man’s stare brushing against his, and it sent a cold dagger of fear into his innards.  K’thar had rushed to engage that one, but the other two men—each almost as large as the knight, and armed with huge axes—moved to block him.  Marak had engaged the goblins, who were darting in and around him, trying to get in a hit through the protective scales of his armor. 

A soft chanting from Kevan drew his attention back to their more immediate situation.  The cleric had wrapped his hands around the unconscious wizard’s neck, and a blue glow was shining between his bloody fingers.  Jayse remembered how the priest had healed the wound he’d taken in the fight with the kobolds, but he hadn’t been as critically hurt as the wizard had been.  Ahlen Zelos’s eyes popped open, and he drew in a startled breath as the healing magic repaired the grievous injury to his throat.  Another bolt thudded into the log, its head bursting through the rotten wood a foot from the cleric’s head, but the half-elf did not flinch. 

“There’s a group of goblins and men, down the road,” Jayse told him.  “Marak and K’thar are facing them, but there’s seven of them.”  

The cleric nodded calmly.  “I will be just a moment.”  He closed his eyes for a second and touched his sigil, as if drawing upon some reserve of power.  Jayse felt a sudden sense of well-being touch him through the fear that had come with the start of the ambush.  Zelos, fully conscious now, started to get up, but Kevan held him by the shoulders, keeping him under the cover of the log.  

“I guess I’d better see if I can distract those archers,” Jayse said, drawing one of his daggers.  His leg barely hurt any more, but he wasn’t looking forward to stepping out from the shelter of the log.  He rose to a crouch, preparing to dart out of cover, already thinking of the best way to get up the hill without getting shot full of bolts. 

As he did, he caught sight of what was coming up the road behind them.  He hissed a warning.

Kevan heard and turned his head.  Five more goblin warriors were closing in, almost casual in their advance.  Their leader was a fat brute, his gut bulging out from under his armor, but he looked no less dangerous for it as he lifted a big club and pointed it at the three of them in their tenuous cover. 

“I will teach them the folly of their actions,” Zelos said, his voice still rasping painfully in his throat.  He lifted a hand and summoned his magic.  A burst of fire erupted from his fingertips, which he launched at the onrushing goblins.  The _scorching burst_ would have hurt several had it connected, but the two goblins in the front rank dodged nimbly aside, and the flames shot harmlessly between them.  They lifted their javelins, chattering excitedly in their raucus language, but it was clear that facing a mage gave them pause. 

Jayse lifted a dagger to throw, but Kevan stopped him, putting a hand on his.  “You have to get back to Winterhaven, warn them about what’s here,” the cleric said.  Kevan had pulled out the other bolt from the wizard's shoulder during the healing, and still held it, the red fletchings catching Jayse’s eye.  The snipers up the hill to their left had stopped shooting, perhaps wary of risking hitting their allies, but Jayse could hear the sounds of battle from up the road, indicating that Marak and K’thar had joined battle.  He didn’t have to look to know that the odds there were as bad as they were up here. 

Kevan still held him with his eyes; the cleric even managed to smile slightly.  “Go.” He said.  “We all have our duty.”  He dropped the bloody bolt and hefted his mace as the goblins hurled their missiles and charged toward their position.  He deflected a javelin with his shield, and several others shot past them, quivering as they stuck in the rotten log or flew overhead to shatter on the rocks of the hillside beyond.  The goblin leader lifted a crossbow and shot Zelos in the side, the impact of the bolt knocking the mage hard back against the log.  The goblin warriors lifted their spears and charged in the wake of their attack, and Kevan rose to meet them, springing to his feet with a roar that invoked his patron god.  He flinched as a bolt streaked down and caught him in the back, piercing him through his armor, but he still met the first goblin with an invocation of power, knocking the foe back a step, clutching his eyes against the power of the half-elf’s _healing strike_.  Kevan channeled the backlash of that release of power into Zelos, easing the hurt of his latest wound, but it was clear that the mage’s grasp on consciousness was tenuous at best. 

Jayse did not hesitate any more, although his heart pounded as he leapt up and ran across the road.  One of the goblin warriors tried to cut him off, but as the creature lunged he abruptly spun and shot out his leg.  The goblin, unable to change its momentum, stumbled and flew headlong into the tangled brush at the side of the road, cursing in its guttural language as it fought to extricate itself.  Another bolt whizzed past, but Jayse was already running again, darting into the cover of the trees.  He heard a sound of exploding flames behind him, accompanied by goblin screams, but his full attention was on dodging the low-hanging branches and gnarled roots that filled the forest around him.  

He only paused once, at the top of a low rise that gave him a chance to look back at the road.  Leaning against a tree, his view partially obscured by the trunks between him and the road, what he saw caused his gut to clench.  K’thar was lying in a pool of slowly spreading blood in the middle of the road.  Both of the human berserkers were crouched nearby, obviously wounded but in far better shape than the fallen paladin.  Marak lay against the bole of a tree at the side of the road, wounded but conscious, disarmed and guarded by a pair of goblin warriors.  A goblin lay on his back near the rotting log, but Jayse saw Kevan, on his knees, securely held in the grasp of several other goblins.  Blood covered the half-elf’s face from a wound to his scalp, but he was able to look up as the enemy priest, the one who’d caused Jayse such a thrill of fear when they’d locked eyes, approached.  He didn’t see any sign of Zelos. 

Jayse knew that his position was precarious, but he felt bound to the tree, as though it was the only thing keeping him from falling over.  He could only watch helplessly as the two men exchanged words.  He was too far away to hear what was being said, but he clearly saw the evil cleric make a slight motion with his hand, and just as clearly saw the fat goblin smash his club into the back of Kevan’s neck.  The cleric’s body went limp, and the goblin kicked the priest in the back, knocking him forward to lay sprawled out upon the road.  

The halfling heard the warning hiss too late as a crossbow bolt slammed into the tree trunk, its steel head pinching the flesh of his elbow against the wood.  It penetrated through the arm of his coat, pinning him to the tree.  Jayse barely felt the pain as he struggled to free himself.  His efforts gained urgency as he caught sight of several small, dark forms moving through the undergrowth toward his position, closing in from the left and the right.  Finally he gave up and slid out of the coat, tearing his skin more as he pulled free, and ran.  He clutched his wounded arm to his side, feeling sticky blood running down to his wrist, over his fingers, finally dropping onto the forest floor to mark his path.

Naught to be done for it now; he grimaced and kept on running.  He wove between the trunks, taking a roundabout route that would eventually lead him back to the road.  Goblins were tough little bastards, and could keep after him for quite some time, but he knew these woods, and he and his brother had hunted in them almost since they’d been old enough to hold a bow. 

He glanced back now and again, but did not see further signs of pursuit.  He did not stop again, but pulled out his kerchief as he ran, tucking it up his sleeve to slow the bleeding of his injured arm.  No sense in making it _too_ easy for them. 

He reached the top of a steep incline that was negotiable by a wide culvert filled with weathered stones, the course of one of the many seasonal and temporary streams fed by the spring rains.  It offered the best route down, and he made it quickly, jumping from rock to rock with ease despite his throbbing arm.  He was getting his second wind, but it was a long way to go to Winterhaven, especially with goblins on his trail.  

At the bottom of the culvert, he came up short as a figure appeared suddenly in front of him.  His eyes widened at the sight of her.  “What are _you_ doing here?” he blurted out.

“I thought you and your friends might have a bit of trouble,” she said.  Her eyes lifted above him, back up toward the top of the culvert, sharpening.  “Look out!” she warned, lifting her bow and drawing the readied arrow back to her cheek in a smooth, practiced motion. 

Jayse spun, looking for goblins.  He saw nothing, and realized his mistake too late as a terrible pain blossomed in his back.  He staggered forward, a dagger fumbling from his fingers, and fell to his knees.  His last thought was that he’d never get to pay his brother back for the pony he’d borrowed from him, and then he was falling forward, and then... nothing.


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## Kaodi

Great to see you starting another story hour already, Lazybones!

From the looks of it though, I am inferring that few, if any, of our " heroes " were meant to survive the prologue, hehehe...


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## wolff96

Cerulean_Wings said:
			
		

> What's with killing wizards in 4e? They're no longer the same nuisance for you the story-writter that they were in 3e
> 
> Unless you're used to the tactic through repetition in Doomed Bastards




Oh, it started long before that.  Clear back in "Travels" as a matter of fact...

Still, having played through KotS, I'm looking forward to seeing this one through.  Especially some of the nastier combats...


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## Lazybones

Kaodi said:
			
		

> From the looks of it though, I am inferring that few, if any, of our " heroes " were meant to survive the prologue, hehehe...



Well, these were just the pregens. I like to make my own characters.   

My books haven't yet shipped (from reading the main forum it looks like I'm not alone, and quite a few folks are peeved at Amazon), so it may be a little while before I get back to this one. Besides, I still need to finish Rappan Athuk.


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## Dr Midnight

Hiya Lazybones- just checking in and saying hi, I just started a KotS SH myself. I like your writing style, you have a flair for scenic description.


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## Nebulous

Lazybones said:
			
		

> Well, these were just the pregens. I like to make my own characters.
> 
> My books haven't yet shipped (from reading the main forum it looks like I'm not alone, and quite a few folks are peeved at Amazon), so it may be a little while before I get back to this one. Besides, I still need to finish Rappan Athuk.





Aye, i'm peeved at Amazon, and now i'm getting peeved at Overstock.com, whose shipping date has already passed.  I too am running KotS in the near future so i'll check in here to see what changes you make, and which ones i can steal!   

I'll probably post my own one of these days, but it won't be the cinematic style of yours; it will be a shorter play-by-play with a nod to game mechanics, with a healthy dose of art and photos.


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## Lazybones

Dr Midnight said:
			
		

> Hiya Lazybones- just checking in and saying hi, I just started a KotS SH myself. I like your writing style, you have a flair for scenic description.



Thanks. Your "Knights of the Silver Quill" SH was one of the things that got me interested in this medium in the first place. I look forward to reading your take on 4e.


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## Lazybones

Gah, my ship date just changed to July 7. Looks like it'll be a while before I get my hands on the books. I started writing some of the actual story this week, but I quickly got to the point where I needed more than the KotS rules to proceed.

Example 1: character generation. Now that my pregens are safely deceased, I need some characters.   I've created a few of my protagonists already (if not the stats for them), but I have a few slots that aren't fully defined in my character outline (at the moment, they're mostly archetypes). Anyone want to weigh in with some suggestions? 

Fighter, ranger, and rogue are spoken for.


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## Baduin

I think it would be interesting to create a storyhour with optimized protagonists. Certainly anyone willing to fight in so deadly an environment would try to be optimized to the max. Professional Soldiers, although they don't run that kind of risks, try to get as optimized as they can, buying best equipment etc.

In that vein, I would suggest a control wizard with an orb, multiclassed into cleric or with Blood Mage paragon path. Here are quite interesting propositions:

http://forums.gleemax.com/showthread.php?t=1039126
http://forums.gleemax.com/showpost.php?p=15997884&postcount=13


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## med stud

I'm in SH- heaven, both Lazybones and Dr Midnight starting story hours .

About your last character, I would ask you to not have an optimized character. I would like to see how an average character can stand up to the module as written.


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## Black Bard

*Back to the Future?*



> Five travelers were making good headway on the road, moving with purpose.



Oww! This bit of text was like going all the way back to _Travelers_ , but in 4E! 

I'm thrilled that you will write in 4E, Lazy! Just what I needed to get back to SH-paradise!   

Cheers,
BB


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## Lazybones

Regarding optimization: I'm certainly going to make an effort to build effective characters, but I'm going to try to make them myself and avoid online guides for now. Part of the process of learning a new system.   

My long-time readers know that I often put story considerations above game effectiveness concerns, but I promise no gimped wizards this time. 

I'm still waiting for my books, but I have put together some early chapters that aren't dependent on crunch. I quickly got to the point where I need concrete info to proceed, so the bulk of the story will have to wait for July. 

* * * * * 


Lazybones’s Keep on the Shadowfell

Chapter 1


Jaron Feldergrass looked out over the battlefield and shook his head in dismay. 

He’d thought that the campaign was going well, but it seemed that his adversary was not one to admit defeat.  

The halfling leapt down from the fence he’d used as his vantage point, landing lightly on the soft earth of his orchard.  The saplings he’d planted last spring had taken well, for the most part, but he saw one peach tree that jutted at an awkward angle, a clear sign that the enemy had made an incursion there.  For some reason, the badger seemed to want to make probes at a half-dozen spots each time it visited, as if it was consciously trying to nettle Jaron by spreading its damage as broadly across the farm as possible. 

Jaron did not begrudge the creature the right of establishing a den, but surely the creature had to recognize that it would not be in the best interests of either of them for it to do so _on his farm_.  Thus far the creature had avoided a direct confrontation, and it had not remained near its diggings in the morning when Jaron came out to check on his crops, his trees, and his animals.  He’d taken to carrying a sling, just in case, but he had little interest in slaying the creature.  But filling in its holes, closing them up before they could become full-fledged dens, was clearly not working.  

Clearly, he’d have to be more creative in dissuading it. 

He was distracted from his musings by the noise of a horse coming up the track toward his farm.  The sound of iron-shod hooves was distinct on the packed earth, narrowing the possible identity of the newcomer to just a handful.  Unless the visitor was a stranger to Fairhollow, in which case even more caution than he was applying to his four-legged rival might be warranted.  Jaron wasn’t really worried, although he did glance back to the low rise where his neat little farmhouse was perched, flanked by a pair of low outbuildings that seemed to jut out of the hill like natural mounds.  Curiosity won out, but he stayed in the shadow of the fence as he made his way through the orchard to a spot where he could get a vantage on the track without being seen. 

The traveler was not coming especially swiftly, and was still some distance away when Jaron got a good look at the pony and its rider.  Grinning, he climbed up onto the fence, standing easily on the stout post where the fence made a corner.  

“What a nice surprise, Yarine,” he began, but then he got a good look at the rider’s face.  “What is it?”

Yarine reined in her mount, a brown pony with white forelocks.  The rider was a halfling as well, of like age as the farmer, still hale and energetic despite the slight crinkling of the skin that was just visible around the corners of her eyes.  She wore simple clothes of good-quality wool and leather, her only adornments a narrow brass band in her hair, and a small sigil of the god Avandra carved from wood on a throng around her neck.  She had the look of a woman who smiled often, but there was only sadness and pity in her eyes as she met the eyes of the farmer. 

“I’m so sorry,” she said.  

Jaron swallowed.  “It’s Jayse, isn’t it.”

Yarine nodded.  “Maybe we’d better go inside, Jaron.”

She nudged her pony forward, and offered him a hand.  He accepted, swinging up behind her on the pony.  The animal accommodated the two of them easily enough, and did not protest when the woman urged the mount forward again.  Neither halfling said anything, agreeing to let their topic rest through unspoken agreement.  Jaron looked troubled, but he helped Yarine fasten the horse’s lead to the rail of the porch in front of his house, and held the door for her to go inside.  

The front room of the farmhouse was warmly decorated but not cluttered, with several hand-made rugs on the wooden floor, and heavy wooden shutters, currently drawn back, affixed to the half-dozen slit windows.  A number of portraits, depicting halflings of varying ages in an assortment of simple poses, decorated the walls.  A doorway to the side of the entrance led onto a neat kitchen, while another, cloaked in long shadows, gave access to the back of the house.  

The most significant feature in the room was a broad stone hearth, large enough so that either of the halflings could have stepped fully inside it without ducking their head.  Jaron efficiently lit the ready stack of kindling there with flint and steel, and put a pot of tea on one of the adjustable metal hooks that swung out from the sides of the hearth.  Yarine took the seat that he offered, and waited there in silence until he was ready.  Jaron’s preparations only took a few minutes, but he lingered over the fire, clearly reluctant to face his guest.  Yarine did not press him, and finally he turned to look at her. 

“What happened?”

“I received word from Sister Linora, a priestess of Avandra in Winterhaven.  Your brother was working as a guide in the area, and she said he’d left town with a group of men from the East, folk with the look of adventurers.”

“Treasure hunters, probably,” Jaron said.  “For some reason, people from the settled lands cannot help but think that the frontier is littered with hidden caches.”  He rubbed his hand through his hair, and then looked back up into Yarine’s soft eyes.  “Where did they find the body?”

“Not far from the King’s Road.  They never found the rest of the group.”

“How did he die?”

“He... his body, it was...” she trailed off.

“I’ve seen a lot, in my travels,” Jaron said quietly.  “Please, continue.”

Yarine’s eyes glistened in the firelight.  “His body was in poor shape when it was found.  It looks like it was bandits, Jaron.  Linora’s letter indicated that Winterhaven’s had a recurring problem with kobolds, and that they’ve become increasingly bold of late.  The woman who found him—an elf woman from the area, named Delphina Moongem—she said that there were several kobold weapons in the area, and tracks, where Jayse’s body was left.”

“What about Jayse’s employers?  Do you know anything more about them?”

Yarine shook her head.  “The townsfolk didn’t know much about them.  Linora said that they kept mostly to themselves, but that one of them wore the sigil of Pelor.”

Jaron looked into the fire, and for a long moment a silence stretched out between them.  “I will go to Winterhaven and bring back the body,” Jaron finally said, without turning. 

“I believe that Callen was planning on taking a load of supplies to Winterhaven in a day or two,” Yarine said.

Jaron glanced back at her.  “He knows about the bandits?”

“You know Callen.”

“Yeah.  Stubborn as that old horse of his.”

There was another long silence.  Finally, Yarine looked around the warmly-decorated room.  “You know, I always knew that you’d come back here, someday.”

“You never would have guessed it from what I said as a young man.  I made no secret of my desire to get far away from Fairhollow as possible.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Drove my parents crazy.  They could never understand.  Jayse did, though.”

“And Jaela?”

Jaron nodded, but he didn’t respond.  Yarine leaned forward in the deep chair, and ran a hand along the weathered stones of the hearth.  The fireplace was old, and the mortar in the crevices had started to flake, but the whole had a look of permanence to it, as though it was keeping the entire house standing.  “I remember when you, Jayse, and Marten went off to the War.”

Jaron’s lips tightened.  “The War.  You know, to the humans, it was barely a skirmish, a little raid of almost no consequence.  Our “army” was barely a hundred men, in all.  There are cities in the more settled lands where merchants have private companies of guardsmen that are larger.”

“Our world here is... smaller, Jaron.”

He looked back up at her.  “Do you blame me...”  His eyes dropped into his lap, and he worried the fringe of a seat cushion with his fingers.

“For Marten going with you?  No, never that, Jaron.”  She reached out and touched his knee.  “Dal Durga’s raiders threatened the entire region.  If you hadn’t brought the news about the humanoids, and about the humans rallying their army to stop them, someone else would have.  Or maybe our first warning would have been the braying of hobgoblin warhorns.  They destroyed several villages, I understand.”

“Yes, I know,” Jaron said.  He stared off into the distance, as if seeing things that could never be forgotten.  

“Marten would have gone even if you had never come back.  He told me, before he went, that he was glad you were here.  That if he had to fight to protect his people, he was glad to do it beside the Feldergrass boys.”

Jaron smiled, but it was wry.  “My mother nearly killed me when Jayse volunteered.  After Jaela left, then me... she thought that she was losing everything important to her.”

“Is that why you returned?  After it was all over?”

“No, not really.  I mean, they were already dead by the time that Jayse and I came back.  Do you know that they died within three days of each other?”

“I was the one who found them, remember?” she said quietly.

Jaron fidgeted uncomfortably in his chair.  “Oh, yes... I’m sorry, I guess I’d forgotten.”

She touched him again, her eyes brimming with sympathy.  “It’s all right, Jaron.”

He abruptly stood up and turned away from her.  “I... I’d better get ready.”  He walked over to a chest that stood near the outside door, and flipped it open.  He let out a tired sigh as he looked inside, barely audible, but Yarine noticed.  She came up beside him, stepping past him toward the door, but she paused there, her hand on the latch.   

“Thank you for coming, Yarine,” he said.

“I had to, Jaron.” 

For a moment the pair lingered there, close together by the door.  Finally Yarine opened the door, but she paused again in the threshold.  “There’s something else, Jaron... I would not trouble you with it, not now, but I fear it cannot be avoided.”

“What is it?”

“It’s Belden.”

Jaron let out an exasperated sigh.  “What has he gotten into this time?  Gods, he hasn’t stolen from the Galderbrushes again, has he?”

“I’m afraid that it is a bit more... serious, this time.  He... he killed Dale Wanderwarren’s bull.”

“What?  Why?”

“I don’t know, Jaron.  But I’m afraid that the situation is quite grim.  Dale’s furious, and he’s threatening to file a claim on Wanda’s property for reimbursement of his loss.”

Jaron hit the threshold of the door with his fist.  “It’s not Wanda’s fault.  Beetle’s... hard to control.  It was an act of kindness, taking him in.  No one else would have...”  Realizing he was starting to babble, Jaron clenched his jaw and stopped speaking. 

“Everyone knows that your cousin... has problems, Jaron.  But this is more serious than anything he’s done before.  Some people are starting to get worried, afraid even.”

“Beetle—Belden—would never hurt anyone.  He must have had a reason for what he did to Wanderwarren’s bull.”

“I’m not saying you’re wrong, Jaron.  But I don’t know if I can protect Belden, or Wanda, if he stays in Fairhollow.  You have to take him with you.”

“You mean to Winterhaven?  Are you serious?  I can’t, Yarine.  Look, I understand the problem, but I promised Belden’s mother that I would look after him.”  He hesitated, and looked away for a moment, realizing that the current situation was a sign that he’d failed in that vow.  “It’s dangerous, outside,” he said.

“I know.  But it’s dangerous here as well.  Belden... he’s special, Jaron.  He... he needs to find his place.”

“And you think he’ll find it out there?  In the tall folks’ world?”

“All I know, is that Fairhollow is no longer his place.  I’m sorry, Jaron.”

He did not respond, and after a moment Yarine lowered her head slightly, as if nodding to herself.  She went to her horse and untied it, using the step on the edge of the porch to boost herself up into the saddle.  “Farewell, Jaron,” she said, but he said nothing, only watched her as she turned her mount around and urged it back up the path.  

When she glanced back at the bend in the trail, he was still there, standing in the doorway, staring after her.


----------



## jensun

I am loving the start of this SH LB.  I think it will be particularly interesting to see how you and Dr Midnights stories play out side by side. 

Is the attack by the goblins and bandits an addition to the module?


----------



## monboesen

So is it gonna be an all hafling PC story


----------



## wolff96

*sniff* *sniff*

Is that a Halfling Warlord I smell?  With perhaps a roguish companion...

I've been saying since I got the PHB that halflings would make pretty good Warlords.   

And no gimped wizards?  LB...  I'll believe it when I see it.


----------



## Lazybones

jensun said:


> Is the attack by the goblins and bandits an addition to the module?



It is a new encounter, but it only uses forces present in the module. 


			
				monboesen said:
			
		

> So is it gonna be an all hafling PC story



No, we'll see a few more races represented shortly. 


			
				wolff96 said:
			
		

> Is that a Halfling Warlord I smell?



Jaron is a ranger. 

My books are on the way; while I have tentative stat blocks for the first four characters, I'm going to wait until I get the PH and can check my calculations. 

* * * * * 

Chapter 2


The key rattled in the lock, then the door creaked open, letting in a generous shaft of light.  The storeroom was cluttered, but clean, without so much as a stray cobweb visible in the far corners.  The only other light was a small window high along the far wall, set with closely spaced iron bars set into the casement.  There wasn’t much concern about thievery in Fairhollow proper, but the halfling village was an island of order in a hostile land, and the buildings tended to be constructed with the needs of defense in mind. 

Jaron stepped into the room, scanning the interior.  He overlooked the shadowed spot between a pair of crates twice before a slight movement there brought his attention back.  

“Beetle?”

The figure that emerged tentatively from the narrow crevice was a halfling, but one look was enough to indicate that he was different from most of his kin.  His arms and legs were lean and gangly, and he moved with an unusual gait, almost as though his body wasn’t quite on the same exact page as his mind.  Jaron could see that he’d been washed recently, but even so a fresh patina of dirt covered the front of his face.  His shirt had been torn, and Jaron could make out a red stain along the edge of the rip.  

“Beetle, are you all right?  Did they hurt you?”

The halfling touched the rip, and shook his head.  “No hurt.  Hungry.”

Jaron drew out a small apple from his pocket, and tossed it to his cousin.  Beetle snatched it out of the air, and devoured it, core and all, in a few bites.  He grinned through a mouthful of fruit, the juice running down the corners of his mouth.  

Jaron sighed.  “I heard that you got into some trouble, Beetle.”

The other halfling shrugged.  He glanced toward the door, but Jaron shut it decisively behind him before coming further into the room.  “No trouble, Jayse.”

“Jaron.  It’s Jaron.  Don’t you remember, Beetle?”  It was an old thing between them, the mistake in the name, but Jaron had to fight back a sudden thick feeling in his chest.  Jaron wasn’t sure if his cousin couldn’t really tell the difference between him and his brother, or if it was just a game he played.  It was hard to tell, with Belden.  The halfling had been born... odd, as though he lived partly in another world that was not evident to the rest of the people of Fairhollow.  His parents had done their best to shelter the boy, and Jaron and Jayse had protected him from other children, who were harsh judges of anything that was out of the norm.  But the plague had carried off Beetle’s parents, and it had fallen on his grandmother Wanda, who’d been well upon venerable even back then, to care for the boy.  Beetle loved the old woman, but as time passed he’d become more unruly, and even less predictable.   

“Jaron,” Beetle said, smiling as he sprang up onto a cask, kicking the heels of his feet against the wood. 

“Don’t break that,” Jaron said absently, his brow furrowed.  He walked back and forth, looking for a solution that wasn’t there. 

“Whacha matter, Jaron?”

“I have to go on a journey, Beetle.  A long journey, to Winterhaven.”

“Go riding?”

“Yes, I’m going on Callen’s cart.”

“Beetle come with?”

Jaron stopped pacing; they’d come to it.  “Beetle... why did you kill Dale’s bull?”

Beetle’s grin vanished, and he fidgeted, causing the cask to wobble menacingly under him.  “Bull not good.  Bull bad, like Dale.  In here,” he said, thumping his chest.  

Jaron sighed.  “I know Dale’s not the easiest person to get along with.  But... Beetle, you know what you did, it was wrong.  You know that?”

Beetle spun around, and the cask nearly toppled.  The halfling was more agile than he looked, and he rode the circling barrel easily, shifting his weight on his muscled forearms.  “You not know.  I know, I see.  Not good.”

“Not good,” Jaron said.  “Beetle... you have to come with me.  To Winterhaven.  You have to promise me... you have to promise, that you won’t do anything like that again.”

Beetle completed his circuit, and the cask settled back onto the floor.  “I promise, Jayse.”  His grin was wide, and the troubled look that had been there a moment before was gone as if it had never existed. 

Jaron’s worried frown, however, lingered.


----------



## Fimmtiu

Excellent! Nothing like a mentally disturbed halfling to round out a party. Wouldn't find _him_ as a pregen.

Looking forward to the rest of this!


----------



## Cerulean_Wings

Lovin' it! Can't wait for the next chapter. 

Is Beetle a Rogue or a Fighter? He could go either way, with the info we have on him.

Lazybones, I've noticed that sometimes you use character classes and PrCs hand in hand with character development. With the Paragon classes in 4e, will you be doing that as well?


----------



## Lazybones

Cerulean_Wings said:


> Is Beetle a Rogue or a Fighter? He could go either way, with the info we have on him.
> 
> Lazybones, I've noticed that sometimes you use character classes and PrCs hand in hand with character development. With the Paragon classes in 4e, will you be doing that as well?



He's a rogue. I know that makes him rather similar to Jayse (the pregen), but I'm going to try to take his character in some different directions. 

Regarding the Paragon paths, I'm not sure yet. I don't have the 4e books yet and my understanding of how the paths works in the new edition is a bit sketchy, just from reading ENWorld. That assumes that this story continues for long enough to make it an issue, of course.


----------



## carborundum

Great start, and I'm loving it already! Thanks, Lazybones!


----------



## Lazybones

Thanks, carborundum! I appreciate the interest that everyone has shown in this new story. 

My set of books arrived yesterday, though I haven't had much chance to do more than skim them. I'll create a character stats thread once I have a chance to review the rules in more depth. 

I only have a few more chapters drafted, and I want to focus on finishing up my Rappan Athuk story before I dedicate my full attention to this one. But I'll continue to post periodic updates as I have them ready. 

Today, we meet two more characters. 

* * * * * 

Chapter 3


Callen’s whip cracked in the air over his draft horse, which plodded along methodically down the King’s Road.  The whip was theater both for the trader and for the horse alike; Jaron guessed that Callen would have accepted a whipping himself before letting a crop actually touch the skin of his animal.  The old halfling trader had spent twenty years riding his cart between the isolated communities of the west, and he was set in his ways.  The only concession he made to the increased danger on the road these days was a battered crossbow, which looked as old as he was, strapped to the edge of the cart’s seat along with a quiver of bolts.  

Thus far, however, there had been no sign of bandits or other trouble.  If there were kobolds molesting travelers, they were staying close to Winterhaven.  Jaron glanced back into the back of the cart.  Nestled amidst the casks and bales crowded into the bed, Beetle was sleeping improbably against the constant jolts and jars of the road.  Thus far his cousin had presented no troubles on the road, and he’d even turned up a brace of rabbits for the stewpot one night.  He got along well with Callen, who said little and judged even less.  But Jaron was more worried about what would happen when they reached Winterhaven, with its population of nearly a thousand people, mostly humans, living in and around its walls. 

Callen kept his cart in good shape, and they’d made decent time despite the poor condition of the road.  Once the King’s Road had been a smooth artery of travel, maintained by engineers who would sometimes stay at the inn in Fairhollow.  Jaron could not remember now the last time he’d seen road workers passing through the village.  Everyone seemed to have forgotten the west, and the populations in the scattered villages across the region had drifted inside themselves, tending their walls and keeping a sharp eye out for threats.  The villages were too scattered to provide much in the way of mutual assistance, so it fell to men like Callen to maintain the links between them, risking the roads to make a living in trade and commerce. 

“We’ll make it by nightfall,” Callen ventured, cracking his whip in the air again.  The horse tossed its head, as if appreciating the joke.  

Jaron scratched his side.  His simple farmer’s garb had been replaced by a broad vest of thick leather worn over a tunic of double-stitched wool, with leather bracers at his wrists.  He’d still had the armor he’d worn as a soldier, crafted of boiled leather reinforced with metal studs, gear fashioned specifically for war.  But he’d ultimately chosen this suit instead.  While it was durable enough to offer protection against the dangers they might find on the road, it was also decorated with neatly stitched designs in swirls of blue and gold thread, forming images of waves and fishes, trees and animals.  It had been crafted by his mother, and while the garment showed signs of wear, the seams were as stout as they’d been when she first made them. 

The halfling had likewise armed himself, with a long dirk in a leather scabbard stuck through his belt, and a quiver full of broadpoints slung across his back.  His bow was tucked against the wagon board behind him, within easy reach.  Two full packs were nestled among the supplies in the wagon.

After four days on the road, he was looking forward to a bath, and a nice bed in an inn.  But then he remembered the purpose for this trip, and even that expectation soured.  And there was the problem in the back of the cart.  He didn’t really expect Beetle to do anything bad out of malice, but the fact remained that his cousin had an odd perception of traditional things like morals and social boundaries.  He hoped that Yarine would be able to smooth things over with Dale before he returned.  For all of her talk about finding a place for Belden outside of Fairhollow, he could not really conceive of his cousin settling outside of the village where he’d spent his entire life.  If the people of his home could not accept the damaged halfling, how could anyone expect the denizens of the harsher world of the Big Folk to do the same?

The noise of the cart and his private musings distracted Jaron, so that he did not notice the disturbance until they were almost atop it.  As the cart rounded a bend, they could see that the road passed between several clusters of boulders ahead, which rose up out of the ground like a giant’s knuckles.  

Two travelers had been backed up against one of those knobs, fighting for their lives against a pack of bandits.  Jaron recognized the little creatures at once: kobolds.  One of the small reptilian humanoids was lying in the road in a slowly spreading pool of blood, while a second had fallen between the road and the nearby boulders.  That left four more pressing the pair of travelers.  Two of the kobolds, clad in ragged tunics of dirty leather, poked warily with short spears from the flanks, wary of getting too close to their enemies, but the two in the center wore heavy armor and shields, and fought side-by-side with small swords that darted in and out like snakes.  

_Dragonshields_, Jaron thought, recognizing the type. 

The travelers were as mismatched a pair as Jaron had ever seen.  The one in the front was a human woman, fighting with a pair of narrow-bladed swords that she wove into a blur before her, forcing the kobolds to keep a respectful distance back.  Jaron had spent enough time with humans to know something of them, but the woman seemed barely old enough to be considered an adult.  She was clad in a long wool surcoat, unadorned with any sigil or other marking, that had been torn in several places to reveal the familiar glint of metal armor underneath.  

Her companion was an elf—or so it seemed at first glance; as he stared Jaron realized that he was taller than the human woman.  He was clad in a light-colored suit of flowing linens, covered by a long vest of bleached leather that came down almost to his knees.  His skin seemed almost to sparkle in the early afternoon sunlight, and his hair was a pale gold, trailing out behind him as he moved.  His only weapon was a slender staff that he was using to try to keep the kobold spearmen at bay.  He was injured, Jaron realized, with wisps of smoke still trailing from a smear of ugly black char that ran down his left arm from the shoulder to his elbow.  None of the kobolds appeared to have torches, so Jaron made a mental note to keep an eye out for an enemy wizard.  

Callen had spotted the danger as soon as he had, and the old trader was already yanking on his horse’s reins.  As the wagon clattered to a stop, he reflexively set the brake and reached for his crossbow.  

Jaron turned and grabbed his own bow.  “Beetle, stay...”  But he never finished his command, for his cousin was no longer lying in the bed of the wagon.  Jaron felt a thrill of fear—_ gods, not now!_—as he scanned the ground along the road behind them.  The ground here was irregular, with numerous twists and bends in the terrain; Beetle could have fallen out of the wagon, or jumped, in any of a hundred places back along their path. 

A cry of pain drew his attention back around.  Another of the kobolds, one of the spearmen, had gotten too close to the human woman’s blades.  It staggered back and fell to the ground, trembling as blood spurted from the deep puncture in its chest.  But she paid for it a moment later as one of the dragonshields stabbed her in the side.  By the look of it her armor had kept the thrust from penetrating deep, but Jaron could see that the strike had hurt her by the way that she favored that side as she pivoted back to face the kobold warriors.  Jaron’s initial suspicions about the elf were confirmed as he lifted a hand and pointed at the kobold that had injured his companion.  There was a white flash from the elf’s eyes, a flare of magic that was echoed by sudden bursts of searing fire that erupted from the kobold warrior’s eyes, mouth, and hands.  The kobold shrieked and fell back a step, but Jaron had fought dragonshields before, and knew how tough the bastards were.  And the kobold, while bloodied, clearly had a lot more fight left in it, as it shook its head and recovered its position next to its companion, still dazed from the searing flames. 

Jaron’s hands moved of their own volition, unwinding the string wrapped around the shaft of his bow, and fitting it into the notches at the ends of the weapon with a speed that was obviously born of long practice.  But even as he reached for an arrow, he saw that a fifth kobold had appeared, clambering up onto the rocks behind the beleaguered travelers.  The two travelers seemed oblivious to the danger as the little creature lifted its spear, and crept forward to where it could stab the distracted elf mage in the back.


----------



## Cerulean_Wings

Lovin' it more and more with every new chapter 

Can't wait for the encounter with the now famous _toothy_ baddie; if it's Lazybones writing it, it's gotta be uber-deadly


----------



## Lazybones

Sorry for the long delay between posts; the Rappan Athuk story is taking a bit longer than I'd initially planned to finish. 

I'm almost finished statting up the main characters (at least the initial group), and will try to get a Rogues' Gallery thread up soon. 

* * * * * 

Chapter 4


Jaron did not hesitate.  He drew an arrow from the quiver across his back and fitted it to the taut string.  Perched precariously on the end of the wagon seat, the halfling lifted his bow, drew, and fired in a single smooth motion. 

The shaft flew true, and caught the kobold solidly in the chest even as it lunged forward to strike.  The reptilian warrior let out a small screech and toppled over, vanishing out of sight behind the mound of boulders.  Its spear clattered harmlessly away. 

Both sides in the melee suddenly realized that they were not alone.  The elf lifted his staff and pointed, saying something to his companion, who did not respond, instead slashing at a kobold who tried to get inside her guard.  The kobolds, other than glancing back at the new arrivals, kept their focus on their current prey.  If they were distressed by the sudden change in odds against them, they did not show it. 

Jaron thought that strange, and paused in reaching for a second arrow, scanning the cluster of rocks and brush on the far side of the road, ahead to the right.  That allowed him to spot the danger a moment before it became too late. 

“Take cover!” he yelled, grabbing Callen by the arm and dragging him off the wagon.  The trader cursed and dropped his crossbow, throwing his arms out to stop his fall as he toppled over into the packed dirt of the road.  Jaron landed more smoothly, keeping his feet, and spun just in time to see the blazing arc of fire that fell down out of the sky, right into the bed of their wagon. 

The firepot exploded in a crackle of roaring flames, sending out eager tongues over the packed casks and crates.  Callen yelled in protest, and ran back, not toward his goods, but toward his horse, which had already started to panic as the fire spread quickly behind it.  The horse pulled against its harness, but with the wagon brake set, it only succeeded in dragging the wagon half off the road.  Behind it the straps of its harness were tangled well before the trader could start to work them free; instead Callen drew his belt knife and started hacking at them, trying to stay clear of the wild kicks of his panicked horse. 

Jaron ran forward, trying to see where the kobold sniper had taken cover.  The far side of the road offered numerous places for concealment, and he was all too aware that the protection on his own side was scant by comparison.  He could have remained behind the wagon, but knew that Callen would have then become an excellent target, distracted as he was by the threat to his horse.  He had to make himself the more dangerous prey.  

He fired again, and scored another hit that crumpled the last of the kobold spearmen.  The dragonshields were now left alone, but if anything they pressed their attack with greater vigor, lunging forward and stabbing at the human woman with their small swords.  She parried the first thrust but the second stabbed its blade into her gut, knocking the wind out of her.  She fell to one knee, and the kobold stepped forward to finish her.  Jaron tried to grab another arrow, but knew he would be too late even as the sunlight flashed upon the descending sword in the kobold’s hand.  

But the blow never landed.  The elf loomed over the human woman as he stepped forward to support her from behind, his stare fixed upon the kobold warrior.  Jaron felt a sudden chill, and for a moment, it was as if a black cloud had fallen around the pair.  Then he blinked, and all was as it had been.  Except that the kobold warrior was staggering backwards, clutching at its head, a terrible keening coming from its jaws.  It fell to its knees, still moaning, and then pitched forward onto its face.

The other kobold tried to stab the elf, but the human woman recovered quickly, thrusting her longer blade up through its guard, driving half of the length of the steel through its armor and into its chest.  The kobold died in a flutter of its limbs, its sword clattering on the ground beside it as it slid off her sword.  

Even as the last kobold warrior died, Jaron was looking again for the sniper.  The elf helped the human woman to her feet; she looked somewhat pale, but she’d gotten her second wind, and evidently the kobold warrior’s last thrust hadn’t penetrated too deeply, for she was able to stand unassisted.  They too were obviously aware of the sniper, for their attention was also on the far side of the road, as they warily swept around to the left.  

“Show yourself, creature!” the woman shouted.  “Surrender, and you may yet live!”  She gestured to her companion, who continued to circle around to the left.  She caught Jaron’s eye, and he nodded in acknowledgement as she started forward, toward the cover on the far side of the road.  

Jaron caught a hint of movement within the brush.  He lifted his bow, at the same time that the elf raised a hand, flashes of energy flickering between his fingers.  He nearly loosed when a head popped into view, but with a cry he caught himself, sending the arrow flying harmlessly away to the right. 

“Wait!” he yelled, hoping that the wizard had equally fast reflexes.  Jaron ran forward, passing the human woman, who lowered her swords warily.  

“All done, Jayse?” Beetle said as he stepped out of the undergrowth, a broad grin on his face.  

“Are you all right, Beetle?” Jaron asked, quickly checking to see if his cousin bore any wounds.  The other halfling merely shrugged; he was looking at the travelers, and seemed particularly interested in the elven wizard. 

The woman walked past the halflings and peered down into the brush.  “Got the bastard,” she said.  Jaron left Beetle and ran over to her, to find the kobold slinger lying on the ground, blood still oozing from the deep puncture wound in the side of its neck.  

Jaron looked up, his eyes wide, and looked at Beetle, who was chattering at the elf, as though they’d just met by accident on a casual stroll.


----------



## Cerulean_Wings

Just like with any other Lazybones update, I approve, it's awesome 

One thing that bugs me, but that's just me and my immersion-need: in 4e we've got a new healing mechanic, second wind, which works well mechanically, but it can be tough to explain in-game. 

My humble recommendation to you, Lazybones, would be to describe second wind's without actually saying its name, but rather by describing solely how the character "pulls him/herself together and keeps fighting"


----------



## Leinart

So any chance of some sort of dragonborn melee character?


----------



## Lazybones

Cerulean_Wings said:


> My humble recommendation to you, Lazybones, would be to describe second wind's without actually saying its name, but rather by describing solely how the character "pulls him/herself together and keeps fighting"



I'll probably mix it up as I use the term in future encounters. I'm definitely not going to use it the way that I typically use "power" terms (i.e. set off with italics). In fact, since 4e uses powers in a decidedly different way than 3.xe, I may have to rethink how I refer to powers in general in this story. 


			
				Leinart said:
			
		

> So any chance of some sort of dragonborn melee character?



I didn't want to venture a dragonborn until I had a chance to learn more about their default culture in the game. Maybe at some point, but there won't be one in the initial set of characters. 

We do have one major character left to meet, however.


----------



## Lazybones

Almost done with the RA story, so I'll soon be able to shift my full attention to this one. I am going to be away from my computer for most of next week, so it may be a while until my usual daily updates start. 

I did finally start a Rogues Gal--ah, "Plots and Places" thread, located here. Comments on my builds are welcome.

* * * * * 

Chapter 5


The sun had vanished below the western horizon, and night had nearly fallen by the time they reached Winterhaven.  Both groups of travelers were grateful for the shelter of the town’s sturdy walls.  They had not encountered any more dangers on the road, but the kobold ambush had made them keenly aware that this region was wild and dangerous.  

The two groups parted ways once inside the walls, with Mara and Elevaren heading toward Wrafton’s Inn, not far from the gate.  The human fighter and the eladrin warlock—not an elf at all, Jaron had been surprised to learn—had been friendly enough once the last of the kobolds had fallen, but they had their own urgent business in Winterhaven that could not brook delay.  Apparently a friend of theirs, a man named Douven Staul, had gone missing somewhere in the vicinity.  From what Elevaren had said, this Staul sounded like something of a scholar, and he’d been in the area looking for a dragon’s lost horde that was reputed to be somewhere in the vicinity.  Jaron had heard enough rumors and legends about lost treasure to think the search somewhat foolish at best, but he kept his own feelings to himself to avoid offending the eladrin.

Jaron and Beetle parted with Callen shortly thereafter.  The trader led his tired horse to the stables adjoining the inn.  He was despondent at the loss of his livelihood, but it could have been a good deal worse for him, as Beetle had thoughtlessly interjected.  The wagon had been a total loss, and Jaron and Beetle had been confronted with the loss of their packs, with all of the supplies, clean clothes, and other gear that they’d carried.  At least the attack had come near the end of their journey, where they could hopefully acquire new possessions in the human town.  

Jaron kept a close eye on his cousin as the two halflings made their way into the town, to the temple of Avandra.  Beetle seemed to be entranced with the place, and he drew a few askance looks from the few human townsfolk who were out and about in the street.  Jaron noted a pair of guards, outfitted similarly to those who’d kept watch at the gate.  The men had been alert, and their weapons were kept in good condition, both signs of solid leadership.  Winterhaven was even deeper in the wilds than Fairhollow, and Jaron recognized the signs of a town where the inhabitants had to deal with the constant threats of the frontier. 

Jaron was quiet, and did not respond even when his cousin called him by his brother’s name.  He was concerned, and not just about how they would get Jayse’s body back to Fairhollow, with Callen’s wagon no longer available.  Even since he’d seen the dead kobold slinger, slain without apparent difficulty by his cousin, he wondered just how much he really knew about Beetle.  The other halfling had always seemed to have a gift for getting into trouble.  Jaron knew that his cousin’s mind was not like that of other halflings; Beetle seemed to lack the sense of self-restraint that guided most folks.  He’d long thought that his cousin was simply feeble-minded, but as they’d grown older, he’d realized that the truth was more complicated than that.  But they were blood, he thought, as he glanced back to see Beetle talking with an elven woman selling flowers along the edge of the town’s central square.  And he’d made a promise to his aunt, a promise that he could not break.  He’d broken too many promises already, in his life. 

Jaron had only been to Winterhaven once before, many years ago, but the temple of Avandra was just as he’d remembered it.  The place had the look of an old keep, squat and solid, permanent in a way that none of the buildings in Fairhollow could ever have managed. 

Beetle came up beside him.  It seemed that some of the gravity of the situation had gotten into the younger halfling; at least he was quiet and still as he accompanied Jaron toward the human-sized front door of the building.  Thus united, they went to pay their respects to the dead.


----------



## Cerulean_Wings

Still here, still lovin' it 

Is that character development I sense for Beetle?


----------



## jonnytheshirt

delurklurklurk..okay now I actually know what my password is.
Looking good LB!

As always thoroughly enjoyed the RA story thread.

I haven't got the 4e edition, nor really have any intention yet as the PC games are my usual angle. But being an old D&D red box kid where you could only be a cleric, fighter or crazy multiclass elf or whatnot; all sounds pretty funky. 

Looking forward to the new thread.


----------



## Lazybones

Heh, I recently started reading Dr. Midnight's take on Shadowfell, and saw that he had the kobold slinger burn a wagon as well! Great minds think alike, I suppose... 

* * * * * 

Chapter 6


Outside of the walls of Winterhaven, the deep of night clung like a heavy cloak over the rugged landscape of Nentir Vale.  Those folk who lived on the scattered homesteads that scattered the hills and dales around the town remained protected by thick walls of wood or stone, and they always barred their doors and shuttered their windows.  Shadows crept through the night, and domesticated animals lowed within their pens, wary of the darkness and the things it hid. 

Within the town, most of the buildings were likewise dark and quiet, but Wrafton’s Inn was an oasis of light and noise within the darkness.  There were maybe thirty or forty people in the inn’s common room all told, gathered in knots around the bar or at the dozen tables scattered around the room.  A space had been cleared against one wall, where several men were playing darts, and a dense fog of tobacco smoke hung above another table, where a group of dicers were engaged in a frenzied flurry of activity, surrounded by onlookers that shouted encouragement with every toss. 

Jaron felt almost overwhelmed by all of the noises, sights, and smells.  Fortunately for him and Beetle, the inn’s single table sized for halflings was in the corner near the stairs up to the second floor, slid in cleverly under the angled steps.  It made for a distraction whenever someone used the stairs, but Jaron felt that the frequent thumping directly over his head a small price to pay for relief from the din closer to the bar.  He tried to catch sight of a server through the crowd, but given his vantage it seemed a hopeless endeavor. 

“Say here,” he said to Beetle.  “I’ll go and order us some food.”

“And ale,” Beetle interjected.  He’d taken a hand-carved piece of wood shaped sort of like a top out of his pocket, and was playing with it on the table surface.  It was hard to tell which was more lopsided, the toy or the table, but the halfing’s fingers were nimble, and the top danced across and back at his command. 

“I’ll share one with you, if you’re good,” Jaron promised.  Hesitating for one more look across the room, he finally decided to venture toward the bar, where Salvana Wrafton held court.  

He had to dodge a few humans who would have inadvertently trampled him underfoot, but finally came to a clear space near the end of the bar.  He glanced back to try to check on Beetle, but there were too many people between there and here.  But his eyes lingered on a tall figure standing in the shadows near the foot of the stairs. 

He was a big man, clad all in black, with a raised cowl that obscured most of his face.  A neatly-trimmed beard covered his jaw.  Jaron couldn’t see his eyes, shrouded by the cowl, but for a moment it felt like the other man’s stare had locked onto his, and he felt a sudden chill.  

Someone jostled him, and he looked up to see a waitress burdened with a tray of—fortunately empty—mugs.  She was already moving on, shouting an apology back at him without breaking stride.  She vanished into the kitchen before Jaron could think to ask her for something.  

The halfling looked back at the stairs, but the man in black was gone.

He wavered, considering going back to their table, getting Beetle and going back to their room, empty belly be damned.  Inwardly he berated himself for the cowardly thought; he’d been out here in the world of the big folk before, but he’d spent too many years alone in Fairhollow since then, it seemed.  

“You’re going to get trampled if you stay there,” a familiar voice said to him. 

He looked up and saw Mara sitting on a high stool near the end of the bar.  The space next to hers had just come vacant, and she gestured to it, holding the place until he could get to her.  Climbing up onto the tall seat was a bit of a challenge, but Jaron was used to such adaptations. 

“Something to drink?” she asked him.  He realized that she was offering to get the innkeeper’s attention for him; the subtle suggestion that he couldn’t manage that himself rankled a bit, and helped the indecision he’d felt earlier fade into the background of his mind. 

“I was hoping to get a meal,” actually.  “For Beetle and myself.  I didn’t expect the inn to be this busy.”

“Not much else to do, in this town,” Mara said.  She was wearing her swords, Jaron noted, although she’d left her heavy scale armor back in her room.  There was no sign of her companion, the eladrin. 

“Did you find out about your friend?” Jaron asked, as Mara sipped from her stein of ale.  

The woman fighter nodded.  “Some of the locals confirmed the story about him hunting dragon bones near here.  Elevaren was able to put together a map, of sorts.  We’re going to go investigate tomorrow.”

Jaron nodded to himself.  He took a deep breath, then asked, “Would you be willing to make a trade, help each other?  Since I’ve been in town, I’ve heard a few things about these bandit attacks, and I intend to investigate.  You and Elevaren can clearly handle yourselves.  In exchange, I can help you find your friend.  I haven’t spent as much time around Winterhaven as Jay—as my brother had, but I’m a good tracker, and I know the region and its hazards better than most.”

Her hesitation told him all he needed to know, but he waited for her to speak.  “I’m sure you do,” she finally said.  “Look, I’m sympathetic, but I’m not really much for causes, even good ones.  I just want to find my friend, and be on my way.”

Jaron nodded.  “I understand.”

“What about your... cousin?” she asked.

“Oh, he’s all right.  He can take care of himself.”

“Are you sure?”

He realized she was looking to the far side of the bar, and he followed her gaze at the same time that he heard a woman’s voice loudly exclaim, “Get your grubby paws off me, you filthy little halfling!”

Jaron groaned and jumped down from the bar, running toward what he hoped wouldn’t be too bad of a mess.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 7


The noise from below was thankfully muted as Jaron turned from the landing and made his way down the narrow upstairs corridor of the inn.  His stomach still grumbled a bit, but at least he’d been able to secure half a loaf of bread, a wedge of white cheese, and an end of bacon, the whole wrapped in a towel he’d borrowed from their room.  He was tempted to make a dent in the food right now, but he didn’t want to leave Beetle unattended, even in their small private room close under the eaves of the inn.  It was little more than a closet, really, but he was glad for it, especially since it was pretty far from the common room. 

He shook his head wryly.  He’d been able to extricate himself and Beetle from the awkwardness with the elf woman; he’d had no idea what Beetle had done, but he’d been able to make a few guesses.  The woman—dressed as a forest scout, in the deep greens and browns favored by her race—had shot daggers at both of them with her eyes as he’d hastily apologized and all but dragged Beetle away, but at least she hadn’t pressed the issue with the innkeeper.  Through it all Beetle’s expression hadn’t changed, a slightly bemused, innocent look that Jaron knew could be infuriating to those who felt affronted by his cousin’s casual disregard for personal boundaries.

He got to their room and opened the door.  Beetle was sitting on the floor, playing with several objects spread out on the bedspread.  Jaron groaned as he recognized, in addition to his cousin’s top and some other assorted junk, a pair of silver coins, some flints, a fork, and a glove sized for a human. 

And something else, which he grabbed before his cousin could snatch it back up.  It was a small carving made out of black rock, crudely fashioned into a human shape.  Or something close to human, maybe.  Tieflings had horns like that.  It felt a bit slimy to the touch, but Jaron’s dismay was from recognizing the material from which the thing was made.  

“This is obsidian, Beetle!  This has to be worth gold, good gold!  Gods, someone is going to miss this... you may have gotten us into big trouble here, Beetle!”

He sat down on the end of the bed.  Beetle took his bundle and started digging through it, pausing only to jam half of the end of bacon into his mouth.  “No ale,” he said through the meat, reproach in his voice.  

“Where did you get this?” Jaron asked, holding up the obsidian carving.  He felt like he wanted to wash his hands, but he persisted, thrusting it between his cousin and the food.  

“Found it, Jayse.”

“Found it.”  Jaron felt a headache coming on.  Damn it, if he was going to investigate Jayse’s death, he was going to need at least the tacit good-will, if not the active assistance of the townsfolk.  And while he’d never seen a case here in Winterhaven, he had a good idea of how thieves were dealt with in these frontier towns.  “Who had it before you found it?” he asked.  “Beetle, answer me.  Who had it when you found it?”

“Nobody.  It's Beetle’s.  Give back.”  He reached for the carving, but Jaron drew it out of his reach. 

“Did you get it from the dark stranger?  The man in black, by the stairs.”

Beetle shook his head, but Jaron thought he saw recognition there.  “Stay away from that man,” he said.  “There was something... _wrong_ about him,” he added, almost to himself.

“Okay, Jayse.  Give now?” he asked, holding out his hand.  

Jaron didn’t want to give it back, but there was nothing to be done for it now; if someone came forward looking for the carving, he had to hope that they hadn’t seen his cousin filch it.  If in fact he had; he’d just assumed that Beetle had stolen it, but his cousin hadn’t admitted any theft.  With a sigh, he handed it back; it vanished along with the rest of Beetle’s “treasures” into one of the pockets of his coat.  

“’ungry?” Beetle said, holding out a piece of cheese, all that was left of the wedge.  The bacon, he saw, was gone. 

“Yeah, I’m hungry,” Jaron said.  He took the cheese and tore off a slab of bread, but for all his hunger, the food tasted like ashes in his mouth.


----------



## Lazybones

Having just finished my RA story, I had a burst of productivity and am currently on chapter 26 of this one. Thus next week I'll be moving to my usual daily updates. 

LB

* * * * * 

Chapter 8


It was a bright autumn morning, one of those days where the sky was so blue that it almost hurt to look at it.  The town of Winterhaven was already well awake, and as he stepped out of the side door of Wrafton’s Inn, Jaron could hear the familiar noises of people at work.  Noises not all that different from Fairhollow, when it came down to it.  

Mara and Elevaren were right where the note had said they would be, standing in the deep shadow cast by the wall around the town’s main gate.  Beetle had found it first, of course, and if he hadn’t left it carelessly on the side table near the water basin, then he probably never would have known that the pair had apparently changed their minds about helping them.  He found that he was of mixed feelings on that; the impulse that had led him to make his offer to the woman fighter had seemed less sound once he’d had time to sleep on it.  Or not sleep, as the case had been.  Jaron hadn’t had a really good night’s sleep since Yarine had brought word of Jayse’s death, and tossed the quiet little world he’d made for himself into tumult. 

“Good, you’re up,” Mara said, when he and Beetle approached the pair.  Both were dressed for traveling.  She tossed a small leather purse at him.  “Your cut.”

“From what?”

The loot from those dead kobolds, of course.  There wasn’t much to be had; apparently brigandage isn’t paying well this season.  And the merchants ‘round here are damned stingy with their coin, as though they won’t turn around and sell the blasted weapons I offered at five times what I got for them.”

“Thanks,” Jaron said.  He quickly put the purse away, aware that Beetle’s eyes lingered on it.  He thought about Callen, and wondered if there was a way to leave some of the money for him.  He hadn’t seen the trader since their arrival yesterday, and he didn’t appear to be staying at the inn. 

Mara misinterpreted his hesitation.  “Do you need time to get some supplies?  We’ll wait, but don’t linger, I want to be back within these walls by nightfall.”

“No, we’re okay,” Jaron said.  The old pack he’d bought on their way back from the temple last night had been too big and overly dear, but at least the innkeeper had been willing to fill it with leftovers from the night before for a relatively fair price.  Jaron had spent nearly all of the money he’d brought with him from Fairhollow, and he felt reassured by the familiar weight of the purse against his thigh.  

“What made you change your mind?” he asked them, as they headed through the gate and down the hill to the King’s Road.  They would follow it a short ways east, and then strike south cross-country to follow Elevaren’s map.  

“There is strength in numbers,” Elevaren said.  Jaron looked up the eladrin; there was something just slightly _off_ about the man, as though he didn’t fully belong here in the real world with everyone else.  His long golden hair was tied back into a neat braid that ran down the center of his back, and his clothes had been neatly cleaned and repaired, as though he hadn’t fought in a desperate battle for his life the day before.  

“So after we help you find your friend, you’ll help us track down those bandits?” Jaron asked.  

“We gave our word,” Mara said, a bit testily.  Jaron started to apologize, but got distracted as Beetle almost got trampled by a rider heading up toward the town.  The nimble halfling was never in real danger, but the rider cursed back at them, only turning back when Mara let her hands drop to the hilt of her swords. 

Jaron’s gaze lingered, and for a moment, he thought he saw something dark move in the shadow of the gate.  He lifted a hand to shade his eyes, but whatever it had been, if it had been anything at all, it was gone now.  It could have been the dark stranger...

“Anything wrong?” Mara asked. 

“No... no, nothing.”  

“Better keep your eyes on the road ahead.  This whole area’s wild lands, and there are more than bandits in these woods.”

Jaron knew that, but he felt that Mara had a point; he’d allowed himself to get distracted.  He would do what he could to look out for his cousin, but he couldn’t do that without looking out for himself as well. 

“I’ll take point,” he offered.  “Do you know the standard patrol signals?” he asked Mara.  

The fighter nodded, giving up a grudging acknowledgement.  It wasn’t respect; both knew that had to be earned. 

They moved on, the cultivated ground near the town giving wall to untamed wilds with a suddenness that would have been surprising to anyone not familiar with life on the frontier.  For the first hour they moved east along the King’s Road, then struck out south, leaving behind the last reminder of civilization and heading fully into the hazardous country beyond.  All four of the adventurers, even Beetle, grew more serious, knowing that dark things lurked in the territory beyond the tentative sites established by civilized folk.  All knew that if they simply vanished into these lands, there would be no one to come looking for them.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 9


“I think we’ve moved a bit too far to the east,” Jaron said, pointing to the map that Elevaren held out for him.  The eladrin had knelt to come down to the halfling level, careless of the dirt and crushed weeds underfoot.  Jaron suspected that the warlock’s robe would be as spotless when he rose as before; the dirt of the trail seemed to avoid him.  Likewise, the eladrin seemed utterly unfazed by their long trek, which was now almost four hours old. 

Jaron took out a rag and wiped his face and neck.  No such luck for him; the rag was streaked with sweat and dust.  They were in a copse of trees which offered shade from the afternoon sun.  It wasn’t really hot, not with winter so close, but they’d spent the last hour navigating rows of low, scraggly hills, with little in the way of tree cover to shelter them from the sun high above.  It would have been a pleasant hike, had they not been in hostile country, and had they not been burdened with the weight of armor and weapons.  

Jaron felt a tinge of guilt as he looked across the copse at Mara.  His leathers might be sweat-soaked, but the human woman wore what had to be thirty or forty pounds of metal on her body.  She was in good shape, that much was obvious, but she drank deeply of her waterskin, and Jaron could see that she was a little winded. 

Beetle had consumed his lunch in the first twenty seconds of their rest break, and was now chasing a butterfly around the copse. 

Jaron handed the map back to Elevaren and walked over to Mara.  “I’ve known a few rangers who used the two-swords style,” he said.  “Had you always wanted to train to be a soldier?”

Mara stoppered her waterskin and wiped her mouth.  “We head out again in two minutes.  Tell your cousin.”  She walked across the clearing, past Jaron, who opened his mouth but didn’t know what to say.  She went a bit deeper into the copse, clearly looking for a little privacy. 

“She doesn’t like to talk about her past,” Elevaren said quietly from behind him.  

“I didn’t mean to pry.”

“It was an innocent question,” the eladrin said.  “Our fighter is... complicated.”

“And you, Elevaren?  I have to admit, I mistook you for an elf, at first.”

“It is a common mistake.  My people dwell with the Feywild, and are rare in the lands of mortal men.”

Jaron’s face betrayed his surprise.  “You are immortal?”

Elevaren shook his head.  “A turn of phrase.  No, we eladrin live, and die, much as you do.  In the Feywild... it is just... _different._”

“What are you doing here, then?”

Something subtle changed in the warlock’s face, and he turned aside.  “I wish I had an easy answer.  Have you ever been drawn to something that you didn’t fully understand, only to find yourself caught up in events beyond your control?”

“Yeah, I suppose I have.”

“Ah, Mara is returning.  Perhaps you had best gather in your cousin.”

Jaron nodded, thinking that Elevaren had evaded his question almost as thoroughly as Mara had.  The halfling’s doubts returned, and he hoped that his new companions would prove trustworthy, when it came time for the test that he now believed was inevitable.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 10


A horse made its way up the winding mountain path.  The air was cold, almost bracingly so, for all that the first snowfalls were still at least a month off.  Pine trees stuck up out of the stony soil at irregular intervals, like sentinels warding the route up into the mountains.  

The horse bore two riders, a gray-haired woman and a girl, easy to miss as she clung to the woman’s back.  The girl’s golden hair was swallowed inside a fur-lined cowl somewhat too big for her, and her cheeks were rosy from the cold.  Every now and again she would lean over to try to get a look at the trail ahead, which caused the horse to shift and inevitably drew a rebuke from the woman. 

“Are we almost there?”

“I don’t know.”

The finality in those words silenced the girl for several minutes.  The horse’s hooves clattered on the trail, and a wind blew up, tugging at the riders’ cloaks.  

“I don’t want to go,” the girl finally said. 

“You have to,” the woman replied.  She clucked her tongue in annoyance.  “There is naught to fear.  He is your kin, and your mother wrote him, ere she war carried off.”

“Can’t I go home with you?” the girl persisted. 

“No.  What use would I have for a little child?  Now that your parents are dead, there is no coin to keep food in your mouth; I’ve barely enough to support meself.”  After a moment’s silence, the woman added, “Nay, you’ll go to your uncle, that I promised your mother.  And that is the end of that.  Now be silent, Mara, lest some mountain cat hear your chatter and come seeking to make a meal out of both of us.”

The girl desisted, although it was clear from the way she looked around that the woman’s words had not eased her fears.  After a time, however, she grew weary, and leaned her head against the back of the old woman’s cloak.  She fell into a sort of doze, and shook awake only when the horse came to a halt. 

“What...” the girl asked, rubbing her face with a gloved hand.  

“We’re here,” the woman announced.  She reached back and pulled the girl out of the saddle, jouncing her arm as she lowered her to the ground.  She did not herself dismount.  

Mara looked around, blinking against the wind.  There was a cabin here, a rough construct of heavy logs that was perched in the lee of a stony ridge that ran back as far as she could see.  A curl of smoke rose from the chimney, and a faint hint of cooked meat floated on the air that caused her empty stomach to grumble.  

“Well, here she is,” the old woman said.  

“Aye, so it be,” a voice rumbled. 

She hadn’t noticed the man at first, and even after he spoke she couldn’t clearly see him until he stepped out from the shadows under the cabin’s covered porch.  He was huge, covered in furs and leathers from head to toe.  He had a dense beard, and bore both a long knife in his belt and a bigger weapon, maybe a sword or axe, slung across his back.  His eyes were as blue and cold as mountain lakes, and they fixed her with an intensity that made her feel like she wanted to sit down.  

“Well?  Say hello to your uncle Torvan, girl.”

Mara could not have spoken then if her life had depended on it.  Fortunately, the giant didn’t seem to take offense.  The old woman recovered a bundle from the horse’s saddlebags and handed it down to Mara; she had to shake it at her several times before the girl recovered enough to take it.  Clucking her tongue again, she turned the horse and headed back down the path without so much as a goodbye. 

Mara barely noticed her leaving; she was still held captive by her uncle’s big eyes.  He seemed to weigh her with a look that felt like the scales she’d seen at the mercantile exchange, back when her father used to take her to his place of business.  But now all that was gone.  She felt a tremble, and clung desperately to the control that she felt slipping away. 

“So, you’re Mara, eh?” the big man said, shaking her out of her reverie.  She tried to speak, but her voice still betrayed her.  Her uncle rubbed his head and muttered something to himself.  

“Well, best come inside, then,” he said.  

She followed, reluctantly, but ultimately cold, hunger, and curiosity prevailed.  The cabin was roomier than it looked out the outside, and most of it seemed to be taken up by a single large room.  It was fairly dark, with only a single small window of thick glass set into an iron frame.  A low fire burned on the hearth, adding a cheery warmth to the room.  The smells she’d detected earlier seemed to be coming from a black iron pot suspended over the flames.  She could see a bed through the single door in the far wall that was slightly ajar.  

“You’ll sleep there,” her uncle said, and Mara noticed the narrow pallet set up in the corner, behind the hearth.  It would be warm there, at least.  “Leave your things there.  See that bucket?  Get that.  There’s a stream up the trail a bit, behind the cabin and up along the ridge.  Bring water for supper.”

“Outside?” Mara asked, stupidly, she thought once the words were out of her mouth.  

Her uncle looked at her as if wondering if she were feeble-minded.  “Aye.  It’s not far, within sight of the cabin, and the sooner you go, the sooner we can eat.”

He seemed to forget about her at that point, so there was nothing she could do but pick up the bucket and head for the door.  Before she could leave, however, he stopped her.  

“Hold, girl.  I suppose you’re going to need this, sooner or later, might as well give it to you now.”

He gave her a stick that he took off one of the shelves built into the cabin’s walls.  Or at least it looked like a stick at first glance; as she took it she realized that it was a sword, only made of wood rather than metal.  It was about as long as her leg, and she took it a bit awkwardly, having difficulty with the bucket in her other hand.  

“Try putting it through your belt,” her uncle suggested.  “But keep it in reach at all times.  You must always be ready to defend yourself.  I will teach you to use it later, for now you need to learn how to carry it.”

Again he didn’t give her a chance to respond or protest, turning and heading into the back room before she could muster enough courage to ask a question.  So she had to do as he said, tucking the wooden sword through her belt, and then taking up the bucket in both hands.  She found the trail that her uncle had indicated, and followed it up into a cleft in the ridge.  She could hear the noise of the stream before she saw it, a faint trickle that emerged from the rocks.  She hurried forward, all too aware of her own growing hunger.  

That was when she saw the monster.  

She was out of breath when she reached the cabin again.  Her uncle was sitting in the big chair by the fire; he looked up from a book as she burst through the door.  

“Where is the water, girl?  For that matter, where is my bucket?”

“Monster... stream...” she managed.  She almost fell, but the wooden sword caught on the floorboards, twisting her legs awkwardly.  

“Some creature has taken up residence at my stream, is that what you’re saying, girl?  Take a breath, the news will keep.”

She gulped down a breath of air.  “Yes... big... monster.” 

“And this creature attacked you?”

Mara opened her mouth, but realized that technically, the monster had just _laid_ there, looking at her.  But it had been big, that much she hadn’t missed. 

Her uncle nodded to himself at her hesitation.  “Can you describe this monster?  A scout is of little use if it cannot provide specific information to her superiors that is of help in drawing up a plan of action.” 

“It was big, and gray... furry... it had four legs, and big teeth, and big yellow eyes.  It was...” she screwed up her face in concentration.  “It was sitting on a big rock by the stream.”

Torvan nodded.  “Well, we can’t have a big gray monster blocking our water supply.  You’ll have to go scare it off.  And don’t forget the bucket, and the water, when you come back.”

Mara looked at him incredulously.  “But I’m just a little girl!” 

Her uncle raised an eyebrow.  “Yes?”

“I can’t frighten off a big monster!” 

Torvan leaned forward in his chair, and looked intently at her.  “Listen to me, girl.  If you are going to live here, you are going to have to contribute to the operation of this household.  I don’t think that fetching water is too much to ask.  As for this monster, you’ll learn that most of our neighbors are just as scared of us as we are of them.  Some aren’t, but you’ll learn how to deal with those as well.  You have a weapon.  If the creature is too much for you to handle, gather what information you can, report back, and we’ll devise our plan of action from there.”

He leaned back and picked up his book.  Seeing her still standing there, he said, “Well?  Was there something else?”

Mara wanted nothing more than to crawl into a corner and cry, but there was something in those blue eyes that would not let her.  So she went back outside.  

Standing there alone in front of the cabin, she felt more alone than she ever had in her life.  She looked back at the door to the cabin, turned toward it, hesitated, and then headed—slowly—back down the path. 

She drew out the wooden sword.  It felt heavy and cumbersome, even held in both hands. 

She tried to be as quiet as she could as she made her way back to the stream.  At one point she paused to pick up some rocks; she couldn’t easily carry them and the sword at the same time, but she felt better with a few of them in her pocket.  

Thinking _invisible, I’m invisible_, she pushed her way slowly through the bushes that flanked the stream. 

The monster was still there.  But as she watched it, she realized that it was really a big dog, a mastiff.  It _was_ bigger than any dog she’d ever seen in her life, but as she stared at it, she realized that it was old, as well.  There were patches along its flanks where its fur was almost gone, and two old scars were visible along its right shoulder, one running up its neck almost to its ear.  

The dog lifted its head, and barked at her, not loudly, but enough to let her know that it knew she was there. 

Moving very slowly, she stepped forward into view. 

The dog lifted its head, and looked at her.  One of its eyes was milky, and Mara guessed it was blind in that eye.  But the other eye was sharp, and the mastiff’s growl was no less menacing as it looked at her.  She realized that it was looking at her sword. 

She quickly lowered the weapon.  “Nice doggy,” she said.  Slowly she moved to the side, toward the bucket she’d dropped before.  The dog watched her.  It barked again.  “I’m not going to hurt you,” she said.  “I just want to get some water, okay?”

The dog didn’t respond, but kept watching her.  She realized that she was going to have to put down the sword to manage the bucket.  Keeping her back to the cliff wall, she slid the sword back through her belt, and then took up the bucket.  She shoved it under the stream where it trickled down through the rocks, letting it fill to the point where she could still carry it.  

The dog stirred itself, and jumped down from the rock where it had been lying.  Mara’s heart thumped in her chest as it came over to her, but she held onto the bucket, trying to look stern.  The dog sniffed at her for a moment, and then walked over to the trail.  She waited until it was gone, then took a breath and followed it.  

It took her longer getting back to the cabin, and she sloshed some of the water onto her leggings and boots.  But she made it back, and pushed the door open with her back.  

Her uncle was still sitting in his chair, and he looked up as she came in.  The big gray dog was there as well, lying on the floor at Torvan’s feet. 

“I see you’ve met Growl,” he said.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 11


The halfling’s question during their lunch break had affected Mara more than she’d let on.  Distracted by thoughts of her youth, and her first encounter with her uncle Torvan, she let her mind wander, and so didn’t see Jaron’s signal until she was almost on top of him. 

They’d emerged from a sparse woodlands a few hours after their break into more gently rolling hill country.  They were heading more west than south now, trying to find the site indicated on the map that Elevaren had drafted from the comments provided by the townsfolk in Winterhaven.  The eladrin’s designs were simple but elegant, evoking variations in the terrain with just a few strokes of ink on the parchment.  Mara hadn’t really doubted that they’d find the site that Douven Staul had sought, but she did wonder whether they’d find her friend and former mentor alive.  

Still, she reproached herself angrily for letting her attention drift from their task.  They’d been heading up a soft rise when Jaron had suddenly stopped, his right hand extended in the signal that she should have caught instantly.  She hurried forward just as a familiar lowing sound indicated possible trouble, and her hands reflexively fell to the hilts of her swords, loosening the blades in their scabbards.  Elevaren and Beetle hastened to keep up. 

They joined Jaron at the lip of a depression that was partly natural, party deliberate excavation.  Steep cliffs bordered off the area, save for three rocky, difficult slopes that provided a more reliable route down to the floor of the pit below.  A roughly square area had been set off in the middle of the area with small white stones; a few pale bones jutted from the dirt in this separate zone, confirming that this was the burial site that Douven Staul had been seeking. 

But she didn’t recognize any of the people that were there now. 

The noise she’d heard came from a pair of guard drakes, compact bundles of scales and violence that stood on the side of the excavation facing them, a mere thirty feet or so distant.  Beyond them around the edges of the dig were four rough men, the sort of rabble that Mara knew well enough from past encounters.  They wore ragged leather tunics and had wooden billets stuck through their belts.  They certainly looked menacing enough, but Mara’s eyes were drawn to the last member of the company, a gnome whose face split into a wide smile as he saw them.  

“Ah, guests have come to join our dig!  Welcome, friends.  You can’t fully appreciate what we’ve uncovered from up there.  Come down toward the dragon bones, and see what the workers have discovered.”

None of those in the pit had made any threatening moves, but Mara was definitely not interested in moving down into the depression.  She deferred slightly to Elevaren, knowing him to be a better speaker.  She saw that Jaron had moved slightly to the side, behind a low rampart of tangled roots, and nodded inwardly at his caution.  “We come seeking a friend of ours,” the eladrin said.  “We do not intend to disturb your activities here.”

“Well, we have not seen anyone else all day,” the gnome said pleasantly.  “Your friend, what is his name?” The drakes shifted, hissing softly, but did not change their position.  

“His name is Douven Staul,” Elevaren replied.  The drakes shifted, hissing softly, but did not change their position.  

The gnome’s expression shifted slightly.  “Why, we know old Douven quite well!  In fact, he has been assisting us with our dig!  He went off with another of his team just a short while ago, but we expect him back shortly.  In the meantime, why don’t you come down and take your rest.  I’ll have a tarp set up to give us some shade from this damnable sun.”

Mara looked at Elevaren; the eladrin shook his head slightly.  Jaron held an arrow against his bowstring, but seemed willing to defer to them. 

“Kraven, help them with their things,” the gnome said.  One of the human men started toward them, but he’d barely made it around the edge of the dig site when Beetle, standing in Elevaren’s shadow, made a quick motion with his hand.  There was a flash in the air, and then Kraven screamed and crumpled.  Mara caught a quick look at the hilt of the knife jutting from his left eye before he fell to the ground and rolled over.  

For a moment, everyone just stood there in shocked surprise. 

“Kill them!  Kill them all!” the gnome finally yelled, and everything went bad in a big hurry.


----------



## Richard Rawen

All caught up! Great characters, and since I have no interest in 4e, this will be all about the characters and story for me. I do appreciate the way you keep to the ruleset, and it is fun to recognize a spell or flashy feat, I'll be quite satisfied watching these folk develop.
*settles in*
To Battle!


----------



## Lazybones

Welcome to the new story, Richard!

* * * * * 

Chapter 12


At the gnome’s command, the two guard drakes surged forward.  They moved quickly, and only the uneven, stony slope separating the pit from the adventurers kept them from tearing into them in a heartbeat.  

The three surviving toughs weren’t far behind.  Jaron lifted his bow and fired off his readied arrow in a quick shot that narrowly missed, slicing through the air over the first man’s left shoulder.  The man zagged to his left, heading up another of the slopes that led up to the rim of the depression.  That angle gave him some modicum of cover from the ranger’s bow, so for his second shot Jaron targeted another of the rabble, a bearded man who’d drawn out his club and held it menacingly above his head while charging straight for them.  This time the halfling ranger didn’t miss, and the man went down with an arrow jutting from his chest.  He landed almost on top of his dead companion.  

“Beetle, here!” Mara yelled, pulling her handaxe out of her belt and tossing it in the general direction of the halfling.  With her other hand she drew her longsword, and she stepped forward into a warding stance directly in the path of the onrushing drakes.  Elevaren was smart enough to fall back behind her, but she saw that he’d already taken a hit, a small crossbow bolt sticking through a tear in the robe over his right bicep.  She could see blood seeping through his robe; it had been a grazing hit, but that was no guarantee that the next one wouldn’t be much worse.  

The drakes had negotiated the difficult slope and came at her together, forcing her to split her attention between them.  She didn’t have time to draw her second sword, thrusting her long blade before her in an effort to ward off the creatures’ rush.  It was a feeble effort, and the tip of the sword glanced off the first drake’s thick scales as it surged forward, snapping at her torso.  Her armor gave it no place to find purchase, but it rammed its blunt snout into her gut with enough force to knock the breath out of her.  Something popped in her, a rib giving way, maybe.

She tried to shift and recover, but the second drake did not give her a chance.  Taking full advantage of the opportunity offered by its comrade, it lunged in and seized Mara’s swordarm in its jaws, crushing the limb in an iron grip.  The other one snapped at her again, and got a mouthful of her cloak in its jaws.  Between them the drakes thrashed and pulled, drawing the embattled fighter off balance, and threatening to draw her down to the ground, where they could tear her apart at their leisure.  Mara cried out, but she couldn’t free herself, and it looked as though her battle, at least, would be over very soon indeed.


----------



## Cerulean_Wings

Good stuff! Loved Mara's back-story, very cool. I don't think you've done something like this in The Doomed Bastards, and I think it's a good way to explain a character's past without having them say it to another character. 

And you're writing chapter 26 already?  Easy, Lazybones, don't you go about getting carpal tunnel with so much story hour goodness!


----------



## Lazybones

Cerulean_Wings said:


> Good stuff! Loved Mara's back-story, very cool. I don't think you've done something like this in The Doomed Bastards, and I think it's a good way to explain a character's past without having them say it to another character.



I did more of this back in the _Travels_ days (with Lok, especially), to fill in character backstory, but I haven't used it in a while. More on Mara's history today.


> And you're writing chapter 26 already?  Easy, Lazybones, don't you go about getting carpal tunnel with so much story hour goodness!



Heh, I type fast. I haven't done any KotS writing this week, as I'm editing TDB for a PDF release, but I have a good chunk of story and am working on the outline for the latter part of the module/story. 

I haven't gotten H2, any comments from owners? I see that H3 is coming out a bit later this month as well. 

* * * * * 

Chapter 13


Mara rubbed a towel around the back of her neck, wiping away the sweat that clung to her under her heavy tunic.  She felt hot now, after the workout, but knew that the chill of the air would penetrate every tiny gap in her clothes, turning the beads of sweat into ice. 

Her uncle Torvan drank deeply from a leather waterskin, and handed it over to her.  She unstoppered it and drank.  Growl, watching from a comfortable-looking bed of fallen pine needles short distance away, lifted his head slightly, then dropped it back down between his paws.  Mara rubbed her sore arms and envied him.  

She was thirteen years old. 

“Tomorrow we will start you on the longer blade,” Torvan said.  

Mara nodded, and put the waterskin down on the fallen log, next to her wooden practice sword.  Her eyes fell to the sword that Torvan had laid against the log in its scabbard, a sleek and deadly weapon with a blade a full forty inches in length.  He’d never used it in their sparring, of course, but she’d been tasked with cleaning and oiling the blade, and knew that it was without flaw, and as sharp as a razor.  

“Why do you like fighting so much?” she asked him. 

Torvan fixed her with the steely gaze that she’d come to know so well.  “I hate fighting,” he said finally. 

“But we practice so much...”

“The world that we live in is a violent one, Mara,” he said.  “There are many things that would kill you, if you let them.”

“The monsters,” she said.  She’d learned a lot, in her two years living with her uncle.  She’d heard of such things as trolls and giants and dragons, growing up, but it was another thing entirely to _know_ that they were real.

“Yes,” Torvan said.  “But the worst by far is men.  Men will present you with a pleasant face, and then smile as they slip a dagger into your back.  You must always be wary, Mara.  As a woman, you have something that men want, and there are those who will not shy of hurting you to get it.”

She nodded grimly.  

Torvan seemed agitated at his own words, and Mara was not surprised when he stood, taking up his own practice sword.  It wasn’t much bigger than hers, but in his meaty fist it seemed tiny.  “Another round, before supper.”

She knew better than to protest; her uncle had no patience with complaints when it came to training.  Instead she took up her sword, and headed back into the training circle.  Her uncle didn’t wait, slashing his sword at her back, but she was ready for that as well, warned by his earlier words.  She spun around, deflecting his stroke with her weapon, and fell back into a defensive stance. 

“Good,” he said.  “You can never let your guard down, Mara.  For someone will be there to take advantage.”

And then there was no more talking, no sound save for the clack as their weapons met quickly and repeatedly in the circle.


----------



## Richard Rawen

Cerulean_Wings said:
			
		

> Good stuff! Loved Mara's back-story, very cool. I don't think you've done something like this in The Doomed Bastards, and I think it's a good way to explain a character's past without having them say it to another character.



I agree, the character backgrounds add a lot to story development, and to the attachments we (well, I) form. It's going to be hard to set aside my fondness for the 'Dar' and 'Varo' archetypes, but this "Beetle" character is adding a lot of conflict and mystery... and potential   Me likee lol


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 14


Mara yelled and tore her arm free of the drake’s grasp.  With her other hand she pulled her shortsword out of its scabbard and whipped it up into the seam of her cloak, tearing the fabric.  The other drake fell back, spitting out cloth, snarling as it pressed her again.  

Mara was still outnumbered and hurt, but her companions had not been idle in those initial moments of duress.  The charging drake opened its jaws to attack, but it suddenly shot up, jumping almost comically in the air, screeching in sudden pain.  Beetle, all but forgotten in their ferocity in attacking Mara, had come up behind it and delivered a two-handed strike with Mara’s axe to a rather delicate part of the creature’s anatomy.  The drake, dazed by the unexpected attack, landed off-balance and tried to turn around, still not quite sure where the assault had come from. 

The other drake lunged at Mara before she had time to recenter her stance, but before it could bite her again the silvery streaks of _witchfire_ exploded from its mouth and eyes.  The drake, hissing in sudden pain, pressed its attack, but this time Mara easily avoided its snapping jaws.  

The fighter was merciless in her counter.  Hoping that Beetle could handle the distracted drake he’d drawn off for at least a few seconds, she turned her full attention to the other.  Her hands and legs moved in harmony, unleashing the maneuvers that Torvan had drilled into her until they became automatic.  She made her first stroke count, stabbing the tip of her sword into the muscled juncture where the creature’s left leg met its body.  The drake screamed and started to draw back, but she followed with a vicious kick that knocked it sprawling.  

“Hang on, Beetle!” she yelled, stepping forward to finish the bloodied foe. 

A thug with a club yelled and ran at Beetle’s back, only to go down as Jaron shot an arrow through his neck.  The halfling rogue was doing a fairly good job of evading the drake, which had recovered enough to recognize him as an immediate threat.  Beetle had lured the drake away from its companion, and it was having a difficult time on the rocky slope.  But on the other hand, Mara’s axe was an awkward weapon for the halfling to wield effectively, and after the initial strike that had so distracted it, he hadn’t really been able to hurt it.  

Jaron wanted to rush to his cousin’s aid, but knew that he was far more effective here, wielding his bow.  He’d clipped the gnome with an arrow, but the wily bastard had simply vanished after that, and now could be almost anywhere.  The last tough had made it up to the top of the slope, and was now moving cautiously around the perimeter of the pit, thinking to come up on Jaron from his flank.  The ranger was not going to be caught that easily, and the thug froze as Jaron lifted his bow, the arrowhead pointed directly at his heart.  

Something whizzed by his head.  His brain processed the threat and he dropped back even as a second stone glanced off of his bracer, stinging him even through the thick leather.  

“Watch out, there’s a sniper!” he yelled in warning.  He started to look for the new threat, scanning the brush that gathered along the far lip of the depression, but before he could see anything another stone zinged off his temple, sending a blinding flash of pain through his skull.  

“Aaaah!” he yelled, as the thug rushed toward him, club raised. 

Beetle echoed his cry a moment later, as the drake seized his shoulder in its jaws, lifting him off his feet.  The halfling batted his axe uselessly against its thick neck, but before it could shake him into submission a black fog gathered around its head, seeping into its eyes.  The drake, stunned by the _curse of the dark dream_, dropped Beetle and staggered several paces from the halfling.  It stumbled on the rocky slope and fell onto its side, sliding roughly down to the bottom of the pit.   

Fighting through the stars that flashed across his vision, Jaron lifted his bow and fired.  The shaft flew _through_ the thug’s body, and he stopped as if he’d hit a wall.  His club fell from his hands, and he toppled over, landing in a tangle of twisted roots. 

The ranger turned to see Beetle’s opponent trying to get up from the bottom of the pit.  His cousin seemed fine, and Mara was just extracting her swords from the carcass of the first drake, looking grim but hale.  Elevaren had not been hurt at all, save for the grazing hit he’d taken from the gnome’s crossbow at the start of the battle.  

There was no sign of the gnome, or of the still-unseen sniper that had buffeted him with rocks.  Jaron lifted his bow and put a shot into the head of the wounded drake, finishing it.  He fitted another arrow to the string at once and held it, although he suspected that their remaining foes had likely fled by now.  

“Is everyone all right?” Elevaren asked.  Mara grumbled something as she wiped blood from her swords, favoring her battered side, while Beetle seemed none the worse for wear for his encounter, rushing down into the pit to recover his knife.  Jaron kept a close eye on the downed humans, but none of them stirred; his shots had proven accurate enough this time.  

“Nice shooting,” Mara said to him, before turning and following Beetle down the treacherous slope.  Elevaren took his time following, but Jaron remained up at the top, making his way cautiously around the perimeter of the depression, scanning the brush for any more surprises. 

Beetle was the first to find the figure concealed under a blanket at the far side of the excavation.  Mara was there in a flash.  “Douven!” she exclaimed, bending to slice through the prisoner’s bonds.  

The old man looked all right, although his hair and clothes had been mussed and his face was smudged with dirt.  Once Mara freed his hands, he pulled away the gag that had been secured over his mouth.  “Mara, my dear.  And Elevaren!  Thank the gods that you found me.  These rascals had no good end in mind for me, I fear.”

“Lucky for you that Gelira found us, and sent us to find you, you mean,” Mara said.  “Gods, Douven, I thought that you were smarter.  Coming out into the wilds alone like this?  What were you thinking?”

“Perhaps I was thinking that I was an adult, and capable of making my own decisions,” Douven said, his tone slightly scolding.  But he accepted Mara’s help in standing, and leaned on her as he regained his bearings.  

“These bandits, what were they after?” Elevaren asked.  

“An old mirror buried here, that supposedly dated back to the days of the Empire,” Douven explained.  “Agrid wasn’t very talkative, I think that the men working for him were just hired help.”

“Agrid was the gnome, I suppose?” Mara asked.  

“Yes.  There was a halfling, too.  Real quiet fellow.”

“Probably the sniper,” Jaron said, who’d been listening from up above.  The ranger rubbed his forehead, where a spectacular bruise was already growing into what would be a painful lump.  

“Did they find this mirror?” Elevaren asked.  

Douven nodded.  “It was over there, by those bags.  They were getting ready to leave, when you came.  Quite good timing, my dear.”

Mara looked at Elevaren, who poked into the bags with his staff, but the eladrin shook his head. 

“Do you think that these guys were connected to the kobold bandits?” Jaron asked.  

“I doubt it,” Douven said.  “Gnomes and kobolds have a quite intense racial rivalry; I have never heard of them cooperating on anything.  However, I do believe that Agrid was working for someone.  I heard him mention the name, ‘Kalarel’ to the halfling.”

The adventurers exchanged a look, but none of them recognized the name.  

“Well, we’d better get going if we’re going to get back to Winterford before dark,” Mara said.  “Douven, can you walk?  Are you all right?”

“Just a bit knocked around.  I’ll be fine, don’t worry.  Are my things in that pile?  Agrid stole my locket, quite poor behavior.  Oh, hello, little fellow.”

Mara shared a glance with Elevaren as Douven shook hands with Beetle, who’d come over to join them after looting the corpses of the dead humans.  She looked up at Jaron.  “Any sign of our missing friends?”

The ranger shook his head.  “They knew how to cover their tracks.”

Mara nodded.  “Well then.  We’d better get back to Winterhaven.  Once we’ve seen Douven returned safely, we’ll see what we can do about these bandits.”

As it turned out, however, there was no need; the bandits saw to them first.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 15


“Maybe those kobold bandits we fought were stragglers,” Mara said.  “I examined the shields that the dragonshields were carrying, and they were old, worn.  I’d heard that there was a band following a dragon in an old keep near Fallcrest that was taken out by a group of adventurers a few months back.  It’s possible that these were survivors from that group.”

They were making their way back toward Winterhaven, making decent time as the afternoon sun started down on its path toward the western horizon.  They were taking a more direct route this time, knowing that they’d hit the King’s Road regardless of whether their course shifted slightly from their destination.  Elevaren remained back with Douven Staul, listening to the exchange between Jaron and Mara. 

“I don’t think so,” the halfling said.  “From what the priestess of Avendra said, Jayse was escorting a pretty strong group that included a wizard, a cleric, and a dragonborn paladin.  They would have been able to handle a group twice the size of the one that attacked us.”

“So you think there’s a lair nearby?” Mara asked. 

“I’m just saying that there might be more to this than we can see.  Kobolds aren’t typically this aggressive.  Sure, they might raid a farmstead if they think they can get away with it, but attacking armed bands of adventurers?”

“They might have a leader putting some spine into them,” Elevaren pointed out.  Jaron turned and nodded at the eladrin, but then started looking around.  

“Wait, where’s Beetle?”

* * * * * 

Beetle was enjoying their journey.  The halfling, having never left Fairhollow before, was finding the world outside to be a wondrous and diverse place.  There were new sights, sounds, and smells around almost every corner.  Sure, there were some bad folks that had to be put down, and the town had been a little confusing, but overall the changes had been welcome ones for the diminutive halfling.  

He didn’t even notice that he’d wandered off until he looked up and saw the kobold watching him, not ten feet away. 

It was a skirmisher, clad in light armor with a short stabbing spear clutched in its right hand.  It blinked at him. 

Beetle blinked back.  Then the halfling drew out his dagger, yelled at the top of his lungs, and charged at the kobold, which turned and darted away. 

The kobold was fast, but Beetle kept pace, even as their path traveled through some dense brush and into a small forest.  They’d only been running for about thirty seconds when the kobold led him into a small clearing ringed by ancient trees.  It sprang over a small mound of scattered leaves and twigs, and darted behind a fallen log. 

Beetle was only a few steps behind it.  He triggered the snare in the pile of leaves and fell onto his face.  He moved like an eel, slicing through the leather cords tangled in his legs with a single stroke of his dagger, and was back on his feet within three seconds. 

In that time, three kobold dragonshields had emerged from behind the trees to face him.  The skirmisher was still there was well, too, taunting him with a draconic laugh from behind the log.  

Beetle lifted his dagger, stepped forward into a menacing stance, and then turned to run.  

He found himself facing another kobold that had emerged to block the path he’d taken into the clearing.  This creature, though it barely came up to his chin, radiated menace.  It was clad in hides that were streaked with ochre and decorated with odd totems, and it wore an animal skull as a helmet.  

Beetle recovered quickly, and started to dive past the unnatural creature.  But before he could win clear, it opened its jaws wide, and sprayed a fog of acid into the halfling’s face. 

Beetle staggered back, crying as the acid seared his face and burned in his eyes.  He sensed something behind him and lashed out with his dagger, only to carve empty air.  He never even saw the kobold that slammed the hilt of its sword into the back of his skull, and he was only semiconscious as the dragonshields ruthlessly bound him with thick leather cords.  

By the time they picked him up, he was no longer aware of anything.


----------



## Cerulean_Wings

Oh noes, Beetle has been kidnapped by the armed lizards! 

Still, the moment he realizes there's a kobold right in front of him is quite funny


----------



## Lazybones

Cerulean_Wings said:


> Oh noes, Beetle has been kidnapped by the armed lizards!
> 
> Still, the moment he realizes there's a kobold right in front of him is quite funny



I'm enjoying writing Beetle. In addition to his low Wisdom score, I deliberately chose not to give him Perception as a trained skill. Should make for some interesting situations. However, despite those weaknesses (or maybe, because of them!) he's got more than a few surprises up his sleeve, as we'll see shortly. 

* * * * * 

Chapter 16


Jaron ran toward the sound of Beetle’s cry, heedless of the brambles that were slashing at his arms and face as he ran.  Behind him, Mara and Elevaren were coming, but the fighter was weighed down by her armor, and Elevaren was likewise burdened with Douven Staul, who they were not about to leave behind.  Mara shouted after him, but Jaron could only hear the fear in his cousin’s voice as it replayed in his mind, and that drove him on to run even faster.  

Distances and directions could be confusing in the hills, but he thought he had a good bearing, and the shout sounded like it had been pretty close.  The hills gave way to a small forest, and the underbrush quickly began to thin out as the shadows under the canopy of branches began to deepen.  

Jaron began to slow down, out of necessity; his cousin could have been anywhere in here.  He knew it was probably a mistake to give away his position, but he had no choice. 

“Beetle?” he said, softly at first, and then again, louder.  “Beetle!”  

There was no answer, but he caught a hint of movement out of the corner of his eyes, far ahead through the trees.  He ran in that direction.  “Beetle!”  As he got closer to the motion, he heard other sounds, the rustling of dead leaves, the occasional crack of a twig under a foot.  More than one of them, and moving quickly. 

He followed, trying to avoid betraying his position, although whoever it was already knew that he was there, from his earlier shouts.  Up ahead, the ground began to rise, and the trees began to thin out.  

He emerged on the edge of a broad meadow, bordered on one side by the forest, and on the other by a low ridge shaped like the curving blade of a scimitar.  He was just in time to see several small figures cross over the crest of the ridge and disappear from sight.  

He was about to rush after them when three dragonshields appeared out of a gully almost directly in front of him, and charged, their swords flashing in the afternoon sun.


----------



## Xorn

Lazybones said:


> I haven't gotten H2, any comments from owners? I see that H3 is coming out a bit later this month as well.




I'm happy with it.  My group will finish H1 this weekend, and I've pretty much got them set up to head north by north railroad after that right into H2.  (There's a LOT of openings to hook them.)  H2 is pretty non-linear, which was a nice surprise.


----------



## Lazybones

Thanks, Xorn. I may pick it up with my next Amazon order (man, there's a ton of video games coming out in the next 3 months!). 

* * * * * 

Chapter 17


Jaron cried out as the kobold warriors swarmed him, as much out of surprise as out of a desire to alert his companions to his location.  In his haste to catch up with his cousin, he’d let three very dangerous foes get the jump on him.  

The first dragonshield slashed at him with its small but very sharp shortsword; Jaron felt the latter keenly as it sliced through the armor protecting his side and left a shallow gash on his torso.  He almost felt it again as the second dragonshield tried to cut the hand holding onto his bow; the blow glanced off his bracer but didn’t hurt him.

He got a respite from the last kobold, but only because it circled around, obviously seeking to surround him and open up a deadly flanking situation with its brethren.  Jaron sprang away before it could close the gap, coming up in a tumbling roll with an arrow already fitted to the string of his bow.  The kobolds were quick, and shifted with him, but he evaded their lunges and fired an arrow point-blank into the chest of the nearest foe.  The missile slammed into its heavy dragonscale armor, and while Jaron thought it had penetrated, the kobold only hissed and surged forward again with its companions. 

Prudence won out, and Jaron turned and fled.  

The kobolds were fast, their heavy armor of dragonscales seeming to have no effect on their speed as they darted after the halfling ranger.  Jaron’s legs were short, but he was in good shape, and better at negotiating obstacles than the kobolds.  He led them back into the forest, and chose a path with more such obstacles in an attempt to delay his pursuers.  

For a moment, it looked like it would work.  Jaron surged up a low rise that delayed the kobolds for a few precious seconds, and he sprang over a gully choked with brambles that gained him a good twenty feet as the kobolds went around.  He could hear them chattering in their staccato language behind him; it didn’t look like they were planning on giving up anytime soon.  

A fallen log blocked his path up ahead.  Adding a burst of speed, he leapt onto it without breaking stride.  Unfortunately, his luck had run out.  A female badger had built her den under the far side of the log, and she’d heard their approach.  As he sprang up, it surged out of its den, hissing in challenge.  The log wobbled slightly under him, and he fell forward, his balance ruined.  His momentum carried him forward a good five feet, but he landed hard on his belly, the wind exploding from his lungs in a sudden _whoosh_.  His bow went flying from his hands.  To add insult to injury, the badger snorted at him, ducking back into the shelter of its lair.  

Jaron struggled to his feet, ignoring the sudden wobbling of his legs under him.  He turned to see two of the kobolds charging around the nearer end of the log, while the last scrambled up onto it.  As it saw him there, still a bit dazed, it barked something.  Jaron didn’t speak Draconic, but even he could recognize the triumph in its voice.  

He glanced back at his bow; no time.  He managed to get his sword out in time to meet the dragonshields’ rush.  Steel forged in Dambren’s forge in Fairhollow clanged loudly off the blade of the first kobold, and he darted back from the thrust of the second, which glanced off his side but failed to penetrate his armor, leaving just the makings of another bruise to his tally of wounds.  

But the third kobold let out a high-pitched whelp and leapt forward off the log, swinging its sword down in a high arc.  Jaron, already hard-pressed by the kobold’s companions, couldn’t fully get out of the way, and as the kobold landed its sword, backed by the considerable momentum of its leap, slammed hard into the side of his head.  His leather cap saved his life, but the impact sent him hard to the ground.  Bright colors flashed in his vision, and he found that he couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything but lie there as the kobolds surrounded him.

The creatures exchanged a few words, and then one of them lifted its sword to strike, its intent clear.  A stray ray of sunlight filtering down through the canopy above caught the blade, causing it to glitter brightly, but Jaron could not nothing to stop the creature from putting a finish to him.


----------



## Cerulean_Wings

Will this wild chase lead us to the dreaded Iron Tooth?! Dun dun duuunnnn!!!

I hope it isn't Jaron's group that saves him from death, that'd be too predictable


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 18


Jaron heard the _whoosh_ a moment before the dragonshield staggered back, clutching its head.  Mara’s handaxe fell to the ground, a slick of blood trailing on the edge of the blade.

As the kobolds turned, the head of one erupted with the now-familiar white tongues of _witchfire_.  Jaron was quick to take advantage of the respite, staggering to his feet and slipping out past the circle of distracted kobolds.  The last of the three thrust its sword at him before he could get fully free, but the halfling had caught his second wind, and the attack merely glanced off his side, biting into his armor without cutting fully through.  The kobold shrieked and went after him; the other two turned to face Mara and Elevaren, who were rushing down the slope toward the melee.  

Jaron stumbled to the edge of the fallen log.  He kicked a rock into the dark mouth of the opening under the log, and then rolled over its top, grimacing as the movement sent another stab of pain through his battered torso.  The kobold lunged at him, and might have been able to stab him again if the badger hadn’t surged out of its den, lashing out in a furious lather with its long, curving claws.  The kobold let out a yell and dodged back, only its armor keeping it from suffering worse wounds as the claws dug into its spindly legs.  

Mara had both of her swords out as she clashed with the first of the two kobolds.  Their initial exchange was inconclusive, as neither pierced the guard of the other.  Similarly, Elevaren found himself more successful than he’d hoped in distracting the other kobold from Jaron.  The creature, still suffering from the aftereffects of Elevaren’s _witchfire_, failed to connect with its initial thrust against the warlock, but likewise the eladrin failed in his first attempt to hex the creature; the blinding effects of the _witchfire_ helped shield it from his _eyebite_.  

The battle was quick, furious, and decisive.  The badger was furious, but no match for the veteran kobold warrior.  But by the time it had dispatched the creature, Jaron had circled back around the battle, and had recovered his bow.  Mara and the second dragonshield continued to fight to a stalemate, until she came in with a low swing that took the kobold’s legs out from under it.  Elevaren took a wound as his foe recovered from his initial attack, a shallow gash that ran long his left ribs, but in turn he met its gaze, dazing it with the power of a fey curse.  The kobold ran forward, swinging its sword blindly, but Elevaren had drawn back, joining the others to form a wedge with Jaron opposite him, and Mara as the point.  A tree guarded their back, protecting them from flanking attacks.  

The kobolds likewise regrouped and surged forward, fighting with an almost unnatural ferocity for creatures of their race.  Mara met their rush and deflected their attacks with precise sweeps of her two swords.  One tried to shift to face Elevaren, but Mara struck it with an extended thrust of her long blade, forcing it to keep its attention on her.  Another tried to come around at Jaron, but the ranger fired a precisely-aimed shot into its left hip, staggering it.  Already seriously injured, the kobold tried to fall back, only to collapse as blood loss sapped its consciousness.  

From there, the collapse was swift.  Elevaren cursed the nearby kobold again, opening it to an attack from Mara that opened a deep gash in its throat.  The other dragonshield disengaged and fell back, obviously now only interested in flight, but it didn’t make it farther than the log before an arrow from Jaron’s bow brought it down.  Mara went to make certain of them; she was too experienced to leave a fallen foe that might be shamming behind them.  

Jaron started past her, back the way he’d come, but Mara stopped him.  “Where do you think you’re going?”

“There were others; they escaped with Beetle.  I have to go after them.”

“Gods above, Jaron, you can barely walk.  In your current shape, a blind kobold with a blunted spear could take you down.  You need to rest.”

Jaron started to protest, but Mara guided him firmly over to the log, where she sat him down and took a look at his wound.  He grimaced as she pulled his cap off, revealing the nasty gash in his forehead caused by the kobold sword.  Elevaren—and Douven Staul, who’d remained back at a safe distance during the fray—came forward to help. Mara used her waterskin and a clean rag to wash the wound and clear away the sticky blood trailing down his face.  

“This is going to leave a scar,” Mara said, as she tore a strip from the cloth and used it to fashion a bandage around his temple.  “I would tell you to take it easy for a few days, except I know that you’re not going to listen.”

“If they do have a lair nearby, that’s where they took Beetle,” Jaron said.  “We have to get him out of there.”

“They’re going to be expecting us,” Mara said. 

“Then we shall have to be clever in our approach,” Elevaren said.  “Agreed?”

Jaron nodded, taking his cap back from Mara.  His head still hurt, but the bleeding had stopped, and at least his vision had returned to normal.  “Agreed,” he said.


----------



## jonnytheshirt

Looking good LB, liked Beetle from the start. He seems to have a spiritual aspect (yet low wis) so will be interesting where he's developing.


----------



## Lazybones

jonnytheshirt said:


> Looking good LB, liked Beetle from the start. He seems to have a spiritual aspect (yet low wis) so will be interesting where he's developing.



I thought it would make for an interesting challenge to write a character that is in some ways mentally ill (or at least sees things through a completely different lens than most people). I honestly have no idea where he'll end up but I'm sure it will be an interesting journey there. 

* * * * * 

Chapter 19


“He’s coming back,” Elevaren said.

“About time,” Mara replied.  “I don’t know about this.  Leaving Douven...”

“He’s safer on his own than with us right now.  We’re only a short distance from Winterhaven, and he is not entirely without skill, when it comes to navigating the wilderness.”

“Yeah, yeah,” the fighter said.  “But I still have a bad feeling.”  She broke off as Jaron appeared out of the trees up ahead.  She had to admit, the halfling knew how to move quietly when he wanted to.  She suspected that if he hadn’t deliberately revealed himself to them, he could have crept up close enough to touch them without being seen or heard.  Of course, neither she nor Elevaren were possessed of especially sharp senses, which explained the ambush where they’d first met Jaron and his cousin. 

“What did you find?” Mara asked, once Jaron had gotten close enough for them to speak without raising their voices.  The halfling’s bleak expression, however, revealed his sentiments before he spoke.  

“It’s damned near impossible, as far as I can tell,” Jaron said.  

“Tell us everything,” Elevaren said. 

As Jaron laid it out, sketching the details in the dirt using a long stick, the others began to share his initial assessment.  The kobold lair was inside a cave next to a waterfall a few hundred yards to the east.  There were at least a dozen kobolds outside, scattered around the area, but not so widely that there was any chance of picking off a few without the entire group knowing.  There was at least one dragonshield, and another of the slingers like the one that had destroyed Callen’s cart.  

“I was able to get pretty close to the entrance of the cave,” Jaron explained, once he’d sketched out the approximate position of the outside guards.  “Not close enough to look in, but enough to see that it’s pretty big, and lit inside.  And there’s more kobolds inside; I could hear them talking and moving around.”

“Do you think we could get inside without being detected by the outside guards?” Elevaren asked.  

Jaron shook his head.  “I might be able to, but you two... no offense, but they’d hear you coming a league off.  At best, we’d get inside, only to be caught trapped between those inside the lair and those outside.”

“Then we have to get creative,” Mara said.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 20


Meepo liked the feeling of the water rushing past his ankles; it felt soothing.  Some of the other kobolds liked hunting, or raiding, but for him, a quiet day in the shade, with cool water running over his feet, was ideal.  

He was supposed to be keeping watch, and he was, scanning the surrounding area with his spear in one hand and a squat throwing javelin in the other.  Two more javelins were stuck through the leather straps slung across his back.  Keeping watch was easy, as long as there wasn’t anything to see.  Today that wasn’t likely to be the case.  From the way that Kurgus came rushing past—and Jakko, all but bent double with a huge burden slung over his shoulder—there was trouble, and one thing that Meepo knew was that trouble tended to come in groups. 

So he watched, but the splashing a few feet away was getting real distracting. 

“You need to watch, Deekin, not catch fish,” Meepo said, annoyance in his voice.  

“Almost got it,” the other kobold said.  He was thrusting his spear into a crevice in the rocks of the stream bed, in a way that Meepo knew was almost impossibly unlikely to result in a catch.  The fish in the stream were tiny, anyway, and tasted nasty.  All the good ones had been caught and eaten by the kobolds long ago.  

“Kurgus see you, he’s going to be pissed off,” Meepo said, trying another tack. 

“Nah, he go in to talk with Irontooth,” Deekin said, not looking up from his intense concentration on his task.  “Hear if he come back.  Besides, you keep watch good.”

Meepo shook his head, and turned for another scan of the area, as already had done a hundred times today.  This time, however, he froze when he saw the halfling.  The halfling was standing on a rock right at the edge of water, maybe sixty or seventy feet downstream.  He had a bow, and had already lifted it to his cheek.  

“Umm... Deekin,” Meepo hissed. 

“I said I almost got—,” the other kobold started to say, but the end of its statement was cut off by the soft _thunk_ as the halfling’s arrow buried itself to the feathers in Deekin’s chest.  The kobold toppled over backwards into the stream, making a small splash.  

Meepo felt a sudden chill as the halfling calmly reached for another arrow.  

The kobold lifted its javelin, and hurled it.  The halfling was pretty far away, and the hasty shot fell well short, but it hit a rock and skipped up, glancing off of the halfling’s shin.  The halfling bit off a curse, but as he loaded his bow and raised it again, he said, quite clearly, “Not good enough, kobold.”

Meepo let out a bloodcurdling yell, and turned to run.  The arrow caught him in the side, and then he was in the stream, the water that had seemed so refreshing just a few moments ago suddenly like a cloak of ice that folded over him, carrying him away. 

Jaron fired a few more arrows, drawing, aiming, and releasing so fast that his hands barely seemed to feel the touch of the arrows.  Another kobold, coming forward to investigate from the trees on the far side of the stream, went down with an arrow in its gut, but another shot went well wide, vanishing in the brush near the cave entrance.

Javelins were starting to fall around him, most well short, and none even remotely as effective as the lucky hit from the kobold guard.  Jaron grimaced as he turned and darted back through the trees, moving parallel to the course of the stream.  He’d chosen his path of retreat quickly, and didn’t encounter any obstacles that would slow him.  

The kobolds came on quickly behind him, shouting out to each other as they formed a half-circle that slowly began to close as they pursued the halfling.  A sling bullet whistled through the trees above him, but it was well off its target, and Jaron didn’t break his stride.  

It took less than half a minute before he came to his destination.  The stream bent back through the woods here, forming a shallow gully choked with brambles.  The far bank rose up into a low, muddy embankment, woven through with the exposed roots of the trees closest to the water.  Jaron leapt over the bushes on his side, splashed through the stream in three strides, and leapt up toward the far bank.  He was well short of the crest, but a hand shot out and grasped him, pulling him over in a single heave.  

“They’re right behind me,” he said to Mara, as she dropped him into the sheltered nook behind the embankment.  Elevaren was beyond her, crouched down behind a tall arching root that made a viewing slit of sorts.  Jaron saw that she’d gathered a small pile of disc-shaped rocks the size of his fist, likely gathered from the stream, in front of her. 

“Go,” she said.  “We’ll hold them here.”

Jaron looked doubtful.  “There’s still almost a dozen of them.  Maybe I’d better...”

Mara thrust him behind her, down the reverse slope behind the embankment.  “No changing the plan.  Now, go!” 

He opened his mouth to respond, but she’d already turned back toward the stream and the woods on the far side.  He did as she bid, rushing off deeper into the woods.  As he left their position behind him, he could hear Elevaren saying, “There.  They’re coming.”

Thinking of Beetle, and a promise made in Fairhollow, he didn’t look back.


----------



## Richard Rawen

Excellent development... classic Meepo and Deekin lol, looking forward to the battle and the rescue!


----------



## Cerulean_Wings

Teehee, not one, but two famous kobolds! Can't decide which one I like better, maybe Deekin, since I've had him during the Hordes of the Underdark campaign 

Can't wait for Irontooth to make an entrance


----------



## Lazybones

Wait no longer!

* * * * * 

Chapter 21


Beetle stirred.  He felt bad.  It wasn’t pleasant, not at all.  He blinked once.  He was in a dark place, but there were torches not far away, and he recognized the smells.  

He was lying on the floor.  It was cold.  He was tied up, with his hands bound behind him; he couldn’t move.  A gag that tasted nasty, like old fish left out in the sun, was thrust between his teeth.  

Something poked him in the back once, then again.  Something sharp, stabbing him.  Not to hurt, although it did.  He felt like the way he’d had that time that Farmer Jamberson’s cattle had trampled him.  Beat up all over.

He heard a laugh, behind him.  He didn’t move, not again, and the poking eventually stopped.  He lay there, quiet in the dark, and took a deep breath, slowly.  His muscles tingled, but he ignored the urge to try to move again.  He could feel them watching him.  The voices, again, low, just a few steps away.  He didn’t understand what they were saying.  He was a mouse.  A mouse caught in a trap, maybe.  He felt a moment’s remorse for the creatures he’d caught in like fashion.  Maybe they’d felt as bad as he did now. 

A few minutes passed.  Beetle did not spend them idle.  When he heard the others approaching, he cracked an eyelid, just enough to see the bottom of a hide tunic that he recognized.  His abused skin burned a little just at the memory of it.  At least he could see, his eyes hadn’t been burned out by its terrible spit.  He wanted a drink of water, real bad.  

The creatures were talking again.  He thought there were two behind him, and two others that had come in with the one that had spit in his face.  Those two were the nasty kind with the shields made of dragon skin.  

Someone else had come in; he hadn’t noticed it, but there he was.  Booted feet, not the scaly bare feet of the kobolds.  This one was bigger, too.  Bulging with muscles.  Not a kobold, he had green skin and a squat head, with a huge tooth bulging from one side of his mouth.  He stank; Beetle could smell him from here.  

“Get him up.  Take off gag, hold him,” the spitting kobold said.  Beetle realized he understood what the kobold had said, this time, it was in his own language.  He almost flinched as the kobolds behind him picked him up.  He kept his head lolling forward as the kobold yanked off his gag.  His tongue felt big and awkward in his mouth; he really wanted that drink of water.  

“Wake him up,” the kobold spitter said.  “Lord Irontooth wants to speak to the prisoner.”

The big green guy came forward.  Beetle decided that he didn’t want to be here any more, and he certainly didn’t want to talk to Lord Irontooth.  He shifted, and the ropes holding him fell away.  

The kobolds looked at him in surprise.  The one holding him grabbed at his belt for a knife, the same knife he’d taken from Beetle, but found only an empty scabbard.  

The big goblin reacted faster.  He lunged at Beetle, not even going for the big axe slung across his back, but his hand forming a fist that no doubt would have hurt quite a lot, had it connected.  But Beetle dodged back, and felt the wind of the punch as it swished through the air right in front of him.  Even the kobolds holding him fell back a bit in the face of that attack.  The goblin was a skilled fighter, and he recovered _real_ fast, not even lunging off-balance the way that a stupid brawler might have done. 

But Beetle was pretty fast as well.  

The natural reactions of the kobolds behind him had given him just enough space to move.  He grabbed the strap holding the goblin’s axe in place and leapt up as he drew back.  The goblin grabbed at him but he was already up and moving past, kicking off the goblin’s shoulder.  As he sprang he reached down and caught the tip of his knife on the goblin’s ear, slicing a deep notch in it.  Blood spurted out and the goblin staggered back, clutching at the nasty wound. 

That had to hurt.  

Beetle landed just outside the reach of the nearest kobold, which looked down at him with its jaw dropped.  It reached for its sword, but Beetle was already running, darting through an opening into another room beyond.  Something splashed against the wall behind him, and he felt droplets of something splatter onto his collar and sleeve.  Fortunately, none of the acid touched his skin.  

“KILL THAT HALFLING!” came a truly echoing cry from behind him.  Ahead of him, kobolds shifted, blocking two passages that exited the room.  There were kobolds all over the place.  Luckily, they were as surprised to see him as he was to see them.  Directly ahead of him, a wall of water glowed bright with the light of the sun.  More kobolds were coming into the room behind him.  A javelin sliced past his ear, almost doing to him what he’d done to the goblin.  The ones in the room he’d just entered unlimbered spears and javelins, and Beetle realized that in a second or two he’d be a pincushion, like the one his Aunt Wanda kept on the table near the fireplace.  

There was only one thing to do.  Charging forward, he sprang into the wall of water.  Something hard struck him in the side, and then he hit the waterfall, and everything vanished in a chaos of water and noise and motion.


----------



## Cerulean_Wings

Bad pull, bad pull, too much aggro!!! 

Wahoo, go Beetle, you show that goblin who's boss!


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 22


Mara ran, favoring her left side.  A few paces ahead of her, Elevaren moved with considerably more grace, although a long trail of blood ran down his cheek as he glanced back at her.  _Well, he’s not wearing forty pounds of blasted metal_, she thought.  

She didn’t need to look back to know that the kobolds were right behind them.  They’d held back for a while back at the stream, taking cover behind the trees on the far bank, sniping at them with thrown javelins.  That strategy hadn’t worked so well for them, as Mara and Elevaren’s position had given them excellent cover, and they’d killed several of the kobolds.  Most had fallen to Elevaren’s magic, although Mara had caught two with javelins that she’d recovered and returned to their owners, point-first.   

But the kobolds had eventually run out of javelins, or maybe they’d just been waiting for the reinforcements that came surging out of the forest.  A dragonshield had joined them, leading the charge that had split around the embankment and crossed the stream to either side of their position, obviously intent on closing their flanks and swarming them from behind.  They must have found out that there were only two of them defending, as the kobolds pressed their attack even when Elevaren blasted one with his _eyebite_ power, and Mara threw a javelin _through_ another, sending it down in a bloody heap.  But the kobolds responded, Mara taking a hard hit to her side from the slinger still on the far bank, while Elevaren took the gash to his face from a javelin that would have taken his eye had it been a few inches higher.  

Now they were falling back, the kobold horde raging behind them.  They’d identified a second position on their approach, a holdout they could get to quickly, and Mara urged Elevaren on ahead as she saw it through the trees.  The kobolds continued to close the distance behind them.  There was no way the pair could hope to outrun them, not with Mara weighed down by her armor.  

The holdout was a huge, majestic tree, its bole split down the middle by some ancient tragedy, likely a bolt of lightning.  The split had turned the upper part of the tree into a giant forking “V”, but its lower half remained solid and hale, its roots protruding out to form deep earthen niches that ran into the depths of the tree’s base.  The side that faced them was deep, inviting, the flanking root-ramparts like arms ready to enfold them.  They could stand there, one good defender able to hold off superior numbers without getting overwhelmed.  

At least that was the theory.  

Another lead bullet caught Mara hard on the calf as she ran, and she staggered and nearly fell as she cried out, her face tight with pain.  Elevaren started to turn back toward her, but she yelled for him to get into position, into the protected niche in the hollow.  It was a one-way trip, or at least it would have been for anyone other than the eladrin.  

Mara made it to the niche as Elevaren hexed a kobold skirmisher that had gotten ahead of the others, and tried to catch the fleeing fighter from behind.  The kobold, affected by the _eyebite_, wisely drew back to clear its head and wait for help.  Mara, settling into the position in the tree’s base, spun and took up a defensive stance.  

“If I go down, teleport to the far side of the tree, and keep on running,” Mara said, her jaw clenched as she fought through the pain that she was obviously in.  

“I won’t abandon you,” Elevaren began, but Mara cut him off.  “If I go down, then you’ll only join me if you stay!” she growled.  

The kobolds arrived.  Once they saw that they had their prey run to ground, their approach became almost casual.  They formed a broad half-circle behind the dragonshield.  Mara tensed and readied her sword, but they stopped a good twenty paces off. 

“If they decide to hang back, this could get ugly for us,” Mara whispered.  The kobolds had a lot of javelins left, and the slinger had already proven his accuracy. 

Elevaren raised his voice, and spoke to them in Draconic.  “Bastard hatchlings of the dragon!” he cried.  “I would challenge you to die in glorious battle, but I know to whom I speak!  Lower your tails and creep back into your dens where you belong, and you may yet live this day!  For all know that ‘kobold’ is the name of the coward, not even worthy of being called ‘slave’, bits of mere dung that cling to the claws of the mighty lords of the dragon race!” 

A roar went through the kobolds, building into a wash of fury.  

“What did you say to them?” Mara asked him.

“Just tried to provoke them a bit,” the warlock said. 

“I’d say it worked!” Mara said, as the dragonshield lifted his sword and shouted something, and the kobolds came forward in a wave.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 23


Irontooth was in a foul mood.  

Blood continued to ooze from the gash in his ruined ear, but he did not deign to so much as notice it.  He held his huge axe, now, and his expression suggested that he would bury it in the flesh of an ally if any enemy was not forthcoming. 

Wisely, the kobolds kept their distance.  

“I want that halfling found,” the goblin said, its voice like a deep rumbling in its barrel chest.  

“It likely fled to the others that are attacking to the west,” Kurgus said.  The wyrmpriest was the only kobold who did not seem to be intimidated by the goblin warrior, but even he knew better than to provoke him. 

Irontooth looked distracted; the goblin had turned and was looking back toward the cliff.  

“My lord?” the kobold prodded, after a moment.  

“Order your skirmishers to cut off any possible route of retreat,” Irontooth said.  “Send the rest of the tribe to engage the attackers.  I want them killed, all of them.  If any escape to warn the human town, I will hold you responsible, dragonpriest.”

“As you say, lord,” the kobold said, inclining its head slightly.  It turned to the nearest scout, issuing the necessary orders.  But as the skirmisher bounded off, and the priest turned to follow, Irontooth forestalled it.  

“Hold.  I have something else for you to do...”

The darkness enfolded Jaron as he slipped through the mouth of the cave, into the dank mustiness beyond.  The darkness wasn’t total; there were torches in cracks in the walls further in, and once his eyes adjusted to the change he could see fairly well.  But the whole sense of being underground was more than a bit unnerving, especially with the stink of kobold thick in the air around him.  

But Beetle, if he was still alive, was somewhere inside, and so he had to go in.  

He was careful, his booted feet making not even a whisper on the bare stone as he moved ahead.  The passage opened onto a larger interior space ahead.  Jaron peered around carefully, but there were no signs of any kobolds.  Thus far, their plan seemed to be paying off.  Maybe _too_ well; he felt another twinge of guilt at having left Mara and Elevaren, but then quashed the feeling.  He had to get Beetle out of here and quick, and then they could return to help the others.  He wasn’t going to leave them behind, any more then he could abandon his cousin. 

He knew better than to call Beetle’s name.  Even if most of the kobolds had abandoned the lair, he expected them to have left at least one guard watching their prisoner.  

If he was even still alive. 

That thought added some speed to his steps.  But it took him only a few moments to scan the interior of the lair.  As he moved into what looked like the deepest room in the place, he saw a wooden chest banded in iron, a small mound of discarded bones, and some scattered trash.  Nothing big enough to have concealed Beetle.  

“Damn,” he said, and turned to leave. 

He never even saw the goblin until it appeared in the entrance of the room, silhouetted in the light of a torch burning on the wall behind it.  Jaron had fought goblins before, and even hobgoblins, but this thing almost _dripped_ menace.  It wasn’t its size, although it was big for a goblin.  Rather, it was something in its beady eyes, that gleamed in the reflected torchlight as it fixed them on Jaron.  It was holding a nasty-looking two-handed war axe, and wore a shirt of chainmail links that looked stretched over its muscled frame. 

“Looking for your little friend?  He squealed like a pig when I gutted him.  But my axe is still thirsty.”

He was trying to provoke Jaron, but the halfling was experienced enough to know that rushing the goblin would only result in a messy and quick death.  The goblin saw that he knew that, and laughed.  

“So.  You’re not stupid.  Good for you, even if this can end only one way, halfling.”

The goblin came forward, but only enough so that was fully in the room, still blocking the exit.  Jaron could see that the goblin was wounded, blood trailing from a deep notch in its ear, but it might as well have been a splinter for all it seemed to take from the goblin’s vitality.  

He thought about reaching for an arrow.  He would only get one shot, he knew.  

As if reading his mind, the goblin laughed again.  “Even as you cower, halfling, your friends are being torn to pieces by my kobolds.  You may very well be the last to die.”

“Did you kill those other adventurers?  The ones led by that wizard out of Fallcrest?”

A look of confusion crossed the goblin’s face, but only for a moment.  “Ah, them.  So, you knew them, eh?  Or maybe one of them in particular.  I’d heard that a runt halfling was in that group.  Your daddy, maybe?”

“Brother,” Jaron said.  

“Ah, more’s the pity for you, then.”  He lifted his axe. 

“So it was Kalarel, then?”

The name brought the goblin up short.  “You know that name, eh?  Well, it won’t do you no good, halfling.  Whatever you know, it dies here, right now.”

He stepped forward again, and this time Jaron knew that nothing would stop him until he had buried his axe in the ranger’s skull.


----------



## Cerulean_Wings

You've got me hooked here, Lazybones. Before I couldn't wait for Irontooth to appear, now I can't wait to see him clave Jaron in-er, I mean, to see him defeated by the hands of Jaron and Beetle 

I've forgotten who the heck was Kalarel, though. Do you mind reminding me who he was?


----------



## Lazybones

Cerulean_Wings said:


> I've forgotten who the heck was Kalarel, though. Do you mind reminding me who he was?



He's the end boss of the module, the cleric of Orcus who we met at the start of the story (as he killed off the pre-gens).

* * * * * 

Chapter 24


It didn’t begin well. 

A clay globe arced over the charging wave of kobolds, and struck the ground right in front of Mara.  The fighter flinched back, but instead of the fire she’d expected, the globe shattered to disgorge a splatter of sticky, persistent glue that clung in long tendrils to Mara’s boots.  

And then the kobolds were on top of her, stabbing and thrusting.  She knocked aside one spear, but a second clipped her shoulder, hard.  She lunged with her sword, hindered by the glue tangled in her feet, and was able to slide the point into the chest of the kobold that had hit her.  The creature staggered back and fell, but another one was in its place in a flash.  

Then the dragonshield was in front of her, holding its small shield up, its sword coming in under it like a serpent’s bite.  Elevaren attempted to curse it, but the kobold averted its eyes, and the warlock’s power failed to take hold of its mind.  Rather than test the heavily-armored dragonshield, Mara attempted to cut down another kobold spearman, but this time her target darted back before she could connect.  The dragonshield took advantage, slicing up into the gap under her armor by her right armpit.  Mara recovered and fell back, but the kobold’s sword came back slicked with blood.  

Another sling bullet whizzed by, and Elevaren cried out behind her.  More kobolds were gathered behind those in the front ranks, and several were climbing up onto the root-mounds to either side, looking to gain position to strike at them from above.  Mara fell back until she was almost atop Elevaren, the sticky gunk still clinging to her boots.  The kobolds followed, pressing her with vigorous attacks. 

Their situation was, in a word, grim. 

* * * * * 

Jaron lifted his bow as Irontooth came forward, intent on selling his life dearly.  But before he could take the shot, his eyes caught a shadow moving behind the goblin. 

Irontooth yelled in pain as Beetle sliced his dagger across the goblin’s left hamstring.  “Run, Jayse!” he yelled, even as Jaron shouted, “Beetle, no!”

Irontooth swung around, his axe sweeping down in a bright blur as the torchlight glinted off the steel.  Beetle saw it coming and sprang back, but the blade still caught him in the torso, and he spun around violently as he was flung to the floor.  

“Beetle!” Jaron yelled.  

Irontooth brought the axe around again surprisingly quickly, even with his injured leg obviously hindering him.  Jaron drew on every last scrap of his halfling agility and bent almost half over, using his right hand to keep from falling to the ground.  The axe carved the air so close to him that his cap was yanked roughly off his head, but then he was past the goblin, and running hard.  Beetle was alive, amazingly, though his face was twisted with pain as he pulled himself to his feet. 

“Run!” Jaron yelled.  “Run!” 

And they ran, the goblin’s roars behind them indicating that Irontooth was not far behind. 

* * * * * 

“Go!” Mara yelled at Elevaren, barely managing to get her sword up to deflect a spear thrust.  Only sheer will was keeping her on her feet now; several more attacks had gotten through her defenses, and while her armor had protected her from serious injury, blood trailed down gashes in her arms and legs, and from the wound in her right side that the dragonshield had inflicted earlier.  The kobold veteran was still menacing her, but was letting its allies take the lead with their spears, looking for her to make another mistake, waiting for the inevitable opening.  Elevaren’s own attacks had thus far been ineffective, except to make those kobolds climbing on their flanks more cautious.  But as a kobold clambering up the roots to his left ducked under the warlock’s _eldritch blast_, another rose up on the right, unlimbering its spear as it crawled up atop the barrier.  

Elevaren saw it, too late.  “Mara, look out!” 

The fighter looked up, but her sword came up too late to parry.  The spear caught her in the neck just above the upper lip of her scaled breastplate, glancing hard off of her shoulder bone.  Bright red blood spurted from the wound as the fighter fell back, her legs collapsing under her.  

The dragonshield surged forward. 

* * * * * 

“This way!” Beetle urged, drawing Jaron after him.  The two halflings ran through a large room with a floor partially covered in ancient, cracked tiles, and turned to the right, heading back toward the entrance that Jaron had originally used to enter the complex.  They moved into the passage, turned around a protruding wall, and then they could see it, a narrow opening up ahead, a shaft of late afternoon sunlight penetrating into the dank of the cave.

Beetle started forward, but Jaron stopped him with a hand on his arm.  “Wait,” he whispered.  “Do you hear that?” 

Beetle cocked his head, a curious look on his face, but Jaron didn’t need his confirmation to recognize the quiet noises coming from just outside the cave exit.  

Kobolds, talking.  Waiting for them.  

And behind, the noises of Irontooth, his furious roars getting closer.  Beetle’s cut had slowed him down, but there was no way they’d be able to get past him in the narrow passage.  

“We’re trapped,” Jaron said.


----------



## Cerulean_Wings

Lazybones said:


> He's the end boss of the module, the cleric of Orcus who we met at the start of the story (as he killed off the pre-gens).
> Ah, so that's Kalarel, gotcha, thanks. Does this mean that the group will eventually meet with good ol' goatface, just like the Doomed Bastards did?   You've got me worried with the present scenario. Now I've no clue how they're going to make it out alive!


----------



## Lazybones

Yeah, I'd about had enough of Orcus, but having to defer to someone else's plot is the price you pay when you go with a published mod. 

I went ahead and ordered H2, but I have no idea if it's going to be suited to a story. I actually haven't had time to write any new material in a while, but luckily I had a backlog of posts already written.

* * * * * 

Chapter 25


Elevaren stepped forward, thrusting Mara behind him into the hollow in the base of the tree.  He lifted his hand and hexed the dragonshield, who succumbed to his _eyebite_.  The creature, partially blinded by the fey magic, stabbed at him, but his thrust failed to connect.  

The kobolds flanking the dragonshield were not affected, however.  They thrust with their spears, and one pierced the warlock’s side, driving through his leather tunic to open a gash along his ribs.  Elevaren grunted, but held his ground.  He would keep his word; he would not abandon his companion. 

A black cloud formed among the kobolds, rising up from the ground like a shadow, only it was not cast by any of those present.  As it rose to the height of the reptilian humanoids it split apart, flaring at the top like a pair of wings.  Within the darkness, a silver flickering began to emerge. 

The kobolds drew back from it, wary, but the dragonshield, blinking against its temporary blindness, shouted for its allies to move forward, to finish the pair before they had a chance to recover.  The kobolds obeyed, if reluctantly, moving around the shifting black form.  

The darkness split open, and silver radiance issued from within.  A harsh, clear note sounded, the cry of a raven taking flight. The silver light stabbed into the kobolds, which screamed in pain as it washed over them.  Three of them fell to the ground, clutching at their faces as blood oozed from their ears and nostrils.  

A man stepped into view around the nearest ridge of tangled roots and heaped earth.  He was clad all in black, and carried a quarterstaff shod at both ends with gray iron.  A kobold lunged at him with its spear, but the man deflected the thrust with his spear, and lifted his hand.  Silver spears erupted from his fingers, and the kobold collapsed.  

Elevaren blasted a kobold that tried to lunge down at him from above; the creature stumbled back and dropped out of view.  Behind him, he heard Mara groan, and looked down in surprise to see the crippled fighter stirring.  Faint silver flashes flickered around the wound in her neck and then faded, leaving the flesh pale but intact.  

The dragonshield apparently decided the newcomer was a greater threat than the two battered defenders hiding out in the tree, for it came out to face him, leaving a pair of his fellows to keep the others penned.  The man turned from another attack from a kobold scout to confront the armored warrior, which hissed a challenge as it lifted its sword and shield in anticipation of its attack.  Bu the black-clad man, instead of taking up a defensive stance, lifted his arms wide, his cloak rising up like shadowed wings behind him.  

“Fear the inevitable embrace of death,” the man said, his voice echoing with a reverberation of power.  He caught the kobold’s eyes with his own, and the creature, trembling, turned and fled, screeching loudly.  

That was enough for the remaining kobolds, which broke and ran off in every direction but the trail back the way they had come.  Elevaren sent a last _eldritch blast_ after them, and then turned to help Mara.  Amazingly, the woman was not only conscious, but she started to get up on her own, shaking off the eladrin’s offered hand.  

“They’re not fleeing... back to the lair,” Mara said.  

“It is likely that there is something there that they fear more than us,” the newcomer said, stepping over the bodies of several kobolds as he approached.  He started to come closer, but Mara held up a hand to forestall him.  

“Who are you?” she asked.  

“My name is Devrem,” he said.  “I am a servant of the Raven Queen.”

“A death priest?” Mara said.  She was leaning hard against the bole of the tree, and as she spoke, a cough shook her body.  

“Death and life are two sides of the same coin,” the priest said.  “I can heal you, if you would accept my aid.”

Mara didn’t respond, but Elevaren said, “I am Elevaren, and this is Mara.  We are already in your debt, sir.  If you can help my friend, we will not refuse your offer.”  Finally, Mara nodded.

Devrem nodded, and spoke a word of power, the syllables of which faded from the memories of Elevaren and Mara even before the echoes of the sound had fully vanished from their ears.  But the effects of the _healing word_ were instantly visible; Mara straightened, and let out a surprised breath as silver flashes of power flickered around her wounds, leaving the gashed flesh whole again in their wake. 

“Thank you,” she said.  “Now, if you don’t mind, would you mind telling us why you’re here, Devrem?”

“I will happily explain all, when we get the chance.  But for now, I fear that your halfling companions are in dire peril.  While death comes for us all, it will come soon indeed for your friends if we do not act quickly.”

Mara and Elevaren shared a brief look; the man seemed quite well informed.  The fighter stepped forward, her grimace revealing that Devrem’s healing hadn’t fully restored all of her injuries.  “Mara needs to rest,” Elevaren began, but the fighter shook her head and cut him off.  “I’m fine.  All right, priest, we can use your help.  But we’re going to have that conversation, later.”

Devrem nodded.  Mara reached down and picked up several kobold javelins.  “Let’s go,” she said, leading them back down the trail toward the kobold lair.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 26


Irontooth stormed through the passage, still limping slightly on his injured foot.  Each painful step stoked the fires of his rage.  He’d bested dozens of foes, and to be challenged so by a pair of _halflings_!

He reached the mouth of the passage and found Kurgus waiting there, with a dragonshield beside him.  The wyrmpriest’s eyes widened just a fraction as he took in the goblin’s current condition.  “Are you well, Lord Irontooth?”  

The goblin, however, ignored him as he looked around.  “You have remained here the whole time?  None came out this way?” 

“No, great lord.  Both exits are being watched, and the waterfall as well.  Per your orders, I remained here too...”

Irontooth turned and stepped back into the passage.  There was an alcove just off the entrance, its corners deep in shadow.  He spotted the blood drops on the floor, gathered in a small splatter in one of those corners.  He looked up, at the spot where the walls met the ceiling, a compact niche just barely big enough to fit a pair of halflings...

“Watch the exits!” Irontooth growled back at the priest.  “If so much as a cockroach slips past you, I will have your head!”  

With that, he headed back into the complex, moving more slowly now, following the trail of blood back into the cave.  

Even as Irontooth was discovering his mistake, Beetle and Jaron were creeping back into the kobold common room.  The roar of the waterfall covered the noise of their steps, but neither halfling made more than a whisper’s disturbance anyway. 

Jaron rubbed his shoulders.  Beetle was fast and good at evading notice, but he wasn’t much of a climber.  Thank the gods that the walls of the cave had been rough enough for them to scramble up into the impromptu hiding place before Irontooth had arrived.   He’d felt like his arms were going to pop out of their sockets as he’d held onto his cousin, the two of them jammed into the spot where the corner walls met the ceiling, Jaron’s legs jammed against the walls of the alcove for support.  All it would have taken was for the goblin to look up, and they would have been finished.  Even with the later afternoon sunlight coming straight into the goblin’s face, it would have been hard for him to miss them had he paused to look.

Jaron started across the room toward the far side of the room, where Jaron had detected another exit earlier.  It seemed like he’d first entered the cave hours ago.  But Beetle stopped him.  

“Hid here, before,” he said, indicating the waterfall.  “Can get out.”

Jaron looked at the wall of rushing water dubiously.  He could see the light of the day through it, but it looked like a _lot_ of water, and it was moving fast.

“I don’t know...”

But the decision was made for them as Irontooth stepped back into the room.  The goblin and the halflings saw each other at the same instant, and then Beetle was pushing Jaron, and both went flying into the raging rush of water.


----------



## Cerulean_Wings

Sweet, a death-priest, that's badass! Loved the way you described Devrem's spells and his dialogue. A part of me wishes him to be like Varo, but another desires a different persona


----------



## Lazybones

I am trying hard not to make Devrem a carbon-copy of Varo. It's hard, as I'm editing the Rappan Athuk tale as I write this story, and revisiting all the details of Licinius Varo anew. But there are some unique features of his background that are rather different, so he should evolve into a distinct character. 

* * * * *  

Chapter 27


Jaron came up gasping for air.  The waterfall hadn’t been as intense as it had looked, and the current had quickly carried him out of the deeper spot directly under the falls, to where he could get his feet under him and stagger forward.  A few feet to his right, Beetle was... laughing? 

He turned toward his cousin, and thus the first javelin shot right past him, narrowly missing. 

“Kobolds!  Run, Beetle!” Jaron yelled.  He ran for the bank opposite the one where the two kobolds were, and emerged from the water just in time to see another pair emerge from the line of trees and start toward them.  One was another dragonshield, while the other... 

“Spitter!” Beetle hissed, and ran past Jaron toward the woods to the west.  That route would force them to cross the stream again, but it was infinitely better than staying here. 

That was reinforced a moment later as Irontooth emerged from the waterfall.  The goblin seemed unperturbed by the falls, and kept his footing easily as he strode through and fixed Jaron with a stare of pure malevolence.  

A javelin clipped his arm as he broke into a run.  Behind him, the goblin was shouting orders, and he didn’t need to look back to know that the kobolds were charging after him.  A globe of acid shot past his head, splattering him with caustic droplets, but with his hair and clothes still soaked in water the stuff didn’t do him any serious harm.  It confirmed what Jaron had guessed, that the skull-wearing kobold was some sort of spellcaster.  

As if they didn’t have enough problems.

Beetle beat him to the stream and splashed across, avoiding the rough areas where the water bubbled over a treacherous stretch of jutting rocks.  Jaron could hear the dragonshield hot on his heels as he approached the water.  

And then the black-clad man stepped out of the trees directly ahead.  Jaron’s heart sank yet further.  “Beetle, watch out!” he yelled.  

The man raised his staff, and pointed it toward Jaron.  The halfling threw himself aside, and thus narrowly avoided the thrust from the dragonshield directly behind him.  The silvery radiance from the staff struck the kobold, which drew back, hissing in pain.  

As if Jaron wasn’t confused enough already, Mara and Elevaren emerged from the forest behind the black-clad man.  “Jaron, it’s all right... over here, quickly!” Mara yelled.  

The dragonshield, confronted by the sudden change in odds, drew back to await its fellows.  Jaron splashed across the stream, to join the others.  He turned and saw Irontooth approaching, the kobold priest on one side of him, the two javelin-chuckers on the other.  There was a second dragonshield as well, hanging back, on their side of the stream but a good distance back, within an odd-ring of small boulders that offered some decent cover.  

The black-clad man raised his staff, from which a silver flare erupted, casting his features into stark relief.  “These two are under my protection, goblin,” he said, his voice deep and strong. 

“That is Devrem,” Elevaren said.  “He’s a friend.”  There was no time for more explanation.  Jaron took advantage of the momentary interruption to swap out the string on his bow.  Beetle had stepped back into the shadows under the trees.  Mara held a kobold javelin at the ready, and had two in her other hand, which she stabbed into the ground at her feet.   

Irontooth regarded the foes arrayed against him, and laughed.  “You think that you control events here, raven-priest?  Your god will feed well today, at least if any dregs are left once my god is through with you.”

“Take your minions and leave this place,” Devrem said.  “You will no longer find easy prey in Winterhaven.”

“The dragonshield’s moving,” Jaron whispered, glancing left toward the ring of stones. 

“I see it,” Mara said, though she had not shifted her eyes from the big goblin. 

The goblin laughed again.  “Tell your god that her children will feast on the corpses of the people of Winterhaven.  And that they will be just the first to die.  Kill them, kill them all!” 

The last was directed at his allies, and at his shout the kobolds surged forward to attack.


----------



## jonnytheshirt

Liking Devrem LB "THESE TWO ARE UNDER MY PROTECTION" bring on the Kung Fu!

We've seen many a fine tale begin, and I must say I like how this one is unwrapping. The halflings were an instant hit, reminded me all Shire-like there are the start. All characters are looking fresh; the otherworldly Elevaren (what is he again?) and Mara, blademistress, with armour a tad too heavy for sports.


----------



## Lazybones

Thanks, jonny! I have had almost no time to write lately, and I'm running out of banked posts. Hopefully I will get a chance to get back to the story before too long. 

* * * * * 

Chapter 28


The kobolds rushed to the attack, but the adventurers were ready, and even as Irontooth issued his command, they unleashed their own assault.  

Jaron’s first shot took one of the kobold minions in the chest, knocking it over onto its back.  His second shot followed just a few heartbeats later, but its companion ducked, and the shot went wide.  

Even as the first combatant died, the kobold priest lifted its bony hands and invoked a dread power.  The magic it summoned was not an attack, but rather was directed at its allies, _inciting faith_ that they would gain victory in the battle.  But the benefit it had gained was all but lost a moment later as Mara’s javelin caught it in the shoulder, jabbing painfully through the layered hides it wore.  

The dragonshields converged on the group from two sides, one coming straight across the stream while the other made its way forward through the trees to the left.  Elevaren attempted to hit the one coming across the stream with an _eldritch blast_, but missed.  After a quick, meaningful shared glance with Devrem, Mara shifted to confront the one coming through the trees, while the cleric stood ready to face the one coming across the stream.  The priest invoked the power of his patron, striking the charging kobold with the silvered flare of the Raven’ Queen’s _sacred flame_.  The kobold, however, its faith bolstered by the magic of its own priest, shrugged off the attack and surged forward out of the water, diving forward to stab at the cleric.  The kobold warrior’s thrust was accurate, but the cleric wore chain armor under his dark robes, and the stroke was turned by that protection. 

Thus far, Irontooth had seemed content to let his allies engage first, but now the goblin came forward, lifting his huge axe in both hands.  He grinned as his gaze drifted over each of the defenders, before settling on Devrem.  “You shall be the first, cleric,” he growled.

The battle devolved into a confused and violent fray.  A javelin narrowly missed Jaron, who had good cover from the surrounding tree trunks.  His return shot did not miss, and the kobold minion fell, blood welling from around the arrow jutting from its lung.  The halfling ranger shifted position, looking for a decent shot at the kobold priest.  The creature hurled an orb of acid at Elevaren, but the warlock was also standing behind a tree, and the deadly missile exploded against the rough bark.  

Mara met the dragonshield coming from the left, taking a glancing hit that drew a fresh gash across her right forearm.  But in turn her blades danced a storm around it, her smaller sword drawing down its shield enough for her long blade to come in and clang hard across its armored brow.  The kobold staggered back, but only for a moment, and when it came forward its fury seemed greater than before.  It never even saw Beetle come up behind it, and bury his dagger into the small of its back.  The kobold screamed, then, and spun on the rogue, slashing him across his bicep.  It didn’t get a chance to do more, as Mara drove both of her blades into its back, and it crumpled.

Devrem found himself hard pressed, facing both a dragonshield and Irontooth.  The kobold cut him in the leg, but it was the goblin’s axe that was the true threat, knocking him back with a blow that would have opened his guts had he not been armored.  The cleric fell back against the trunk of a nearby tree, summoning from the reserves of his strength, focusing on defending himself.  

Elevaren blasted the dragonshield with an _eldritch blast_, drawing its attention.  “Go ahead,” Irontooth said.  “I will deal with this ‘holy man’.”

Jaron shifted his fire to the dragonshield, but his arrow bounced off its shield and flew harmlessly aside.  It came forward toward Elevaren, who had nowhere left to hide.  Against the heavily armored kobold warrior, the eladrin seemed utterly outmatched.  But as the dragonshield lunged forward, Elevaren’s body dissolved into a swirling storm of flickering fey-lights.  As the kobold watched in amazement, that glowing display shot straight upward, materializing again into the warlock, now astride a thick branch of the tree, twenty feet off the ground. 

The kobold couldn’t reach him, but the reverse was not true, as Elevaren hit the kobold in the face with another _eldritch blast_. 

Devrem ducked just barely in time.  The goblin’s axe bit deeply into the old bark of the tree, tearing a deep gouge in the wood.  A less powerful adversary might have had to struggle to pull his weapon free, but Irontooth merely yanked hard, and drew back the axe for another strike.  

“You only delay the inevitable, cowardly human,” the goblin growled.  Thus far, Devrem’s focus on defense had paid off, and he’d avoided two attacks that would have been devastating, had they connected.  But while protecting himself, he hadn’t done anything to hurt the goblin, either, who was getting more infuriated with every passing moment. 

But then Mara and Beetle rushed to his aid.  They moved to flank the big goblin, while Devrem shifted back to the attack, hitting Irontooth with a _lance of faith_.  But the stream of radiant energy seemed pathetic indeed as it flashed silver around the goblin’s face, having no apparent effect upon him.  He sidestepped Mara’s initial lunge with surprising agility, and then met Beetle’s sneak attack with a kick that sent the halfling rolling back, blood spurting from his mouth.  Pivoting easily, he spun into Mara’s follow up, catching her solidly across the body with his axe.  The fighter’s momentum was instantly reversed, and she staggered back, stunned by the intensity of the blow. 

“Bring on your best, it won’t be good enough!” Irontooth laughed, and as his foes drew back from the fury of his attacks, it looked as though he might be right.


----------



## hopeless

All I can say is Oh my God!


----------



## Cerulean_Wings

Just as I expected, LB's portrayal of Irontooth is awesome-tastic 

jonnytheshirt - Elevaren is an Eladrin, or a High-Elf, in more common words.


----------



## Lazybones

Thanks for the posts!

* * * * * 

Chapter 29


Droplets of acid splashed around Elevaren as another _energy orb_ struck the branches around him.  His pale skin already showed ugly red marks where an earlier blast had connected, but his perch high up in the tree’s branches offered considerable cover, and none of the acid from this attack struck him.  

For now, he ignored the threat posed by the wyrmpriest, and focused his attention on Irontooth. 

Jaron had kept a low profile thus far, safely out of reach of the melee combatants.  He’d shot the kobold dragonshield that had treed Elevaren, firing an arrow into its back before it could recover from the warlock’s _eldritch blast_.  He had lost sight of the wyrmpriest for a moment, then saw him in the trees on the far side of the stream.  The kobold was throwing globes of acid at Elevaren, trying to knock him from his perch.  Jaron fired an arrow at the kobold, but the shot went wildly high.  Only a few arrows remained to rattle inside of his quiver, and as he reached for another, his attention was drawn to the furious drama playing out around Irontooth. 

Mara was in serious shape, blood oozing out from under the drape of her armor.  Devrem spoke another _healing word_, restoring some of her vitality, but the goblin undid his work a moment later, striking her again in the hip as she lunged forward to press the attack.  Again the goblin struck at Beetle with his backswing, narrowly missing the fast-darting halfling.  But Beetle’s own attack was spoiled, his dagger coming nowhere near the goblin’s vulnerable legs.  

This time, however, Mara did not fall back or give ground.  She pressed the goblin, stabbing him again as he cut at Beetle.  This time her sword bit through his armor, and the goblin turned to finish her off for good.  Steel rang on steel, and for a moment the axe was kept at bay.  But as Mara shifted to attack again, Irontooth brought the haft of his weapon up in a blur, thrusting it into the fighter’s face.  The blow smashed into the front of her helmet, crushing the noseguard, and Mara crumpled, unconscious.

Irontooth turned into another blast of radiant energy that sprayed from the tip of Devrem’s staff.  The goblin, now bloodied, stepped forward in a rage.  He yelled as Beetle stuck his dagger into the meat of his thigh, but even that painful wound seemed to barely faze him as he focused on the cleric.  The deadly axe swept forward, and Devrem was struck hard, staggering as his ribs cracked under the force of the blow.  He fell back, only his staff keeping him from joining Mara on the ground.  

“Now you die!” Irontooth raged, lifting the axe to finish it. 

“It is not _my_ time,” Devrem said, clutching his side, and thrusting his staff into the goblin’s face.  The _sacred flame_ of the Raven Queen distracted him, but only for a moment.  

A moment was all that the cleric’s companions needed. 

Elevaren’s _eldritch blast_ caught the goblin on the side of his head.  Fey magic flashed in multicolored sparks, a bright counter to the primal silver energies that Devrem had hit him with a moment past.  As he turned reflexively toward the threat, Jaron’s arrow caught him just under the rim of his helmet, slicing through the rest of his already-mangled ear.  Blood spurted from the nasty wound, but still the goblin raised his axe, his rage going beyond any mere mortal pain.  

But he wasn’t quite ready for Beetle stepping in low between his legs and thrusting his dagger straight... _up_ under the drape of his hauberk.  

A sick, strangled sound came from the goblin.  The deadly axe, streaked with the blood of the adventurers, fell onto the rotting leaves that covered the ground.  Irontooth thrust Beetle away with one hand, and grabbed Devrem’s staff with the other.  Droplets of blood sprayed from his lips as he spoke.  “Kalarel and Lord Orcus, prepare... my...”

He did not get a chance to finish as Jaron’s last arrow buried itself to the feathers in his left eye.


----------



## Richard Rawen

Awesomesauce LB! Great group dynamic already, and effective arcanists! (for now) ... I know, you get too much flak for that, but hey, we wouldn't even _know_ about your 'thing' for arcanists if we didn't love your work and you know it! And you did make up for it some with the last act of Dungeon of Graves - btw, anyone who hasn't read that: DO!


----------



## Lazybones

Thanks for the props in your sig, Richard!

* * * * * 

Chapter 30


It was a subdued and quiet company that made the trek back to Winterhaven.  For one thing, most of them still bore grievous wounds, and Devrem lacked the power to heal them further today.  Healing depended on the energies of the recipient as much as it did the power of the gods, the priest explained.  

“Yeah, well, my energy feels pretty damned depleted right about now,” Mara had replied, grimacing as Elevaren had helped her tie off the bandage that covered the gash in her hip.  Devrem had said that none of their wounds were life-threatening, at least for the time it would take them to get back to Winterford.  

They had considered resting up in the kobold lair, but none of them had ultimately been that enthusiastic about the idea in the end.  For one thing, the kobold wyrmpriest had escaped; obviously its dedication to Irontooth had been rather less than total.  Or maybe its gods had whispered to it which way the battle would end, and it had decided not to be around when that happened.  

In any case, the fact that the priest was still out there somewhere, along with the few other kobolds that had escaped, helped make their decision.  

“They’ve been scared off for now,” Mara had said.  “But if we give them enough time to think about it, they might recover enough of their courage to try their luck again.”

“Or they may bring help,” Jaron had pointed out.  Before the raid they would have thought that unlikely, but that was before Devrem had found the scroll in Irontooth’s pouch.  

The message had been from Kalarel, and while it had been addressed to Irontooth, each of them felt it had really been written for them. 

_My spy in Winterhaven suggests we keep an eye out for visitors to the area.  It probably does not matter; in just a few more days, I’ll completely open the rift.  Then Winterhaven’s people will serve as food for all those Lord Orcus sends to do my bidding._

Irontooth had said something similar to them, but to see the words in print upon the parchment, written in a smooth and confident hand, somehow made them more threatening.  

They’d also found a key on the goblin’s corpse, which had opened a chest in the rear of the kobold caves.  The chest had contained a quantity of gold, which those least injured were now carrying in their packs, and a suit of fine chainmail of dwarven make.  Devrem had claimed that, and now wore it under his black robes.  

The afternoon had deepened, the sun already starting to set.  It would be dark by the time they reached the walls of Winterhaven.  After a while, Mara spoke.  “So.  Orcus.  You knew they were here, priest.”

“I came to this region because of reports of an Orcus-cult in the area, yes,” Devrem said, without looking back.  He had taken to walking in the lead, as though following an invisible tether that led back to town.  The others had to hasten to keep up with him, which in their condition, was not easy.  

“We didn’t come here to join a cause,” Mara said.  Elevaren started to say something, but the fighter raised her hand to forestall him.  

At that, Devrem did stop, and turned to face them.  “I did not ask you to.  Each of you will have to decide what you will do, what you must do.  I can tell you this; if the cult of Orcus succeeds in accomplishing what is has come here to do, then the entire Nentir Vale will fall under a shadow so deep that it may spread to cover the entire world.”

And with that, he turned and walked on.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 31


The mood in the common room of Wrafton’s Inn was far more subdued than it had been during their last visit, Jaron thought.  Since their return from the kobold lair yesterday, word had spread about their adventures, and the people of Winterhaven were nervous.  Apparently Devrem had not felt the need to moderate his comments about the dire nature of the threat, as Jaron heard the cleric’s name mentioned several times as he made his way through the knots of people gathered around the tables in the inn.  

He finally made his way to the booth in the back of the room, set into the deep niche between the door to the kitchen and the thick side wall of the inn.  Mara and Elevaren were already there, and to his surprise, so was Beetle.  His cousin looked up and flashed him a grin as he came up to the booth.   

Mara and Elevaren were apparently in the middle of an argument, and didn’t notice him at first.  

“I’m saying that this is a fool’s errand,” Mara was saying.  “How do we know we can trust this priest, anyway?  The followers of the Death Queen have a sinister reputation.”

“I do not sense any duplicity in him,” Elevaren replied.  “And in any case, you cannot deny that we would all be dead, had it not been for his intervention.”

“Intervention that we could have used _before_ we set out, if you ask me.  If he’d told us what he knew...”

“We did not tell anyone of our interest in the bandits, only that we were seeking out our missing friend,” Elevaren persisted.  “Hello, Jaron,” he added, turning to greet the halfling.  Mara looked at him with a sour look, as if blaming him for the course of the argument. 

“I’m sorry if I’m interrupting.”

“No, please, join us,” the eladrin said.  “What we’re talking about concerns you and your cousin, after all.”

“Do you mean the threat to the vale that Devrem spoke of?” Jaron asked, taking the empty seat next to Mara.  The fighter shifted to make more room, but only slightly.  

Elevaren’s look was canny.  “Yes, that too.”  Jaron looked at Beetle, wondering how much his cousin had told them.  He’d mentioned his brother, but only briefly, before.  

Mara was more blunt.  “Are you going to go with the black priest, when he goes to this ‘Keep on the Shadowfell’?” 

Jaron looked at Beetle, but his cousin had dropped below the level of the table.  He hoped that his cousin was above pickpocketing from their friends.  Or maybe it would be better for them if he did, and was caught.  “I don’t know,” he said. 

“Well, that’s where we are as well,” Mara said, turning back toward Elevaren.  

Not sure what to say to that, Jaron changed the subject.  “Oh, I see you got a bow.”

Mara glanced at the unstrung longbow propped up against the far wall of the booth.  “Yes.  The priest at least was forthcoming with the gold.  He gave up claim to his share, in exchange for the dwarven mail he took.  Though I suspect that was probably worth more than all the gold in that chest.”

“He earned it fairly,” Elevaren said.  

“What about you?” Mara asked.  “Did you fare well with your new wealth?”

“I bought a few things.  New gear to replace that I lost on the way here, mostly.”  He didn’t add that he’d finally tracked down Callen, and given him a sack full of gold to help him replace his wagon.  The merchant had been considerably grateful, and promised to take a letter back to Fairhollow with him when he left Winterhaven.

“Mara gave me some new knives,” Beetle said, jumping back up into view, hanging onto the lip of the table and dangling out over the edge.  Jaron looked at her in surprise. 

“Yeah, well, you seem to keep wanting to throw the one you had,” the fighter said.  “Only a fool goes into a fight without a hold-out.”

“He’s here,” Elevaren said, nodding slightly toward the door. 

The companions looked up to see Devrem crossing the room toward them.  Beetle slid smoothly back into his seat.  The priest had no difficulty getting through the crowd; a path opened up before him as though by magic.  The light of the lamps gleamed on the small silver clasp that held his cloak, forming the outline of a raven’s head.  

“Good day to you,” the priest said.  

“Hey, Devrem!” Beetle said.  “You wanna see me juggle three knives?”

“Perhaps later, little one,” the cleric said.  “I have come to tell you that I plan on setting out on the morrow.”

“Alone?” Mara asked.

The cleric’s jaw tightened.  “If need be.”

“Then Lord Padraig refused your request for aid?”

Devrem shrugged.  “He is but a small man; he does not see the larger picture.  He was happy to hear of the defeat of the bandits; to him the immediate threat is the only one that matters.  I hope that he does not have to learn the consequences of his error the hard way.”

“Winterhaven has limited resources,” Elevaren said.  “It could be that Lord Padraig understands the threat, but must plan for all eventualities.”

“A diplomatic way of putting it.  But if this Kalarel is as close as he suggested in his letter to opening a rift to the Shadowfell, he must be stopped, whatever the cost.”  

“You seem intent on selling your life cheaply,” Mara said. 

“Death comes to us all.  As mortals, we can only choose how we die.”

“Perhaps I am not quite so eager,” Mara said. 

“As I said before, we must all choose for ourselves,” Devrem said.  A hint of anger crossed his features, and he started to turn away.  “I will go with you,” Jaron said, quietly.  

The cleric turned back.  “Your aid will be most welcome, ranger.”

“Me too!” Beetle said. 

“Beetle, no,” Jaron began, but the younger halfling stood up, leaning over the table.  “I go too!  I choose how we die, like he say!” 

Devrem had the grace to look a bit abashed.  “I will leave you to take counsel,” he said.  “I will be at the gate at sunrise.  Bring supplies for a journey of a few days.”  Without a further farewell, he turned and left.


----------



## Baduin

Since Mara fights with two weapons, the following article should prove interesting:

Ampersand: Fun with Pigs and Other Stories
(Scroll down to Tempest Fighter build)


----------



## Richard Rawen

Lazybones said:


> Thanks for the props in your sig, Richard!
> * * * * *  ...
> At that, Devrem did stop, and turned to face them.  “I did not ask you to.  Each of you will have to decide what you will do, what you must do.  I can tell you this; if the cult of Orcus succeeds in accomplishing what is has come here to do, then the entire Nentir Vale will fall under a shadow so deep that it may spread to cover the entire world.”...




You are most welcome, and to quote OotS: "Dunh Dunh DUNNNNNH!"


----------



## Lazybones

Baduin said:


> Since Mara fights with two weapons, the following article should prove interesting:



Thanks for the link! When I first saw the PH, I knew that they were setting up all of the missing archetypes (like the two-weaponed fighter) for the inevitable supplements. I don't currently intend to buy any more 4e books, but I will certainly swap out some of those feats when I next revisit Mara's build.

Given the realities of my workload of late, I'm switching to a M-W-F update schedule for the near future. 

* * * * * 

Chapter 32


Wooden blades danced in a violent storm in the clearing near the mountain cabin.  Mara and Torvan dodged and weaved, their boots stamping up small puffs of snow as they sparred.  Each carried a wooden sword in each hand, which moved in blurs of motion as they stabbed, slashed, and parried.  

Finally, Torvan overextended himself on a lunge, and the young woman darted under his reach, slapping the shorter of her two weapons up into his wrist.  One of his weapons went flying.  He spun around and swung his other sword in a blinding arc toward her neck, but she dropped into a crouch, and as the weapon sliced over her head, she laid the points of both of her weapons against Torvan’s groin.  

“Yield?” she asked, with a hint of a smile.  

“I suppose I’d better, if I want to be able to walk home,” he growled.  He walked over to where his first sword had fallen, grimacing slightly as he bent to pick it up.  He had turned his body to shield it from Mara, but she did not miss it.  

“Are you all right, uncle?” 

“Fine, fine.  Just an old body letting me know that it’s displeased.”

“We keep returning to the two-sword style.  Why do you give that so much emphasis?  In your books, most of the references are to the large two-hander, or to the sword-and-shield style.”

Torvan clacked his wooden swords together to clear the clinging snow off the one that had fallen.  “Bah.  Most fighters you meet will tell you that the two-sword style is for the self-styled ‘rangers’, or court duelists who play for touches with weapons that would break if you parried them with a real blade.  But it’s all about speed, girl.  You’ve gotten stronger, but you’d never be able to hold up against a man my size with a heavy blade.  And as for the shield... well, I’ve taught you how to use one... what’s the answer to your question?”

“Speed, and visibility,” she said.  “The off-hand blade gives you the option of parrying, but also of a counter from a direction that the foe doesn’t expect.”

He nodded.  “Good.  It’s getting late, why don’t you...”

But he trailed off and turned suddenly in the direction of the trail that led down off the mountain.  Mara heard it too, a clip of hooves on the rough soil of the path; multiple horses, by the sound. 

Torvan moved quickly to the log where his sword rested.  “Get back to the cabin,” he told Mara.  

“But uncle...”

“Do it.  Get the other swords.” 

He kept his weapon in hand, but did not draw as he walked over to the cabin, taking up a position facing the trail.  

The riders came into view.  There were four of them, the last leading a fifth horse, equipped with a riding saddle instead of a pack saddle.  All four were humans, broad-shouldered men in their twenties and thirties.  They were all clad in armor ranging from breastplates of boiled leather to heavier shirts of dense chain links, and each carried an assortment of weapons.  

They reined in their horses as they spotted Torvan, spreading out to form a line facing him.  Their horses snorted, sending out plumes of white mist in the cold air.  

“Torvan Lendoran?” asked one of the men, a lean fellow clad in chainmail and a blue tabard bearing the mark of a rearing bear. 

“Aye, that’s me,” Torvan said.  He held his sword easy at his side, but his body seemed like a coiled spring, ready to move.  

“My name is Gael Hallas,” the man said.  “Lord Bregan Zelos sends us with word that Dal Durga’s raiders are on the march.  They have already struck two frontier villages, and Lord Zelos is creating a force to stop them before they can swing south into richer lands.”

“I am no longer in the Lord’s service,” Torvan said. 

Gael’s mouth tightened in obvious disapproval.  “The entire region is at risk, man.  Lord Zelos said to give this to you.”  He drew out a small, tightly wrapped parchment from a pouch at his belt, and handed it to Torvan.  Torvan took his time, breaking the seal with his thumb, then unrolling the scroll to scan it, keeping his sword held easily in the crook of his arm.  

Mara had emerged from the cabin, a pair of sheathed swords held together in her hands.  She remained on the porch, watching the riders warily. 

Torvan finished his reading.  “All right,” he said.  “Give me five minutes to get my things together.  Wait here.”  

He walked back toward the cabin.  “Uncle?”

“I’m sorry, girl; I have obligations that predate your arrival into my life.  I have to go.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“No.  You’ll remain here.  I don’t want my cabin to end up as the winter den for some bear, or a pack of goblins.  It’s just a band of raiders; I’ll be back soon enough.”

“But...”

“Don’t question me, girl,” he said gruffly, pushing past her and disappearing into the cabin.  

The riders watched her.  The one on the end of the line smiled at her, but there was something in his eyes that send a cold chill down the back of her neck.  He smirked, and whispered something to his companion; both men laughed.  She wanted to go inside after Torvan, but she forced herself to remain standing there, a frozen look of cool calm set on her features. 

Her uncle returned quickly, well short of the allotted five minutes.  In addition to his sword, he carried a short-handled axe balanced for throwing, and an unstrung longbow thrust through the straps of a bulging travel pack.  He wore under his furs a breastplate of dull iron, one strap still dangling unfastened.  Mara stepped in front of him and attended to the strap.  

“I don’t want to stay here alone,” she said, under her breath so that only she could hear. 

“Life rarely gives us what we want,” he said.  “I will be back.”

And with that, he left.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 33


Wood chips flew in a flurry as steel moved in a blur around the slab of firewood that had been jammed into a crevice of the stone wall.  Mara danced around the improvised target, her blades spinning in unison, forming a pattern of weaving death.  It was almost too dark to see, but her feet moved effortlessly over the cracked tiles of the yard, and every blow hit with precision, the swords rebounding off the wood and falling back into the pattern she wove.  

A figure came into the yard.  He waited until Mara broke off her exercises, and lowered the blades.  

“Those aren’t your swords,” Elevaren said.  

“I didn’t want to dull them.  The smith was good enough to lend me the use of some old swords that wanted for edges, to practice with.”  She hefted the two weapons.  “A bit heavier than what I’m used to.”  She walked over to the gate in the wall, where she’d laid her scabbarded swords, and a towel that she used to wipe the sweat from her neck.  She was clad only in a sleeveless tunic belted over loose cotton trousers, and had to be cold.  But then again, she’d lived in the mountains, Elevaren remembered.  

“What did you decide?” the eladrin asked.  

She did not immediately respond.  Tossing the dirty towel back onto the top of the fence, she reached down and picked up a burden wrapped in leather lying under her swords.  

“There’s something about that cleric that... I don’t know.  I don’t trust him.”

“I admit I do not have much experience with the followers of the Raven Queen,” the eladrin said. 

“Nor I.  In fact, the only one I can ever remember meeting is an old crone, who looked almost like Death herself.  But there’s _something_ familiar about him, I just can’t quite place it.”  She had unwrapped her bundle as they spoke, revealing a longsword in a worn leather scabbard.  She offered it to Elevaren. 

“I’m not a soldier,” the warlock said.  

“I know that you know how to use this,” Mara said.  “I’m not saying that we won’t be relying on your magic, but we could get into close quarters again, and that staff of yours just isn’t going to cut it.  No pun intended.”

The eladrin hesitated for a moment longer, then accepted the sword.  “Besides, this way I have a backup if something happens to my primary,” Mara said, taking up her own weapons.  

“So we’re going to the keep?” Elevaren asked.  

“Did you ever really doubt it?” the fighter asked, striding past him toward the back door of the inn. 

Jaron woke up to found Beetle sitting on the narrow frame of their room’s tiny window, looking down at him.  It was still early, the clouded glass just starting to brighten with the light of the approaching dawn.  He could just hear a faint thwacking noise that sounded like someone chopping wood; it seemed to be coming from somewhere outside.  Apparently some townsman had decided to get a very early start on the day.  

He lit the lamp and quickly got dressed.  Beetle was already clad in his leather vest and long-sleeved coat; his new daggers were tucked into his belt.  He watched Jaron’s preparations with an almost scary intensity, but the ranger had gotten used to his cousin’s odd mannerisms and paid him no heed. 

“You know, you should go home.  With Cullen.  I bet that everybody’s forgotten about what happened with Dale’s bull.  And I’m sure that Wanda misses you.”

“Go with you, fight bad guys.”

Jaron turned to him.  “You don’t belong here, Beetle.  This world... this world, out here, it just doesn’t understand you.”

Beetle grinned.  “Jayse understand.”

Jaron nodded.  “Sometimes I wonder,” he said under his breath.  He shook his head, yielding the point.  He grabbed his already-packed bag and double-checked the provisions inside.  He picked up his bow and quiver, and dug out the package he’d wrapped up and stashed among the bedding at the foot of his bed.  Beetle watched with interest as he unwrapped the packet.  

“I got these for you,” he said.  “The smith was able to make them pretty quick, given how small they are.”

Beetle jumped down and sprang over to Jaron’s side, where he examined his new prize.  It was a compact leather bandolier, holding six tiny knives.  Beetle drew one out, and flipped it over and over in his hands. 

“You may need to practice a bit before...”

But Beetle whipped up one of the throwing knives, which stuck into the low supporting beam for the roof near the door.  Jaron sighed and grabbed the chair, hoping that he could reach high enough to recover the weapon.  When he got close enough to see the spot where the knife had struck, however, he started in surprise. 

A big spider, its bulbous torso maybe a finger’s length across, twitched against the knotted wood of the beam, its body pierced right through the center by Beetle’s knife.   

“Maybe you can practice later,” Jaron said, reaching up and wrenching the knife free.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 34


“There was a battle here,” Jaron said, crouched low in the muddy dirt of the road.  

“Good place for an ambush,” Mara confirmed, scanning the forested rise to their left, and the bend in the road up ahead that could have concealed just about anything.  

“How long?” Devrem asked.  

Jaron paused, examining the signs.  “Nine, ten days, maybe a little more.”  

“Good eyes,” Elevaren commented.  “The elements should have obscured any evidence in that time.”

“The signs are faint,” the halfling said, “But I think that people died here.”

“That’s right around the time that your brother was killed, wasn’t it?” the warlock asked, his voice sympathetic. 

“I thought he was found further south, near the King’s Road?” Mara asked. 

“Perhaps that is what we were meant to believe,” Devrem said.  “Come, we’re losing time lingering here.”

“It’s not a waste if we learn about what we’re up against,” Mara countered.  She had already chafed against the cleric’s leadership of their company, and a simmering tension had arisen between the two humans.  

“We already know what we’re up against,” Devrem said.  “Whatever minions Kalarel has accumulated, they must be defeated.  The cleric must be stopped before he can complete his ritual.”

They could see the keep clearly now, the outline of the ruined walls just visible over the trees ahead of them.  The road continued to meander as it ascended the rise, and soon they were all breathing hard from the effort of the climb.  But it was still well short of noon as they finally emerged from the trees to see the dramatic remains of the legendary fortress spread out in rubble before them.  While some of the keep’s walls remained mostly intact, one look was enough to indicate that the entire interior was collapsed wreckage.

“Keep a close eye out,” Mara said.  “Anything at all could be hidden in that debris.”  Jaron moved out ahead, moving silently and cautiously over the packed earth.  The others followed, moving with deliberation. 

“There is a... shadow, over this place,” Elevaren said.  

“The story of the keep is a sad one,” Devrem said.  

“Nothing grows here,” Elevaren noted.  The others, looking around, saw that he was right; no weeds broke out among the rubble, not so much as a stray sprig of grass.  It was as though a dead zone had settled around the keep.  Even the sounds of the insects and birds that had followed them up the trail had faded away, leaving a preternatural quiet that was almost eerie.

“The portal to the Shadowfell was opened nearly two hundred years ago,” Devrem explained.  That was in the days when Nerath was still a force in the world, and its soldiers responded, destroying the undead armies that came through the gate, sealing the rift, and building this fortress to ward it.”

“What happened?” Mara asked, interested despite herself, although she did not take her eyes from the ruins as Jaron continued probing along the outer wall.  There was a breach up ahead, where the old gatehouse might have once stood by the look of it, and the halfling led them in that direction. 

“With Nerath’s fall, the place fell into decline,” Devrem said.  It was about eighty years ago when it finally came to an end.  A consecrated warrior of noble line named Sir Keegan was master of the fortress in those days.  One night he went mad, slaying his wife and children, and then setting upon his captains, one by one.”

“Gods,” Mara breathed.  

“The garrison was finally roused, and they were able to drive Keegan into the dungeons under the keep.  They say that when he came to his senses, he took his own life.  Since that day, the keep has been seen as cursed, and it has lain abandoned.”

“Understandable,” Elevaren said.  

Jaron signaled from up ahead.  The others came forward to join him, and could see that a narrow path had been cleared through the rubble.  The halfling pointed to where the tread of booted feet was visible in the dirt.  Up ahead, the remnants of a wall overshadowed a dark opening.  Moving closer, the adventurers could see that a stone staircase led down into the hill under the keep. 

“Bad smell,” Beetle said.  Mara jumped slightly; the halfling had suddenly appeared right beside her.  His coat was covered in stone dust, indicating that he’d conducted some explorations of his own through the ruins. 

“Stay close, Beetle,” Jaron warned, moving to the top of the stairs.  “There’s light down below,” he said to the others, keeping his voice low.  

“There will almost certainly be guards,” Devrem responded.  

“Stay back a bit,” the ranger said.  With Beetle a few paces behind him, he started warily down the stairs, hugging the wall, blending into the shadows within a few steps.  Within a few seconds, both halflings had vanished from view from above.  

Mara gave them a count of ten, then moved forward.  The darkness of the stairs seemed cold, malevolent, like a gaping maw waiting to swallow her.  

The fighter shivered.  She drew her swords, grasping the hilts tightly.  Then, with the cleric and warlock flanking her, she started down.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 35


The goblin sentry leaned against the wall, keeping watch.  It wasn’t a particularly strenuous duty, as there was really only one way through which intruders could come, down the steps that led up to the ruined keep on the surface.  Well, there was the odd chance that another of the big rats could wander up from the lower caverns, but the drakes posted to guard the dig site down that way kept such incursions to a minimum.  But the goblin licked his lips at the thought anyway.  A nice fat rat would be just the thing.  He straightened to scratch himself, belched, and leaned back against the wall.  Guard duty was boring, but the goblin knew better than to slack at the duty.  Greebor had taken a header into the rat pit because Kalarel had found him sleeping on watch, and Splug was in the klink right now because he’d been caught cheating on the ale ration.  That fat bastard Balgron didn’t exactly inspire terror in the ranks, but that human priest... _he_ was one to keep a warrior on his toes. 

Thus the sentry detected the slight shift of a shadow along the stairs, and he hefted a javelin.  There was no sound save for the faintest scratching coming from the rat pit.  He crept forward where the south passage opened up into the larger open space of the entrance chamber, wary of any threat.  But he was absolutely unprepared for the halfling that stepped out from around the corner not two feet in front of him.  

“Hello!” the halfling chirped, before slamming a knife into the surprised sentry’s chest.  

The goblin staggered back, dropping his javelin, clutching his chest where bright red blood spread out across his dirty jerkin.  An arrow whistled past his head, its steel head clinking as it glanced off the stone wall and shot off down the passage beyond.  

The goblin opened his mouth to shout, but only managed a shrill, pained screech as the halfling stabbed him again, this time digging his knife deep into the meat of his thigh.  The goblin fell forward against the wall, losing his balance as his blood slicked the stones under his feet.  He couldn’t see the halfling behind him, but he _knew_ he was there, coming forward to finish it.  The warrior, summoning some reserve of determination, thrust off from the wall and rounded on his foe, hefting his spear, ready to put his tormentor at bay. 

Except the halfling was gone; save for the sharp pains in his chest and leg, it was as if he’d never existed at all.  

The goblin barely felt the thuds that impacted him hard in the chest and gut; somehow the sharp whistle of the arrows before they struck seemed more momentous.  That sound was the last thing he heard, before he stumbled back a step and then toppled to the ground.  

“Only one guard?” Elevaren asked, as he followed Jaron and Mara down to the end of the stairs.  The pair had drawn out fresh arrows, and stood alert with them fitted to the string, alert to another threat.  

“Don’t bet on it,” Mara said, sweeping the chamber with her eyes.  Other than four slender pillars that formed a square in the middle of the chamber, the place seemed devoid of features.  Three passages led off the room, situated in the center of each wall.  A few bits of scattered trash lay discarded in the corners, but otherwise the room was empty.  “Where’s Beetle?” she asked quietly.  

“He’s over there,” Jaron said, gesturing toward the shadows along the far wall where the light of the two torches failed to reach.  

“I thought you moved quietly, but damned if your cousin isn’t part shadow himself,” Mara said, stepping off the stairs more fully into the room.  

“Look out!” Jaron warned, a scant instant before missiles shot out from the corridor on the far side of the room.  Mara grunted as one of the shots hit her hard in the shoulder, failing to penetrate the metal scales of her armor.  The missile fell to the ground at her feet, and Jaron saw that it was a crossbow bolt. 

“Sharpshooters!” the halfling exclaimed, but any further reply was cut off as another bolt clipped his arm, drawing a hiss of pain from his lips.  The bolt hadn’t hit him square, punching clear through his sleeve on its way past, but it had drawn blood. 

He could see their attackers now, a pair of goblins that had taken up firing positions at the end of the corridor ahead, where it opened onto another larger chamber.  They were using the corners there for cover, and dropped back out of sight, presumably to reload their weapons.  

Mara didn’t intend to give them a chance to get off another shot; she dropped her bow and started to draw her swords as she rushed forward.  Jaron moved forward as well, intending to use the pillars as cover, but as he came into the room his eyes were drawn to the floor in between them. 

“Mara, stop!” he shouted. 

The fighter turned her head toward him, but the ranger’s warning came too late, as the ground suddenly came apart under her feet, and she plummeted into a pit, where a violent and wild screeching greeted her arrival.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 36


Jaron glanced back to see Devrem surging forward toward the pit, to help Mara.  The pit was only ten feet deep, but it was full of rats, which were swarming over the dazed fighter, snapping and biting at every exposed bit of skin that they could get to.  Mara snarled a curse as she tore a rat off her neck, and staggered to her feet. 

But those up above had their own problems, as the two snipers reappeared, their weapons loaded and ready to fire.  Jaron had his shot ready and fired first, but his arrow hit the wall and caromed wild, narrowly missing the goblin sharpshooter.  The goblin returned fire, but Jaron shifted into the cover of the pillar, and the shot missed him by a wide margin.  The other goblin shot Devrem, hitting him in the leg, but the cleric merely yanked out the bolt and dove down at the pit’s edge, thrusting a hand down to help Mara out.  As soon as the goblins had fired again they slipped back behind cover again to reload.  Even as they vanished from view Beetle stuck his head around the corner, and seeing the pair gone he darted down the hallway toward their positions.  Jaron opened his mouth to shout a warning, but held his tongue; that would only result in warning the goblins, and he had to trust that his cousin could handle himself against two foes. 

Something flashed by Jaron, and he turned to see Devrem stagger as a javelin stabbed into his side.  Grimacing against the pain, the cleric let out a growl and pulled Mara up to where she could grab hold of the lip of the pit.  The cleric fell back once she was clear, and pulled the missile out of his side.  

Jaron spun to see that the source of the attack was another goblin warrior, who’d emerged out of another passage that exited on the left side of the room.  The halfling reached for another arrow even as the goblin seized another javelin, but Elevaren beat both of them to the punch.  The warlock’s _eldritch blast_ hit the goblin square in the face with a sizzling hiss of fey magic.  The goblin screamed and staggered back, and then turned to flee, vanishing down the passage before Jaron could get a clear shot at him.  

“I’m going to help Beetle!” he shouted at his companions, emerging from cover to rush after his cousin.  

The goblin sharpshooters emerged from behind the passage corners to take their next shot to find an enemy much closer than they’d expected.  The first screamed as Beetle sliced his dagger across his hands, and he nearly dropped his crossbow as the bolt was discharged harmlessly into the floor.  His companion lined up a shot at Beetle’s back, but the halfling twisted nimbly aside, and the goblin’s shot nearly hit his ally before it bounced harmlessly off the wall.  The goblin bit off a curse and drew his sword, but before he could move to flank the halfling he had to dart back as another arrow from Jaron narrowly missed him.  

Beetle’s foe recovered quickly, drawing his own sword.  His first stroke caught the halfling rogue’s arm near the shoulder, but again Beetle slipped away, turning what would have been a nasty cut into a mere scratch.  Beetle spun and lunged in again, and the goblin only barely avoided the thrust of his dagger.  The two began an elaborate dance, the halfling’s superior speed partially countered by the longer blade of the goblin warrior.  

The sharpshooter’s companion did not get a chance to come to his aid, as Jaron engaged him in close combat.  Jaron was a decent fighter, but the goblin was clearly a veteran, meeting his first few swings with expert counters.  Their small blades clashed several times without resolution, but while the goblin had a slight edge, Jaron had friends in a position to help.  

The goblins realized this too late, and tried to break away even as Mara and Devrem rushed down the passageway toward the melee.  Jaron got a good hit in as his foe retreated, and then the goblin was struck by an _eldritch blast_ from Elevaren as it ran toward a door in the east wall.  Beetle’s foe never even got that far; as he started to run the halfling leapt onto him, driving the goblin to the ground even as he slammed his dagger into his body once, twice, and finally a last time that left it limp and bleeding.  Mara intercepted the other goblin even as he grabbed the handle of the door, blocking the portal with her body as she drove the goblin back.  The goblin tried to run past her back down the passageway, but he was blocked by Devrem, who put him down with a solid smack from his staff.  

“You should have tried to capture him,” Mara said, as they quickly checked the bodies.  “We might have been able to interrogate him.”

“There is no time for that now,” the cleric replied.  “One of them got away, and will likely be back any moment with reinforcements.”

“Then we’d better be ready for them,” Mara said, following the cleric along with the others as they made their way back to the entrance foyer.  The light of the torches revealed that the passage forked to the right after a short distance; continuing straight where the goblin had fled, it culminated in a set of wooden doors about forty feet distant.  “Here, or at the doors?” Mara asked.  “The doors would give us a defensible chokepoint.”

“But if someone came through one of the other passages, we could be trapped,” Jaron pointed out.  

“We can use the corners here for cover,” Devrem said, invoking a _healing word_ that eased the pain of Mara’s wounds.  Seeing the blood running down Jaron’s arm, he offered to do the same for him, but the halfling ranger shook his head, taking a rag and wrapping it around his arm to stop the bleeding.  

He looked around for Beetle and saw him standing at the edge of the pit.  “Come away from there, Beetle,” he said, as he took up his bow and readied an arrow.     

They did not have to wait long.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 37


The companions lurked by the corners fronting the entrance to the passage, with only Jaron peeking around the edge at the doors.  Beetle, it seemed, had wandered off again; at least he was nowhere in sight.        

Jaron hissed a soft warning as the doors crept open.  A goblin poked its head out.  Jaron slipped back until he could only just see the end of the passageway around the edge of the wall.   

“Stay in cover,” Mara whispered, holding her longbow with an arrow fitted to the string. 

After a quick look around, the goblin stepped fully through the door, and then made room for something else coming through behind it. 

“Oh, crap,” Jaron said, slipping back into full cover. 

“What is it?” Mara mouthed. 

“Guard drakes,” the halfling replied.  They could all hear them, now, the familiar whine-hiss that the creatures made when agitated.  There was obviously more than one of them, from the noise.

Mara lifted her hand, and the companions readied themselves; then she stepped around the corner into full view, drawing the fletchings of her arrow back to her cheek.  

There were two guard drakes, compact bundles of scales, muscles, and teeth that lifted their heads as soon as Mara appeared.  Her arrow hit one a glancing blow, but the arrow failed to penetrate its hide, and the missile fell away without inflicting damage.  She certainly got its attention, however. 

There were four goblins, three sharpshooters armed with loaded crossbows, and the warrior that Elevaren had wounded earlier.  The sharpshooters lifted their bows and fired as one.  Two of the bolts struck Mara, hitting her on the right shoulder and square in the gut.  The fighter grunted and staggered back into cover, seriously hurt by the impacts.  The goblins started reloading. 

Jaron slid into view and shot the leading drake, his arrow stabbing into the joint where its left leg met its body.  The drake shrieked and stumbled, letting its companion charge past it before it recovered.  The halfling shifted back into cover before the goblins could target him, reaching for another arrow from his quiver.  

The drakes burst from the passage to find the companions waiting for them.  The first lunged at Mara, only to take a hit solidly across its snout that opened a deep gash down to the bone.  It didn’t stop the thing from snapping its jaws at her leg, getting a good hold that nearly dragged her down to the floor.  Before it could exploit its advantage, however, Elevaren’s _witchfire_ dazed it, and it tottered to the side, shaking its head violently while the white flames issuing from its eyes and ears formed blazing trails through the air as it moved.  

The second drake shot around the corner, lunging at Mara before the fighter could recover.  But Devrem was there, sweeping his staff at it, the head of the weapon trailing fiery silver sparks.  The _lance of faith_ did not seriously discomfit the drake, but it left an opening for Mara, who stabbed her sword deep into its side, driving it back. 

Jaron peeked around the corner, and nearly had his head taken off by a bolt that whistled past his ear.  The goblins were coming forward, cautiously but quickly, their weapons obviously at the ready.  Another bolt shot past him as he drew back.  He’d use the cover to his advantage, and let them come to him.  

The tactical situation changed a moment later, however, as the goblins passed the side passage, and Beetle, shouting wildly, leapt into their ranks, cutting and stabbing with his knife.  He caught them totally by surprise, and the first one was hurt even before he could turn to face the noise, jumping back with a deep gash pouring blood down the side of his cheek.  

But the goblins reacted quickly, and together the four of them turned on Beetle, their weapons coming around to pen him in from all sides.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 38


At that range, they could hardly miss. 

Beetle dodged a spear thrust from the goblin warrior, but cried out as a bolt caught him hard in the shoulder from behind, punching through his leather armor and spinning him around from the force of the impact.  A second bolt grazed his knee and nearly sent him to the ground, while the third punched _through_ his right hand, inflicting a nasty, vicious wound.  His dagger went flying away. 

“Beetle!” Jaron yelled, darting around the corner.  He drew his bow back almost to the point of snapping the string, releasing a shot that caught one of the snipers in the small of his back.  The goblin staggered forward, seriously wounded.  “Get out of there!” 

Beetle rushed the injured goblin, running down the passage toward his cousin.  The goblin, despite his wounds, tried to stop him, bringing its bow down toward his head like a club.  But Beetle ducked under the swing, and as he shot past he drew another knife with his left hand, and plunged it into the goblin’s leg.  The creature squealed and fell to the ground, Jaron’s arrow still quivering in his back.  

The goblin warrior rushed after Beetle, trying to finish the crippled halfling before he could escape.  Jaron yelled to draw the creature’s attention, taking aim with another arrow.  The goblin, having already seen the deadliness of the halfling’s bow, flinched, and his thrust went awry, missing Beetle cleanly.  The goblin screeched and darted to the side, taking shelter in the side alcove that led to the storeroom off the main chamber.  Jaron let him go; the more immediate concern was the drakes, which were continuing to savage his companions.  Stepping back into cover, thrusting Beetle behind him as his crippled cousin passed by, he fired his arrow into the back of the more seriously injured drake.  The creature staggered and fell, but Mara was in little better shape than the lizard, stumbling back against the far wall.  The ranger saw that her hand, when it brushed the wall, left a bright red mark.

The other drake was harrying Devrem, and as he watched it nearly ripped his staff from his hand, snarling as it tried to get past the cleric’s defenses.  The raven priest was limping; apparently the drake had already gotten a good bite in.  Elevaren was trying to help him, but the drake’s ferocious darting was confounding his fey magic, which thus far was having little effect.  

Jaron fell back to the south, giving ground.  He glanced back, but Beetle had, unsurprisingly, vanished again.  He turned back just as the two surviving goblin snipers appeared in the mouth of the passage.  As soon as they saw him, they lifted their crossbows to fire.

Without any more cover to protect him, Jaron could only pray that the goblins had poor aim.  But from the course of the battle thus far, it seemed a thin hope indeed.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 39


Jaron found himself outnumbered, facing a pair of goblin crossbows pointed unerringly at his chest.  Thus far he’d avoided injury in this latest engagement, but it looked as though that was about to change. 

Something glittered in the torchlight as it flashed through the air.  It struck the first goblin, glancing off the sharpshooter’s arm as his finger pulled the trigger of his bow.  His shot went wide, missing Jaron cleanly by several feet.  His companion only shifted slightly in reaction, but even that distraction caused his bolt to hit Jaron not squarely in the chest, but high on the shoulder, stabbing through his armor at an angle that inflicted a painful but relatively minor wound.  

Jaron drew back as he pulled out another arrow, shifting back toward the center of the room, and the cover offered by the stone pillars there.  The goblins, to their credit, held their ground as they pulled hooks from their belts and cocked their bows.  Jaron’s hasty shot missed, whistling past the ear of the goblin on the left.  

Devrem almost fell as the drake leapt at him, its hind legs clawing at his thighs while it seized his left elbow in its powerful jaws.  The cleric swung around, the heavy lizard pulling him off-balance with its weight.  With his free hand he flung _sacred flame_ into its face, but the drake refused to release its grip.  Multicolored fey lights flared around both combatants as another _eldritch blast_ went awry, harming neither.  

“Help Jaron!” Devrem hissed between clenched teeth, as he struggled to keep his feet.  Blood trailed down from his mangled arm, splattering on the floor. 

Careful not to fall into the adjacent pit, Jaron stood behind one of the stone pillars, sending arrows at the goblin snipers as quickly as he could fire.  His skill with the bow seemed to have deserted him, however, and his initial miss was followed by two more, both shots shooting wildly past the goblins into the corridor behind them.  The goblins, in turn, kept firing in staggered volleys, trying to catch the halfling off-guard.  The tactic paid off as another bolt clipped his hip, punching through his leather armor and the flesh beneath, scraping the bone of his pelvis.  Jaron cried out and fell back behind the pillar, holding onto the stone to avoid stumbling into the pit.  The rats, thrown into a frenzy by recent events, shrieked up at him. 

He didn’t see the goblin warrior that crept up from the passage to the south, hugging the wall as he lined up a perfect shot for his javelin. 

Devrem was flagging; the drake’s weight had pulled him forward until it had gotten purchase with its clawed feet, and it yanked its head around like a dog worrying a leather throng.  Devrem’s repeated applications of divine power seemed to barely faze it, the silver sparks failing to distract it from its prey.  But Mara’s longsword was far more effective, severing its neck almost fully from its body.  Even as it died its bite remained locked, and Devrem had to crack its jaws open with the end of his staff to free himself. 

The goblins were likewise finding themselves pressed.  Elevaren hit one squarely with a hex, confounding and confusing him as the _eyebite_ invocation caused the warlock to vanish from the creature’s vision.  His fellow, sensing the dangerous nature of this new foe, fired his bow at him, but the shot narrowly missed. 

Grimacing as he yanked the bolt from his hip, Jaron drew another arrow from his quiver and slipped from cover to shoot again.  This time he scored a direct hit, his arrow burying itself into the chest of the goblin that Elevaren had just cursed.  The goblin sniper slumped to the ground, his bow falling from his fingers to land beside him.  

The still-hidden warrior had a perfect shot; he lifted his javelin to take down the injured ranger.  The goblin’s first warning of danger was when Beetle stepped forward and slapped his hand into his face.  The point of the crossbow bolt that still pierced Beetle’s hand penetrated the warrior’s eye; he screamed once, flailed his limbs in a sudden spasm, and fell to the ground.  

The last goblin elected to flee, but instead of retreating back down the corridor, the creature tried to cross the room, making either for the staircase to the surface, or to the far corridor.  They would not learn which, for Devrem and Mara moved quickly to block him.  Elevaren met its gaze, dismaying him with the fey power of an _eyebite_.  

“Surrender, goblin!” Mara warned.  But the creature either did not understand or did not care to comply, and he ran down the corridor to the south.  “Don’t let him escape!” Mara cried.  She and the cleric rushed after him, but their heavy armor and their serious wounds slowed them down.  Elevaren hit him in the back with an _eldritch blast_, but that failed to stop him. 

The goblin would have gotten away, save for the fact that his revised route of escape took him past Beetle.  It was surprising how much blood could be spilled by such a tiny knife.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 40


“The smart thing to do would be to fall back, regroup, recover our strength,” Mara said, grimacing slightly as she flexed the fingers of her right hand.  Behind her, Beetle dragged another goblin to the edge of the pit; the halfling was having a wonderful time propping the dead creatures up into a semblance of a lifelike pose, then kicking them down to the rats.   

“The rats are making a lot of noise,” Elevaren pointed out. 

“No more than the battle did,” Devrem said.  “If anything was going to come investigate, they would have by now.”

“Still, there could be anything down those tunnels,” Mara persisted.  “We don’t know what we’re getting ourselves into.”

“We have a pretty good idea of what will happen if we don’t stop Kalarel,” Devrem replied.  “We cannot hesitate.”

“And your healing, cleric?  I will grant that your god did quite a number on the beatdown that those lizards gave me, but how much power do you have left?”

Devrem frowned.  “My magic relies on the strength of the afflicted, as well as the intervention of the Raven Queen,” he acknowledged.  “This short rest will restore us all somewhat, but what remains is limited.” 

“All of the ways out are quiet,” Jaron reported, as he came forward out of the shadows to join them.  “To the west the passage leads to a wide cul-de-sac with several doors.  To the south, there’s that storeroom, and a larger set of double doors.  East you know, beyond the door the goblins came from there’s stairs leading down to a long passage.  I didn’t want to risk going beyond that, but I didn’t see any guards or other signs of the complex being alerted to our presence.  Beetle, stop that.  Leave the dead to their rest.”

“They are nothing but empty shells, now,” Devrem said.  “Very well.  I feel that there is a time for caution, and a time for risk.  But I will defer to the judgment of the group.”

He shifted his gaze to each of them in turn, all save Beetle, who was looting a goblin’s pockets nearby.  Finally he settled his stare on Mara. 

“Fine,” the fighter said, testing the release of her swords in their scabbards.  “But I hope for all our sakes that you’re not wrong, priest.”

The companions regarded each other in quiet, save for the noise of the rats as they devoured the bodies of the goblin sentries. 

* * * * * 

The east corridor turned out to lead to nothing save for a dead end.  

They made their way down the stairs beyond the door, and then down the long tunnel beyond.  Long-burning torches of pine tar set into niches in the wall provided a fitful but adequate illumination, such that they did not have to augment the light with their own sources.  Their first discovery was another staircase that led down to a crumbling, decrepit chamber infested with giant rats.  The creatures attacked at once, but were driven back by the magic of Elevaren and Devrem, and by the blades and missiles from the others.  The worst that the companions suffered was a painful but minor bite to Devrem’s shin; while the bodies of four rats were left to be devoured by their cousins.  Deciding it was highly unlikely that the goblin lair was further in this direction, the five adventurers elected not to press the rats further, and they withdrew back up the stairs to resume their course down the passage.  

The tunnel ended a short distance further in a large open chamber that was dominated by an excavation that left most of the place an open pit with a floor that was a good ten feet below the entry.  Parts of the room had been left intact, leaving a series of platforms connected to the entrance by a series of precarious boards that formed bridges across the pit.  Scattered tools suggested that the work here had been recent and ongoing, although there were no workers present at the moment.  

“I wonder what they were looking for?” Jaron asked.  

“Probably much the same thing that Agrid and he crew was looking for,” Devrem said.  “Artifacts to help Kalarel open the rift to the Shadowfell.” 

“Well, whether they found it or not, they’re not here now,” Mara said.  “I don’t see any other exits, so unless you want to try the rats again, I’d suggest we try another exit from the entry chamber.”

None of them felt particularly eager to visit the rat warren, so they made their way back, Jaron scouting in the lead.  Devrem seemed distracted, muttering something to himself under his breath.  Beetle lingered behind for a few moments, poking through one of the piles of tailings from the dig, then hurried to catch up to the others.  

The negotiated the passage back and the staircase that led up to the entry room without incident.  But when Jaron pushed open the heavy iron-banded door at the top of the stairs, he heard the voices at once.  He identified the language spoken as Goblin, but the voices were too quiet to distinguish what was being said.  It was pretty clear that the speakers were agitated, however, and Jaron had a fairly good idea what had riled them up.  

The others, standing a bit back from the door, couldn’t hear, but they stood alert at the halfling held up his hand in warning.  “Goblins,” he finally said, his voice barely loud enough for them to hear.  

“How many?” Mara mouthed, but Jaron shook his head.  “I’ll check,” the halfling said.  He motioned for the others to wait, and slipped through the door.  

The single torch that guttered in a sconce along the far wall offered only a fitful light down the length of the passage that connected to the main chamber, but still Jaron felt completely exposed as he slid forward.  The voices were louder now, and he could see movement in the chamber ahead.  There were a number of squat, cloaked forms—goblins, almost certainly—gathered around the now-open pit in the center of the room.  Their chatter was too jumbled together to make out, but he got the gist of it.  It wasn’t as if they’d been able to hide all of the signs of their battle in the chamber, even if they’d dumped most of the evidence into the rat pit. 

He heard one of the goblins shout out something, a call for a certain “Balgron” to come see something he had found.  Jaron had only come up to where the passage split off toward the adjacent storeroom, but he didn’t need to come any closer.  By the din and movement there had to be over a dozen goblins in there, and it wouldn’t take much to be seen, even with his skills. 

As if summoned by the thought, a goblin suddenly stepped into view at the mouth of the passage.  Jaron bent low and froze, but the goblin looked right at him, and the way its mouth fell open revealed that he’d seen the ranger.  

Jaron lifted his bow, but before he could shoot something flew past him, glittering in the torchlight briefly before it sank into the goblin’s throat with a meaty thunk.  The goblin toppled over backwards, but Jaron barely noticed it, as he was pulled into the side-passage by Beetle.  

“Too many!  Hide hide!” his cousin hissed, even as the two of them heard the shouts of alarm from the entry chamber.  

The entrance to the storeroom was warded only by a heavy curtain that had been anchored to the low ceiling by a series of rusty iron hooks.  Beetle shot around it like a greased eel, and Jaron could hear a muffled cry of surprise, followed by a quiet thump.  He rushed forward and pushed back the curtain enough to see Beetle dragging a dead goblin into concealment behind a stack of crates.  There were no other goblins in the room that he could see, but there could have been a dozen hiding behind the various heaped stores scattered throughout the compact room. 

He glanced back just as a small column of goblins charged past him toward the door to the stairs where his friends waited.  One went down as bright fey-lights flashed in a violent storm around his head.  From out of his view, back in the main corridor, someone shouted commands in a reedy voice, presumably this “Balgron” character referred to earlier.  The command was a simple one; in the Goblin tongue, “kill everything,” was one of the more common expressions.  

For a moment Jaron thought that the goblins would simply run past, but even as he started to shift back behind the curtain the last warrior at the end of the rush turned and looked right at him.  The halfling ranger drew back and pulled the curtain back into place, but the damage had been done.  The shouts from the corridor changed in tenor, even through the muting of the curtain, and quickly started drawing nearer.  

“Beetle, we’ve got company!” Jaron said, rushing back to find a defensible position amongst the crates.


----------



## jonnytheshirt

*those crazy*

your action always reminds me of P&P LB. Fights always seemed more involved then, changing tactics, dice, all the stuff that made it all a bit slow but more memorable. Alot now lost in the digital realm where its all RT and so quick. Meh dems the breaks. Just got kidnapped by WAR online for a week and it don't half get crazy quick.

Liking beetles corpse playhouse!


----------



## Richard Rawen

Enjoying the ride LB!
Looks like the heroes will need a decisive victory her or they're in Trouble!


----------



## Lazybones

Thanks for the posts, guys. The SH forum's seemed very quiet of late, and I admit my enthusiasm for writing has waned somewhat of late (not related to ENWorld, but to other things). I'm down to only a few chapters stored up so I may have to drop my regular update schedule for a while, we'll see how this week goes. I'm heading out of town for a week starting Friday, but I should have Internet access where I'm traveling.  

* * * * * 

Chapter 41


Goblins burst around both sides of the heavy curtain at once, lunging forward into the storeroom with javelins at the ready.  

Jaron rose up behind a line of stacked casks and shot an arrow into the side of the nearer of the two.  The goblin warrior grunted in pain and fell back into the curtain, almost tearing it from its moorings as he fought to recover his footing.  His companion surged at Jaron before he could reload, throwing his javelin at point-blank range, clipping the halfling’s shoulder painfully with an impact that drove him a full step back.  The ranger grimaced as he yanked the head of the spear free, but then the goblin was almost on top of him, lunging with the thicker, heavier spear he carried in his other hand.  

But the thrust never landed, as Beetle stepped out from the crates and sliced his dagger across the back of the goblin’s leg.  The goblin screamed and fell forward into the crates, blood pouring from the deep wound down his leg to splatter in fat gobs on the floor.  He recovered quickly, thrusting the haft of his spear back in a violent jab that would have cracked Beetle’s breastbone, had it connected.  But the rogue simple slid to the side, and as the goblin’s thrust went past, he brought his knife up and sliced the already bloody edge across the goblin’s fingers.  The warrior cried out again and dropped the spear.  He tried to push away, but before he could get free Jaron rose up and stabbed half of the length of his small sword into the junction where the goblin’s neck met his body.  Blood jetted from the terrible wound, spraying both halflings as the warrior fell to the ground, his limbs twitching.  

But the other goblin warrior had regained his footing, and had been reinforced by a pair of cutters, clad in cheap, filthy leathers but armed with perfectly dangerous short blades.  The halflings could hear the sounds of battle issuing from behind the curtain, vague cries of pain and rage, punctuated by a frisson of magical energies being hurled about.  Faint flickers of silver and color could be seen, but not enough to indicate the way that the battle was going. 

The goblins moved forward, cautious now, wary of these small but proven dangerous foes.  Jaron and Beetle retreated slowly, navigating the maze of barrels and crates by touch and memory and instinct, not turning away from the goblins for a moment. 

And then the curtain slid open again, and a goblin sharpshooter with a loaded crossbow stepped through. 

“Take cover, Beetle!” Jaron yelled, leaping back behind a barrel at the same instant that the goblin lifted his bow and fired.  The bolt missed him by a hair’s breath, striking the weathered staves of the barrel with enough force to crack the wood.  Sour-smelling liquid poured from the breach, forming a slick that spread slowly across the floor. 

The goblins rushed forward to take advantage, but one of the cutters screamed and fell, clutching at the steel hilt that protruded from its left eye.  The other, driven forward more by the presence of its fellows than by a desire to close with these enemies, rushed around the barrel to get at Jaron, while the warrior came around the far side.  

The cutter lunged with his blade ahead of him, but the sword met only empty air, clanging hard off the stone floor.  The goblin, off balance, looked perplexed, but the warrior was already moving toward the back of the room near the door, where another cluster of crates had been left scattered by the lazy goblins.  Realizing he’d been spotted, Jaron rose up, using the crate for cover, his sword lifted to parry the goblin’s spear.  

“Look out, Jayse!” Beetle yelled, and Jaron glanced over his shoulder to see that his situation had taken a decided turn for the worse.  The door to the storeroom had opened quietly behind him, and a second goblin sharpshooter had slid into the room.  It lifted its bow, and there was nothing the halfling ranger could do but stare at the sharp steel head that seemed to swell in his vision as the goblin yanked on the trigger of his bow.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 42


Jaron’s luck ran out, and the bolt slammed into his chest, knocking him back against the crate that had been protecting him a moment ago.  The steel head penetrated his armor and stabbed deep into him, shearing hard off a rib and missing his lung by the scantest of margins.  That was little solace for the immediate moment, and the sword at his side suddenly felt like it weighed a hundred pounds, as the goblin warrior rushed forward to gain vengeance for the arrow Jaron had shot him with just seconds before.  

But once again Beetle came to his cousin’s aid, rushing forward out of cover with a scream to fall upon the warrior from behind.  The goblin, intent on his target, reacted too late, and his heel slipped on the spilled ale as he shifted to respond to the new threat.  Beetle drove the entire length of his knife into the goblin’s neck, and he collapsed with a bloody froth spurting from his lips.  

The cutter, caught between two foes, took one look at Beetle’s face before darting back behind a row of nearby barrels.  The sharpshooter standing by the curtain was a seasoned veteran, however, and he calmly slid another bolt into place behind the cocked string of his bow, and took careful aim at Beetle. 

But as the goblin pulled the trigger, the curtain behind him shook with a heavy impact, jostling him slightly.  His bolt flew wide, missing Beetle’s head by inches before burying itself in the corner of a crate.  The goblin turned to see a goblin warrior slip through the gap on the edge of the curtain, slumping to the ground in a mess of blood.  Several deep gashes had pierced his armor, and as the sniper watched he fell still and expired.  Behind the curtain, a deep-throated cry sounded, an invocation of death that seemed an echo of the fate of the goblin’s companion. 

The sniper had no interest in learning the source of that sound, or why the noise of melee behind the curtain had so suddenly faded.  He headed for the door, reloading his bow again as he went.  The halfling he’d shot at before had disappeared again, vanishing behind the crates in the middle of the room, but the other one was still on his feet. 

Jaron, despite the critical wound oozing blood from his chest, charged forward to engage the other sharpshooter before he could reload his deadly bow.  The goblin drew a sword and met him in the doorway, their blades ringing loudly as they clashed.  But while Jaron was good with a sword, the goblin was both fresher and unwounded, and his companion was coming up quickly behind the halfling, who seemed to grow weaker with each passing second.  

The second bowman finished reloading and lifted his bow toward Jaron.  “Time to die, halfling!” he yelled, but his eyes weren’t on Jaron, but instead scanned the clutter of stores to his left.  His wariness proved prudent a moment later as Beetle reappeared from behind a small barrel, rushing to his cousin’s aid once more.  The sharpshooter shifted his aim smoothly and fired.  Beetle jerked to the side, but the bolt clipped him hard on the side of his head, digging a bloody channel from just over his left eye all the way back to his ear.  The halfling screamed in pain and fell forward to his knees right in front of the goblin, his palms slapping hard against the floor, blood pouring down his face in a red sheet.  

The archer drew his sword and stepped forward to finish the job.


----------



## Richard Rawen

In relation to my post "need a decisive victory"
(Not sure how this will translate into text)

Perhaps I did not put the right emPHASis on the proper syLAble...
The battle will be decisive, it does appear, but I was going more for the Victory part...


----------



## wolff96

Lazybones?  You still out there?

I'm missing my updates...  

You've been an ongoing source of entertainment for a very long time, more regular than any other story hour author.  I'd love to see more of this story, even if it's just enough to close out this module.


----------



## Lazybones

wolff96 said:


> Lazybones?  You still out there?
> 
> I'm missing my updates...
> 
> You've been an ongoing source of entertainment for a very long time, more regular than any other story hour author.  I'd love to see more of this story, even if it's just enough to close out this module.



Heh, I'm still here. I do intend to finish this story, but I just haven't had much time to write of late. I did have most of two updates after this one just about ready, so here's one, and I'll see if I can get the other finished next week. I do have the second module and a few notes for continuing the story but I'm not going to commit to it at this point. If I do, there are some new character ideas I'd like to work on. 

Having written a good chunk of this story in the 4e system,  I think that the round-by-round style I typically use may have to give way to more summative posts. The combats drag way out by comparison with 3.xe, and while that works okay in a game environment, it makes the story drag somewhat (IMO).  

* * * * * 

Chapter 43


Glowing fey lights passed through the curtain in the back of the storeroom.  The flickered in the air and took on solid form, coalescing into the form of Elevaren.  The warlock lifted a hand and invoked _witchfire_, drawing a scream from the goblin sharpshooter as white flames streaked from his eyes and ears.  

Despite his grievous wounds, Beetle shot up and lunged at the goblin as he turned to face the new threat.  Drawing out his last dagger, he stabbed wildly at the goblin, piercing its side and back.  The goblin swung the bow in his off-hand like a club, smashing Beetle across the brow and knocking him onto his back.  But Elevaren followed up with an _eldritch blast_ that drove the goblin to his knees, and a moment later he toppled over, unconscious. 

The warlock moved forward to come to Jaron’s aid, but his opponent had already seen the way that the battle was going.  As Jaron parried another swing of his sword, the goblin reached out and grabbed the bolt jutting from the halfling’s chest, twisting it in the wound.  Jaron cried out and fell back, nearly losing his footing altogether.  The goblin took advantage of the distraction to disengage, falling back toward the door before Elevaren could hit him with another blast of fey magic.  

He would have gotten away had it not been for Mara, who stepped into view in the open doorway just a second before the goblin got there.  Seeing that his escape was blocked, the goblin still tried to push past, yelling a challenge as he lunged at the fighter.  Mara blocked his thrust easily, and responded with a blow that sent the goblin reeling.  He fell back into the room, where he found few good options facing him.  He started toward Elevaren, perhaps intending to try to get around him and past the curtain, but the warlock hexed him with an _eyebite_, and he was unable to protect himself as Mara came up behind him and delivered a smash to the back of his head with the hilt of her longsword that laid him out, unconscious. 

Jaron had immediately rushed to Beetle’s side, and was cradling in his arms, trying to staunch the flow of blood from his scalp with a pad of cloth.  “Devrem!  We need you in here!” Mara yelled, coming over to help him.  Jaron looked little better than his cousin, with the crossbow bolt still jutting from his chest.  “Here, let me,” Mara said, sheathing her swords.  She took the crude bandage and lifted the crippled halfling in the crook of her arm, laying him carefully atop a row of crates.  Beetle groaned, but otherwise did not stir.  

Jaron tried to follow them, but with the rush of battle fading his own injuries caught up to him, and he slumped against a barrel, clinging to it to keep from falling to the ground.  Elevaren went to him, kneeling in the sticky mess of ale and blood spread across the floor.  “Try not to move.  This will need to come out, but Devrem should be here when it happens, to heal you.”

“Did you get the others?  The goblins, I mean.”

“Yes.  They had us outnumbered, but the cleric summoned his shadow-raven again, and it threw the enemy line into chaos at the door.”

“The _guardian of faith_ is a potent ally,” Devrem said as he entered the room.  He took in the scene in a single sweeping glance.  To Jaron, the cleric’s expression seemed unchanged when he shifted his eyes from the corpses splayed out across the floor to his companions.  To a priest of death, life probably had little meaning, he thought. 

In fact, it was the opposite, but he could not know that. 

“Beetle... needs help...” Jaron said.  He tried to get up, but his limbs failed to obey his commands, and Elevaren had to hold him to keep him from tumbling over.  

“I can see that,” Devrem said, crossing quickly to where Mara held the dying halfling.  “Do not move; that bolt will kill you if you let it.  I will get to you as soon as I can.”

The death-priest moved swiftly.  He pulled away the bandage, laying the terrible gash bare.  Fresh blood spurted from the wound, and stained his fingers as he laid his hands upon Beetle’s head.  The cleric summoned the blessed divine power of his patron.  The silver fire flashed around the brooch of the silver raven at his breast, and between his fingers.  The flow of blood coming from Beetle’s head eased, and the skin knit shut under Devrem’s touch.  The cleric sagged slightly as the magic faded.  Beetle lay quietly, but his sleep was natural now, almost peaceful. 

Devrem turned to Jaron.  “The goblin?” Mara asked.  

“Escaped to the south, via the double doors,” Devrem said.  His cold blue eyes held Jaron’s.  “I will not be able to use my magic again for a few minutes,” he said.  “It is important that you remain still until I can extract the bolt.”  Elevaren made sure that he wasn’t going to fall when he released him, then the warlock moved to the door, to keep watch.  

Jaron nodded slightly.  “The goblin that escaped, was it the leader?”

“Who knows,” Mara said.  “He was a fat bastard, though, even for a goblin.  All he did during the battle was shoot off a few bolts; once things started to turn, he took off fast enough.”

“Do you think...” Jaron began, breaking off as he coughed.  When he wiped his mouth, blood stained the cuff, but he shook his head at Devrem’s offered hand.  “Do you think there are more of them?”

“We haven’t faced Kalarel yet,” Devrem said.  “And I suspect there is more to this complex than what we have seen thus far.”

“We are in no shape to face additional foes at this point,” Mara said.  “We must withdraw.”

Jaron watched Devrem’s face.  For a moment he thought that the priest would argue, but finally he nodded.


----------



## Richard Rawen

Well, they lived... that's better than the alternative 

What they need is a ready supply of curative elixers... or a healing stick =)
But this is a pretty fun way of running combat, makes it more dangerous and risky, not the "charge into every battle" attitude of most D&D groups.
Good Stuff LB, looking forward to more!


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 44


They did not linger long in the storeroom.  Not only were they all-too aware of the likelihood of the fat goblin returning with reinforcements, but the stink of the dead goblins quickly soured the air until the small chamber was almost unbearable.  Mara tore down the curtain to the north, both to let some fresh air in and to minimize the chance of another ambush.  She tore long strips from its hem with her short sword, and used them to bind the arms and legs of the goblin she’d knocked unconscious.  The sniper remained out cold, lying on the ground; all that the fighter did for him was to drag him a short distance from the puddle of blood slowly spreading across the floor.  Once the prisoner was secure, she joined Elevaren in keeping watch on the outer chambers and passages while Devrem tended to the halflings.  

Finally, after what seemed like an hour to the battered adventurers, but was in reality only about five minutes, Devrem bent low over Jaron.  “This will require a lot of your own strength, and I know how drained you are,” he told the halfling.  “And it will hurt like a demon.”

“I have been shot before,” Jaron replied simply.  

Devrem nodded, and grabbed hold of the bolt with one hand, while his other pressed close around the wound.  Without preamble he yanked out the missile; Jaron swooned in sudden agony, and would have fallen without the support of the priest’s other hand.  Devrem spoke a word of healing power, and magic flowed between them, drawing upon the last of the halfling’s strength to help close the wound.  He was still weak, gravely so, but the nasty wound no longer threatened his life.  

“You have a fierce spirit,” the cleric told him, when Jaron was finally able to stand unassisted.  

“What about Beetle?”

“Unfortunately, he is too weak for me to help any further; he needs rest,” Devrem said.  “But as long as we are in this place, we cannot spare anyone to carry him.  He should be able to walk, if you wake him.  But try to see that he does not get stabbed or shot again, at least not until tomorrow.”

Jaron looked up at the cleric, trying and failing to judge if he were making a jest.  But Beetle stirred at his gentle touch, and when Jaron helped his cousin to his feet, he could stand, if a bit wobbly.  Beetle’s natural curiosity and energy was muted, however, and he followed Jaron silently as the trio left the storeroom and rejoined the others.  

“Let us be free of this place while we can,” Mara said, after verifying that the two halflings were all right.  She took up her prisoner like a sack of oats, slinging the unconscious goblin over her shoulder while holding her longer sword ready in her prime hand.  

“Do you think you’ll get him to talk?” Jaron asked her.  

“He’ll talk,” the fighter replied, her voice full of grim certainty. 

They made their way out into the larger room and then back north along the wide passage that led to the entrance chamber.  The rats continued their din within the pit, as they fed on the corpses that Beetle had tossed down earlier. 

They didn’t linger, heading around the pit toward the staircase leading up.  The amount of light filtering down from above had dimmed considerably, suggesting that they’d spent longer down here than it seemed; time was a funny thing, underground. 

“Hsst!” Jaron warned, drawing their attention around just as a goblin emerged from the corridor to the west.  He was a scraggly unfortunate, clad in a dirty tunic that was little more than rags.  The goblin’s eyes widened as he saw the companions at the same time that they saw him.  He didn’t have a weapon, and flinched back as Beetle stepped forward, a knife appearing like magic in his hand.  As hurt as he was, there was still something menacing in the way that the little halfling carried himself.

“No kill!  No kill!” the goblin urged, spreading his empty hands wide.  “Can helps you!” 

“Hold, Beetle,” Devrem said, but they never got a chance to learn more from the creature, as a loud noise sounded from down the passage behind the goblin, a guttural roar that was followed by the heavy tread of running feet.  The goblin hurled himself aside, moments before a big, broad-chested hobgoblin came around the bend of the passage.  The creature was covered in old scars, which ran out from under the tunic of stitched hides he wore over his bulging torso.  The hobgoblin carried a long iron poker, the end of which glowed bright red, as if it had been just taken from the depths of a forge. 

The hobgoblin found himself confronted not with a single escaping prisoner, but by a heavily armed and experienced company of adventurers.  Even as big and as mean as he looked, the odds were clearly against him.  But he didn’t hesitate, growling a challenge as he surged forward toward them. 

Mara shrugged, letting her prisoner fall hard to the floor at her feet, and stepped forward to meet him.  She reached for her short sword as she lifted her longer blade to parry the hobgoblin’s lunge.  But the hobgoblin was deceptively fast, and he slid the end of the poker down under her swing and smashed it up into her face.  The red-hot, slightly curving end of the poker caught her just under the lip of her helmet, smashing her jaw.  The fighter was knocked roughly to the side, and she slumped against the wall of the corridor, the sick stink of burning flesh coming from her ravaged face.  

The hobgoblin lifted the end of his weapon to his face, his lips twisting into a slight smile as he sniffed at the blood that hissed on the glowing iron.  Then he stepped forward to confront Devrem, who’d taken up a position in front of the crippled Mara. 

“Time for pain,” the hobgoblin grunted.  The creature’s Common was so thick as to be barely discernable, but there was no mistaking his intent as he stepped forward to engage the cleric.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 45


Already wounded and exhausted from their battles against the goblins, the adventurers now found themselves facing a homicidal hobgoblin with obvious combat experience. 

The hobgoblin lunged at Devrem, who thrust his staff into the creature’s face.  Silver sparks flashed, but the hobgoblin seemed little fazed by the priest’s _Sacred flame_.  He thrust the hot poker like a spear, jabbing the hot end into Devrem’s shoulder.  The cleric was driven back by the hard blow, and fell heavily to one knee, grimacing in pain. 

Mara tried to get up, but her strength was gone.  She would have fallen, but Elevaren was there to support her, taking her weight against his body as he pulled her from the fray.  Jaron tried to cover their retreat, but his arrow flew wild, and the hobgoblin barely seemed to notice.

The goblin that had precipitated this encounter tried to take advantage of the confusion to slip away, slinking along the shadow of the wall away from the melee.  But he stopped short as Beetle stepped into his path, a dagger gleaming brightly in his hand.  

“Eh, eh,” he said.  He lifted the dagger, and the goblin flinched, but as the halfling snapped his wrist the small blade shot well over the goblin’s head, flipping end over end before the tip buried itself several inches into the hobgoblin’s throat. 

The hobgoblin roared in pain, reaching up to yank the little knife free.  Blood poured down his chest from the wound, although it was obviously not life-threatening.  Still, it was more than the halfling’s companions had been able to do, and the hobgoblin surged forward to even the score.  

But before he could get past those battered companions, Devrem leapt up to block the hobgoblin’s charge.  The cleric, fighting with a surge of desperation, seized hold of the poker, struggling for control of the weapon.  For a moment the two wrestled, matched in size, but the hobgoblin had the edge in strength and stamina, and finally he tore his weapon free, snapping the iron shaft up into Devrem’s face.  The cleric collapsed, falling over onto his back, stunned by the blow. 

The hobgoblin sneered as he lifted his weapon in both hands, aiming for the priest’s unprotected head.  But before he could strike, flickering fey-lights exploded around his head, dazzling him.  The _eldritch blast_ didn’t hurt him, at least not much, but the same could not be said for the arrow that buried deep into his side, the steel head piercing the layered hides that protected his torso.  Even so, the hobgoblin’s fury fueled his strength, and he managed to step forward, still focused on his prey.  

The unarmed goblin watched Beetle in amazement as the halfling produced another knife, which appeared in his hand seemingly from nowhere.  Beetle smiled at the goblin as he tossed the knife almost casually in a low arc that intersected with the hobgoblin’s knee.  The joint crumpled as the hobgoblin shifted his weight onto it, and he fell hard, nearly smashing Devrem beneath his weight.  Even still the creature fought, trying to get up, thrashing against the cleric as he tried to get free.  His hand quested toward his belt, seizing upon the hilt of the dagger secured there.  He drew the blade with his left hand, while he grabbed onto Devrem’s chest with his right, yanking himself close enough for a killing thrust. 

But the noise of a bowstring being drawn taut drew his attention up, just in time to see the gleaming point of Jaron’s arrow before it drove forward into his right eye.


----------



## Richard Rawen

Huzzah! Now if they can just Get Out and rest!
I wonder if Beetle will have a Goblin for a follower?


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 46


Splug was alternatively helpful and evasive, in nearly equal measure. 

The companions were encamped in a small dell buried within the hills surrounding the ruined keep.  Huge trees gnarled with age loomed all around them, enfolding them in a protective circle of low-hanging branches.  Roots jutted from the ragged loam, forming an accidental rampart around their camp.  A tiny fire burned in a pit dug between two of those roots, offering a pittance of warmth without compromising the location of their hideaway.  Mara lay nearby, wrapped in her blanket, sunk into a slumber that was more like unconsciousness than simple rest.  Elevaren sat near her, exhaustion visible in his features even through the usual impenetrability of the eladrin.  He poked at the fire, his dark eyes perceiving things perhaps beyond the ken of the others. 

Devrem was tired as well, but he continued his interrogation of the goblin prisoner.  Splug had accompanied them on their flight from the dungeon under the keep.  Mara’s prisoner had somehow escaped during the fight, slipping its bonds and slinking away deeper into the complex.  Their new captive had clearly not been in the good graces of the goblin leadership; the hobgoblin torturer that they’d killed near the exit had been chasing him, and he bore bruises both old and new upon his scrawny body.  Splug had told them that he’d been unfairly imprisoned by his peers for advocating restraint in dealing with the humans of Winterhaven, a claim which none of them found likely.  Still, they needed intelligence as to the enemy’s remaining strength and defenses, and Devrem had ordered Beetle to watch their new companion closely, binding the prisoner’s arms and leaving a tail of rope to ensure that he didn’t decide to depart prematurely. 

When they’d emerged from the dungeon they realized they’d been underground longer than expected; the sun had already vanished behind the horizon, and a deepening gloom was rapidly shadowing the space between the hills.  All of them were in a sorry state, particularly Mara, who was being all but carried between Elevaren and Devrem.  But with night approaching fast, the long trek back to Winterhaven seemed impractical, if not impossible.  It was Jaron who found the dell, following an old game track that had clearly not seen use in some time.  The halfling lingered behind them as they moved to the shelter and set up camp, doing what he could to erase the signs of their passage.  The big concern was pursuit from the forces still present in the keep.  In addition to the goblins that had escaped, including the fat leader, there was the cleric Kalarel, and whatever allies the evil priest still had to call upon. 

Kalarel was foremost on Devrem’s mind as he questioned Splug.  “Let’s go through it again.  How many hobgoblins does Kalarel have working for him?”

Splug took on a long-suffering expression, and muttered something in the Goblin tongue.  The goblin slipped in and out of his own language and Common interchangeably, and Devrem considered calling down Jaron to help; the halfling scout had learned that language during the long fight against Dal Durga and his goblinoid raiders.  But he knew that Jaron’s sharp eyes were best employed watching for foes searching out their hiding place. 

Instead his eyes shifted to Beetle, who was sitting on a rock nearby, watching the exchange.  Splug shivered as he followed the priest’s gaze.  The halfling smiled as their eyes met, but there was something cold in his look as well.  

“I tell you,” Splug blurted out, turning back to Devrem.  “They not let me in lower level.  Goblins only on top level, hobgoblins on lower level.  I tell everything, help you much.  Splug good friend of humankinds, little halflings too.  Good friend... yelp!”

The goblin started as Beetle appeared silently beside him, his head cocked slightly, close enough for his breath to be felt on the goblin’s sensitive ear.  Devrem stifled a slight grin; Jaron’s cousin had a certain flair for spookiness.  Splug controlled himself, sidling away to a point midway between the cleric and halfling.  

“All right,” Devrem said.  “Let’s talk about Balgron.”

The night deepened, and around midnight clouds drifted over the sky, concealing the moon and stars behind a cloak of shadow.  Within the dell, it was almost utterly black.  Devrem slept in his cloak.  Jaron remained on watch, concealed above them along the trail that led into the dell.  Splug had been trussed with ropes and covered with a spare blanket, his ankle fastened by a complex knot to an exposed root as thick around as an ogre’s meaty thigh. 

The goblin shifted slightly.  He emerged from the blanket, leaving the ropes behind.  He crept as silent as the night to the edge of the camp.  The web of roots presented no real barrier.  He paused, and looked over at a nearby trunk, where one of Mara’s swords hung from a stub of a branch, next to a pack full of supplies.  

The goblin looked over the silent, slumbering forms, and reached slowly out toward the treasures. 

A thud startled him, and he nearly cut his hand on the knife blade that now jutted out between two of his probing fingers.  Turning, he saw a shadow watching him, with two glistening points where the faint light reflected off of the halfling’s eyes.  Beetle did not move, but it was clear that those bright points missed nothing. 

Moving slowly, Splug retreated, and crept back under his blanket, shivering from more than just the cold of the night.


----------



## Lazybones

Thanks to my readers for their patience, here's another update.

* * * * * 

Chapter 47


Jaron was trapped, caught in a web of darkness.  He writhed in terror as insubstantial claws bit into his flesh, driving icy cold daggers of fear deep into him, but he could neither see nor feel their source.  He could sense a presence, however, a thing darker than far than the blackness that enfolded him.  He bit his tongue to keep from crying out, knowing that to draw the attention of that shadowy form was Death. 

He started, and awoke to find himself in their camp.  Bright rays of sunlight drifted into the dell, sparkling on bits of dust that floated in the air like fireflies.  His back hurt, and he looked down to see a root jutting from the ground where he’d been sleeping.  A slight coppery taste lingered in his mouth, but he knew that if he checked, he’d find nothing there. 

“Bad dreams?” Devrem said, looking up from where he tended the small fire.  The familiar scent of coffee began to drift over the camp.  Mara and Elevaren were still sleeping, he saw, draped out under their blankets like corpses.  The halfling shuddered and took up his gear, belting his sword around his waist with deliberation.  His hands did not shake, but the cleric could see though his attempt to dissemble his feelings.  The priest nodded to himself.  “It’s beginning,” he said.  “I hope that we are not already too late.”

“What will happen if Kalarel completes the ritual?” Jaron asked.  He took up his bow, and moved over to where the priest sat.  Beetle’s bedroll was empty, but he knew his cousin’s habits too well to be unduly alarmed by that.  The goblin was another matter; Splug sat against the bole of a nearby tree, a rope wound once around his body, his wrists still bound and a gag stuck in his jaw.  Jaron looked at Devrem. 

“I grew tired of his chatter,” the priest said.  Taking up one of his gloves to protect his hand, he lifted the pot from the fire and poured coffee into a beaten iron mug that looked as though it had seen a few campaigns.  Jaron nodded gratefully and sipped at the hot beverage.  Splug made noises, but it was impossible to determine what he was trying to say through the gag. 

“Be silent,” Devrem said.  The goblin obeyed, subsiding with a sullen look at the cleric. 

“You do not believe his story?” Jaron asked. 

“It does not matter whether I believe.  He is a goblin, and he has some knowledge of the operation of Kalarel’s organization.  He is useful to us for the nonce, and so he lives.”

“Where is Beetle?”

“He crept off a few minutes ago.”

“And you just let him go?”

“I did not notice his absence until he had left.  In any case, he is his own man, or halfling, in this case.  And to answer your original question: the terrors of which I spoke before are very real.  Kalarel would open a portal to the Shadowfell, a realm of death and decay.  Beings of the unlife dwell there in large numbers, waiting for a chance to enter our world and prey upon the living.  This realm would fall into shadow, ruled by corrupted things such as Kalarel.  Although ultimately, for all his power, he is but a man.  Things darker yet by far dwell within the Shadowfell.  Darker, more cunning, and more powerful.”

“And nothing could stop this?”

Devrem shrugged.  “It was done before.  Perhaps, if the surrounding kingdoms rallied their armies, their magic, and their will.  But the lands of man are more divided and fragmented today than they were in the time of the old empire.  And even if the portal could be sealed again, there would be great suffering ere that day came.  No, my friend, it is up to us, to stop this thing before the portal is reopened.  Once the door is opened, then it is already too late.”

Jaron shivered, and took another draught from the cup.  It was a strong brew, and bitter.  He looked up as something shifted slightly in the brush.  He turned, wary, aware of Devrem reaching for his staff behind him.  But it was only Beetle, grinning as he held up a dead rabbit by its hind legs.  “Bacon,” the halfling said.

They lingered in the camp as the morning brightened.  Mara and Elevaren woke, and joined the others for breakfast.  Mara was still rather groggy from the events of the day before.  The fighter’s cracked jaw still pained her, and she could barely speak until Devrem reset it, using his divine power to heal the cruel injury.  Even after that the fighter said little, but her expression remained dark as she went over all her gear, checking and cleaning each weapon, every piece of armor.  A few times she shot meaningful looks at Elevaren, a private conversation exchanged without a single word being spoken.  The eladrin had regained some of the otherworldly air that he’d lost in the aftermath of yesterday’s battle; as he meditated in the shadow of a looming tree at the edge of their camp, he seemed more like some spirit of the wood than a normal man.  

Splug was ungagged and given some leftovers to eat as the others prepared to break camp.  The goblin muttered about the injustice of the situation, but was careful to keep his voice low.  Beetle was assigned to keep watch over him.  

It wasn’t until they had packed up all of their gear, and buried the evidence of their stay, that Mara finally confronted Devrem. 

“We need to talk about this mission,” she said, taking up a position astride the narrow path that led back up out of the dell.  

“I have told you all that I know of Kalarel and his allies,” Devrem replied.  “You all know what is at stake here.”

“What I know,” Mara said, “is that there are five of us here.  We’ll all decent in a fight, I’ll grant.  We held our own against those goblins, when the odds were against us.  But if even half of what that goblin said was true, we’re up against even worse odds back in that dungeon.  Kalarel’s hobgoblin mercenaries aren’t going to be as easy as those goblins were… and they nearly killed us.  Leaving aside the cleric’s own powers, about which you have been rather vague.”

“I have held nothing from you,” Devrem said.  He met the woman fighter’s gaze with a hard look of his own, and for several quiet seconds a tension grew between them, one that neither seemed willing to break. 

“We are not saying that the mission is not important,” Elevaren finally said, stepping between the two.  “But it helps nothing if we are slain; no one would even know of what we have learned here.  Perhaps if we returned to Winterford, convinced Lord Padraig…”

“He does not understand.  None of them do.  They dwell safe in the security of their stone walls and empty lives, refusing to believe in the shadows that they can only dimly sense.  They sit by the fire and tell tales, and laugh away the darkness that waits to claim them.”

“Why do you fight to defend them, if you hold them in such contempt?” Mara asked.

“I might ask you the same, fighter.”

Mara flinched, and her expression darkened.  She stepped forward, thrusting closer to priest, until Elevaren laid a hand on her shoulder.

“This is crazy!” 

They all turned to look at Jaron, who’d stepped up onto a fallen log along the edge of the camp facing the trail.  “Look, we’re all on the same side here, right?  I’ve seen enough already to know that Kalarel is a threat to the region.  I don’t know what’s going to happen if he completes this ritual, but I can’t risk the lives of my people on the hope that Devrem is wrong.  There’s _something_ building here, I felt it last night.  Something… _wrong_, about this place.  Dark powers at work…”

“Dreams are not a good reason to risk your life,” Mara said.  

“I have made my case as best I could,” Devrem said.  “I could use your blade, warrior, but if you have not the stomach for this fight, then you can at least bring word to Winterhaven.  Perhaps it will not be too late, if I fail.”

“I will go with you,” Jaron said, sounding resigned. 

“Me too!” Beetle said.  

Mara looked at Elevaren.  “What of you, old friend?”

The eladrin’s eyes fell to the tangled growth at his feet.  “I little feel as though I am master of my own course, these days.”  He looked up at Devrem.  “I suspect I was brought here for a reason.  I will accompany you.”

Devrem looked at Mara.  “Damn it, fine then,” she said.  “Without me, you won’t have even a slim chance.  But I want your word, priest, that if we are overmatched, we fall back, and reassess the situation.  I’m not signing on for a suicide mission.”

“Death is inevitable for all of us,” the priest said.  “But I am not a madman.  I am here to stop Kalarel, not to throw my life away.”

“That’s not exactly reassuring,” Mara muttered under her breath, as the group set out again back toward the keep.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 48


They returned cautiously, alert for an ambush.  Their enemies had not pursued them out of the dungeon, but they’d had almost a whole day to prepare a response against their return.  Hobgoblins were wily, cunning foes, adept at group tactics and siegecraft, including the construction of fortified defenses.  Both Mara and Jaron had fought them in the past, in the days of Dal Durga’s violent horde.  

But the dungeon greeted them only with cold, musty darkness on their return.  The torches in the entry chamber and the adjacent corridors had burned down, leaving the place mired in shadow beyond the radius of the shaft of morning light that drifted down the stairs from the ruin above.  The bodies left from their last battle were gone, although dark streaks marked the floor as a memorial to their passing.  Even the rat pit in the center of the room was strangely quiet, although a faint rustling could be heard now and again.  

“Maybe they decided they’d had enough,” Jaron ventured.  “Their operation was compromised; perhaps they abandoned the site.”

“No,” Devrem said.  “The ritual continues, deeper within this place.”  He did not elaborate on the source of his knowledge, and no one asked.  They could all feel it, a vague pulsing on the edge of perception that caused the hairs on their arms to stand up.  

Splug was still with them, still attached to his halter, currently in the custody of Elevaren.  The goblin seemed subdued this morning, avoiding his usual comments and protests.  Devrem drew out a small metal lamp from his pack, lit it and handed it to Splug.  The flame cast a fitful glow that drove back the darkness as they moved away from the entrance, deeper into the complex. 

They already knew which way to go, from their interrogation of their goblin prisoner.  They moved to the south, toward the doors that the defeated goblins had fled toward in their last incursion here.  A few beetles the size of gold pieces scattered out of their way as they moved into the anteroom to the south; one crunched loudly as Beetle jumped onto it, grinning as the others flinched at the sudden noise.  The heavy wooden double doors were closed, but opened easily to Mara’s shoulder.  Beyond them, a set of rough-hewn stairs descended into darkness.  

They did not speak, and clumped together within the brightest core of the lamplight.  The stairs culminated in a passage that split to the north and west, with each direction forking again after a short while.  They turned to the right and then left, following Jaron, who was peering closely at the floor, looking for traces of recent passage.  Dust and cobwebs clung to the walls and the angles where ceiling and wall, wall and floor met, but the center of the passage was more or less clear, suggesting at least occasional traffic through the area.  

The passage continued straight for a good distance, then split again, offering side corridors to the left and right in addition to pressing on ahead.  After a moment’s examination of the options Jaron indicated the right turn, but hesitated.  

“What’s the matter?” Mara asked.  In response, Jaron indicated a spot on the floor ahead.  

They advanced warily.  The spot that Jaron had indicated was a circle etched into the floor, with three runes carved into the stone within.  The runes were each a good three feet across, and formed an interlocking pattern that joined together in the center, like three spokes of a wagon wheel.  They were just simple carvings, gouged deep into smooth stone of the floor, but they seemed to glisten slightly in the light of Devrem’s lamp. 

“What is this?” Mara asked.  “Goblin?” she asked, but Splug merely shrugged and shrank back.

“Perhaps we can slip around it,” Elevaren suggested, but Devrem, who had knelt in front of the diagram to study it more closely, shook his head.  Beetle started forward to get his own closer look, but Devrem shot out a hand, keeping him back.  

“No,” he said.  “No, the ward is set across the whole passage.  It might be leapt, but any step in this area,” he said, indicating the entire length of the circle, “would be hazardous.”

“What does it do?” Mara asked.  

“I do not know.  There is magic bound here, and evil.”  

“Beetle and I could probably jump it,” Jaron said to Devrem.  “And Elevaren has his magic.  But you and Mara…”

“Not in all this metal, at least,” the fighter conceded.  “Maybe there’s another way around?”

That was too practical a suggestion to ignore, so they retraced their steps.  But at each fork in the tunnel they ended up at another of the runic markings.  Finally Devrem called a halt. 

“All right, we don’t have time to linger further.  I will trigger one of the runes, and call upon the power of the Goddess to protect me.  Stay a good distance back; the ward may have an area effect.”

“This is crazy,” Mara said.  “Maybe we should just…”

But Devrem simply turned and stepped into the circle.  Mara and the others jumped back in surprise.  

A scream pierced the air, echoing through the corridor.  Each of them felt a cold chill pass through them at that unnatural cry, but they only felt an echo of the released magic, a discharge that hit Devrem fully.  The priest swayed for a moment, a low moan escaping his lips as he clutched tightly to the bole of his staff for support.  But then he seemed to draw strength from within himself, and straightened.  He drove the staff down into the floor, the iron-shod end ringing on the stone, chipping into the floor at the point where the runes met. The sepulchral cry faded at once, and the unnatural gleam that reflected from the circle likewise dissolved, leaving the corridor again more or less as it had been. 

The others came forward to rejoin the cleric.  “You’ve got balls, I’ll grant you that, priest,” Mara said.  “But maybe give us a bit more warning, next time.”

Beetle had stepped forward to examine the now-defunct ward more closely, but Jaron drew their attention with a raised hand.  “Do you hear that?”

They all stopped moving.  The sound that had alerted the Halfling was only barely audible, a soft groaning that drifted out of the darkness ahead.  Then a noise only slightly louder, a gentle shuffling noise, sliding on stone. 

“Shine the light!” Devrem commanded.  Splug had retreated almost to the end of the rope held by Elevaren, but as the attention of the others turned to him he obeyed, thrusting the lamp before him toward the darkness.  The shadows of the companions elongated down the passage as the illumination brightened, until they could see the next bend in the passage ahead.  

A thing came around the bend.  It looked almost like a man, at first glance, but even at the edges of the light, it was quickly evident that the creature was not alive.  The rotting corpse staggered toward them, followed by another, and more, until it was a pack of zombies approaching.  Their moans intensified as they caught sight of the companions, and their arms lifted, their claws clenching as if anticipating the rending of living flesh.


----------



## Richard Rawen

Nicely written, kinda got me creeped out!
Makes me want to nuke my 5th level group and start them over lol

jk Torren =)


----------



## Tamlyn

All right, LB. It's been a week and a half and I'm jonesing!

~Tam


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## Lazybones

EDIT: Ah, you posted while I was readying this post, Tamlyn! 

* * * * * 

Chapter 49


“Back, foul things!” Devrem commanded, lifting his silver sigil with one hand, while holding tightly to his staff with the other.  “Back to the grave where you belong!”

The priest’s holy symbol flashed silver, but the dark energies of the Shadowfell proved stronger, for the zombies continued their advance unabated.  But the attacks of his companions proved more effective.  Jaron’s arrow slammed square into the center of the first zombie’s skull, shattering it in a mess of rotten flesh and shards of bone.  The zombie slumped over to the side, expiring slowly as its limbs quivered weakly.  The next few zombies stepped over their companion, only to fall back under combined attacks from Elevaren and Beetle.  The warlock’s _eldritch blast_ and the rogue’s thrown knife each claimed their target, the magic that held the rotting creatures together sundered by the attacks.  The zombies flopped to the ground, falling apart as the necromantic energies seeped away from their broken bodies.  

The others kept coming, heedless of the destruction of their fellows.  Mara stepped forward to face them, her swords hissing as they were drawn from their sheaths.  She clove the skull of the first even as it reached out for her, knocking it into the one beside it.  That one fell a moment later, as she sliced her second sword upward through its ribs, crashing through its spine and sending into to the ground in pieces.  

Thus far the battle had been entirely one-sided, but that changed as the last few zombies entered the fray.  These two were more whole than their rotting brethren, their bodies still smelling of dying flesh, the remains of torn muscles and partially intact organs visible through the open wounds that covered their bodies.  They came at Mara in a sudden rush, before the fighter could recover and reset her stance.  The first grabbed her right arm, dragging her off-balance and keeping her from bringing her longsword into play.  The second went for a more direct slam that caught her in the chest with enough force to drive both her and the zombie holding her back a step.

Had she been alone, Mara would have been in dire straits, but her companions were quick to come to her aid.  Devrem surged forward, thrusting his staff ahead and unleashing a _lance of faith_ at point-blank range into the zombie holding Mara’s arm.  The silvery flashes burned like tongues of fire as they slashed into the zombie’s dead flesh.  The zombie, scalded, released Mara and lunged at Devrem, the priest’s extended staff barely keeping the foul creature at bay.  Jaron placed an arrow directly into the zombie’s throat, but the wound that would have suffocated a living foe barely distracted this one from its target.  The halfling considered his sword for a moment, but ultimately decided that the close confines of the tunnel would only put him in the way of his comrades.  After glancing back to verify that Beetle still had their prisoner well in hand, he reached for another arrow from his quiver. 

With her weapons now fully restored to her, Mara in turn laid into the zombie that had punched her.  Her swords struck true, but the creature’s pale flesh was tougher than that of the rotters they had dispatched earlier, and the edges of her blades tore only shallow gashes, as though she’d been cutting old leather.  The zombie persisted in its attack, lunging at her face.  A bright flare of fae energy shot past it, narrowly missing, but again the undead monster was not distracted in the way that a living foe might have been, and it did not even flinch as it thrust through the trailing edges of the _eldritch blast_ and bashed Mara hard across the side of her head.  Her helmet kept the blow from crunching bone, but it was clear that the hit had been telling.  She staggered back and jostled the zombie that was jousting with Devrem, and the lot of them nearly went down in a confused tangle.  

Thus far the zombies had inflicted considerable damage, but the odds were still against them, and they began to tell.  Devrem unleashed another surge of radiant energy, sheltering himself and Mara within the protective glow of divine power even as the zombie he’d targeted before wilted further against the might of the Raven Queen.  The zombie, uninterested in negotiation or flight, sought only to destroy its tormentor, but as it lunged a last time at the cleric Jaron fired an arrow into its left knee, ruining the joint and driving it awkwardly to the floor.  The zombie tried to get up, but Devrem thrust the metal head of his staff hard against the back of its neck, and delivered a final surge of power that undid its tenuous link to existence. 

Mara likewise refused to give ground despite her wounds, meeting the other zombie in another exchange of attacks.  She fought more cautiously now, deflecting its clumsy but powerful blows with conservative sweeps of her swords, relying on the power of her allies to inflict damage on the creature.  The tactic proved sound as first Elevaren and then Beetle delivered precise strikes with hurled magic and steel respectively, tearing away at the body of the creature.  The zombie, sagging noticeably, rallied for a final attack on Mara, but the fighter was ready for it.  Even as it lunged she danced back out of its reach, pivoting and sweeping her longer blade around in an arc that separated its head from its shoulders.  

The companions stood there for a moment in the tunnel with the wreckage of the zombies scattered around them, catching their breath from the brief but violent battle.  Devrem called upon his divine powers to heal Mara’s injuries, and the pair shared a look.  “This is only the first round,” the priest said.  Mara merely nodded, as she slid her swords back into their scabbards. 

“That scream was loud,” Jaron said.  “They have to know we’re coming.”

“A frontal assault is going to be costly,” Mara pointed out. 

Devrem nodded.  He looked at each of them in turn, before his gaze finally settled on Splug, who seemed to shrink under the priest’s scrutiny.


----------



## Tamlyn

Lazybones said:


> EDIT: Ah, you posted while I was readying this post, Tamlyn!




Sorry to pester you. But thanks for the update!


----------



## Lazybones

Tamlyn said:


> Sorry to pester you. But thanks for the update!



Reader posts are my best incentive to write more! 

My calendar has still been crazy, but I hope that things will quiet down some in December and give me a chance to revisit the story. I've been working out some ideas for the big confrontation that's coming. One thing to look for: 20 to 5 odds = heroes in trouble!


----------



## Richard Rawen

Lazybones said:


> “A frontal assault is going to be costly,” Mara pointed out.
> 
> Devrem nodded.  He looked at each of them in turn, before his gaze finally settled on Splug, who seemed to shrink under the priest’s scrutiny.




Yeah, I think I'd shrink too... 
hmmm, I'm not sure when would be a good day to be a Splug of any kind, but it's a bad day to be a front-line-Splug.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 50


Balgron the Fat was in a sour mood. 

All things considered, the goblin realized, the situation could have been significantly worse. Yesterday, he had been the leader of a considerable force of goblin warriors, but that had been stripped from him in a single calamitous encounter.  But the last goblin to disappoint Kalarel had been bound to a post and had a half-dozen heated spikes inserted into his abdomen, a most unpleasant procedure that had only slowly concluded in a merciful death.  The only other goblin to have escaped the incursion onto the upper level had been retained by Kalarel to “assist” during the final stages of the ritual, an assignment that Balgron was happy to have avoided.  

So being on a scouting mission to find the invaders who had slaughtered the bulk of his once-underlings was not, all in all, a terrible outcome. 

Balgron risked a glance back at his fellow guards.  The hobgoblins abruptly stopped their low conversation and fixed him with dark looks until he looked away.  Krul Durga’s warriors did not bother to hide their contempt for the goblin, and they probably weren’t any happier to be here than he was.  Balgron suspected that they were here more to keep an eye on him than to provide backup should he encounter the intruders.  

After the debacle upstairs Durga had doubled the watches, following Kalarel’s mandate to ward the entrance to the lower level until the ritual was complete.  Balgron had spent the few hours not spent on watch duty in the entry hall to the second level sprawled out on a thin blanket in a corner of the storeroom, without even a pad to protect his bones from the hard stone floor.  He had not had a chance yet to slip away to the upper level, to check if the intruders had found the treasure secreted in his lair.  The hobgoblins seemed to watch him as eagerly as they monitored for the intruders.

The goblin grimaced and paused to adjust his belt; it was chafing again against his considerable gut.  The hobgoblins waited impatiently.  Balgron thought they were idiots.  They were getting close to the sigils, and it was getting increasingly likely that their enemies were close by, perhaps waiting in ambush.  The scream had just been an echo when it had reached their guard station, but it was enough to warn them of approaching foes.  The sergeant in command had sent off a runner at once to alert Krul Durga, but he had not waited for a response before ordering Balgron to investigate.  

Balgron’s hands tightened on his crossbow.  Eventually he’d get a chance to make his move, and if his coins were still in his erstwhile lair, he’d be well away long before Kalarel even thought to look for him…

He was so intent on his musings that he almost missed the lumps scattered about the floor.  He raised a hand in warning, and this time the hobgoblins paid heed, moving into position behind him, their swords at the ready.  But as he crept nearer, Balgron saw that there was no threat here.  The carcasses—hacked to pieces, he saw—had been zombie guards not long ago, but now there was nothing but dead meat.  

The intruders, it seemed, had withdrawn.  

“All right,” he said to the hobgoblins, half turning, “Perhaps we should report back…”

He was cut off by a sudden hint of movement that he barely caught out of the corner of his eye.  Startled into a cry of alarm, he lifted his bow, fumbling with the safety clip on the latch.  Behind him, the hobgoblins lifted their shields and formed into a defensive wedge—one that didn’t include him, he noted. 

“Don’t shoot!” came a reedy voice from the shadows ahead.  Balgron’s startlement was almost greater than before, as he recognized the tattered figure that stepped into view, hands raised.  

“Splug!  What are you doing here?”

The goblin slouched forward, warily, shooting a glance at the hobgoblins, whose readiness had eased only fractionally upon recognizing the race of the newcomer.  Compared to the goblins, they were hulking brutes, clad in light armor of layered leather, and armed with swords almost as long as Balgron was tall.  One of the grunts growled, “What’s all this now?” 

“I escaped!  The intruders… they killed all the others… they were heading for the deeper dungeon, to stop Kalarel, but I got away from them while they were distracted by the zombies!” 

The goblin was growing hysterical, so Balgron tried to calm him, an effort that was to some extent negated by the hobgoblin’s threatening tone.  “How many?” the creature asked.  

Splug sucked in a breath.  “Five… two humans, two halflings, and an elf… they have many weapons, and magic!  They are cruel, very cruel… They mistreated me, but I was too clever for them!  I stole this...”  The goblin thrust something at Balgron, but the hobgoblin leaned forward and intercepted it.  The device glinted in the torchlight; it was a small icon of bright silver, fashioned into the shape of a raven.  Balgron had to restrain himself from shooting the prick in the chest; it would have been easy, but the other two would have cut him down before he managed five steps. 

“What’s this?” the hobgoblin asked. 

“It’s the priest’s sigil!” Splug exclaimed.  “Without it, he cannot use his magic!” 

Balgron blinked, but the hobgoblin had already pocketed the item.  “Perhaps we should alert Lord Durga about these developments,” the goblin leader ventured. 

The hobgoblin’s gaze shifted to Balgron, and it was icy.  But finally he nodded, and the party turned back the way they had come.   

“They’re nasty, especially that priest,” Splug was saying.  “But they were hurt by the spell-ward, and the woman fighter was beat up in the fight with the zombies.  They were going to fall back and recover their strength, get their magic ready before coming down here.  If you strike now, you can catch them off-guard, and destroy them!” 

The hobgoblin made a noncommittal grunt.  Balgron had a number of questions for his former underling, but with the hobgoblins standing right there, he held his tongue.  His eyes kept shifting back to the passage behind them, as if their enemies might materialize there at any moment.  The hobgoblins seemed content to wait for orders, and the silence quickly grew awkward. 

“You’ve done well, Splug,” Balgron finally did say, as a quiet aside.  The goblin looked like he wanted to break and flee.  Balgron understood how he felt.  He’d been the one to condemn Balgron to the cells and the attentions of the torturer, but somehow it felt reassuring to have one of his kind, even one like Splug, here with him.  At least now there was someone here who was lower in the hierarchy than he was. 

“Do you think Lord Durga will deal with the intruders?” Splug whispered back. 

The goblin shook his head glumly.  “All I know is that whatever happens, we’re going to be in the middle of it.”   

They reached the stairs and headed back down.  Even before the entry hall opened up ahead of them, Balgron could hear the familiar voice below, issuing orders. 

Krul Durga had arrived, and he did not sound pleased.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 51


They came in two disciplined columns, shields raised and locked, their boots tramping in step on the smoothed stones of the floor.  They were trying to be quiet, but hobgoblins weren’t creatures of subtlety.  

Krul Durga had come to his decision quickly, after a brief but thorough interrogation of the goblin that had brought the latest intelligence of their foe.  His orders had been to hold the second level against all intruders, but given the fact that their enemy was currently weakened and unprepared, the hobgoblin’s instinct was to attack.  He would not leave the dungeon, but if their enemy was lurking on the upper level, a quick strike with overwhelming numbers should yield positive results. 

And if the raid should also produce a few slaves that could be sold for a tidy profit to the Bloodreavers, all the better. 

Durga wasn’t taking any chances.  His front ranks were comprised of ten grunts, equipped with light armor, wooden shields, and large swords.  The hobgoblin leader came immediately behind, directing his main force of six disciplined and elite soldiers, armored in steel and equipped with heavy shields and large flails.  Those elites formed a phalanx that moved as one unit; in battle they would spread and form into a wedge, adjusting to the space available to protect their flanks and complement the defense of their neighbors.  Durga himself would be the point of that wedge, driving forward to strike the strongest point of the enemy defenses.  Probably that priest of the death goddess; Durga could not quite credit the claims of the goblins that a _woman_ was the strongest fighter on the opposing side. 

The third cohort in the rear of the cohort was the weakest, but it was far from an afterthought.  Durga’s warcaster was there, along with a skilled archer, and the two goblins.  The archer’s orders were to counter the elf wizard, which he was to neutralize on sight.  The caster was a necessity but also a rival as the second-most powerful member of the band.  The warchief was too canny not to realize the importance of friendly magic, but his preference was that the caster not be involved in the battle at all if at all possible.  At the moment, he was a reserve.  Likewise Durga would have preferred to have the goblins in the front rank, where they could absorb damage, but like as not they would manage to ruin his disciplined ranks, and get in the way of his assault.  Plenty of time for them to fall victim to an “enemy counterattack” later, if necessary.

A small holding force had been left behind him, one of his sergeants with two soldiers and four grunts to watch the stairs and ensure that nothing got past them.  And they had the spider as an extra surprise, if somehow their enemies tried to slip into the dungeon behind Durga’s strike team.  

Krul Durga’s fist tightened on the haft of his spear, and a fearsome grin spread across his face in anticipation of the coming battle.  The hobgoblin had been only ten when the humans and their elf, dwarf, and halfling allies had killed his elder brother.  Krul had been too young to accompany the Great Raid, and he’d missed out on its glories. Now, however, he had a chance to gain some small measure of payback, which would be just the first installment to be paid against the “civilized” folk of the Nentir Vale.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 52


The strike team negotiated the mazelike tunnels of the crypts and reached the stairs heading up to the first level.  The grunts in the first rank failed to notice the gaps in the double doors where portions of the heavy planks had been broken and removed, replaced with dark fabric jammed into the openings.  But as the hobgoblin warriors made their way up the steps, they became aware of a faint fume in the air, a noxious but familiar stink that raised their hackles.  Those in the front slowed, and the leader of the left column finally detected something wrong with the doors, and pointed with his sword while opening his mouth to issue a warning to his peers. 

But the warning became moot a moment later, as the cloaks jammed into the breaches in the doors were yanked away, and the intruders behind launched their initial attacks.  The hobgoblin that had detected the ambush became its first victim, as a small arrow shot up over the lip of its shield and caught him just below his left eye, the head of the missile glancing up off the front of his skull and through the socket into his brain.  

More missiles came out from the slits in the door, although the hobgoblins’ shields served them well, and no further casualties were sustained.  But a dark thing of shadows began to coalesce in the midst of the warriors’ ranks, and the hobgoblins wavered, unnerved by the presence of an uncertain magic.  One of the grunts swung his sword at the apparition, but the blade passed through it without effect.   

Krul Durga and his veterans were still a good distance back, but he quickly got the gist of what was happening.  “Forward, attack!” he shouted, his voice solid and sure.  “Force the doors!” 

The warchief’s words gave the warriors heart, and they surged forward to obey their leader’s commands.  Another arrow issued from behind the portal; its target raised his shield, but this shot came from Mara’s heavy bow, and the steel head punched through the wood and kept going, driving through the hobgoblin’s leather armor and sticking into his chest.  But the hobgoblins took heart from their numbers, even with two of their cohort down, and they picked up speed as they thrust forward, their shields raised to block the attacks coming from beyond the door.  Sparkles of fey magic flared around that raised wall, but the warriors were not harmed by the attack.  

But their shields and armor could not protect them from what came next, as a small hand thrust through one of the lower openings in the doors, holding a torch.  The torch was tossed onto the stairs at the feet of the onrushing warriors, igniting the lamp oil that had been liberally doused upon the steps.  Yellow tongues of flame roared up, igniting the cheap boots and leggings worn by the grunts.  The hobgoblins drew back reflexively in disarray, trying to pat out the flames that were licking up their legs.  This provided an opening that the archers beyond the door exploited, and two more of the grunts fell, arrows jutting from vital portions of their anatomy.  

Even with this turn of fate, the grunts might have rallied and thrust forward through the flames, which were already beginning to die as the limited supply of fuel was consumed.  But the dark, insubstantial thing that had gathered further down the steps now took on a more solid form, with a silver radiance emerging from within the shadows, spreading wings that slashed through the tightly packed rear ranks of the hobgoblin column like knives.  Two of the grunts collapsed, blood seeping from mortal wounds, and the others, caught between death both ahead and behind, abandoned their charge and gave way to retreat.  Even broken they did not abandon discipline completely, those left in front keeping their shields up against the desultory barrage that continued from the top of the stairs.  Despite that they left one more grunt lying dead on the steps as they fell back into the relative shelter of the corridor below, the victim of a fey curse that had crumpled his Will.  

Krul Durga scowled as the survivors of his grunts trailed past him.  He stood in the open at the foot of the stairs, heedless of the arrows that continued to shoot past.  A grunt flinched as a shot narrowly missed both him and the warchief, bouncing hard off the wall before tumbling away to the side.  Durga grabbed the grunt that had evidenced the cowardly behavior and hurled him aside, away from the phalanx of soldiers behind him.  The grunt rolled hard and landed in a moaning heap a few paces away.  

Durga was not a fool; he recognized the strength of the enemy position, and the fact that his force had walked into an ambush.  At the moment he could not see past his men to where that stupid goblin was hiding with the rear guard, but he promised a reckoning with that one later.  For now, though, he had to take action, or he risked losing more than just a handful of expendable grunts. 

An arrow caromed off the warchief’s helmet, but he did not so much as flinch.  “Zhadroff!” he commanded.  

The phalanx shifted enough to allow the warcaster to come forward, although Durga noticed that the spell-weaver remained behind the shelter of his soldiers’ shields.  “Your command, warleader?” 

“We will ascend the stairs as a wedge.  Can you take down those doors?”

“It shall be as you command,” Zhadroff said.  Durga thought to see a glimmer of something in the warcaster’s eyes, almost amusement, and Durga made a mental note to make a few changes in that relationship as well.  Hobgoblins venerated discipline and obedience, and while Zhadroff had never disobeyed a direct order, the warcaster had become far too close to that renegade human cleric for Durga’s comfort.  A second-in-command needed a bit more humility, in Durga’s opinion. 

But all of that was put aside for the moment, as Durga mobilized his force for the attack. 

More attacks came from behind the door, but Durga’s phalanx was both better protected and more disciplined than his columns of grunt warriors, and none of them had any effect upon the wedge.  The shadow-thing still hovered in the air midway up the steps, but the warchief ignored it, leading his men past quickly, its radiant attacks faltering against the heavy armor of the hobgoblin troopers.  One of his men yelled in pain as a small knife stabbed into his shin, piercing his boot, but the soldier did not so much as lose a step, keeping his place in the line.  Durga nodded to himself; these hand-picked veterans would not break. 

As they neared the doors, Durga could see movement from beyond the narrow slits.  An arrow glanced off his shoulder; the impact had been hard enough to cause a bruise, even though it failed to penetrate his mail.  It would hurt later; for now it was less than nothing. 

“Plant shields!” Durga ordered.  Metal rang on stone as the soldiers drove their heavy shields into the ground, taking up kneeling stances behind them.  Durga, at their lead, fit into the formation like the point of a dagger.  He could have thrust through the openings with his long spear, but he waited for Zhadroff to unleash his magic.  

That came a moment later, as the caster lifted his staff and thrust it forward over the shoulders of the kneeling soldiers.  Durga could feel the shudder that passed through the air over him, a wave of power that slammed into the doors like a battering ram.  Wood splintered and shattered, but even though the doors bulged inward, they held together, likely bolstered by a bar on the other side.  The warchief heard voices from the far side; he couldn’t make out the words, but clearly the enemy was alarmed by the warcaster’s display. 

Well.  They were about to become a lot more concerned. 

Durga shot up, his warriors shouting as they fell into place behind him.  The warchief charged forward, lowering his shoulder to impact the doors with his shield at the weakened point where they joined.  Whatever barrier was holding them shut was sundered, and the doors exploded outward, into the room beyond.  The big hobgoblin planted the butt of his spear on the ground in front of him to keep from falling forward, but he sprang up quickly, looking for a foe. 

What he saw was an empty room, save for a blur of motion to the left as a pair of halflings ran into the corridor that led to the exit.  One of them turned and stuck out his tongue at Durga, then turned and followed the other in flight.  

Durga glanced back.  His soldiers had followed him into the room, keeping their wedge intact.  And Zhadroff was there, standing in the doorway.  The warcaster raised an eyebrow as he met Durga’s stare.  He’d seen it, too. 

“Ranks forward,” the hobgoblin growled, leading his troops in pursuit of the fleeing enemy.


----------



## Richard Rawen

Really great story angle, thanks for the updates!


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## Lazybones

I have five updates drafted at the moment, but my schedule's still a bit up in the air, so I can't commit to regular updates for the future. I should be able to get a few up this week and next, however. Thanks to my regular readers for their patience.

* * * * *

Chapter 53


While Khal Durga’s warriors were fighting through the ambush set by the party from Winterhaven, a smaller drama was playing out at the rear of the goblinoid war party.  

At first, those in the rearguard were not fully aware of what was happening at the front of the line, as Khal Durga’s phalanx separated them and it was difficult to see ahead; furthermore, the low ceiling blocked a clear view up the staircase to the first level of the complex.  However, as the leading columns of grunts began to take losses, it became obvious from their shouts that the strike team had stumbled into an ambush.  Khal Durga rapidly restored order, but a majority of the vanguard failed to return from the staircase.  

As soon as he realized what was happening, Balgron drew back and turned toward Splug, only to find that the goblin wasn’t there.  Looking back down the passage, he caught sight of him slinking back along the wall, trying to avoid notice.  The goblins’ eyes met at the same moment, and for a moment a silent dialogue passed between them.  Balgron’s crossbow had come up, almost by reflex, but even as his lips tightened in anger, the former goblin leader held his shot.  

Unfortunately for Splug, Balgron’s movements had drawn the attention of the hobgoblin archer, who instantly divined the situation, and put the pieces together.  He did not hesitate, lifting his bow and drawing in a single motion.  Splug let out a tinny cry and darted around the far corner, but the archer did not miss, his arrow taking the goblin in the back near his left shoulder even as he disappeared from sight.  The archer started to go after him, but the hobgoblin warcaster stopped him with a hand on his arm.  

“We are needed,” he said.  The caster—a nasty bastard of a hobgoblin named Zhadroff—fixed his eyes on Balgron.  “Bring him back, alive preferably, but dead if necessary.  I shall plant his head upon my totem staff, or yours, goblin.”  

Balgron felt a cold fist clench in his gut, but he did not have a chance to reply, as Zhadroff and the archer made their way forward in response to Khal Darga’s summons.  He could only comply, his bulk shaking under him as he ran after the traitorous runaway, hoping that the archer’s arrow had done his job for him.  

Splug had fled to the south, and Balgron followed, tracking the occasional splotches of blood that glistened wetly on the stone tiles of the floor.  The goblin leader had never come this way before, and as soon as he’d left the main passage behind he slowed his rush to a more prudent creeping approach.  The side corridor opened onto a larger chamber up ahead, and since there was no other way that the renegade goblin could have gone, Balgron followed. 

What he found was disturbing.

The chamber was occupied, but its inhabitants were dead.  Unlike the wreckage he had encountered in the main passage on his scouting mission, these bodies were intact, standing silent and still in an almost random array about the chamber.  They had been humans in life, or at least most of them; one had an orcish look about him, although his face had been smashed in with a club or mace, making a detailed identification difficult.  Most of them looked to be barely holding together, the flesh hanging from their rotten corpses like a tattered robe.  

There was no sign of Splug, but Balgron noticed an archway on the far side of the room that opened onto another area beyond.  He started forward, slowly.  The zombies paid no heed; Balgron knew that they had been given orders not to molest goblinoids, but he trusted the sinister workings of necromancy only so far. 

He was only about halfway across the room when he noticed that the bloodstains stopped well before the far archway.  

Suspicious, he stopped and scanned the room.  There; a zombie rotter with the remains of a cloak hanging about its legs.  Intact enough to provide cover…

Sensing that he’d been detected, Splug backed into view.  “Don’t shoot me,” he said, lifting a hand.  “I didn’t do anything.”

“And I suppose that ambush that the hobgoblins walked into was an accident?” Balgron asked. 

“Those hobgoblins hate us,” the goblin replied.  “What do you care what happens to them?”  

“In truth, I care nothing,” Balgron replied.  “But it remains a fact that they are going to kill one of us, and I prefer it not be me.”

“Wait!” Splug hissed.  “I know where they hid your treasure!” 

Balgron hesitated, but only for an instant.  “I never did like you, Splug.”  He lifted his crossbow.  Splug hurled himself aside, but Balgron was a good shot, and the steel head of the bolt tracked his movement cleanly.  But as Balgron’s finger tightened on the trigger of his weapon, a bit of cobweb dangling from above brushed his left cheek, and he flinched.  The goblin leader’s shot sliced by Splug’s head, close enough to sever several strands of straggly hair, and then buried itself in the belly of one of the zombies standing near the far arch.  

For a long second, no one moved.  Then the zombies began to shift, stirring as some deep-set instinct toward self preservation overrode the orders that they had been given.  Shambling forward on uncertain legs, they started toward the goblins. 

“Oh, crap,” Balgron said.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 54


“Everyone up the stairs!” Mara yelled, pointing with her shortsword ahead of her.  In her heavy armor, she was the slowest of the companions, but most of them could not help looking back, even if they could not immediately see the hobgoblins that they knew were pursuing them. 

Jaron and Beetle were their rearguard, and they _could_ see the enemy, at least from the way that Jaron kept turning and hastily loosing arrows into the darkness behind them.  Beetle was hopping merrily along beside him, looking as though he were dancing through a summer meadow instead of fleeing ahead of an onrushing horde of hobgoblins intent on his life.  

“Come on!” Mara urged, pausing for just an instant at the bottom of the stairs to verify that the halflings had heard and were obeying.  Devrem was already up the stairs, no doubt preparing their position for the assault that would be coming sooner rather than later.  

Mara started up the stairs as the halflings rushed after her.  She spared one last glance and saw the hobgoblin phalanx, moving together as a disciplined wedge, appear in the passage to the south.  They were moving quickly but carefully, each step taking in unison, without so much as a crack in the shield wall that was held before them.  The hobgoblin warlord formed the point in that wedge, his long spear held out ahead of him from a tiny crack in the wall of shields.  No doubt he had been what Jaron was shooting at, but if the creature was injured, Mara couldn’t see it.  

Mara passed Elevaren on the stairs.  “Hurry, get into position, they’re right behind us!” she urged her friend.  But while the eladrin stepped aside to let them pass, he held his ground.  “I may be able to do some damage before they get to us.  Don’t worry, I’ll be right behind you!” 

Mara shook her head, but there was no time for further discussion.  She ran up the stairs, Jaron almost on her heels.  Beetle lingered a bit, wanting to see what the warlock was going to do. 

Elevaren crouched, so that he could see farther into the room at the base of the staircase.  The hobgoblin line swung out as it rounded the pit in the center of the room, adjusting with practiced precision as they shaped their formation to the layout of the room.  The tread of their boots was like the beating of a drum, each step forward coming one upon the other in a rapid cadence.  

Elevaren summoned his magic; a dark cloud of fey power formed around his head and his hands, and his pupils became black orbs that saw into realities that transcended the material realm.  He drew deep from that power, and focused it upon the enemy ranks. 

The hobgoblin on the left end of the enemy line faltered, breaking ranks with the others and falling out of the formation.  His comrades tried to adjust, but the soldier, caught in the _curse of the dark dream_, stumbled, his perceptions clouded by the warlock’s magic.  He did not even see the pit that gaped before him, and did not scream as he plummeted into the waiting darkness where rats swarmed in a wild horde. 

One of the hobgoblins started to go to his aid, but the warlord drew him back into line with a sharp bark of command.  The hobgoblins rushed forward, breaking into a run that still did not dislodge their formation.  Elevaren rushed up the stairs, Beetle close behind him, the halfling flicking a last knife behind him as he ran.  The missile glanced off the helmet of the hobgoblin leader, but inflicted no damage.  Beetle outpaced the warlock, the halfling’s nimble feet carrying him up the stairs faster despite the difference in stature between them. 

At the top of the stairs, Mara and Devrem were working together to roll a broken length of stone pillar into position.  The ruins provided ample raw materials for improvised defenses, but the debris also made it hard to maneuver; Mara cursed as their weapon snagged on a protruding wedge of stone.  Grunting with effort, she levered her end of the pillar up over the obstacle.  Jaron, leaning precariously over the lip of the stairwell, arced a shot over the head of the warlock.  The arrow flew true, but hit a shield instead of a hobgoblin soldier’s body, and bounced harmlessly aside.  The excellent armor of the hobgoblin veterans and their ability to work together had thus far protected them from any serious injury, other than the one that Elevaren had witched into the pit below.  But with five of them left, plus the leader, it looked grim for the clash of arms that looked to be inevitably approaching.  

And in fact they were coming faster than the companions had expected, surging up the stairs with their leader driving them to a still-faster pace.  They were overtaking Elevaren, for all the disparity in armor and foot speed.  

“Elevaren, look out!” Mara warned, even as the leader thrust his spear forward.  

The warlock spun, and hurled his magic at the hobgoblin warchief.  But the _witchfire_ missed its target, flaring around the edges of the leader’s head instead of driving into his eyes and ears. 

The hobgoblin did not miss.  He slammed the head of his spear into the warlock’s side, driving him roughly back.  The eladrin did not cry out, but he groaned as the impact sent him reeling against the steps.  Bright red droplets fell from the spearhead to litter the stone around him, and a plume of the same color began to spread quickly across his tunic.  

“Elevaren!” Mara yelled.  She started to her friend’s aid, but Devrem seized her arm, roughly holding her back.  

In any case, she would not have reached him in time, as the hobgoblin rush continued forward, surging toward the disabled warlock like a wave.


----------



## javcs

Awesome as ever, Lazybones.

I think it's time for the eladrin to 'port himself away ... assuming, of course, that he manages to survive long enough to pull it off.


----------



## Tamlyn

Lazybones said:


> In any case, she would not have reached him in time, as the hobgoblin rush continued forward, surging toward the disabled warlock like a wave.




You can't kill him! He's my fifth favorite character in the group!


----------



## Richard Rawen

Fans of LB's first two campaigns would no doubt be measuring Elevaren's casket. He is, after all, a pure caster... and we all know how well they fared in the early writings.
The _Graves_ series took a different tact towards the arcanists... we'll have to see which way our author leads this new story =-)
Either way, that big rock better roll down the stairs soon or the group is in the soup... Deep!


----------



## Lazybones

Heh, you guys know me well. Maybe a bit _too_ well... 

* * * * * 

Chapter 55


For a moment, it looked like Elevaren was a dead man.  The lead hobgoblins had even lifted their swords to strike, barely easing the pace of their rush as it looked like they would walk right over him, leaving him bleeding out his life behind them.  

But before the killing thrusts came, the warlock reached out to Faerie, and the power that bound him to the Feywild.  He used that power to transport himself through that alternative realm, to return for just an instant to that place he’d been trying to reach ever since that night so long ago, when he’d been lured into the material realm for a purpose that he still hadn’t quite uncovered.  As always, he felt a moment of ecstasy at that transition, only to have it yanked away as he completed his _fey step_ and rematerialized behind Jaron above the upper lip of the staircase. 

Devrem was ready.  “Now!” he cried, pushing hard on his end of the fallen pillar.  After the slightest hesitation Mara echoed his effort, and the two rolled the heavy stone down the stairs.  The broken cylinder had to weigh at least a few hundred pounds, and it picked up speed as it bounded down the rough slope.  

The hobgoblins saw it coming, but there was little they could do to evade; the pillar stretched across almost two-thirds of the entire width of the stair.  The hobgoblin warchief fell into a crouch and vaulted it, narrowly clearing the tumbling pillar and landing in a slightly awkward stance in its wake.  The hobgoblins on the edges of the formation pressed up against the walls and narrowly avoided being struck, but the three in the center were hit hard as the pillar struck a stair and bounded up into their shields.  Two of the soldiers were bowled over, falling onto their shields and sliding down after the descending pillar down the steps.  The third screamed as he was knocked down, landing solidly on his backside only to have the pillar roll up over him, driving the upper edge of his shield roughly into his jaw.  The pillar’s fall became more erratic after that, as one end caromed off the side of the stairway, and it spun into a jolting, uneven trajectory that finally ended with it sliding onto the floor of the chamber below, where it finally came to a stop.  The warcaster and archer, following along behind the phalanx, had stopped to extract the soldier that had fallen into the rat pit, and avoided the threat entirely.    

The attack had thrown the hobgoblins into disarray, but the warchief recovered quickly, thrusting the end of his spear down to recover his balance before flipping the point back down to an attack position.  A shower of divine sparks flared around him, but Devrem’s attack had no effect.  The hobgoblin rushed up the stairs to engage the cleric before he could ready another barrage, but Mara stepped forward to block him, her swords hissing as slid drew them from their scabbards.  Her long blade intercepted the war leader’s spearhead and knocked it aside, but the hobgoblin recovered quickly, darting back and recentering the weapon before she could get inside his reach.  For a moment each of them took the other’s measure, and then the hobgoblin snarled and lunged forward again to attack.  Again Mara pivoted and parried, but the hobgoblin drew back the spearhead and shifted his thrust in a blur.  Mara twisted her torso with the the hit, which struck her hard in the right shoulder, but by the grimace that twisted her features, the blow had hurt.  She launched a quick counter intended to foul her enemy’s legs and unbalance his footing on the stairs, but the hobgoblin was a veteran combatant, and he merely shifted, letting the solid metal greaves that covered his legs turn the blow without effect.  The hobgoblin’s heavy armor and shield protected him exceptionally well, even without his soldiers present to protect his flanks.

The odds were starting to turn quickly, as the other hobgoblins rushed to their commander’s aid.  The two that had avoided the rolling pillar surged ahead, their shields raised to protect them from further attacks.  Unfortunately for them, they had foes to either side as well as ahead, and they had the advantage of position, on the stone faring that surrounded the stairwell at its summit.  From that position Jaron fired an arrow that thudded deep into the thigh of one of the hobgoblins, turning his charge into a painful limp.  Beetle, meanwhile, had found a piece of ruined masonry twice the size of his head, which he’d managed to lift and carry over to a position overlooking the stairs.  As soon as the hobgoblin turned his shield toward the archer, the halfling dropped it down squarely onto the foe’s head.  The hobgoblin was wearing a helmet, but twenty pounds of rock carried a considerable force regardless, and the creature staggered against the wall, stunned by the impact.  

The soldier on the other side of the stairs surged forward to join his warchief and further turn the odds against Mara at the top of the steps.  But even as he surged ahead, Devrem stepped forward, his staff extended before him.  “Know the certainty of your death,” the priest intoned, pointing the iron-shod head of the staff directly at the charging hobgoblin. 

The hobgoblin was a sturdy veteran, but he saw the cleric’s staff twist and distort in the man’s hands, becoming a silver bird with glowing red eyes that flew directly at his face, claws extended to pluck out his eyes.  The soldier screamed and fell back, overcome with fear, and fled back down the stairs.  

Jaron and Beetle had finished off the wounded soldier.  Beetle continued to hurl rocks down onto his neck and back even as he collapsed on the steps, arrows jutting from his armored body.  But the three that had been knocked down by the pillar had gotten back up to their feet, and despite the beating that they’d taken, they reformed their line, linking shields before starting back up the steps.  At the head of the stairs, Mara and the warchief continued their violent exchange.  Mara had finally gotten inside the hobgoblin’s reach, only to take a colossal wallop from the warchief’s shield that had knocked her back several steps.  She narrowly avoided a thrust that would have pierced her gorget, had it not slid off of the magical _shield of faith_ that Devrem had invoked around all of them at the start of the encounter.  She leapt back in, turning the hobgoblin’s spear with her short blade, and then spun as she drove down her longsword into the haft.  A loud crack announced her success at breaking the warchief’s weapon, followed by a tinkle of metal on stone as the head landed in the rubble a few feet away. 

Sparkles of fey magic flared around the chief as Elevaren hit him with an _eldritch blast_.  But again the warchief’s incredible durability protected him from the attack, and before the warlock could muster his magic again an arrow streaked up from below and impaled his right arm just above the elbow.  The eladrin was flung back, and he sagged against a nearby pile of rubble, pale and weak from loss of blood.  

The hobgoblin soldiers cried out loudly as they reached the top of the steps, reforming their line around their commander.  Devrem stepped forward to join Mara, but the pair were now considerably outnumbered, and their advantageous position was becoming increasingly precarious.  The hobgoblin chieftain drew a shortsword with a steel blade that seemed to glisten in the weak morning light, and thrust it at Mara.  The sword crunched into her hip, denting the metal scales protecting her and drawing blood.  The fighter, now bloodied, cried out in pain but kept fighting, barely bringing her shortsword up in time to parry a downward swipe from a hobgoblin’s flail.  

The phalanx pressed forward, and the defenders were forced slowly back.  A grim smile began to spread across the face of the warchief, as the eventual outcome of this battle seemed to take form.  “Take the woman alive,” he said to his companions, laughing as he turned another of Mara’s thrusts with an almost casual sweep of his shield.  The attack opened Mara to a counterattack from the hobgoblin soldier to the warchief’s right, and the spiked end of his flail clanged hard off her helmet, staggering her with a stunning blow.  On the far side of the melee Devrem tried to come to her aid, but the other two soldiers pressed him hard, and he nearly dropped his staff as the ball of a flail clipped his hand, hard enough to crack bones.  “Any others you take are profit for yourselves, lads!” the chief roared, but his eyes were focused on Mara, who now could barely stand, let alone hold off the pair of foes that were seeking her doom.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 56


Elevaren felt a strange calm come over him.  The pain of his wound was real, but it seemed almost ephemeral, something unimportant.  Reaching up with his good hand, he seized the head of the arrow and snapped it off, then pulled the shaft free.  His right arm was slick with blood and weak; he could barely lift it.  

It didn’t matter; his power was not derived from the strength of his body.  

He looked up and saw Mara and Devrem, fighting for their lives against the hobgoblin line, the pair slowly giving ground despite their best efforts.  His friend was taking hits, and as he watched, one struck her in the head with his flail, leaving her dazed.  

The warchief.  He was the key, the force that drove and bound the line together.  Elevaren rose, and moved closer to the battle.  He was careful to stay clear of the staircase, and the line of sight of the archer who had shot him before.  But his focus was on the warchief, and he felt his magic building within him, the fey power that he both commanded and served.  

“I curse you,” he whispered, and extended his good hand.  Flashes of rainbow-colored light surrounded his hand, and lanced out in a stream into the warchief’s face.  This time, the _eldritch blast_ had an obvious effect, and the hobgoblin snarled as he shook his head to clear it of the lingering magic.  The attack had hurt him, but he was by far the toughest combatant on the field, and it wasn’t clear how even the warlock’s full powers could bring him down. 

But Elevaren wasn’t the only one helping the pair holding the line.  Jaron leapt up onto the stone lip of the stairs, deliberately exposing himself to fire from below.  An arrow came up at him almost immediately, but the halfling wasn’t done; he twisted and rolled, somehow keeping his footing on the narrow line of stone.  He came up with his bow drawn, and fired a shot directly into the small of the hobgoblin warchief’s back.  The chief’s armor protected him to some extent, but it was obvious by the way that he stiffened that the shot had penetrated.  But even that wasn’t enough to bring him down, and he lifted his sword for a strike that would bring the melee in front of him to a close.  

A tinny halfling yell sounded over the noise of the battle, as Beetle appeared, charging at a full run through the tumbled rubble of the ruins.  He sprang up onto the stone lip of the stairwell as Jaron had, but this was just the first step of a leap that carried him over the open space below, flying out in a wild arc over the shaft, a trajectory that ended with him landing hard on the shoulders of the hobgoblin warchief.  Snagging precariously onto a protruding ridge of the chief’s helmet with one hand, the halfling—now roaring with laughter as much as battle rage—stabbed down with the knife in his other hand, sliding the short length of steel into the narrow crevice between the chief’s gorget and helmet. 

Blood shot up in a narrow jet from the nasty wound, and Beetle hallooed as the hobgoblin spun around, dropping his sword as he tried to clutch at the hilt of the knife protruding from his neck.  Mara, drawing upon some deep reserve of _boundless endurance_, half-lunged, half-staggered into the hobgoblin soldier facing her has he glanced distracted at the stricken warchief.  Knocking aside his shield with her left hand, she jammed her longsword hard into his torso with her right.  The steel blade slid up under the metal scales and through the leather underneath into his flesh.  The thrust did not penetrate too deeply, but the hobgoblin staggered back, seriously injured.  

Devrem had taken a beating from the pair of soldiers facing him, but the power of the Raven Queen still came readily at his call, and he was using it both to assail his foes and bolster his comrades.  The two hobgoblins would have overcome him shortly, but the collapse of the right side of their line changed their situation for the worse.  As the warchief finally fell, Beetle still shouting as he rode his body down onto the stairs, the hobgoblins started to fall back, holding up their shields to protect their retreat.  While this offered a united front against Devrem and Mara, it offered less protection from behind, a fact that Jaron exploited a few seconds later as he fired an arrow into the back of one of them.  Now feeling utterly surrounded, the hobgoblins picked up the pace of their retreat.  Unfortunately, that retreat brought them back to Beetle, who cut the right hamstring of one of them, causing him to crumple in agony with his next step.  The halfling rogue narrowly avoided getting shot by the archer, and sprang up onto the wall of the stairwell, pulling himself up to rejoin the others.  The halfling barely paused before running to grab another big rock to throw down at the retreating foe.  

Mara and Devrem were in no condition for pursuit, and the cleric had to hold the fighter upright as he summoned healing magic to treat her wounds.  “Why’d they give up?” she asked.  “They almost had us, even with the death of their chief.”

“I suspect these hobgoblins fight for money, rather than loyalty to Kalarel’s cause,” Devrem replied.  Another arrow shot up from below, clipping Jaron’s arm but inflicting only trivial damage.  The halfling ranger fired off a last shot and then dropped back into cover, while Beetle finished off the one he’d crippled before it could crawl away after his companions.  The heavy thud of the rock as he dropped it onto the hobgoblin’s neck marked the end of the battle, as no further attacks issued forth from the bottom of the stairs.  

Once he was certain Mara could support herself, Devrem stepped away and walked over to the top of the staircase.  He stood there exposed for a moment, his robe flaring out behind him, his staff clanking hard against the stone as he slammed it down onto the first step.  

“Our fight is with the cleric of Orcus,” the priest intoned.  “Any who stand in our way will suffer his fate, but we do not seek additional distractions at this time.”

No answer came from below, and after a moment, Devrem turned and walked back to the others.  He couldn’t see the bottom of the stairs, where the archer had lifted his bow as soon as the cleric had stepped into view.  But the warcaster put a hand on his arm, and shook his head.  Even as the cleric drew back out of sight, the hobgoblins, most of them nursing serious injuries, turned and retreated back the way they had come.


----------



## Richard Rawen

The Hobgobs new leader seems more interested in cementing his position than pursuing the battle.  That's good news as the group (hopefully) has eased the way to their main foe.

Not that this is necessarily _good_ news for them, knowing how nasty LB's Bosses tend to be!!!


----------



## Tamlyn

Remember the Seer in Doomed Bastards. Similar situation and he came back. Albeit much, much later.


----------



## Lazybones

With the usual holiday slowdown, I've been able to spend more time working on the story. I'm approaching the end of the module, but am still not quite certain of where I want to go from there. Stay tuned.

LB

* * * * * 

Chapter 57


After taking some time to rest and recover, with Devrem calling upon his healing magic to treat their wounds, the companions set out once more into the dungeon under the ruined keep.  

They were alert to the likelihood of an enemy ambush, and Jaron scouted ahead, slipping in and out of the shadows as though he were a part of the darkness.  While Beetle was better at remaining unseen, the other halfling was just a bit too flighty to be a reliable scout.  Not that they could have escaped notice; their foe knew they were coming, and would have had ample time to prepare. 

But for all their vigilance, nothing emerged from the dungeon corridors to threaten them.  They made their way back down to the second level of the dungeon, where they found a scene of carnage at the bottom of the stairs.  In addition to the hobgoblin grunts they had killed, there were fresh bodies there—“fresh” being a relative term, for it was clear that they had been animated undead, rotting corpses given necromantic life. 

“More zombies,” Elevaren said.  “I wonder where these came from?”

“There were a number of passages we didn’t explore, last time,” Jaron pointed out. 

“At least they gave the hobgoblins some trouble, by the look of it,” Devrem said.  And indeed there were a few hobgoblin corpses scattered amongst the hacked up dead, grunts that had survived the initial battle in the stairwell only to be killed by the zombies later.  All of them had been thoroughly looted of any valuables. 

“I wonder what happened to Splug?” Beetle asked, but none of them had any answer; there were no signs of the goblin anywhere that they could see.  

They made their way forward, past the ruined sigil in the floor, to a chamber that contained another stair leading down.  Based on Splug’s earlier feedback, they expected to find the hobgoblins waiting in ambush there, but the chamber at the foot of the steps was deserted.  There was an open pit in the center of the room, which they gave a wide berth.  As they began spreading out to search the area, they began to suspect that this part of the complex had been abandoned entirely.  

They’d barely started poking around when a call from Beetle drew their attention to a corridor opposite the stairs they’d used to enter the chamber.  “Look over here!” came the halfling’s voice, sounding startlingly loud in the uneasy stillness of the complex. 

“So much for stealth,” Mara muttered, as they hastened to discover what their companion had uncovered. 

The corridor opened onto an annex that was almost as large as the entry chamber itself.  A nasty stink greeted them, which seemed to come from an empty cage of iron bars driven into the floor and ceiling on the far side of the place.  The door of the cave was partially open; whatever resident had occupied it was likely long since gone.  They found Beetle, and a message, which had been left for them on the wall to their left. 

The message came in the form of the goblin leader, his fat body sagging against the iron spikes that had been driven through his wrists and shoulders, pinning him against the wall.  Balgron’s head hung separately from a spike that had been driven through his open mouth.  His eyes were open, and seemed to peer at them with accusation as they approached.  

Above the goblin’s mutilated corpse, someone had taken the time to draw letters upon the stone, apparently from the blood of the dead goblin.  

THIS IS NOT FINISHED, the grim warning read. 

“An unpleasant threat,” Elevaren observed.  But Devrem was more upbeat. 

“The fact that they have not challenged us, and felt the need to leave this warning, may indicate that the route to Kalarel is now clear,” the cleric said.  “We have to finish this, before it is too late.”

The others were not quite so enthusiastic—with the possible exception of Beetle, who was studying the goblin corpse with interest—but they followed the cleric out of the room, pushing deeper into the complex toward the inevitable confrontation with the evil cleric whose ritual continued to tear at the boundary between Nethir Vale and the Shadowfell.


----------



## Lazybones

I've been asked to guest-DM a 3.0/3.5 game in January; should be interesting, as it's been quite a while since I've run a tabletop session. I'll take notes in case it ends up as story fodder. Since I'm inserting an adventure into an existing campaign, I was thinking of running "Chadranther's Bane" from _Dungeon_ magazine #18. 

I now have 8 posts drafted for _KotS_ (although a few are still a bit rough). I hoping that I can get the rest of the story done during the holiday week lull. Assuming all goes as planned, I'll post M-W-F until it's done. 

* * * * * 

Chapter 58


Devrem’s assumption proved to be true, as they encountered no organized resistance moving further into the complex.  They found several rooms that had obviously been quarters for hobgoblins; these showed signs of having been hastily vacated and looted, a confirmation that the surviving hobgoblin guards had decided to cut their losses and depart.  At one point they were attacked by a giant spider that leapt at them from a darkened corridor, but the adventurers had been expecting an attack, and the creature was cut down before it could do more than punch a few holes in Mara’s cloak with its fangs.  After cleaning their weapons, they moved on, leaving the bloody carcass lying in the passageway behind them. 

They finally came to a set of double doors decorated with grim designs that looked to have been marked with charcoal upon the faded wood.  Devrem stared at them for a moment, but said nothing.  Finally Mara stepped forward and tried the handle on the nearer door; it gave with only slight resistance, revealing a large chamber beyond. 

The room was dominated by its central feature, a massive stone plinth that supported a kneeling stone figure of a warrior, clad in breastplate and helm in an archaic style.  The depicted fighter bore a sword that he held in a ready position, as if frozen in the instant before a strike.  The statue occupied the center of the room, under a domed ceiling that rose up to an apex a good twenty feet above the floor.  

There were other, smaller statues in the far corners to the left of the doors, gargoyles or dragons or somesuch, resting on smaller pedestals.  Beyond the central statue they could just make out a deep alcove or annex, which looked to be occupied by several additional carvings that were not quite distinguishable at this distance. 

For a moment the companions just took it all in, then Mara shifted her swords at her hips and started forward.  But Beetle, who had slipped into the forefront of the group, held up a hand to forestall her. 

“What’s this, now?” the fighter asked.  

Beetle didn’t respond or even turn; he took a step forward, but kept his hand up as if it were a barrier to keep them back.  

“Let him go ahead,” Jaron said in explanation.  “This is his thing.”

Mara shook her head, not quite understanding, but she remained with the others as Beetle walked alone into the room.  As the halfling drew apart from them the room he seemed to grow smaller, or maybe it was the room and its statues that seemed larger and more menacing by comparison.  Beetle walked straight toward the large statue of the warrior, until he suddenly stopped a good ten paces from the base of the plinth.  He stood there for almost a minute, staring up at it in silent appraisal. 

“What is he seeing that we’re not?” Elevaren asked. 

Mara, still looking dubious, opened her mouth to retort, but before she could respond Beetle suddenly took a step forward.  The reaction was immediate.  The statue twisted and pivoted, its sword lashing out in a deadly low arc that would have cut the halfling in two.  But even as it surged into motion Beetle retracted his step, moving back to where he’d been a moment before.  The tip of the stone blade passed close enough to lift his cloak in the gust of his passage, but it did not connect.  Beetle simply stood there and watched the stone giant as it recovered from its swing, and fell back into the same ready position it had been in when they had first entered. 

“It seems we have reason to be grateful for your cousin’s instincts,” Devrem said. 

“What’s he doing now?” Mara asked.  And indeed Beetle had turned away from the statue—after dragging the toe of his boot across the spot on the floor where the range of the warrior’s sword extended, noting the edge of the “safe” zone with a scuff mark—and started toward the dragon statues on the far side of the room. 

“There are potent magical forces at work here,” Elevaren noted, but that much was obvious to all of them. 

Beetle slowed slightly as he approached the nearer of the two dragon-statues.  The thing was tiny compared to the stone warrior, but still it loomed over Beetle, its lifeless eyes seeming to monitor his approach.  

“Be careful,” Jaron whispered, almost to himself. 

None of them were surprised when the dragon statue turned out to be a trap.  But all of them were caught off-guard when the head of the statue shifted slightly, and it breathed out a gout of brilliant scarlet energy, a deadly stream that washed over Beetle, obscuring him from the view of the others.

“Beetle!” Jaron yelled, but he was too late and too far away to intervene as Beetle vanished within the pyrotechnic surge.


----------



## Richard Rawen

Lazybones said:


> ... Stay tuned.
> * * * * *



Oh you're a funny one... you've got us addicted, what choice do we have? 

I always enjoyed a good guest DM back in my player days, they shake up the normal pacing and keep you on your toes


----------



## Voyeur

Lazybones,
  I discovered the Doomed Bastards and finished them about the time you finished writing them.  Thank you.  I thank you, particularly, for your thoughtful writing of the _experience_ of faithfullness on the part of your clerics - I've been lurking for a while and not seen that done well very often.  
  Anyway, thanks for the reliably good story - well written and real characters.  I'm enjoying your Keep on the Shadowfell and looking forward to more.
Voyeur


----------



## Lazybones

Thanks for the supportive comments, Voyeur. 

* * * * * 

Chapter 59


The companions hastened forward, giving the stone warrior a wide berth.  For a moment they couldn’t see anything clearly, as the dragon’s breath had flared in their vision, like a sudden ray of sunlight breaking through the clouds. 

When they could finally see, there was no sign of Beetle where the stone dragon’s breath had struck.  

“It obliterated him,” Elevaren began, but Jaron pointed and said, “No, look!”

They followed the halfling ranger’s finger and saw Beetle, clambering up atop the back of the statue, coming into clear view as he pulled himself up onto the crest where its neck met its head.  The statue did not react, although a ruddy glow was still visible in the opening of its mouth, waiting for another opportunity.  Beetle almost gave it that chance as he leaned precariously forward from its neck, his weight balancing on one hand clinging to the statue’s ear.  His other hand shot forward, and then he flipped ahead, landing easily on his feet a few feet ahead of the statue. 

Almost as soon as his shoes touched the floor, the statue’s head turned to track him.  “Look out, Beetle!” Mara warned, starting forward to pull him out of the way of another energy discharge.  But Beetle did not even look back as the red glow flared, and streaks of energy erupted around the hilt of the dagger that the halfling had wedged into the dragon’s mouth.  For a moment the statue was surrounded by a blazing corona of streaking crimson, and then the head exploded in a shower of stone shards and dust.  Mara lifted a hand to shelter her face from the debris, but Beetle merely stepped out of the chaos he had created, walking forward to rejoin the group. 

“You really are crazy, aren’t you?” Mara asked, shaking her head to clear away some of the particles that had clung to her.  Beetle merely grinned up at her.  

There seemed little reason to test the second dragon statue, so they gave it a wide berth and made their way across the room to the far alcove they had noticed earlier.  They could see a door now, on the far end of the alcove, which extended for a good twenty feet ahead of them.  There were also more statues, which the companions regarded dubiously as they approached.  There were four of them, carved into the semblance of cherubs, plump human-like infants with small wings and carrying large stone jugs in their stubby arms.  They stood at the four corners of the annex, affixed to low platforms that merged into the walls, set at around chest-height for the taller of the adventurers, almost too high for the halflings to reach. 

“All right, even I can tell that this is a trap,” Mara said.  They all watched Beetle, who walked back and forth before the alcove a few times, studying the statues, the floor, and the far door in turn.  Finally, with the same deliberation he’d used in dealing with the warrior statute, he took a step forward into the alcove.  

In response, a shimmer flickered into being in the air just behind him.  Beetle turned and tapped a dagger against it, revealing that the vague distortion was in fact a nearly-invisible barrier of force.  Jaron and Elevaren moved quickly to test its edges, finding that it stretched between the two closest cherubs, extending across the entire face of the alcove.  Beetle was trapped. 

“We’ve got to find a way to get him out of there,” Elevaren said.  Beetle looked unconcerned, and he started toward one of the statues.  He managed only a few steps before all four of the statues shifted slightly, turning their stone jugs forward and down.  They had barely finished the motion before a gout of water erupted from inside each container, splashing onto the floor of the annex in a powerful and apparently unending stream.  Beetle, caught by the force of the deluge, was driven back, fumbling to keep his footing as the impact of the water drove him toward the center of the annex.  

“The statues!” Jaron exclaimed, pointing to the one that had knocked down his cousin.  The two nearest the entrance straddled the force barrier, leaving a part of them accessible to those outside.  Mara drew her longsword and hurried toward it, but Devrem was faster, thrusting his staff against the stone carving and unleashing a torrent of divine magic.  The silver flashes flickered brightly as they flared out around the stone, which withstood them without cracking.  But the attempt drew a reaction. 

“Look out!” Elevaren warned, as the intact dragon statue in the corner released a pulse of crimson energy toward the companions.  Mara dove out of the way, but Devrem was not quick enough, and the blast struck him solidly in the chest, knocking him to the ground.  The cleric blinked, dazed by the impact.  

Meanwhile, within the magical trap, the flood of water continued, and had already risen to the level of Beetle’s hips.  Without anywhere to escape, and with the cherubs’ jugs continuing to pour out their deluge, the water began to swirl in the direction of the flood, forming a whirlpool that picked up the hapless halfling, carrying him in a spiral that left him little opportunity for escape.


----------



## Lazybones

Merry Christmas to all my readers, regular posters, long-time lurkers, and newcomers alike!

* * * * * 

Chapter 60


“He’ll drown in there!” Jaron yelled, as Elevaren helped Devrem back to his feet.  

“We have to find a way to destroy those statues,” the cleric growled.  “Without getting hit by that damned stone dragon!” 

Mara looked from the cleric to the trapped halfling, then at the dragon statue.  “Let me worry about the dragon.  You three get that field down!”  Without waiting for a response, the fighter turned and started toward the stone dragon. 

Devrem and Elevaren shared a quick look, then turned together back toward the cherub statue that the cleric had attacked moments ago.  The two summoned their magic, hurling the silver flares of divine power and the twisting multicolored strands of fey magic at the statue together.  Both currents flashed bright against the stone, but it was difficult to see what effect, if any, they were having. 

“Hold on, Beetle!” Jaron yelled.  He fired an arrow into the statue, the steel head chipping off one of the ears of the cherub. 

Once again the dragon statue responded, flinging a bolt of energy at those attacking the cherub.  This time Mara stood in its way, and she intercepted the blast with a parry from her long blade.  The force-bolt passed around the steel as if it wasn’t there, and hit Mara on the arm just below her elbow.  The impact spun her around and numbed the entire limb; Mara gritted her teeth against the sensation and grimly pressed forward.  _I can’t absorb too many of those_, she thought to herself. 

Within the trap, Beetle was being swirled around by the whirlpool, which was growing stronger as the water continued to rise.  It was now deeper than he was tall, and he kept vanishing below the surface as the current spun him wildly about.  He caromed hard off one of the pillars, but there was nothing for him to hold on to, no shelter from the increasingly dangerous waters.  

Finally, as he came back around toward the front of the annex, he vanished underwater, kicking hard off the floor and coming up right under one of the cherubs.  He lunged and hooked his hand onto the edge of its jar, barely keeping his grip against the still-powerful rush of water coming from it.  His other arm hung limp at his side.  Grunting with the effort, he pulled himself up under the flow of water, hooking his legs around the statue’s body.  The flood continued to pull at him from behind as he hung there, and he nearly lost his tenuous position as he released his grip on the jar, relying on his legs to hold him in place.  But he did hold on, and he drew a knife with his good hand, and started chipping away at the stone arms holding the jar in place.    

More magic blasted into the other statue, as Devrem and Elevaren kept up their assault.  Jaron rushed over to the other side of the alcove in an attempt to help Beetle.  But while his cousin was less than a foot away, the shimmering barrier that separated them meant that he may as well have been on the other side of the world.  Frustrated, Jaron fired an arrow point-blank into the side of the cherub that he could reach, but the missile only shattered on the hard gray stone. 

Mara blocked another force-bolt with her body, and charged to attack the statue before it could strike again.  But the stone dragon could defend itself, and it unleashed another blazing cone of energy as its cohort had against Beetle earlier.  Mara was not nearly as nimble as the halfling, and she could not avoid the surge, which blasted her back several feet and launched her hard onto her back.  Groaning, she tried to get up, but the room seemed to sway around her, making movement difficult.  

The water level rose steadily, and soon it engulfed Beetle anew.  But the halfling somehow held on, and his dagger still flashed within the surging floor, carving at the cracks that were now visible in the statue’s stone arm.  The statue on the other side of the alcove was showing signs of wear, now, with spiderwebs of cracking where Devrem and Elevaren continued to lash at it.  With Mara down an energy bolt from the stone dragon got through, hitting Elevaren hard on the shoulder and knocking him down to his knees.  Devrem, roared in defiance and thrust his staff into the densest part of the damage marking the cherub, releasing a final surge of magic into it.  Opposite him, Jaron fired another arrow that struck the neck of his target, at the same time that Beetle’s dagger finally bit through the statue’s damaged arm, and everything seemed to come apart at once. 

A wall of water surged outward from the annex.  Devrem and Jaron were knocked off their feet, and Elevaren was caught up and spun around, finally ending up tangled with the priest back toward the center of the room.  Jaron, closer to the edge of the barrier, was not launched quite so far, and as the flood eased he quickly crawled toward his cousin, who was lying on his back a few paces distant, not moving.  

“Beetle!  Beetle!” he yelled, shaking the waterlogged halfling.  When that yielded no response he knelt and breathed into his cousin’s mouth.  Suddenly Beetle shook and coughed, spitting up a considerable quantity of water.  He moaned as he shifted onto his injured arm.  “Your shoulder is dislocated,” Jaron said.  “Hold on… Devrem!” 

But the cleric was not in an immediate position to help.  As the cleric started to rise, reaching down to help the battered Elevaren, he heard a groaning noise above and behind him. 

He turned to see the huge stone warrior swinging his massive blade down toward them.  

As if that wasn’t enough, the doors at the far side of the alcove burst open, and a horde of zombies surged forward into the room.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 61


Devrem was frozen by the sight of the huge blade coming down toward his body, but Elevaren, lying prone at his feet, grunted and thrust forward against the back of the priest’s knees.  Devrem fell forward, and while the tip of the sword still clipped his torso, it was a glancing blow rather than a killing strike.  Elevaren crawled forward after the priest, following him out of the killing zone around the statue. 

Jaron looked up to see a surging knot of undead bearing down on him and his companions.  There was no time to think about what to do; his bow was lost, carried off by the flood, and Beetle was lying at his feet, still virtually helpless.  

“I’m sorry,” he said, as he grabbed Beetle’s arm and yanked hard, pulling it back into its socket.  Beetle cried out in pain, but there was no time to tend to him, as Jaron stood and stepped forward to keep the oncoming zombies at bay.  

There were over a dozen of the undead monsters, foul, rotting things that left bits of decaying matter behind them on the damp and slippery floor as they moved forward.  But their numbers gave them strength, and even as Jaron lunged at the first, several others were reaching for him with their mangled claws.  His stroke bit into the meat of one of the zombies’ thighs, but while the blade carved through the rotting flesh, it did no real harm to the creature.  One of the others drew its claws across his face, and he staggered back, blood trailing from gashes above his left eye.  Another seized him by the collar of his cloak, and yanked him off his feet into its violent embrace. 

Mara’s battle cry echoed through the room as she leapt into the fray, bringing her longsword down in a deadly arc that reduced the skull of the zombie holding Jaron to fragments of bone and gibbets of meat.  The zombies pressed on her from all sides, but she held her ground, giving Jaron a chance to regain his feet. 

“Fall back!” she shouted at the halflings, as zombies clawed at her armored body.  Several zombies that were more intact than the swarming rotters had appeared in the midst of the group, and were pressing forward toward her. 

“We won’t leave you!” Jaron yelled, but even as he spoke, a zombie came up behind Mara and smashed her hard across the shoulder blades.  The fighter staggered forward and nearly fell, stumbling away from the two halflings.  Several zombies surged into the gap, and rushed toward Jaron.  The halfling was nearly overwhelmed again, but a knife flew over his head and buried itself to the hilt in the eye socket of the lead zombie, and it fell, delaying the advance of its companions. 

“Run, Jayse!” Beetle yelled, pulling at his cousin’s sleeve.  With a reluctant look at the zombies swarming all around his companions, Jaron followed his cousin back in retreat, four zombies shuffling along behind them.  

Mara was nearly overwhelmed.  The fighter had taken a beating from the dragon statue, and the zombies were strong for all their decrepit condition.  She tried to cut one down, but her sword got fouled in the zombie’s arms, the creature paying no heed to the gashes the weapon cut in its flesh.  Three zombies came at her before she could recover, grasping at her with their probing claws, seizing hold of her cloak and the sleeves of her tunic, their nails tearing the fabric as they tried to find the vulnerable flesh beneath.  Thus far her armor had kept her intact, but with the zombies pressing hard it was only a matter of time before they were able to tear her apart. 

Devrem stepped boldly into the midst of the press, the tip of his staff shining with silver fire.  The cleric was seriously wounded, the tear in his shoulder where the stone warrior’s sword had struck oozing blood that soaked into his tunic.  But the power of his goddess was with him, and the zombies fell back from that blazon, their bodies crumbling against that radiance.  Fully five zombies, including those three holding Mara, came apart before his _turning_.  But the two stronger ones surged ahead, defying the will of the Raven Queen, and in the doorway a still darker shadow materialized, creeping forward with a stink of decay coming in its wake.  

Jaron started to turn as the zombies began to close the distance behind him and Beetle.  But his cousin grabbed him and thrust him ahead.  Beetle followed almost languidly, letting the zombies close the distance behind him as he veered off to the left.  

“Beetle, what are you doing?” Jaron yelled.  He started to come to his cousin’s aid, but Beetle’s slight smile forestalled him.  The halfling rogue came to a sudden stop; the four zombies surged forward to take him. 

Even as their claws extended out to grab him, Beetle stepped slightly over to his left.

The stone warrior shifted; his blade swept around in its broad arc.  Beetle slid subtly to the side; the tip of the sword sliced the air inches from his face.  It continued through the zombies, cleaving the first three like a scythe cutting overripe wheat.  The three zombies fell to the ground in pieces.  The last one, by chance a step out of range of the trap, tried to grab Beetle, but the halfling leapt nimbly out of its reach.  It was almost trivial for Jaron to lunge in and cut it down with a single stroke of his sword. 

In the center of the room, the battle still raged.  The weaker zombie rotters had been carved away, leaving a pair of the stronger creatures, and the last arrival to the battle, and the strongest.  This new foe was a ghoul, which surged forward and leapt upon Devrem, tearing with its claws and biting with powerful jaws full of jutting yellow teeth.  Devrem tried to counter, but his staff proved a hindrance in such close quarters, and the silver flashes of radiant energy flickered past the creature without harming it.  Its own dire power was imparted through its attacks, and the priest began to stiffen as a magical paralysis began to creep up on him.  

Mara was in no position to help.  The last two zombies were much stronger than the first ones, and the fighter was grievously injured.  Elevaren helped her with blasts of fey magic, but the power that animated these zombies was durable, and the shimmering colors splashed over their bodies with little effect.  

Mara fought on, delivering a heavy chop that severed one of the zombies’ arms at the elbow.  That affected it, but the other one lunged forward before she could recover, dragging one arm around her neck.  The other one yanked at her arm with its remaining hand, pulling her off balance.  She tried to twist away, but the zombie holding her only tightened its grip, dragging her into a neck lock that she could not escape.  Her struggles grew weaker as it cut off her supply of air.  

Even as the fighter succumbed, Devrem found himself in increasing trouble against the ghoul.  It knocked his staff aside, absorbing a surge of radiant energy that only drove it to a greater fury.  Grabbing onto the priest, who was already moving stiffly because of the creeping paralysis from the ghoul’s touch, the undead monster dragged him close, seizing his neck in his jaws and biting down hard.  The ghoul’s bite tore flesh even through the cleric’s coif, the thin metal links parting before the monster’s ferocious strength.  Devrem issued a strangled cry of pain, one that faded as the ghoul pulled him to the ground in a thrashing pile of limbs and blood.


----------



## carborundum

Good grief! Fantastic stuff, sir! Pure, nail-biting awesomeness!


----------



## Lazybones

carborundum said:


> Good grief! Fantastic stuff, sir! Pure, nail-biting awesomeness!



Thanks! I aim to please. 

Friday we'll get a look at what the bad guys have been up to. Happy New Year, everyone!

* * * * * 

Chapter 62


With Devrem and Mara both incapacitated, and the others injured to some degree, the situation looked grim for the adventurers.  

Jaron yelled as he charged the zombie holding Mara.  The one-armed zombie turned to intercept him, sweeping with its remaining arm, but the halfling ducked under the limb, and stabbed his sword deep into the zombie’s side.  The undead monster did not loosen its grip on the fighter, but the distraction gave Elevaren the opportunity to step in close and flare a searing discharge of _witchfire_ into the zombie’s face.  The zombie was not capable of feeling pain, but the burning white flames tore into the necromantic energies animating the creature, and it collapsed, falling with Mara’s limp form still clutched in its arms.  Elevaren immediately bent to help her, yanking away the zombie’s rotting arms and pulling her free of it.  

Devrem was now barely conscious, but he somehow managed to summon the strength to lift his hand and place it on the ghoul’s forehead.  A white pulse of _sacred flame_ erupted from his fingers, searing the ghoul’s clammy flesh.  A blacklash of positive energy radiated from the attack, which Devrem channeled into Mara a second before the ghoul, driven to a violent rage, pummeled him into unconsciousness. 

Jaron paid for helping Mara as the last zombie standing pummeled him hard across the shoulders with its remaining arm.  But Beetle was coming to his cousin’s aid, and before the zombie could manage another strike the halfling leapt onto its back, pulling himself up onto its shoulders in a maneuver that belied the pounding he’d taken in the water trap just a few moments ago.  He’d barely gained his high perch, the zombie just starting to shift to dislodge him, when he jabbed a dagger into its ear, the blade crunching nastily as its edges wedged into the gap in its skull.  The zombie jerked and staggered into a blow from Jaron’s sword, which severed its spine and sent it crashing to the ground.  Beetle sprang free easily, landing softly on his feet a few feet away. 

The ghoul roared as it rose up over the battered form of Devrem, blood trailing from its claws and teeth.  The companions met it with a barrage of steel and magic.  Elevaren, still cradling Mara in his arms, flung an _eldritch blast_ at it that burned a glowing swath across its chest, the fey magic reacting violently with the dark necromantic energies that animated it.  The ghoul sprang at him, but both Jaron and Beetle were there to meet it.  Jaron took a claw hard across his face that tore ugly red gashes across the side of his jaw, but he thrust hard with his little sword, burying it in the creature’s side.  Its other claw swept at Beetle, but the halfling rogue ducked under the swing and sprang into the air, flipping forward before he landed on the ghoul’s back.  The sudden weight caught the ghoul off guard, and it fell forward, landing in an awkward heap on the floor.  It tried to flip over and dislodge Beetle, but the halfling held on, driving another dagger into its back to give him a handhold.  As the ghoul spun Beetle kicked off and flipped it again, putting it back on its stomach and keeping him out of reach of its deadly claws.  The ghoul was stronger and larger, and likely would have won free in another instant, but Jaron was there, and with a thrust that pierced its neck at the base of its skull, the ghoul fell limp.  

Jaron wrenched his sword free—the tip had buried itself into the stone of the floor—and staggered back.  He stared around him, trying to take in all that had happened to them in the last minute.  Beetle sprang up off the ghoul’s back; he kicked the creature’s head once for good measure, then went over to check on Devrem.  Elevaren was tending to Mara’s wounds.  

“Is she…” Jaron asked. 

“She lives.  Devrem did something to her, healed her some, before the ghoul…”

Jaron looked over at Beetle, who was holding his fingers up to the priest’s mouth.  He flashed Jaron a thumbs-up; the priest was alive, although it was obvious that he was grievously wounded.  Mara seemed to be stable now, and was starting to come around, so Jaron went over to help his cousin with Devrem, sparing one glance toward the double doors on the far side of the alcove, where the zombie horde had appeared just moments ago.  The portals gaped open, the space beyond shading toward blackness just a few feet beyond the doors.  

Somewhere in there, Jaron knew, Kalarel was waiting for them, preparing the ritual that would, if successfully completed, spell doom for the Nentir Vale.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 63


Dark powers caressed the priest of Orcus, impinging upon his consciousness like the soft touch of a lover.  Kalarel lost all awareness of his body as he floated within that wave of pure sensation, a darkness that pulsed in rhythm with the core of his corrupt soul. 

A voice drew him back, tore him from that black embrace into the harsh confines of his flesh.  Around him the surges of the ritual continued, undiluted, slowly building in intensity.  

He let the annoyance he felt touch his face as he turned toward the intruder.  Drathek was still a young man, powerfully built, but touched by that certain hungriness, that slightly gaunt look that came to haunt all followers of the demon god.  Sinister fetishes and unholy icons decorated his mail, decorations that Kalarel no longer felt necessary.  One look into the eyes of the senior priest was sufficient to identify his commitment to his cause, he needed no physical augments to reinforce that. 

Now those eyes fixed upon Drathek, and the younger priest could not suppress a shudder.  Kalarel’s lips twisted into a slight smile.  

“Forgive me, great one,” Drathek said.  “But the intruders have won through to the second level.  They defeated the traps and the zombie guardians, although the clay scout reports that they have retreated for now, back into the complex vacated by the hobgoblins.”  Drathek’s mouth twinged at that last; he had been responsible for the hiring of the goblinoid mercenaries, and he felt both anger at their desertion and some fear that he might be held accountable for their failure.  

Kalarel waved a hand.  “It is of no matter.  Soon it will be too late, both for these champions of the light, and for Nentir Vale.  And then, the lands beyond will feel the touch of the Shadow upon the world.”

“They will stop you,” a faint voice said from nearby. 

Kalarel and Drathek both turned to view the speaker.  He was affixed to the wall nearby, bound with wires that had bitten deep into the flesh of his wrists, ankles, and neck.  His clothes hung in a wreckage from his torso, and failed to hide the marks of torture upon him.  There was something slightly odd about his features, which gave him a slight air of mystery until one noticed the faint hints that indicated a mixed human-elven ancestry.  A black mark of a skull with broad horns had been burned into his forehead, but a hint of fire still burned in his eyes. 

There were five other captives sprawled out on the floor in front of the half-elf, unconscious and bound with simple ropes that pinned their arms and legs.  They had not suffered the same degree of abuse as the half-elf, but their tattered clothes, the remains of simple peasant garb, were dirty and soiled with blood.  None so much as stirred as the two priests of Orcus approached the half-elf bound to the wall.  

“You may as well kill me,” the half-elf said, the words clearly taking an effort to get out.  He seemed to be on the verge of falling into the unconsciousness that gripped the other captives.  “I will never betray my god.  The Lord of Light will claim my soul, once it is free of this corrupt place.”

Drathek’s expression darkened, and he started to take a step forward, but Kalarel merely shook his head.  “No,” the elder cleric said.  “No, I think not, Kevan.  Now it is time for the Light to succumb to the Shadow.”

Kevan’s head lowered, and for a moment it looked as though he’d passed out; after a moment, though, the clerics could hear him muttering to himself under his breath, no doubt a prayer to his faraway god. 

“He is strong in his faith,” Drathek said.  

Kalarel smiled.  “It is that which will make him useful to me.”

Drathek turned to face his superior.  “Let me take the berserkers up and finish off the intruders.  They are weakened, now, and will be vulnerable.”

“No,” Kalarel said. 

“But…” Drathek began, only to trail off as Kalarel raised an eyebrow.  “Say what you wish to say,” the older priest finally said.  

“I know that the ritual is paramount, great one. But our forces are depleted.  I will defend the upper shrine to my death, of course, but I only have the two warriors at my command.  If they should get past me…”

Kalarel smirked.  “Still you doubt my power?”

“No, great one!” 

Kalarel had turned back to the great portal, at the shimmering field of dark within the ancient stone arch.  He walked over to the design etched upon the floor before it, and stepped within.  Frissons of magical power flared around the ancient markings, until they seemed almost alive.  “Bring the prisoners to me,” he commanded.  “Lay them here before the Shadow.”

Drathek obeyed.  The cleric was strong, and he had no difficulty with the peasants; a few of them groaned when touched, but none of them regained full consciousness.  The cleric of Pelor, Kevan, struggled when Drathek unfastened him from the wall, but he was too weak to do more than annoy the priest of Orcus.  Drathek finally smashed him across the face with a gauntleted fist, and the half-elf subsided into a dazed stupor.  Drathek deposited him upon the rune-carving with the other prisoners, who formed a ring around Kalarel.  

The senior priest paid no heed; he was lost in some sort of a trance, his arms slowly coming up and spreading as he stared into the dark portal to the Shadowfell.  Uncomfortable sounds came from his lips, forming a jarring chant that caused ripples to swell within the portal.  Even as Drathek dropped the half-elf and stepped back, Kalarel shrieked a command, and the portal obeyed.  Dark tendrils of shadow-stuff tore free and probed out into the room, twining out toward the evil cleric.  Drathek darted back hastily, giving those filaments a very wide berth, but Kalarel was unconcerned, resuming his chant, a look of exultation spreading across his face as his power waxed.  The tentacles continued to swell, and as they passed over the rune-circle they seemed to take on a more solid substance, their surface glistening like a slick of oil.  For a moment it looked as though they would envelop Kalarel, but the cleric held them in thrall, and after a momentary hesitation they dipped down toward the bound prisoners.  As the tips of the black tendrils passed into the body of each of the captives their bodies tensed, and their skin grew flush for a moment, before fading to a pale, waxy gray.

The last to succumb was Kevan, the priest of Pelor, who had watched the entire scene with a growing horror.  Bright red blood trailed from his wrists and ankles as he tried unsuccessfully to part the wires that bound him.  As another black tendril extended toward him he tried to squirm out of the rune circle, but he was too weak to do anything more than roll over onto his back.  A prayer froze on his lips, and as the dark probing member of shadow-stuff drew closer, filling his vision, all he could do was scream, a hollow sound that filled the cavernous interior of the temple, echoing off the walls until it faded into a silence full of terror.


----------



## Tamlyn

You know, LB, I lurk way too much and don't encourage you nearly enough. I love your stuff. If you're not my favorite fantasy author, you are awfully close. Solidly in the company of Martin, Salvatore, Lovecraft, and Glen Cook.


----------



## Lazybones

Tamlyn said:


> You know, LB, I lurk way too much and don't encourage you nearly enough. I love your stuff. If you're not my favorite fantasy author, you are awfully close. Solidly in the company of Martin, Salvatore, Lovecraft, and Glen Cook.



Much thanks, that's an elite company with which to be included. 

On a more general note, the story is finished, so there will be no difficulty managing 3/week posting until it's done.   I do have an outline for a story for _Thunderspire Labyrinth_, but nothing actually written.  I haven't decided for sure what I want to tackle next.

* * * * * 

Chapter 64

Devrem came awake suddenly, screams echoing in his mind.  He tried to get up, but found that his body was reluctant to obey his commands.  He was lying in a bed, a coverlet that had blanketed him falling askance at his sudden movement.  A stink of old blood and stale sweat filled his nostrils.  A dull ache seemed to pour into his body with full awareness, and he groaned.  Grimacing, he tried again to get up. 

“Better take it easy for a few minutes, until your body adjusts.  That ghoul tore into you real nice, and while you heal faster than any man I’ve ever met, I wouldn’t bet against those cuts tearing open again if you try to dance around just yet.”

Devrem blinked and looked up at Mara, who was sitting on the end of another bed just opposite him, her expression somewhat lost in the deep shadows that covered that side of the room.  The only light was a fitful flame from an oil lamp set on the table in the center of the place; the glass surrounding it was streaked with old lines of dirt, creating long lines of shadow that stretched out across the room like fingers. 

“Where is this place?” he asked, his voice cracking.  He felt as though it had been a month since he’d last taken a drink. 

Mara noticed and grabbed a waterskin hooked on the end of the bed next to her.  She handed it to Devrem, who nodded gratefully and drank deeply.  He tried again to get up, and managed to achieve a sitting position on the edge of the bed.  Attempting anything more seemed wildly optimistic at the moment, so he left it at that for now.  He took another drink from the skin, and then looked up to see Mara staring at him.  He said nothing, just waited. 

“I know who you are,” she finally said. 

“I wondered if you were going to say anything.”

“You knew that I know?”

Devrem placed the nearly-empty waterskin onto the bed next to him.  He noticed that his armor and weapons had been laid against the foot of the bed, conveniently—or deliberately?—out of reach.  He sighed.  “It was obvious from the hostility in your eyes.  It goes… well, it was beyond the normal antipathy felt by most toward the servants of the Raven Queen.”

“Ravens are creatures of carrion, and death.  You expect people to welcome such, when they appear in their lives?”

“Death cannot be escaped by denial.  It is a part of what we are.”

“Your friend learned that.”

Devrem shook his head.  “Haron was not my friend.  He returned to your cabin, after we left with your uncle?”

“Yes.  A few weeks later.  You didn’t know?”

“He spoke of it, but he was young, and a fool.  As was I, back then.”

“You were soldiers.”

“A generous term.”

“He tried to rape me.  I had to kill him.  If he’d taken me seriously, I wouldn’t have had the chance.  I suppose there’s that to be thankful for, that his stupidity was as great as his lust.”

“When a dog goes feral and tries to maul its master, it must be put down.”

“That’s all you can say?” 

Devrem fixed her with a hard look, but he said nothing. 

“Do you know… were you there, when my uncle died?”

Devrem shook his head.  “We did not serve in the same unit.  Although I heard, afterward, that he fought bravely.”

“And what of you, Devrem?”

Devrem met her eyes, and for a moment Mara could see what lay beyond the hood of iron self-control that the cleric wore about him.  “I died on the battlefield, and was reborn,” he said.  “I caught a glimpse of what lay beyond the veil, and the sight of that cannot help but change a man.”

Mara shuddered. 

Only about fifteen paces away, Jaron looked up as the door to the antechamber opened and Elevaren stepped out into the corridor where the halfling was keeping watch.  The eladrin looked as he always had; his expression immune to the tired circles that lingered under the eyes of the rest of them, his pale skin sparkling slightly, as though impregnated with tiny bits of diamond.  His long golden hair was bound with a simple leather throng, and again his clothes seemed to somehow defy the wear and grime that was causing the rest of them to slowly take on the look of hardened beggars. 

Elevaren looked down the corridor into the large open chamber beyond.  They’d found a cache of torches and had refreshed those burning in the sconces along the walls, enough to brighten the area sufficiently to minimize the chances of someone or something creeping up on them.  “Where is your cousin?” the warlock asked.  

“He’s keeping an eye out, in his own way,” Jaron replied.  The halfling ranger had tried to caution his cousin against wandering off on his own, but he may as well have been ordering a stream to reverse its flow.  “He’ll let us know if he finds something.” _Or if something finds him_, he didn’t add.

“Devrem is awake,” Elevaren said.  “Mara is tending to him.”

Jaron nodded.  “I suppose we’ll be resuming our course toward the cleric, then.”

Elevaren nodded.  He seemed distracted.

“I had meant to ask you…” Jaron began.  He trailed off, but the eladrin smiled slightly.  “You may ask.  You will not offend me.”

“It’s just that… you don’t seem like you belong here.”

Elevaren nodded.  “I am of a place known as the Feywild.  You know of it?”  At Jaron’s nod, he continued, “I was not a fighter, or a spellweaver.  In point of fact, I was a scholar… of musical forms, mostly, but also of history, religion, and languages.  Our people are long-lived by your terms, and we tend to spend our lives entwined in obscure matters of lore, and the exploration of beauty.”

“But… you possess a powerful magic.  I’ve known wizards before, and while what you do isn’t exactly the same, it’s more than ninety-nine percent of the people of our world can manage.”

Elevaren looked at him.  “The magic…” he trailed off, and for a moment there was a subtle shift in his expression, a wistfulness that Jaron was surprised to see.  The halfling waited until the eladrin continued, his voice now sounding far away.  

“Magic was all around us, in the Feywild, but I never sought it.  To me, the perfect beauty was in a sequence of notes, in melodies that came together into an exquisite pattern of understanding.  I had friends who were players of one instrument or another, and there were times that I felt frustrated at my inability to relate what I heard in a way that they could understand, and represent in song.  On a few occasions I would spend days in a trance, lost in a wild rapport of inner music, perceiving such… beauty… that I lost all track of the world around me.  Once my friends found me so lost in such a state that they were barely able to bring me back.”

“I had no idea you were musical,” Jaron said.  “I’ve never heard you so much as hum a few bars.”

Elevaren nodded, sadly.  “One day, I became aware of a new melody, a whisper of music that I could only barely sense, like the faint notes of a flute carried over the walls of a castle with the breeze.  At first I thought it was real, and I eagerly sought the musician, but he or she continued to escape me, despite my increasingly hasty pursuit.  I would enter a room where the music seemed to originate, only to find the notes fading away, the place empty.  And yet, soon again the sounds would begin again, trickling upon the edges of my perceptions.”

“I quickly realized in speaking to my peers that I alone could hear the music.  Such things were not unheard of in the mysterious Feywild; even we eladrin do not know all of the secrets of our home.  I spoke to a magister and a diviner; neither were able to help me.”

“One night, I awoke to hear the song again, stronger than before.  I rose from my couch and followed it.  I did not expect to find anything, but instead of fading the notes grew still clearer.  They led me out of the settlement, into the surrounding forest.  It felt as though I was walking in a dreamscape, the only real thing the pure essence of the melody that filled my ears.”

“I came to a clearing.  The song was coming from there, though no musicians were present.  The only thing in the clearing was a huge and ancient tree.  It… it was singing to me, and only me.  I could almost understand, the message in those notes.  It wanted something, needed something.  I was not thinking clearly, you understand.  The song was everything, filling a gap inside me I had not realized existed until that moment.  I came to the tree, and the song swelled around me.  There was only myself, and the tree.  I reached out to touch it…”  The eladrin extended a hand, as though reliving the moment again in his mind.  He trailed off, lost in the reverie. 

“What happened?” Jaron asked.

“I… I am not certain.  The next thing I knew, I was waking in a farmer’s field, in your world.  The music was gone, as was the tree.  But burning in my mind was the fey magic.  I have long sought a way to return to the Feywild.  I can touch it, briefly, for that is where my magic originates.  But that is as close as I can get to my home.”

“That must have been difficult.  Finding yourself alone, in a strange place, not knowing why you are there.”

“Indeed.  I continue my search.  I have not found a way back, but I have come to believe that I was sent here for a reason.  I just do not know what it is.”

“Maybe it’s stopping Kalarel.  To keep him from opening the gate to the Shadowfell.”

“Perhaps.  I…”

The eladrin trailed off as Jaron raised a hand in warning.  He hefted his bow and darted off down the corridor, the warlock trailing behind him.  He paused on the threshold where the passage met the outer chamber.  

Both of them could hear the noise that had alerted the ranger; it came again, a scuffle punctuated by a brief, sharp cry.  

“Beetle!” Jaron hissed, rushing off toward one of the exits on the far side of the chamber.  Elevaren followed along close behind, his longer legs letting him keep up with the charging halfling easily.  

But before they reached the far passage, Beetle appeared, bearing something with him.  The halfling was somewhat disordered, his cap missing and his hair darting every which way, and a streak of bright red blood running along the left side of his jaw.  He limped slightly, but that didn’t stop him from dragging his burden along with him. 

“Beetle, what happened?  What is that?” Jaron asked.  He and Elevaren slowed as they approached the rogue, but even close up it wasn’t immediately clear what the other halfling was holding. 

Beetle grinned, and tossed his burden onto the floor.  Pieces of it broke and clattered away across the floor.  Jaron bent to examine it more closely.  It looked almost like a small clay sculpture, a gargoyle or similar ugly thing.  Chunks of it were missing, but Jaron could make out tiny claws, the stubs of wings, part of a tail.  Its face was a web of cracks; one eye was a dark opening. 

And glistening drops of blood on those claws.  

“It’s a clay scout,” Elevaren said from behind him.  “An animated construct, stealthy, often set to keep watch.”

Jaron looked up at him.  “Better get Mara and Devrem,” he said.  “It’s a good bet that Kalarel knows we’re here.”


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 65


The heavy iron-banded doors at the foot of the stairs creaked open.  Ahead of them, the companions could see stone walls to the left and right that partitioned off a small landing, but they could see that it was just part of a much larger space further ahead.  A sick stink that was one part rot and one part the coppery tang of fresh blood filled the air, filling the space like a miasma.  The landing was unlit, but from the space beyond a steady blue glow issued, giving the shadows coming off the walls an odd, surreal look. 

A noise greeted them; a rasping of metal on stone, and a faint but diffuse chant, distorted by the odd configuration of walls until it was not clear if its origin was in fact a human throat.  

The companions shared a grim look; it was obvious that they had come to the right place.  

Devrem led them forward.  The priest of the Raven Queen did not hesitate, and his step betrayed no doubt.  Bits of something that was perhaps best not identified crunched under the hard soles of his boots. 

Beyond the walls the chamber opened up onto a large central space.  Three intact crystalline pillars forming an incomplete square around the center of the room were the source of the blue glow; the fourth lay on its side, broken into jagged shards.  A platform topped by a massive statue of the demon-god Orcus stood opposite them, the unholy stone visage staring down at them with malevolence captured in its lifeless eyes.  Trails of fluid, black in the odd light, ran across the floor, gathering in the middle of the room, where an open pit gaped in the center of the floor.  Long chains set into the ceiling sank into the pit.  

The chamber was occupied.  A pair of hulking human warriors armed with greataxes stood flanking the pit, adjacent to the nearer set of pillars.  Their vacant stares noted the intruders but they did not react.  A third man knelt before the demon statue on the far side of the room.  He was clad in loose robes that were drawn back from his raised arms, revealing flesh marked either with scars or tattoos, it was impossible to tell which in the weird light.  His back was to the entry, but as the companions passed into the place he rose slowly, and turned to face them.  He was bald, and they could see that a design of a horned skull had been graven upon his features.  Even thirty feet distant they could all see the madness in his eyes. 

“We have come to put an end to you and your evil plans, Kalarel,” Devrem said, raising his staff to punctuate his words. 

The marked man laughed.  “You face Drathek, fools!  Even now, my master opens the doorway to the shadow realm.  He awaits your coming, but first, you must get past me!”

“So be it!” Devrem shouted.  Silver fire flared around the head of his staff, but before he could unleash his power, several things happened.  

Perhaps it was the underpriest’s challenge, or Devrem’s reply, but the two human berserkers suddenly came alive, lifting their axes above their heads as they went from quiescence to full-on charge in a matter of two steps.  Jaron had an arrow readied and lifted his bow to fire, but before he could shoot, he caught a hint of movement out of the corner of his eye. 

“Look out!” he yelled, as he looked up to see several dark-shrouded forms, clinging to the walls like bugs, creeping swiftly toward them.  On being seen, they snarled and leapt to the attack, the blue light shining on the long fangs that protruded from pale faces, the faces of the one-peasants transformed into the hideous visages of vampires.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 66


A vampire sprang off the wall, its clawed hands extended toward Elevaren as it hurled toward the eladrin’s back.  The warlock, already focusing his magic upon the human berserkers, never even saw the creature coming, but in the scant heartbeat before collision Beetle flipped a knife into the creature’s heart.  The once-farmer, transformed by the power of the Shadowfell, shrieked and dissolved into a plume of vaporous mists.  The only thing left of it was Beetle’s knife, which clattered noisily to the floor. 

But there were more of the creatures, which sprang down off the walls flanking the entry, descending onto the embattled companions even as the berserkers surged into the front of their line.  

Three vampires sprang upon Devrem, but before they could get a solid grasp on him or bite with their long fangs, the priest raised his staff, and unleashed a pulse of positive energy that tore through them like daggers.  All three vampires dissolved into a vile mist.  

The last vampire dove at Mara from behind as the fighter stepped forward to engage the two berserkers, but Jaron intercepted it, piercing its heart with an arrow that destroyed it as effectively as Beetle’s dagger had done just a moment before. 

Thus far, the battle had been entirely one-sided, but that changed a moment later as the berserkers laid into Mara.  They were utterly silent as they closed and lashed out with their axes, attacking in unison like mirror images of each other.  Mara fell back and raised her swords to parry, but she could not avoid the full force of the assault, one axe coming off her longer blade to painfully dent her greave, while the other hit the shorter sword with enough force to drive the weapon into her own torso.  The latter impact was hard enough to cut flesh, even through the layer of metal scales protecting her.  She avoided being taken down in that initial exchange, but she’d been bloodied, and she had no opportunity to counter as she was driven back before the sheer frenzy of their attacks. 

The odds evened somewhat as Elevaren unleashed his power, clouding the mind of the first berserker with the _curse of the dark dream_.  The dazed warrior staggered back to the lip of the pit, where he slipped and tumbled over the edge into the darkness below.  Even then, not so much as a whisper escaped his lips, although they could all hear the sick thump that announced the end of his journey. 

The loss of his companion only seemed to drive the remaining berserker to a greater fury in his attacks, although his expression remained slack and neutral.  Mara fell back again and narrowly avoided the blade that sliced through her tunic across her gut, ringing softly as the tip scraped the scales of her armor.  She thrust with her longer sword at her foe, but while the tip drew blood, the wound was barely a scrape, and he ignored it as he pivoted back into his ready stance in anticipation of another attack. 

The halflings had started to go to Mara’s aid, but a scream from Elevaren drew their attention back.  A dark figure had emerged from the shadows behind them, escaping their notice in the initial tumult of the melee.  Now it stepped back from the eladrin, its dagger glistening bright red with the warlock’s blood.  As the blue light penetrated its hood they saw that it was a goblin, or at least it had been.  Its face now bore the taint of Shadow upon it, and darkness seemed to flow around its body like a cloak as it moved, shifting with a speed and grace faster than any of them had ever before seen.  

“Careful, Beetle!” Jaron warned, as the younger halfling sprang at the creature.  The dark creeper slipped aside, and the rogue’s initial attack met only empty darkness.  Likewise, Jaron’s shot, though seeming to be right on target until the very last instant, flew past and bounced off a nearby wall.  A sinister cackle came from the depths of the creeper’s cowl, and it twisted its dagger through the air before it, as if taunting the halflings with it.  

Beetle responded by flicking a knife up at its face; while the knife vanished into the darkness within its cowl, a startled hiss indicated that he’d gotten its attention.  The creature flung itself at the halfling, leaping upon him in a tangle of arms and legs and stabbing blades.  Jaron had another arrow ready, but he held his shot, unwilling to risk hurting his cousin in the confusion of the grapple. 

Devrem was not able to assist Mara or the halflings, for he had no sooner recovered from the vampiric assault than he felt a clinging darkness descend upon him, needles of negative energy penetrating into his body and sapping his strength.  He turned to see the underpriest of Orcus facing him, the source of the attack upon his very soul.  He responded with a silvery _lance of faith_, but the evil priest merely lifted a hand, and deflected the stream of divine power as though it had been a stream of dandelion tufts flitting in the wind.

“Your pathetic powers are naught before the might of the True God,” Drathek cackled.  

“You can tell him that when you see him,” Devrem said, tightening his grip on his staff as he started warily forward, coming around the pit to face the cleric directly.  Behind him, he heard Mara’s grunts as the fighter continued battling the remaining enemy berserker, their fight accompanied by the ringing clash of steel on steel.  But he could not spare her any attention at the moment; this foe would take everything he had to master. 

The underpriest raised his hand again, and Devrem tensed, ready for an attack.  But instead, the flow of divine magic went elsewhere, and too late he realized that the cleric was bolstering his ally, the berserker.  He glanced to the side to see the warrior—now bearing a few wounds, as Mara had not been completely ineffective—suddenly swell up, and lunge forward to strike with a renewed vigor.  Mara took a hit hard across her armored chest, and fell to the ground, one of her swords clattering across the bare stone tiles of the floor as it fell away from her.  The warrior stepped forward to finish her off; Elevaren was there, but Devrem could not see how the warlock could hope to stop that insane enemy. 

He did not get a chance to find out; a hint of motion out of the corner of his eye warned him that he’d let himself become too distracted, and he barely lifted his staff in time to partially deflect the mace that came crashing down toward his head.  Drathek struck him solidly, and Devrem felt a painful jolt as the weapon glanced hard off his shoulder.  The man seemed unnaturally strong.  

But Devrem had his own power, and his faith was as strong as that of the corrupt servant of Orcus.  He hit the priest with a burst of _sacred flame_, directing the backblast of positive energy that flowed from the spell back toward Mara.  The underpriest hissed as the flickers of silver power flared around his face, but he was far too durable an adversary to fall to such an attack.  His counter came quickly, and the head of the mace came under Devrem’s guard to crash solidly into his gut.  The critical hit drove the air from the priest’s body, and Devrem staggered back, sinking to one knee as he fought the stabbing pains that radiated out from the center of his body.  

“If this is the best that they can send, then the Nentir Vale will fall quickly indeed,” Drathek said, chuckling as he came forward to finish what he had started.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 67


Beetle and the dark creeper tumbled about upon the hard floor of the upper temple, each seeking advantage in their deadly grapple.  Knives flashed with each twist of bodies, and as they rolled they left bloody smears behind them on the stones.  Beetle was fast, and possessed of a certain wiry strength, but the creeper was empowered by the dark powers of Shadow that had transformed it from a mundane goblin into something more powerful and malevolent.  As they caromed off one of the nearby stone walls the creeper seized hold of the halfling and slammed him into the ground with enough force to stun him.  Tearing its knife-hand free, it lifted the blade to finish him.  

Had Beetle been alone, the shadow-thing would have had him then, but Jaron had been waiting for a clear shot, and as the dark creeper raised its knife he fired an arrow point-blank solidly into the center of its back.  The creature let out a high-pitched shriek and reared up, clutching in vain at the shaft that penetrated its body.  Beetle recovered quickly from his momentary vulnerability and took advantage, pulling another knife from his belt and sinking it to the hilt in the creature’s side.  The creeper stiffened and fell forward.  Beetle caught the body and kicked it free.  He sprang to his feet, but staggered to the side and nearly fell, obviously a little woozy from the beating he’d taken.  

Elevaren hurled a curse of fey magic upon the berserker as he stepped forward to finish off the battered Mara.  The warlock’s _witchfire_ erupted from the warrior’s eyes and ears, searing his flesh and blasting his senses, but again failing to draw so much as a groan from his lips.  The berserker, half-blinded by the attack, lunged forward and swept his axe in a broad arc that likely would have cut the eladrin in twain, had it connected squarely.  But even the glancing hit that tore across Elevaren’s shoulder was nasty; the warlock staggered back, blood seeping from a broad tear in his leather tunic.  Elevaren could have transported himself away from the immediate danger, but he looked down at the prone woman lying next to both him and the berserker, and he held his ground.  The berserker, still unable to see clearly, followed the sound of Elevaren’s cry of pain, stepping forward as he lifted the axe to try again to put an end to his foe.  

Mara, lying on her back and critically injured, was not in a position to do much to intervene.  But as the berserker stepped toward Elevaren she managed to summon the strength to lash out with one foot, the hard heel smashing into the berserker’s right knee.  The knee buckled forward, and the warrior toppled over, landing with a clang of metal on stone as the blade of his axe scraped against the floor tiles.  A plume of multicolored light washed over him as Elevaren hit him with an _eldritch blast_, but the warrior seemed barely fazed by the attack, moving with deliberation as he planted his hands against the floor and pushed himself up into a crouch before rising, taking up his axe again in both hands, an implacable foe that would not be denied. 

Devrem roared and hurled himself up into the enemy cleric, smashing into the big man’s body with his shoulder while his hands grabbed the wrists holding that deadly mace.  Drathek was in better shape, but as the sheer weight and momentum of Devrem drove him back, his booted feet slipped on the treacherous slicks of blood that trailed across the floor of the chamber.  The pair struggled there for a moment, neither able to gain the immediate advantage.  The head of the mace gyrated between them as they spun in a circle, then Devrem tore a hand free and tried to grab his foe’s face, the silvery flashes of his _sacred flame_ flickering from his fingers as he sought to repeat the tactic he’d used on the ghoul earlier.  The underpriest screamed as the flaring energies seared his skin, but Devrem hadn’t been able to get a solid grip, and Drathek was able to bat his hand away with a sharp strike from an armored elbow.  With a surge of raw strength the priest brought a bracered forearm down hard across Devrem’s face, breaking his nose and driving the pair apart.  Devrem tried to come at him again before he could bring the mace into play, but this time Drathek intercepted his charge and caught him in a hold that used his own momentum against him, spinning him around and then unbalancing him with a trip that sent him careening to the floor.  Only blind luck kept Devrem from falling into the open pit, though for a moment he balanced there precariously on the lip, blood pouring down his face from his shattered nose.  

The berserker lunged at Elevaren again as he thrust himself back to his feet, but the warlock was wary now, and he darted back, narrowly avoiding the deadly blade of that huge axe.  The warrior nearly lost his balance for a moment, but he used the impetus of the backswing to shift back toward Mara, who’d managed to roll over onto her stomach and was now trying unsuccessfully to get to her feet.  Her smaller sword had fallen away when she’d been knocked down, but she still had the longsword, its hilt clutched tightly in her right hand.  Seeing the berserker coming for her, she tried to bring the blade up into a defensive position, but the sword may as well have been an anvil for the strength that she was able to summon, and its tip barely came up to the level of the warrior’s knees.

“Bastard…” she said weakly, able only to watch as the warrior came at her, his axe coming up high above his head.  She heard a solid thud as something hit the warrior from behind, and he faltered for a half-step, offering her a moment of hope.  But again the berserker recovered, and with one final step forward he loomed over her, and the axe started to come down.  

A blur of motion from behind the warrior culminated with a collision that struck him hard in the back of his right knee, at almost the same spot that Mara had kicked him just moments before.  Again the knee gave way, and the warrior fell hard forward, his axe whistling through the air scant inches away from Mara’s exposed face.  He fell onto her, his heavy body landing across Mara’s legs, and she could feel his weight pressing down upon her, a crushing burden that should have hurt, but she only felt a heavy numbness in her limbs as the loss of blood from her wounds began to steal away her consciousness.  She was aware of the warrior struggling again, trying to get up, but then she heard a high-pitched, familiar laugh, followed by a spray of hot blood that splashed all over the side of her face, accompanied by the abrupt end of her foe’s movements. 

A wave of power washed up out of the open pit, an invisible yet somehow tangible surge of magical energy that each of the companions felt as a weight pressing against their consciousness.  Each of them felt a flickering within their minds, a rush of discordant images of things that were only partially perceived, but which would give them nightmares for long years to follow.  The disorientation that followed lasted only a few seconds, and as it cleared they could see the underpriest of Orcus standing over the battered form of Devrem, a look of exultation on his face.  The cleric of the Raven Queen was still conscious, but pain twisted his features, and it looked to be all he could manage to keep himself propped up on his arms, vainly trying to summon the strength to face the evil cleric on his feet.  

“You are too late!” the underpriest laughed.  “The day of reckoning has come!  The Shadow rises triumphant!” 

“Never!” Devrem hissed, slumping down onto his side as he thrust out his left hand, and channeled the last of his strength into a _lance of faith_ that struck the priest solidly in the chest.  Drathek grunted as the divine power hit him, but the attack only seemed to fuel the insane intensity that flared in his eyes.  “Your blood shall be an offering to the true god!” he shrieked, lifting his mace as he rushed forward to finish off his enemy.  Devrem could do nothing more to intervene, his limbs trembling weakly as he tried in vain to get up. 

An arrow whistled over the fallen cleric, slamming hard into the underpriest’s thigh, penetrating the skirt of mail protecting the limb.  Drathek stumbled, and was hit by a blinding spray of magic that flashed around his face.  The _eldritch blast_ disoriented him only for a moment, but it in turn was followed by a gleaming blade, barely a hand-spawn in length, that tore mercilessly into his head just above his left eye, the razor-sharp steel tearing a long gash that cut to the bone.  Drathek screamed and clutched at the bloody wound.  His momentum carried him forward, and he collided hard into Devrem, lying at the edge of the pit.  Both clerics were tumbled forward into the gaping opening, Drathek still screaming as he went over head-first, his yell echoing from below before it ended abruptly in a sick thud.  

Jaron ran up, not expecting to see anything but an empty darkness, but as he reached the edge of the pit, he saw Devrem dangling just a few feet below the lip, clutching to one of the trailing chains with some desperate reserve of strength.  He looked up and saw Jaron.  “Help… me…” he managed to say.


----------



## carborundum

YIPES!!!

Awesome update again, Lazybones! Do we really have to wait DAYS for this cliffhanger to be resolved? It's so unfair!


----------



## WetWombat

Friday's cliffhanger day!  Isn't it?

THE Wombat! (Wet)


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## Neurotic

*Yes, friday*

On friday Devrem would be hanging by his fingernails, from under him would be coming crap golem (see doomed bastards) and no one would be in (apparent) position to help... 

Go, Lazybones!


----------



## WetWombat

Ah yes, Friday is Make 'em SQUIRM All Weekend While They Wait To See What Happens Next Cliffhanger Day!  I forgot! 

Go Lazybones, Kliffhanger KING! 

THE Wombat!  (Slightly Damp)

Edited to fix my smileys


----------



## Lazybones

Thanks for the posts, guys!

Today's more setup, Friday the cliffhanger, of course. 

* * * * * 

Chapter 68


They were beaten, battered, and all around in pretty tenuous shape.  Once Beetle and Jaron had pulled Devrem from the pit, the companions fell back to the comparative safety of the stairwell, where they bound their wounds and tried to catch a collective breath.  Devrem used his magic to bring himself and Mara back from the brink of death, while the rest of them relied on more traditional remedies, cutting bandages from the clean cloths they carried in their mix of supplies.  Most of the wounds they’d suffered were not as bad as they’d first looked, but Beetle had a deep puncture wound in his left hip where the dark stalker had stabbed him, and the gash across Elevaren’s chest, while not deep, was long and continued to seep fresh blood into the bandage that Jaron bound into place with strips of cloth torn from an extra cloak.  “This is going to need a needle, and soon,” the halfling said, while the warlock looked vaguely into the distance, distracted by some internal concern. 

“Once I have had a few minutes to recover my strength, I can use my magic to treat him,” Devrem said.  The cleric sagged against the wall at the base of the stairs, looking… _deflated_.  But the fire in his eyes was still there as he looked at Jaron.  “That was just the outer temple, and the underpriest.  The portal to the Shadowfell lies below, down that pit.  The ritual is being completed… we don’t have much time left.”

“That pulse of power, that we felt near the end of the battle?” Jaron asked.  Devrem nodded.  

“I’m not sure what you expect us to do about it,” Mara said.  The fighter sat on one of the broad steps, her head sunk almost against her knees.  She did not look up.  “We got our asses kicked, and we’re in no shape to take on Kalarel.”

“We have no choice,” Elevaren said, turning suddenly from his reverie and fixing his otherworldly eyes on his companions.  His movement causes a twinge of pain that passed across his face for a moment, making him look almost human.  “He must be stopped.”  There was a renewed determination in him that seemed almost like an echo of Devrem’s fixation on his mission.  

“Just getting down there is going to be a challenge,” Jaron said.  “Those chains are slick with blood.”

“Rope!” Beetle said.  The younger halfling had taken a pounding at the hands of the dark creeper, but his enthusiasm hadn’t waned, even with a wound in his side and a slight concussion from having his head smashed against the floor.  Without waiting for a response, the halfling shot up and ran up the stairs, back toward the hobgoblin quarters.  He wavered a bit negotiating the stairs, but he was gone before even Jaron could warn him to caution.  

“You’re all insane,” Mara said, finally looking up, her expression grim, a smear of blood running down her check unnaturally bright against her pale skin.  

“We could use your swords down there,” Devrem said, grimacing as he pushed off against the wall and tentatively rose to his feet.  He’d recovered his staff, and leaned heavily against it as he looked down at her.  

“We will understand, either way, my friend,” Elevaren said.  He too stood, accepting Jaron’s help as he pulled his torn vest back into place over his bandaged shoulder.  

“We may not succeed, but at least we will have tried,” Jaron said, taking up his bow from where he’d laid it against the wall nearby. 

The three men stood there, watching Mara.  Finally the fighter stood up, her face tight with pain.  Elevaren moved to help her, but she shook away his offered hand.  The warlock drew back, and waited.  Mara looked at each of the men in turn, before her gaze settled on Devrem. 

“We do this, and then I’m done with being a hero,” she said.  She walked past the three of them back toward the chamber, limping slightly, and did not look back once she was past them.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 69


The chamber was cavernous, a massive cyst hidden deep under the surface of the world.  And it seemed smaller than it was, its furthest edges hidden in a blackness that seemed to gather, waiting.

The central part of the room was illuminated fitfully by a half-dozen flickering flames that burned in huge clay jars.  Most of the light was gathered at the southern part of the chamber, where a crude but massive stone depiction of the demon god Orcus sat bloated upon a broad flat granite plinth.  The flames cast the statue’s features in stark relief, the twisting shadows adding a measure of menace to its unchanging expression.  Several cloth mats lay spread out before the statue, tangled and filthy. 

The chamber was longer on its east-west axis, and in each direction a raised platform rose up off the floor.  To the west a pair of lamps flanked a stone altar upon which a book rested, spread open to reveal text marked in spidery, alien runes that seemed to crawl across the pages.  The opposite platform culminated in a small pit from which a fetid odor rose, flanked by smaller stone representations of Orcus, these carved in a standing pose, the demon’s hallmark mace clutched against its body.  

And to the north… there, the portal to the Shadowfell stood. 

It was a broad arch, easily wide enough to allow a pair of wagons to pass through without crowding.  It stood slightly off from the wall, and a courageous, curious fool might have looked behind it, to see that the wall there was solid, unbroken.  As one looked upon it from the center of the room, the arch was full of a sinister black plane, one that seemed to take on substance and definition the longer one looked at it.  Ripples occasionally twisted through that impossible surface, and impressions of something more tangible, as if something were pressing against the portal from the other side. 

In the center of the room, trails of red liquid, of the color, consistency, and odor of freshly spilled blood, fell in uneven sheets from a shaft above.  They gathered in a shallow pool there, before breaking off to drain through huge metal grates that formed the corners of a square around the pool.  Iron chains, slick with blood, dangled from the shaft, the only apparent means of entry or egress from the place, save the black portal. 

The chamber was occupied; on both the eastern and western platforms, a solitary humanoid figure stood.  The one to the east huddled in the lee of one of the Orcus statues, a vague shadow among shadows, while the one to the west stood facing the book, a long cloak failing to fully conceal the hard lines of his form, or the heavy armor that protected him from head to toe. 

A faint drone filled the air, its origin not quite distinct.  

The strange scene seemed unchangeable, static.  Thus it was somewhat jarring when a pair of ropes suddenly appeared from the shaft, uncoiling in long strands that trailed off into the shallow pool of blood below.  They were followed almost immediately by a third, which turned out to be a collection of what looked like blankets, wound up and tied together end to end to form an improvised line.  This last strand descended far faster than the first two, as a small figure was attached to its end, drawing it down at a rather precarious speed.  The blanket-rope extended as it drew taut, and a sound of ripping cloth came from it as its burden taxed the cheap cloth taken from the hobgoblin quarters.  The entire rope quivered and started to come apart, but even as that happened Beetle launched himself free of it, flipping almost effortlessly through the air to land on his feet scant inches from the edge of the blood-pool.  The halfling looked at his sleeve where a spot of blood had marked the fabric, and frowned.  

Meanwhile, Devrem and Mara were coming quickly down the ropes, if not quite as rapidly as their companion’s descent.  Their clothes were stained bright red from the fluid cascading down all around them, and their faces were grim as they negotiated the descent.  Unlike Beetle they landed right in the center of the pool, the collected liquid splashing around their boots, rising to the level of their ankles.  They avoided two limp heaps lying in the pool, the bodies of the berserker and cleric they’d defeated in the battle above.  

No sooner had Mara touched down than Jaron became visible, sliding down her rope after her.  Elevaren took a more direct route; the eladrin materialized via _fey step_ at the edge of the blood pool, emerging from the fading sparkles of his magic, stepping away from the trailing streamers of falling blood.  

Mara drew her swords; she looked left and right, noticing at once the two shadowy forms upon the platforms.  “Which one is the cleric?” she hissed.  “Which one is Kalarel?”

As if in response to the speaking of his name, the figure on the western platform turned slowly to face them.  Kalarel’s face, visible within the open front of his helm, was gaunt and pale in the flickering light.  His eyes were closed, and as he turned he slowly lifted his arms, his mouth moving in a silent incantation.  They could see the scales of his mail coat under his cloak, and the iron rod topped with a ram’s skull, thrust through his belt within easy reach.  

The priest seemed unaware of them at first, but as his chant came to an end he opened his eyes, and smiled.  “Welcome,” he said to them, and it was as if all the menace in the world had been condensed into those few syllables. 

“This ends now, priest of Orcus!” Devrem shouted, holding up his staff.  Silver flickers of divine energy flared around the iron-shod end.  

Kalarel’s expression twisted into a slight smirk.  “You are wrong, false prophet of Death.  No, this is where it _begins_.”

“Enough chatter!” Mara yelled, charging forward through the blood pool toward the priest.  Sprays of red sheeted up around her, splattering in bright smears across her armor, sticking in fat droplets to her helmet as she ran.  

Devrem was right behind her, or at least he started to follow; even as he took his first step the dark figure on the eastern platform lifted a claw and summoned a sinuous blast of writing black energy that streaked across the room.  The blast hit Devrem in the small of the back, and tendrils of power flared around him, stabbing into his limbs.  The cleric stiffened, and he grimaced as the muscles in his legs locked, freezing him into place. 

“What in the hells is that?” Jaron cried, dropping down off the last length of chain to land in the middle of the blood pool.  Even on him, the sucking fluid barely came halfway up to the tops of his boots, but it made for a treacherous footing.  No sooner had he landed was he reaching for an arrow, drawing the bow out from the straps holding it across his back in a quick motion.  He quickly scanned the area for Beetle, but the halfling had disappeared from view. 

Devrem could not move his legs, but he twisted his body to look back.  The creature that had thrown the immobilizing bolt was moving along the edge of the eastern platform.  As the light from the firebowls caught its features, they could see that it was a fearsome parody of a man, clad in the remnants of what might have once been clothing.  There was little about it to indicate that it had once been a man, its current state a mockery of the cleric of Pelor whose body it now inhabited.  

“It’s a wight!” the cleric yelled, struggling against the effect that held him.  He looked back to see that Mara’s charge had likewise been interrupted, as a pair of skeletal warriors had emerged from behind pillars flanking the approach to the western pedestal to block her route to Kalarel.  At first she’d simply tried to thrust past, but the skeletons proved far stronger and faster than the rotting undead monsters they’d faced before.  Tendons and strings of ligament still connected the pale white bones, binding them together, and giving the creatures a fearsome appearance.  The fighter was forced back as one of them slammed its sword heavily into her side, and she barely turned in time to parry the attack of the second, their blades sparking as they clanged loudly together.  

“Your defiance, while amusing, is ultimately futile,” Kalarel said, drawing out the rod from his belt.  He pointed it at Mara, and a glowing red beam erupted from the head of the artifact, playing over the fighter’s body like the light from a bullseye lantern.  Mara shrank back from that radiance, which lasted for only a heartbeat, but her companions could see her limbs sag, her strength fading as she struggled to hold her weapons up in a defensive stance.  The skeletons moved forward to take advantage. 

Kalarel shifted his rod to point toward the black portal.  “You shall witness the beginning of the end of your world,” he said.  

As if in response, the black sheen began to distort, and bulged out into the room, probing tendrils forming in the surface like dark claws, grasping at the living intruders into its sanctum, promising a fate worse than death with their touch.


----------



## carborundum

WetWombat said:


> Friday's cliffhanger day!  Isn't it?
> 
> THE Wombat! (Wet)





ARGGGGG!!!!!!! I can't stand it!!!


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 70


For a moment, it looked like the end. 

But the way to the Shadowfell was not completely open, not yet.  The probing claws from beyond the portal slowed their reach, and came to a halt about five paces beyond the arch.  The tendrils remained at full extension for a heartbeat, then retreated back into the black surface, which continued to roil and twist expectantly.  

The sight of it seemed to shake Devrem into action, and he finally tore free of the wight’s dark spell.  For a moment he stood there, indecisive, then Elevaren shouted at him, “Go!  I’ll delay the wight!”  The warlock drew his sword—itself an almost ridiculous gesture—and ran east, leaping over one of the narrow streams of blood that ran out from the central pool toward the nearest drain.  

Devrem rushed to help Mara; the fighter needed the aid, as the skeletons were continuing to batter her.  Weakened by Kalarel’s _decaying ray_, she was barely able to get her swords up to parry half of the blows the skeletons were raining upon her, and only the steel scales of her armor, and the protective power of the _shield of faith_ that Devrem had placed around them before they’d leapt into the shaft, had kept her from being hacked to pieces.  Her own attempts to attack were weak and ineffective.  

Kalarel unleashed another _decaying ray_ as Devrem came within range, but the priest withstood the attack upon his life energy, barely summoning the fortitude to withstand the effects of the eager red glow.  He countered with a turning focused upon the skeleton warriors.  The silver radiance that shone from his staff flared against an amorphous black energy that seethed from the animated bones; the necromantic energies that sustained them were potent.  But the nearer of the two skeletons sagged back, as if punched by an invisible fist.  The respite was temporary, but Mara put it to good use, summoning a desperate surge of energy from somewhere deep within and taking the attack to the remaining skeleton.  Bone chips flew as she rang her longsword against its clavicle, but the skeleton refused to go down, countering with a blow across her stomach that drew a grunt of pain even through her armor.  

Elevaren felt a cold thrill of fear in his chest as he approached the steps that led up to the platform where the wight waited for him.  He wasn’t completely alone; he saw an arrow thud into the wight’s chest, but the creature completely ignored the shaft that jutted from its body, even though the steel head almost certainly would have penetrated its lung had it been living.  

The warlock held his sword at the ready, but it was his magic that he used to attack.  He lifted his hand and drew more deeply on the fey power than he ever had since arriving here from the Feywild, unleashing a pair of spiraling beams of power that sparkled and twisted around each other before slamming into the wight’s chest.  Its feral snarl indicated that the attack had been successful, but as the glittering afterimage faded in the wake of the _eldritch rain_ the wight burst forward, fixing the eladrin with a gaze that tore through him to the core.  Elevaren lost all sense of reality for a moment, and only came to himself as he felt hard stone slam into his back.  He looked up in surprise to see the statue or Orcus looming over him, a good fifteen feet from where he’d been standing a moment ago.  

He looked down to see the wight’s hideous visage drawing rapidly closer as the creature bore down on him, its claws extended toward his face.


----------



## Richard Rawen

Wow... from cliffhanger to ... ACK!
Great stuff!! Very much looking forward to the way this battle plays out, your skills are sharp as ever in detailing each aspect of the fight.


----------



## Lazybones

Thanks, Richard!  

* * * * * 

Chapter 71


While his skeletons battled Mara and Devrem, Kalarel stepped forward to the edge of the platform, and summoned the dark energies of his patron to bolster his allies.  

The evil cleric didn’t see the figure that crept up stealthily along the southern wall, and which sprang up onto the platform while the combatants were exchanging their initial attacks.  His first awareness of Beetle’s presence was when the halfling stepped up and calmly stabbed a small knife to the hilt into the meat of Kalarel’s right calf muscle, just above the boot.

The cleric let out a surprised yell, but he turned on Beetle with a fury.  Taking up his rod, he thrust it at the halfling.  The blow wasn’t especially strong, but dark necromantic energies flared as the horned skull struck Beetle’s chest, and the diminutive rogue fell back, clutching at the black tendrils that flared around the point of impact, twisting in and out of his flesh.  Kalarel laughed, and with a slight grimace reached down to tear Beetle’s knife out of his leg.  

Working together with unspoken coordination, Mara shifted away from the skeleton facing her even as Devrem stepped forward to take up its attention.  The fighter rushed up the stairs before the one that Devrem had stunned earlier could recover enough to block her.  Her lips pulled back into a snarl as she sprang at the cleric, who was just turning back from his attack on Beetle.  It looked as though the fighter had him, but even as she begun her swing the cleric reached up and touched an amulet on a throng around his neck, and disappeared.  

_Witchfire_ flared around the face of the wight as it hurtled toward Elevaren, but the magical attack only seemed to enrage it further.  It slammed hard into the warlock, driving him hard against the mass of the stone plinth at his back, but he was able to barely twist out of the path of its claws before they could shear away half of his face.  The wight was fantastically strong; as Elevaren fought to get free it seized hold of his arm and twisted it painfully back, nearly tearing it from its socket.  Another arrow caromed off its head, hard enough to carve half of its ear from its head, but the undead monster fought with a ferocity beyond that of any mortal foe, and its sole focus now seemed to be the destruction of the eladrin warlock. 

Kalarel had materialized in the center of a runic design inlaid into the floor in front of the portal to the Shadowfell.  The runes had begun to glow brightly, casting an azure gleam across half of the chamber that contrasted with the more natural glow coming out of the firepots.  The dark priest hit Devrem with a second _decaying ray_, and this one overwhelmed the cleric of the Raven Queen, weakening him even as the skeleton warrior tore into him, its sword striking him in the side with enough force to spin him half around.  He somehow blindly caught its follow on his staff, chips of wood flying as the steel edge deeply scored the gnarled wood.  

Mara turned in time to meet the charge of the second skeleton, which came at her with a swing aimed at bisecting her skull.  She deflected it high with her short blade, and delivered a crushing blow that smashed several ribs with the longer.  Now it was the skeleton that gave way, and as it tottered on the edge of the platform a steel knife smashed hard off its left knee, sliding one skeletal foot off over empty space.  Even so the undead construct might have recovered, had not Mara bulled solidly into it, knocking it flying to land in a heap of shattered bones below.  

Mara glanced over at Beetle.  “You want to go kill that cleric?” she growled. 

Beetle laughed and sprang forward, leaping off the platform to land in full stride on the slippery ground below.  Mara followed somewhat more slowly, rushing down the stairs to the level of the chamber floor.  She hesitated for a moment there, but Devrem shouted, “Stop Kalarel!” even as he and the remaining skeleton exchanged another series of blows. 

But the pair had to be wary, for the black tendrils were probing outward from the portal again, parting as they approached the cleric of Orcus.  Beetle ran up to the edge of the glowing circle set into the floor and abruptly stopped.  He flung a knife at Kalarel that glanced off of the cleric’s armored forearm.  The priest lifted his rod and fired a ruby beam that washed over the halfling; Beetle wailed and fell back, trying vainly to shield himself from that radiance with his raised arms.  

The exchange between the pair took only a few seconds, but it gave Mara time to reach the melee.  She too hesitated at the edge of the rune circle, but Kalarel seemed content to remain protected within its center, so the fighter warily stepped forward, keeping a close eye on the black tentacles jutting from the portal.  The dark things jutting forth from the Shadowfell still seemed slightly tentative, and failed to reach further than the furthermost edges of the rune circle, but the disturbances within the black surface seemed to be growing stronger with each passing moment, adding a sense of urgency. 

Kalarel’s eyes matched Mara’s as she closed the gap between them.  “You are not like those others,” the priest said, lifting his rod and holding it like a weapon.  “There is a darkness within you, a shadow not unlike my own.  You are no crusader.  Join me.  Strike down these fools, and you shall know power beyond your wildest dreams!” 

Mara barked a laugh.  “Save it for the brainwashed idiots that listen to that kind of blather,” she said.  She lunged with her sword, just a probing attack that Kalarel easily dodged with a subtle shift.  The enemy cleric obviously had some martial training, and he carried himself in the manner of a man familiar with weapons.  The rod he bore made an effective heavy mace, even without factoring in the necromantic power that formed a faint black halo around the skull at its tip.  

“Consider this your last chance,” Kalarel said, offering his own attack, a cautious swing that Mara parried with her shortsword.  

“Men are all the same,” Mara said, coming in under the parry with a swing of her long blade that crunched hard into Kalarel’s armored hip.  The blow was hard enough to draw a grimace from the cleric, but he recovered quickly, and suddenly shifting his grip on his rod, he drove it up like a spear into Mara’s face.  The metal knob on the rod’s base crunched into her jaw hard enough to crack the bone, and the dark energies wielded by the priest surged into her.  For the fighter, already somewhat battered from her exchanges with Kalarel’s skeletal guards, the critical hit was devastating.  Mara staggered back a step and fell hard to the ground, dazed and barely clinging to consciousness.  

“You shall be the first, then,” the cleric said, looming over her. 

Jaron ran up to Elevaren, drawing his sword.  He’d scored several hits with his bow, but the wight had ignored him completely, despite the multiple shafts protruding from its back and side.  Pulses of fey magic flared between the eladrin and the undead monster, but the wight refused to loosen its grip upon the warlock.  Long gashes covered Elevaren’s chest, arms, and neck, and the eladrin seemed to be flagging.  The wight had him trapped against the base of the huge statue of Orcus, and he’d already used his power to escape by passing briefly into the Feywild.  

“Let him go!” Jaron yelled, thrusting his sword into the wight’s side.  The steel blade pierced its skin, but it was like stabbing a side of beef.  Jaron drew out his blade and took it in both hands, readying another strike, but before he could come in again the wight spun, its claws wrapped tight around Elevaren’s neck.  It swung the eladrin like a club, knocking the halfling roughly back.  Jaron slipped and fell onto one of the grates in the floor, the blood trail splashing around him as he struggled to get back to his feet.  

Elevaren managed to lift a hand, and thrust a last surge of fey power up into the face of the wight.  The eladrin’s struggles were going weaker, and his attempts to break the iron grip of the wight had been futile.  The creature did not loosen its hold, and as it turned back it slammed its prisoner hard against the statue again.  The warlock fell limp as his head cracked against the fat right leg of the demon statue, and as he sagged under the wight’s implacable strength he left a trail of bright red blood that ran down the leg of the stone Orcus, a garish streak that glistened in the light of the firepits.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 72


Jaron looked on in horror as the wight delivered a crushing blow to Elevaren.  The warlock’s body sagged under the full weight of the undead monstrosity, whose claws continued to tighten around the eladrin’s neck.  

Jaron forced himself to his feet, and took up his small sword, knowing it was already too late but intent on doing his best to avenge his friend.

But even as he started forward back toward the desperate melee, he saw Elevaren’s eyes open.  The glow in those eyes was more than a reflection of the adjacent firepots set at the corners of the plinth; Jaron could see a deep radiance therein, a trail of colors that swirled in a mysterious pattern that nearly sucked him in despite the desperate intensity of their circumstances.  He could only watch as the eladrin lifted a hand, which began to glow with a soft, healthy light.  The wight snarled, but before it could counter a bright flare of multicolored energy erupted that engulfed both the warlock and his enemy.  Jaron staggered back, lifting an arm to protect himself from that radiance.  It only lasted a second, but it took him a few more heartbeats before he could see clearly once more, and still longer before he understood what was before him. 

Both Elevaren and the wight were gone, vanished without a trace. 

“Hiyaaaa!” yelled Beetle, as he sprang up at Kalarel, a tiny knife flashing in his right fist as he tried to find a vulnerability in the cleric’s heavy armor.  Droplets of blood flashed as the tip of the blade clipped the priest’s jaw, but the edge failed to cut deep enough to find an artery, and the wound was ultimately only superficial.  Kalarel, reacting swiftly, caught the halfling with one arm and hurled him over his shoulder, in the direction of the portal.  Beetle only flew a few feet, landing on the back edge of the rune circle, but it was enough to put him in reach of the probing tendrils of shadow-stuff coming out of the arch.  “Aaaaaya!” Beetle yelled, ducking as one of the dark claws tore through the air just over his head, and then it was all he could do to leap away before the entity could grab him, all thoughts of attack abandoned as he fled back to the relative security of the center of the chamber.  

Kalarel turned back toward Mara, but the fighter had not moved; she had succumbed to the negative energies of the priest’s weapon, and now she lay unconscious and helpless before him.  

“So, it’s down to you and me,” he said, as Devrem stepped forward to confront him.  

The priest was in dire shape.  He’d defeated Kalarel’s skeleton warrior, but the attacks he’d absorbed—from the wight, the enemy cleric, and the undead guardian—had taken their toll.  Devrem favored his right side, where the skeleton’s sword had struck repeatedly, hurting him even through his armor, and his face was pale, his expression haggard.  But the fire burning in the cleric’s eyes remained undimmed. 

“This ends here,” the servant of the Raven Queen said, presenting his staff before him like a judge’s rod.

Kalarel raised his arms; the dark power coming through the archway flanked him like a fell aura.  “It is too late for you!” he yelled triumphantly.  “The Shadow comes upon your world!” 

Devrem lunged forward, but his enemy was expecting him; he parried the thrust of the staff almost effortlessly, the flaring divine magic coming from its tip streaking harmlessly over the evil priest’s shoulder.  In turn, his own blow cracked solidly into Devrem’s ribs, driving the air from his body, and knocking him back a step.  Devrem staggered and nearly fell, agony written upon his face.  But he refused to fall, drawing upon some last desperate reserve of strength as he pulled himself back up to face his foe. 

“The powers of darkness demand a sacrifice,” Kalarel said.  “Your final conscious realization will be that your death helped open the barrier between your realm and that of Shadow.”  The evil cleric lowered his rod and lifted his hand; black tendrils that were an echo of the power flowing from the portal flared around his fingers.

Devrem suddenly lurched forward, surprising Kalarel with the suddenness of his attack.  The evil cleric threw out his hand and unleashed the surge of necromantic power he’d been holding, but Devrem came blasting through the dark wave to collide solidly into the enemy priest, his shoulder crashing into Kalarel’s chest.  The two men, tangled up together, were driven backwards by the inertia of Devrem’s charge.  Black fire flared around them, and tongues of shadow-stuff tore through Devrem’s body, the tendrils leaving gray streaks of dead flesh as they cut across the cleric’s scalp.  Kalarel slammed his fist into Devrem’s back, but his other hand, holding his rod, was trapped between their bodies.  Devrem started to falter, and it was clear from one look at his face that he was dying; the fire blazing in his eyes had been replaced by an empty look.  With a snarl, Kalarel started to tear free, bringing up his rod to put a final end to it, but to his surprise Devrem suddenly half dove, half fell forward, locking his arms around the other man’s hips.  His weight took Kalarel off-balance, and both men fell over backwards, tumbling into the the black portal. 

There was a sudden cacophonous pulse, a roar that was like the blast of a hurricane, only contained in a frozen moment of time that vanished abruptly with a faint tearing sensation.  Then everything seemed to shatter, and everything in the chamber collapsed into blackness.


----------



## carborundum

Oh good grief - I'd forgotten it was Friday!


----------



## Richard Rawen

What's that sound!?  
...
Wow... that's my heart beating!  

Good Lord LB, you have a nailbiter going here...


----------



## Lazybones

Glad you guys are enjoying the story. _KotS_ will wrap up this week. 

* * * * * 

Chapter 73


“Mara.  Wake up.  Please, Mara, you need to wake up.  Beetle, hand me that water flask.”

A trickle of liquid.  The fighter stirred, and coughed.  Pain returned, an unwelcome surge that seemed to come from everywhere in her body at once.  Moving seemed unattainable for now, so she focused on opening her eyes, letting awareness seep back into her battered frame. 

The dark chamber.  So, it had not been a dream after all.  But looking around, she saw that the darkness surrounding them, pressing in around the worried halfling faces looking down at her, was natural, lacking the malevolence that had filled the room before.  A pair of firepots lay on the floor nearby, casting a circle of radiance that failed to penetrate to the farther edges of the chamber.  She was leaning against a pillar, and while her clothes were tattered, her armor in little better shape, someone had taken the time to clean away the worst of the blood and grime.  She blinked as she looked past Beetle at the portal; now there was only an empty archway, the plain stone of the chamber wall visible beyond it.  

Jaron offered her the flask again, and with his help she was able to manage a few swallows.  The water felt like a healing balm, clearing away some of the fog that clung to her senses. 

“What… what happened?” she managed, when the halfling withdrew the flask.  

Jaron’s expression was sad as he glanced back at the archway.  “Devrem sacrificed himself, he tackled the cleric and drove him back through the arch.  Both of them were swallowed up… There was some sort of blast, I sort of lost consciousness for a while.  When I woke up, it was like that.”

She turned her head, looked around the room.  There wasn’t much to see; the light died before reaching the platforms or the statue she could almost feel watching them from the south.  “Elevaren?”

Jaron shook his head.  “He disappeared.  Him, and the wight.  I… I don’t know what happened to them.  There was a flash of magic, the kind he used… There was nothing left, no trace.” 

“Can you help me up?”

“You probably shouldn’t be moving just yet.  Without a cleric…”

“I’m not going to go far.  I just… I just want to see.”

Jaron nodded, and gestured for Beetle to help him.  Working together, the two halflings were able to help the human woman to her feet, using the pillar as a support.  It took a moment or two before she was able to take a few steps, and Jaron remained nearby, in case her strength deserted her.  She walked toward the statue, where she’d last seen Elevaren, battling the wight.  The darkness began to swallow her up, but Beetle helpfully took up one of the firepots, and trotted over to shine its light on her destination.  

There was nothing there; she didn’t know what she’d expected to see, but there was nothing, no sign that her friend have ever existed at all, save for some bloodstains.  She came to a halt before the thick stone plinth, leaning against it.  She looked up at the statue of Orcus, which had lost some of its malice with the death of the demon god’s priest.  

“He didn’t know why he was here,” she said.

“He was the only eladrin I’d ever met,” Jaron said quietly.  “He was a good man.”

Mara nodded.  She’d heard those words before; for a moment she stood there, lost in a memory.  Finally she turned back toward the center of the room, and glanced up at the shaft that led back up the chamber above.  The flow of blood had stopped, but the dangling chains still glistened with sticky residue.  “We’ll have to climb up,” she said, her steps more sure as she retraced her steps back toward where they’d left their gear.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 74


She knew as soon as she heard the sounds of the wagon axle, protesting against a path never designed to accommodate wheeled vehicles.  

Mara had been chopping wood.  She reached back and grabbed the hilt of the sword that was never far from her reach, now.  She kept the axe in her other hand, and walked over to the spot facing the path.  It was almost the exact same spot where Torvan had stood to face the four riders, six months before. 

But there were no riders this time.  Only a narrow-beam cart, pulled by a big draft horse.  The riding board of the cart was barely big enough to accommodate the single man who handled the animal’s reins.  The look on his face turned sympathetic as he spotted Mara, but she didn’t have to look in the back of the cart, or see the long wooden box there, to know why he was here. 

“How did he die?” she asked him.  

“In battle,” the man said.  He did not have the look of a warrior, himself, but his bright eyes sparkled with intelligence.  “Protecting others from harm.  He was a good man.”

Mara nodded, as if that response were a given.  “There’s tea and food in the cabin,” she said. 

The stranger nodded gratefully.  “Let me just tend to my horse, first; he had a hard time getting up here.”

Mara nodded again, watching him.  She made no move to help, but she did put the axe away, wiping the blade free of wood sap before wrapping it in its leather sheath.  She kept the sword, hooking the scabbard onto her belt.  The stranger, looking up as he filled a feedbag full of oats from a sack in the cart, saw her but said nothing.  After a few minutes, Mara brought out her bucket, full of water, and offered it to him; he accepted it gratefully and watered the horse. 

“It’s quiet up here,” he finally said. 

“Not always,” she replied. 

“I’m sorry, my name is Douven Staul.”

“Mara.  Mara Lendoran.”

“Have you thought about what you’re going to do now, Mara?  I mean, this house is yours now, I suppose, but it’s very isolated up here.” 

“I hadn’t thought much about it.”

“Well.  I was a friend to your uncle, and I’d like to be the same to you.  Perhaps we can talk.”

Mara felt the memories wash over her and let them go as she returned to the present.  She turned to look at the walls of Winterhaven, a dark line on the horizon behind her.  To the east lay another long road, to… where?  She knew the names of the towns, the rivers, the mountain ranges.  The halflings had invited her to come with them to whatever flyspeck village had spawned them, but an urgency had tugged at her, and she had politely refused.  That pull had gotten stronger the closer they’d gotten to Winterhaven, and she’d spent barely a day in the town, and had avoided the local notable—she’d forgotten his name.  Elevaren would have remembered…  Most of the locals had no idea what had transpired under that ruined keep, and the halflings had shared her desire to avoid talking about it.  

She shifted, adjusting the straps of her backpack.  It was heavy; Beetle had found a cache of gold in the deep chamber of the portal, and her share left her with a good deal of wealth, more hard currency than she’d ever had in her hands before.  The road ahead of her was full of options.  

Yet somehow, she felt as though none of it mattered. 

She glanced back once more.  Her gaze shifted to the south road, where she almost imagined that she could see the halflings, walking home.  That was unlikely, of course; they’d left almost an hour before her, and were likely miles away by now.  

Then she turned back to the road ahead, and started walking.


----------



## Lazybones

And here we are!

* * * * * 

Chapter 75


“Almost home!” Beetle said, springing up into the air, twisting into a blackflip that turned into a somersault.  Jaron, who shared his sentiment but was feeling the leagues in his legs, limited himself to a smile.  “Hoo hoo!” Beetle yelled, and ran ahead, to where the road began to curve around a low hill.  A fence was just visible at the bend, which Jaron knew marked the boundary of the Willowbark farm, on the far outskirts of Fairhollow. 

Instead of making for the farm, Beetle ran up the hill, which was covered with a generous coat of winter grass.  It was still a good month or so before the coming of the cold seasonal rains out of the mountains, and the Nentir Vale was still covered in the bright colors of autumn.  Jaron began thinking of all the work that waited at his farm, and wondered if he could get Beetle to help him get the place ready for the coming season.  One look at the halfling running up the hill was enough to dash those thoughts, and Jaron smiled wryly to himself.  

He picked up his pace despite his tired feet, and came to the base of the hill.  He could now smell woodsmoke on the air, but there was something else, something not quite tangible that sent a tremor of unease through him.  He glanced up the hill again, and saw Beetle standing exposed on the crest, facing down toward the village below. 

“Beetle?” he shouted up, but his cousin didn’t respond.  

Now worried, Jaron ran up the hill.  Even with the thick grass, it only took about two minutes before he came up to where Beetle was standing.  As he reached the crest, he felt a sick feeling clench in his gut. 

Fairhollow was a scene of destruction, with at least three of the dozen or so farms that he could see transformed into burned-out wreckage.  Willowbark, Jamberson, Wanderwarren… all three of the main buildings were blackened hulks, with the Jambersons’ primary barn and shearing shacks also burned to the ground.  He couldn’t see his own property from this vantage, but several of the structures in the village core, a good half-mile from the hilltop, had sustained obvious damage, including what looked like severe burning of both the mill and the granary.  

“There a battle?” Beetle asked, subdued. 

“I don’t know,” Jaron could only say. 

Ten minutes later, the pair found a number of villagers poking through the remnants of the Wanderwarren farm.  Dale Wanderwarren himself was sitting on a stump, his face marred with streaks of ash, his stare vacant even when it fell over Jaron and Beetle.  Jaron saw Talbert Tallfellow, the innkeeper, working with several young halflings as they carefully lifted heavy timbers from the stairs leading down to the cellar.  There wouldn’t be much to salvage from the upper level, Jaron could see at once; the destruction had been quite thorough.  He also saw that all of the halflings gathered carried weapons openly, or had them otherwise close at hand.  Talbert saw him coming, and ordered the workers to stop, coming out of the wreckage to greet him. 

“What happened?” Jaron asked.  

“They came in the middle of the night,” Talbert said.  “Hobgoblins, a big part of them.  Attacked several of the outlying farms, and made a probe at the village proper, though we got organized by then, and fought them off.  We killed a few of them, but most got away, and they took prisoners, too.”

“Where’s Yarine?”  The priestess would be at the core of it, Jaron thought, likely helping the wounded, though he wouldn’t have put it past her to join the party tracking the raiders, especially if captives had been taken.

Talbert’s hesitation made the cold fear in Jaron’s gut transform into an icy wedge.  “I’m sorry, Jaron.  She was at the Jamberson farm when the raiders attacked.  They took her, too.”


THE END OF _KEEP ON THE SHADOWFELL_


----------



## Tamlyn

Good! I'm glad it was a typical Lazybones end-of-book cliffhanger. I was afraid you'd take it easy on our heroes.


----------



## Richard Rawen

Tamlyn said:


> ... I was afraid you'd take it easy on our heroes.



silly you lol
Great stuff LB, looking forward to where this leads!


----------



## Canaan

Great stuff, as usual, LB.

Any chance of you doing a 3rd edition story hour?


----------



## Lazybones

Canaan said:


> Great stuff, as usual, LB.
> 
> Any chance of you doing a 3rd edition story hour?



I assume you've read everything in my sig, that's all 3.0/3.5. 

As for what's next, I've starting writing something on _Thunderspire Labyrinth_, continuing some of the characters from this SH with some new folks to fill out the team. Probably will have enough to start posting in a week or so; I'll keep this thread going.


----------



## monboesen

And I see that, as usual, you quickly did away with all the spellcasters on the PC side 


Anyhow with the release of Martial Power it is pretty easy to build two-weapon wielding fighters (and they are plenty good too!). Good news for Mara I'll say.


Thank you for the story so far and please keep up the good work. I particularly find Beetle interesting (is he insane, divinely guided or even both!!)


----------



## Lazybones

monboesen said:


> And I see that, as usual, you quickly did away with all the spellcasters on the PC side



I'm going to put a pure wizard in the next story, we'll see how that goes. 



> Anyhow with the release of Martial Power it is pretty easy to build two-weapon wielding fighters (and they are plenty good too!). Good news for Mara I'll say.



I've decided not to buy any more 4e books, but I did get a few feats from the WotC site, and if anyone else has suggestions (using rules accessible online) I'll be glad to take them.


> Thank you for the story so far and please keep up the good work. I particularly find Beetle interesting (is he insane, divinely guided or even both!!)



To be honest, I'm not quite sure myself. 

I have almost a dozen chapters of _Thunderspire Labyrinth_ ready and will continue the story in this same thread next week. I will keep posting M-W-F updates but I may have to scale back to 1/week if my workload doesn't ease back a bit soon.


----------



## carborundum

More LBSH goodness - great news! Thanks Mr. Bones!


----------



## monboesen

Lazybones said:


> I've decided not to buy any more 4e books, but I did get a few feats from the WotC site, and if anyone else has suggestions (using rules accessible online) I'll be glad to take them.




Hmm. The best option is likely a 1 month membership of Digital Insider to download the Character Builder (Which may be very helpfull for keeping track of the characters in general). As I understand it will keep working even when yor subscription ends, it just won't be updated. 

As a bonus you can download a lot of Dragon and Dungeon material.


You can do that for the staggering price of 8 dollars (the price of one meal or a movie ticket where I live).


----------



## Richard Rawen

First I find out LB's story starts back up next week, Huzzah!

Then Monboesen gives a great tip on D&D content... 

What a great end to a crappy day!


----------



## Lazybones

Lazybones's _Thunderspire Labyrinth_


Prologue


Tandrin was coughing again, huddled in the lee of the wall, his tiny body wracked by uncontrollable spasms.  The cloth he held against his lips was flecked with blood.  The others that formed a miserable line looked little better off; shivering in the chill of the dark tunnel, clutching the remains of their tattered garments together and pressing close to share what little warmth their bodies could muster. 

Yarine pressed her hands against Tandrin’s face; the halfling farmer had a fever.  Invoking the power of her patron, the goddess Avendra, she funneled a trickle of divine energy into the stricken man.  It did little to help him.  She might have invoked a ritual to purge the sickness from his body, but the magical adjuncts, the herbs and other medicines that she needed were many leagues from here, on the far side of the Vale, at her home in Fairhollow.  

That might as well have been on the other side of the world.

Tandrin nodded at her in thanks, and Yarine felt a stab of guilt pass through her.  She’d done little to preserve her people, the halflings that she was supposed to watch over, to protect.  Certainly she hadn’t been able to keep them from the fate that now loomed over them like an ogre.  

A faint clink of metal and a faint stink of sweat different from that which pervaded the halfling prisoners warned her of a presence behind her.  She turned to see the hobgoblin warrior looking down at her, with as much emotion in his eyes as if she’d been a sheep that had escaped from its enclosure. 

“You come now,” he said.  

There was nothing to be gained by defiance, so with a final reassuring squeeze of Tandrin’s shoulder, she rose and followed the warrior.  She tried to gather some shred of decency around her, but it was hard with her tunic torn and ragged, and streaks of dirt marring the soft skin of her face.  She had been slightly plump before her capture, but all of the prisoners were rapidly becoming trim, even gaunt, from the hard marching and short rations that their captors had provided.  

The stink of blood greeted her as her escort brought her to the other side of the tunnel, where a dark opening rested in a deep niche, shrouded in darkness.  An ugly carcass lay in the gap, and other had been dragged against the wall a few paces away.  She’d overheard one of the hobgoblins call them _kruthiks_.  She’d never seen their like before, and would have much preferred to avoid ever seeing them altogether.  The things had emerged from the side passage without much warning, but the hobgoblins had reacted quickly, the warriors forming a line while the warcaster flung destructive magic against their reptilian attackers.  Yarine had been alert to a chance for an escape, but the battle had ended almost before the halflings knew what was going on.  She thanked Avendra that the creatures had attacked the hobgoblins at the front of their company; had they lunged into the line of prisoners…

Not that the hobgoblins had escaped injury.  The warcaster, Zhadroff, was crouched beside a warrior lying against the far wall, a scant pace from the mangled form of the second kruthik.  He looked up as Yarine reached him.

“You will heal him,” he said, simply.  

Yarine looked at the warrior, who regarded her coldly with eyes that flashed with pain.  With him lying nearly prone against the wall, their gazes were almost level.  The kruthik’s claws had opened long gashes in his side that had torn through his armor; Yarine could see the wet pulses of blood that indicated ruptured arteries.  The wounds might not be mortal, but the hobgoblin wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. 

She glanced up at Zhadroff.  The warcaster noticed her hesitation.  “You are slaves now, and have value,” he conceded.  “But there are parts of your bodies that can be removed without unduly reducing your worth.  I will start with the younger ones.  You will be last.”

Yarine could not suppress a shudder.  Zhadroff spoke without rancor, his voice as cold and even as the stone floor of the tunnel, but somehow that made his threat that much more menacing.  As she knelt beside the injured warrior, whose expression had not softened in the slightest, she felt a surge in the back of her mind, as the hope that she’d so desperately clung to since her capture receded just slightly more, now just a tiny distant twinge in the farthest reaches of her thoughts.


----------



## carborundum

Wow.

You had me at "Prologue"


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 1


The only sound within the small, richly appointed office was the soft _scritch_ of a quill pen upon parchment, broken only by brief interruptions as the chamber’s sole inhabitant paused to dip the pen into the crystal vial of ink set slightly off to the side in front of him. 

At first glance, the man seemed like a prosperous clerk.  His face, lined by the passage of fifty years or so, showed nothing but a quiet concentration as he wrote, and the pen did not waver, did not make so much as a single error as it left a trail of letters across the page.  A careful observer might have noticed more, however; the fact that the writer’s shirt was silk rather than linen, or that the small pin at his throat was solid gold rather than gilt.

The man finished his writing, and after blotting the text he folded it efficiently, reaching out to dribble wax from the candle burning on the front edge of the desk.  He drew out a signet ring from a small carved wooden box to his right, and pressed in into the wax, marking the missive with a seal.  

The door opened, and a soldier came into the room.  He was a man in his early twenties, clad in a hauberk of steel scales, a longsword with an ivory-inlaid hilt resting easily on his hip.  There was more than a subtle similarity in his features that bespoke a relation to the man at the desk, even before either spoke. 

“You seem upset, Carzen,” the seated man said, placing the sealed parchment into a tray that lay on one corner of the desk.  An identical tray sat on the opposite corner, empty. 

“It’s that bastard Jakkanis,” Carzen said.  “Father, that man is insufferable!  You should hear what he said to me this morning, in front of the—“

“Jakkanis is the Commander of the Moonguard, and your superior officer,” the older man interrupted, cutting Carzen’s sentence off as neatly as a knife.  The young soldier opened his mouth to counter, but his father continued over him, adding, “Just because you are now my heir does not mean that I will tolerate any shaming of our family name.”

The statement obviously stung, and the soldier bit back an angry retort.  Instead, he said, “If I were magi, like Ahlen, you would say different.”

“If it were simply a question of magical talent, I would have made your younger sister my heir,” the older man said.  “You have made your choice of profession; now you must follow its rules, and excel.  That is what is expected of a member of the house of Zelos.”

The young man’s lips tightened, but he did not directly challenge the man seated in front of him.  The older Zelos sighed, and held up the signet ring.  “Do you see this?  Do you know what it is?”

Carzen nodded.  “It’s Lord Markelhay’s sigil,” he said. 

“It is.  And while the Lord Warden is in the distant south, I wield it in his name.”  He paused, just for a moment, a contemplative interval that a casual observer might have easily missed.  “The Markelhays have ruled Fallcrest since its inception, long before our family first came to the Nentir Vale.  A long time.  But few things last forever, do you understand?”

The youth nodded; for a moment he looked much like his father.  Slightly subdued, he said, “You sent for me, father?”

“Indeed I did.  Vhael has arrived with his party in Fallcrest.”

“Already?  But I thought he was coming all the way from Albestin.”

“One of the things you must learn, Carzen, is to always question one’s assumptions.”

“I still don’t see why we need that scaly to deal with this.”

The old man rose out of his chair.  “That is why _I_ have this,” he said curtly, holding up the signet, before he put it back in its box.  “And you will refrain from the use of that term, even in private.  The Zelos do not resort to crass racial slurs, regardless of our inner feelings.”  

Carzen’s expression darkened further, but he held his tongue.  There was a knock at the door behind him, and a servant entered, bowing his head to the elder Zelos, acknowledging the younger with a nod.  

“M’lord, General Vhael has arrived with his companion.”

“Have you asked to their comfort?”

“Yes, m’lord.  They indicated that they would prefer to meet with the Lord Warden’s designee at once.”

“Please ask them to join us in the South Hall,” Zelos said.  

The South Hall of Moonstone Keep was only a fraction of the size of the Great Hall below, but it offered a striking view of the town of Fallcrest, spread out in tiers along the banks of the Nentir River.  Today the sky was a brilliant azure that stretched from horizon to horizon, broken only by a few pale wisps of clouds above the mountains to the south.  

Lord Zelos and his son entered through the side door even as the main doors opened to yield the servant, accompanied by Vhael and his escort.  The two of them were about as mismatched a pair as one could ever hope to encounter.  Vhael was only a scant inch or two taller than Carzen Zelos, but the dragonborn warlord’s shoulders were broad enough to present him with difficulty at some doorways sized for humans.  He was clad in a simple tunic of faded blue over a hauberk of dwarf-forged links of silvery mithral.  He was not carrying a weapon, but the claws and teeth that were a product of his draconic heritage made him look utterly dangerous nevertheless.  Several visible scars creased the scales covering his head and hands, which were a deep coppery hue, tinted slightly with red under his jaws and on the pads of his hands. 

The dragonborn’s companion was a half-elf woman.  She looked to be in early middle age, at least as humans judged such things, but her body sagged with the weight of a deep, ingrained weakness.  She wore a habit of dark blue cloth and a robe that concealed her from neck to ankles, but even those bulky garments could not conceal the damage that her body had suffered.  Faint lines of scars were just visible at the edges of the cloth that framed her face, and she moved with the slow deliberation of one who felt pain.  Like the dragonborn, she bore no weapons, and the only decoration she wore was a bright silver sigil of Bahamut, the Platinum Dragon, which shone upon her chest in the light streaming through the slit windows of the hall.  

The pair came forward, the woman’s arm resting upon that of the dragonborn, the priestess looking almost like a fragile glass carving in contrast to the sheer vitality of the warlord.  

“General Vhael, on behalf of the Lord Warden, welcome to Fallcrest,” Zelos said, coming forward to greet them.  Carzen followed, but he kept a short distance back.  

“General no longer,” the dragonborn said, his voice deep and heavy, though he spoke the common speech without a trace of accent.  “The days of great armies and desperate battles are past.”

If Zelos was surprised by the comment, he hid it well.  “There is always a need for strength of arms and the wisdom to know when to use it,” he said.  “This is my son, Carzen.”

The dragonborn’s nod was barely noticeable.  He indicated his companion.  “The Lady Draela Silverbow, priestess of the Platinum Dragon,” he said.  “We had expected to find Lord Markelhay here.  The letter we received was sent in his name.”

“Sadly, the Lord Warden has been detained longer than expected at the conclave of the great lords in the south.  I am empowered to represent him in these matters, in his absence.”

The dragonborn’s stare, from eyes recessed beyond ridges of bone, weighed him for a long moment.  Finally, the half-elven priestess shifted her hand slightly on Vhael’s arm, and he said, “Very well.  I understand that you have a problem with raiders.”

“Slavers,” Zelos clarified.  “A foul band, that calls themselves the ‘Bloodreavers’.  They have been a thorn in our side for quite some time, but their attacks have grown increasingly brazen of late.”

“And your own forces?  Lord Markelhay retains a considerable garrison, or so I have heard.”

“That is true, but the Nentir is a large place, and we lack the troops to garrison the more far-flung settlements, or even to actively patrol the back roads and trails.  The slavers are not fools; they avoid large parties of armed men, and dissolve like the fog before the sun when we shift our troops about.”

“So what do you expect me to do about it?” Vhael asked.  

“The raiders must have a base of operations.  We believe they have at least one outpost mountains to the northeast, on the edge of the Vale.  They cannot fly, and even minor parties leave tracks.  A small company, comprised of veterans, would be more effective than an army, in this case.”

Vhael glanced down at the woman on his arm, who met his gaze with her own.  He turned away, and walked a step, then two, looking out through the windows at the town below.  Carzen fidgeted a bit, but Lord Zelos waited patiently, his hands folded in front of him.  

“A small company,” the dragonborn finally said.  

“Soldiers from the garrison, and a few men from my own personal guard,” Zelos said.  “My son, a capable fighter.”  Carzen drew himself up slightly, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, though his expression had not shifted from the slight frown he’d worn since coming into the room. 

Vhael’s eyes slid over the young fighter for barely an instant.  “Supplies.  Horses would be more hindrance than help in the mountains, but we’ll need pack animals.”  

“You shall have everything you need.”

“What about…” Carzen said.  The young soldier looked at Draela, at the sagging, frail outline of her form, but his words trailed off before he could finish his thought.  His father’s eyes shifted to him, boring like cold augurs, but he finished lamely, “It’ll be a hard journey.”

Now Vhael’s look was openly hostile, but as he walked forward the half-elf woman placed her hand again on his arm, forestalling him.  “I will remain here in Fallcrest, and serve as liaison between the civil authority here and the expedition,” she said.   

“I will need whatever intelligence you have gathered regarding these attacks,” Vhael said. 

Zelos nodded.  “There is a pair of halflings from the west, whose village was the latest victim of the Bloodreavers.  The slavers carried off a number of their people.  They seemed intent on tracking them, even alone if necessary, but I prevailed upon them to wait for your arrival.  I believe that one of them is a veteran of that nasty business with the hobgoblin warlord Dal Durga, a few years back.”

Vhael absorbed the information, but it was clear that the dragonborn was ready to depart.  “We leave with the dawn,” he said, his words directed in the general direction of Carzen.  Then, with the faintest of shifts that might have been a nod at Zelos, he turned and departed, the servant opening the doors for them as the pair exited.  The servant hesitated for a moment, then at Zelos’s gesture he departed and pulled them shut behind him.  

“Well, he’s big enough, but he didn’t seem all that special to me,” Carzen said.  

“As I told you before, assumptions can be deceiving,” the elder Zelos said.  “You heard the General; you had best make your preparations, if you are to be ready for the morning’s departure.”

For the moment the two men shared a quiet stare.  Then, with a slight click of his heels, accompanied by a curt nod, Carzen turned and headed to the door.  For a moment, he hesitated, his hand on the handle.  He glanced back.  

“Do not disappoint me,” the elder Zelos said, not turning from where he stood at one of the windows. 

Carzen departed without a word, leaving his father staring in silence upon the town below, his brow furrowed with the weight of private thoughts.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 2


“I do not like leaving you here alone,” Vhael said, adjusting his pace automatically to match the much smaller stride of the woman at his side.  

“I can take care of myself,” she said.  “Dost my lord think me weak?”

“You are the strongest woman I have ever met,” the dragonborn replied simply.  “It is just that I do not trust this Lord Zelos, or his brood.”

Draela shrugged slightly.  “All the more reason for me to remain here,” she said.  “Gazur’s orcs may have taken the strength of my body, but my eyes and ears remain sharp, as does my mind.”

A slight growl sounded deep in Vhael’s throat, as it often did when the priestess spoke of the torture that had left her crippled.  Even magical healing could not fully restore what had been taken from her; powerful priests had tried.  Gazur had paid for his crimes, along with his torturers, but by the look on Vhael’s face, he would have welcomed having them present to pay some more. 

“Gral is coming, unless I miss my guess,” Draela said, patting Vhael’s arm once more before letting her hand fall to her side. 

A slight tapping sound became audible, followed by the appearance of a dwarf from one of the side passages that branched off of the long central hallway.  He was old, his face a complicated landscape of ridges and valleys, obscured by bushy eyebrows and a long beard that was more white than gray.  He wore a tunic of blue cloth that fell past his knees, trimmed in black sable that rose to a high fringe around his neck and out his cuffs.  A belt set with a dozen tiny pouches circled his torso, and he carried a staff that was as tall as he was, a shaft of wood so pale that it seemed almost white.  That was the source of the tapping, the staff marking the dwarf’s approach upon the floor with each pace.  

“General Vhael.  Lady Draela,” the dwarf said.  If Vhael’s voice was like the rumbling of a mountain, Gral’s was like two rocks being crushed together.  

“Gral,” Vhael said.  “What have you discovered?”

The dwarf reached into a pocket—the tunic had several, woven cunningly into the fabric—and drew out a tightly wound parchment scroll.  Vhael unrolled it as the dwarf spoke.  “The men all seem competent enough, but mark me, they’re all in this nobleman’s pocket, whether they be in his direct employ or no.  Five humans and an elf.  Nothing particularly dirty that I could dig up, but mind you, I didn’t exactly have a lot of time to work with.”

“It will be sufficient,” Vhael said, scanning the list.  None of the family names were familiar, but then again, it was unlikely that he would have recognized anyone this far afield as one of those he’d fought with, back in the day.

But then again, the veterans of those times were outnumbered by those who had never returned. 

“What about this younger Zelos?  We’re to be saddled with him on this trip, it seems.”

Gral grunted.  “From what I was able to dig out—not easy, his family name shuts a lot of mouths—he’s good with the blade, but he’s something of a wastrel.  His elder brother and younger sister are both magi—the brother was killed by brigands out near Winterford just a few weeks back, and the sister’s an advisor to one of the southern barons.”

“It would seem that the family has gotten over its grief,” Vhael said.  His finger paused at the bottom of the scroll.  “What of these halflings?”

Gral grunted.  “An odd pair, to be sure.  The one, Jaron Feldergrass, he served in the campaign against that hobgoblin chief, Dal Durga.  Owns a farm in one of the smaller villages of the western vale, the one that was raided by these slavers.  The other… well now, that one’s a bit tougher to put down.  Nobody seems to know much of anything about him, ‘cept that he’s the cousin of the first.”

“I suppose we shall learn more soon enough,” Vhael said.  “Good work, my friend.”  He tucked the scroll into his belt.  “Any more information on the raiders?”

Gral nodded.  “I looked into what you’d suggested before.  Nobody here talks much about the Seven-Pillared Hall, or the Labyrinth, but there’s a few who know about them here in town.  I couldn’t find anyone who could confirm that the raiders are operating out of Thunderspire, but I’d bet my staff that we’d find someone there who would know, or at least who could point us in the right direction.”

“I agree,” Vhael said.  “Samazar would know the truth.”

“If he yet lives,” Gral replied.  “It’s been almost twenty years.”

“If he is not there, we will speak to the current Ordinator.  Our supplies?”

“Everything we need, or near enough.  The boy’s getting everything together in the side yard behind the stables.  Told him we’d meet him there, if you’re ready, sir.”

Vhael turned to Draela.  “I will be here when you return, m’lord.”  She touched his arm, a slight gesture that carried a lot of meaning.  With a nod at Gral, a look that also carried an unspoken message, she turned and withdrew back down the hall toward the guest quarters deeper in the citadel. 

“I wish we didn’t have to leave her here,” Gral said.  

Vhael felt the same way, but he did not speak.  A thin wisp of smoke issued from the corner of his mouth, whirling around his head before dissipating.  “Let’s go meet our troops,” he said, leading the dwarf toward the door that led out into the inner courtyard of the keep.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 3


“My name is K’rol Vhael.  Some of you may know me by reputation.  Most of what is said about me is exaggeration or outright fabrication.  I cannot fly; I do not customarily decapitate giants before breakfast, and I have never eaten a subordinate, no matter what his offense.  However, this much is truth: when I state something, you can expect that it is so.”

“I have been summoned by your Lord Warden to deal with the raiders who have been conducting slaving operations in your Nentir Vale.  This we will do.  I have been assigned the command of this operation.  As such, you will refer to me either as ‘Commander Vhael,’ or more simply, ‘sir’.”  

“This is my second, Graladiran Thunderhammer.  He is a wizard, and when I am not present, he speaks with my voice.  You will follow his commands, and mine, without question or dissent.  If you cannot follow this stricture, then it is best to speak now, because I will not tolerate challenges to my authority once the operation has begun.  A man who cannot follow orders in combat is a threat to his companions and to the mission, and will be treated as such.”

“Very well then.  You have been briefed on this assignment, and issued weapons, equipment, and supplies that will support the operation.  We will be conducting activities in regions that are mountainous or otherwise hazardous to horses, so we will not be mounted.  From what I am told, the distances are not very great in any case.  Soldier Allon, you will be in charge of the pack mules; Soldier Ladren, you will be his second.”

“These gentlemen beside me are halflings from the western part of the Vale, near Winterford.  They have first-hand knowledge of the slavers and their operations, and will be accompanying us.  As civilians, they are not directly subject to the chain of command, but as a part of this operation, they will be expected to follow directions and contribute to the activities of the group.”

“Soldier Gezzelhaupt, I am told that you have something of a gift for foraging.  Very well, you shall be our quartermaster.  Soldier Tomon will be your second, and will also be responsible for upkeep of the party’s weapons.  A quantity of tools, oils, whetstones, spare bowstrings, and other necessities are included in our supplies.  In addition to the material carried on the mules, each of you will carry a small pack of essentials, in case something should happen to the animals.”  

“Soldier El’il, you are in charge of scouting; your elvish eyes will be of particular use to us in ferreting out any ambushes.  While much of the Nentir is quiet, you should learn now that I make no assumptions about ‘friendly’ or ‘hostile’ territory; all will be considered the latter once we leave the walls of this city.”

“Corporal Chaffin will be responsible for supervising you in your various assigned tasks. He will provide you with our marching order and the watch schedule.  He will report to Lieutenant Zelos, who will report to me.”

”This operation will function based on the principle of the chain of command, with which I know that you are familiar.  However, given the nature of this expedition and its small size, you may also expect direct orders from me, or from Mage Thunderhammer.  I expect to be kept informed of any matters that relate to the operational effectiveness of this expedition, whether they are related to its personnel or its equipment.  Any of you may request an interview with me at any time, subject to the immediate requirements of actions in the field.”

“By the time we encounter the enemy, I expect that we will have a better understanding of each other.  You have all heard enough of our foe to know that they are not common bandits; these raiders are organized, well-equipped, and dangerous.  Do not underestimate them.  Remember that discipline, mutual reliance, and dedication to the task are all fundamental foundations of success in martial endeavors of any sort, regardless of their scope or scale.”

“Are there any questions?  Very well then.  We depart at the next bell, in approximately fifteen minutes.  Dismissed.”


----------



## Tamlyn

My! Look at all the pretty red shirts!


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 4


Jaron felt the wind catch at his cloak as he nimbly clambered atop the jut of rock.  The outcrop rose only about fifteen feet above the level of the trail that passed below, but it still gave a decent view of the Khel Vale, which stretched out before him like a spearhead.  The terrain was much like that around Fairhollow, if somewhat more rugged.  The halfling scout glanced up to his right, where the valley tapered into a point, its floor ascending into the narrowing gap between the sharp hills.  

And looming over it all, Thunderspire.  It was under that mountain that Yarine and the others had been taken, if the dragonborn’s information was accurate.  Jaron’s stare lingered, and his hands tensed into fists.     

Finally, Jaron shifted his gaze back toward the open end of the Vale.  The trail they’d spent the day navigating faded in and out of view, disappearing behind low rises or other undulations in the land.  He could see a few of the settlements they’d passed, tiny steadings of shepherds, woodcutters, or trappers, their dwellings alike in that they were all heavily fortified, mostly solid turf huts built into the stony soil of the Vale. 

He could see their companions now, coming out of a forested dell about a thousand paces back along the trail.  Vhael, of course, was instantly recognizable, his broad shoulders distinct against the smaller humans around him.  The guardsmen seemed alert enough, their weapons catching the afternoon light even with the blacking that the dragonborn had insisted they use to conceal the gleam of the bare steel. 

The journey thus far had been mostly uneventful.  The soldiers had seemed competent, if a bit sullen, in the way of men who were given an unenviable task.  The elf, El’il, had not minded Jaron’s assignment to supplement his scouting duties; he’d spent most of his time apart from the others, ranging on ahead and blazing the trail with subtle marks to indicate what lie ahead.  Jaron, with his much shorter legs, had stayed closer to the main group, keeping an eye out for ambushes and the like.  

Jaron tried to find Beetle among the much taller members of the company, but did not see him.  His cousin had been utterly fascinated with Vhael, and he’d followed at the dragonborn’s heels for most of the first day out of Fallcrest.  Jaron had been worried at first about his cousin saying or doing something that would offend the veteran warlord, but when they’d come together in camp that first night, the others more or less ignored both halflings.  Vhael had listened to Jaron’s reports with attention, but the dragonborn seemed distracted, and he spent much of his time in quiet consultation with his dwarf companion, or marching in silence in the forefront of the main column.  

Now Carzen Zelos, he was another matter entirely. 

Beetle had taken an immediate dislike to the young nobleman, and Jaron had cringed inwardly at the potential there for disaster.  Almost since the beginning of the expedition, Carzen had fallen victim to a series of unpleasant “accidents”, including a mysterious affinity between his blanket and stinging nettles, an unfortunate incident involving a necessities break and a nest of paper wasps, and the almost classic frog-in-the-boot that morning in camp.  Jaron had tried to keep an eye on Beetle, but the halfling had been nowhere in the vicinity during any of those misadventures, and Carzen was starting to regard everyone in the group with a cold suspicion, a situation that Jaron knew was not going to be helpful, going forward.  He’d tried talking to his cousin, to reason with him, but Beetle’s aura of innocence was almost impermeable, and Jaron had felt almost like he was trying to teach one of his dogs to fly. 

Jaron waved as Corporal Chaffin caught sight of him; as the company approached he descended the back face of the outcrop and moved back to the trail to await their coming.  

“Anything?” Chaffin asked, more to make conversation than anything else; he knew that Jaron would have reported at once if there’s been any signs of trouble ahead. 

“El’il marked that there’s another fasthold up ahead,” Jaron said.  “The signs he left indicate that it is deserted.”

“Might be a good place to make camp,” Chaffin ventured, turning as Vhael and Gral joined them.  The other guardsmen formed a perimeter, each of them taking a quadrant as they kept a lookout for any threats.  Jaron saw it and appreciated the professionalism.  Vhael stared up into the canyon, as if judging the distance, and how long it might take them to reach their destination. 

“Might be better to camp down here, rather than up there,” Gral said, as if putting Jaron’s thoughts into words.  The dwarf mage had not had any difficulty keeping up with them, despite his obvious age and the shortness of his stride; Jaron had yet to see him so much as stretch a tired muscle or show any other sign of being affected by their long marches.  Vhael was much the same, but Jaron suspected that the dragonborn would have to be on the brink of collapse before he betrayed any hint of weakness to the others. 

“What are we doing here?” Carzen Zelos asked, sagging against a boulder adjacent to the trail.  “My father’s sources said that the slavers have outposts up in the mountains.  If they were camped on Thunderspire, we would have heard of it.”

Vhael ignored the man, but the dwarf turned to him.  “Our own intelligence sources suggest that we might learn more here,” he said.  

“If they’d come this way, they would have left some sign,” Carzen persisted.  The other men were gathering around them, now, Allon wrestling with the two pack mules, which were somewhat nervous in the immediate vicinity of the dragonborn.  Jaron didn’t blame them.  He watched Vhael as Carzen spoke.  Inwardly, he couldn’t disagree with the human soldier; he’d been looking for signs since they’d left the main road that wound through the vale east from Fallcrest, and there had been nothing.  Of course, it had rained several times since the night of the slaver raid, but he’d tracked enemy soldiers through worse conditions in the past.  

“Master Feldergrass, lead the way to this abandoned settlement,” Vhael finally said, his rumbling voice brooking no disagreement.  For a moment Carzen looked as though he might step forward to challenge the dragonborn directly, and Jaron tensed, expecting trouble.  But the human warrior seemed to draw upon some reserve of good sense, and fell back into line as the small company continued up the trail.  

It took only about fifteen minutes to reach the ruined fasthold.  Jaron could see at once that the place had not been occupied for months, if not years.  The turf house was partially collapsed, its heavy roof caved in on one side, its front doorway gaping open like a misshapen maw.  The adjacent gardens were overgrown with tangles of brush, and the two small outbuildings—drying shacks for pelts, Jaron judged—were little more than wreckages of timber and weeds.  A sour stink filled his nostrils, blown toward him by a stiff breeze that flowed down the mountain through the vale like water pouring backwards through a funnel.  

A faint hint of unease tickled at Jaron’s senses.  He looked around for El’il, but the elf scout was nowhere in evidence; most likely he’d gone on ahead to check the trail leading up the canyon.   

“Desolate,” came a voice from behind him.  He glanced back to see the soldier Gezzelhaupt standing there, rubbing his hands together.  He looked somewhat different than the other men, his skin shaded in the swarthy coloration common to men of the distant nations to the far east of the Vale.  He looked down at the halfling and smiled.  “T’will be good to get out of this wind.” 

Jaron nodded.  The others were coming up behind them, spreading out as Vhael issued orders.  The dragonborn caught his eye and made a motion that Jaron recognized as a command to scout out the area.  He looked around once more for Beetle, but there was still no sign of him.  

First the elf, and then Beetle.  Jaron’s intuition was whispering warnings in the back of his mind, but he pushed them astray.  There was nothing to be done for it in any case; the best he could do was to conduct his search, and find out for himself if there was any danger.  

He left the conversation of the others behind him, and the sounds of activity as the soldiers started preparing their camp.  The sun had already dipped beyond the shoulder of the hills to the west, but the slopes of Thunderspire still glowed bright, like a torch held up high.  The solitary peak was eerie, a lonely blemish upon the eastern Nethir, standing apart from its peers that rose along the boundaries of the vale to the north and east.  Beyond those ranges, Jaron knew, lay other lands and other kingdoms, but the halfling had never been there, did not even know the names of those places, which may as well have been part of the legends that the bards told around flickering hearths in the depths of winter. 

The tall grass off the trail quickly swallowed him up, and he slowed his pace.  It was strange, the way that the wilderness pushed up close against the paths and holds forged by men in places like this.  Even the voices of his companions quickly faded, replaced by the noises of the wind through the brush.  

With the instincts of the veteran ranger that he was, Jaron pushed through the growth toward higher ground.  He took care not to mark his trail, the grasses folding back into place behind him in the wake of his passage.  

The wind shifted, bringing a new smell, familiar, that raised his hackles.  He found the first bloodstains a few seconds later, a spot of red on a green blade, then more, the grasses stained like the blades of daggers waving in the wind.  They led him quickly to a depression where a mangled mass lay in a heap, surrounded by roughly shredded brush.  

There wasn’t a lot left, but Jaron quickly noted the signs that identified the corpse—a broken arrow, part of a brooch still affixed to a fragment of wool cloth.  El’il, or at least what had once been the elf.  His senses were honed to a razor’s edge as he scanned the line of trees further up the rise, and he almost jumped out of his boots as a voice sounded right behind him. 

“We’re in trouble, Jayse,” Beetle said. 

Jaron spun to look at his cousin.  At first a wild thought crept into his mind, that Beetle had somehow killed the elf scout, but then, as he looked back at the body, the damage the ground around it, the patterns told in savaged greenery… he put it all together.  

“We’ve got to warn the others!” he said, darting back through the grass toward the ruined settlement.  But even as he shouted an alarm, a violent bellow echoed back from the location of their camp, and he realized that the warning had come too late.  

Reaching for an arrow, all he could do was run, hoping that he wouldn’t arrive to find the others like El’il.


----------



## Richard Rawen

What an eerie feeling, enveloped in tall-grass, finding a mangled corpse - your ally - and then Beetle just popping in behind him. One of these times Jaron is going to beat Beetle senseless ... erm. 
Beat some sense into him? ... Well he'll beat him!


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 5


“A motley throng,” Vhael said.  

“We’ve had worse crews,” Gral pointed out.  “Remember that time we had to take command of the militia at Greatcliffe?”

The dragonborn snorted.  “Was that the time that ogre berserker threw you across the square and through a roof?”

Gral raised a bushy white eyebrow.  “That was Haldenford, as you well know.”

The two were standing off to the side of the camp, near the remains of one of the settlement’s ruined outbuildings.  The soldiers were unloading the pack animals, and otherwise preparing the camp for occupancy.  Gezzelhaupt and Chaffin had already investigated the sagging remains of the turf house, but reported it unfit for occupancy, its interior sodden and dank with mold and fungus, the surviving half of the roof tentative at best.  

Vhael gave an expert eye to the deepening evening sky.  The weather looked to hold at least through the night, and by tomorrow, it would no longer be a concern to the expedition. 

The same could not be said of the nobleman’s get, who was approaching the two of them, a stormy look on his face.  

“Al’alzin’s _Comment on Leadership_ states that, ‘A commander of men must be as patient as the oak,’” Gral said under his breath.  

Vhael wasn’t feeling especially patient, but before Carzen Zelos could get close enough to speak, the dragonborn heard a faint cry over the rustling of the wind.  He shot a look at the wizard, who’d heard it too, coming from the sloping hill behind the settlement, covered in deep grass.  The content of the shout was lost over the breeze, but Vhael had heard enough warnings to be able to divine the message in this one in an instant.  

“Alert!” the dragonborn shouted, reaching for the huge sword slung across his broad back.  But even as the men of Fallcrest looked up from their labors, more curious than alarmed, Vhael saw the threat, rising up behind the squat bulk of the turf house, the ruins barely big enough to conceal its approach.  He yelled a warning, but knew it was too late even as he drew out the sword and charged, flicking the long sheath free of the blade with a twist of a clawed hand.  Behind him, Gral followed more slowly, his staff tapping the packed earth, approaching to bring the enemy within range of his magic. 

The creature that leapt onto the ruins of the turf house was a long reptilian shape, the ancestry that it shared with Vhael obvious in its scaled hide, and the long dagger-shaped head dominated by a jaw full of rows of sharp teeth.  “Dragon!” someone screamed, but Vhael knew it for what it was, a wyvern, a lesser but still deadly cousin of the great drakes.  Its wingspan was easily thirty feet across, and the dragonborn paid particular heed to the long scorpion-like tail that rose above its hindquarters, bearing a sting that carried a deadly venom.  

But this was all in the first chaotic second, for even as men—his men—turned toward the threat, just beginning to understand that they were in deadly danger, the wyvern sprang to the attack.  With a powerful kick of its muscled legs, bolstered by a push from its wings, the wyvern shot forward in a flat arc like a catapult stone.  Behind it, the turf house groaned and collapsed, but it had served the creature’s needs for the moment.  Tomon, still fumbling with his blade, screamed as the wyvern landed on him, his body crumpling as a claw bore him to the ground.  A few paces away, Ladren turned and ran, but he only managed a few steps before the wyvern’s head darted out on its long neck, its jaws snapping down with finality on the guardsman’s shoulder.  His scream died almost before it began, and the wyvern lifted him high into the air, bright red droplets of blood flying everywhere before it flicked its head and tossed the dead man almost casually aside.  

The attack had come with such suddenness and vicious intensity that the remaining survivors were stunned.  The wyvern lifted its head and roared, its jaws streaked with garish red. 

“Rraaaaaaaaarrrrrgggh!” Vhael roared in echo, lifting his greatsword above his head in both hands.  But the dragonborn was still a good twenty paces distant, although he seemed to almost fly over the ground with his great strides. 

The pack mules panicked, breaking their tethers in their frenzy to get free.  Allon tried to grab the harness of one of them, but the terrified mule twisted and lashed out, a hoof slamming into the guardsman’s leg hard enough to snap the bone.  He screamed and fell, and was trampled by the second mule as it tore free and followed the first out of the encampment and back down the valley.  

The wyvern looked toward the mules, but its attention was drawn back across the clearing as Chaffin rushed forward and delivered a solid strike with his sword.  The razor-sharp blade bit into the wyvern’s flank, but the creature’s hide was like old leather, and the wound was only superficial, drawing blood but failing to penetrate through the dense muscle beneath to the vital organs.  The wyvern clearly felt the hurt, though, and it shifted to face him.  Chaffin lifted his shield and readied for the darting jaws.  

“Ware the tail!” Vhael warned, but even as the corporal saw the threat, the tail and its deadly sting lunged forward.  Chaffin raised his shield, but the sting came down over it, driving into his shoulder.  The soldier screamed and fell back, staggering as the venom worked its speedy course through his body.  Within a pair of heartbeats he fell to the ground, his struggles weakening quickly. 

A javelin hurled by Carzen flew across the battlefield and glanced off the wyvern’s scaled neck, but it ignored the attack, focusing on the closer threat of the dragonborn warlord as he closed to attack.  The long neck lashed out again, the wyvern’s tail sweeping around to balance it as it shifted.  Vhael dodged under the probing jaws, and swept his sword around in a powerful two-handed strike.  The sword bit into its torso just below the junction where its left wing met its body; a thin squirt of dark blood jetted from the wound.  He had positioned himself to shelter the fallen Chaffin, to give the man a chance to crawl free of the wyvern’s reach, but when he glanced down at the corporal, he saw that the man had stopped moving.  Snarling in anger, Vhael lifted his sword into a defensive stance, ready for the inevitable counterattack. 

White energy flared in a ray that shot past the wyvern’s head.  The creature reared, and the second of Gral’s _icy rays_ hit it squarely in the center of its chest.  The wyvern screamed as the magical cold penetrated its body.  Unable to lift its wings to drive forward to attack, it instead took out its frustrations on the dragonborn warlord.  But Vhael was ready for the darting sting, and he narrowly deflected the thrust aimed at repeating the deadly hit on Chaffin.  But he could not avoid the attack entirely, and as it snapped back its tail the poisoned tip caught on his shoulder, tearing through the links of his chainmail and nicking his tough skin.  Vhael grimaced at the venom burned a fiery trail through his shoulder, but the dragonborn held his ground.  Opening his jaws wide, he spat out a gout of flame that washed over the wyvern’s body.  The fire splashed over the creature’s hide but did little real damage; even as it died, another frosty blast lanced into the wyvern from fifty feet away, where Gral continued working his magic.  Another javelin flew past, missing entirely; Carzen snarled and drew his sword, raising his shield as he edged forward toward the melee.  

The wyvern did not wait.  It fell into a crouch, spreading its wings wide to catch the air.  Vhael, seeing what was coming, tried to dart back, but as the wyvern lunged forward he was clipped hard on the side of his head, and he was flung onto his back.  The creature swooped forward, driving its wings back, flashing scant feet above the ground as it rushed toward Gral.  The dwarf held his ground, and raising his staff conjured a _freezing cloud_ that engulfed the charging creature.  For a moment, the beast vanished within that billowing sphere, but then it surged through, roaring again as the icy chill frosted on the leading edges of its wings.  Its momentum had not quite taken it far enough for another claw attack, but as it landed, its long talons digging furrows in the packed earth, it lunged out with its long neck, snapping at the dwarf’s head.  Gral fell back, narrowly avoiding decapitation, but the teeth snagged on his robe, tearing the fabric—and more than a little of the skin beneath—as those powerful jaws snapped shut.  The wyvern threw its head back, and the dwarf was launched high into the air.  He flipped end over end as he arced over the wyvern and his magical cloud, and finally landed with a hard thud on his back, some twenty paces from where he’d started.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 6


Gral groaned, and drew himself slowly up into a sitting position.  He looked up to see Vhael looming over him.  The dragonborn looked a little battered, and blood still seeped from the wound on his shoulder, but he was far from finished. 

“Are you all right?” he asked the wizard.  

“It’ll take more than a little beastie like that to put the tell to me,” the dwarf growled.  He accepted Vhael’s hand, and came to his feet, patting down his body, and checking that his pouches were all still in place.  

“Over here, wait for it!” Vhael yelled to Carzen, who’d started tentatively toward the wizard’s cloud, which was just starting to disperse.  The young nobleman looked over at them and nodded, moving to join them, his shield lifted in the direction of the foe.  

The wyvern, seeing no more foes directly in front of it, and apparently not quite grasping where the wizard had gone to, ponderously turned in place.  As the _freezing cloud_ dissolved, it caught sight of the three foes standing in the open, and roared again, charging back toward them. 

This time, arrows greeted its rush; a shot from Gezzelhaupt arced over the defenders from where the guardsman had taken shelter behind a fallen log on the far side of the clearing, while another emerged from the tall grass a short ways up the hillside, likely from the halfling scout.  Both struck the wyvern, but it wasn’t clear if they penetrated the proven thickness of its hide.  The monster kept coming, and Vhael stepped forward to put Gral behind him.  He nodded to Carzen, who took up a warding position next to him, directly in the onrushing creature’s path.  

_At least he is not a coward_, the dragonborn thought, as the young human raised his shield and sword, his boots twisting as they dug into the muddy dirt of the trail.  

But before the wyvern could strike, both warriors were struck dumb by the utterly unexpected emergence of a streaking form from the tall grass, which shot out into the open and at the wyvern, intersecting its route of charge.  The new attacker was utterly dwarfed by the charging drake, which failed to notice the threat, at least at first.  That changed once the newcomer sprang up onto its leg, using the creature’s own momentum to boost him up onto the trailing edge of one wing.  From there he ran up to the first carpal joint on the front of the wing, where a small protrusion jutted up from where the bones intersected.  By now the wyvern had realized that something wasn’t quite right, but even as its lumbering stride altered, the small figure let himself fall, steel flashing as his knife bit at the leathery membrane of the wing, punching through and opening a long gash as his weight drew him down the full length of the wing.  The wyvern let out a blood curdling shriek and nearly fell as it suddenly stopped and lunged at the foe that had maimed it.  The sting shot straight down, perfectly aimed to impale the enemy, but in the instant before it struck the little form tumbled under the wyvern’s body, and the sting pierced only dirt.  

Beetle came up on the far side of the wyvern.  He glanced over at Vhael and Carzen, and waved, a wide grin on his face.  The wyvern, still trying to figure out what had happened, yanked its sting free of the ground, hissing malevolently. 

Carzen shot an incredulous look at Vhael, but the dragonborn was already charging forward.  “At it, before it can recover!” he shouted.

Vhael was on the drake in seconds, his sword coming down in a blur.  It bit deeply, and this time the wound was a nasty one, unleashing a spray of blood that left garish streaks across the warlord’s chest and face.  The wyvern quickly responded, the deadly head coming down to strike, but Vhael avoided the snapping jaws, suffering only a glancing hit across his forearm where the bony ridge along the side of its head grazed him.  The creature was slowing, now, but the warlord knew better than to underestimate the beast, even blooded as it was.  

He felt rather than saw the impact that shuddered through the wyvern as Carzen took advantage of the distraction offered by Vhael’s attack to drive his blade home under the joint of its left wing.  The sheer punishing force of his _brute strike_ drove the wyvern back a half step, forcing it to pause a moment to regain its footing on the trampled ground.  Carzen nearly had his sword torn from his hand at the wyvern’s rough movements, but the pair finally parted, the bright steel now slick with dark blood from the tip to the hilt.  The wyvern lunged at him with its sting, but its attack was sluggish, and the warrior easily blocked it with his shield.  

A thud announced the arrival of another arrow, this one sticking into the ridged flesh at the base of its skull.  The wyvern’s gaze was more glassy than angry now, though it could still feel pain, and as Beetle busied himself with his dagger at its rear it started to bring its head ponderously around.  It did not seem to even see Vhael as the dragonborn brought his big blade up, and with a roar he swept it down in a stroke that took its head from its shoulders.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 7


They did not linger long on the battlefield.  Insects and other carrion-seekers came quickly at the stink of death that blew down into the valley on the evening breeze, and by the time that the companions were ready to leave, there were numerous eyes watching them from the grass.  The ravens were bolder, darting down to seize bits of flesh, worrying them from the wyvern’s corpse with dedicated effort.  

Vhael did not leave the soldiers to suffer such a fate.  He’d barely let Gral bandage his wounds before he took up one end of the crude sledge that Gezzelhaupt had put together out of branches and rope, helping the soldier drag the bodies of their fallen from the site of the brief but violent clash.  The eastern soldier and Carzen were the only survivors of the contingent from Fallcrest.  Allon had been unlucky enough to have had his skull cracked by a mule’s hoof as it fled the battlefield, so they put him beside Tomon, Ladren, and Chaffin, who had been slain by the wyvern in the first few seconds of the battle.  Jaron and Beetle had returned to the grassy hill to bring back what was left of El’il, dragging the remains in an extra cloak.  They buried the soldiers in a wooded glade a long bowshot further up the valley.  By then they’d needed torches to see, but Vhael still did not linger.  The mules were gone, likely halfway back to Fallcrest by now, but the warlord had insisted that each of them carry a few supplies in their backpacks, so they had at least enough food for two or three days between them, once they’d collected what could be salvaged from the slain. 

“We’ll camp up in the shadow of the mountain,” the dragonborn said.  

“What?  You mean, we’re not going back?” Carzen exclaimed.  

“Our mission has not changed.”

“Meaning no disrespect, general, but we just lost half our force, and most of our supplies.  I think that under the circumstances…”

“You misunderstand me, _lieutenant_,” the dragonborn interrupted.  “I was stating a course of action, not inviting comment.”  Shouldering a pack now bulging with twice its original weight of gear, ignoring what had to be a painful jolt from the bandaged wound on his shoulder, the dragonborn moved to the edge of the glade, back in the direction of the trail.  After a moment, Gral moved to follow, and then the halflings, after they shared a brief look between them.  

Carzen turned to Gezzelhaupt, but the soldier was already walking after the others.  Vhael didn’t wait to see if everyone was coming; he’d already started back through the trees to where they’d left the trail, his heavy tread crushing dead leaves and fallen branches under his feet.  The halflings moved out to the flanks, scouting the route ahead, and vanished into the undergrowth within ten paces.  Within just a few heartbeats, Carzen was alone in the glade.  

The young nobleman glanced back once more at the five fresh graves lying in a neat row in the center of the glade.  Then, his lips twisting back into a snarl, he checked his sword in its scabbard, and strode off to catch up to the others.


----------



## Richard Rawen

Excellent battle scene, as always... thanks for the story LB, great stuff!


----------



## Lazybones

Thanks, Richard!

Is it just me, or has the SH forum gotten real quiet of late? I'm still seeing new stories posted, but it seems to be taking much longer for threads to drop down the page lately. I remember where I could go a few days without a post and end up at the bottom of the page. 

* * * * * 

Chapter 8


Carzen swallowed at the thought of the weight of all of the stone piled on top of them.  This tunnel, a broad avenue cut into the side of the mountain like a knife, lined with bricks the size of a man’s forearm, looked as though it had existed unaltered for centuries, but for the warrior, that was little consolation.  Men were not meant to come into these deep places under the world.  That was the province of dwarves, orcs, and other creatures of darkness, and he was happy to leave it to them. 

The eerie features of the tunnel did not reassure him.  The entrance, a black opening that gaped in the surface of a cliff at the summit of the Khel Vale, had been flanked by a pair of massive statues, fearsome minotaurs bearing great axes and depicted in suits of armor that flowed oddly over their huge bodies.  Those had been imposing enough, but they had been much preferable to the vividly imagined carvings of demonic figures that marked the tunnel proper at regular intervals.  There was light, as well, green flames that sprang from copper lanterns that were positioned in niches every fifty paces or so, their radiance adding to the unreality of the place.  Gez had asked about these, how they were kept fueled, and the dwarf wizard had indicated that they were magic, burning endlessly without intervention.  

The answer had not pleased Carzen.  He had grown up around magic, what with his brother and sister both studying the Art since childhood, but he had never been able to grasp it, and he profoundly mistrusted things that he could not himself touch with his hands.   

Things like his sword, which he frequently touched with his hand, seizing the hilt, or idly toying with the fittings of the scabbard.  

He was not a coward; he’d proven that in the battle with the wyvern.  But Carzen Zelos was quick to judge things that did not fit into his perception of how the world should work.  And this dragonborn, Vhael, was quickly moving out of that favored category in the young man’s mind.  

The company moved single file, even though the tunnel, stretching nearly thirty feet across, could have accommodated all of them had they chosen to walk side-by-side.  There was little conversation; words spoken here carried oddly off the brick walls, and occasionally distant echoes filtered back to them, noises that they could not identify, let alone gauge their source.  Only that idiot halfling—the mentally defective one—seemed comfortable in these surroundings, peering around with wide eyes like some yokel that had been invited into Moonstone Keep on a feastday.  He had even clambered onto one of the demon statues, crawling over it like a child, ignoring all of their warnings until finally Vhael had barked a command.  At least he listened to the dragonborn.  

Gez muttered something under his breath, probably an invocation to one of his alien gods.  Carzen had interacted little with the Issandrian before the wyvern ambush; although the man had been a guardsman at Fallcrest for almost two years, he’d said maybe ten words to him before he’d been picked for this mission.  Before _his father_ had picked him.  Lord Zelos had not deigned to provide his son with insights as to his reasoning, so Carzen had had to make the best of things.  At least he’d known the others that had been chosen better, and in fact had got along well enough with Ladren and Chaffin, both of whom had been players of dragonshard.  Now that he was an officer he couldn’t take their money, but it was still fun to drink and tell stories in the company of good men. 

Except now that they were dead, all of them.  And he was stuck with an Issandrian, a pair of halflings, a dwarf, and a dictatorial dragonborn who still thought he was a general in the great wars.  Wars that had ended before Carzen had even been born.  

He forced himself to meet Gez’s eyes and make a reassuring smile.  Issandrians were known for their quick fingers—one watched their purse closely when around them—and their limited habits of personal hygiene, but at least the man was still one of _them_, a man of Fallcrest even if a foreigner by birth.  It wouldn’t hurt to have an ally if things came to a head with the dragonborn. 

Even as the thought passed through his mind, the scaly raised a hand, calling a stop.  Carzen moved forward enough to see that the halfling scout was coming back; he was a slippery one, disappearing quickly from view when he didn’t want to be seen.  He reported quietly to the scaly.  Carzen came closer, but Vhael didn’t elect to share what he’d learned, and merely gestured them forward, the halfling moving ahead again to take the lead.  The nobleman clenched his teeth in frustration, and glanced at Gez, rolling his eyes in exaggerated fashion with a nod of his head at the dragonborn’s back.  The Issandrian grinned, but he held an arrow fitted to the string of his bow as they continued their movement down the tunnel. 

They came to what the halfling had found a few minutes later.  The stink alerted them first, although there wasn’t much of whatever had caused it left, just some bones, bits of fur, and some bloodstains on the faded bricks.  There was another side-tunnel here, one of several they’d passed since they’d set out on this fool’s errand.  Vhael knelt beside some of the remains, carefully examining the debris, and the marks upon the floor nearby.  

The halfling came up holding something—a broken piece of arrow, not much except for a bit of wood and fletching.  Vhael accepted it as though it were the most important thing in the world, and he nodded to himself as he rose.  He showed it to the wizard, who said, “Hobgoblin make.”

Carzen let out an exasperated sigh.  “It’s just a piece of arrow… we don’t know how long it’s been down here, or whether it was used by the raiders, our raiders.  What does that prove?”

“The tracks are fairly recent,” the halfling scout said.  “As are those bodies.  I’m not sure what they were…”

“Kruthik, unless I miss my guess,” the dwarf interjected. 

The halfling nodded, although Carzen had never heard of them.  The scout went on, “A group stopped here, after the battle.  At least one of them was seriously injured, but he left under his own power.”

“How can you know that?” Carzen asked, but he could sense that he was losing the argument; all the others were looking at him, even Gez nodding along with the halfling’s words. 

The scout pointed to a spot along the wall a few paces back.  “There’s some bloodstains there, enough to indicate that whoever left them was in pretty bad shape.  Scratches where metal—probably armor, or the haft of a weapon—scraped against the wall.  If the body had been picked up, or dragged, there would likely be signs, and there certainly would have been a blood trail.  I think that it was a group of raiders, a pretty good-sized party, and that they had prisoners with them.  Some of the footmarks are too close together to have been left by hobgoblins.”

Another problem with the halfling’s logic occurred to Carzen, but this time he held his tongue.  He looked at Vhael, who looked down the tunnel ahead, thoughtful, a faint rumbling coming from deep inside his chest.  

“We move out,” he finally said.


----------



## Richard Rawen

[sblock=pointless ramble lol]







Lazybones said:


> Thanks, Richard!
> 
> Is it just me, or has the SH forum gotten real quiet of late? I'm still seeing new stories posted, but it seems to be taking much longer for threads to drop down the page lately. I remember where I could go a few days without a post and end up at the bottom of the page.



NP on the well-deserved praise.  
I know what you're talking about on the post rates. I've been busier of late, I find it difficult to maintain a couple of PbP's and have limited myself to just two story hours, I've even missed yours for over a week... though it is very satisfying to sit and read several posts straight =0)

Hard to connect the economy, but many people seem to be buying into the media's Negative onslaught, Doom and Gloom are the watchwords of the day!
Meh... Life gets hard, the wimps whimper with their hands out and the rest of us keep moving.
'nuff babble, I know there's less time for me but your SH will always be part of my regular ritual, thanks for taking the time to write it, I'm sure there's many other readers - lurkers perhaps.  
Honestly sometimes I feel like I'm over-posting... c'mon you lurkers! Do your part =-)
k, gonna sblock this ramble, don't want to ruin the story flow![/sblock]


----------



## javcs

/delurk
Part of it may be economy - more time working for less/equivalent money means less time for gaming - less time for gaming means less material for story hours - less material for story hours means fewer updates in the same time span - fewer updates means fewer people coming back to read on a regular basis - fewer people coming back regularly means fewer posts in a given SH thread - which means that some authors get discouraged about their SH.

It's tough starting a new SH if you've got more limited game time - you have less material, so you need to stretch it out, which either means smaller updates and/or updates further apart. Unless it's a Play-by-Post game, which means it inherently takes longer to accomplish the same amount of progress.
Also, taking the kind of exhaustive notes that are required for an accurate SH isn't fun - I know that I was considering doing an SH based off a FR game I'm in - first session, fairly detailed notes, second session, pretty detailed still, third session quality really started dropping, and lately I've barely been bullet pointing things that go on, and not including much detail. I've since discarded that plan. Might do a SH if I run a campaign, though.

Anybody who can pull off a SH has my utmost respect, because it's a serious PITA to pull off a SH, much less a really good SH that has pretty reliable updates.
This is a really good SH with quite reliable updates; just like every other SH of yours that I've read, Lazybones. Props, kudos, etc. to you LB, for doing what you do so well.

/relurk


----------



## Lazybones

Gah, no time to write lately. Digging deep into my reserve of chapters...

* * * * * 

Chapter 9


Carzen Zelos drew off his helm, and wiped the sweat from his brow.  It was not warm, not deep in the depths under the surface of the world, but they’d been walking for hours since they’d first entered the dark opening in the side of Thunderspire, and Vhael had set a hard pace.  He had no idea what time it was, or how many hours they’d been down here altogether.  

“Stay together,” came the dragonborn’s voice from ahead, though he had not even turned to see Carzen’s pause.  The young nobleman stifled a curse and hurried forward to catch up with the rest of the group.  

They’d been negotiating a slope for a good fraction of the last hour, following the main tunnel as it wound back and forth, in what Carzen recognized as the equivalent of switchbacks.  They had passed more dark side-passages, but Vhael had kept them straight on the main corridor, following the regular incidence of demon statues and magical green flames.  

Finally they paused, Vhael and his wizard stopping to confer at one of the bends in the tunnel.  Gez and the halfling scout were nearby.  The other halfling was nowhere to be seen, but the little bastard always turned up where you least expected it.  “How far down does this go?” Carzen asked.

For a moment he thought that the others would ignore him again, but then the dwarf looked up.  “The labyrinth is quite extensive,” he said.  “Our destination, the Seven-Pillared Hall, is far from the deepest place under Thunderspire.  We will be there shortly.”

Carzen grimaced; he suspected that he and the wizard had differing definitions of “shortly.”  He leaned against the nearest wall and rubbed at the muscles of his legs, then bent to take off one of his boots.  

“We’re not stopping,” Vhael said, and started down the next leg of the descending tunnel.  Carzen had no choice but to follow.    

After the next bend in the tunnel the passage straightened out and resumed a more or less level course ahead.  The change caused new muscles in Carzen’s legs to start throbbing, but he tightened his jaw and forced himself to keep up.  The halfling scout shot a look at him but turned back at Carzen’s scowl; the little bastard had short legs, but he wasn’t wearing thirty pounds of metal, and a twenty pound pack, so he had no right to fault _him_. 

When Vhael called a halt about a thousand paces later, Carzen almost didn’t notice, and he had to shift suddenly to avoid tripping over Gezzelhaupt.  The easterner nodded an apology and moved out of the way, and Carzen had to bite back an irate comment.  He saw that Vhael was talking to the halfling and the dwarf, who pointed to the tunnel ahead and said something in response to a question that Carzen had missed.  

He felt an odd instinct that something subtle had changed, and after a moment he realized that there was a faint but familiar change in the air, a hint of a smell that was strangely similar to that of Fallcrest.  _The stink of civilization,_ he thought to himself wryly, a reek that was identical whether it existed in the sunlit Vale above, or in this gods-forsaken pit deep underground.  

“So we’re almost there?” he asked, coming up to join the others, forcing himself to walk as though his feet didn’t hurt and a million pounds of earth weren’t looming over his head.  

Vhael didn’t answer his question directly, but he said, “When we get to the Seven-Pillared Hall, you will pay close heed to Gral and myself.  We have been here before; you have not.  Do not wander off; do not speak to anyone without direction.  This place has its own unique customs and rules, and both are very unforgiving of ignorant outsiders.”

Carzen felt a stab of anger at the dragonborn’s words, but he forced himself to smile.  “Sure thing, chief,” he said, taking some gratification at the dark look that flashed in the scaly’s beady eyes.  

Vhael’s response, however, was interrupted by a sharp tug on his hauberk.  He looked down in surprise, and Carzen followed his gaze to see the other halfling, the weird one, standing in the shadow of the big dragonborn.  As usual, he’d come out of nowhere. 

“What is it?” Vhael asked.  For once, the halfling looked earnest, and he pointed back down the passage behind them, where a dark side tunnel they’d just passed was just barely visible. 

“Some hobgoblins are beating up a halfling,” he said.  “Come quick!”


----------



## Oversight

So I'll take up Richard's challenge and delurk for a moment.  This may be only the 2nd or 3rd time that I've ever posted a comment.  Once to compliment Piratecat on his storyhour, once to compliment Sagiro on his, and now finally to lend my admiration to you Lazybones.  Truly fantastic writing.  I applaud you and your efforts.  Your previous storyhours have been amongst my favorites and I hope that you continue.  I especially enjoy the interesting things you can do given that you are writing a narrative without players involved.  That seems to allow for possibilities that would be difficult to pull off at a table with players.  

That's it for me.  Maybe I'll have another post in another 2 years or so.


----------



## Neurotic

Wow, Oversight, you really do pick only the best.

I won't repeat myself with kudos to Lazybones, he should know by now that he is among few stars of StoryHourverse


----------



## Lazybones

Thanks for coming out of lurkerdom for the praise, Oversight. I appreciate it. 

And Neurotic, perhaps part of my position in the SH forum is simply outlasting most of the other longtime posters.   

* * * * * 

Chapter 10


Beetle led them forward almost at a run, barely pausing at intersections to ensure that they were following before shooting off again down another tunnel. The route off the main tunnel was truly a labyrinth, and they’d barely gone five hundred paces before they’d had to decide between at least a half-dozen tunnels and branching side-corridors.  The passages were much tighter here, and some of the openings they’d passed were little more than cracks that might have led nowhere—or to some other mysterious place far from here. 

Jaron wondered just how far afield Beetle had gone in his wanderings, and how he’d managed to avoid getting lost in this warren.  He glanced back at his companions, and saw that the dwarf was making markings on a small piece of parchment.  He nodded to himself; the dragonborn and his wizard were cautious veterans, and would not plunge headlong into danger.  

Vhael now held a torch, the bright flame driving back the darkness in a ring around them.  His eyes were wary, probing, and he glanced down at Jaron, briefly meeting his gaze as if evaluating the trustworthiness of his cousin through him.  Jaron didn’t know what to say in response, so he turned back and hastened to the last bend ahead around which Beetle had most recently vanished. 

He rounded it to see his cousin stopped about forty feet ahead.  The tunnel continued on ahead, but there was an alcove there, from which a slab of light stabbed out into the passage, as though a doorway.

Jaron quickly dropped back around the corner to where the others were rapidly approaching.  “Light ahead!” he whispered, loud enough for them to hear, but not for the sound to carry off the walls of the tunnel.  

Vhael doused his torch at once, and darkness rushed in to embrace them.  The dragonborn continued ahead much more slowly, unlimbering the big sword from across his back.  The others followed, careful not to make any noises that might alert the foe, even the nobleman carefully pressing his weapons against his legs to keep them from jostling and making noise.

Jaron hurried ahead toward Beetle.  His cousin saw him coming and raised his finger to his lips.  Before Jaron could do anything to stop him, he then darted into the alcove.  Jaron rushed after him, but stopped before following him into the lighted space beyond; he could hear voices now, harsh, guttural sounds speaking a language with which he was all too familiar.  

“Goblins,” he muttered to himself.

He raised a hand to warn the others, in case they’d missed hearing it themselves, then slowly edged forward, until he could peer into the alcove without drawing the attention of those inside.  

There was a set of heavy double doors there, ill-fitting and obviously old, quite the worse for wear.  They stood partially open, the light slanting out through the gap into the tunnel passage.  Beetle had vanished through the opening, and with a silent curse, Jaron crept silently up to the door, the muffled steps of his companions behind him sounding deafeningly loud to his ears.  But the conversation beyond did not break off, and there were no shouts of alarm. 

Moving slowly, so as not to draw any eyes that might be looking in his direction, he leaned forward and peered through the gap in the doors. 

The chamber was irregularly shaped, its corners cluttered with old crates and debris of furniture, including a few small rickety tables.  A row of huge wooden kegs ran along the wall to his right, almost big enough to reach the ceiling, their slats cracked and obviously empty.  There was no sign of Beetle, but Jaron couldn’t spare much thought for his cousin at the moment; the five hobgoblins in the room drew his more immediate attention.  

Four of them were soldiers, by the look of them, their shields and heavy flails slung across their broad backs but within easy reach in case of trouble.  They stood in a rough line, facing away from the door, toward the far side of the room.  One was bent over something, and it took Jaron a moment to realize that it was a prone figure, small enough to only be the halfling that Beetle had mentioned earlier.  

“Not speak so bold now,” the soldier looming over the halfling grunted.  He kicked the halfling, who appeared to be unconscious.  

“The Grimmerzhul will scour his pride from him,” the last occupant of the room hissed.  He was a tall but lean hobgoblin, his exposed skin covered with a crisscross hatching of scars old and new, clad in a drape of old leather over a hauberk of metal rings.  Jaron didn’t need to see the tiny fetishes woven into his hair or the markings carved into his long hooked staff to recognize this foe as a warcaster; the ranger had met his type before, and knew enough to recognize how dangerous this enemy was.  Obviously, he was the leader of this group.  

For the moment, the hobgoblins were oblivious to the threat lurking just a few feet away, but Jaron knew that their advantage would not last long.  Even if his companions did not give themselves away with a too-loud whisper or a clank of metal, hobgoblins were not known to be careless, and now that the distraction of the halfling prisoner had been taken care of, it was almost certain that they would return their vigilance to the gates to their lair.  

And there was Beetle, of course, who as always was the unpredictable wild card in this situation. 

Jaron drew back, again careful to move slowly.  Vhael was there, looming over him, careful not to place any part of his body or his gear in the line of sight of the opening in the door.  He’d heard the voices, Jaron had no doubt, although he did not know if the dragonborn understood the goblinoid speech. 

He leaned in close and stood on his toes, and Vhael bent slightly, so that his ear was just inches from the halfling’s mouth. 

“Four soldiers, in a row, backs to the door.  A warcaster, far side of the room, looking in this general direction.  Unconscious halfling prisoner on the floor, between them.”

Vhael nodded.  He seemed to have come to the same conclusion that Jaron had a moment ago, and did not wait to brief the others.  Instead he communicated through a series of curt but clear gestures that Carzen, Jaron, and Gezzelhaupt were to ready missile weapons, and await his signal.  Gez slipped across the shaft of light to the far side of the doors, and fitted an arrow to his bow.  Gral required no direction; the dwarf merely took up a position behind the dragonborn and waited.  

The preparation took all of two seconds, and then the warlord was moving, driving forward with his shoulder lowered.  The doors crashed open and the dragonborn hurled forward into the room, his sword slicing out of its scabbard and up into a ready position even as the hobgoblins, startled by the sudden appearance of two hundred and fifty pounds of armored fury, spun in the direction of the threat.  Instead of charging blindly forward, Vhael quickly recovered and shifted to the left.  Immediately a flurry of missiles shot through the space he’d just vacated.  Gezzelhaupt’s shot narrowly missed its target, but Carzen’s javelin thudded hard into the hobgoblin’s shoulder a fraction of a second later.  The missile failed to penetrate the soldier’s heavy armor, but by the way that the hobgoblin snarled in pain, it had clearly hurt him.  A second hobgoblin standing in front of the kegs took an arrow from Jaron’s bow a moment later, the shaft penetrating the thinner armor protecting his side as he turned.  The hobgoblin got his shield up, but it was obvious that the halfling’s shot had hurt him badly. 

Their situation deteriorated further a moment later as Gral hurled a pair of _icy rays_ at the two injured soldiers.  The magical blasts painted a rime of frost across their breastplates, the chill penetrating to the bone.  Neither hobgoblin fell, but both were now bloodied, and in dire shape. 

But the hobgoblins were tough and disciplined foes, and they quickly reacted to the surprise attack.  The two that had not been hit in the initial attack moved quickly to join their fellows, unlimbering their heavy shields to form a line.  Trained and drilled in phalanx tactics, the soldiers would have made a strong force had they had time to get organized. 

Vhael, however, did not give the enemy those critical seconds they needed.  The dragonborn surged forward in the wake of his allies’ missiles, and drove his sword down into the more seriously wounded of the two hobgoblins.  The edge of the greatsword came down under the soldier’s shield and clove deep into his shoulder, crunching through mail, leather, cloth, and flesh, finally cracking the clavicle under the sheer force of the impact.  The hobgoblin, for all his discipline, could not choke off a cry of pain that turned into a gurgle as he staggered backward and fell.  Vhael wrenched his blade free as he collapsed, bright droplets of blood flashing as he recovered into a defensive stance, challenging the three survivors to do anything about it. 

The warcaster had recovered quickly from his initial surprise, but as his shoulders shifted to face the attack, he caught a hint of motion out of the corner of his eye.  He looked down to see a long leather throng that trailed across the floor.  One end was looped around the unconscious halfling prisoner’s wrist, while the other vanished into the narrow gap between the broken kegs and the chamber wall.  There was a faint flicker of movement there, and the line suddenly drew taut; the prisoner started to slide across the floor. 

The hobgoblin snarled and lifted his staff, speaking a guttural word of command.  Magic flowed at his command, and the big tuns suddenly lurched within their bracing; the one at the end slid free as its frame snapped, and it crumpled as it hit the floor.    

But the damage was incidental to the warcaster’s intent.  As the keg disintegrated a small figure shot out from the wreckage, landing awkwardly with arms spread wide upon the floor just a few paces in front of the hobgoblin.  

Beetle looked up at the hobgoblin, who hefted his staff like a weapon.  Bright flickers of electric energy danced around its tip.  

“Uh oh,” the halfling said.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 11


Vhael had broken the hobgoblin line before it could form, but he surviving three soldiers were quick to lay into him with everything they had.  

The one to his right was wounded, favoring the side where Jaron had shot him, but he let out a vicious cry as he lifted his flail and slammed it down toward the dragonborn’s head.  Vhael met the blow with his sword, deflecting the heavy swinging end of the flail.  The spiked bar slid down and gashed Vhael’s fingers on the hilt, but the only sign that the warlord felt the pain was a slight shifting of his bloody hands on the hilt of the weapon as he spun to face the next attack. 

The second parry came too late, as a second hobgoblin brought his flail up under his guard and smashed the head into his side.  This time Vhael could not disguise the effect of the hit, and he grunted as the air was knocked from his body.  The third hobgoblin came in behind his fellow and tried to put a finishing blow to the foe, but somehow Vhael was able to duck under the swung, which whistled through the air scant inches above his head. 

With the initial advantage of surprise fading, the warlord was seriously outnumbered, but his companions were quick to come to his aid.  As the first hobgoblin sought to follow up his initial attack another arrow slammed into his left leg just above the knee.  Jaron had moved into the room, and had taken up a shooting position to the right of the doors that gave him a clear shot without risking hitting Vhael.  But that also blocked his view of what was happening on the far side of the room, where chaotic noises suggested that Beetle was right in the middle of whatever the warcaster was up to. 

“Hooo!” Beetle cried, as the warcaster’s staff thrust through air his head had occupied a fraction of a second earlier.  The halfling had pulled himself into a crouch, but he was forced to bend backwards to avoid the attack, the back of his head almost touching the ground as his body formed an arch.  The hobgoblin drew back his staff and lifted it to slam it down like a club, but the halfling shifted his balance like a taut bowstring suddenly released, shooting forward under the warcaster’s guard, and snapping out with a leg as he tumbled between his legs.  The hobgoblin fell forward, landing face-first onto the ground where his magic had planted the halfling just a few moments before. 

Vhael took another hit as the hobgoblin soldiers continued to harry him; the dragonborn was yielding ground now, moving back as the hobgoblins coordinated their attacks to bypass his guard without compromising their own defenses.  The third soldier had disengaged from the melee, but only to turn toward the archers near the doorway.  But before he could attack, Carzen Zelos came to him, his shield now in place on his left arm, drawing his sword with his right as he rushed forward.  The hobgoblin was ready for him, but Carzen deflected the head of the flail with his shield and drove his sword into the soldier’s gut with a perfect thrust that sent him bleeding to the floor.  

“Take one of them alive!” Vhael said, even as he parried another strike from a hobgoblin flail.

Beetle let out a yell as he sprang up and leapt at the fallen warcaster’s back, a knife appearing in his hand from one of the several sheaths he kept secreted about his person.  But the hobgoblin proved to be faster than he looked.  As Beetle reached the apogee of his jump and started down, the warcaster rolled and thrust his staff up with one hand.  The head collided with Beetle, not hard enough to cause real damage, but there was a flash, a sizzling discharge of energy, and the halfling went flying, bouncing off the nearby wall and landing dazed just a short step from where he’d been standing.  The hobgoblin took advantage of the delay to pull himself to his feet, thrusting the staff under him.  He glanced back at the battle taking place just a few paces away in the middle of the room, and so it was that he spotted Gral as the dwarf wizard slipped around the melee and approached, stepping over the ruins of the broken cask.  

“You will regret coming here,” the creature hissed, the words thickly accented but decipherable.  “The Bloodreavers will collect their due from your flesh.”

“We shall see,” was the dwarf’s only response.  He stood there, the bottom of his staff tapping slightly against the floor.  The warcaster snarled and raised his own staff, summoning a pulse of force energy that he hurled at the wizard.  But Gral was ready, and he responded with his own magic, invoking a glowing white _shield_ that deflected the _force pulse_ around him.  One of the casks exploded, blasting a storm of splinters out into the room, but the dwarf was unharmed. 

“Insufficient,” he said, and he lowered his staff slightly, unleashing a _chill strike_ that drove a hard wedge of magical cold into the hobgoblin’s body.  The warcaster raised his arms, crossing them in front of his body, drawing upon every reserve of strength to resist the potency of Gral’s assault.  He managed to fight off the worst of it, although his lips chattered slightly as he started forward, obviously intent on engaging the dwarf directly in melee.  Once again, Gral merely held his ground and waited, unperturbed despite the disparity in size between the two combatants. 

As Carzen joined the melee raging around Vhael, the battle started to turn decisively against the hobgoblins.  Jaron had kept up his barrage, placing arrows with precision that shot through the melee to pound into armored bodies, finding the smallest gaps in armor to pierce hobgoblin flesh.  The hobgoblins could do nothing to counter, pressed as they were by Vhael.  The dragonborn had seemed content to fight defensively, but as Carzen moved adjacent, forcing the nearer hobgoblin to shift to deal with him, Vhael struck.  The sword that had been parrying attacks suddenly surged out and down, biting deep into the hobgoblin’s arm.  The hobgoblin nearly dropped his weapon, and the attack left and opening that Carzen could not help but exploit, sweeping his blade up in an arc that sliced up through the hobgoblin’s armor and ended by clipping his jaw under the lip of his helmet.  The hobgoblin, mortally wounded, staggered back a step and fell.  

Vhael turned to demand the surrender of the other, but before he could speak he got a reply in the form of a powerful swipe of his flail.  The heavy end of the weapon cracked hard against the side of the dragonborn’s head, and he fell to his knees, dazed by the blow.  The soldier didn’t get a chance to finish him, however, as Carzen lowered his shield and surged forward, driving the hobgoblin back a full step, and forcing him to put his efforts into dealing with the fighter.  

The warcaster closed to close quarters with Gral, who still had not reacted, even as the hobgoblin lifted his staff to strike.  Unfortunately for him, he’d forgotten about Beetle.  Even as the staff started down the halfling leapt at him from behind, his knife slicing across one hamstring with lethal efficiency.  The warcaster’s attack was spoiled, and only a desperate planting of his staff kept him from falling as the damaged leg gave out under his weight.  Unable to turn to deal with Beetle, he fixed a baleful stare at Gral.  “To the hells with you,” he hissed.  

The wizard said nothing, and watched with a cold expression as Beetle first kicked the hobgoblin’s staff away, then followed him to the ground as he fell, hooting wildly as his dagger thrust repeatedly into the caster’s body until it gleamed bright red down its entire length. 

The last hobgoblin found himself outnumbered and outmatched, but to Carzen’s surprise he tossed his shield aside and surged forward with his flail in both hands, sweeping his weapon around in a powerful arc that battered through the fighter’s guard and caromed off his helmet hard enough to strike sparks.  Somewhat dazed by the impact, the fighter barely got his sword up in time to meet the soldier’s brazen charge.  The two collided and it was Carzen who gave way, stumbling back until the pair hit the solidity of the chamber wall.  The hobgoblin snarled at the human, but before Carzen could react he could see the light dying in his foe’s eyes.  Through some fluke of luck the creature in his charge had impaled himself on Carzen’s sword, the bright steel sliding up through a gap in his armor.  Carzen shook his head to clear it as the hobgoblin slid off the fighter’s bloody blade to land in a clatter of metal upon the stone floor. 

Vhael was already on his feet, with Gaz steadying him slightly.  The dragonborn glanced around the room, confirming that the threat was over, before turning toward Carzen.  “You fought well.  But my orders were to take one alive.”

“Maybe the hobgoblin didn’t hear you,” the fighter snapped, his own legs still a bit unsteady as he took out a rag and wiped his blade clean before sliding it back into its scabbard.  Vhael’s eyes were like icicles, but he did not respond, and if he was still hurting from the beating he’d taken, he didn’t show it as he walked over to where Gral was kneeling beside the unconscious halfling who’d been held prisoner by the hobgoblins.  

“How is he?” Vhael asked.  Gral had taken out a small crystal vial, and gently trailed a stream of clear liquid between the halfling’s lips.  Jaron and Gez had started to follow, but Vhael gestured for them to take up a warding position at the door, and both headed off in that direction.  Beetle stood quietly a few paces away, his face spotted with tiny splatters of bright red blood from the hobgoblin he’d killed.

“He took a savage beating, but he will live,” the wizard replied.  “The Small Folk are a durable race,” he said, glancing up briefly at Beetle. 

“You did not share that you had healing draughts,” Carzen muttered to Vhael as he came up to where he could watch what was happening.  “That information might have been useful.”

Vhael ignored him.  He grimaced slightly as he lowered himself to one knee next to Gral and the halfling, but with his back to the others only Beetle could have seen that sign of the pain the warlord was feeling.  The unconscious halfling started to stir, groaning as he tentatively reached up and touched his head.  “Ow,” he said.  He blinked once, twice, and then his eyes widened as he took in those crouched over him. 

“Rest easy, lad,” Gral said, while Vhael added, “We mean you no harm.”

The halfling’s expression grew even more surprised as he looked over at Beetle, who smiled and waved.  His eyes lingered for a moment on the corpse of the warcaster, from which an arc of red continued to spread across the floor.  “Who… who are you people?” he asked.  

“We come from Fallcrest,” Vhael said.  “We are here seeking prisoners, captured from the surface by slavers.”  

“Hmm.  Well, I thank you for the help.  Name’s Rendil.  Rendil Halfmoon.  My family runs an inn in the Seven-Pillared Hall.” 

Vhael nodded, as if this information was not unexpected.  “Are you well enough to travel, master Halfmoon?  This does not seem a safe place in which to linger.”

Gral extended a hand, which the halfling accepted gratefully.  “No, no it’s not,” Rendil said.  “Come on, I can show you the fastest way to the Hall from here.”

Vhael introduced each of them in turn.  When he came to Jaron, the scout asked, “Have you seen a column of halfling prisoners, brought from the surface?  They would have come through here not long ago, a few days, maybe.”

Rendil shook his head, and grimaced at the sudden pain that followed the movement.  “No, but if there’s slaves involved, the Bloodreavers are likely up to their eyeballs in it.”

“The Bloodreavers are the ones we’re after,” Carzen said.  

“Oh.  Well, they probably took them to the Chamber of Eyes.  It’s the main base of the Reavers in the Labyrinth.”

“Can you tell us how to get there?” Vhael asked. 

“Sure.  I mean, I haven’t been there personally, you know, but I know the Labyrinith pretty good, better than most.”

“Not good enough to keep from getting caught,” Carzen noted.

Rendil rubbed his sore head.  “Yeah, I got a bit overconfident, I admit.  I saw these Reavers slinking about near the Hall, and I thought they looked pretty suspicious, so I followed them.  Looks like they were a bit more alert than I thought.  Bad luck for me, but I guess it was a lucky bit that you were coming by, so it all balances out, I suppose.”

“Let’s get moving,” Vhael said.  “We’ll need to rest and resupply before we set out again, in any case.  In the meantime, you can tell us more about these Bloodreavers.”


----------



## Tamlyn

I'll add my kudos. I started reading Doomed Bastards over a year ago on my lunch hours. I loved it enough to go back and read Travels and then move on to Shackled City. I have loved it all. I'm almost through with Shackled City and am a little depressed because once I have it done I'm not sure what I'll read at my desk at lunch. But I do know my first stop will be at your website to look at your other fiction. I thoroughly enjoy your writing and definitely love your characters.

~Tam


----------



## Lazybones

Sadly, I had to trim down my non-D&D fiction from my Web site, due in part to space issues and in part to the fact that a lot of it requires some thorough editing. During grad school I wrote six full novels and part of a seventh. Five of those were based on an original campaign setting I'd originally written for a 1st ed game I hosted back in the late 80s. The game only went about 5 sessions, but the campaign setting was fleshed out a lot more in the novels. I thought about posting them here before, but they're really only peripherally related to D&D now. I reworked a lot of the mechanics, as I'd planned on trying to sell them at some point, but with hindsight I can see that they were pretty rough.  

I think that _Thunderspire Labyrinth_ will be my last 4e story. The system just isn't grabbing me the way that 3.0/3.5 did. I have a few ideas percolating.  

* * * * * 

Chapter 12


“Impressive,” Jaron said, once they had emerged from the passage and gotten their first good look at the Seven-Pillared Hall. 

The place was vast, a bubble in the mountain that stretched out before them, its far end all but lost in the distance.  The place was dimly illuminated by faint patches of glowing material affixed to the walls at intervals too regular to be entirely natural; the light was bright enough for them to clearly make out the broad outlines of the place, if not all of the specific details.  They could identify the natural pillars that gave the place its name, and what looked to be a stream that bisected the complex across its middle, dividing the settlement into two halves.  

The floor of the Hall was occupied by maybe a score of buildings of various shapes and sizes, ranging from squat single-story blockhouses to structures that looked tall enough to host three or even four stories within.  But those were augmented by what looked to be additional quarters excavated from the walls of the cavern itself, stacked two or three or even four atop the other in tiers, accessed by precarious ledges and fragile-looking ladders.  Beetle’s hands had started to itch at the sight of those, but Jaron took his cousin literally in hand, keeping him close to him as they made their way forward through the guardstation. 

Their passage through that entry proved rather anticlimactic.  The guards, which included men, orcs, and an ogre amongst their number, recognized Rendil, and only asked a few bored questions of Vhael about their purpose here.  The dragonborn’s response was vague, but it apparently was enough.  The adventurers barely had time to share a wary look before they were being waved through. 

“They don’t seem to take security very seriously here,” Gezzelhaupt observed, once they were far enough away from the guards to speak without risk of being overheard. 

“Look more closely,” Gral replied, inclining his head toward a niche in the cavern wall, where a large statue of a minotaur was just visible.  “The Mages of Saruun are not to be trifled with, and they respond quickly to those who would bring disorder here.”

Vhael fixed a cold gaze on Carzen, but it was Jaron who shuddered at the wizard’s words, and he couldn’t help but tighten his grip on his cousin’s hand.  “Good advice,” the dragonborn said.  

“Come on,” Rendil said.  “I’ll show you to my family’s inn; you can rest and get some hot food there.”

“Gral and I have an errand to attend to first,” Vhael said.  “Go on ahead, but remember our purpose here.  Don’t attract attention, and don’t invite trouble.”

“What errand?” Carzen asked, persisting despite the warning in the warlord’s eyes. 

“We have a contact among the mages who might be able to give us information about these slavers,” Gral finally said.  “It won’t take long, and we’ll meet you at the inn shortly.”

Vhael leaned in, close enough so that Carzen could feel the heat of his breath on his face.  “No trouble,” he repeated.  Then he turned and walked away, the dwarf close on his heels. 

“Sheesh,” Carzen said, after a moment.  “What does he think we are, children?”

“He knows the Hall,” Rendil said, “and what he says, it is good to listen.  In this place, the trouble is always around the bend.  Come on, my family’s probably worried sick about me, and I’m buying the first round.”

“Now you’re talking,” Gez said, falling in with the others as they set out across the Hall, following the halfling.


----------



## arun

wait no more 4e stories....does that mean no more stories are just that they will be based off a different set of rules?  *please say it's the latter*


----------



## Lazybones

arun said:


> wait no more 4e stories....does that mean no more stories are just that they will be based off a different set of rules?  *please say it's the latter*



Well, thus far the writing bug shows no signs of easing up, although I have been a lot busier of late, which has reduced the time I have to write. But yes, the ideas that I have percolating would use other systems than 4e. I'd share more but I still need to check a few things before I know for sure what I want to do as my next project. Let's just say that one idea would revisit an old setting of mine, and the other would explore some of the games I've been running in the CRPG arena. 

Thanks for the support! You guys have kept me posting here for so long, with your feedback. 

* * * * * 

Chapter 13


The common room of the Halfmoon Inn looked smaller than it was at first glance, with swirling clouds of tobacco and other smokes drifting thick among the heavy pillars supporting the ceiling almost ten feet above.  The crowded nature of the chamber was bolstered by the use of the available space, which placed the long bar in a U shape in the middle of the room, and curtained alcoves off to each side that offered a small modicum of privacy to premium customers.  

The place looked fairly busy, with maybe thirty patrons and staff at the tables and bar.  A majority of them were halflings, but the rest comprised a diverse collection of humans, dwarves, orcs, goblinoids, and other races both common and unfamiliar.  Many of them had the pale, sallow look of those who spent most of their lives underground, out of the reach of the bright sun above.  A few glanced up as the newcomers entered, but their attention returned quickly to their private conversations or to their drinks.  

“Oh, crap,” Rendil said.  They followed the halfling’s eyes to the far side of the room around the bar, where the largest ogre any of them had ever seen was causing a stir. 

The ogre, clad in a vest of mail links that might have barded a warhorse, stood over the remains of what had recently been a table and bench.  A halfling lay in the splinters, his coat soaked with ale, a confused look on his face that was quickly evolving into terror.  He stared up at the ogre, blinking, trying to take in what was going on.  Those patrons nearby were doing their best to ignore what was happening, although a few hastily took up their possessions and made for the door. 

“I said, what you lookin’ at, you little crudder?  You deaf, o’ somepin?” 

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Carzen hissed. 

Jaron blinked; he’d crossed halfway through the room before the fighter’s question drew him up.  He realized that Beetle had disappeared, and that meant trouble, even as he took in anew just how big the ogre was.  He was so tall that its head scraped the rafters bolstering the ceiling, but beyond that he was _thick_, with meaty arms that were thicker around than Carzen’s torso.  

Jaron swallowed, and started forward again.  The ogre had bent over the terrified halfling, close enough so that spittle from his jaws sprayed over the halfling’s face.  He hadn’t made a move toward the greatclub slung across his back, but that meant little; the ogre could have crushed every bone in the halfling’s body with one fist. 

“What did I tell you about breaking furniture in here, Brugg?” 

The voice came from a newcomer who entered the room through the low doorway in the rear wall near the end of the bar, presumably from the inn’s kitchen.  Jaron’s jaw dropped as he recognized its owner. 

It was Mara. 

As the ogre shifted slightly, Mara caught sight of Jaron.  She started in surprise, her attention distracted just enough so that the ogre’s sudden movement caught her off guard.  Twisting his body, his long reach allowed his forearm to catch her hard across the chest as he spun around.  The blow knocked Mara back a good five feet, and only the presence of one of the supporting beams stopped her there.  She hit hard enough for Jaron to hear it clearly even across the room, and a sudden quiet spread across the chamber as the fighter slumped against the beam, gasping for breath as the ogre stepped forward to loom over her, blocking her from the view of the others.


----------



## Tamlyn

Lazybones said:


> Well, thus far the writing bug shows no signs of easing up, although I have been a lot busier of late, which has reduced the time I have to write. But yes, the ideas that I have percolating would use other systems than 4e. I'd share more but I still need to check a few things before I know for sure what I want to do as my next project. Let's just say that one idea would revisit an old setting of mine, and the other would explore some of the games I've been running in the CRPG arena.




Good! I really don't care what system or setting you write in. I'm just happy to know you'll still be writing.



Lazybones said:


> It was Mara.




Nice!


----------



## Lazybones

Thanks for the kudos, Tamlyn. 

* * * * * 

Chapter 14


The ogre stood over Mara, his lips twisted into a sinister grin.  

The fighter’s hands twitched at her hips, brushing the hilts of the two swords that dangled there, but as she sucked in air to replace that knocked from her lungs by the ogre’s push she forced them back to her sides.  Straightening, she said, “Are you going to break the mages’ law, Brugg, in front of all these witnesses?”

A young halfling behind the bar was joined by an older woman who emerged from the kitchen wearing an apron covered in flour.  “I’ll see that the Ordinator hears of this!  You know better than to fight in my inn!”

Brugg smiled, but coming from the ogre it was a sinister expression.  “Nobody’s fighting, Erra,” he growled.  “Your help’s just a little… clumsy.”  

“Somehow a lot of people get ‘clumsy’ around you,” Erra said.  As she spoke she caught sight of Rendil and the others on the edge of her vision, and her eyes widened.  But she did not let the ogre escape her stare, nor did she back down against a creature that could have trampled her to death with a careless step.  The ogre held that look for a few moments that seemed overly long, then he let out a chuckle.  

“Time for my shift, anyway.”  He shot a look at Mara.  “Maybe we’ll meet again somewhere more… private.”

Mara’s stance adjusted just barely enough to be noticeable, but in a way that moved her hilts closer to her hands.  “That would be interesting,” she said, her tone giving away nothing.  

Brugg snorted and turned away, but as he took his first step, his feet got tangled up and he toppled over with a surprised roar.  Those few patrons that hadn’t cleared the area during the earlier altercation threw themselves out of the way of the falling ogre, with one dark-skinned dwarf narrowly avoiding being crushed under the hulking brute’s weight.  A pair of high stools weren’t so lucky, and the brass footrail that ran along the bar rang loudly as Brugg’s shoulder hit it hard enough to leave a deep dent.  

The ogre wasn’t really hurt, and he recovered quickly, pulling himself to his feet.  He glanced down at one foot, where one of the throngs that laced his boots had torn free.  Somehow, it had gotten tangled with the other boot, causing his fall.  A few people had started to smirk at the ogre’s misfortune, but they had been quick to turn away before the creature’s gaze swept the room. 

“Looks like I’m not the only clumsy one,” Mara said, not bothering to hide her own grin.  

Brugg snarled and left.  As he passed the new arrivals he shouldered Carzen roughly aside, knocking the fighter into the bar.  The ogre glanced back to see if the human was going to protest, but Carzen merely caught himself and turned away, brushing off his cloak.  Gezzelhaupt was quick to get out of his way as the ogre reached the door and squeezed his bulk through it. 

Rendil let out a held breath.  “What a homecoming.” he said.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 15


“So I met up with a merchant in Fallcrest, who was headed here,” Mara said, her eyes traveling over the inhabitants of the common room.  “I hired on as a guard, but we didn’t get along, and when I arrived at the Hall, the Halfmoons put me up in exchange for some security work.”

It was noticeably quieter now, with only about a dozen people scattered at tables and in booths around the place.  Jaron supposed that the residents of a place like this probably picked an arbitrary “night” that may or may not have any correlation to the cycles of the sun in the world above.  The three of them—Jaron, Mara, and Beetle—had a wall to themselves, the curtains pulled back from the nook to give them a clear view to the door.  Carzen and Gez had already retired, but Vhael and Gral had not yet returned from their errand.

“Good bread,” Beetle said, his words barely discernable through a full mouth.  He smiled, and Mara smiled back at him.  “It’s mostly made up of mushrooms and lichens,” she said, making a face, but Beetle took another slice, cramming in into his mouth to join the remnants already there. 

She looked up at Jaron.  “These Bloodreavers you’re looking for… I’m still finding my way around this place, but I’ve heard enough to know that they’re bad news.  Are you sure about this?”

“They took my people,” Jaron said simply.  He hadn’t eaten much, and he pushed a bit of bread around on his place as he spoke, distracted.

Mara nodded.  “I understand.”

Jaron looked up.  “We could use your swords.” “Sthords,” Beetle echoed, his mouth still full. 

The fighter shook her head.  “It’s not my fight.  Anyway, it looks like you guys picked up some new muscle.  And you’ve got a wizard now, you say?”

“Dorf,” Beetle mumbled around the bread. 

“They’re all right, I suppose,” Jaron said.  “And Commander Vhael seems to know what he…”

He trailed off at the change in Mara’s face.  “Vhael?  K’rol Vhael is with you?”

“Well, he’s not here, but yes, he’s in charge of the expedition, he’s working for the lord that sent us here.  Why, do you know him?”

“You could say that, I suppose.  Yes, you could say that, seeing as he killed my father.”

She got up, roughly, the hilt of her shortsword catching on the lip of the table.  She nearly tore the table free of its moorings as she pulled away.  “I wish you the best of luck, Jaron, I really do.  I hope you find your people.”

“Mara, I—” 

But the fighter had already walked away, disappearing through the low doorway into the back of the inn before Jaron could say anything further.  

“Secrets,” Beetle whispered. 

Jaron nodded, not sure what was going on.


----------



## Lazybones

I'm going away for a long weekend starting tomorrow, and I probably won't have access to a computer. So this is most likely the last update until Monday. The Friday cliffhanger will just have to keep. 

* * * * * 


Chapter 16


Jaron’s internal clock was all askew, even only after a few days in the deep gloom of the underworld, and he had no idea what time it was supposed to be as he and his companions left the relative security of the Seven-Pillared Hall behind, and delved back into the winding tunnels of the Labyrinth.  They had relatively clear directions from Rendil, and a clear destination, but that was all that was clear about this mission.  An expedition that had started with the basic objective of recovering Yarine and the others had been getting more complicated by the minute, Jaron thought. 

He didn’t need to look at the faces of his companions to see the tensions there.  The hostility between Carzen and Vhael formed a frisson that the halfling could feel like the heat of an open flame.  There were lesser cracks in the outward face presented by their team, including the barely-constrained fear in Gezzelhaupt, the sole survivor of the soldiers that had accompanied Carzen from Fallcrest, and the secrets that Vhael and Gral held about their past knowledge of this place.  And Mara, whose sudden reappearance had slid another current of uncertainty into their presence here. 

He hadn’t told Vhael about Mara, and Carzen hadn’t volunteered anything about their encounter with the ogre.  Jaron supposed that put him in the category of keeping secrets. 

And then there was Beetle.  His cousin had been in a sulk all morning, and had trudged along with the rest of them, instead of wandering off and vanishing constantly as was his habit.  He seemed to sense Jaron’s attention, and he turned just long enough to stick his tongue out.  He moved over to the other side of Vhael and Gral, muttering about “his stuff.”

Jaron sighed.  Beetle was another simmering problem waiting to explode.  The confrontation that had created this latest clash had come last night, shortly after their meeting with Mara.  The Halfmoon Inn had included several small rooms sized for halflings, so the two of them hadn’t had to share space with any of the others.  Jaron had come in from his trip to the bathhouse to find Beetle hastily stuffing something under his pillow.  Perhaps it would have been better to leave well enough alone, but at the time curiosity and all of the worry that had been building up since leaving Fallcrest had pushed him to ferret out what his cousin had been hiding.  It was a small satchel, barely bigger than a purse, made out of ratty leather that looked like it had seen more years than the two of them combined.  It had bulged slightly when Jaron had picked it up.  

“Come on, Belden, I thought I told you…” Jaron had said, as he’d opened the purse to dump its contents onto the bed.

Even in memory, he felt some of the startlement he’d felt last night.  The little bag had somehow contained a deluge of assorted items, ranging from pieces of petty trash to a veritable horde of gold and silver coins that plinked as they slid off the bed to tumble about the floor.  The cache had included weapons, too, small blades and darts and even a crossbow with a broken crossbar that barely seemed able to fit through the mouth of the bag.  The container was magical, obviously, but Beetle hadn’t been willing to share where he’d acquired it, only insisting that he’d “found it,” and that everything in it belonged to him. 

Jaron carried the bag now, along with most of its contents.  He suspected that he was only starting Beetle again from scratch; no matter how hard he tried to impart to his cousin the dangers of theft, especially in a place like this, the younger halfling seemed incapable of being anything other than what he was.  Part of him suspected that his cousin’s behaviors were partly an act to cover his desire to continue such activities, but that did not change his own sense of responsibility toward the other halfling.  No matter how much he might drive Jaron to frustration, Belden was still family, and about all he had left of it.  

As they left the more-traveled passages near the Hall behind, Jaron had to give up those layered distractions and focus on the journey, for it became quickly clear that they were entering dangerous territory.  Even staying on the main tunnel, which extended for miles beyond the boundaries of the Hall, they passed numerous places that showed signs of battles in the not-too-distant pass.  Odd noises and unpleasant smells carried long distances to them, and more than once, as they passed a side passage, Jaron felt the unpleasant sense of being watched.  His companions felt it too, and as they pressed on further Jaron saw their hands dropping more and more often to the hilts of weapons.  There was no conversation save for the minimal exchanges needed to impart information.  Jaron served as scout, but did not go more than a few dozen paces ahead of the others, carrying a small mining lamp he’d purchased in the Seven-Pillared Hall to brighten the pure black of the tunnel.   The tunnel narrowed from six paces across to five, and then to four.  It was still plenty wide enough to accommodate their small group, but Jaron could not help but feel as if all that stone was pressing in upon them, squeezing them like a hand crushing a lemon for its juice. 

They had marched for the better part of two hours before they reached the side-tunnel that led to their destination.  Jaron found the marker that Rendil had spoken of without difficulty, although he might have walked past it had he not been forewarned.  The stylized eye etched into the stone looked out from the mouth of a passage much like the others they had passed, but somehow the knowledge of what lay in that direction made it seem rather more menacing. 

After verifying that the others were following, Jaron led them in that direction.  The passage continued for maybe a hundred paces, bending slightly around to the left, before it deposited them into a large chamber.  The place showed signs of decay and neglect, and was littered with piles of rubble from what might have once been statues and carvings along the perimeter.  

The place seemed to be deserted.  As Jaron lifted his lamp the darkness receded, enough for him to make out a set of doors recessed into an alcove in the center of the wall to his right.  He could also just make out a balcony along the far wall, a ledge some fifteen feet above the level of the floor.  There was no one up there either, at least no one he could see, and as he made his way forward he observed that there was a small door up there as well. 

He moved across the room toward the alcove, careful not to disturb any of the loose rocks that were scattered across the floor.  Behind him the others entered the room, and spread out, their eyes searching every niche and shadow for any sign of danger.  

“The slavers have lax security,” Gral muttered.  

Carzen heard him, and said, “Maybe because nobody down here’s stupid enough to take them on.”

“Quiet,” Vhael said, gesturing for Carzen and Gez to take the left flank as he and Gral moved after Jaron toward the doors. 

The alcove was flanked by a pair of statues that were no longer distinguishable as anything other than vague humanoid shapes.  But the doors themselves looked very solid, heavy planks reinforced with generous banding in cold iron.  There was a locking mechanism set into the door on the right, and Jaron didn’t need to probe to guess there was likely a bar on the far side as well.  Shrouding his light so that it wouldn’t betray them through any cracks in the doors, he bent forward and pressed his head against the thin crevice where the two panels came together.  He heard the voices almost at once, recognizing again the familiar cadences of the goblin speech.  He listened for a few seconds, picking up the tone of the conversation, if not the words, which were muffled by the thick wood.  

“Goblins,” he mouthed, turning back to face the others.  

“If we have to cut our way through that, every goblin in the place will be waiting for us,” Carzen said.  At least he had the sense to keep his voice low, Jaron thought, but at the moment he couldn’t disagree with the fighter’s assessment. 

Vhael gestured them back from the alcove, moving into the room where they could speak quietly without standing directly in front of the doors.  

“There’s another door up…” Jaron began, but his voice froze in his throat as he looked in that direction in time to see Beetle running up the wall.  

He didn’t, not really, but it was still pretty impressive to see him ascent where the two walls met, kicking off one and then the other, gaining about five feet with each hop, until he sprang off the wall and snared the edge of the balcony with the fingertips of one hand.  He dangled there precariously for a moment, grinning down at them, then got enough leverage with his feet to push himself up over the lip, rolling back up to his feet with aplomb and dusting himself off. 

“Beetle!” Jaron hissed, but if his cousin heard him, he didn’t pay any heed.  The halfling started toward the door, a dagger popping into his hand out of nowhere.  

“Should we go up after him?” Gezzelhaupt asked, nervously fingering his bowstring. 

“There’s no way we’d make that ascent without making enough noise to alert the complex,” Vhael said.  

“I can get up there quietly, especially if one of you gives me a boost,” Jaron said.  He took a step in that direction, but Vhael cut him off.  “We cannot afford to further divide our strength.”

“I can’t just sit here while he’s in danger.”

Vhael’s expression did not shift in the slightest.  “There is more than one person at stake.  Your cousin took rash action on his own initiative; now we must hope that he can find a way to open the door.”  And as they watched, Beetle reached the door at the end of the balcony.  He paused barely a moment before it opened and he vanished into the space beyond. 

“And those guards?” Carzen asked.  

Vhael turned back to the alcove and the doors.  He glanced at Gral.  “If necessary, we must be ready to do things the hard way.”


----------



## Richard Rawen

Lazybones said:


> “If necessary, we must be ready to do things the hard way.”



LOL, what other way is there?
I always appreciate the little details you put in to show different cultures, locations and environments. 
Just doing my fanboy duties for March lol, thanks for the updates!


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 17


Beetle wasn’t preoccupied with guards or complex plans when he vaulted up atop the balcony and went through the door at its end.  Had he taken the time to consider the implications of his actions, he might have thought better of heading alone into a complex of deadly slavers, but the halfling wasn’t one to get bogged down with such considerations.  If it was exciting, and dangerous, and maybe offered the chance of reward, that was enough.  

To be honest, there was a bit of resentment at work too; he was still a bit angry with his cousin for taking away his magic bag.  That boon, found in a cramped crawlspace in the dungeon under the Keep on the Shadowfell, had proven a delightful find, offering a solution to the frequent dilemma of insufficient pocket space to accommodate all of the wonderful things that he came upon in his travels.  But now he’d show Jaron and all of them, by dealing with these slavers personally.  

He heard voices as soon as he opened the balcony door, and almost unconsciously blended into the shadows, making as much noise as a soft puff of wind as he slipped through and closed the door behind him.  The passageway beyond the door opened onto a stair that descended into a room.  He crawled up to where he could get a good look.  

The room wasn’t especially large, and rather crowded with the crude pieces of furniture that filled it.  There was another exit on the far side of the room, but Beetle’s eyes were drawn to the room’s occupants, two big and rather ugly goblins, clad in metal armor, with axes thrust through their belts and bows slung across their backs.  One was sitting on a small cot, sharpening a knife, while the other was seated on a stool in front of a table, gnawing on some bones had already been well stripped of meat.  A small iron brazier on a three-pronged stand provided heat and a weak, ruddy light.  It was just enough for Beetle to make out the hulking mound atop another of the beds, a form far too big to be another goblin.  As he watched, it shifted slightly, and issued a fragment of a snore.  The goblin sitting on the other cot said something, but unlike his cousin, Beetle did not speak the Goblin language, so he had no idea what he said.  The other one snorted and responded, tossing his bone aside and yanking another from the pile heaped on the plate in front of him. 

Beetle let out a soft breath.  This was going to be tricky. 

“How long do we wait?” Gezzelhaupt asked.  He was trying to keep his hands busy, testing his bowstring, adjusting the arrows in the quiver at his hip, fidgeting until Vhael shot him a hard look that quieted him.  He had reason to be nervous, Jaron thought; he’d watched his comrades get slaughtered, and it was likely that what awaited them behind the door was at least as dangerous as a wyvern.  How many goblinoids waited beyond those portals?  From everything he’d heard, from Rendil and the others in the Hall, these Bloodreavers were not a trivial force. 

And yet here he was, planning on taking them on directly.  

Was Yarine even still alive?  He had no idea of the priestess or the others from Fairhollow lived, or if the Bloodreavers still held them captive.  But there was nothing else he could do.  

Still, the passage of the seconds seemed to build the tension in his gut like bricks stacked one upon the other.  He held his own bow ready, standing in the shadow of the dragonborn warlord, who stood facing the doors, outwardly patient, a statue that might still be here hours, days, or even years from now, unaffected by such mortal concerns as fear and worry. 

When all hell broke loose a moment later, they heard it clearly even through the doors. 

The first indication that the goblins had that something was wrong was a soft _snick_, a noise like a sharp blade being stropped on leather.  The goblin at the table turned, looked at the bugbear warrior asleep on his pallet.  He started to turn back to his bones, but something subtle that couldn’t quite be defined froze his stare, drew his attention back.  The bugbear wasn’t moving, but a faint hissing noise came from him.  Then the goblin’s eyes dropped, to the thread of fluid draining from the bottom of the cot, gathering in a spreading pool of red upon the floor.  His eyes widened, but before he could do anything further, a small figure sprang up from behind the cot.  The goblin’s surprised stare was drawn to the bare steel of the blade in the intruder’s hand, glistening with bright red blood…

The goblin tumbled back from the table, clutching at his axe.  The chair fell over as he pulled free, making a loud noise as it hit the floor.  The creature—smaller even than a goblin, he realized—let out an odd noise and flicked his hand forward.  The goblin started to duck before he realized that the attack wasn’t aimed at him. 

The goblin on the bed had only started to realize that something was wrong, and as his head turned the thrown knife drew a line of bright red across his forehead, scoring it to the bone.  He drew back, almost tumbling off of the cot, clutching his face as blood spurted down into his eyes.  

The attacker had gained complete surprise, but the goblin was a Skullcleaver, no common, inexperienced warrior sealed into a burrow to earn his first kill.  He’d been caught off guard, but as his axe finally tore free and came into his hands he started yelling an alarm, drawing the attention of the pair of guards in the hallway outside.  As the intruder started toward his injured companion on the nearby cot, the goblin lifted his axe and snarled a challenge.  

Unfortunately, he failed to notice the throng that had been strung between the table and the brazier, and with his first step he snagged it.  He fell awkwardly forward, his momentum knocking the brazier wildly aside, scattering its contents across half of the room.  A shower of sparking ash filled the air. 

The Skullcleaver felt a jab of pain as a burning coal settled on the back of his right knee.  He snarled and pulled himself to his feet, trying to sift through the chaos that surrounded him.  He could hear his companion yelling, and staggered forward, not quite clear what was happening until he was almost right on top of the battle.  The small invader was lunging at the other goblin with another knife, moving with incredible speed, not giving the dazed Skullcleaver a chance to recover.  Blood was splattered all over the cot and the adjacent crates of supplies, and it continued to flicker about in fat drops as the little demon’s knife darted in and out.  

The goblin followed his instincts, and attacked.  His axe sliced toward the intruder’s head, but at the last instant the little bastard ducked, and the sharp blade only clove through cloth.  The enemy fell back against the wall, and the cowl of his cloak fell back, to reveal…

A halfling. 

“You little bastard!” the goblin cursed, coming forward to attack again before the fast little bugger could move away.  The halfling seemed frozen, but as the Skullcleaver committed to his attack he countered with a sudden lunge, coming in low under the goblin’s swing.  The Skullcleaver grunted as the halfling’s knife cut into his knee; the wound wasn’t serious, not through the thick leather leggings he wore, but it knocked him off balance, and he caromed off the wall and fell to the floor.  The goblin cursed and tried to get up before the halfling could slit his throat. 

But the enemy assassin’s position was growing more precarious by the second.  The other Skullcleaver had finally recovered his axe, and the two door guards had arrived, adding their numbers to the battle and shifting the odds decisively in the favor of the defenders.  The halfling seemed to realize this, for instead of attacking he sprang up into the air, bouncing off the cot and then up onto the stack of crates.  Even as the wounded Skullcleaver, still half blind from the blood smeared across his face, crushed the end of one of the crates with his axe, the halfling jumped again, landing halfway up the stairs that led up to the corridor above.  

He’d barely gotten his balance when he lifted his cloak and thrust his buttocks boldly in the direction of the goblins.  Then he ran up the stairs, the goblins not far behind.  Behind them, the room was slowly filling with smoke as the burning coals from the fallen brazier fueled small fires here and there.  

The halfling was faster than the goblins, and he might have gotten away.  But as he sprang up the last few steps, he couldn’t resist a last rude gesture toward the goblins, one that transcended the limitations of language.  Thus he didn’t see the dark figure that stepped into view at the top of the steps, or the heavy hammer that he lifted.  

He turned back just in time to take the blow squarely in the chest.  It knocked him back roughly, reversing his momentum and flipping him heels over head as he was flung off the stairs and fell into the smoky chaos below.  

“Take him alive, if you can,” the duergar snorted.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 18


“He’s in trouble!” Jaron cried, as the first shouts filtered through the heavy doors that warded the entrance to the Bloodreaver hideout.  

“We have to hack through it!” Carzen said.  He started forward, although his sword was ill-suited to the task of destroying a door.  But Vhael stopped him with a raised arm.  “Hold your blade,” he said.   

“You’re not going to do anything?” the fighter hissed.  But Gral was already moving forward, lifting his staff.  Wisps of icy fog stirred in the air along its length, and as he pressed its tip to the center of the doors, frost spread from the point of contact, forming intricate patterns across the metal and wood as it thickened.  A slight cracking noise accompanied the spread of power, which seemed longer than the seconds that Gral held his staff in place. 

“Ware your ears,” Vhael warned, as the dwarf wizard drew back the staff.  Then, muttering a word of power under his breath, Gral thrust his focus forward again, unleashing a potent surge of magical energy as the staff struck the frozen surface of the door.  The _thunderwave_ shattered the new coating of ice, and the substance of the door itself was damaged as the potency of the spell weakened it.  The doors held, but all of them could see the new cracks in its surface as Gral stepped aside.  

Vhael took his place, surging forward, delivering a massive blow as his armored shoulder crashed into the door.  Wood cracked, metal groaned but held.  Vhael didn’t wait, and spun into another immediate attack, driving his other shoulder into the portals.  This time they gave way, and the doors sprang open.  The others rushed to follow him as he staggered forward into the hallway beyond the doors. 

Right into the largest wolf any of them had ever seen, which seized the dragonborn in its jaws, yanked him off his feet, shook him hard, and dashed him to the ground.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 19


“AAaargh!” Carzen yelled, thrusting his sword ahead like a spear, stabbing its point toward the wolf’s face.  The attack went awry as the monstrous dire wolf shook Vhael in its jaws, but the tip pierced its shoulder, sinking half a foot into its body.  He brought his shield up just in time to absorb a head-butt that nearly drove the upper edge into his helmet; if Gez hadn’t caught him from behind and steadied him, he almost certainly would have fallen. 

Vhael, still caught, roared violently, and drove a mailed fist into the hollow under the wolf’s lower jaw.  There was an ugly crack, and the wolf released him, the dragonborn’s blood showing on its teeth briefly before it lunged forward to attack again.  Vhael was unable to bring his big sword into play in time to block it, but he took the bite on his arm rather than his body this time, and tore free before the wolf could bring its superior size and strength to bear.  

Armored figures came into view in the corridor behind the wolf, obscured by the creature’s bulk.  Gral saw them, however, and summoned a _freezing cloud_ that obscured the space behind the dire wolf.  Frost began to sparkle in the fur covering the creature’s hindquarters, but otherwise it paid no heed to the chilling effects of the dwarf’s spell, instead surging forward to deal once more with the dragonborn.  It surged forward, using its sheer mass as a bludgeon to drive these enemies before it. 

But Vhael held his ground, and as the snapping jaws came down again he raised his sword, holding it up like a quarterstaff, with one hand on the hilt and the other on the blade a few feet from the end.  The wolf snarled as the edge cut into its throat, but it pressed forward, driving Vhael back inexorably.  The dragonborn’s jaw tightened as he struggled to keep the sword above his head, keeping the wolf just slightly off-balance, its neck just barely exposed.  

Carzen Zelos leapt into that gap, his sword plunging down into that opening, drawing a long gash across the wolf’s throat that pulsed, then suddenly erupted in a spray of bright red blood.  The creature reared and thrust forward, knocking both Carzen and Vhael backward, but its struggles were now the violent thrashings of the dying, rather than a prelude to a renewed assault.  Behind it, the _freezing cloud_ continued to roil, but the magic fueling it was already beginning to fade, and they could see figures moving behind it, waiting for its collapse.  Carzen reached out a hand to help Vhael, but the dragonborn shook it off, a deep rumble coming from his throat as he took up a warding position at the mouth of the passage.   

The wolf shuddered a last time and collapsed, its bulk narrowing the corridor considerably, so that only one enemy could easily navigate it at once.  But as the _cloud_ faded, they could see the new threat already waiting for them.  

“Take cover!” Vhael warned, dodging to the side as a hail of arrows and crossbow bolts shot down the corridor.  The dragonborn shifted behind the threshold of the doorway just in time, as one of the missiles clipped the lintel and spun past him, and a second passed through the place he’d been standing just a moment before.  Carzen was just a fraction slower, and he had his shield up, but through some combination of luck and skill the archer’s shot came in just under the lower edge of the barrier, and hit the fighter in the leg just above his greave.  Carzen cursed and sagged back against the wall out of the direct line of fire, grimacing as he clutched at the nasty wound.  

Jaron and Gez returned fire, but their shots didn’t seem to have much effect, as the enemy snipers dodged back into cover.  But they were replaced by a formation of armored warriors, as a trio of hobgoblin soldiers followed by a pair of humans stepped into view.  The humans looked like bandits, clad in dirty leather tunics covered haphazardly with metal plates, and armed with metal bludgeons.  They remained behind the hobgoblins, who formed up into a disciplined phalanx before moving forward, their shields raised to form an interlocking wall of metal before them. 

“Let them come to us,” Vhael said, glancing out from the shelter of the doorway. 

“I’m not stupid!” Carzen shouted back. 

Smoke was starting to gather in the passage, coming out of an opening to the left about twenty feet from the entry doors, and there was yelling coming from that direction.  Vhael would have taken odds that somehow Jaron’s cousin was involved with that.  

“Beetle’s in there somewhere!” Jaron yelled, but as Vhael looked down the crowded passage, his chest and arm burning where the wolf had abused him, he knew that at the moment, at least, there was nothing they could do for the last member of their company.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 20


Beetle was starting to wonder if maybe he’d made a small mistake. 

For some reason, his lungs didn’t want to seem to work, and the room spun around him a bit as he tried to get up.  He felt almost like he had the time that Dale Wanderwarren’s bull had head-butted him, and he laughed at the memory—or at least tried to; only a sick wheezing noise came out of his throat. 

Then rough hands were grabbing at him.  While he was still not quite sure what was going on, instinct told him that being grabbed wasn’t a good thing, and his body took over for his seemingly absent mind.  

He twisted backward and away, leaving his cloak in the possession of the grabbing hands.  Someone snarled at him, and he felt a cool breeze as something flashed by, inches in front of his face.  There sure was a lot of smoke, making it hard to see.  An ugly face lunged in front of his, and he darted back, nearly tripping over something big lying on the floor.  A chair, he thought, then a table, the latter apparently on fire.  He ducked under the table and came out on the far side.  There was an opening there, a vague outline through the smoke, and he started toward it, only to come up short as several big—very big, and very armored—forms materialized in the doorway. 

He glanced over his shoulder, and saw the outlines of the goblin warriors, trying to find him in the smoke.  There wasn’t really anywhere to go, so he dove under the sagging bed where the bugbear warrior he’d killed earlier lay.  There was a lot of blood there, and he couldn’t help but getting it all over him as he rolled under the bed and came up on the other side, looking for a way out. 

Nothing really presented itself at the moment, except for a goblin that suddenly materialized out of the smoke, right in front of him.  Both jumped, the goblin’s surprise perhaps understandable at the sudden appearance of the garishly blood-streaked form of the halfling, appearing like an unholy fiend summoned out of the deepest pits of the hells.  Both responded instinctively, the goblin with a swing of his axe, the halfling with a jump backwards.  The goblin felt his weapon connect with something, and his mouth twisted into a grin at the cry of pain that accompanied it, but a moment later he felt a nasty stab of agony in his arm.  Reaching down, he plucked out the tiny knife that had buried there, and tossed it aside.  

The Skullcleaver called out to his companions, who converged on the corner of the room, penning in their elusive foe, cutting off any avenue of escape. 

Barely twenty feet away, Jaron was all too aware of the danger to his cousin, but there didn’t seem to be anything he could do about it at the moment, for between here and there a raging, desperate melee was being fought.  

Jaron and Gez had brought the approaching phalanx under fire as they’d made their way up the corridor toward the position where Vhael and Carzen waited, but their bows had had little effect on the heavily armored warriors.  Gral’s icy beams were somewhat more potent, but the hobgoblins had shrugged those off as well, seemingly immune to anything that the adventurers could throw at them.  The warriors pounded their flails on the inside of their shields as they approached, raising a din that reverberated off the walls of the passage.  It was the dead mound of the dire wolf that finally forced them to break their formation, and it was then that Carzen and Vhael attacked, spinning out of their cover to lunge with their straight blades.  Carzen’s initial surge bounced off a hobgoblin shield, but Vhael’s longer sword came in over a warrior’s guard and clipped him hard on the side of the helmet.  The stroke failed to penetrate the steel cap, but the hobgoblin was staggered by the impact, shaking his head to clear it as he pushed forward back into formation.  His companions lashed out with their flails, and now it was Carzen and Vhael who were forced back, giving the hobgoblins the precious seconds they needed to reform their line.  

“We need to do something!” Jaron yelled.  He raised his bow, but he didn’t have a shot that wouldn’t put the front-line fighters at risk.  

“I don’t have a shot!” Gez shouted back, echoing his thought.  The soldier didn’t bother rushing to bolster the front line; in the narrow space of the doorway, he’d only get in the way of the two fighters.  And anyway, Gral was there, just a few steps back from Vhael, firing _rays of frost_ into the hobgoblin ranks with pinpoint accuracy.  

Jaron’s gaze traveled back to the balcony.  “Boost me up there!” he said to Gez, and started running in that direction. 

But he’d barely covered three steps before the door atop the balcony was flung open.  Hoping to see Beetle, instead Jaron felt a cold fist in his gut as a pair of hobgoblin archers appeared, arrows already fitted to their bowstrings. 

The feeling of dread deepened as the pair lifted their weapons and pointed them at him.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 21


Jaron fumbled for an arrow, but he’d been anticipating a climb, not another shot, and he wasn’t able to beat the new arrivals up on the balcony.  He twisted aside and narrowly missed getting impaled by the first shot.  Even so, the arrow clipped his shoulder, going clear through the leather of his jerkin and the heavy wool of his cloak, and taking a divot of flesh with it.  He grimaced as the pain tore through his body, but he knew he’d gotten lucky.  Hobgoblin bows were _powerful_, and that shot could have just as easily gone through him as his garments. 

The other archer exchanged fire with Gezzelhaupt.  Both missed, though the hobgoblin’s arrow came close enough to stir up the hairs on the left side of his head in its passing.  The soldier, all too aware of his disadvantage, took cover behind the statue on the far side of the alcove.  

Jaron had no such opportunity, and as he looked around in vain for a chance to escape this trap, he realized that he could be in serious trouble. 

But as the hobgoblins reloaded their bows, Gral stepped back into view.  The dwarf lifted his staff and fired a _ray of frost_ that struck the archer on the left solidly in the chest.  The hobgoblin grimaced as the blast formed an icy rime across his torso, but as he drew his bow the crystals shattered, and he managed to get off his shot.  His companion fired almost at the same time.  Jaron looked back over his shoulder to see that the dwarf had taken both missiles in his chest, the arrows jutting out like pins from his body.  He sagged under the impact, only the support of his staff keeping him from keeling over right there. 

Jaron shouted something incoherent as instinct replaced conscious thought, and he brought his bow up.  He targeted the one that Gral had injured, and his shot flew true, barely missing he lip of the balcony and driving deep into the hobgoblin’s meaty thigh.  But even that wasn’t enough, and while the archer’s face was twisted into a rictus of pain, it didn’t stop him from reaching for another arrow.  His companion did the same, and as both took aim at Jaron, the halfling wondered if the story of his adventures was coming to a rapid and abrupt end. 

Carzen and Vhael were in no position to help him.  While they still held the doorway, the threshold offering them some small modicum of cover from the devastating and powerful swings from the hobgoblin flails, the enemy continued to press them hard.  Carzen took a solid hit to his right arm that bruised him to the bone even through his greave, and as he shifted back the arrow still jutting from his leg almost caused him to fall.  Vhael stepped forward and delivered a gout of flaming breath that made the hobgoblins hesitate, if only for a few seconds.  

“Shake it off!” he growled at Carzen, offering him a hand to pull him back into place next to him.  “Fight or die, there’s no other option!” 

Carzen looked sick, but he did as the dragonborn said, shaking off his hand and lunging into an attack that almost cost him his renewed balance.  The hobgoblin he hit only grunted as the fighter’s sword struck him in his gut, and in turn Carzen nearly died as he brought his shield up just barely in time to deflect a blow from the adjacent hobgoblin.  He heard a strange noise next to him and nearly lost his concentration, before he realized that it was Vhael, and the noise was the dragonborn… singing?  The warlord’s echoing roar was louder even than the banging of the hobgoblins on their shields earlier, but even that wasn’t as loud as the crash as he brought his sword down in a glittering arc that crashed through a hobgoblin helm and the skull beneath it, splattering out a mess of blood and brains in a wide spread.  The hobgoblins, their order sundered by the attack, were slow to react. 

But their side still had the odds in their favor, a fact that was reinforced again as one of the human bandits that had been lurking behind the hobgoblin line leapt forward, darting in and stabbing with his long dagger before Vhael could recover from his attack.  The dragonborn’s cry became a trill of pain as the knife tore down into his neck, opening up a vicious wound that spurted forth a garishly bright stream of blood.  Now it was his turn to crumple, his nails digging furrows into the door as he fell back against it, his heavy sword falling with a clatter at his feet. 

The hobgoblins, reenergized, surged forward to finish him off. 

Beetle dodged and tore maniacally through the room, narrowly avoiding the axe blades that swiped dangerously through the air in his wake.  He sprang over a row of heaped crates and ducked under a cot, moments before a goblin axe smashed it into ruin.  
Thus far the thickening smoke and his own quickness had kept the goblins from pinning him down, but there was no way that his luck could continue forever. 

It came to a sudden end as he leapt up from the collapsing cot and onto a barrel near the stairs.  That barrel wasn’t as securely seated as its neighbors, and the sudden weight of the halfling on it caused it to topple over.  Beetle let out a surprised yell and flipped over roughly onto his back, coughing at the acrid smoke stinging his lungs.  His head pounded where it had caromed off the unyielding stone plates of the floor. 

He looked up to see all four goblins standing over him, a promise of death in their eyes.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 22


Gral Thunderhammer was no stranger to pain.  

The dwarf was a wizard, and that made him somewhat unusual among his kind.  But while he had never borne an axe or hammer into battle, or held of hordes of creatures clad in layers of plate steel, that did not mean that he lacked the stamina and durability common to his race.  Dwarven resilience—more than just an axiom, it was a truth that pulsed in his blood.  

And so he drew himself up, yanking out one of the arrows jutting from his body and tossing it aside.  One of the hobgoblin archers was shooting at Jaron, but the other saw him and hurriedly raised his bow to finish him off before he could unleash another spell.  Their eyes met for a long moment across the chamber.  

“Take your best shot, goblin,” he growled, and while the archer obviously couldn’t hear him, it was obvious by the way his eyes narrowed that he understood the message. 

He released his arrow.  The shot thudded into the dwarf’s body, solidly in the center of his chest, no doubt sticking into the dense matter of his breastbone.  Gral looked down at the shaft quivering from his body. 

And smiled. 

“Not good enough,” he said, drawing upon the power of his staff to empower his _ray of frost_.  The beam caught the hobgoblin solidly in the chest, drawing a line icy crystals across his body all the way to where his shoulder joined his right arm.  The hobgoblin reached for another arrow, but his hands shook as he fought off the draining chill. 

His companion realized his mistake too late, and shifted his aim from Jaron to the wizard.  But he was too late; two arrows sank into his body before he could shoot, one in his gut, the other a few inches below his throat.  The hobgoblin toppled over and fell forward off the balcony, landing with a sick thud on his back fifteen feet below. 

As the hobgoblins in the corridor surged ahead to finish off Vhael, Carzen pushed ahead to meet them.  He feinted at the bandit that had disabled Vhael, but the man was obviously not interested in toe-to-toe fighting against a heavily armored opponent, and he quickly withdrew, leaping over the corpse of the dead dire wolf.  The hobgoblins were of tougher stuff, but Carzen absorbed the pounding blows from their flails on his shield, and countered with a quick lash from his sword that drew a painful wound across the bicep of one the soldiers.  The hobgoblin, already wounded, nearly lost his grip on his flail, and he stepped back to recover, forcing his companion to cover him. 

With that momentary respite, Carzen glanced back at Vhael.  “Fight or die!” he snarled, turning back with a quick lunge that forced the hobgoblins back.  “No other options, you bastard!” he yelled over his shoulder.  

Vhael pulled himself up, and reached up with bloody fingers to yank the knife from his neck.  Fresh blood spurted from the wound, but the dragonborn only growled as he bent and recovered his sword.  

The hobgoblins, Carzen noticed, had not resumed their attack.  The brief pause had made him suddenly aware of the flaring agony radiating out from his wounded leg, leaving aside the battering he’d taken from those heavy flails.  The part of his mind that could still think clearly wondered what was happening, what surprise the enemy was waiting to unleash.  

Then his eyes caught signs of movement further down the passage, behind the soldiers, and as he saw what was coming, he felt that anticipation turn to grim understanding.  Vhael, still shaking his head to clear it, blood smeared in ugly trails across his neck and shoulders, didn’t see at first, but he could hear the deep voice that spoke a word of command, and he recognized that the hobgoblins’ leader had made an appearance. 

“Fall back,” he said, but Carzen was already retreating, moving in an awkward hobbling motion as his wounded leg resisted his commands.  The hobgoblins followed, but almost leisurely now, bolstered by reinforcements, knowing that their enemy’s retreat would only open them to more attacks once they cleared the narrow confines of the passage. 

“What’s happening?” Jaron asked, as the two fighters emerged from the alcove.  The last archer on the balcony had dropped prone, crippled by multiple hits from spells and arrows, but all of them save Gez were injured, some seriously.  He started toward the passage, but saw the hobgoblins following on the heels of the fighters, with more creatures coming up behind them, and froze.  

“Beetle,” he said with dread, reaching for an arrow, his fingers fumbling on the feathered shaft.  

“Fall back!” Vhael repeated, turning now to cover their withdrawal, his sword hefted above his head with the blade tilted low in a defensive stance.  He looked determined, but even a casual glance was enough to tell how badly he’d been battered.  Gez and Gral were already moving toward the entrance, but Jaron froze where he was for a long instant, indecision on his face.  

“Go!” Vhael said, thrusting at him roughly, pushing him after the others.  But it was already too late.  

The Bloodreavers spread out as they emerged from the passage, forming a line centered on the two hobgoblin soldiers.  The pair were both rather battered themselves, but they were bolstered by the two human bandits and a quartet of goblins.  Some of the latter bore wounds of their own, but they were still fearsome, clad in mail and armed with broad-bladed war axes.  

As if that wasn’t enough, the door to the balcony was flung open once more, and another detachment of archers appeared.  One hobgoblin bowman and two goblins with light crossbows rushed out, weapons loaded and ready.  

The final arrivals were a pair that came from the alcove in the wake of the bandits and warriors, emerging from the wisps of smoke that drifted out through the open doors.  The first was another warcaster, this one dressed in a hide cloak covered with fetishes of bone and metal, and a staff that bent almost into a hook at one end.  And the last to arrive was the worst, a massive hulk of a hobgoblin, clanking with the weight of heavy armor, hefting a spear half again as tall as he was.  His helm was fashioned into the shape of a skull, and there was a certain malevolent fury that burned in his stare as he cast it over the companions.  

“You were fools to think you could challenge the Bloodreavers,” he said, his Common thick but understandable.  

“I told you that our fight wasn’t over,” the warcaster added, filling the room with a fierce, terrible laugh.  Sparks of white energy flared around the end of his staff, casting his features into grim relief. 

“He’s the one, the one from the keep,” Jaron said.  But his companions didn’t understand the reference, and in any case they had more pressing issues.  

“We’ve come for your prisoners, the ones you stole from Fairhollow,” Vhael said.  “Surrender them, or pay the price.”

The bandits laughed together.  “The price!” the hobgoblin warchief snarled.  “The price we get for you will pay for the damage you’ve done here!”

“We’ll not yield to you!” Vhael said, but his defiance rang empty.  Carzen was already edging back toward the exit, but it was obvious that wouldn’t be able to outrun anybody in his current state. 

The warchief smiled.  “Then you will die!  Take them!” he shrieked, and his forces surged forward.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 23


A lot of things happened all at once. 

Carzen started to turn toward the exit, but before he could take even one step, an arrow from the balcony caught him on the leg, this time in the thick calf muscle on the same leg where he’d been shot before in the thigh.  He cried out as the limb buckled, and went down hard.  

The one consolation was that the attack probably saved him from a worse fate, as a twisting tendril of force energy from the warcaster’s staff passed harmlessly over him, quickly dissipating into nothing.  

Vhael was left alone to face the Bloodreaver charge, and he held his ground against the overwhelming odds, shifting slightly to protect the fallen Carzen.  Under the enemy warchief’s direction the enemy line snapped shut around him, the humans moving to flank him while the hobgoblins threatened him from ahead.  The goblins, rather than trying to press into the crowded space around the dragonborn, spread out around him and ran toward the others in the rear ranks.  

A pair of goblins ran up to Gral.  The dwarf wizard slammed his staff into the floor before they could reach him, unleashing a _thunderwave_ that drove both of them back.  One fell to the ground, blood oozing from his mouth, nostrils, and ears.  The other one shook his head to clear it and started forward again, more wary this time.  Gral lifted his staff again, but before he could work another spell a goblin crossbow bolt shot him in the hip.  The wizard, already seriously wounded, toppled over, grimacing in pain.  Jaron had brought a goblin down with a point-blank shot, but he had his hands full with the last one, who was pressing him hard, forcing him to fall back.  The only other person in a position to help was Gezzelhaupt, who’d gained the shelter of the exit.  He hesitated there for an instant, with escape right in front of him.  Finally he started to turn back around, but before he could intervene in the battle, he sensed movement out of the darkness of the tunnel.  The startled soldier dropped his bow and started to draw his sword, but before he could ready his weapon or shout a warning, a tall figure barreled out of the darkness and knocked him roughly aside.  

The battle degenerated into a violent, chaotic melee.  There was no way that Vhael could stand against the enemies around him, yet somehow, in those first initial instants, he did.  The dragonborn parried one attack, dodged another.  He somehow got the two human bandits tangled up together for a moment, and they were forced to disengage briefly before coming in again, swinging at his less-protected flanks with their iron bludgeons.  The hobgoblin soldiers attacked with methodical overhead strikes from their flails, but like the warlord they were wounded and tired, and Vhael was able to turn crippling blows into glancing hits that were absorbed by his coat of mail.  

But even Vhael could not stand before the hobgoblin warchief, who stepped forward, and out of reach of any counterattack, thrust his spear with a single powerful jerk of his arm.  The dragonborn tried to lift his own weapon to parry, but his effort came far too late, and the head of the weapon slammed into his shoulder, piercing steel and leather and hide and muscle, hitting him hard enough to topple him over onto his back, where he lay, stunned and bleeding.


----------



## Richard Rawen

Great images, I hope that's reinforcements or the group is likely toast...
Thanks for the story LB!


----------



## arun

it's totally going to be Mara


----------



## Lazybones

arun said:


> it's totally going to be Mara




I hate to disappoint my readers, so... 

* * * * * 

Chapter 24


When the shadow materialized out of the darkness and lunged at him, Gez thought that he was a dead man.  The soldier had felt like he’d been living on borrowed time ever since he’d survived the battle with the wyvern, which had slaughtered the other men of his squad.  He’d had an ill feeling ever since the dragonborn had led them under the ground, into the deep places where humans had no purpose intruding.  He was a man of the blade and followed orders, but he’d all but given up any hope of surviving this expedition. 

But the newcomer only pushed him roughly aside, and he caromed off the nearby wall before falling over onto his side, dazed.  Looking up, he witnessed a remarkable sequence of events. 

The figure that had knocked him down had charged into the room, moving almost in a blur.  He wore a cowled cloak, so Gez couldn’t clearly make out the identity of the stranger, but the way he moved bespoke a long familiarity with the art of combat.  He carried two swords, one long, the other short, and as Gez watched he put them to immediate use. 

The goblin that loomed over the fallen dwarf wizard shifted to face the new enemy, and as he drew within reach, the creature brought his axe down to greet him.  But the swordsman deflected the descending blade of the axe with a slight flick of his longer sword, without even breaking stride.  He kept on going, and at first Gez thought he was just going to ignore the goblin, until the smaller sword snapped back, and seemed to lightly touch the goblin on the neck.  That illusion was broken a moment later as the goblin collapsed, blood spurting in dark pulses from his severed jugular. 

Gez suddenly realized that there were more newcomers, much smaller forms that rushed past him into the room.  Halflings, four of them, most of them armed with slings that whirled in a blur around their hands.  His surprise grew even more as the cloaked swordsman glanced back at them, and Gez saw that it wasn’t a man at all, but a woman.  She shouted something that his addled brain couldn’t quite decipher, then turned back and charged into the melee still raging just a few paces away in the middle of the room.  The halflings spread out, firing fat lead pellets as they moved, while one of them rushed forward toward the fallen dwarf, unfastening a fat leather satchel that hung at his side. 

Almost as soon as the hobgoblin warchief had struck down Vhael, his men had surged forward to finish him off.  The two human brigands were first in line, eager to take advantage of a foe that was unable to strike back.  

But before they could crunch their bludgeons into the dragonborn’s exposed skull, they were confronted with another obstacle.  Carzen half-staggered, half-crawled forward, his crippled limb tilted at a devastating angle, unable to fully support his weight.  The fighter forced the first bandit back with a wild swing that nearly cost him his balance.  He was unable to use his shield for protection, as he was relying on it to keep him propped up, and so he could do little to stop the lunge of the bandit’s friend as he swept his mace at the back of Carzen’s head.  But through some stupid tweak of luck the bandit slipped on the trail of blood that Vhael had left, and the head of the weapon caught only air as he slid to the side.  

Jaron just couldn’t shake the last goblin Skullcleaver, who continued to press him.  He’d kept his bow but had drawn his sword to defend himself from the goblin, who had already scored one grazing hit with his axe, and kept up a steady progression of attacks that had forced Jaron away from the battle until the wall of the chamber loomed up behind him.  Jaron’s own attacks had all failed to so much as scratch the goblin.  He was aware that his companions were getting overwhelmed in the nearby melee, but he could not spare them so much as a glance, lest the goblin get in that solid blow that would put an end to his role in the battle, and then his life. 

He heard someone shout an order; he couldn’t make out the words, but the voice was familiar.  He started in surprise and almost died right there as his attention started to shift; the goblin, recovering from his last swing, jammed his forearm into Jaron’s face, stunning him with an unexpected strike.  The halfling nearly fell, only the hard presence of the wall behind him keeping him up.  But he couldn’t do much except stare as the goblin raised his axe in both hands, its head catching the light as it started down in a deadly arc. 

Carzen’s leg felt numb, which he knew was even more dangerous than the burning agony he’d felt from it earlier.  His strokes were slow and getting slower, and while he might have been able to handle the two bandits easily at his best, he wasn’t even in the same neighborhood of that right now.  

But the bandits were hardly pressing the attack.  They knew they had allies, and they let the two hobgoblin soldiers come in to finish this persistent foe, their shields forming a protective wall before them, their flails whistling through the air over their heads.  Carzen grimaced.  “Come on then, you gods-damned bastards,” he muttered, unwilling to waste the breath for a defiant shout.  He spared a glance down at the limp form of the dragonborn general lying in a bloody mess beside him; the thought of dying protecting Vhael grated, but it wasn’t as if he was able to run away, and if he was going to go down, it would be swinging. 

But then everything got suddenly confusing.  The hobgoblins were careful to stay out of his diminished reach, extending their long weapons fully as they attacked.  But the blows didn’t come at Carzen, instead pounding at a slim figure that suddenly appeared out of nowhere, so quickly that the fighter almost stabbed it before he realized what was happening.  The spiked heads of the flail slashed through empty air, somehow missing the darting newcomer, who bent back and then snapped forward, two slender swords flashing forward, plunging through the gap between the shields before the hobgoblins could reset them, in and then out so fast that Carzen thought he would have missed it had he blinked.  But he hadn’t missed it, and neither had the hobgoblins, who staggered back, and then, to his amazement, fell to the ground, first one, then the other.  

“Who the hell are you?” he managed to say. 

The newcomer turned and shot a grin at him.  His own jaw dropped; it was the woman bouncer from the halfling inn at the Seven Pillared Hall.  But her attention lingered only for a moment, as she lifted her swords again.  “We’re not done yet, pretty boy,” she said, narrowly deflecting the mace aimed at her jaw. 

As Carzen looked up to see the fallen hobgoblins replaced by two more foes, he felt a sudden cold twist in his gut.  

The warcaster and the warchief had rejoined the battle. 

Jaron flinched as the goblin’s axe came down toward his head.  He couldn’t react; couldn’t do anything but watch his death coming. 

But the blow went wide, far wide, and the goblin followed it, leaning over, then falling forward to land on the floor at Jaron’s feet.  He could see the hilt of the dagger stuck in his back, a small knife like the ones that he and Beetle carried, but obviously big enough to do the job in this case.  

He looked up and saw Rendil Halfmoon standing over him, in the company of another pair of halflings, a man and a woman who by their features looked to be close kin.  The siblings were already reloading their slings, keeping up a steady barrage of metal bullets into the ongoing battle not ten paces distant.  Rendil grinned and extended a hand to help Jaron up, but then shouted a warning, almost falling forward onto the ranger as an arrow sliced narrowly past his head.  

Jaron fumbled to his feet as another arrow hit the wall behind him, its head shattering on the stone.  The archers on the balcony were still a deadly danger, the hobgoblin bows much stronger than the slings used by the halflings.  Rendil shouted an order at his fellows, and the twins unleashed a rapid-fire barrage of bullets toward the balcony as he pulled Jaron forward toward the closest cover, at the spot where the wall jutted out into the room near the center of the chamber.  Glancing out of cover, Jaron saw that the halflings’ shots were forcing the hobgoblins to keep their heads down, but none of them looked to be wounded enough to scratch off the tally of foes.  He still had his own bow, but despite the threat posed by the enemy archers, Jaron’s attention was drawn to the center of the room, where Mara was engaged in a violent struggle with the hobgoblin leaders.  

Mara moved in a deadly dance, her two swords flashing in a blazing storm of steel around her body.  Her initial charge had taken out the two surviving hobgoblin soldiers, but against their leaders, it was all she could do to avoid their powerful assault.  

She’d marked the warchief as the biggest threat, but she knew all too well of the dangerous magic wielded by the warcaster.  Both attacked her, the warchief thrusting with his spear in a probing attack designed to test her defenses.  She crossed her swords and deflected the thrust upward, but nearly staggered as the warcaster struck her with a coiling tendril of magical energy that tugged at her, pulling her off balance.  She was able to plant her feet and snap free of the _force lure_ before it could draw her into the range of the caster’s deadly staff, but the distraction cost her, as the chief punched his spear into her side.  The steel scales of her armor held, but the sheer force of the impact felt like a hot knife through her body.  The hobgoblin easily avoided her counter, but she had no time to regain her equilibrium, as she came under attack from every direction.  One of the human bandits slapped her on the shoulder with his bludgeon, a love tap in comparison to the hit she’d taken from the chief, but still hard enough to leave a bruise.  The other one tried to take advantage from the opposite side, but the crippled soldier from Fallcrest kneeling behind her made a desperate lunge that clipped the bandit’s hip, forcing him back.  

A hissing sound drew her attention back for an instant, and she saw the fighter go down, an arrow jutting from his chest to match the two that protruded from his leg.  She turned back, expecting another assault to exploit the distraction, but the chieftain only looked at her, his mouth twisting into an unpleasant grin. 

“You fight well, human woman,” he said, his lips smacking.  “But now you are alone.  The Grimmerzhul would pay a fortune for you, but I think perhaps, that I will keep you for myself.”

He made a motion with his spearhead, and the warcaster moved to her left, flickering tendrils of electrical energy flaring around the head of his staff.  The bandits, in turn, spread out to come at her from behind, careful to keep their distance for now.

The chief merely lifted his spear, and stepped forward, to take what he already thought of as his.  And as Mara stood there, surrounded, her side still flaring where the chief had stabbed her, she wasn’t sure that she could stop him.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 25


With two potential allies bleeding out their lives at her feet, surrounded by deadly foes, Mara found herself in a truly grim situation.  

_When surrounded by multiple foes,_ came her uncle’s voice, rising unbidden to her thoughts, _Don’t wait for them to coordinate their attack.  Take the fight to them!_

The words were like a command, and she surged forward, toward the nearer of the two bandits.  The man, caught by surprise, tried to fall back, but Mara’s longer sword batted away his mace, while the shorter tore through the light armor he wore as though it was old cloth.  The bandit sagged like a punctured wineskin, and fell back, clutching at his side where a plume of crimson spread.

Mara pivoted and brought her sword up just in time to deflect another thrust from that deadly spear.  The spearhead jerked out and came in again, so quick that it was only instinct that brought her short sword up in time to slide it away.  The second bandit came in to deliver another blow to her flank while she was thus engaged, but even as she tensed to absorb the hit, the man jerked aside, stumbling over the limp form of the dragonborn warlord, an arrow protruding from his back.  He too tried to win free, but even as he untangled his feet from Vhael’s sprawled limbs, another arrow buried itself to the fletchings in his neck, and he collapsed.  

The warchief came on in earnest, now, his spearhead dancing a dance as beautiful and deadly as the twin arcs of Mara’s swords.  He was incredibly strong, and precise, and she took another hit as she knocked the spear aside again; as the warchief drew his weapon back he twisted it and slide the blade up along the underside of her arm, tearing the leather there and snapping one of the straps holding her greave in place.  She felt a hot lancing stab of pain as the steel edge sliced into muscle, but thankfully it hadn’t cut deep enough to cripple the limb.  The hobgoblin, however, smiled.  

“You will be a great pleasure to break,” he said, teasing her with another thrust that she knocked aside with her smaller sword.  As of yet, she hadn’t been able to so much as scratch him in return.  

But she was aware that there was a larger battle raging around her.  The Halfmoons, while not fighters, were no pushovers, not in a place like the Labyrinth, where even running an inn was not without its dangers.  Her new companions were all Rendil’s cousins;  Dwallin with his herbs and poultices, the twins Tarra and Torrin, all of them knew their business.  They had a score to settle with the Bloodreavers, and had agreed to sneak out here with her to even the tally.  They knew how to use those slings that they carried, so easily underestimated, and she had spent enough time with the halflings to know that even a small lead pellet could take down a much bigger opponent.  She’d spotted Jaron when she had first rushed into the room, and while there was no sign of Beetle, she had no doubt that he was creeping around somewhere, likely getting into position for a devastating sneak attack.  

The Halfmoons were keeping the enemy archers busy, and had helped her whittle down the odds against her.  Even as she battled the hobgoblin chief she sensed the warcaster shift his attention away for a moment, snarling as he plucked an arrow from his sleeve.  

“Just you and me,” she said under her breath, dancing the dance with the hobgoblin chief.  Now it was almost like the sparring matches she had fought with her uncle, often for hours, until both of them could barely lift a wooden sparring sword.  He’d tested her on different weapons, clubs big and small, nasty spinning poleaxes, chains and knives.  

And spears. 

The hobgoblin did not let up, and Mara’s swords flashed up, down, left, right, and everywhere in between, keeping that gleaming tip, already slick with her blood, from touching her.  She tried to counterattack, if nothing else to keep the hobgoblin on his guard, but each time she almost got within his reach, the spearhead danced back, forcing her back on the defensive.  

Everything around her faded into the background, although a part of her remained attuned to the rest of the battle, in case another threat emerged from around the edges.  But that was distant, vague; within that bubble that surrounded her and the chief, everything was sharp, fast, alive.  She felt her swords like they were extensions of her arms; even the pain that throbbed in her side and arm were something she was aware of only insofar as it slowed her responses.  For the moment, she was a living weapon, moving faster than she ever had, even during those practice sessions, when wooden swords had clacked and spun in a blur. 

The hobgoblin was her equal, maybe even her better.  He was strong, and fast, and well-protected with armor even heavier than the custom suit of metal scales that she wore.  The spearhead moved as if it was alive, darting in and out like the tongue of a serpent.  She parried it, deflected it, even felt its touch sliding along her armor when she couldn’t fully evade its touch.  The hobgoblin kept attacking, giving her no opening to do anything but defend.  She could have fallen back, used space to allow her to reset her stance and adjust the dynamic, but with the dead and dying scattered upon the floor all around her, she knew that a single false step would mean a quick end. 

Then, suddenly, everything seemed to slow around her, and in that heightened state of perception that often came to her in moments of intense effort, she saw the hobgoblin shift his hands slightly on the haft of his spear, and _knew_ what was coming.  She almost saw her uncle’s features superimposed on the hobgoblin’s, as he feinted an attack and then drove in a thrust straight for the center of her torso, a blow too strong to parry or deflect.  

But she was already moving, stepping _into_ the attack, pivoting her body.  She was barely aware of a faint gust trickling at her chin as the spearhead shot past her, the steel edge scraping on the scales protecting her chest.  And then it was behind her, and she lunged, thrusting her short sword straight forward at the hobgoblin’s heart.  

The impact kicked up her arm hard enough to shake her teeth.  The blow dented the chief’s breastplate, but failed to penetrate.  She started to follow up with her longer blade, sweeping it up in an arc that would cut into the hobgoblin’s leading arm, hopefully with enough strength to force him to drop the spear. 

But the blow never landed.  Instead of trying to recover his weapon, the hobgoblin slammed down the haft with one hand, spinning the spear with the other.  It was just so damned _fast_… Mara abandoned her attack and tried to dodge, but the butt end of the spear caught her on the side of her head, clipping her helmet just below her left ear.  The helm kept her skull from cracking, but she still found herself falling, landing awkwardly on her side, her short sword clattering out of her grip as she fell on that arm.  She managed to look up in time to see the hobgoblin spin the spear back into a ready grip, holding it there above his head for just an instant before he stabbed the deadly head back down to finish her.


----------



## Richard Rawen

With all these regular cliff-hangers, Friday may be too much for me!


----------



## Lazybones

I've been incapacitated this week with a bout of stomach flu (nasty business), so I'm a bit behind in my postings. 

* * * * * 

Chapter 26

Mara had no time to think, only to act. 

She fell forward, rolling over onto her chest, then onto her back.  Her foot brushed something heavy and she kicked off, coming into a spin even as the ground vibrated with the clang of steel on stone, so loud that it seemed like it must have been scant inches from her ears.  As she pivoted, she lashed out with her longsword.  Again, it was instinct rather than design that guided the blade, and she felt the steel bite on something, heard a grunt of pain, followed by a loud thud and a clatter of metal that she recognized as an armored body striking the floor.

She didn’t stop to see what had happened.  She completed her spin and kept going, using her momentum to come up awkwardly to a crouch.  She didn’t bother looking for her short sword, raising her remaining weapon in a guard position.  

The hobgoblin was already regaining his feet as well.  _He’s faster than me_, she thought, parrying a spear thrust that she realized was a probe rather than a serious attack.  She could see the deep dent in the poleyn of iron plate protecting his right knee, and realized she’d gotten in a lucky hit.  He seemed to favor the leg a bit, but the wound certainly didn’t look like it was enough to stop him.  

The room had grown quiet around them.  Mara paused, breathing heavily; opposite her, the hobgoblin chief did the same.  Someone groaned beneath her; Mara glanced down to see the soldier from Fallcrest lying there, half-conscious.  At least he was alive; the same could not be said for most of those scattered across the room.  Goblins, hobgoblins, and humans formed uneven mounds where they had fallen.  Blood formed trails across the floor, gathering in pools where the stone dipped.  The stink was ferocious.  

She saw the warcaster, standing with his back toward her.  As she watched, he slowly fell over, like a tree being toppled by a lumberjack.  When he landed, his arms splayed out from his sides, Mara could see several arrows jutting from his body, including one that jutted from his left eye, trailing a line of blood down his face like a stream of tears.  Behind him stood the halflings.  All of them bore wounds, and Tarra was supporting Torrin, who clutched a right arm that looked broken, but otherwise all four were intact.  

She glanced right.  The balcony was silent.  She could see the divots in the wall behind them where sling bullets had missed; she could only guess at what the ones that had hit had done to hobgoblin bodies.  One of the archers was slumped over the lip of the ledge, his face frozen into a death mask.  Literally; she could see the rime of frost even from here. 

She glanced left.  Gral was back on his feet, although he leaned heavily on his staff.  There was another human soldier behind him, one of the ones she remembered from the Halfmoon Inn, holding a bow.  Dwellin was already running to help Torrin.  As Tarra handed her brother off to the healer, she took up her sling again and plopped another bullet into its pouch, stepping forward to join Jaron and Rendil. 

“Looks like you’re the one who’s alone, now,” Mara said.  

The warchief’s response was a snarl.  He lunged at Mara, only fractionally slower than he had been before.  She met the attack and deflected it, although once again the spearhead cut her, this time edging her right arm above the greave, almost at her shoulder, clipping a scale hard enough to cut the flesh beneath.  It hurt, but she was feeling the _boundless endurance_ of a trained fighter, minor wounds ignored until the heat of battle was concluded.  She twisted and prepared her counterattack, but the hobgoblin was already disengaging, his goal obvious as he started toward the exit.  

Arrows and bullets knifed through the air, but most of them bounced off the hobgoblin’s heavy armor.  Gral stood in the hobgoblin’s path, the battered dwarf looking almost insignificant against the sheer size and strength of the hobgoblin veteran.  But the dwarf held his ground, even when the hobgoblin lowered his spear and surged ahead.  

He didn’t get more than a few steps, for as his charge took him past the fallen Carzen Zelos, the semiconscious fighter managed to stick out his foot enough to catch the warchief’s heel, ruining his balance, and sending him toppling forward onto the floor.  

The hobgoblin still refused to give up.  He was able to get his feet under him even as more missiles lanced into him, including a bullet that caromed hard off his left arm just above the elbow, and an arrow that stabbed through his right boot into the flesh of his leg.  He almost made it back to standing, but even as he started to turn Mara hit him from behind.  Her sword clanged hard into his neck at the base of his skull.  The blow failed to penetrate through the coif of heavy chain links he wore under his helm, but the impact was still enough to deliver mortal damage.  Somehow, even as his body began to fail, the hobgoblin stayed on his feet; he took one step forward, then another, as his limbs started to stiffen and spasm.  His spear fell from his grasp, and clattered on the floor.  

It was Gral who finished it, lifting his staff with obvious effort, driving the tip into the center of the hobgoblin’s breastplate.  The _thunderwave_ tore through his body like a tsunami striking a seaside village, the sound of it echoing off the chamber walls long after the clatter of the hobgoblin hitting the floor had faded.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 27


Even before the last enemy had fallen, the companions from Fallcrest and their new allies were working to sort the dying from the dead.  

The gods of the world above must have been watching the confrontation, for none of the adventurers were among the latter.  Carzen and Vhael were dragged back from the brink by the combined efforts of the halfling herbalist, Dwallin, and the healing elixir carried by Gral.  Despite the grievous wound he himself bore, the dwarf wizard split the last few swallows of that precious draught on the two fallen warriors, bringing them back to consciousness.  But all of them, save the miraculously fortunate Gezzelhaupt, bore serious wounds. 

As Gral helped Vhael back to his feet, Mara turned from checking the hobgoblin fallen, and started toward him.  Some invisible sense warned the dragonborn, and he tried with partial success to conceal the incredible pain of the wounds he bore as he turned to face her.  The gazes of the pair met, and suddenly the room was filled with an electric tension only slightly less intense than the violence that had been wrought here just moments before.  

Jaron had barely paused to accept a helping hand from Rendil, who tied a cloth around the bloody wound in the ranger’s shoulder, before he started toward the ruined doors on the far side of the room.  “We have to find Beetle,” he said.  The halfling hardly looked capable of another fight, but even in his diminutive stride there was something that would accept no hindrance to his march.  Carzen started to say something, but before he could speak, a shadowy form materialized in the doorway.  

“Beetle?” Jaron asked, but instinct had already given him an answer, and he reached for the nearly-empty quiver at his hip, refusing to retreat as he faced this new threat. 

The shadowy figure split into two, and as they emerged into the chamber, the companions could see that they were duergar, members of that evil, corrupted race of dwarves that thrived in the deep places far from the light of the sun.  The dark dwarves were clad in plain but functional suits of leather and blackened metal, their spiny beards jutting from their faces like wire brushes.  One of them had a large bulge under his cloak, but it was difficult to see if it was a weapon, some bit of stolen loot, or just a misshapen feature of his body.  

The halflings quickly shifted to face the new danger, even Torrin, who held a dagger in his good hand.  Vhael recovered his sword and moved forward to join Jaron.  Belatedly, Mara and Carzen followed.  

Having fitted an arrow to the string of his bow, Jaron lifted the weapon to a ready position, half-drawing the fletchings to his cheek.  But the larger of the two duergar merely opened his cloak, and revealed the object he was carrying.  

It was Beetle, dangling limp and bloody, the duergar’s hand wrapped around his neck like an iron manacle.  He’d been hastily but thoroughly bound with segments of rope at wrists and ankles, and seemed especially tiny against the armored bulk of the dwarf.  

“Let him go!” Jaron hissed.  He almost charged forward, but Carzen was able to grab onto his shoulder, and hold him back.  The duergar merely shifted slightly, enough for them all to clearly see the curving knife he held in his other hand. 

“Do you speak the Common language?” Vhael asked.  “Do you understand me?”

“We understand,” the duergar holding Beetle said.  “Your fight was with these,” he added, indicating the fallen Bloodreavers with a stab of his knife.  “You want your little friend here to live, you’ll just let us be on our way.”

“They’re Grimmerzhuls,” Rendil said quietly, from where he and the other halflings were standing, a short distance back.  “Slave traders.”

The duergar warrior hadn’t missed the presence of the halfling or his companions.  “Didn’t know that the Halfmoons was taking sides,” he said.  “Could be trouble, even in the Hall.  Labyrinth’s a dangerous place to be, without friends.”

“You are not in a position to be making threats,” Vhael said.  “We are here for the prisoners taken from Fairhaven.”

The two duergar shared a quick look.  The one holding Beetle made a slight motion with his knife, and Jaron tensed, but he only wiped the blade on the lapel of his cloak.  The other one, after a moment’s hesitation, said, “They ain’ here, they been sold.  It’s not our concern; you’ll have to take it up with Kedhira in the Hall.”

Vhael’s draconic features betrayed nothing of his reaction to that news.  “Leave our companion, and if he lives, I give you my word that we will not obstruct your escape.  But give your masters a message—”

“We’re not interested in your ‘message’, General,” the duergar holding Beetle said.  “Yes, we know who you are.  This world down here, this isn’t yours.  It’s _ours_.  I’d tread lightly, all of you, lest the Grimmerzhul be forced to inflict a painful lesson.”

“Sometimes those lessons can inflict pain on the teacher as well,” Carzen said, although something of the menace in the statement was undermined by the way that he kept tottering on his damaged leg, looking like he could collapse again at any second.  

The duergar came forward, alert to any attempt at trickery.  But at Vhael’s gesture the companions moved back enough for the dark dwarves to make their way around them, toward the exit.  The halflings had their weapons loaded and ready, although the Halfmoons kept their slings at their sides, not quite directed at the Grimmerzhuls but threatening nevertheless.  Gez, who’d been lingering near the exit, moved aside as the duergar approached, although he too had an arrow ready.  

The duergar turned at the mouth of the exit passageway.  The bigger of the two fixed them all with a hard look, then with a flick of his wrist he dropped Beetle onto the floor at his feet.  Then the two turned and vanished into the darkness of the tunnel, so fast that a blink of the eyes would have missed it. 

Jaron was at his cousin’s body in an second, followed only a beat later by Dwallin Halfmoon.  The others came over as quickly as they could manage.  “Is he…” Carzen began, craning his neck over the small forms of Mara and Gral before him. 

“He lives,” Dwallin reported, not looking up from his bandages and medicines as he worked.  “But he’s in bad shape, real bad.  He will survive, I think, but we will need to carry him from this place, back to the Hall.”  

With that resolved, Vhael turned back toward Mara.  A space opened between them, as the unspoken tension there reasserted itself, but this time Carzen stepped—or more precisely, limped—between them. 

“I don’t know where you learned to fight, girl, but I for one am damned glad that you came.”

“I’m not a ‘girl,’ and I didn’t come here for you.”  Her eyes didn’t shift from Vhael for even a heartbeat.  “I came here because I owed Jaron and Beetle a debt, and now I’ve paid it.”  She turned and strode away, pausing to recover her shorter sword where it had fallen during the battle, before bending to check again some of the hobgoblin bodies.   

“What of you?” Vhael said to Rendil.  “It sounds as though you may have complicated your position in the Hall by helping us.”

“Yeah, well, we had a debt of our own with the Bloodreavers that needed settling,” the halfling said.  “If it’s okay with you, I’d suggest we not linger her any longer than necessary.  We’ll help you scout out the place, see if there are any prisoners in there, but I’d be surprised if the Grimmerzhuls left anyone behind.  It had best be quick, though.”

Vhael nodded.  “Gral, Gezzelhaupt, go with the halflings.  We’ll stand guard here at the entrance.  Disengage and signal if you encounter any additional resistance inside.”

The wizard nodded, and moved off to join the Halfmoons, Gez in tow.  Carzen walked over to where Mara was looting the hobgoblin chieftain, but she ignored him, moving over to the fallen warcaster.  Carzen grimaced, but didn’t press the matter, not with blood oozing from plenty of rents in his battered hide.  He started to unbuckle one of the straps of his armor, but after considering a moment, decided against it.  The suit of metal scales that wrapped around his body might be the only thing keeping him together, he mused grimly.  Thankfully for him, the hobgoblin arrow that had caught him square on the chest hadn’t fully penetrated, or it would have been his burial wrap as well. 

Jaron and Dwallin had moved Beetle off to the side away from the chamber entry, and while the healer folded an extra shirt to cushion his head, Jaron drew his cloak over the battered halfling’s body.  Beetle let out a tiny moan but didn’t regain consciousness. 

Jaron stood, and turned back toward Vhael.  “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.  We’ll get you back to the Hall, but then we’re done with each other.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’ve completed half of my assigned task, the destruction of the slaver gang that’s been terrorizing the Nentir Vale.  I will complete the second, the recovery of the prisoners from your village.  However, I made it clear that I will not tolerate challenges to my authority that threaten the safety of both the team and our mission.  Your cousin did that, with his precipitous action earlier.”

“He didn’t mean…”

Vhael silenced him with a hard look.  “I have nothing personal against either yourself or your cousin.  I had my concerns about your status as civilians on this mission from the start.  It is clear that you can take care of yourselves.  But it is equally clear that the two of you lack the emotional distance and personal discipline to handle this mission.”

“Damn it, those are my people…”

“Indeed.  And what would have happened to them, had your cousin’s action resulted in the death of our entire squad?  Which would have certainly happened, had it not been for the unexpected aid that saved us.  Can you promise that he would not do something similar again, given the opportunity?”

Jaron’s face was uncharacteristically angry, but he had nothing to say; Vhael’s words had too strongly echoed his own private thoughts of late.  “I swore to find them.”

“As did I.  And I shall keep that promise.  When we have found your people, we will escort them, and you, back to Fallcrest.”

“You cannot stop me from seeking them out on my own.”

“No.  But I can stop you and your cousin from accompanying us.  And if you are considering shadowing our group, I strongly encourage you not to test my resolve in this matter.”  Something flashed in his draconic eyes, and for a moment Jaron felt something cold clench in his gut.  In that instant, he understood how the dragonborn warlord had gained something of his reputation.  

Vhael broke the contact, and moved to a warding position flanking the entry corridor.  He did not look back, drawing out a rag from his kit, which he used to start wiping the blood and gore clean of his huge sword.  Quiet returned, broken only by the faint moans that rose from the unconscious figure of Beetle, as the survivors of the battle waited in silent company for the others to finish their search of the Bloodreaver lair.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 28


The mood in the Halfmoon Inn was muted, tense, anticipatory.  It was an echo of the feeling that suffused the entire Seven-Pillared Hall of late. 

Word had spread quickly of what had transpired at the Chamber of Eyes, and many of the Halfmoons’ regular patrons had quietly departed, avoiding the place for now until the potential for trouble that followed the raid sorted itself out.  Erra Halfmoon had excoriated her nephew and his cousins for their participation in the attack on the Bloodreavers, although neither she nor anyone else in the Hall particularly mourned their passing.  She had gone to visit the Grimmerzhul outpost personally—and alone—in the immediate aftermath of the attack, and when no retaliation materialized, the Hall seemed to let out a collective breath of relief.  The Mages remained as distant and aloof as ever, and everyone continued with the more present business of eking out a life in the dangerous environment of the Labyrinth. 

But there was still worry in the air at the Halfmoon Inn. 

Jaron parted the curtains of their private booth, took a long look out into the common room, then pulled them shut again.  Rendil and the other veterans of the raid on the Bloodreavers were nowhere to be seen; Erra was keeping them on a tight leash, and out of public sight for now.  He couldn’t blame her, but it would have been nice to see at least a relatively friendly face.  He couldn’t help but fidget, and for about the tenth time that morning, mentally berated K’rol Vhael. 

But his eyes shifted inevitably to Beetle, and his hostility faded. 

His cousin looked… deflated.  He’d spent the last two days recovering from his ordeal in the Chamber of Eyes, and while his wounds had healed, the experience had taken something from him.  Jaron felt a stab of guilt at the recurring thought that things were easier now that Beetle was more tractable; he’d carefully checked his cousin’s pockets each night, but it seemed that Beetle couldn’t even work up the energy to steal.  He barely seemed to notice it when Jaron slid over the platter containing the last of their lunch, chunks of sliced mushrooms, dark bread, and meat of some undetermined origin. 

“You need to eat more,” Jaron said.  “Get your strength back.”  Beetle took a piece of bread, but he merely held it in his hand.  Jaron sighed. 

He tensed as he sensed someone approaching the booth from outside.  But it was only Mara, who stepped in and closed the drapes behind her.  Jaron jumped up, and couldn’t help himself despite the woman fighter’s cautioning hand.  

“What did you find out?”

“Keep your voice down,” Mara said, glancing back at the curtain.  Jaron had already learned that the key power groups in the Hall actively spied upon each other, up to and including the Mages of Saruun.  They had some privacy here, but the curtain was a scant reassurance.  They could have met up in their room, but Jaron had started to feel trapped there, despite the reassurance of the thick stone walls.  

Once Jaron had settled down, and Mara had seated herself on the human-sized bench opposite the booth, the fighter leaned in close.  “You were right, the dragonborn met with the Grimmerzhuls this morning.”

“Damn it.  I wish we could have gotten in there.”

Mara shook her head.  “The place is a fortress, and the duergar are more alert than ever, now.  There’s no way of finding out what they talked about, but at least there wasn’t blood spilled.  I tried to track down one of the men from Fallcrest, but they are staying someplace outside the Hall, and the dragonborn’s too clever to be easily followed.  I heard that the dwarf, his wizard, talked to a few people as well, and made a brief visit to the customhouse to talk to the Ordinator as well.”

“I might have a better chance of scouting out where they’re hiding.”

“I wouldn’t recommend it.  You don’t know the Hall.  And I bet that the Grimmerzhuls would love to get their hands on you.”

“What about you?”

“I can take care of myself.”

Jaron started to protest, _and I can’t?_ but he looked over at Beetle again, and felt that cold fist clench again in his gut. 

Mara put a hand on his.  “Don’t worry.  I’ve got another contact I can talk to.  Ulthand, he’s a dwarf that runs the Deepgem Company, he usually keeps his ear to the stone, as it were.  I did him a favor when I first arrived here, and he might have heard something.  I’m going to meet with him later today, see what I can find out.”

“And if we learn where the captives were sold?”

Mara didn’t let go of his hand, but her jaw tightened.  “I’m sorry, Jaron.  I’ve got responsibilities here, and the Halfmoons need more more now than ever.”  Jaron didn’t need to see the subtle way her eyes shifted toward Beetle to hear the unspoken addition, _and maybe the dragonborn was right_.  “They’re my people,” Jaron said, simple determination overriding everything else in his voice. 

Mara nodded.  “Let me see what I can find out.”


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 29


Carzen Zelos was feeling jumpy. 

The dragonborn warlord, he was becoming convinced, was insane.  But that was the least of their problems, as far as he was concerned.  

He hadn’t signed up for this.  They’d taken out the slavers, true, though they’d come damned close to buying it at the end there.  His leg twinged at the thought, and while the limb had healed fully, he still started to limp sometimes when he put his weight on it, remembering the intensity of the pain.  He’d saved the head of the bolt that had punched through his thigh, for some reason; it was in his pouch, wrapped in a swath of cloth. 

He was tired of this, all the fighting and blood.  At first it had been his father’s stern gaze and hard words imagined in the back of his mind that had kept him here, but somehow that had started to fade in the days since they’d first ventured into the Labyrinth.  Now he wasn’t quite sure why he was staying around.  The scaly might have some grand notion of the noble mission or somesuch, but Carzen wasn’t one for sacrifice in the name of the cause.  Of course, getting out of here was its own problem, as all these underground tunnels and chambers had turned his usually decent sense of direction inside out.  He supposed that he could hunt down Jaron and get his help finding the exit, but from what the halfling had said back in the Chamber of Eyes, he wasn’t interested in leaving any time soon either. 

He glanced over at Gez, just visible in the shadows on the edge of the glow from the second lamp.  The other soldier didn’t say much; he seemed resigned to whatever fate awaited them down here.  Of course, he hadn’t been stuck full of arrows like Carzen had.  

So why was he staying?

He leaned forward over the ledge, and spat, the glob of spittle glimmering in the light for an instant before it vanished into the darkness below.  At least Vhael had picked out a defensible hidey-hole before he’d up and disappeared.  He would have much preferred to stay in the comfort of the Hall—odd, to now consider that “comfortable”—but at least here nobody was trying to kill him.  Well, almost nobody; there had been a skirmish with a weird dog-thing with long tentacles jutting from its shoulders that had seemed to shift and twist strangely as it moved, but they’d driven it off with missiles before it could maneuver up the thin ledge that led up to their hideout.  Carzen was glad for that; he’d thrown a javelin that had hit it (he’d thought) straight between the eyes, but somehow the damned thing had shifted slightly at the last minute, and his spear had gone straight past it.  

A slight droning noise drew his attention back toward the cave.  Gez had heard it too, he saw, and the soldier fidgeted uncomfortably before turning back out toward the cavern below the ledge.  Carzen didn’t blame him.  Surina gave him the creeps as well.  It wasn’t just having another dragonborn in the group—though he didn’t like that either—but she seemed even stranger than Vhael, if such a thing was possible.  He still wasn’t quite clear where Vhael had dug her up, only that she’d appeared as they were leaving the Hall again, heading toward this new temporary lair.  She was a warlock, and Carzen had to admit that her magic had really been the reason that odd dog-creature had been driven off yesterday.  Vhael seemed to know her, and while he hadn’t bothered to explain the reason for her presence here to a mere soldier like Carzen, he could guess.  Whatever was coming, they would need more firepower to deal with it. 

She hadn’t spoken much to them, or to Vhael and Gral, for that matter, on the rare occasions that they were around.  Instead she spent most of her time sleeping, or doing what she was doing now, muttering quiet chants to her god, Erathis.  Carzen had met servants of the Civilized God in Fallcrest, but he’d never met a priest who’d had his mark drawn into their skin in a hundred places, or whose eyes shone with an undisguised light of fanaticism whenever they spoke his name.  

There was something else, too, a weird feeling he couldn’t quite place.  He sometimes felt she was watching him, even when she lay asleep in her bedroll.  It made his skin crawl.  

A hiss from Gez drew his attention back.  He’d let his mind wander again, and he cursed himself quietly as he took up his javelin and crawled forward to where he could get a clear shot at the path leading up the ledge.  But this time there was no monster creeping about, only a soft glow that revealed the approaching forms of Vhael and Gral.  

“Took you long enough,” Carzen muttered to himself, acknowledging Vhael’s signal with a curt wave of his hand.  The pair made their way up the treacherous path.  Carzen and Gez were there to meet them, and Surina appeared suddenly as she often did, materializing silently out of the darkness behind them.  Carzen felt a tingle at the base of his neck, and forced himself to ignore it.  Gral was carrying several bulging satchels, he saw.  “More supplies?” he asked. 

“We’re moving out,” Vhael said.  “Get your things together.”

The dragonborn started to move into the cave, but Carzen stepped in front of him.  “I don’t suppose you’d deign to share the plan with us underlings?”

Vhael’s gaze fixed him for a long few seconds.  “The prisoners have been taken to a place known as the Well of Demons.  They are held by a tribe of demon-worshipping gnolls, who are planning to sacrifice them in a few days.  I’ve arranged for a guide to meet us on the far side of the Hall, near the Road of Lanterns.  He will show us the way.  Now, if you don’t mind, I have some preparations to make.  We depart in ten minutes.”

“Praise be to Erathis,” Surina said, her long tongue sliding along her teeth in a way that made Carzen’s skin crawl.  She followed Vhael into the chamber behind the ledge like a puppy.  

“Don’t worry, lad,” Gral said.  “He knows what he’s doing.”  The wizard dropped one of his bags at Carzen’s feet, then followed after his master.

“Oh, now I feel better,” Carzen said.  He looked at Gez, who stood there like a statue.  His gaze traveled to the path down the ledge, lingered there.  Finally, with a sign, he turned and snatched up the heavy pack, and headed back to where he’d left his bedroll and other gear.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 30


“I’m sorry, lass, but the stones ha’ been silent o’ late, an’ the chatter one usually hears in the tunnels been tapered off quite a bit as well.”

“Nobody wants to run afoul of the Grimmerzhul, I imagine.”

“Aye, damned dark bastards an’ their foul habits.  Part o’ me wishes I were back in me adventurin’ days.  Easier when you run into a problem in a dark dungeon corridor, when the biggest question be whether to use the hammer, or th’ axe.”

Mara snorted.  “Sometimes the easiest solutions are best, Uthand.  Any word on your boar?”

“Nae, but I thank ye for askin’.  It’s gnolls, I tell ye… I can feel the smile o’ them bastards from a league off.”

“If they’re attacking the mining teams, might be the mages can do something about it.  The flow of trade affects the entire population of the Hall.”

The aged dwarf pursed his lips, but Mara knew that he’d rather cut off a finger but spit on the floor of his own business.  His displeasure showed clearly, however.  “Them mages have their own agenda.  Haven’t seen much of them of late.  Somethin’s goin’ on with them, I reckon.”

Mara looked up; that was potentially important news for the entire Hall, but she hadn’t overheard any talk of this at the inn.  “Oh?  You heard something?”

“Just a feelin’.  Ye find any more o’ them bloodstones, bring ‘em by.  I’ll give ye a good price… ‘specially if they’re taken off the stinkin’ corpses o’ the likes o’ them Bloodreavers.”

Mara managed a smile.  The gems had been her share of the loot taken from the Chamber of Eyes, and had filled her purse quite satisfactorily.  Gold tended not to go as fall in the Hall as it did in the towns on the surface, however.  “If I ‘find’ any more, you’ll be the first to know.  Thanks, Ulthand.”

“Aye, lass.  I’ll tell me boys to keep their ears to the stone, an’ I’ll let ye know in a beat if we hear anythin’.”

Mara nodded, and left the dwarven merchant to his trade.  Ulthand Deepgem kept well-informed about events in the Seven-Pillared Hall, and if he didn’t have any information about the operations of the Grimmerzhul, then it was unlikely that she’d hear anything from her other sources in the Hall.  The dwarf was a former adventurer and a priest of the dwarf god Moradin, and he hated the duergar with a passion.  

She headed to the right around the far edge of the Hall, giving the customs station a wide berth.  Brugg would likely be on duty now, and she didn’t want to risk a confrontation, even if a Mage was there to keep order.  She’d avoiding clashing with the ogre since their return to the Hall, but knew that the big enforcer liked to keep a grudge.  

She’d made it barely halfway to the nearer of the two bridges that crossed the stream bisecting the Hall before she realized she was being followed.  

Mara had spent enough time in the Hall to know to trust her instincts.  She shifted her course slightly, just enough to take her past one of the large stone buildings that served as headquarters for the more significant mercantile concerns active in the Hall.  She’d never met the owner of this particular establishment, a tiefling, she thought she remembered, but she silently thanked his appreciation for decoration as she moved amongst the pillars that supported the broadly overhanging roof of the structure.  Accelerating once she was out of easy view of anyone behind her, she slipped ahead and ducked into an empty recessed doorway on the back side of the place, a service entrance or somesuch with a narrow door built of iron that looked thick enough to withstand a ram.  The weak phosphorescent lighting that illuminated the Hall barely penetrated enough here to see her hand in front of her face, but her other senses had sharpened in the eternal twilight of this place, and she settled down to wait. 

She didn’t need to wait long; she heard the quiet patter of footsteps just seconds after she stepped into hiding.  Drawing out her shorter sword, she waited until the pursuer was right on top of her before she sprang out of concealment, her sword coming up into a ready position. 

Her stalker was caught by complete surprise, and let out a panicked squeak.  He tried to run, but Mara quickly moved to block him, her sword stabbing into the wall to cut off his avenue of retreat.  

“Well now, Charrak.  What’s with the sneaking around after me?”  

Charrak was a kobold, a runt even by the standards of his kind, clad in rags that seemed to cling to his scant frame more out of habit than through any quality of the fabric.  His beady eyes darted back and forth, looking for a non-existent route of escape, but he mastered himself quickly, shrinking against the wall at his back to make him seem even more non-threatening.  He didn’t have any obvious weapons on him, but Mara wasn’t stupid enough to assume that meant he was unarmed. 

“No stabby!  Me have good knowings for you, Mara human.  Know you interest, slave trade in Hall.”

Mara frowned.  Charrak was a wretch, a beggar, and a sneak, but the kobold also seemed to have an uncanny ear for the goings-on in the Hall.  But if he had heard about her interest in the Grimmerzhul, it was possible that others knew as well, and that could be dangerous.  

“So what?” she asked.  “Everyone who’s smart keeps ahead of events, if they want to stay alive in the Hall.”  She wondered if he knew about the events in the Chamber of Eyes, then inwardly grimaced.  Everyone in the Hall knew by now, in all likelihood. 

Charrak nodded in agreement.  “Yes, yes!  But me just get special knowings, and me come to you, know good friend, many helps in past.”  He squirmed just a bit, keeping away from the razor-sharp blade that was poised inches from his scaled throat.  

Mara grunted.  “I don’t have time for this.  Spill it, Charrak, and it better not be a waste of my time.”  Without shifting the blade from the wall, Mara spun it in her hand, stirring a slight breeze that she knew that the kobold would be able to feel.  

“No waste!  Good knowings, best knowings!  Share free to friend!”  Mara knew that “free” wasn’t in the kobold’s generosity, but she let him finish.  “Have friend, new to Hall.  Goblin, escape prisoner from dark dwarf slavers.”

“Goblins and kobolds aren’t usually boon companions,” Mara said.  

“In Hall, little guy need stick together.  Friend hide, not want be slave again, ha, ha.  He leave soon, but need stake, supply for trip out to surface world.  Me say, halflings have food, good stuff for travel.  Need little gold, to buy.  Friend have nothing, but knowings, they worth too.  Maybe other friend talk to goblin, share knowings, that help.”

She noticed he’d dropped the “free” part, but admitted that intelligence from someone with inside knowledge of the Grimmerzhul operation might be useful.  But she knew better than to let Charrak know that.  “I’ve got to start work in a little while, and you know that Erra doesn’t tolerate tardiness, Charrak.”

“Goblin not far!  Hide in old empty place next mine.  Roof bad, so people no come.”

“Wonderful,” Mara muttered.  With her luck, the place would collapse on her.  But she allowed Charrak to lead her to his lair.  

The kobold resided in one of the precarious cliffside houses perched upon the edges of the Hall.  Built over centuries, some of these hideyholes were little more than crevices in the rock, while others were cavernous multilevel lairs that penetrated dozens of feet into the cliffs, complete with shuttered windows, secure doors, and wooden furnishings smuggled in from the world above.  

Charrak’s place was very much one of the former.  She could detect the stink even before she reached the narrow, low doorway, covered only by a tatter of curtain. 

She hadn’t sheathed her sword, and reminded Charrak of it before she let him go inside.  “If you wasted my time…”

“No waste!  He inside back.  No ever go out, bad idea, he very nervous.”  Still chittering, the kobold thrust the curtain aside and went inside.  

“Yeah,” Mara said, ducking to follow him. 

She was alert, and realized almost instantly that it was a trap.  But by then, it was too late.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 31


Jaron’s first thought when he stepped back into the tiny room that he and his cousin shared at the Halfmoon Inn was that the place was starting to feel like a prison cell.  That was followed by a sudden surge of frustrated anger, and when he threw his bow down onto his bed, still as disheveled as when he’d left the room that “morning,” it just seemed to fit when it clattered off the headboard  and fell into the narrow space between the wall and the bed.  

It actually drew Beetle’s attention, and his cousin shifted from where he’d been lying facing the opposite wall to look at him.  Beetle may as well have not moved since he had left, either. 

“No one’s seen her,” he said.  “Erra’s starting to get worried, and she’s got some of her family asking around, but it’s like she vanished into thin air.”

Beetle sat up, and ran dirty fingers through his wild shock of hair. 

“Dragon-man?  Ice dwarf?  Gezzle?”

“No, they’re gone too, all of them.  I heard a few people say that they had holed up in the Labyrinth not far from the northeast end of the Hall, and I even took a few quick looks out there, but nothing.  Nobody sees anything, nobody says anything, nobody knows anything in this place.  Blast it all!” 

“Friends in trouble.  Need help.”

Jaron sighed.  “I agree with you, cos, but I’m not quite sure how we’re supposed to do that.  This isn’t our place, and I feel as lost here as I ever have before.”  

The anger seemed to drain out of him, and he sat down on his bed facing Beetle.  The other halfling seemed more engaged than he had in quite some time, tilting his head and he tried to get a look at his cousin’s eyes.  

“Find Mara?”

Jaron sighed again.  “I wish I knew how.  We don’t even know who took her.”

“Your friend is being held by the Grimmerzhul in the Horned Hold.”

Jaron and Beetle both jumped; neither of them had heard the newcomer, who stood in the open doorway of their room.  Jaron had sworn he’d closed and latched the door behind him, but Rendil was standing there, watching them, a slightly odd look on his face that seemed out place against his typical light-hearted expression. 

“What?  The Horned Hold?” Jaron said, landing on his feet next to the bed.  “What… who…”  Jaron trailed off, confused, but he felt a strong hand on his shoulder.  He looked up to see his cousin standing there at his side.  As they eyes met, Beetle’s mouth spread into a wide grin. 

When Jaron looked back at Rendil, his indecision was gone. 

“Tell us where it is.”


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 32


Carzen quite nearly took a foot of steel in the face as he spun wildly around, trying to recover his balance and bring his shield back up into a semblance of a defense.  Blood covered his hand and made his grip on his sword tenuous, but for now it was all he could do not to get skewered; actually venturing an attack was out of the question. 

The gnoll whose blood dripped from the blade was expiring noisily at his feet, but his companions were making a good start on getting revenge.  Carzen grimaced at the pain where the marauder had scored with his initial thrust, but he couldn’t afford more than that, as he and the big humanoid danced their deadly dance.  

A deafening roar came from his left, but he couldn’t spare it a glance.  He only hoped that Vhael and Gral were able to handle the gnoll scourge.  The initial exchange had seemed to go well for their side, but then, even as Carzen had taken down his first foe, the big gnoll had summoned up some sort of demon, a hulking ape-thing that had torn into Vhael like a tornado.  

The battle had lasted for all of maybe thirty seconds thus far, but Carzen’s arms burned, and his heart pounded in his chest like a hammer as he sought to fight off the gnoll spearman.  He had no idea who had the upper hand.  The two sides had met in an almost comic fashion, moving around a bend in the tunnel to find themselves facing each other across maybe twenty feet of space.  Carzen had barely had enough time to register the presence of enemies before Vhael’s order to charge had penetrated his consciousness.  It had been a good idea, probably, as he’d caught sight of a number of archers in the enemy ranks.  Surina had hit them with some sort of fireball that had roasted the hell out of most of the gnolls before the fighters came close enough to attack.  But he didn’t imagine Vhael had wagered on the demon, either. 

Well, he had his own hands full, as he finally got his shield up and around to turn another thrust of the spear.  His sword followed, and his confidence began to return as he drove the gnoll back a step with a powerful sweep of his blade.  He actually grinned as the marauder snarled at him.  He parried another thrust, and shifted his feet in preparation of another lunge.  

That’s when he tripped over the gnoll he’d taken down earlier .  

“Oh, sh—”

He wasn’t hurt, although the impact of the hard floor on his back knocked the air from his lungs.  But his shield suddenly felt very small, the steel spearhead of the marauder’s weapon huge, as his foe stepped around his fallen companion and bared his teeth at Carzen. 

He was trying to gauge where the thrust would come when the gnoll abruptly exploded.  

Flames roared out in a bright flare that blinded him for a second, followed by a wash of heat that singed his face hard enough to hurt even through the pain in his side.  But the gnoll was in much worse shape than he was, a fact that he realized as the fire died and the starbursts filling his eyes began to clear.   

Never one to refuse a gift, he rose to a crouch and slid half the length of his sword into the gnoll’s gut.  

He looked over his shoulder and saw what he expected.  He still wasn’t quite sure about dragonborn facial expressions, but he thought that maybe Surina was grinning at him.  Wondering if he still had eyebrows, he nodded, “Yeah, thanks.”  

“Look out!” the warlock returned, lifting a clawed hand that burst into bright red flame. 

“naughty word!” Carzen exclaimed, as an arrow sliced past his face, close enough for him to feel the wind of its passing.  Training replaced thought as he turned and ran, and he was swinging even before he had clearly marked the archer.  The gnoll was drawing out another arrow from the quiver at his belt even as Carzen attacked, and he brought his big longbow up in an attempt to deflect the crashing sword.  The huntmaster succeeded, at the cost of his weapon, which snapped as Carzen’s sword smashed into it.  The gnoll reached for the long dirk stuck through his belt, but before he was hit he was struck by the fiery pulse that shot past Carzen to strike him solidly in the left shoulder.  The gnoll fell back, screaming in pain, and gave up, turning to flee.  

Which just made it easier, as far as Carzen was concerned.  

Once he’d cut down the injured gnoll, he returned to the others.  The battle was over.  Vhael stood over the mangled body of the ape-demon, and the gnoll leader who had summoned it was in little better shape a short distance away, one clawed hand jutting up, frozen in a rime of ice crystals.  Surina and Gezzelhaupt seemed okay, although the warlock had taken an arrow to the arm that she hadn’t bothered to pluck out.  _Crazy bitch probably doesn’t even feel pain,_ Carzen thought to himself.  

“Everything all right?” he asked.  “Got the last one, tried to flee.”

Vhael scanned the area with experienced eyes.  “Where’s Terrlen?”

Oh, crap, the guide.  Carzen saw no sign of the man, but Gez said, “I think he took off into a side tunnel once the fight started.”

“All right, we’d better find him,” Vhael said.  “Stay together, and stay alert.  It’s likely that anything lairing nearby would have heard the battle.”

It didn’t take them long to find the tunnel where the guide must have fled; this part of the Labyrinth was not as criss-crossed with side passages and crevices as it was in the neighborhood of the Seven-Pillared Hall.  The tunnel they’d taken from the Hall had led them deeper under the earth, and more of the passages they passed showed little sign of working or indicators that intelligent creatures used them regularly.  

This passage was like that, a narrow, twisting corridor that looked as though it might have originally served as the conduit for an underground stream.  Fortunately there were no forks or branches, allowing them to press on without danger of losing their way.  

Vhael smelled it first.  “Blood,” the dragonborn said.  They slowed, alert for an ambush, and found the body a few moments later. 

There was enough of it left for them to immediately identify it as a gnoll huntmaster.  The remants of the creature’s bow were scattered about, and his dagger was nearby, the blade broken off just above the hilt.  

“Grim,” Gral said, and none of the others could disagree.  

The gnoll had not died well.  Deep gashes covered his throat, arms, and face.  They crossed one eye, where blood trailed from the ruined socket.  The gnoll’s jaw had been broken, the lower half jutting from his face at an impossible angle.  

“Lot of nasty things down here,” Surina said.  

“Over here!” Gez called, drawing their attention ahead, where the passage opened onto a small chamber.  The others joined him, giving the dead gnoll a wide berth, Vhael stepping into the lead again as they entered the place. 

The chamber was a bubble in the rock, a natural formation with a floor that sloped down to a pool that took up the back third or so of the space.  As Gez lifted his miner’s lamp, the spread of light revealed Terrlen Darkseeker, their guide, lying on the edge of the pool.  

“Careful,” Vhael said, as Carzen and Gez started forward.  But as they edged closer, it was clear that the chamber was empty save for Terrlen.  Their guide was a human just on the near side of middle age, with a face lined with the experience of a difficult life, and pale skin from years spent underground.  He shifted as the others approached, and looked up at them with haunted eyes.  He looked as though he’d been knocked around some, his shirt torn in several places, but he bore no obvious wounds.  

“What happened?” Carzen asked him. 

“I… I ran,” he said, his voice unsteady.  His clothes were wet; apparently he’d fallen into the pool at some point.  “The gnoll… chased…”

“Yeah, we found him outside,” Gral said.  He glanced at Terrlen’s belt, where his dagger remained in its sheath.  “What killed him?”

“I… I don’t know.  I’m not sure.  I was running, and this…this _thing_, it came out of nowhere… I heard the gnoll… it… I fell… I don’t know…”

“He’s in shock,” Carzen said.  Now that the battle was over, he was starting to feel the sting of his own wounds.  “If those gnolls were guards, there’s going to be more of them coming.  Might be a good idea to get out of here before they arrive.”  

Vhael glanced at Gral.  “Burned a lot of my spells back there,” the dwarf said.  He didn’t say anything about the gashes that trickled blood down Vhael’s arms, and Carzen had learned enough not to bring them up either.  Apparently the fight with the demon hadn’t all gone the warlord’s way. 

“We’ll fall back to that chamber we passed a half-hour back,” the dragonborn said.  “Can you walk?” 

For some reason, the dragonborn’s tone made Carzen feel more solicitous to the stunned guide, and he helped Terrlen to his feet.  The man flinched when Carzen touched him, but he seemed able to stand.  “He’ll be all right,” Carzen said.  

“All right.  Take what you need from the bodies, and wreck anything you don’t.  We move out in two minutes.  And fill the extra water bottles, while we’re here.”

He turned and left the room, with Surina on his heels.  Leaving Carzen with the others.  As Gral and Gez filled their waterskins from the pool, Carzen looked at the man standing next to him.  Terrlen hadn’t stopped shaking, and just watching him sent a shiver down Carzen’s own spine.  

“Wonderful,” Carzen said to himself, reaching for his own waterskin.


----------



## Richard Rawen

LB you have me so paranoid my closing thoughts on the post was:
_I bet Terrlen's a demon._ 
which was followed by,
_I wonder if they should drink the water?_


----------



## Lazybones

Heh, if you think Carzen's got troubles, keep reading... 

* * * * * 

Chapter 33


Like Carzen, Jaron was starting to have second thoughts about his current venture. 

He looked down into a vast open blackness, a chasm that promised only a long and terrified plummet should he enter it.  For the tenth time he cursed himself for letting his attention wander, then turned his attention back to the stone to which he clung.  

His position was precarious at best.  The halfling clung to the underside of a stone bridge that swept across the chasm in a graceful arc.  The stones that formed the bridge were ancient, and covered with tiny cracks and crevices that made adequate handholds, especially for canny halfling fingers.  Jaron had been climbing since he was a boy, and in different circumstances, this would have been an easy crossing, maybe even fun. 

Say under a bright sky on a clear day, above a slow-moving river, instead of over a dark chasm far under the earth, next to a citadel filled with evil dwarves all too eager to do nasty things to him if he was discovered. 

Berating himself for his distraction, the halfling returned to his crossing.  At least he could see, although the goggles that Rendil had provided for him and Beetle made it difficult to make out small details.  That was fine on a climb like this, when he had to rely on touch more than vision.  His feet were bare, his boots carefully stashed in his pack along with only the most essential of his gear.  Everything else had been left behind on the far side of the chasm.   

He reached another relatively safe spot, where one of the supporting struts of the bridge provided a junction where he could hold on with just his feet.  Hanging almost upside-down, he paused to drive a piton into a gap where two of the massive stones that formed the bridge were joined.  Moving slowly, careful not to threaten his grip, he reached down to the harness he wore over his clothes, and drew out first a piton, then the tiny padded hammer.  The pad on the end of the hammer muted the sound, and the nearly constant wind through the chasm likely absorbed the rest within a few paces, but even so Jaron thought it sounded unnaturally loud, certain to draw attention from above. 

But no shouts rose from atop the bridge or from the adjacent citadel, no crossbow bolts shot out of the darkness to put an end to his infiltration.  He wrapped the rope trailing behind him around the hooked end of the piton, and started to shift forward toward the next part of the climb.  He judged he was about halfway across, but still couldn’t see the far side of the chasm, and the bridge blocked his view of the odd witch-lights that shone high along the walls of the place.  The Horned Hold _looked_ malevolent, and when he and Beetle had first arrived, sneaking along the approaches, he’d almost frozen in fear.  The citadel extended across both faces of the chasm, its thick towers joined by two bridges.  

If what Rendil had told them was true, the slaves were held within the far one, his current destination.  

He only got a moment’s warning, a slight tug on the rope.  He desperately shot back to the junction, and set his feet before it grew taut.  Fortunately the piton held, although his heart froze in his chest as he thought of Beetle tumbling away into the chasm. 

But as he looked down, he saw his cousin swinging on the end of the rope, streaking across the chasm on the end of the line that ended first at the piton, and then around Jaron’s waist.  The rope whipsawed as its burden swung, and for a moment Jaron feared it would slip free.  But he’d wrapped it well, and the piton held in place as Beetle reached the bottom of his swing and started up.  Jaron wasn’t sure, but he thought his cousin’s mouth was open in a silent shout of joy and wonder. 

He shook his head.  _Of course_ it was. 

Beetle’s rising arc ended at the far wall of the chasm, almost as he came to a stop in his ascent.  For a moment Jaron thought he would fall back—there was only so much abuse the piton could take—but then Beetle got a grip on the rocks.  With the magical vision of the goggles the rock face looked like a vague gray blur, with only his cousin distinct.  He watched as Beetle found a jutting rock spur and looped the rope around it several times, waving to Jaron once he was done. 

Jaron shook his head.  Well, at least this was faster.  After checking the piton again, and securing a second just in case, he shifted to the rope, locking his legs around it and then pulling himself to where Beetle waited.  It took about five minutes, by which time he’d swallowed his anger; it wouldn’t have done any good with his cousin anyway.  Beetle was waiting for him, sitting atop the rock spur with his back to the cliff face.  He was smiling, but even he knew better than to say anything, this close to the citadel above. 

Jaron glanced back at the rope.  It was a risk, but he judged that it would have been even worse to drop it, given the possibility of their needing to make a hasty retreat back.  He glanced up and saw what looked like a battlement maybe twenty feet above.  The cliffs here were rugged, an easy climb.  Shrugging out of his harness, careful not to let the remaining pitons jingle off the rock face, he stashed the gear in a crack next to the spur that anchored the rope, taking only a short spare coil of rope with him.  With a gesture to Beetle to wait, he started crawling up.  

He gained the battlement without incident, and carefully peered over.  Once again Rendil had been right; the dwarves did not keep a watch here.  There was a heavy iron-plated door to his left with a covered slit in the center.  To his right he could just make out a second, recessed door in a deep alcove on the far side of the battlement.  

After another quick look around, he unrolled his rope and looped it quickly over one of the squat merlons that fronted the battlement, dropping the remaining length down for his cousin.  Beetle was beside him in a flash, and Jaron drew up the rope, coiling it into a tight wad before stashing it in the deeper darkness between the notches atop the battlement wall. 

He turned to see Beetle almost at the iron-plated door to the left.  He hissed a warning, but Beetle either didn’t hear, or pretended that he hadn’t.  Jaron ran over to him, catching his hand even as it reached out for the door’s handle. 

Neither of them spoke, for as they stood there, they heard a soft sound, muted through the door, but recognizable as coarse laughter.  Words followed, indecipherable, but it was easy enough to guess at the identity of their owners. 

Jaron pulled Beetle away, and headed toward the other door.  A quick scan of the stone floor around it suggested that this route was rarely traveled by the inhabitants of the Horned Hold.  The door was locked, but Beetle was able to manage that in just a few moments.  The click as the mechanism tripped seemed like the sound of a bell being struck to Jaron’s sensitive ears.  Beetle pulled the door open a crack, looked inside, and then slipped through. 

Jaron had no choice but to follow. 

The chamber beyond was utterly dark, and without their magical goggles the halflings would have been at a loss.  With those aids, they could see that the chamber was both of considerable size and in an advanced state of decay.  The place looked as though it had once been a shrine or chapel of some sort, although it was difficult to tell to which gods it had been sacred.  A massive statue missing one arm and a considerable portion of its head rose up above them; enough was left to suggest it had depicted some sort of horned creature.  Jaron let the door slide shut behind him. 

Beetle yanked on Jaron’s arm so suddenly that he nearly fell.  He barely kept his feet under him as he was pulled into a crack in a nearby pile of rubble.  He opened his mouth to say something, but caught sight of Beetle’s face, pressed close against his, and snapped it shut.  

A moment later, he sensed the creature.  Even with the goggles, it was little more than a shadow as it passed by.  A strong stink filled Jaron’s nostrils, a stench of decay tinged with something fouler, which made his skin crawl.  He felt a cold sensation trickled down his spine.  The thing—whatever it was—lingered for a moment, and Jaron’s hand crawled to the hilt of his sword.  But then it moved on, probing at the door for a moment before it crept away, back into whatever part of the chamber had spawned it. 

Jaron waited a full minute more before he stuck his head out of the crevice.  There was no sign of the creature, but he knew it was here, somewhere in the room with them.  His gaze lingered on the door, on the way out.  Better by far not to push their luck, to flee now.  But instead he found himself making his way around the back of the room, toward the door he’d spotted on the far side of the room.  He willed himself to be small, hidden, his booted feet stepping between piles of loose stone as though each one was a deadly scorpion poised to sting at the slightest touch.  Behind him, Beetle echoed his movements precisely; his cousin was even better than him at remaining unseen.  Jaron scanned the rest of the room as he moved forward, but saw nothing, not even the slightest hint of movement in the piles of rubble that cluttered the far end of the chamber.  But there was something there; he could feel it, in the part of the mind where nightmares found purchase. 

He was still looking, waiting, as they reached the door.  This one was an even more formidable barrier than the first; solid iron, set into hinges as thick and heavy as a ogre’s elbow.  There was rust evident on those hinges, suggesting that this door would not be easily defeated.  But Beetle went to work on the lock, a bent piece of metal sticking out of his mouth as he adjusted two others with steady fingers.  The lock was high enough that he had to stand on his toes to reach it, but that didn’t stop the halfling, and it only took a few seconds longer than it had outside for Jaron to hear that familiar click. 

Unfortunately, something else had heard it as well.  Jaron saw the hint of movement in the shadows on the far side of the room. Then the creature stepped into view, a ragged, tainted echo of a human being that was now no longer anything close.  

And this time, it wasn’t alone. 

“Quick!” Jaron hissed, as Beetle tried to pull the door open.  The corroded door resisted, and squeaked as Jaron added his effort, yanking desperately on the handle.  Behind him, five creatures of nightmare charged forward, claws extended, eager to rend warm flesh.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 34


Mara leaned her head back against the cold stone behind her, and tried not to give way to despair.  

Her head hurt still, and her vision out of her left eye was still a little spotty after the blow she’d taken from one of the duergar warriors that served as their jailors.  That escape attempt, her second, had probably been ill-advised, but with each passing moment spent here she felt increasingly desperate.  

A high-pitched cackle drew her attention up to the lip of the pit, where one of the devils was perched.  The thing would have been small for a human, but the devil’s harsh features and the nasty spines that jutted out from all over its body gave it a fearsome appearance.  She shifted, raising her manacled hands in front of her in what might have been a defiant gesture, had the chains holding her been long enough to let her stir more than two feet from the wall.  The devil laughed at her and moved on. 

“It won’t be long now,” the goblin whispered.  

“So you’ve said,” Mara said, her own voice low to match that of her fellow captive.  Gru was one of the prisoners that had been here in the pit when she’d arrived.  The goblin seemed healthy enough, though he had several old scars that crossed the left side of his face.  She was more concerned with Tandrin, who’d been less and less responsive in the day and a half since she’d arrived here.  The halfling now lay against the wall, his manacles forcing him to stretch his arms up above his head even at rest.  She hissed his name, quietly, but the halfling didn’t stir. 

There were other slaves in the pits, maybe a dozen in all, but she hadn’t really gotten a good look at any of them since she’d been dragged in here by her captors.  Tandrin had apparently come from Jaron’s village, along with about a dozen other halflings, but he hadn’t known more than Mara about the other captives.  When he’d been awake and communicative, he had told her that their captors had taken off one of their number a few days back, the priest from their village, a woman named Yarine.  Mara seemed to remember Jaron saying something about her, before.  From what she knew of the slave trade in the Labyrinth, she and the other prisoners that were taken out of this chamber by the duergar could be almost anywhere by now, and the chances of tracking them down were almost nil.  She hoped for her friend’s sake that he and his cousin had left the Labyrinth, and not looked back.  

Good advice, if too late for her to take it. 

“I shouldn’t be here,” Gru persisted.  The goblin seemed more annoyed than anything else at having been enslaved.  “I’ll show these dwarf bastards, once I get out of here.  You’ll see, as soon as I’m sold, I’ll be free faster than you can spit.”

Mara mumbled something non-committal and craned her neck as she head the bolts on the door to the slave quarters being thrown back.  The pits were deep enough so that she couldn’t get a clear view of that part of the room, but she could hear the heavy tread of her captors, the gravelly sound of their voices as they spoke.  The duergar barely came up to her shoulder, but they were tough, a fact she knew all too well. 

And then there was Murkelmor, who made her shudder even to think of him.

She couldn’t hear what was being said, but after about a minute, she heard footsteps approaching.  One of the duergar guards was shouting orders, and she heard the cackle of one of the spined devils, followed by the ugly noise of a whip being cracked. 

“Looks like you were right,” Mara said to Gru. 

“Don’t meet their eyes!” the goblin warned, cowering against the wall.  But Mara wasn’t one to cower, and so when the duergar appeared at the lip of the pit, Mara’s stare was raised to face his.  She didn’t falter, even when she saw that it was Framarth.  The theurge let out a cruel laugh at her defiant look. 

“What are you going to do with us?” she asked him.  She already knew how dangerous Framarth was, but the duergar seemed to be in a fine humor.  He gestured, and another duergar appeared at his side, holding several sets of manacles linked by a long length of black chain. 

“You and these others have become a liability,” the duergar theurge said.  “Fortunately, we have arranged for a buyer who will happily… remove… the problem for us.  We don’t normally deal with their kind, but for you, we will make an exception. Take the woman and the halfling,” he said to the guard.  Mara tensed, but she felt the cold chill that warned her even before she looked up to see the spined devil perched on the lip of the pit directly above, looking down at her. 

“You can resist, but you may prefer to save your strength,” Framarth said to her.  “You may have need of it, when the troglodytes get their hands on you.”

If Mara had felt cold before, she now felt an iciness pierce her gut.  As the dwarf loomed over her, his shackles clinking in his hands, she could hear the theurge’s laughter, closing around her like the crumbling walls of a grave.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 35


“PULL!” Jaron yelled, desperation tearing at his muscles as he put his words into action, yanking on the handle of the iron door.  Opposite him, Beetle had worked a dagger into the jam, and was using it as a lever to try and pry the heavy portal open. 

Jaron heard the hiss of the wights behind him as they rushed forward; only seconds separated them. 

The door creaked open a mocking inch. Beetle dropped his knife and thrust his grubby fingers into the crack, grunting as he pulled.  With a last groan the door suddenly gave, sliding open a full foot.  Beetle shot through, grabbing Jaron and pulling him after him.  The pair tumbled forward into a narrow passageway beyond, thick with dust and cobwebs.  

Behind them, the door shuddered as the first wight slammed into it.  The heavy iron door jerked halfway shut from the impact.  Even as the halflings fumbled back up to their feet, a pale gray arm appeared in the crack, probing hungrily.  

Drawing another knife out from somewhere, Beetle stabbed it into the wight's elbow.  The razor-sharp blade penetrated deep into the creature’s wiry flesh, and it let out a strangled hiss.  The arm drew back, and in that scant moment of reprieve Jaron took the handle on this side of the door and yanked it shut.  He shot the bolt even as the wights started pounding on the door, their nails creating a terrible sound as they scratched at the metal.  

“They won’t get through that easily,” Jaron said, his heart pounding in his chest.  “Are you all right?”

Beetle lifted a thumb, and grinned.

Shaking his head, Jaron turned to explore this new area. 

The corridor led straight ahead, and was evidently long-undisturbed.  Ancient carvings decorated the walls, depicting horned humanoid creatures engaging in activities it was impossible to clearly discern.  Cobwebs hung over everything, and the two halflings could hear vermin skittering away from them as they made their way forward.  

“Creepy,” Beetle said, pausing to step on a bug.  The crackling noise as its shell broke made Jaron’s skin crawl.  “Don’t do that,” he whispered.  “There might be someone up ahead who could hear.”  The warning seemed unnecessary; they’d made a lot more noise getting through the iron door.  But Beetle complied, or at least didn’t kill any more bugs as they pressed further ahead.  The sound of the wights at the door died away behind them; either the creatures had given up, or they were waiting for their prey to return.  

Either way, the two of them had few options left. 

They passed several side tunnels that ended quickly in bare stone walls.  The place had the air of an ancient crypt, but if there were remains interred here, they were well sealed away from prying eyes.  

They entered another hall that crossed the passageway.  A large statue of a minotaur stood here, looming over them like some terrible guardian, a broad-bladed axe held ready in its massive fists.  A trick of its construction seemed to make its eyes follow the cousins as they approached.  Jaron was wary of a trap, but Beetle did not appear to be intimidated by the hulking thing.  Or at least, if he was, he concealed it well, springing up onto the statue’s leg, then jumping off to catch the stone handle of its weapon, flipping forward into a somersault that reached its apex some eight feet off the floor.  Jaron rushed toward him in alarm, but Beetle landed lightly on his feet, turning with a broad grin on his face.  

Jaron opened his mouth, but closed it, the words left unsaid.  What was the use?

“Light,” Beetle said, drawing Jaron’s attention down the side-hall in the direction he’d jumped.  The two halflings rushed forward, and quickly came to another door.  This one looked as ancient as their surroundings here, slabs of old wood bound in iron that was crusted with rust and decay.  The light came from a thin crack under the door.  Beetle didn’t wait, dropping to the floor to put his eye on the same level as the crack.  Reluctantly, after looking at the dirt that covered the floor, Jaron copied him. 

The two watched in silence together for a long minute.  Then Jaron finally drew back, and sat up against the wall next to the door.  Beetle pulled up a moment later, a black streak of grime marking the entire left side of his face.  Jaron drew out a cloth and rubbed at what he imagined was a similar mess on his.  He looked at his cousin, and shook his head. 

“Now what are we supposed to do?” he asked quietly, his expression that of someone in way over his head.  

Beetle pointed to the lock in the door.  “Open?”

“And then what?  You saw what I saw, cousin.”  He lowered the dirty rag and lowered his face into his hands.  “We’re trapped.”


----------



## nwjavahead

*Along time...*

LB, 
I know it has been along time since I ventured back onto these boards/SH - however, I just want to say thanks.  It is great to come back to ENWorld and see a new SH from you.

djordje


----------



## Lazybones

Hey, glad you're still following along, djordje! Not many readers left from the "good old days" of _Travels_. 

* * * * * 

Chapter 36


The campsite was good, with a nearby source of water, relatively close proximity to the main tunnel, and best of all, defensible.  A crevice just too wide to jump bisected the small chamber, and a natural battlement of weathered stone formed a rampart in front of a hollow space maybe six paces across on the near side of the gap.  Carzen looked around and saw signs of others that had used the place before; black streaks along the walls where lamps and torches had left marks, small bones and other detritus scattered in corners, and the faint but familiar stinks left behind whenever travelers lingered at a place for any length of time.  

His body whispered the need for sleep, but he knew that Vhael wouldn’t let them linger too long here.  The warlord was closeted with his war council over near the gap in the wall that formed the exit.  Gral and Surina attended to his every word; Carzen didn’t bother trying to listen in. 

He walked over to where Terrlen was sitting.  The guide was wrapped in a cloak that seemed to cover him like a shroud, his weathered features just visible in the faint light of the miner’s lamp that illuminated their shelter.  He glanced up at Carzen’s approach.  

“Tough gig, eh?”

The man shrugged.  “I’ve seen worse,” he ventured, when Carzen didn’t shift his gaze.

“So how far were we?  To this Well of Demons, that is.”

“Not far.  I’ve never actually been inside,” Terrlen admitted.  “But it’s a well-known site in the Labyrinth.”  

“Oh?  Any idea on what we’ll face there?  Other than demons, of course.”

Terrlen shook his head, but said nothing.  Carzen tried a different tack. 

“What do you think of our fearless leader?” he asked.  

“He seems to know his business.”

“Oh, sure.  He’s led us out of a few scrapes, I suppose.  Nasty business with those gnolls, eh?”

The man flinched and shot up so quickly that Carzen almost ran into him.  “Excuse me.  I need to… I need to take a piss.”  He hurried over to the far edge of the camp, where a gap in the rampart offered access to the chasm.  

“Right,” Carzen said, to his back.  He glanced over and saw that Vhael’s little conference had ended; the dragonborn was standing alone by the exit, sipping something from a small cup that looked ridiculously fragile in his clawed hand.

“Hey, general!  That isn’t coffee, is it?  Been holding out on us?”

Vhael’s expression was inscrutable but Carzen was starting to be able to read the dragonborn’s looks.  _Not that there are that many,_ he thought, forcing his smile against the warlord’s cold stare, just to annoy him.  

“It is a mild stimulant derived from the bark of the _wilanthas_ tree,” Vhael said.  “I believe it is somewhat toxic for humans, causing chills, muscle spasms, and riotous diarrhea.  Would you like me to brew you a cup?”

Carzen smacked his lips.  “Sounds delicious, but I think I’ll stick with my more familiar poisons.”  Gods, he would have murdered someone for a flask of brandy.  Leaning in closer, he said, “I think we might have a problem with Terrlen.”

“Oh?” 

“There’s… something wrong with him.  I can’t quite place it, but I get a feeling around him…”

“Indeed.  Gral believes that he may be suffering from a lycanthropic curse.”

“A what?”

“Lycanthropy.  A magical disease that causes the victim to experience involuntary transformations into a were-creature.  I believe that werewolves are the most common example with which you might be familiar, but there are literally dozens of varieties.”

“Were—” Carzen began, but he cut himself off when he realized that his voice was too loud.  Clenching his jaw, he began again.  “And you just let him stay with us?”

Vhael drained the last of his beverage.  “Do you know how to get to the Well of Demons?”

Carzen did not back down.  “This is… reckless.  I can’t believe it, you ditched the halflings for less than this, and we could have actually used their help.  For this kind of thing…”

Vhael’s stare was like iron.  “I did not ask for your counsel, lieutenant.  I have made provision for Darkseeker, if it comes to that.  Once he has helped us reach the Well, we can be done with him.  Until then, you will obey orders and do your job, do you understand?”

“Oh, I understand, _general_,” Carzen hissed.  Turning away, he strode over to where he’d left his pack.  But he couldn’t help looking over at the chasm, where Terrlen stood, a vague outline at the edge of the lamplight. 

_Wonderful_, he thought grimly.


----------



## nwjavahead

LB,
I noticed that things have changed a bit that is for sure on the boards.  Hades, I had to change my screen name cause it had been so long. 

The good-old-days of Tales and such.  I can say that i will continue to read all your SH - they are very good works.  

What are your "IMHO" of 4e currently?  Somethings I think I might like, however, I believe I am going to stick with 3.x

Hear anything on old Wulf?

djordje


----------



## Neurotic

Hey! I'm still reading. I just don't find 4e interesting enough to comment. Characters are well rounded and developed as usual, it just lacks certain flair. Might it reflect your own uninvolment with the system?


----------



## Lazybones

Well, I've stated in the past that 4e, while introducing some interesting concepts like the powers system, isn't really drawing me in the way that 3rd edition did. I can't really tighten it down to something specific, maybe it's the lack of "flair" that Neurotic described. Or maybe I spent too long with 3.0/3.5 and just don't want to invest the time in a new system. I haven't bought anything besides the core books and the first two modules and have no intention of doing so.

My next story won't be based on 4th edition, although I'm still enjoying writing this one, and I don't regret taking the time to learn the new ruleset. 

* * * * * 

Chapter 37


The door opened with a creak that sounded like the end of the world, filling the chamber with the sound.  It instantly drew the attention of the duergar guards, who had been dicing at their table along the far wall of the chamber, and of the two spined devils, who had been arguing in their own foul tongue from their perch high among the rafters of the chamber.  

The door swung open ponderously, continuing the scream of tortured metal from its hinges.  Beyond, only a dark tunnel was visible, gaping malevolently. 

The duergar guards exchanged a look, and then one of them hurried to the door on their side of the room.  The other one drew out his weapon, a big warhammer with a striking head fashioned out of a slab of black metal.  The dwarf gestured to the devils, who dropped free of their perch and glided toward the dark opening.  One of them flicked its tail, dislodging a number of spines that flew into the gap. 

“Hold yer blasted darts!” the duergar said.  “If’n there be someone in there, take ‘im alive!”

The devils hissed something less than flattering at him in Infernal, but they flittered aside as Framarth arrived, the other guard at his heels.  “What is the meaning of this?” he asked the other guard. 

“Don’t know, yer lordship,” the dwarf replied.  “Door just opened.  Nobody’s s’posed to be in there.  Was going to send the devils in to have a look.”

The theurge’s eyes narrowed as he regarded the dark opening.  Abruptly he lifted a hand, and conjured a spell.  

An eruption of green flickers materialized in the tunnel beyond the door, followed by tendrils of olive vapor that trickled out into the great chamber.  The fumes hung cloyingly in the air, twisting slightly as some invisible gust of wind shaped them. 

And then the smoke cloud parted, as a small horde of wights burst into the room, screeching as they eagerly sought out warm flesh.  

Jaron was greeted to a scene of chaos as he tentatively peeked out from behind the heavy door.  So far their plan had worked, with Beetle opening this door and he the one leading to the room holding the wights.  The two of them had hidden behind the minotaur statue while the situation progressed naturally.  He’d agonized over which door to give to Beetle, knowing that his cousin was likely to get into trouble no matter which one he chose, but for once Beetle had done exactly as he’d said.  

A violent battle raged in the chamber directly in front of him.  There were three duergar, currently being swarmed by the five wights in a violent close-quarters melee.  Thus far the defenders were holding their own, but the wights seemed to shake off the pounding from the dwarves’ hammers, snarling before leaping back in to try to grab hold of their living foes with their claws.  A bright flash of fire blinded Jaron for a moment, and he realized that one of the dwarves was a spellcaster.  The wight the mage had hit staggered back, trailing wisps of black smoke from his charred chest, but the monster came in again, forcing the dwarf back onto the defensive. 

A form out of nightmare streaked down from above, flying low over one of the wights.  The flying thing was not much larger than the dwarfs, but as it shot past Jaron could see a forest of dark spines jutting from the wight’s back, and it began to flail wildly as tendrils of smoke rose from the nasty wounds.  

All in all, chaos.  And they had to go out in that… 

For a moment, Jaron’s resolve faltered, then Beetle shot past him, and started running around the room to the right, toward one of the open pits they’d spotted earlier, when looking under the crack in the door.  They’d recognized this place as the slave pits that Rendil had described to them, and they knew that if the Grimmerzhul still held Mara, they’d likely find her here.  That had given birth to Jaron’s desperate plan, to set the wights against the defenders, and hopefully find their friend in the confusion. 

But as he ran after Beetle, that part of his brain still capable of reason started whispering to him all the ways that the plan could go wrong.  Another burst of fire that sounded like it was right on top of him added urgency to his movement.  But as he approached the pit, he felt a new sensation of dread overcome even that surging terror. 

The pit was empty.  

Or more precisely, empty of prisoners; he could see the shackles bolted to the walls, the foul slicks of waste, the tattered scraps of clothing that spoke of slaves now gone.

Beetle was already running ahead, around the perimeter of the pit toward the next one.  Jaron followed, but as he glanced over across the room, he saw another pair of duergar guards appear through the far door, these two clad in heavy mail, and visored helms that shielded their features but which allowed the wiry forest of their beards to protrude out beneath.  One of the wights was down, its thrashings abruptly ended as a duergar warrior brought his hammer down upon its skull with hard finality.  The dwarves had been driven back, but now, as they saw the reinforcements coming, they surged ahead once more, the theurge summoning fire and brimstone to blast the undead before him. 

They couldn’t stay here much longer without being detected, Jaron saw.  As he drew close enough to the second pit to see that it too was empty, he tried to signal to Beetle, to warn him.  But the other halfling had already surged on ahead, and as Jaron watched he leapt down into the last pit, vanishing from view.  

Jaron swallowed his fear and followed.  A fearsome warcry swept through the room, and he turned to see with amazement one of the duergar newcomers smite one of the wights with his hammer.  The duergar, through some magical faculty, had expanded to a size that rivaled that of an ogre.  His armor and weapons had likewise grown in size, and Jaron felt an involuntary twinge of sympathy for the wight as its broken body was hurled into one of the empty slave pits.  

They didn’t have much time…

An instant later, he realized they had none, as an angry cry drew his attention back over his shoulder.  He looked up to see one of the spined devils diving toward him, a hissing sound issuing from it as dozens of deadly needles hurtled out from its body toward the halfling.


----------



## Lazybones

Posting this late due to the site being down for a few days. 

* * * * * 

Chapter 38


Jaron hurled himself forward, rolling into a crouch as he heard the ragged pings of the devil’s spines hitting the stone floor behind him.  His momentum almost carried him over the edge of the open pit, and he had to roll his arms for a moment to recover his balance.  Behind him, he could hear the devil shriek as it swooped around for another pass.  

His gaze passed over Beetle twice before he recognized his cousin, pressed up against the wall in the deep shadows that filled the open pit.  “We have to get out of here, now!” he hissed.  

Beetle glanced up at him, but returned his attention to whatever he was doing down there in the slave pit.  Jaron looked up to see that the devil had completed its circle and was coming back around toward him.  The duergar had dropped another of the wights, its struggles fading even as the theurge continued to blast it with tendrils of bright fire.  One of the guards had been knocked onto his back, but even as Jaron turned his head one of the enlarged shock troopers bashed the wight tearing at him, knocking the undead monster off before it could get a good hold with its claws.  The last wight had taken a pounding from the other trooper and the last guard, but it continued to attack even as it absorbed hammer blows that would have left a living creature lying in a broken heap on the floor. 

The devil dove, and before it could launch another barrage of spines, Jaron swallowed and leapt into the pit.  

He landed lightly on his feet, coming up in a roll that absorbed the shock of impact.  The stink was even worse down here, but like in the other pits, the shackles set into the walls dangled empty.  Or nearly empty, he realized, as Beetle came away from the wall and moved toward him.  His cousin was carrying someone, a prisoner. 

With a start, Jaron realized that the captive was a goblin.  The wretched thing was in poor shape, but he was conscious, and found his footing as Beetle dragged him toward the narrow ramp that led up out of the pit.  Jaron got there first, and led the way up. 

He was almost at the lip when the devil dropped down from above to block his path.  

“Going somewhere?” it hissed at him. 

Jaron started in surprise, but something flashed past his head and caught the devil on the side of its face, drawing another furious shriek and staggering the thing.  Jaron didn’t hesitate and rushed past before it could recover, Beetle and the goblin close behind.  A pain exploded in his arm, and he looked down to see a pair of five-inch spines jutting from his sleeve.  He didn’t stop to pull them out, only glanced back to see that Beetle was still with him as he ran toward the door.  

The only problem was that they weren’t the only ones.  

The wights were down, and the shrieking of the devils had drawn the attention of the dwarves, who’d belatedly spotted the halflings trying to escape with their last remaining prisoner.  Jaron spotted more duergar coming into the room through the far door, but his more immediate concern was the two ogre-sized shock troopers that started lumbering toward him, their heavy boots causing the ground to shake with their coming.  Behind them, the wounded theurge was shouting orders, punctuated by a bolt of flames that thankfully flew wild, striking the wall a good five paces above the diminutive raiders.  Beetle shouted something taunting that thankfully Jaron could not make out; his full attention was on the door ahead, ten paces, eight, five…

The second devil dropped out of the air ahead of him like a rock, intent on blocking their escape.  But through some instinct Jaron jerked aside from the sweeping claws, unbalancing the devil as it landed with a hard thrust of his shoulder.  He felt pain again as the blow drove several spines through the leather of his tunic, but then the reassuring bulk of the doorway was there, and he was through.  He glanced back to see Beetle stomp on the devil’s face with both booted fee, knocking it over onto its back, laughing as he sprang through the opening a step behind the panicked goblin.  Beetle kicked the door shut behind him a scant instant before it shook with the force of a heavy impact from outside.  The door held; they’d rigged the lock earlier so that it would engage when the door was closed again.  But as the door rang again, this time from the blow of a duergar hammer, Jaron knew that it wouldn’t stop their pursuers for more than a few seconds.  

“Hoot!” Beetle exclaimed, leaning forward with his hands on his knees as he caught his breath.  The goblin sagged against a pile of crumbling stone, his body trembling with fear.  But Jaron wouldn’t let them linger.  “Come on!” he said, drawing Beetle and the goblin after him as he led them back down the passage they had navigated earlier, back to the room where they’d narrowly escaped the wights.  The dusty chamber was as they had left it, save for fresh tracks left by the undead where they’d gathered around the iron door.  Jaron hoped that there weren’t any more of those foul things lurking around the chamber, but he didn’t let that fear slow his steps as he ran toward the other side of the room and the door that led back out onto the battlements.  Behind him the pounding grew louder, and he could hear the ugly sound of wood cracking.  

The door leading outside resisted his tug, but it gave way as Beetle added his strength to Jaron’s.  Creaking open, it revealed the empty balcony bounded by the jagged stone teeth of the battlement.  Jaron let out a relieved breath—he’d half expected to find a dozen dwarves waiting for them here. 

As if summoned by the thought, the door on the far end of the battlement burst open, and three armored duergar warriors emerged. 

“Beetle, no!” he said, as his cousin turned toward them.  The duergar spotted the fugitives and lifted their weapons, confident that their foe had no way out.  Jaron saw another pair of dwarves emerge from the citadel onto the bridge, these two carrying massive bolt-throwers that were cocked and loaded.  

Jaron found that he was running, not toward the duergar and certain death, or back toward the slave pits and an almost equally certain fate.  He was running straight ahead, toward the low wall of stone teeth that separated them from a vast chasm, and a darkness that seemed to go on almost forever…

Beetle was running beside him, all but carrying the goblin between them.  The dwarves were almost on top of them, and Jaron saw that there would be no time to stop, no time to think about this as the pair on the bridge lifted their crossbows, took aim…

_Oh, gods, I’m not going to do this,_ he thought, even as he shouted, “Grab onto me!” and the three of them leapt forward, onto the top of the battlement, then over.  Jaron felt something pluck at his cap, then it was gone, and he was falling, falling…

The rope was there, right where he’d left it.  He almost forgot to grab it until it was too late, and only the fact that he’d all but fallen directly onto it gave him the chance to take hold of the narrow strand with both hands.  The loop he’d tied around the stone jut to anchor it couldn’t hold against the sudden weight of two halflings and a goblin, and as it tore free the three of them went plummeting downward, picking up speed as they were catapulted through empty blackness.  The rope creaked under their weight as they reached the bottom of their arc, still accelerating, and Jaron offered a prayer to whatever gods might be watching that his pitons held.  Their downward momentum was turned into forward flight, and they started to slow—incrementally—as they were flung forward toward the far side of the chasm. 

“Woohoo!” Beetle screamed in triumph, as the duergar peered down into the chasm, trying to figure out exactly what had just happened.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 39


Mara’s thoughts were black.  There was nothing she could do about her circumstances at the moment, but she swore to spend her life at as dear a cost as she could, before ending up as a bound sacrifice on the altar to some slimy reptilian god. 

Thus far, the duergar had been careful not to allow her that opportunity.  The iron bands around her wrists and ankles were heavy, the chains binding them designed to only give her the barest minimum of motion necessary to shuffle along with the other prisoners.  The duergar, perhaps respecting her obvious strength, had fastened her wrists behind her back, and her shoulders were already burning from the strain.  She was connected to the prisoners ahead and behind by another length of chain.  At least all of the prisoners ahead of her were halflings, so she could see where they were going.  

There wasn’t much to see.  The duergar seemed to recognize that their captives needed at least some light in order to march, but the odd lamps they wore strapped to their helmets cast a faint, uneven light.  Mara’s feet were bruised from the dozens of times she’d stubbed them on rocks she hadn’t seen, and her bare soles were already crisscrossed with gashes from sharp edges she’d trodden upon.  Their progress was slow, but the duergar did not seem to care about the harsh cost of the trek on the bodies of their prisoners. 

It wasn’t as if they were going to have to worry about marching them back. 

She heard a heavy tread coming up behind her, and flinched involuntarily.  But Rundarr walked past without paying her or any of the other prisoners any heed.  The duergar was big for his kind, coming up almost to Mara’s shoulder, but he radiated a sense of danger entirely out of proportion to his size.  It was him, more than the duergar scouts or the orc guards that drove the slave train onward, that gave Mara pause, and killed any hope she had for escape before they reached their destination.  She feared him, and hated herself for it.  

Behind her, one of the other human prisoners stumbled, suddenly drawing the chain trailing behind her taut, and Mara nearly fell before the others in line helped him regain his footing.  She knew almost nothing about the other captives, save that the other three humans were all prospectors, likely captured from the slopes of Thunderspire above by the Bloodreavers.  The halflings she knew of, although she had not recognized Jaron’s cleric friend among them.  The ten halflings that were here were showing the strains of their captivity, and while Mara had to admire their spirit, they were farmers and herdsmen, and she knew she could not rely on their help if—_when_, she told herself—an opportunity for escape presented itself.  

But with each painful step forward, it seemed as though that chance was becoming more and more remote. 

“Here they come,” Jaron whispered, drawing back from the edge of the ledge that gave them an unobstructed view of the broad underground highway that stretched out below them.  Beetle lingered another second, staring at the distant but slowly growing specks of light that surrounded the slave caravan.  They were at an intersection of sorts, where the main corridor met a number of smaller tunnels, some sized to accommodate a rat, and none large enough for an adult human to navigate without some difficulty.  Most of them, Jaron knew from his admittedly limited experience in the Labyrinth, went nowhere.  Others might stretch for miles, connecting to similar tunnels throughout the complicated underground warren.  It would take a lifetime to even begin to know this place, Jaron realized. 

He crawled back down to the level of the tunnel below.  The natural curve of the passages would conceal them from direct view of the slaver party for a good while yet, but he was careful to keep his miner’s lamp almost completely shaded.  The light was mainly for their companion’s benefit, as neither of the halflings needed it with their magical goggles. 

“How long?” Gru asked.  

“A few minutes, at most,” Jaron replied.  The goblin looked more than a bit skittish, Jaron thought.  Beetle had already managed to cow the freed slave in that special way that he had, communicating menace without having to resort to overt threats.  But Jaron knew that Gru would vanish the moment that he and Beetle were too distracted to keep an eye on him.  But that was all right; the little creature had already helped them considerably.

After their wild and desperate swing across the chasm, evading the duergar pursuit from the citadel had been almost easy.  Jaron had worried about the devils coming after them, as their ability to fly would have enabled them to cross the chasm after them with ease, but the monstrous fiends had not made an appearance.  There had been parties of duergar scouts and orc warriors that had emerged from the towers on both sides of the chasm, but the halflings, aided by their magical goggles, had been able to slip away without being seen.  When his own life was on the line, Gru had been more than up to the task of keeping up with Jaron and Beetle; the goblin was almost as adept at remaining unseen as the two of them.  

Gru’s knowledge had made his rescue worthwhile.  He’d been able to tell them that they’d only missed Mara and the others being carted off by the duergar by the better part of an hour.  Jaron had silently cursed at having just missed the prisoners, but he’d quickly put that failure behind him, focusing instead on the reality they faced.  Once Gru had told the halflings of the deep dwarves’ plans for their captives, Jaron had convinced the goblin to help them find a route through the Labyrinth that would enable them to overtake the slavers.  Gru had an extensive knowledge of the smaller, less-used side tunnels that riddled throughout the network of main corridors under the mountain, and while he had to be prodded several times to take them in the direction of a new danger, they’d ultimately been able to get ahead of the slow-moving slaver party.  Gru’s focus had been on making good his escape, and he urged Jaron and Beetle to accompany him someplace far away from the duergar and the Hall, but Jaron had other plans.  Once he’d told Gru what he was looking for, the goblin grew even more resistant, but Jaron would not be swayed from his course.  Reluctantly—very reluctantly—the goblin had helped him find what he needed to attempt the rescue he hoped to achieve. 

Jaron felt exhausted.  He and Beetle had been almost constantly on the run since they’d left the Horned Hall, and breaking in had been anything but relaxing to boot.  Gru had spoken at lengths about the capabilities of the Grimmerzhul in an effort to dissuade him from his plans, and Jaron had already gotten a first-hand look at their effectiveness.  The slaver party would likely be heavily guarded, and they were just two worn-down halflings and a panicky goblin.  He certainly wouldn’t have minded having Vhael, Gral, and even Carzen Zelos with them right now. 

But wishing was for children and dreamers, as his father had often said.  Having fought in a war and seen a lot of the world outside of his home village of Fairhollow, Jaron knew it was true.  

He turned as Beetle dropped down onto the passage floor next to him.  They’d picked their ground, and now they had to make the most of it.  “You know what to do,” he said to Beetle.  “Remember, draw them, but don’t let yourself get caught.  I won’t be able to help you.”

“Stab an’ run,” Beetle said, miming the former with a thrust of his fist.

“Be careful.” 

Beetle grinned, and darted into a side passage barely larger than he was.

“This is madness,” Gru said, grimacing as he scraped something slimy off his foot with a piece of stone.  The goblin was speaking his own language, which Jaron understood more or less fluently.  “This is the trouble that a wise hunter gives wide berth, but you two go looking for it!” 

“If we’re lucky, two troubles will cancel each other out,” he said, thinking back to the Horned Hold. 

“It never work.  They no need ears, eyes… they _feel_ steps, through stone.  Never sneak up on them!” 

Jaron turned to him in alarm.  “What?  Why didn’t you warn me of this earlier?”

The goblin threw up his hands.  “I not stop warning!  I say this crazy, bad idea, all of it, you not listen!”

Jaron had taken a step toward the low opening where Beetle had vanished before he stopped himself.  A faint glow was just becoming visible down the passageway where he knew the Grimmerzhul party was fast approaching.  They were out of time; he could only hope that Beetle was able to take care of himself, and do what he had to do. 

“Get back up on that ledge,” Jaron commanded.  “Stay out of sight.”  They’d lent the goblin a knife, but it was too much to hope that he might actually be of help in the coming fight.  Sliding the cover on his lamp shut, he darted across the tunnel to his own chosen ground.  It was another small tunnel mouth, opening a good nine feet above the floor of the main passage, the crevice behind it quickly narrowing within a few paces until even a mouse would have been hard-pressed to slip through.  It was a dead end, if it came to it… Jaron harshly suppressed the thought.  He crawled up the wall and gained the opening without difficulty, and laid out everything that he was going to need.  

He was not a moment too soon.  The lights carried by the slaving party were coming into distinct view, the prisoners and their guards visible now ahead.  With the goggles, he had no difficulty spotting the two duergar in the vanguard, a good fifty paces ahead of the main body.  The two scouts—lightly armored, and carrying loaded crossbows—scanned their surroundings intently, although Jaron knew that they would be unable to see him from his relatively high vantage. 

The rest wasn’t good.  There were three more duergar at the head of the slave train.  These were clad in mail, and one of them was a monster of a warrior whose sheer physical presence Jaron could sense even a hundred paces away.  The slaves, organized into a line, were further guarded by at least four orcs that Jaron could make out, ugly brutes who carried longspears.  They looked to have crossbows slung across their backs, which could mean trouble, he thought.  

But his eyes were drawn back to the slaves, chained together in a single line, separated into two distinct groups by size.  His heart clenched as he recognized those in the front ranks as halflings.  They were still too far away to see clearly, or to make out individual faces, but he could _feel_ the pain that linked them to him.  He wondered if Yarine was amongst them, her head low, struggling to summon the courage to continue to lead her people.  The thought of her in those filthy pits back in the Horned Hold, tormented by devils and the foul dwarves, filled him with an almost blinding rage.  He had to hold it down, however, forced himself to lie utterly still, only the top of his head showing over the lip of the ledge that overlooked the passage below.  He’d used some dust to blacken his features, but he need not have bothered; the slaver party was only using a few weak miner’s lamps carried by the orc guards, their glow penetrating barely beyond the immediate area of the chained column.  Jaron reminded himself that the dark dwarves needed no light at all. 

The duergar scouts approached, moving with cautious deliberation.  Jaron realized that the entire group was slowed by the progress of the chained slaves, who he could now see were in poor condition.  His gaze was drawn down the length of the halfling prisoners to the first human, ten spaces down the queue, who as he watched stepped into the glow of the lamp carried by one of the orcs, temporarily brightening her features enough for Jaron to identify her. 

It was Mara, of course.  Jaron had expected to see her, but it was still a shock to see the fighter there, chained like an animal, and he had to deliberately loosen his fingers where they’d tightened around the shaft of his bow. 

The scouts came closer, until they were almost on top of him.  Careful not to move more than his eyes, Jaron shifted his gaze toward the side passage where Beetle had disappeared.  It hadn’t been much more than a minute since they’d parted, Jaron realized, but it felt like hours had passed.  

His skin prickled as one of the scouts passed directly beneath his hiding place.  He looked across the passage to the ledge where he’d sent Gru, but there was no sign of the goblin.  Once again, his eyes dropped to the side passage.  He could now hear the clink of the chains as the queue of slaves drew closer.  If the slaves were walking past when Beetle returned…

The thought fed fire into his muscles.  There was no more time, and he could not afford to hesitate.  Rising into a crouch, he fitted an arrow to the string of his bow and drew in a single silent motion.  The duergar champion shifted slightly, maybe catching a glimpse of the movement out of the corner of his eye, but he wasn’t Jaron’s target.  He released the shot, the faint strum of the bowstring sounding cacophonous to Jaron’s ears. 

The orc guard staggered as the arrow slammed into his chest.  Jaron knew at once that the shot hadn’t penetrated to a vital organ, but he was already putting his second arrow to the string, shifting his aim to a second orc on the far side of the chain of prisoners.  The orc, just starting to turn toward his stricken companion, took the arrow in his side and let out a ragged scream of pain.  

The relative quiet that had ruled just moments before exploded into a chaos of noise and confusion.  A number of the prisoners cried out, and several fell to the ground as the instinct to flee ran up against the limits of the shackles and chains.  The orcs clutched at their weapons, scanning the surrounding tunnels in vain for the source of the attack.  The one that had taken the first arrow turned a full circle before settling on a more immediate target for his outrage.  Snarling, he lifted his spear toward the string of panicked captives. 

The duergar were quicker to recover.  The leader had recognized the twang of Jaron’s bow and the subtle whistle of the flying arrow, and by the time the second shot was released, he had tracked the path of the missile back to its source.  Lifting his hammer to indicate the sniper’s hiding place, he shouted an order to his companions, pausing to bark a harsh command at the orcs to remain with the prisoners.  Ignoring the chaos behind them, the duergar warriors started forward toward the perch where Jaron had taken shelter. 

The halfling flinched as a crossbow bolt caromed off the rim of the tunnel mouth less than a hand’s span from his head.  The duergar scouts had marked him as well, but all Jaron could see was the wounded orc lifting his spear, and the shrieks of the halflings cringing helpless at his feet, unable to do anything to stop him. 

Ignoring the duergar closing in on his position, Jaron drew, aimed, and released. 

He cursed as the shot, perhaps marred by some subtle warping in the shaft of the arrow, began to dip almost immediately.  He lost it in flight for a fraction of a second, then heard the cry from the orc guard that said the missile had somehow managed to find its target despite the bad shot.  The orc’s thrust went wild, the steel head of its spear scraping sparks off of the stone floor.  As he spun away, Jaron could see the feathered shaft protruding from the back of the orc’s ankle.  The other orcs, perhaps more wary of the anger of the duergar leader, were gathering the prisoners back together in line using the butts of their spears, all too aware of the price that would be extracted from their hides if one of their charges managed to escape. 

Jaron started to turn, to look one last time for his cousin, but all he saw was a pair of hands that materialized on the lip of the ledge directly in front of him.  Before he could react, even to reach for another arrow, the hands were followed by the fearsome visage of one of the duergar scouts, his beard bristling like a forest of red quills. 

With a sudden lunge, the duergar reached out to grab him.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 40


Trying to avoid the grasp of the duergar scout, who had a huge advantage in size and weight over him, Jaron sprang back into the cramped mouth of the tunnel behind him.  With the passage shrinking down so rapidly to a mere crack within a few paces, there wasn’t much space to retreat, and he hit his head on the low ceiling as he tried to evade the duergar’s attack.  The dark dwarf took advantage of the opportunity to pull himself more fully up onto the ledge, blocking any possible route of retreat.  

“Yield,” he hissed.  

Jaron’s answer was to reach for the hilt of his sword, but before he could draw it he felt a sudden stabbing pain in his arm.  He looked down to see several of the thick quills from the duergar’s beard embedded in his skin; they gone through his coat like darts.  Almost instantly a fierce burning sensation spread out from the wounds, crawling up his arm. 

The duergar saw his distress and smiled, reaching for him again.  

Down below, Rundarr and his guards converged below Jaron’s perch.  Seeing the enemy sniper apparently contained, the duergar champion turned to make certain that the slaves were under control.  The orcs were being free with the butts of their spears, and the duergar bristled at the delay that would follow if any of the slaves earned broken bones. 

Neither he nor his men spotted the tiny shadow that emerged from one of the low side-tunnels and slipped to the side.  But they heard the scraping noise that followed a few seconds later, rapidly growing in intensity until it seemed to reverberate off the walls. 

“Ware!” Rundarr shouted, in the same instant that the first kruthik burst from the crowded tunnel into the open space of the intersection.  

Mara’s head swam from where an orc had batted her across the temple with the haft of his spear.  Struggling with the pain of her wounded feet and the despair of her circumstances, it had taken her a few seconds to realize that the slaver column was under attack.  She’d reacted quickly then, trying to tackle the nearest orc guard, but the chains linking her to her fellow prisoners had caught her as several of the captives had succumbed to panic and tried to scatter in a dozen directions at once.  The orc easily evaded her off-balance lunge, and his counter with the butt of his spear had finished the job of sending her to her knees.  He followed that with his boot, ruthlessly driving her onto her back.  The orc seemed intent on battering her into unconsciousness or worse, and any thought of attack was quickly replaced by a need to protect her already battered body from the creature’s harsh kicks.  With her wrists bound behind her, there was little she could do to defend herself.

In that instant, she felt helpless, and was transported back in time to that little girl who’d found herself alone in the world, everything she’d ever had stripped from her by the merciless hand of fate.

_Are you just going to lie there and let them kill you?_ came a voice in her mind, so clear and stark that she was startled into awareness, opening her eyes to see the orc looming over her, his piggish face twisted into a snarl, his boot lifted for another brutal kick. 

Penned in by the larger, stronger duergar, Jaron did the only thing he could; he attacked.  Pushing off from the wall at his back, he sprang at the evil dwarf.  The duergar was waiting for him and had a meaty fist ready, coming across in a hook that would have likely left the halfling missing teeth, had it connected.  But with his first step Jaron dropped and dove under the dwarf’s swing, coming up into a roll that planted his bottom right in front of the duergar’s crotch.  Drawing his knees up almost to his chin, he snapped his legs out, driving both booted feet into the dwarf’s codpiece.  

Jaron was stronger than he looked, and now it was the dwarf that was unbalanced.  The duergar stumbled back a half-step, his arms windmilling in an almost comical gesture as he balanced precariously on the very edge of the tunnel opening.  For an instant, it looked as though he would recover, but then momentum and gravity conspired against him, and he tumbled over backwards.  It was dramatic, although Jaron knew that a fall of nine feet was unlikely to finish off a foe as hardy as a duergar.  

Scrabbling for his bow, the halfling pulled himself back up to a crouch and looked over the scene of utter chaos before him. 

A violent melee raged in the middle of the intersection.  Skittering kruthiks, their spiked limbs clattering on the floor as they moved, were everywhere, shifting and darting as they launched violent attacks upon the embattled duergar.  Jaron couldn’t count them immediately, but there had to be at least a dozen, ranging in size from tiny things barely larger than a housecat to armored nasties as big as a wolfhound.  

The duergar leader loomed over all other combatants, swollen to almost twice his size by the same inherent magic that Jaron had witnessed in the Horned Hold.  As the halfling watched, an adult kruthik launched itself at one of the duergar warriors, and the leader caught it mid-flight with his hammer, delivering a titanic blow that launched the insectoid thing clear across the intersection, caroming off one of the walls before it tumbled at least twenty paces down one of the larger passages.  The duergar, moving faster than Jaron had ever seen, reversed the momentum of his swing and caught a second creature with his backswing, flipping it over onto its back.  It hissed terribly as it fumbled to recover.  A third kruthik sprang up toward the duergar’s legs, stabbing with its sharp foreclaws, but he merely shifted and kicked it away, bringing the heavy hammer up for another strike.  

Jaron looked down at the ground directly in front of his perch, where the duergar scout he’d knocked off the ledge was trying to get up.  A hint of movement out of the corner of his eye resolved into another kruthik, this one barely half the dwarf’s size, which skittered forward with incredible speed, launching itself onto the duergar before he was even aware of the threat.  The dwarf screamed and fell back onto the floor again as the creature slashed at his face and arms, while he struggled to keep it away from him. 

Jaron would have preferred to be anywhere but down there, but what he could see of the struggle going on further back down the passage told him that he didn’t have much time to intervene with the slaves.  He had no idea where Beetle or Gru were, and couldn’t spare either of them more than a passing thought.  Taking a deep breath, he stepped off of the ledge, into the chaos below.  

He grabbed the edge of the ledge with one hand as he fell, holding on just for a second before he let go and dropped easily to the floor, transferring his momentum into an all-out run.  He gave the struggling duergar scout and kruthik a wide berth, dashing along the near wall, trying not to flinch each time he passed one of the low, narrow tunnels that crisscrossed the entire area.  No more kruthiks emerged, and neither the ones already there nor the duergar seemed to notice his passing.  From what he’d seen, it didn’t look like the ones already here would last much longer against the duergar; he didn’t have much time. 

Then a loud crumbling noise drew his attention to the far side of the intersection, toward the small tunnel where the kruthik had originally appeared.  He almost tripped over his own feet as the wall surrounding the tunnel mouth exploded outward, and another kruthik, this one the size of a horse, stepped through the debris into the intersection.  It let out a shriek that seemed to shake the walls, and started forward.  To Jaron it looked like it was coming straight for him, but as the duergar champion shifted to meet it, he saw that he was fortunately too small to be noticed by either side as a threat.  

Then he was past the melee, and the column of slaves was ahead, jumbled into a crowded circle, surrounded by the orc guards.  The orcs were all turned away from him, either focused on their prisoners or on the battle between the up-sized duergar leader and the kruthik hive lord.  Jaron reached for an arrow, intent on striking before the guards were even aware he was there. 

But even as he drew the arrow out of his quiver, a low-pitched hiss from behind him sent a cold chill down his spine.  He glanced over his shoulder to see another kruthik charging at him from behind.  The thing was barely larger than he was, but it looked no less deadly for that, its claws digging at the floor hard enough to scratch the stone.  No doubt they’d pierce his body like daggers, he thought. 

A shout from ahead answered the creature’s hiss from behind.  Jaron turned back to see that one of the orcs had in fact noticed him, and as he drew closer, the warrior lowered his spear, the steel head coming down to intercept the halfling’s charge.  

Caught between a steel point on one side and a set of vicious claws on the other, Jaron found himself suddenly without any good options.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 41


The voice in her mind stirred Mara to action, even as the orc slammed his booted heel down once more at her battered body.  

With her hands bound behind her back, and the chain still binding her to the other prisoners, there was little she could do to evade.  But she twisted her body, taking the kick on her shoulder instead of her vulnerable torso.  Pain shot through her body, but she forced herself to ignore it, turning her body further and snapping up her bound arms.  There wasn’t much give in the chain, but she managed to hook a loop of it around the orc’s boot, and jerked her entire body forward to pull him off balance. 

The orc grunted something and tried to pull free, yanking hard enough that Mara thought her arms would be pulled out of their sockets.  But now the tangling chain served as an anchor, holding the orc in place.  She knew it wouldn’t hold him long, and bent her legs back to deliver a blind kick toward where she thought the orc was standing.  Her bare foot clipped the shin of his other foot hard, but her momentary sense of triumph died as two hundred and fifty pounds of armored orc tumbled onto her.  Her breath was blasted from her lungs, and new pains erupted as the hard edges of the orc’s armor and gear poked her.  

Without her hands, she couldn’t fight him off, and he was too heavy for her to wriggle free.  She fought for a breath, gasping as the orc’s struggles continued to batter her.  At least he wasn’t kicking her any more, she thought, as the stink of the orc’s body filled her nostrils.  His squealing sounded like shrieks in her ears. 

Then, abruptly, she felt the orc stiffen, and a new, familiar stench filled her nostrils as a trail of hot wetness ran down along her neck.  The orc moved again, but it was only to roll off her.  

Sucking in a welcome breath of air, Mara pulled herself up to find herself eye-to-eye with Beetle.  The halfling was holding a knife covered in blood. 

“Hi, Mara!” he said with a grin. 

While Mara fought for her life, Jaron faced off against a spear and a charging kruthik.  Without time to think over options, and remembering all too well the image of the kruthik jumping all over the fallen duergar scout, he simply acted.  He was too close to dodge out of the way of the spearhead, so all he could do was jerk to the side as the steel blade came at him.  He felt the hot pain of the blade as it tore a crease along his side, but it didn’t penetrate, didn’t catch on his flesh or his clothes, and then he was through, and inside the guard’s reach.  The orc tried to bring his weapon back up in time to strike the halfling, but Jaron was far too quick, and he darted between the orc’s legs before the warrior could do anything to stop him.  The orc started to turn after him, but then the kruthik, charging forward, was on him, and he found his hands more than full with sixty pounds of insane reptilian violence.  

The other orc guards were quite occupied as well.  Another was barely holding off a small kruthik with his spear, shifting wildly as it skittered back and forth in an attempt to get at him.  Another guard was wrestling with a pair of human miners for control of his spear; a third human lay bleeding out his life at their feet.  The last orc lay in a bloody heap next to Mara, his throat cut; Jaron saw the reason for that a moment later as he skidded to a halt next to her, and saw Beetle, helping to pull the long chain out from the shackles connecting the woman warrior to the panicked halflings cowering nearby.  

Jaron didn’t stop for conversation; he lifted his bow and sighted on the orc fighting with the human miners.  He was just in time, as the orc tore free, knocking both men prone and lifting his spear to skewer the nearest.  Unfortunately for him, Jaron’s arrow beat him to the punch, and he fell to his knees, the spear clattering from his grasp.  The men were back on him in a second, pounding at the crippled orc with their manacled wrists.  

“Nice to see you,” Mara said, grimacing as she thrust her bound wrists under her feet so they were in front of her.  While Beetle freed her from the chain, she stood unsteadily.  She was in bad shape, Jaron could see, but that didn’t stop her from reaching down and picking up the orc’s fallen spear.  She could barely keep a grip on it with the shackles pinning her hands together, but she looked no less fierce for it.    

“We have to get out of here!” Jaron hissed.  Mara nodded, taking up a guarding position as Beetle released the last of the slaves from the linking chain.  Their wrists were still shackled together, but there was no time to free them from the iron bands now.  The battle raging just a few paces away was still going strong, but there were only a few kruthik still moving, and even as he watched the duergar leader delivered a powerful blow to the hive lord that knocked it over onto its side, its limbs flailing in every direction as it tried in vain to recover.  One of the duergar was down, but the others had taken up warding positions around him, surrounded by the pulverized carcasses of a half-dozen kruthiks of varying sizes. 

“Go, go!” Mara warned, holding the spear clumsily as she warded their retreat.  The surviving orc guards, distracted by their own enemies, paid them no heed.  The one that had been poking at the kruthik with his spear finally pinned and impaled his foe; he might have noticed the escaping prisoners, except for the arrow that Jaron fired into his back.  He sagged against the wall of the tunnel, trying in vain to grab the shaft jutting from his body. 

The other orc, the one that had nearly stabbed Jaron, was faring less well.  The kruthik barely came up to mid-thigh on him, but it was ripping madly at his legs with its long claws, leaving the orc bleeding from several serious wounds.  The orc was trying to push it away with his spear, but the creature was too dogged, springing up at him in an attempt to simply overpower him.  It was an odd thing, watching the little monster hacking fearlessly at a foe several times its size, and for a moment Jaron just stood there, an arrow nocked to his half-drawn bow.  

It was Mara who finally shook him out of the momentary reverie.  “Let’s go!” she hissed in his ear, yanking him back with a hand on his shoulder.  Turning, Jaron saw that the others were already gone, heading back down the passage, the weak light from a miner’s lamp already growing dimmer as the freed slaves fled.  

With one last look at the bloody mess behind him, Jaron turned and fled after them.


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## Richard Rawen

Excellent!  Once again you bring combat and tactics to vivid life, I'm really enjoying seeing our diminuitive heroes wreak havoc!
As usual you deliver a spectacular story LB, thanks.


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## nwjavahead

*I agree!*

Once again Great LB! Loving Beetle (even if you had to X the Warlock).  LoL, keep it up!

djordje


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## Lazybones

Thanks for the kudos, guys! I appreciate the comments. 

* * * * * 

Chapter 42


Even Carzen, who knew next to nothing about engineering or stonework, could tell when the construction changed.  It started subtlely, the raw passageway of the Labyrinth giving way to more precise angles of floor, wall, and ceiling, the rough and often uneven floor replaced by tiles worn smooth by the passage of many feet.  It felt old, _ancient_ even, and there was something else, a vaguely uneasy presence that sent cold chills traveling up the fighter’s spine.  It felt like there was something watching, waiting, something not quite there, hiding in the shadows out in the corner of his eye, but not there when he turned his head suddenly to seek it. 

Carzen shook off a shudder.  Damned if he wouldn’t be happy to get the hell out this gods-forsaken place. 

He looked ahead, at Vhael, who was walking alongside their guide, Terrlen.  Or whatever monster lay concealed beneath the nervous outer shell of the man.  Carzen had decided to leave him to the dragonborn.  This whole crazy expedition belonged to the dragonborn, to him and his wizard, and now the warlock, all of them equally insane.  

He’d made one more attempt to talk to the warlord, before they set out again from the sheltered niche where they’d taken a few precious hours of rest.  In hindsight, he wasn’t sure what answers he’d been trying to get.  Vhael certainly hadn’t been very friendly. 

“Why are we doing this?” he’d asked.  “We killed the slavers.”

For a few seconds, he’d thought that the dragonborn was just going to ignore him.  It wouldn’t be the first time.  But after letting out a deep, rumbling breath, Vhael had responded.  “Our mission included freeing the hostages.”

There’s been a warning in his tone, but Carzen had felt something driving him to continue.  “You know, my father doesn’t give two  about a few halflings.  He won’t care whether you bring them back or not.”

Vhael had pierced him with a cold stare.  “I am not your father.”

And that was it, when it came down to it.  Now, as they approached this Demon Well or Well of Fiends or whatever it was called, Carzen wondered for the hundredth time why he was still here.  He glanced back at Gez, who at least had the grace to look terrified as he brought up the rear of their little column.  Carzen tried to offer a reassuring smile, but it came out more as a grimace.   

He turned back as the corridor opened onto a larger space ahead.  As Vhael’s broad shoulders moved out of his way he saw that it was a chamber of considerable size, its far wall barely visible in the light of their lamps.  Several pillars supported the ceiling, and there were two corridors that appeared to be exits, one to the left and the other a dark shadow on the opposite wall.    

The feeling he’d sensed earlier in the corridor was stronger here, and he felt the skin on his arms start to crawl, almost as if there were tiny spiders crawling up and down the limbs under his armor and clothing.  Vhael turned and glanced back at him, and Carzen thought he saw it in the dragonborn’s eyes, a realization that there was something _wrong_ with this place. 

“I take it we’re here,” Vhael said, turning back toward the guide. 

Terrlen Darkseeker nodded, his head bobbing up and down on his spindly neck.  

“Then I thank you for your aid.”  He drew out a small drawstring bag from his pouch, and offered it to the guide, who just looked down at it, a confused look on his face.  “What?” he finally said.  

“The second half of our agreed payment.  We will have no further need of your services.”

“But… getting back…”

“We will manage.  My companion here has been taking detailed notes of our progress.”  He indicated Gral with a nod; the dwarf said nothing, but his gaze did not shift from Terrlen.  Surina had shifted to take up a position behind the guide, Carzen noticed. 

Terrlen still hadn’t made a move toward the bag in Vhael’s outstretched hand.  “You want me to return… to the Hall… alone?”

“This place is dangerous,” Vhael said.  “I can feel it.  I will not take a civilian into such a situation; the risk is too great.”  

For a moment the pair faced each other, and it was Terrlen who looked away first.  He took the bag of coins, tucking it into the open front of his tunic. 

“Do you smell that?” Gez asked, hovering in the shelter of the passage mouth.  

The others turned to him, but before any of them could comment, a noise interrupted them, a faint rumbling that seemed to issue from the floor beneath their feet.  

“What the…” Carzen began, but Vhael cut him off.  “Quiet!” the dragonborn commanded, drawing out his big sword, turning toward the center of the room.  

Once again it was Gez who noticed the danger first, but his warning came too late for them to react.  “Look!  There!” he shouted, pointing to the floor between two of the pillars to their left. 

Carzen felt a sinking sensation in his gut as he saw the slight bulge in the floor tiles, a ridge that was coming toward them like a rippling wave through a pond.  He felt as though time had slowed to a crawl as he reached for the hilt of his sword.  Vhael was shouting something, but the words were unintelligible.  Gral and Surina were coming forward, and Carzen thought he could see the tiny puffs of dust that arose under their heels with each step they took.  His sweaty fingers closed around the hilt of his sword, and as he started to draw the blade from its scabbard, everything suddenly burst into rapid action around him.  

The floor burst in several places, the tiles parting as several long, fat tentacles erupted from beneath them, directly in front of Vhael and the others.  Any doubts about its intentions were dispelled as two of the tentacles lashed out and seized Vhael’s legs, holding the dragonborn fast and then dragging him toward the dark opening in the floor where even more tentacles were starting to emerge.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 43


Mara leaned back against the wall, overcome by exhaustion.  She was too tired to sleep, even if it had been safe to drift off, which it most definitely was not.  Lifting her head took an effort, but she forced herself to do it, to look at the huddled group of halflings who sat together in a quiet knot across from her.  They had come a lot further than she had, she reminded herself, had been prisoners for much longer.  

The two human miners lay on the floor a short distance apart from the halflings.  They’d collapsed into sleep almost instantly on their stopping.  Even in the weak light from their single lamp—they were rationing their oil—she could see the dark bruises that covered the face of Harek, the dirty bandages that covered Calder’s feet.  

She rubbed her wrists, where the marks from her shackles were still visible. It would be a while before they healed.  Longer still before the other marks of her captivity faded.  If they lived long enough for that to happen.  

A faint noise startled her, and she reached for the spear that was never far from her side.  She’d risen to a crouch before she recognized the source of the sound. 

“I’m sorry to startle you,” Jaron said, materializing out of the darkness like a wraith.  She still hadn’t gotten used to how the halflings could see in the dark now.  But it was damned useful trait to have in this place, she had to admit.  The black goggles, which glistened in the weak light from the lamp, gave him an odd, alien look, like he was some sort of half-man, half-insect creature doomed to wander these deep halls for eternity.  

She shook her head to try to clear it as she gestured him closer.  Her mind was wandering down some weird pathways of late.  

“Are they still following?”

Jaron shot a brief glance at the halflings from his village that Mara didn’t miss.  He nodded.  “Beetle’s attempt to draw them off down one of the side passages didn’t work, at least not for long.  I didn’t get a close look, but there’s definitely more of them, including a wizard that I think I saw back at the Horned Hold.”

“Sounds like you stirred up quite the hornet’s nest there,” Mara replied. 

“Yeah, they’re more persistent that I thought they’d be.”

“I imagine their reputation depends on not letting slaves escape.  Especially since they lied to the dragonborn about having us as prisoners.  If we make it back to the Hall, that deception could make trouble for them.”  

“That’s a big ‘if’ right now,” Jaron said, his voice heavy, though he made an effort to keep his despair from showing on his face. 

After fleeing the battle at the intersection, they’d made their way quickly back away from the surviving duergar, looking for another route back to the Hall.  The goblin Gru had disappeared, leaving them without a guide.  Mara had a general idea of the layout of the Labyrinth, at least the main passages, but she hadn’t been in this part of the complex before.  Jaron certainly wasn’t comfortable in leading them into some of the tight, narrow side passages they passed, especially given Gru’s warnings from before about leaving the main tunnels.  But they had been moving farther away from the Hall with each step.  

A few hours back, they’d passed the fork that led back to the Horned Hold.  There was no question about that decision, but shortly thereafter they’d come across another split, with one fork bearing off to the left.  As far as Jaron had been able to judge, that choice led more toward the direction of the Seven-Pillared Hall, so they’d headed that way.  

They hadn’t gone far before the tunnel started to descend, gently at first, the slope barely noticeable.  Jaron had been worried, but they’d pressed on, only to come to a sharper fall, with the corridor starting to bend back upon itself, forming switchbacks that grew ever steeper.  That had been alarming enough for Jaron to suggest retreat, but that had been when Beetle had suddenly appeared to report that dark dwarves were following them.  

Leaving no choice but to go forward.  

“Get everyone together,” Mara said.  “We’re moving out.”


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 44


Vhael fought against the tentacles that were lashed around his legs, but it was all he could do to keep his footing as the still-unidentified monstrosity under the floor tugged him inexorably closer toward the gaping hole it had opened.  He tried to bring his sword into play, but couldn’t get enough leverage for a strong swing, and the big blade only bounced harmlessly over the rubbery hide of one of the tentacles.  

The dragonborn’s companions came to his aid.  Surina tried to blast one of the tentacles with a stream of fiery eldritch energy, but her bolt went wide, missing its target entirely and almost striking Gez back in the entry before it sizzled against the chamber wall.  The warlock hissed and began circling around to get a better shot, flames erupting around her hands as she summoned her magic for another attack.  

Gral’s intervention was more direct; the dwarf simply stepped forward, avoiding a lashing tendril that nearly clipped his head, and thrust his staff into the dark opening where the tentacles had emerged.  His _thunderwave_ shook the floor, and the tentacles shuddered wildly as the wizard’s spell impacted their owner below.  The two holding Vhael loosened enough for the dragonborn to pull free, leaving ugly black burns where they had coiled around his limbs.  

Carzen, finally recovering from his own surprise, drew his sword free and started forward to help.  He didn’t notice Terrlen edging back along the wall toward the exit, or the dark shadow that shifted above the guide, a sinuous form that crept forward through a crevice in the ceiling overhead.  But he did notice a flicker of movement as a second shadow approached in the shadow of the pillars to the right.  The light from Gez’s lamp was partially obstructed by the chaotic melee taking place a few paces away, but as the thing leapt out from behind the nearest pillar, he caught a good look at it.  

“Incoming monster!” he yelled in warning to the others, rushing forward to intercept it before it could leap upon Surina from behind.

He didn’t make it in time.  

Carzen recognized the charging creature as a ghoul, the stink of it filling his nostrils as he drew closer.  Surina, hearing his shout, starting to turn, but the ghoul was fast, damned fast, and it sprang at her like a cat, seizing her with its claws.  A streaking globe of flame shot wildly from her hands, hitting the ceiling near one of the pillars, erupting in a wash of light and heat that quickly died.  The warlock tried to shake the ghoul off, but the cloying effects of its touch were clearly affecting her, and it only dug deeper, trying to work close enough in to deliver a bite.  

Carzen laid into the ghoul with a roar, delivering a powerful blow from his sword that bit deeply even into the unnatural hide of the undead monstrosity.  The sheer force of it knocked it free from the warlock, but before either she or the fighter could respond it sprang back up and came at Carzen, claws extended toward his face.  Carzen barely got his shield up in time to block, but even so it drove him back a step, the ghoul’s claws scraping loudly on the metal.  

White flashes of cold energy flared near the other embattled combatants as Gral and Vhael continued fighting off the tentacle-monster under the floor.  The creature had not given up after Gral’s initial attack, the tentacles surging up again to seize both foes.  The wizard was caught around the waist, the tentacle tightening around him like an iron shackle.  But Vhael was ready this time, and he intercepted a tentacle with a powerful stroke of his sword, severing it near the base.  Unfortunately for him, the attack did little to dissuade the creature, and two more tentacles lashed him, one of which caught him around the ankle and almost pulled him off his feet.

Gez had spent the first few seconds of the battle huddled in the entry passageway, fighting a surge of terror that threatened to undo him.  Carzen’s loud cry snapped him out of it, and he put down his lamp and drew out an arrow, fitting it to the fraying string of his bow with fingers that shook more than a little.  He stepped forward and started to take aim, looking for a shot that wouldn’t risk his allies, when a strangled noise to his right drew his attention around.  

He turned to see Terrlen being strangled by a creature with an impossibly long arm that stretched all the way from its perch in a crack in the ceiling to where the guide huddled against the wall, struggling furiously as he tried in vain to break free. 

Gez aimed and fired almost by instinct.  The arrow shot into the crevice above and stabbed into the monster’s leg.  The thing looked down at him, fixing him with a cold stare that radiated pure malevolence, and it let out a sinister hiss. 

Gez’s horror was redoubled as he heard an answering hiss behind him.  

The soldier threw himself down, a desperate cry drawn unwilling from his lips as something hard clasped onto his shoulders from behind and above.  For a moment the probing touch brushed his neck, but before it could lock shut he pulled free.  Splayed out on the floor, overcome with the thoughts of _whatever the hell it was_ coming for him, the soldier tried to crawl away, knowing that he would never escape, that the improbable streak of luck that had somehow let him survive thus far had finally come to an end.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 45


Even in the desperation of their fight against the tentacle-monster, Vhael monitored what was going on around him with the experienced senses of a veteran of hundreds of fights.  While he didn’t see Terrlen being strangled behind him, or hear the guide’s raspy cries over the noise of battle, he did see Carzen and Surina engage the ghoul, and spotted the attack on Gez that knocked him down and sent him fleeing down the passage.  He’d never seen a choker, but recognized from written accounts the small but wiry creature that crawled out of a crack in the ceiling and crept after the soldier, clinging to the ceiling like a spider.  

Vhael chopped at the tentacle holding Gral, damaging it enough to release its grip upon the wizard.  “Gral, there!” he shouted, indicating with a snap of his head the danger.  

The dwarf didn’t hesitate, lifting his staff and unleashing a powerful blast of frost that streaked across the room and solidly impacted the choker.  The _chill strike_ scored a direct hit, and the choker fell from its perch, landing in a tangled heap on the floor at the mouth of the passage.

But the wizard paid for his intervention, as a tentacle erupted from the ground under him, knocking him roughly back, twining around his legs and slamming his head onto the floor tiles hard enough to send sparks shooting through his vision. 

“Damn beastie!” he cursed, fighting to stay conscious as the tentacle crushed his legs together like a vise.  His staff had fallen away, and his magic flitted at the edges of his perceptions, out of reach of his battered mind. 

Carzen continued to give ground before the furious assault of the ghoul.  Its claws had torn runnels in the front of his shield and and ripped several scales off the front of his armored torso, but as of yet he had not been hurt.  That nearly changed as the creature seized his shield and pulled it aside, sweeping at his face with his other claw.  Carzen was ready for the attack, though, and snapped his sword up, slicing off three of the ghoul’s fingers.  The creature let out a hideous sound, and Carzen thought that he was seriously screwed. 

Then flames exploded around the ghoul’s back, for a moment framing the creature in a halo of bright red fire.  The monster’s angry shriek became something darker, agonized, and it turned toward the source of its suffering.  

That left Carzen with the perfect opening to strike the ghoul’s head from its shoulders.  

Surina had already gone to the help of Gral and Vhael, who were being pounded on hard by the tentacle monster.  Carzen looked around for Gez, but saw no sign of the soldier.  He did see a small creepy-looking thing that darted away toward a nearby pillar, and as he turned around to look behind him, he saw something that truly unnerved him.  

The tentacle monster had unleashed a considerable amount of damage upon the companions, but it in turn was taking a lot of punishment itself.  Several tentacles lay severed or broken upon the shattered tiles, and while others had emerged from the ground to replace them, the weren’t striking with the same intensity that had characterized the creature’s initial attacks.  One turned and lashed out at Surina as the warlock approached, but she transformed it into a blackened husk with a point-blank _eldritch blast_.  The one holding Gral had started to drag him toward the hole where presumably the creature waited below, but Vhael intercepted it, severing the tentacle with a single chop of his greatsword.  The dragonborn helped the battered wizard to his feet, waiting for another attack, but it appeared that the tentacle-monster had had enough.  The last few tentacles slid back into the hole in the floor, which sagged slightly and then settled. 

“Gez!” Vhael shouted.  Glancing over at Carzen, the dragonborn followed the fighter’s gaze all the way back behind him.  Gral and Surina, perhaps sensing something, did the same. 

What they saw was Terrlen Darkseeker, now transformed into the furry, muscled form of a humanoid wolf, tearing apart the choker that had grabbed him.  The werewolf, sensing their gazes, looked up from his kill, and roared a challenge through bloody jaws.  

At that moment, a small horde of gnolls and hyenas burst into the room through the two passages on the far side of the chamber.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 46


Carzen stood in a defensive stance, his shield up, as he looked back and forth between the two threats. 

Vhael hadn’t looked away from the werewolf, although he had to have heard the gnolls come in; their hyenas had started a raucous barking as soon as they’d spotted the intruders.  The dragonborn’s eyes were fixed on the creature that had been Terrlen Darkseeker, and he was talking to it, something about how they were not his enemy.  To Carzen, it didn’t look like the thing was buying it; it growled as it slowly rose, letting the savaged and bloody carcass of the choker fall at its feet.  

He glanced back at the gnolls.  They had brought lights with them, a pair of heavy lanterns that blanketed the room in warm light.  He counted them almost reflexively, a pair of spearmen, an archer, and four hyenas in the left group, three more archers and another four hyenas to the right.  Even as his brain calculated the odds he was stepping slowly backwards, toward the exit.  He started to turn back toward Vhael, expecting the order to fall back. 

One of the gnolls barked an order, and all sorts of unpleasant things happened at once.  

Fire exploded around the gnolls even as the hyenas sprang forward, with those odd clipped barks that sounded almost like laughter.  Surina’s _avernian eruption_ singed several of the gnolls, and one of the archers fell back screaming, trying to put out the flames that flared up one arm.  The other archers fired their bows, the shafts lancing through the ranks of the intruders.  Carzen raised his shield by instinct, and heard a loud impact that sent a shudder up his arm.  

A cloud of roiling frost exploded in the ranks of the charging hyenas, swallowing half of them.  It also served to obstruct the aim of the enemy archers—_a bit late_, Carzen thought—but he could see that it wasn’t big enough to stop them; they’d just move around it and come at them from the flanks. 

As if to confirm that thought, another arrow shot out from the edge of the cloud, no doubt fired in the same instant that the dwarf had unleashed his spell.  With that same preternatural awareness that sometimes fell upon him in the midst of battle, he saw the shaft fly by Vhael’s head, so close that he swore he saw a single droplet of blood flick away from the dragonborn’s scaled hide.  The arrow kept going, and it slammed squarely into the center of the werewolf’s chest.  

Carzen had kept on retreating, but he hesitated in the shadow of the entry.  Gral and Surina had remained near Vhael, and they had moved to protect him as the charging hyenas drew closer.  One of them split off for the group and came rushing toward Carzen.  The fighter lifted his sword to strike. 

But before the hyena could reach him, something lashed around his neck from behind like an iron band, and he suddenly found himself gasping for air, unable to move.  

The hyena barked and came straight for him.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 47


Carzen would have cursed if he’d been able to manage the breath for it, but whatever was holding him had a grip like that of a giant.  He remembered the thing that had scuttled away, and tried to break free, but it had him fast; he couldn’t escape.  

He got his shield up just in time as the hyena slammed into him.  He’d hoped its impact would have jarred him free of the chokehold around his neck, but if anything the grip seemed to grow tighter.  Bright lights began to flash in front of his eyes.  

Surina and Gral held their ground as the hyenas rushed toward them, although they both lacked the armor protection that shielded the others from harm.  Surina’s lips twisted into an almost eager grin, her eyes flashing as her magic coursed through her.  But before she could attack, she was suddenly thrust roughly aside by Vhael. 

She growled something harsh in Draconic, but the reason for the warlord’s odd move became clear an instant later, as the werewolf shot through the space Surina had occupied, its bloody claws slavering as it yanked the arrow out of its chest and tossed it aside.  It met a hyena in mid-leap and bore it to the ground, its jaws crushing its neck, ripping out huge chunks of flesh from the hapless creature as it jerked its head up and let out a violent roar.  

The gnolls had spread out around Gral’s _freezing cloud_, just as Carzen had predicted.  The huntsmen lifted their bows to fire, most of them targeting the werewolf, while the two spearmen rushed forward to melee.  Gral targeted them with a pair of _icy rays_, blasting them with magical cold that temporarily delayed them as their muscles stiffened in response.  Vhael stepped in front of the dwarf and intercepted a charging hyena, delivering a powerful two-handed chop with his sword that opened a bloody gash in the creature’s shoulder.  The hyena yelped and snapped at him, while another leapt for the warlord’s legs, landing a bite that tore though his leggings but failed to do more than scratch the dragonborn’s durable hide.  

Most of the hyenas fell upon the werewolf, coming at it from all sides, trying to tear it apart.  But the werewolf fought like a thing possessed, tearing one hyena from him and hurling it aside, slashing a second across the face with its claws.  A hyena sank its teeth into the werewolf’s leg, locking its jaws, but the thing that had been Terrlen merely reached down and seized the hyena’s head, snarling as it pulled, and pulled, and then tore the hyena’s jaws fully open with a sick snapping noise.  The creature fell to the ground, making a keening noise that sounded like death as its broken jaw flapped loosely under its head.  

The ferocity of its counterattack had driven the hyenas back for a moment, but before they could regroup, a pair of arrows sank into the werewolf’s back.  The creature spun and snarled, springing out of the circle of attackers, and landing in a full charge that took it right into the midst of the gnoll archers.  

Carzen’s vision was starting to constrict into a narrow tunnel that was continuing to shrink.  The hyena kept snapping at him, but thus far it hadn’t managed to get a solid bite through the armor protecting his legs and torso.  For a moment, it was so ridiculous that he might have laughed, had he been able to breathe.  To come all this way, to die thus…

He never saw the dark form that emerged from the passage behind him, but he felt the sudden impact as Gezzelhaupt sliced his shortsword across the extended arm of the choker, just above where it had latched onto Carzen’s neck.  Air, a blessed flood of it, filled his lungs as the strangling grip went slack.  The choker, seriously hurt, retreated, trailing its crippled arm after it as it slowly fumbled its way back to the crevice in the ceiling from whence it had emerged.  Neither Gez nor Carzen were in any position to stop it, as they had more pressing concerns on their mind by then. 

The battle had not paused while Carzen had fought for his life on its periphery, and now combatants were starting to fall.  One of the gnoll archers was down, blood oozing from a dozen deep gashes in his flanks, but the werewolf was starting to look like a pincushion, with the other huntsmen firing arrows point-blank into its body.  The magical curse that had transformed Terrlen had given him an unnatural boost to his vitality, but it was obvious that even he could not absorb this level of punishment.  The werewolf turned and lunged at the nearest archer, but its attack was slow and ineffective, and the gnoll easily evaded it. 

Vhael, Surina, and Gral had their hands full with the surviving hyenas, which had been reinforced by the two gnoll marauders, which had finally shaken off the linger effects of the dwarf wizard’s _icy rays_.  Gral hit them with a _thunderwave_ as they approached, but he was hit by an arrow, and forced to withdraw behind his companions.  The marauders moved to flank Surina, who met them with a spray of fiery rays that failed to stop their advance.  Vhael tried to come to her aid, but a particularly persistent hyena seized his ankle, nearly managing to knock him over.  

Thus far the companions had managed to hold their own, especially with the werewolf throwing the gnoll forces into disarray, but the defenders of the Well of Demons had not yet been fully mustered.  With a clank of metal and a whiff of brimstone, another trio of figures emerged from one of the passages on the far side of the room.  The leader was clad in the familiar trappings of a gnoll demonic scourge, his armor grimly decorated with slashses of red.  Another huntsman followed behind him, an arrow fitted to his bow. 

But more disturbing by far was the last newcomer, a hulking ape-like monstrosity that came in the wake of the scourge, overshadowing the gnoll with its sheer bulk and ferocity.  One glance was enough to reveal that this was no otherworldly foe; the companions didn’t need a second look to recognize it, as they’d already tangled with this type of foe. 

The two gnolls, accompanied by the barlgura demon, charged forward to tip the scales back against the surface-worlders that had dared to intrude upon the Well of Demons.


----------



## Richard Rawen

CRAP!  heh, how many times have I thought that? DOZENS... and posted it probably another dozen... 
You have the title "Cliffhanger King" well in hand, and well earned!

I do have to comment: Two Arcanists!?  And they seem to be holding their own =-)

Did I just speak too soon? LOL

Truly enjoying your story sir, thanks for taking the time to share it with us!


----------



## Lazybones

Thanks, RR!

* * * * * 

Chapter 48


Vhael saved them from chaos through a sheer effort of will. 

“Form the line!” the dragonborn roared, pulling Surina back from the closing jaws of the trap before the gnolls could flank her.  Gral followed in his wake, the dwarf knowing the warlord’s maneuver almost by instinct, the wizard anchoring one flank under the protective arc of the dragonborn’s huge sword.  

Somehow Carzen found himself obeying as well, the drills of the training field coming back to him after years of neglect, and he shifted into the spot opposite Vhael at the front of what was becoming a defensive wedge.  Gez took the far flank opposite Gral, the soldier protected by Carzen on one side and by the chamber wall on the other.  Their position was not perfect, and a foe could still flank them by circling around the perimeter of the room, but it was a decent position, one formed just in time as the gnolls descended upon them. 

They were greeted by a gout of fire as Vhael opened his jaws wide and unleashed a blast of flame that swept across the front of the enemy ranks.  A hyena, already blinded in one eye by a stroke from Vhael’s blade, fell to the ground, its bloody face charred black.  The two marauders fell back, wary, but their retreat was only for a few steps, and they reformed their own line as the scourge fell in between them, the fearsome gnoll roaring a defiant curse at them as he lifted his heavy flail.  

“_Katek char narshak!_ Vhael shouted in return, his cry echoing through the chamber as powerfully as the gnoll’s had.  Carzen did not understand the language of either shout, but something in the dragonborn’s voice stirred him, and he found himself baring his teeth as he lifted his sword in a ready stance.  When the gnoll spearman came at him the spear seemed almost like it was stuck in the air, and he easily came in under the thrust, driving six inches of his sword through the gnoll’s armor into his rangy flesh.  The gnoll drew back, and only his training kept Carzen from charging forward to finish him.  Instead he dropped back into position, protecting Vhael’s flank.  

The scourge laid into the warlord with a powerful overhead swing that should have crushed the dragonborn’s skull like an overripe melon.  But Vhael ducked under the stroke, escaping with only a glancing hit that scraped a bloody gash along the side of his neck.  For just a moment the dragonborn faltered, and the scourge lunged again, hoping to finish his foe.  But Vhael only shifted his stance and brought up his sword like the head of a pike.  Now it was the scourge that had to dodge, and he had to abort his attack, nursing a cut of his own just over one beady eye.  

For a second the two faced off against each other, terrible opponents who each now had a better measure of the other.   

Gral held the warlord’s flank, a hastily-summoned _shield_ keeping the other spearman’s initial thrusts at bay.  He cursed as his _ray of frost_ narrowly missed the enemy, the white streak shooting harmlessly out across the chamber before frosting the surface of one of the pillars.  “Where’s that bloody demon?” he yelled, as the gnoll probed warily at the magical barrier protecting him.  

The barlgura had started to follow the scourge toward the battle raging across the room, but its attention had been distracted by a flurry of motion to its left.  The fiend turned to see the werewolf lifting one of the huntmasters off its feet, the gnoll squealing as it fought to tear free.  Terrlen snarled and hurled the gnoll into the small, open pit that gaped in the floor between the two passages.  The hapless huntmaster crashed into the lip of the pit and scrabbled to hold on, but gravity finally did its work, and the archer plummeted out of view with a scream that abruptly cut off.  The werewolf looked a mess, blood running down its body and matting its fur from the half dozen or so arrows embedded in its body.  But it seemed to get a second wind as it caught sight of the demon, and it issued a roar of challenge that the barlgura was quick to answer. 

The two combatants met in a blur of claws and teeth.  Droplets of blood flew out of the chaotic tumble, splattering in a wide radius upon the floor.  Terrlen fought with an insane ferocity, but the demon was fresh and unwounded, and that advantage proved insurmountable despite the long gashes that the werewolf tore across the fiend’s furry hide with his claws.  For one instant it looked as though Terrlen might have a chance, as he leapt upon the demon’s back, jaws seeking purchase on its fat neck, but the barlgura seized him with one muscled arm, pulling him forward over the demon’s head and slamming him hard into the ground.  The werewolf tried to pull free, but his movements were growing weaker, and the demon repeatedly lifted him and slammed him down against the floor, once, twice, until a final impact, accompanied by a sick cracking noise, ended his struggles for good. 

The demon stepped forward over the carcass of its defeated foe, and answered Gral’s question with a furious roar that promised the same treatment for the rest of the adventurers.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 49


Carzen Zelos fought like a machine.  

A quiet calm he had never felt before had come over him somehow, even in the midst of the noisy, confusing melee.  His sword felt like a wooden switch in his hand, flashing and arcing in a blur even before he could form the conscious thought to move it.  

His enemies could not touch him. 

The gnoll spearman, already wounded twice by his blade, came in at him again, driving the spear straight toward the center of the fighter’s torso.  Carzen stepped to the side, and as the bright steel head flashed past him he drove his sword down into the gnoll’s unprotected left arm, crunching through flesh and bone and muscle.  Blood spurted from the wound as the gnoll staggered back, his arm dangling by a few bits of skin and tendon.  Carzen lifted his bloody blade to finish it, but the gnoll was clearly done, and he let him expire as he looked around for another enemy. 

To his immediate left, Gez was furiously trying to keep a hyena at bay with his shortsword.  The creature was seriously wounded, blood matting its hide from dozens of cuts and scratches, but its injuries only seemed to fuel its fury as it kept surging at Gez, trying to lock its jaws on a leg or arm.  

For Carzen, it was the easiest thing in the world to reach out and slide a foot of steel into the hyena’s side, the slender sword slipping between two ribs deep into its body.  The hyena let out a strangled yelp and flopped over, its left leg kicking spasmatically. 

“Thanks, lieutenant,” Gez said, but Carzen was already turning around to help Vhael. 

The gnoll scourge and dragonborn warlord had been exchanging powerful blows in a violent contest that looked like it would only end when one combatant was left broken on the floor.  Vhael was obviously battered, his head, neck, and shoulders bruised and cut where the scourge’s flail had laid into him.  A big dent in the side of his helmet showed where one particularly potent blow had landed, but somehow the dragonborn fought on, even as trickles of dark blood ran down his chest and arms. 

The scourge was making little effort to evade Vhael’s counters, simply taking the hits as he kept delivering those deadly swings of his flail.  His own armor was creased and bloody where the greatsword had connected, and one ear hung down from a long flap of flesh, the vicious wound oozing blood in bright red spurts.  

The warlord fought alone for the moment; as he turned Carzen saw that Gral was grappling with the other gnoll marauder, flashes of white frost erupting between them as the dwarf tried to keep the gnoll’s snapping jaws from engulfing his face.  Surina was still on her feet, but had sagged against the chamber wall, a pair of arrows jutting from her chest not far from her neck.  She was trying to rally, but a strained mewling hissed from her as her blood continued to drain from the nasty wounds. 

On the other hand, Carzen was invincible. 

He actually laughed as he lunged forward and came in toward the scourge’s flank.  The hulking gnoll sensed him coming and spun to meet him, the flail sweeping around toward the fighter’s head.  He ducked under the wild swipe, and came up swinging, delivering a stinging impact that crumpled one of the metal plates protecting the gnoll’s hip.  

“Bet that hurt, eh!” he yelled, as he finished his move, forcing the gnoll to choose between turning his back either on him or on Vhael.  An easy choice as far as Carzen was concerned; Vhael now looked like he could barely lift that big sword of his.  He lifted his shield, waiting for the inevitable attack. 

But the scourge only stared darkly at him.  As Carzen frowned, the gnoll’s lips twisted into a grim smile. 

Realization cut through his fleeting euphoria, and he turned just in time to see the demon’s leap.  He brought his sword up, knowing it was too late even before the monstrous barlgura slammed into him, driving him to the ground with hundreds of pounds of snarling, tearing fiend on top of him.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 50


Carzen felt a fiery pain explode through his side as something jabbed hard into his body.  Whatever it was didn’t penetrate his armor, but it felt as though he’d been kicked by a draft horse.  

But he had bigger problems right at that moment.  The demon on top of him, for one.  It was flailing about wildly, and all Carzen could see, hear, and smell was the foulness of the thing looming over him.  Something—a claw, an elbow, he wasn’t sure—bounced off the front of his helmet and bashed the back of his head off the floor hard enough for stars to explode across his vision even with his helmet protecting him.  Had he not been wearing it, his brains would even now be splattered across the floor. 

He tried to shift, move, do anything, but his arms were pinned against his body by the weight of the demon.  The arm holding his shield was bent back at an uncomfortable angle, but he almost didn’t feel it against the more immediate pains that racked his body.  He couldn’t breathe; it felt like a mountain had settled upon him.  Everything started to grow vague, even the pain fading into a gray haze. 

Awareness returned with a jarring suddenness.  The first thing he felt was a relief as the weight atop him vanished, and a breath as sweet as the purest mountain air flooded into his lungs.  That was followed by a return of all the pain he’d left behind a moment ago, and he groaned.  

Belatedly he realized that the demon was gone, and he blinked, trying to recover his senses enough to learn what was going on.  

It was Gez, looking down at him.  The soldier was saying something, but Carzen’s addled mind wasn’t quite ready to assign meaning to the noises just yet.  He blinked, and reflexively accepted the hand extended toward him.  Actually getting up proved more difficult, but by the time he gained his feet, Gez all but propping him up, he could at least make sense of what he was seeing. 

They’d won the battle.  At least, that was his guess.  Gral was tending to Surina, applying bandages to the arrow wounds in her chest, but it was a close call to guess which of them looked more seriously injured.  Both of them would have had to give the prize to Vhael, who was checking the bodies of the fallen gnolls around them.  The dragonborn’s body was covered in blood, mostly his own by the number of gashes that marked his scaly hide.  Carzen had no idea what kept the dragonborn going; he’d met men, tough men, who would have been lying mewling upon the floor with even half so many cuts.  

He looked down at the body of the demon at his feet.  He wondered what had killed it; dozens of long scratches covered its body, no doubt inflicted by the Terrlen-werewolf, but none of the wounds appeared mortal.  Grasping onto Gez to steady himself, he leaned over and pushed the demon over with a kick of his boot. 

There it was, jutting from the demon’s body.  The hilt of his sword, the blade buried almost to the quillons, covered in ugly black ichor that had spilled from the wound.  Carzen remembered the impact in his side, rubbing absently at the soreness where the hilt of his own weapon must have jabbed into him when the demon landed atop him.  

“That was some thrust,” Gez said.  The soldier was the only one of them who didn’t appear to be hurt, although he favored his left side a bit as he came up beside Carzen to look down at the demon.  “When that thing jumped on you, sir, I thought you were done for.”

Carzen looked around the room, taking in the scene of carnage.  There were bodies all over, mostly here where they’d made their stand, but also on the far side of the room, near the passages.  His eyes lingered on one body, and he started over there, despite the fact that he could barely stand, let alone walk. 

“Sir?” Gez asked, starting after him, but hesitating as Carzen lifted a hand to forestall him.  

Vhael looked up as Carzen limped past, but the dragonborn said nothing, and Carzen’s gaze did not shift from his goal.  He swayed a little on his feet as he stood over the broken body of the man—now again just that—that had brought them here.  In death, Terrlen looked at ease, his features placid despite the arrows that jutted from him, despite the gouges where the demon’s claws had torn big hunks of flesh from his body.  

In some strange way, Carzen thought that Terrlen might have been the lucky one. 

A subtle awareness stole upon him, and he turned to see Vhael standing there.  One of the dragonborn’s eyes had swollen up until it was doubtful that he could see out of it, but the other regarded Carzen coldly.  

“Well now, what now, general?”

Carzen knew what the other would say, but he still needed to hear it.  “We go on.  We’ll find a secure place to rest, recover our strength, and then go on.”

“None of this matters,” Carzen said quietly.  “None of this can matter, not this much.  No one will care what we do here, not my father, not the great lord of Fallcrest, not anyone.  Even if we find those halflings, even if by some miracle we find them alive, no bards will sing the songs of our ‘great deeds’ here in this accursed place.”

Vhael shifted slightly, and for a moment Carzen thought he was going to topple over.  But Vhael only leaned in, and spoke quiet words meant for Carzen’s ears alone. 

“It matters to us,” the dragonborn said.  

He turned and walked back toward the others.  Surina was on her feet again, although she rested a clawed hand on Gral’s shoulder in a way that was obviously more for support than for camaraderie.  Gez had taken up a gnoll’s cloak and was using it to try to extract Carzen’s sword from the body of the fallen demon. 

“Get your things together,” Vhael said.  “We’re moving out.”


----------



## Tamlyn

Lazybones said:


> Chapter 50
> 
> Vhael shifted slightly, and for a moment Carzen thought he was going to topple over.  But Vhael only leaned in, and spoke quiet words meant for Carzen’s ears alone.
> 
> “It matters to us,” the dragonborn said.




Absolutely love that scene.


----------



## Lazybones

Yeah, I didn't have a firm idea on where I was going to take Vhael when I started, but I'm finding it interesting to flesh out some of the concepts that Wizards included in the description of the dragonborn in the 4e Player's Handbook. In some ways they seem to represent a continuation of the ideals of the 1e paladin in terms of their code of honor. 

* * * * * 

Chapter 51


Mara could barely think about anything, except for the monumental effort involved in continuing to put one foot ahead of the other.  Her side itched under the crude bandage where the troglodyte spear had grazed her.  She wanted to douse her head into the waters of the lake again, but knew that if she stopped, she might not be able to get back onto her feet again. 

They were fleeing along the shores of a vast underground lake, its edge rippling up against the lip of the narrow shore they’d been following for the last hour.  The surface of the lake extended out for what might have been a hundred paces or a hundred miles away from them, a cistern that could have supplied the needs of a city like Fallcrest for years, if not centuries. 

Only sheer will was keeping her going, and the other former slaves were even worse off.  They’d eaten the last of the provisions carried by Jaron and Beetle at their last break, the meager rations doing little to salve the gnawing hunger they all felt.  At least they had no shortage of water, Mara thought grimly, as she glanced back out over the lake.  

She didn’t want to think about what would happen when they ran out of lamp oil. 

Fear drove them, and there was no shortage of that, either.  They hadn’t seen the lights of the duergar party pursuing them, but Jaron had reported earlier that the slavers had followed them down toward the lake, and Mara suspected that they would not give up easily.  The lakeshore bent and twisted a convoluted path around the edge of the vast cavern, meaning that their enemies could be a mile behind them, or just a few hundred paces.  

The duergar were like a whip lashing them forward, but their brief clash with a pair of troglodyte warriors shortly after they’d arrived at the lake had reminded them that more dangers lurked in these unexplored depths.  The troglodytes, seeing that they were heavily outnumbered, had withdrawn after a brief exchange of missile fire, but things could have easily gone the other way had the ugly reptilian creatures pressed the issue.  Mara had been the only one hit, grazed by a javelin as she’d rushed forward with her spear, and only luck had kept the wound from being far more serious. 

Mara became dimly aware of a faint noise up ahead that tickled at her memory.  She couldn’t quite identify it, and didn’t realize she had stopped until Jaron came up to stand next to her.  

“Waterfall,” he said.  “Probably an underground stream from above that opens onto the lake.  I’ll go check it out, if you want to wait here.”

_If you need to rest_, he didn’t say, but Mara could see the sympathy in his eyes.  The ranger and his cousin probably walked three steps for each one that the freed captives took, the pair scouting ahead and behind them, alert for new dangers that might threaten the small column.  Jaron in particular seemed particularly determined, the more so after he talked to each of his kinsmen, learning about what had happened to them, and to the absent cleric of Avendra.  Mara could see his feelings for her in the way his jaw tightened when he spoke her name.  She remembered when they had come for her, back at the Hold, and felt a cold chill on behalf of her friend.  

“We’ll go together,” Mara said.  “Better that we not get separated, now.”

Jaron nodded.  Mara turned as Beetle came trotting up.  For some reason, the halfling was soaked through; had he been swimming?  “Trouble?” she asked the halfling. 

“No luck,” Beetle said.  “Fishes too fast, canna catch.  You got more bread, Jayse?” he asked, eyeing Jaron’s pack for the tenth time since their last brief rest. 

Mara sighed, but Jaron stepped between them and took his cousin’s arm gently.  “Did you see the dwarves?” he asked.

“No dwarfs,” the halfling said.  “But flickers, back along lake.  Come this way.”

“How far?” Mara asked.  “How long until they reach us?”  They couldn’t see them from here, but if they were closing the distance, their own lights might soon give them away.  

The other members of their company had gathered around, hoping for good news but expecting the opposite from their faces.  They’d armed themselves as best they could, with broken-off stalagmites to serve as crude clubs, or with smooth rocks collected along the lakeshore.  Some of the halflings had fashioned simple slings from straps and bits of leather provided by Jaron, and two carried knives loaned by Beetle, who seemed to have an endless supply secreted about his person.  But they looked like what they were, a haggard band of refugees on the brink of collapse.

“How long, Beetle?” Jaron repeated, his own face grim.  Looking down into his quiver, Mara saw the ends of only a half-dozen shafts.

Beetle frowned, and counted out something on his fingers.  “Maybe half hour,” he finally said.  

A grim tension surged through the group; one of the miners cursed, and several of the halflings looked ready to burst into tears.  It was more responsibility than Mara wanted, but her uncle had taught her that things rarely turned out the way that you wanted, and that you had to face the reality rather than the hoped-for alternative.  

“Come on,” Mara said, hefting her spear in what she hoped was a confident gesture. 

The sounds of the waterfall grew louder as they continued, until they came around another bend in the cavern and saw it in a deep niche ahead, a torrent of water plummeting down some thirty feet from a gap in the cliffs above.  The light of the lamp fashioned sparkles out of the droplets that fell away from the dark cascade, a brief glance of beauty in this otherwise dark place.  The water fell into a pool that gathered slightly above them, overflowing into a channel that descended a short slope into the lake.  They’d have to wade across there, but the little stream was only a few paces across, and didn’t look too deep.    

Mara sniffed, and frowned.  “This place stinks of trogs.”  She scanned the area, but didn’t see anything.  “Let’s go,” Mara said, starting forward.  “Harek, Calder, help the halflings…”

She didn’t get a chance to finish, as Jaron cut her off, shouting a warning.  Mara turned to see a troglodyte step out of a niche in the cliffs not ten feet away, where he’d blended so well with the surrounding stone that her gaze had initially passed right over him.  The trog held a big stone club, which it lifted above its head as it charged. 

Jaron had an arrow fitted to his bow in an instant, but before he could aid Mara, cries from the other halflings drew his attention back toward the lake, where more troglodytes were rising from the shallow waters of the lake, nearly a dozen of them, surging forward in a wave toward the terrified fugitives.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 52


Looking at the wave of troglodytes rising out of lake ahead, Jaron felt a cold surge of panic kindle in his gut.  But as he glanced back at the terrified halflings from his village, he knew that he could not flee, could not leave these simple folk of the vale to be chased down and taken by the vile creatures of the depths. 

He heard a noise and realized that it was himself, yelling as he drew an arrow, sighted, and fired.  The shot sank into the first troglodyte, all but vanishing into the slick gray hide of its torso.  For a moment Jaron thought he might have even missed, as the monster kept coming, lifting its stone club above its head as it drew closer.  But even as Jaron drew another arrow, the troglodyte abruptly ran out of energy, collapsing in a limp heap upon the damp ground.  

But more were coming, spreading out to flank him, with still more moving to bypass him entirely to get to the others behind.  Jaron hesitated with his bow half-drawn, unsure of which group to target.  

Beetle came to his aid, leaping in with a bright yell, stabbing one of the trogs in the side with one of his daggers.  The creature turned toward him, but apparently the halfling had hit something vulnerable, for it faltered like the first, blood spraying out of its mouth as the puncture in its lung worked its grim course.  But even as it fell, three more came charging at Beetle, who was forced a wild, dancing course back along the shore, barely dodging the powerful swings of their clubs.  

Harek lifted his own crude club to face the first of the trogs that got past Jaron.  But before either he or his foe could strike, a troglodyte still standing up to his knees in the lake hurled a javelin that sank with a meaty thunk into the miner’s body.  Clutching the haft of the spear protruding from his chest, Harek groaned and fell to his knees, suffering only for a moment before the charging troglodyte crushed his skull with a single powerful swipe of his club.  

Calder was already running, retreating back along the lakeshore the way they had come.  Some of the halflings had likewise started to fall back, but two of the troglodytes had moved around to intercept them, herding them back toward the cliff face near the waterfall. 

Mara brought up her spear as the troglodyte mauler lunged at her.  The orc spear caught the creature in the side, its own momentum driving the head into its body.  The trog snarled in pain, but before Mara could thrust the weapon deeper, it smashed its club down into the shaft, snapping it in two.  Now armed only with a three-foot length of wood, Mara tried to use it like a bo, cracking the trog across the face.  But the mauler shrugged off the blow as if it was nothing.  It brought its club around in a powerful swing that Mara could not fully avoid.  The heavy club caught her raised forearm before following through to glance off her head.  The blow knocked her sprawling.  Dazed, she was brought back to awareness by a lance of pure white agony as she fell onto her injured arm.  She looked up to see the troglodyte looming over her, its club raised to deliver what could only be a killing blow.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 53


Mara tried to react, dodge, do _anything_, but it was as if her muscles had been disconnected from her brain; all she could do was rock slightly, even that motion sending a sick surge of nausea through her body. 

Something whistled over her head, and a small arrow sprouted in the troglodyte’s gut.  The missile—obviously from Jaron’s bow—had hit something painful, for the troglodyte jolted, a hiss of mingled pain and anger coming from its jaws.  It hesitated, only for a second or two, before fixing its attention on Mara again. 

But that brief pause had given Mara the precious time she needed for the urgent signals from her brain to reach her body.  As the club came down she rolled backward, out of its path.  The stone club hit the ground hard enough to knock shards free that Mara could feel stabbing into her back.  She kept rolling until a cold jolt hit her; she’d fallen into the stream.  

Looking up, she could see that the troglodyte was following her.  

Jaron paid a high price for his aid to Mara.  Three trogs had surrounded him, and were pounding at him with their stone clubs.  They were slower than he was, and his small size made him hard to hit, but they also weren’t exhausted, hungry, and sore from an untreated gash from an orc spear.  All of those factors conspired against Jaron as he fell back, squeezing through the narrow opening left in the circle of enemies.  For all his speed he took two glancing hits, the latter of which nearly tore his right arm from its shoulder socket.  _One more of those…_ he thought grimly, not finishing the thought as the trogs rushed after him.  

Unfortunately, there really wasn’t anywhere for him to go, as the cliff wall loomed up ahead of him.  

The four troglodytes that had gotten past Jaron and Beetle came toward the halflings from Fairhollow, expecting easy prey.  Indeed, the halflings looked like what they were, terrified farmers and craftsmen, pale and malnourished, weakened from an arduous trek and nearing the breaking point.  They too had nearly panicked and broken as Calder had, but Jaron’s example had given them enough steel, combined with the inherent fortitude of their race, to stand their ground.  The slings that Jaron had crafted for them whistled, and those without hurled smooth stones that struck with deadly accuracy.  The troglodytes had hides thicker than boiled leather, and were hardened by the harsh realities of their underground home, but they found themselves giving way before that barrage.  One fell, and then another, dazed by sling bullets that had cracked into their heads.  A third dropped its club as a stone snapped into its fingers, and it hesitated to recover the weapon with its other hand.  The last one rushed forward, hoping to sweep the halflings aside with a single strong swipe of its club, but a stone slammed into its kneecap, crippling it.  Swinging in vain at its tormentors, who fell back to form a wide circle around it, the trog was barraged with stones from all directions.  One cracked it behind the slit of its ear, and it fell forward.  Stunned but still struggling, it never saw the halfling that came up hefting a rock twice the size of his head, which made a solid thunk as it smashed into the troglodyte’s skull.  

Mara was nearly swept away by the rushing water of the stream, but she was somehow able to drag herself up to the other side.  Something flashed past her, a missile of some sort, but she couldn’t spare her attention from the troglodyte mauler, which reached the far bank and hesitated just a moment before following her in.  The arrow in its gut was slowing it down, Mara saw, but she knew better than to underestimate its strength.  

The stream was barely two paces across, and it barely came up to the trog’s knees, but as the current caught it the creature shifted a bit, adjusting to keep its balance.  That was the moment that Mara had been waiting for.  She darted forward.  The mauler sensed her coming and lifted its club, but Mara met it before it could strike, seizing its arms with her hands, struggling now both against the stream pulling at her feet and the muscles of the troglodyte.  The trog was stronger and seemed to realize this immediately, and it tore one arm free to grab hold of the woman and thrust her away.  

Mara immediately released her hold and grabbed onto the clawed hand holding her, wrapping both of her hands around its wrists.  She used its momentum and her own weight to pull it off balance.  Both of them fell, the trog falling forward with a splash in the stream, Mara landing on her hip at its edge.  She grimaced as the impact sent a fresh knife of pain through her already battered body, but forced herself to ignore it as she pushed herself up to see what had happened. 

The stream had done its work; the troglodyte was still struggling, but it was now fifteen feet away, still sliding down the smooth course of the stream toward the spot where it dumped into the lake.  She knew that she hadn’t hurt it, not really, but hopefully the other wounds it had taken would give it pause.  

She looked over to see what had happened with her charges, expecting a grim and bloody scene.  She found it, but it wasn’t quite what she had expected. 

Dead and dying troglodytes were scattered about, but other than the impaled corpse of Harek, none of the bodies seemed to belong to those on her side.   Two trogs had chased Jaron, backing him up against the cavern wall, but before Mara could intervene the reptilian warriors came under a barrage of stones, hurled by the slings of the halfling villagers.  The trogs raised their arms to protect their heads, but one took a glancing shot across the brow that Mara could hear cracking bone even ten feet away.  The other one staggered through the storm of rocks only to take an arrow through the throat from Jaron’s bow.  It crumpled, even as the second absorbed several more hits and fell to its knees, then onto its face.  

Mara glanced left, looking for the troglodyte spear-thrower and the wounded mauler, but anything beyond the shore of the lake was lost in shadow, and she couldn’t make out either foe.  She kept low, wary of what had happened to Harek, and called out to Jaron as the last troglodyte that had been left standing on the shore toppled over.  

“I don’t see them,” Jaron said in response to her, his magical goggles giving him far superior vision in the near-darkness.  “I think they’ve retreated, for now.”

Mara agreed with the halfling’s unspoken addition, _But they may be back, with friends._  “We’ve got to get out of here while we can.”

Jaron was checking the halfling villagers, who still looked tired and scared, but had been bolstered by their successful stand against the troglodytes.  “Beetle?” he asked, looking up as his cousin appeared from back along the lakeshore path, where three trogs had chased him.  The halfling had a growing bruise along the left side of his face, but he was whistling as he cleaned blood off his knife.  At Jaron’s question, the halfling rogue gave a thumbs-up. 

“Any sign of Calder?” Jaron asked.  Beetle shook his head.  

“We can’t go back for him,” Mara said.  “There’s a good chance that the slavers heard the sounds of this battle.  We’ve got to get out of here, now.”

She helped the halflings make their way across the stream, and then led the small column of survivors along the lakeshore path, resuming their desperate flight toward escape.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 54


Carzen smelled blood.  

This was nothing new, in this place.  Carzen remembered stinking of it, his clothes covered in the foulness of the demon’s vile fluids.  He’d had to toss all of it, his cloak, tunic, leggings, and even after he’d scraped his armor clean and put on his last set of clean clothes, he’d still reeked of it.  That hadn’t been enough to keep him from collapsing into a deep, dreamless sleep the moment that his watch had been finished, but it had been the first thing to fill his nostrils when Gral had finally shaken him awake. 

They’d fortified in a small room used by the gnolls as a barracks, not far from the entry chamber.  The place had been adjacent to a room that had been used by the gnolls as a kennel for their hyenas, and it offered a stink to rival the reek of battle’s aftermath.  It held only four crude, filthy cots, so rank that even the exhausted adventurers preferred to spread their blankets out on the floor to sleeping there.  More importantly, however, the room had been equipped with a pair of thick iron-banded doors that they could rig with a bar from within.  There had been no further parties of gnolls to disturb their rest.  That wasn’t to say that they had slumbered peacefully; there had been noises, faint sounds that filtered even through the heavy doors.  During his watch, Carzen thought he heard an odd, haunting wail that sent chills down his spine during his watch, and one time he thought he saw a pale, ghostly form out of the corner of his vision.  When he turned his head toward it, however, it was gone. 

Even with those uneasy encounters, once his watch was over he had slept soundly and dreamlessly. 

He had no idea how long they had rested.  Once they had slept and eaten, with Gral treating their diverse injuries with needle, thread, and fresh linen bandages, they had set out again into the complex.  A quick search of the surrounding chambers had turned up more abandoned quarters, and a large room dominated by the largest boar that Carzen had ever seen.  The boar had snorted and stomped angrily at their arrival, but it had been chained to the floor, so Vhael had decided to leave it be for now.  Carzen had thought it might have been put to better use over a crackling fire, but he didn’t challenge the warlord’s decision.  Getting out of this place as quickly as possible had developed a strong appeal in the fighter’s mind. 

So now they were leaving the gnoll quarters behind, and moving deeper into the complex.  And were greeted by the stink of blood. 

They saw the source of the odor as soon as they entered the hall.  It formed a trail upon the floor, glistening wetly in the light of their lamps.  It emerged from under a set of double doors to their left, and wound away down the length of the hall to their right.  Gral knelt beside the crimson course to examine it more closely. 

“Fresh?” Vhael asked. 

“I would say no, except that its still wet,” Gral reported.  “Most unusual.”

A sudden chill filled the room, and Carzen felt a cold shudder pass down his spine. 

“_Hissa!_ Surina exclaimed, a bright orb of flame appearing in her hand as she swiveled toward the far end of the hall.  Carzen turned and saw three figures rising up out of the stream of blood.  They were insubstantial, the outlines of the hall behind them just visible through their ghostly forms.  The three ghosts hovered just above the floor, the lower parts of their bodies fading into nothingness.  

“Hold your attacks,” Vhael said, watching the trio as they drifted closer.  “Surina,” he repeated, and the warlock finally released her power, the room darkening again as the bright glow of her flames faded. 

The three were a diverse lot, and there were hints at what had killed them visible on the outlines of their bodies.  The one on the left was a bearded human clad in a chainmail hauberk that covered most of his body, at least down to his waist, where it was ripped in a neat line all the way across his torso.  As he drew closer Carzen could see that the tear went through the ghost’s body as well, the lower half trailing just a bit behind the upper.  He wore an icon on a chain upon his chest, but Carzen couldn’t quite make out the design stamped onto the disk.  

The second ghost was clad head to toe in heavy plate armor, including a full helm with a closed visor.  This one wore the familiar symbol of the sun god, Pelor, etched in bold relief upon his breastplate.  As the ghost shifted, however, Carzen could see that his helm had been staved in from one side, a blow that must have been almost instantly lethal.  

The last ghost was an elven woman, her lean body draped in green robes.  She carried a staff raised in one hand, as if in salute.  One side of her face was marked terribly, the flesh eaten away enough in several places to show the bone beneath.  She regarded them with cold eyes.

Vhael stepped forward to confront the three ghosts, and Carzen was all too happy to let him be their representative in this instance.  Beside him, Gez was shivering.  The ghost of the elven woman drifted forward to meet the warlord, flanked by the two fallen warriors.  

The dragonborn opened his mouth to speak, but the woman interrupted him, her voice clear but hollow, as if it came from a deep hole in the ground.  

“Why do you intrude upon this place?”

“We seek no conflict with you, spirits,” Vhael said.  “We come to recover prisoners held by the evil masters of this place.”

“What you have found,” the ghostly woman droned, “Is only your deaths.” Power seemed to gather around her as she spoke, and she raised her staff high, as if she were a magistrate pronouncing judgement.


----------



## Lazybones

Well, I finished the story. 

It will take about a month and a half to get through the posts I have left. As I noted earlier, I don't plan (at the moment) on continuing with 4e in my writing. Nothing against the system specifically, but the adventure path mods just aren't sucking me in the way that The Shackled City or Rappan Athuk did. I've already begun the next project I'll post here, and will probably put up a teaser before this one wraps up. I'm trying something different for the next story; for one thing, there are actual players this time around. 

* * * * * 

Chapter 55


Carzen reached for his sword at the ghost’s prouncement, although he wasn’t sure how you could fight foes that you could see through.  Surina and Gez likewise tensed, although Vhael, as far as Carzen could see standing behind him, did not so much as flinch a muscle.  Gral stood silently at the warlord’s side, but Carzen thought he could see a pale white glow around the tip of the dwarf’s staff, magic held ready in case the ghost tried to make good on its threat. 

“Are you the guardians of this place, then?” the dragonborn finally said, as the echo of the ghost elf’s words faded.  “I would not have expected to see followers of Kord and Pelor protecting a place such as this.

“We died here,” the ghost with the dented skull said, his tone mournful.  “And like as not you will as well,” the bearded ghost added, the lower part of his body shifting slightly away as he moved, slowly sliding forward to catch up to the rest of him.  Carzen felt his gut clench at the sight of it, at all of them. 

“We were among the best,” the elf woman’s ghost said.  “If we could not overcome the defenses protecting the secrets of the Well, it is doubtful that you will fare better.”

“We have no interest in secrets.  We are here for the prisoners, nothing more.” 

“A doubtful tale,” the elf woman said.  “We know the wonders that this place holds.  You have the stink of treasure-seekers about you.”

Surina started forward, her eyes flashing angrily, but Vhael again intercepted her with a raised hand, this time a bit more forcefully than before.  “You may not have known my kind in life, spirit, but you must know that to the dragonborn, our word is a bond of honor, one that we do not casually sunder.  We do not take well to being marked liar.  But if it reassures you, I swear upon the sacred name of Bahamut that what I speak is true.  We care not for what secrets are hidden here; we are here for our people, and for them alone.”

“You speak of the platinum dragon, but you do not wear his sigil,” the ghost with the caved-in helmet said.  

“The gods know what lies in the hearts of men,” Vhael responded simply.  “Icons are for other men to see, not for their eyes.”

“You claim ignorance, then, of the fantastic treasures stored within the inner vaults of this place?” the elf woman asked, her words as cutting as any knife despite their disembodied tone.  

“If we are to be judged by you, I would know with whom I speak,” Vhael said.  He stated his name, and the names of his companions, eschewing titles or ranks.  The ghosts seemed uninterested, their pale expressions remaining unchanged during the recitation, but when he was finished, the bearded ghost spoke.  

“I was Valdrag, called ‘the Brute’ by some.  I feared no man, and found none such who could best me in a test of strength.”

“Apparently something did,” Carzen said, noting the gap in the ghost’s torso.  He hadn’t spoken in more than a whisper, but apparently the ghosts had excellent hearing, for Valdrag roared, “I died in glorious battle against a thing out of nightmares, boy!  We shall see how you fare, indeed we shall!”

Carzen, subdued, did not respond. 

“I was Sir Terris, knight of Pelor,” the second ghost said.  “Pleasant words are easy to speak, dragonborn, and even easier to hear, but they often belie what lies within the heart.”

“And I was Mendara,” the elven ghost said.  “Tell us more of these ‘prisoners’ you claim to seek.  This place is far from any traveled path… why would they be brought here?”

“For that, you should have to ask the gnolls we slew to get here,” Vhael said, refusing to be baited.  “If they are here, we shall find them, and bring them back to their homes.  This I have sworn, and this I shall do.”

“Bravely spoken indeed,” Terris said.  But Mendara appeared to remain doubtful. 

“’If’ they are here?  So you do not know they are even in this place, then?  Your story grows more improbable by the moment, dragon-kin.”

“And whether it be prisoners or magic you seek, you will never find them,” Valdreg said.  “Even if you defeat the tests created by the original masters of his place, the Guardian that wards the inner sanctum will tear you to pieces.”  He shifted again, the two halves of his ghostly body putting truth to his words. 

Gral touched Vhael lightly on the arm.  The two exchanged a long look that contained meaning, in the way that long companions could speak without using words.  Vhael turned back to the ghosts.  “I would know why you are seeking to provoke us.  If you are not set to guard this place, what concern is it of yours why we are here?”

Mendara’s angry look was obvious even on her ghostly face, but Terris came forward to hover beside her.  “This place is known as the Proving Grounds.  It was created by followers of the minotaur god Baphomet, as a trial for those who would seek entry to the inner sanctum.  Those original creators have long since left, and the place has new masters.  Those you seek would be in the sanctum, if the gnoll lord has them.”

“Then that is where we must go,” Vhael said.  

“You will be tested,” Terris said.  “Four items are needed to complete the ritual that opens the way to the sanctum.  The same ritual also releases the Guardian that protects this place.”

“Aye, and you’ll find this Guardian to be no simple foe,” Valdrag said.  

Mendara turned her head, so that the companions could better see the burns that had eaten away half of her face.  “If you are smart, you will flee now, and avoid our fate.”

“That’s a big ‘if’, in our case,” Carzen muttered under his breath. 

“Our way is forward,” Vhael said.  

“If you could share your knowledge of these trials, and this Guardian, perhaps we might be better equipped to face them,” Gral said.  “We are not without resources.”  He held up his staff, and the pale glow of frost brightened down its length.  

The three ghosts regarded them, silently.  Their eyes passed over each of the companions in turn; when they came to Carzen, he felt the weight of judgment in those stares. 

Finally, the ghosts returned their attention to Vhael.  “We will tell you what we can,” Terris said.


----------



## Richard Rawen

Congrats on finishing the story, it's been fun so far, and I've enjoyed getting a peek at 4e.  As usual your characters are great and the action scenes are wonderfully detailed.
I was fairly sure they were in for some negative levels against those ghosts!
Looking forward to the 3.x group action, as always thank you for taking the time to share your talent with us!


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 56


Carzen hated the Well of Demons. 

He’d hated it since their first arrival in the entry chamber, even before the ambush by the tentacle thing and the choker-monsters, but since then his hatred had taken on a fierce passion, nuanced with gradations of disgust and terror that together formed a ugly pit that lodged in his gut.  He felt like he would never lose the stench of blood that seemed etched into his nostrils, and he knew that he would never forget the blood-filled room they’d just left.  There were not enough years in a life to allow such a memory to fade. 

They were resting in one of the smaller anterooms off the main hall, the looping complex that circled around the black pit in the center that had sent a deeper chill through Carzen when they had looked upon it.  The young fighter felt as though every muscle in his body had been pulled and twisted until he felt every single one as a little sliver of pain that merged into a seamless whole.  He had an itch on the back of his neck, but the simple action of moving to address it seemed utterly beyond him.  He knew that Vhael would order them back into action in a few minutes, and also knew that somehow, his battered body would obey. 

He glanced over at the dragonborn, and realized that while he was tired and worn, the general had to be… Carzen shook his head.  There were no words to describe the warlord.  He was still crazy, as far as Carzen was concerned—more so, after what he’d just witnessed—but he was starting to understand why men of all races had followed him.  _Still_ followed him, he mused, thinking of Gral, and Surina, and Gez. 

And Carzen Zelos. 

He couldn’t fault the dragonborn’s leadership against the first few few tests.  Getting the book had been trivially easy; it had been lying out in the open, as the spirits had said, in a small anteroom off the corridor of blood.  The blood trail had started there, in front of the altar, a grim pool too big to have come from one, or two, or even a dozen men.  It had given Carzen the shudders, but that hadn’t stopped them from seizing the book and going on their way. 

The first real test had started off easily enough.  They had opened the doors to the chamber to see a vast hall, bending to their left, supported by tall pillars that were decorated by floor-to-ceiling mirrors bounded in brass.  Carzen remembered the sensation that he’d felt when he’d looked at that first mirror.  It had felt as though his soul was being torn from his body.  He couldn’t look away, couldn’t scream, although he had felt like it, felt as though the mirror was trying to swallow him whole.

He still couldn’t quite remember just what he’d seen in that mirror.  Gral had grabbed him, roughly, turning him so that the mirror fell out of his vision.  “Don’t look at the mirrors, any of you,” the dwarf had commanded.  “There’s fell magic here.”

Carzen could have told him that, but he obeyed, all of them did.  Vhael had led them around the perimeter of the room, close to the wall, their eyes fixed upon the stone so intently that they could see the grain in the rock.  Carzen had felt the skin between his shoulder blades crawling, but the mirrors apparently lacked the power to harm them if they did not look at them.  That hadn’t fully erased his uneasiness, though. 

They followed the wall around the bend in the room to the left, all the way to a black curtain that blocked part of the chamber off from the rest.  But it hung free, unanchored on the sides, so they had pushed through.  

With their eyes averted as they had been, the skeletons had caught them by surprise.  Carzen remembered a flashing pain in his side as something jabbed through his armor.  He had looked up—thankfully, there had been no more mirrors beyond the curtain—to find himself facing a monstrous skeleton, its bones covered in nasty-looking spurs and edges.  He’d gotten his shield up in time to deflect a spray of those shards; apparently the gods-forsaken thing had possessed the power to shoot out bits of itself at intruders.  

The things—Gral had called them boneshard skeletons—had been fearsome and tough, but they had been two to the party’s five, and they’d defeated them at the cost of some painful but ultimately minor wounds.  They’d claimed the artifact that the things had been guarding, a minotaur mask carved out of black wood, and retraced their steps. 

After that trial, Carzen hadn’t known what to expect next.  But the blood room had been worse, that much was certain. 

The second challenge had been in a chamber still larger than the first.  The double doors had opened onto a stone platform, but most of the rest of the room’s floor had been covered in a sea of what had looked and smelled like fresh blood.  Carzen had almost gotten sick at the sheer stink of it, and only the iron control of the dragonborn had given him the example needed to overcome the wave of nausea.  Gez hadn’t been quite so durable, but none of them had chastened him when he staggered back over to the group, pale. 

Rising up out of the blood pool had been a pair of massive stone statues, depicting minotaurs armed with long spiked chains.  The room had been divided down its center by a stone platform maybe fifteen feet across, rising maybe four feet above the level of the blood.  They could just make out two more small platforms on the far side of the room, upon which small objects that Carzen hadn’t been able to quite make out had rested.  No doubt they were what they had come here to claim. 

All in all, Carzen had been ready to leave at once, ghosts and trials and captive prisoners be damned.  But Vhael had only hesitated briefly, taking in the whole environment before issuing orders.  

“Destroy those statues,” he had said first. 

Carzen hadn’t understood the logic of that at first, but they’d complied, blasting the nearer statue first with magic and arrows.  Carzen and Vhael had armed themselves with gnoll longbows, and the steel-tipped arrows had dislodged big hunks of stone with each solid impact.  But it had been Gral and Surina who had done most of the damage, the dwarf’s icy blasts and the warlock’s fire combining to weaken the stone, creating a tracery of fine cracks that slowly spread across the statue’s body.  The arm holding the chain fell free, splashing noisily before vanishing into the pool of blood. 

Carzen had been about to ask what they were trying to accomplish, when the statue suddenly came alive, issuing a terrible roar before crumbling into fragments.  

“Oh,” he had said.  

The second statue lasted longer, the distance putting it out of the range of the casters’ magic, but the gnolls had left them plenty of arrows, and they had done the job.  That had left the pool of blood, an obstacle that Carzen was not eager to test.  Probing indicated that the blood was nearly six feet deep.  

Vhael had consulted briefly with Gral, and together they came up with an answer.  It took some time to shuffle back to the gnoll chambers, and longer to bring up the two tables in the barracks there, but they formed an effective bridge first to the base of the ruined statue, then from there to the platform in the middle of the room.  The tables were relatively flimsy and unstable as bridges, but they held up, at least long enough for them all to make it over to the statue platform, crossing one at a time.  

Vhael had just stepped out onto the second table, the wood creaking alarmingly under his weight, when the demons attacked.  

The thing sprang up out of the blood, a fearsome red thing that was all muscles and claws.  Without warning it seized the edge of the table, tipping it.  Vhael shifted his balance quickly and for a moment Carzen had thought that he would keep his perch, but then the table had broken down the middle, dropping the dragonborn into the blood.  The demon surged forward, and was on him almost before Vhael could do anything more than lift his head above the roiling surface of the pool.  

Arrows and spells had blasted the fiend, but with the blood protecting most of its body, the attacks had had little effect upon it.  Carzen had thought that Vhael was a goner, especially when the demon had started tearing at his face with its claws, but then the dragonborn had seized his tormenter, lifting it up out of the blood.  Carzen had quickly realized what he was doing; even as the demon continued to ravage him the companions now had a clear shot at the thing, and they made their attacks count.  Within ten seconds the demon had been reduced to a wreckage, and Vhael had tossed it aside, to vanish in a flash under the blood. 

But that hadn’t been the end of it.  Even as they slew the demon, two more of them had risen out of the blood on the far side of the room, leaving dripping trails behind them as they pulled themselves up onto the platform in the center.  The smart thing to do, as far as Carzen was concerned, would have been for Vhael to fall back under the cover of their fire to the platform, where Surina was waiting to pull him up.  With them under the blood, the demons were invincible, but better that than to confront them in their element, he had thought.  

He hadn’t been quite fully surprised when Vhael had attacked.  

The demons had leapt forward into the blood, shrugging off the companions’ fire, even the arrow that Carzen had sank deep into the shoulder of one of them.  It was clear that Vhael wouldn’t escape the blood before they reached him, but even as they tore into him, coming at him from both sides, he kept pushing forward, his bloody body slowly emerging from the blood as he reached the steps leading up to the platform.  The demons followed, tearing at him, trying to drag him back, but even as they had gashed his clothes, scored his armor, and sliced his flesh, he hadn’t given so much as an inch of ground.  He didn’t draw his sword until he was fully clear of the blood, and by then, the demons, for all their fury, were showing the effects of the constant fire from the dragonborn’s companions.  Vhael’s sword had decapitated one, even as Gez sank an arrow into the throat of the second, sending it into a wild spasm of flailing limbs.  Those struggles had ended quickly, with another quick thrust of the dragonborn’s great blade. 

With the statues gone and the guardians defeated, it had become just a matter of time and effort to recover the prize.  The first table had been shifted to replace the broken second, and all of them reached the central platform safely.  Vhael had looked almost like a demon himself, covered in blood.  The far platforms were too far distant for them to use the table as a bridge, but Surina’s magic overcame this final obstacle.  She possessed the ability to teleport herself short distances, a power she used to reach the platforms, after leaping to close the distance.  It took some time, as she had to refocus her will after each jump, but no more demons had emerged from the blood, and in less than an hour they were back where they had started, carrying two pieces of a large dagger, the third of the four items they needed to reach their goal.  

“Come on, soldier,” a voice said.  Carzen started—his mind had started to drift off in the midst of his reminiscing—and he looked up to see Vhael standing over him.  The others were already up and ready.  The dragonborn had cleaned himself as best he could, but streaks of red were still visible in the cracks and crevices of his armor.  Crude bandages from Gral’s seemingly never-ending kit covered the new gouges on his face and neck, but otherwise he looked as determined as ever.  

Vhael extended a hand, and after a moment Carzen took it.  His legs still felt a bit unsteady, but he wasn’t going to let the dragonborn, who’d suffered far worse, get the better of him.  

“One left,” he said, leading them once more through the complex to the doors.  Their route took them again through the hall that formed a long rectangle around the central chamber where the black pit with its Guardian waited for them.  The floor and walls of the hall were marked with black streaks and deep gouges in the stone.  Carzen had remarked on these before, but none of them had any idea of what might have caused the damage.  One thing that Carzen was sure of, it wouldn’t be a good thing. 

But they made their way through the scarred hall without incident, and down the long passage that led to the doors that warded the final trial.  Like the others, these doors were unmarked slabs of stone so dark that they were almost black.  The doors were balanced on recessed hinges, but it still took Carzen and Vhael working together to force them open enough for the others to squeeze through.  

Carzen had been expecting another grand hall, so the chamber beyond the door caught him by surprise, even though it had to be almost thirty feet across.  The room was dominated by two tall pillars, the nearer barely ten feet beyond the threshold of the entrance.  Carzen stared at the pillar in horror; it was carved to depict a mass of writhing, tormented forms, hairless humanoids twisting in a chaotic disorder of torsos and limbs.  

“That is… foul,” Carzen muttered under his breath, releasing the door and stepping forward to give the others space to follow. 

Despite all that he had seen in this cursed place, he almost jumped out of his skin when the pillar came alive.  The graven figures started moving, the arms twisting and reaching, the faces contorting in expressions of agony.  

“Back!  Back!” Carzen shouted, all but falling over his own legs as he retreated.  The others moved back from the doorway, but not quickly enough, as several of the animated mouths upon the pillar opened wide, and unleashed a gout of hissing, stinging green droplets upon Carzen and Vhael.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 57


“Well, now what?”

Carzen held up the waterskin, letting the spray wash again over his face.  His skin still stung where the acid drops had seared through the gap in the front of his helmet, and he was just thankful that they had missed striking his eyes.  Vhael had taken the blast with more equinamity, although the caustic gunk had damaged his scaly flesh as readily as it had Carzen’s.  

“Our supplies of fresh water are limited,” Vhael only said in reply, turning back to where Gral and Surina were returning from the direction of the doors.  

“It’s no good,” Gral said.  “We hit the pillar with fire and ice, and neither did so much as scratch those things.”

“Did it try to blast you in response?” 

“It would appear that the range of the acid spray is limited.  But we’d definitely have to pass close by it to enter the room.”

Vhael nodded to himself.  “Then we do it.” 

“I will go,” Surina volunteered.  “There is no sense in risking all of us.”

“We cannot afford to divide our strength,” Vhael said.  “If you should fall, we would be where we started, but down a fifth of our resources.”

“You seemed willing to go on ahead alone in the blood room,” Carzen found himself saying before he could think.  But he didn’t try to take the words back, and he met the dragonborn’s stare with what he hoped was coolness. 

“I have no compunction against risk when it furthers the mission,” Vhael replied.  “But I did not see the artifact we seek in that room, and we have no way of knowing what lies beyond those pillars.  So we stay together.” 

The warlord swept his gaze over all of them, as if verifying that there was no further dissent.  None of the others ventured a challenge to his orders, so they gathered together and warily returned to the still-open double doors.  

The pillar had returned to quiescence, but it came alive again as they reached the doors.  Vhael did not pause, leading them along the wall to their left, just out of reach of the grasping hands.  Gral followed, not even looking at the violent movements of the forms trapped on the pillar.  The animated heads didn’t spray acid at them this time, but they did start up a maddening babble, a noise that pounded at Carzen’s ears like hammers.  Clenching his jaw tightly enough to hurt, he pressed on.  

Behind him, Gez fell against the wall, clutching his head, but Surina, bringing up the rear, picked him up and carried him after the others.  

There were two exits in the chamber, one to the left, the other on the far side of the room behind the second pillar.  Vhael took them left.  The second pillar started screaming, a painful, jarring noise, but it was far enough away that they were able to get past it without any ill effects.  

The side passage didn’t go far, opening onto a shallow alcove to their left, and a larger space to the right where two more of the pillars were visible, flanking another opening.  As the shone their lights in that direction, they could just make out the edge of another stone altar, with a heavy object that gleamed brightly set upon it.  

“I presume that is our objective,” Gral said, shouting to be heard over the continuing screams coming from behind them.  The two pillars ahead had started to come alive, but it wasn’t obvious yet what diabolical attack they were going to muster against the intruders.  

“I will go,” Surina said, stepping forward with that fanatical determination glowing in her eyes.  Vhael turned to her, and Carzen thought he would object, but after a moment he nodded.  “You can bypass these with your magic?” 

At the warlock’s nod, Vhael drew his sword.  “Go then.”  Turning to the others, he said, “Be ready.”

Surina stepped forward.  The pillars reached for her, but as she entered their reach, she shimmered and reappeared beyond them, closer to the altar.  She stepped forward, and reached for the golden bell.  

White hands seized her from behind, pulling her away.  Another pillar, standing out of sight beyond the edge of the passage, had grabbed her.  

The noise from before abruptly died.  “Surina!” Vhael shouted, the sound of his yell eerily loud in the sudden silence. 

But before she could respond, the pillars shifted, the tangled bodies pushed aside as something stepped out of each one.  They were demons, the familiar forms of evistros, the blood-demons they had confronted during the last trial.  As soon as they were free of the pillars, they hurled themselves forward, Vhael lifting his big sword to meet their rush. 

Carzen started to his aid, but a shout from Gez drew his attention back to the passage they’d just left.  “More behind!” the soldier yelled, and Carzen had just enough time to turn as two more of the carnage demons sprang upon him.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 58


Surina believed in the cause of Order, and the virtues of “civilization” that her god, Erathis, represented.  It was that fundamental belief that had drawn her to the Seven-Pillared Hall, and to Vhael’s banner.  She would have come here even without the need to rescue the captives, not because of the evil that this place represented, but because the Well of Demons was a wellspring of _chaos_, of the disorder that she had fought against since her conversion eleven years past.  

So when the sea of grasping hands parted, and a fiend straight out of the Pit began to emerge, it was to Erathis that she prayed.  

It was another of the ape demons, the barlgura, indistinguishable from the other two that they had already faced and defeated.  As it emerged from the pillar, jaws slavering eagerly even before it saw her, she tore free from the grasping hands and staggered toward the altar-stone.  As the demon’s feet landed upon the floor behind her she reached for the golden bell.  Her hand closed around the bone handle, but even as she started to lift it a terrible pain pierced her flesh.  Reflexively she loosed her grip, and saw thorns, stained with her blood, running down the length of the bone shaft.  As she watched, they retracted back into the handle.  

There was no time to do anything more, as the demon struck her from behind.  A heavy arm smashed across her shoulders with the force of an iron club, and she was falling, hard, the edge of the altar cracking her in the shoulder before she slammed into the cold stone of the floor. 

Carzen thought he was doing an admirable job at keeping the demons at bay, under the circumstances. 

The evistros threw themselves upon him in a blind, furious rage, relying upon numbers and sheer aggressiveness to overcome him.  He drove the first back with a solid thump of his shield, and met the second with a stroke of his sword that forced it to veer or accept decapitation.  But the demons were only hindered for a moment, and their claws were like little daggers, digging under the scales of his armor to leave small gashes that bled freely.  If they got a good grip on him, he’d be torn to pieces in seconds. 

Gez tried to help him, lunging at the one Carzen had cut, but the demon suddenly lashed out at him with a claw, and the soldier was forced to dodge back or lose half his face.  

Vhael had faced the first two demons head on, but before he and the evistros could come to grips Gral intervened, blasting the pair with two _icy rays_.  His first ray missed, but the second sliced the evistro across the hips, flash freezing it.  The demon fell forward and landed snarling upon the floor, struggling to overcome the debilitating effects of the dwarf’s spell.  The other bent low and then sprang up, claws extended toward Vhael’s throat.  The warlord calmly held his ground until the demon came within reach, and then brought his sword down in a stroke that struck the demon solidly in the torso.  The blow would have cut most creatures in two, but the evistro merely spun in mid-air, landing in a snarling, vicious heap next to the dragonborn, claws ripping at his side.  Vhael grimaced as one claw found purchase and bit through the chain links protecting his hip, stabbing into his flesh.  He slammed the hilt of his sword down into the demon’s face, hard enough to have cracked the skull of a mortal man, but again doing little more than enraging the demon yet further.  

“Aid Surina, if you can!” Vhael urged Gral, but the dwarf had his own problems, as the demon he’d immobilized regained its feet and came stalking forward, eyes burning with hate as they fixed upon him.  

Surina knew she was in trouble.  She sprang up quickly from the floor before the barlgura could reverse its momentum and fall upon her, putting the altar between it and her.  The barrier did little to slow the demon, which sprang upon, inadvertently knocking the golden bell flying as it hit the artifact with its foot.  It slashed at the warlock with its claws, but this time she was able to dodge under the strokes, the razor-sharp edges passing close enough to scrape lightly against her scaled hide.  

The dragonborn was dedicated and fearless, but she was smart enough to see that the demon was stronger, faster, and tougher than she was.  And as if the odds weren’t bad enough, she saw an evistro demon appear in the chamber through another passage that opened behind it.  Behind her, the pillar had started babbling again, the noise scraping at her consciousness like a dull knife.  

It was time to get out of here. 

She ran, avoiding another claw sweep, ducking low to seize the golden bell—by the mouth this time, not the handle—and charging toward the passage toward the others.  They were fighting demons of their own, but Surina’s faith preached the way of cooperation and unity of purpose.  It was a dictum she had often ignored in her solitary crusade, but right now it was the only way to survive.  

With the bell clutched against he chest, she surged ahead.  She felt hands grabbing at her as she passed between the two pillars warding the passage mouth, but she thrust through them, growling a threatening roar.  Then she was through, and she saw Gral and Vhael fighting for their lives directly in front of her.  Shifting the bell into the crook of one arm, she lifted the other and summoned her magic.  

But before she could unleash her power, one of the pale while hands, straining to its limit, closed around her ankle.  It pulled with the inexorable strength of the fell magic that animated it, and the warlord fell forward, the bell falling out of her grasp to clatter loudly as it rolled across the floor of the room. 

Shifting, she was able to twist around just enough to see the barlgura suspended above her, descending from a leap that would crush her under its hairy body.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 59


Carzen continued his dance with the two evistros, barely keeping them off him with his shield and sword, but having to fight every few seconds against a renewed rush. 

The demon on his right already bore several wounds from his sword, but gashes that would have cut to the bone on a human had merely opened shallow cuts in the evistro’s hide.  The thing was unnaturally tough, and it seemed to fight in unspoken concert with its companion, the two coming in together to force Carzen to split his attentions between them.  Despite the protection offered by his armor, his skin blazed from several small wounds caused by their claws; the long points were able to dig under the steel scales, opening wounds that would get much worse if they were able to seize hold of him for more than a second.  

Thus far he hadn’t given them the chance, but as worn down as he was, he knew he couldn’t sustain the fight for much longer. 

Gez’s initial attempts to help him had been ineffective, but as Carzen repulsed the wounded demon yet again the soldier slipped in and drove his small sword into the demon’s red hide, right under the ridged line across its back where the bones of its shoulders protruded out.  His thrust did not penetrate far, but he finally got the demon’s attention, and it swiveled to face him, death promised in its eyes.  It lunged at Gez before he could escape, and it would have killed him right then and there, but for Carzen. 

The fighter had marked the demon, waiting for just such an opening.  Ignoring the other demon, which was grabbing at his shield, trying to tear it away, he drove forward and slid his sword into the evistro’s back.  He felt the resistance of its thick hide but pushed against it with every bit of strength he could muster.  The sword slid home, and the demon stiffened as the fine steel drove mercilessly through its body.  Carzen let out a yell as he drove it forward, finally slamming it into the wall.  Yanking his sword out, the demon crumpled. 

The other demon had followed him all the way, and he felt pain tear into him as it got through his guard, seizing his shoulder with its claws.  Before it could get a good hold he pivoted and slammed his sword down, slashing the demon across the face.  It fell back, hurt but not out of the fight.  

“You want some more of this!” Carzen roared, holding up the sword above his head.  “Come and get it then, you stinking bastard!” 

The demon obliged, attacking with a renewed fury that caught even Carzen off guard.  He was forced back, the demon’s slavering jaws snapping at his face.  Blood coursed down its face, and flaps of skin hung from the vicious cut Carzen had inflicted on it, including a big piece of its nose.  But it had gotten stronger, if anything, forcing him back against the wall even as he had done the same to the demon’s comrade just moments before.  

Just a few paces away, the fighter’s companions were having a tough time of their own.  Gral had gotten a magical _shield_ up that had held against his foe’s initial rush, but the evistro had ignored the freezing blast that the wizard had sprayed across its torso, leaping past him before springing up onto his back.  The demon was furiously trying to rip the dwarf’s head off, but Gral refused to either go down or let it get a solid hold on him.  The two spun around, the demon’s claws flicking blood with each ripping tear.  For a moment it looked like the dwarf was finished, but then he planted a foot and drove his staff up into the demon’s body.  A concussive blast of sonic energy lifted the demon up bodily into the air, and it tumbled over backwards before landing on the ground a few paces away, still dazed from the impact of the _thunderwave_.  

Gral, his beard smeared with blood, looked up to see the barlgura on top of Surina, ripping and tearing.  The warlock was still fighting, but she’d taken an incredible battering, and her struggles were growing weaker.  An evistro loomed in the shadow of the pillars behind it, moving through the grasping arms that failed to so much as brush its skin.  

Vhael was still fighting his own evistro, which had gotten a hold of his leg, and was trying to bite through the chainmail links protecting the limb.  “Gral!” he shouted, unable to come to Surina’s aid himself.  

Ignoring the demon that sprang back up to its feet in front of him, Gral drew upon his magic.  As it always did, the chill touch of the magic pulsed like ice through his veins, but he drew more of it, channeling it into a spell he’d only just mastered.  

A blast of frost filled the room, coalescing into a whirl of power that gathered into substance as it approached its target.  Ridges of ice materialized, forming into a crude but huge hand that snapped shut around the barlgura, yanking it off of Surina.  The demon roared as the icy cold of the magical fist tightened around it, pinning it despite its considerable strength.  

Vhael couldn’t bring his sword into play with his foe at such close quarters.  He dropped the weapon and roared a draconic challenge as he tore the demon free of his leg, lifting the flailing creature high above his head.  The warlord roared again, a sound that filled his allies with determination that was punctuated by action as he drove forward, slamming the evistro down into the floor, head first.  The demon’s skull cracked like a melon, spreading the putrid contents in a wide arc upon the stone.  

Taking up his sword again, the dragonborn stepped forward like the grim avatar of Death itself. 

The dragonborn’s example had reenergized his companions.  Carzen and Gez, working together, put down the remaining foe on their side of the melee.  The fighter reached Gral in time to help drive back the demon clawing at him.  The last evistro tried to take the fighter from the flank before he could shift his defenses, but Surina hit it with a blast of fire, knocking it screaming into the wall.  Taking advantage of the barlgura’s temporary entanglement, she crawled free, falling back to where Carzen and Gral were holding their position.  

Vhael moved forward to confront the barlgura as it started to tear free from the grasp of Gral’s spell.  The pillars behind it continued their attack, launching another spray of acid toward the dragonborn, but he stepped to the side, letting the demon’s bulk absorb most of the blast. The barlgura rounded on him furiously, but Vhael was not about to yield the advantage to it.  Sword and claws met, and it was the demon that fell back, blood oozing from a deep gash in its side.  Still the fiend came in again, and the pair exchanged hurts, the demon’s claws striking hard enough to bruise even through the warlord’s enchanted mail.  The warlord’s counter was only partially successful this time, his sword only drawing a shallow cut along the thick hide protecting its fat neck.  Vhael was reaching the limits of his endurance, weakening as blood continued to ooze from his many wounds, but the warlord refused to give ground.  As the demon drew back and gathered itself for another rush, he let his guard drop slightly, the end of the heavy sword sagging down, as if he could no longer keep it raised.  The barlgura responded by springing into the air, claws extended.  Vhael stepped back and fell into a crouch, propping the hilt of his sword upon the floor, holding the blood-slicked steel almost vertical with a taloned hand.  The demon, realizing it had been tricked but unable to change its momentum, slammed into him, putting all its strength into a heavy buffet from both claws that knocked Vhael sprawling.  The dragonborn, laid out upon the floor, struggled to get up, and finally slumped over, conscious but unable to do more than gasp weakly for air.  

The demon, on the other hand, would never do even that again, as it laid upon the floor next to him, Vhael’s sword piercing its chest, two feet of bloody steel jutting from its back.  

The sounds of battle had come to an end; during the brief confrontation between Vhael and the barlgura the companions had finished off the last of the evistros.  Surina was on her feet, but she looked barely better off than Vhael, blood trailing down her body from the wounds she’d suffered in the battle.  She bent to recover the golden bell, careful to give the nearby pillar a wide berth.  

“Help me up,” Vhael said, as Gral, Carzen, and Gez came over to join them.

“Those cuts need treating,” Carzen said, but Vhael shook his head.  “Gral can put his needle to work as soon as we get out of here, but I’ll not linger by those pillars.”  As if to punctuate his words, the trapped faces began screaming again, setting them all on edge.  

“So we got the last of them,” Carzen said, as he assisted the dwarf in getting the warlord back to his feet.  Carzen’s own wounds burned, but he ignored them; just looking at the two battered dragonborn made him feel better by comparison.  “What now?”

The five exchanged a long look, but for now, Vhael did not answer.  Staying close together, moving slowly and trailing blood behind them with each step, the companions made their way back to the central hall.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 60


“Hsst!  Someone’s there, just ahead.”

Jaron’s warning shocked Mara into full awareness; she realized she’d fallen into a sort of trance, trudging onward through the seemingly endless tunnels of the Labyrinth.  They’d left the shores of the underground lake behind hours ago, and hadn’t detected any further signs of their pursuers, either the troglodytes or the duergar slavers from the Horned Hold.  

Not that it would have mattered if they had been caught; they were in no condition to fight off a pair of giant rats, let alone a party of warriors. 

Still, she lifted her weapon—a club taken off one of the troglodytes—and stepped forward past Jaron.  The halfling had an arrow fitted to his bow, but he deferred to her, showing a trust that right now she didn’t feel entitled to.  Behind him the halfling refugees stopped; several slumped to the ground, exhausted beyond endurance.  She lifted the lamp she carried, the only one they were using now, its flame fitful.  She could feel the remaining oil sloshing around inside it.  How much longer would it burn, an hour?  They they would be completely dependent on Jaron and Beetle to guide them, unable to see at all. 

She lifted the lamp higher and steadied her arm to allow the flame to brighten.  The shadows of the passage recoiled incrementally, revealing a figure standing there, waiting for them. 

Relief flooded through her as she recognized him. 

“Rendil, what are you doing here?” Jaron said from behind her.  Mara jumped; she hadn’t heard the ranger following her. 

The halfling looked the same as he had back in the Hall, and if anything seemed a bit underdressed for the Labyrinth, clad in a simple tunic and breeches, and without weapons save for a small knife tucked into his belt.  The halfling did not seem surprised to see them, and raised an eyebrow as his gaze traveled over the three of them and their charges beyond. 

Mara, Jaron, and Beetle all started to talk at once, relating elements of their recent misadventures.  Mara tried to call for order, but her head started swimming, and she found herself suddenly unsteady.  After a moment, she realized that Jaron was standing in front of her, looking concerned.  She was surprised to find them looking eye-to-eye; somehow she’d ended up on her rear end without realizing it. 

She looked over at Rendil, who was watching, an odd expression on his face.  Jaron offered her his waterskin, which was still half full with water taken from the lake.  She allowed herself a few swallows, which didn’t do much to ease her unsteadiness or cure the gnawing hunger in her gut. 

“Where are the others, Rendil?” Jaron asked, as he took back his skin.  “Are we far from the Hall?”

“Quite far, actually,” he said.  “But you are where you need to be.  We stand near the entrance to the Well of Demons, where your erstwhile companions—the dragonborn general and his cohorts—are struggling to free the last of the captives originally taken by the Grimmerzhul.”

“Yarine,” Jaron whispered.  “We have to get her out of there.”

“Wait a minute,” Mara said.  “We’re in no position to help anybody.  In case you haven’t noticed, we’re almost dead on our feet, and we’ve got people here who are in worse shape.  They need food, rest, and a healer’s care.”

“I will take the halflings back to the Hall,” Rendil said.  

“Alone?” Jaron asked.  “But—” 

“There are other allies, not far from here.  They will be safe, I assure you.”

“Look,” Mara said.  “We’d like to help, but this Well of Demons is not our business.  We’ve already been through several fights, haven’t eaten or slept in what seems like days, and we don’t exactly have the gear needed to…”

She broke off as Rendil reached into a small pouch at his belt.  To her surprise, his hand—and a good part of the attached arm—dug deep into it, deeper than should have been possible given its size.  He drew out a sword, its hilt wrapped in dark leather, its scabbarded length easily as long as her arm.  He offered it to her.  

Almost by reflex she took it, and drew the steel a few inches from the scabbard.  Even in the weak light it shone like a mirror, flawless.  

Caught up in the spell of the blade, she almost didn’t hear Jaron.  “A sword is all well and good, Rendil, but we’re pretty beat up here…”

“Drink this,” the halfling replied, offering a small metal bottle that had likewise come from the tiny pouch.  “Two swallows each, no more.”

Jaron took the bottle, unstoppered it.  After a dubious glance, he took a drink.  The response was instantaneous; the halfling’s entire body shook, as though he’d taken a shot of hard liquor.  His eyes burst wide, and he stared down at the bottle in his hand like a man dying in the desert who’d suddenly found a flask of water within his grasp.  

“That’s… I feel…” 

“Take one more draught, then give it to the warrior,” Rendil directed.  Jaron did as he said.  By the time he handed the bottle to her, Mara had recovered enough to accept it.  “What is this?” she asked. 

“A magical potion.  It will ease the physical effects of your ordeal.”

She took a small drink.  Like Jaron, she felt the effects immediately.  The pain, hunger, and exhaustion she’d felt started to fade, as though she’d just eaten a meal and taken a long nap.  She blinked and looked at Rendil in surprise; he prodded her to take her second drink, then Beetle all but snatched the bottle from her hand.  The halfling drained the remaining liquid in a single gulp, and started bouncing around, animated by whatever magic had resided in the elixir.  Mara got to her feet, surprised that she could do so, her body feeling as good as it ever had.  

Jaron looked back at the halflings under his charge.  “What about the others…”

“I fear that I have no more of the liquid,” Rendil admitted.  “But as I said, I will see that they get safely back to the Hall, you have my word.”

“I don’t suppose you have a quiver of arrows in that bag, or another bottle of lamp oil?”

Rendil shook his head.  “I carry no arrows, but this stone will suffice for light.”  He drew out what looked like a pebble, which did nothing until Jaron took it.  As he held it in his palm, it began to glow, until it shed the radiance that was brighter than that cast by the simple mining lamps.  “What you have with you will have to suffice,” Rendil went on.  “You must make haste.  The fate of your friends hangs upon a fine balance, and even the slightest twinge of fate may make the difference in the outcome.” 

“Oh… okay,” Jaron said, then tightened his jaw with determination at the thought of Yarine.  The three of them turned toward the passage that forked off to the side of the tunnel that Rendil indicated, near where the halfling had greeted them.  Jaron looked back to see him urging the halflings from Fairhollow to their feet; to his surprise, they obeyed, despite their exhaustion.  He turned and followed Mara and Beetle into the passage.  

It wasn’t until they were a good fifty feet down the side passage that it occurred to him to wonder how Rendil had known to meet them there. 

He looked up at Mara, who reflected the same awareness in her eyes.  “When this is over, we need to have a little chat with him,” she said.  In her tattered clothes, she looked more like a beggar than a fighter, but when she slid her new sword from its scabbard, any doubt about her identity faded away.  “Let’s go,” she said, leading them down the passage.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 61


“This ritual seems designed to put us at a serious tactical disadvantage,” Gral said. 

“I am certain that was the intent,” Vhael responded.  The dragonborn seemed distracted.

“Maybe this isn’t such a good idea,” Carzen ventured.  “We’re still pretty beat up—no offense to that needle of yours, Gral, but I’ve had doublets with fewer stiches than you’ve put into me over the last few days.  It might be a good idea to fall back again, recover our strength, before pressing on.”

They were gathered in the blackened, scored passageway that connected all of the chambers where they had overcome the trials created by the original occupants of the Well of Demons.  Vhael had his back to the others, his stare fixed on the heavy stone doors that warded the only part of the complex they had not yet explored.  Behind those doors lay their final destination.  They had already tried more traditional means of forcing a way through, with no success. 

Without turning, Vhael responded, “Our time has run out.  Can you not feel it?”

The others exchanged a look, but said nothing.  

“Gral, am I right?” Vhael prompted.  He did turn, now, and they could see how tired he looked, a first for them, who had gotten used to the warlord’s masterful concealment of his feelings.  Dozens of scars, new and old, covered his body, and his armor showed a half-dozen rents, places where he’d taken damage that couldn’t easily be repaired in the field.  They were all like that, clothes and armor and weapons and bodies beaten and battered, held together by thread, wire, and will. 

They all looked at the wizard, but it was Surina who spoke.  “I can feel it,” she said.  “There is a power building here.  I do not know where it is coming from.”

“I do,” Vhael said.  He turned back to the doors. 

Carzen surprised himself by being the next to break the silence.  “All right, if we’re going to do this, let’s get it done with, so we can leave this hellhole.”

They made their preparations quietly and efficiently.  Once they were ready, Vhael distributed the four items of power needed for the ritual, and they split up to bring them to their assigned places.  The ghosts had told them what was needed, and they had already marked the rune circles, faded and covered in dust, situated in the outer halls around the edges of the blackened central corridor.  They left the connecting doors open, so they could hear each other, and act together on Vhael’s signal. 

Vhael lingered, with Surina.  The two dragonborn entered the chamber in the center of that rectangle bounded by the black corridor, the one dominated by the dark shaft that seemed to go down forever, and which radiated a certain cold malevolence.  They knew too from the dead adventurers that had come before that this was where the Guardian would come, once the ritual was completed.  

“You don’t need to do this,” Vhael said.  “Remain with me, and we will fight the thing together, all at once.”

“We discussed this before,” Surina responded.  “Your plan to reunite in the entry hall is a sound one, but unless someone delays the Guardian, it will fail.” 

Vhael looked at the pit, now almost completely obstructed by the barrier they had rigged at its mouth; using the remaining table from the gnoll quarters, weighed down with rubble taken from the destroyed minotaur statue, they had blocked off about two-thirds of the opening.  They had also moved the heavy stone altars that had originally occupied this place, stacking one upside-down atop the other and siting them right along the edge of the shaft.  “We could do more, maybe tear up the chairs and bunks the gnolls used, construct a more significant barricade…”

Surina touched his arm.  “As you said yourself, we do not have much time.  The enemy will not wait.”

Vhael nodded.  He walked to the nearer exit, then paused, and looked back.  “Remember.  Delay, then fall back to the rendezvous.  A needless sacrifice will benefit no one, least of all the hostages.  I suspect we will have another big fight ahead once we get that door open.”

Surina nodded.  As Vhael departed, she turned back to the pit, and walked over to the edge of the dark opening.  A faint breeze stirred from below, stinking of decay. 

Vhael made his way to his assigned position, not far from the sealed doors.  The rune circle was on the far side of a rubble of humanoid bones.  When they’d first found this room, the skeletons had been intact, shackled to the walls.  The skeletons had been inanimate, but the companions had taken a minute to smash the bones into dust, just in case. 

He took out his artifact, the golden bell.  Surina had warned him not to grasp the handle, so he held it by the body.  He lingered for a few moments, then turned to face the door.  

“Ready!” he shouted. 

“Ready!” came Gral’s voice.  The dwarf was nearest, in a room decorated by several small pools lined with colored stone. 

“Ready!” came Carzen’s voice, fainter. 

“Ready!” shouted Gez. 

“Ready!” came Surina’s cry, the last of them.  Vhael nodded to himself, and held the bell over the circle. 

“NOW!” he cried, and lowered the bell to the ground.  He imagined the others doing the same with their artifacts, at the rune circles scattered around the complex. 

Everything happened all at once, as he had expected.  What he hadn’t expected was they way all their careful plans were thrown into chaos in that first second.


----------



## Goonalan

Beautifully done, as ever, I'm running my lot through this at the moment, the Friday Knights, a bit away from this point in the scenario but I can't wait to get them here. I know it's a grind, and I'm even less impressed with H3, but there are some potentially good moments, when heroes emerge etc. and the players have to really start to think about how things are going to play out. 

An absolute delight Lazybones.

Any idea which scenario you are going to be running the players (Lazybones with actual players no less) through in your next story hour? If you've already indicated then forgive my ignorance- I've read everything here at least once, but my memory has never been great.

Thanks again for nailing the genre.


----------



## Lazybones

Thus far I'm keeping the new project a surprise. I'll start a new thread with a teaser post in the near future. 

* * * * * 

Chapter 62


Gral would have liked more time to examine the dagger they’d recovered from the chamber of blood, but duty was duty, and as soon as he heard Vhael’s shout he placed it within the rune circle.  The runes flared into life, erupting with a soft yellow glow that filled the circle and limned the dagger.  The wizard could feel the power gathering; it tingled on his skin.  

Then the dagger abruptly disappeared, and a roar, louder and deeper than Vhael’s shout, echoed through the complex.

Turning, he saw that the water in one of the pools had come alive.  A swirling vortex had caught up the water, which rose up out of the basin, taking on form, extending toward him. 

Carzen almost casually tossed the carved wooden mask into the rune circle.  He was wary as the runes lit up, but knew enough to keep his distance and leave it alone.  But when the mask disappeared and an ugly roar sounded through the open doors, he reached for his sword and turned toward the far exit, toward the rendezvous that Vhael had set.  

But between him and the doors a pair of odd mechanical devices had appeared, dropping down from openings in the ceiling that he would have sworn had not been there a minute ago.  The mechanisms, attached to some machinery hidden within the ceiling, swiveled around, revealing steel-tipped bolts that came to point unerringly at Carzen’s chest.  

Gez did what he was supposed to do when he heard Vhael’s shout.  He didn’t want to touch the book in his bare hands, so he’d wrapped it in his cloak.  He didn’t even want to hold it, but he followed orders, and once the signal was given he quickly set it down in the rune circle and stepped back.  He was amazed by the sudden glow from the runes, but it wasn’t enough to make him linger.  He was already running toward the far exit toward the rendezvous when the book disappeared.  

The roar caught his attention, but it was followed by a closer, more terrible cry that seemed to come from the carved columns around the edges of the room, filling the place with a sound that echoed off the walls until it reached a deafening crescendo.  The sound filled Gez’s head, pounding like a hammer and scattering reason like an explosion.  He veered off his course, running in a blind panic through the open doors into the central corridor.  

A rumbling noise drew his attention, and he looked up to see a huge orb of black death bearing down upon him.  

Once he’d given the signal, Vhael placed the golden bell within the circle and turned to depart.  He glanced at the sealed doors as the runes began to glow, and hesitated.  Yes, they were beginning to open, but slowly, incrementally, the gap between them emerging as a narrow crack.  It would take a while for the doors to open enough to let anyone through, he realized; he’d been right not to have the group rush here upon initiation of the ritual, hoping to escape the Guardian through sheer speed. 

That thought reminded him of his own role to play.  He’d deliberately given himself the most distance to cover to the rendezvous.  The bell had vanished, and a terrible roar reached his ears through the open doors at the far end of the hall.  But as he turned, he saw that the bones of the assorted skeletons had started to reform, drawn together by the same magic that suffused this place.  His delay had proven costly; even as he ran across the room the still-forming skeletons reached for him, trying to stop his escape.  He made it almost to the far doors when a skeletal hand closed around his ankle, almost bringing him down.  Turning, he smashed down his sword, doing once more what he’d done before, crushing the ancient bones into powder.  He tore free, but the skeleton started reforming almost at once, the bones crawling together of their own volition.  Another claw scraped at him, but Vhael dodged back, and then he was through, and at the doors.  

As he dove through them into the outer corridor, he looked up at a scene that sent a spike of horror through him.  

Surina knew that the others had completed the ritual when the roar from the mouth of the shaft shook the chamber.  Vhael had expected a quick response, but when she stepped forward to the edge of the pit, a globe of fire materializing in her hand, she could already _sense_ it coming, surging up the shaft, even in the darkness that seemed to press up against the light in the room above.  

The warlock kicked the altar stones perched upon the edge of the pit; balanced as precariously as they were, they toppled forward easily and vanished into the darkness.  No sooner had they disappeared out of her view than Surina heard another roar, this one tinged with anger and pain.  She drew back from the pit, drawing her magic into her, tasting the sweetness of it, the purging power that filled her and made all else seem pale by comparison.  

The Guardian burst from the shaft, the barrier at the top slowing it for barely a fraction of a second before it was clear, the force of its rage focused on the dragonborn warlock who stood alone before it.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 63


Gral did not wait for the elemental vortex to emerge fully from the pool.  Even as the outer edges extended toward him, he lifted his staff and fired a ray of frost into the water.  The blast froze where it touched, leaving a glistening layer of ice along the outer edge of the phenomenon.  The ice began to crack almost at once, absorbed by the still-swelling waters of the pool, but by then Gral was safely past and on his way. 

Carzen was caught off guard by the surprise appearance of the bolt-throwers from the ceiling, and stood looking dumbly at them until they stopped spinning, the pointed tips of their bolts pointed straight at him.  That realization shook him out of his funk, and he lifted his shield just barely in time to absorb the impacts.  The bolts struck hard enough to send a jolt up his arm through the shield, and as he peeked out over the upper edge of the barrier he saw that they appeared to have some sort of automatic reloading mechanism, the devices whirring as the throwing mechanism retracted and new bolts were slid into place.

Carzen didn’t wait around to witness that wonder; he was already running for the exit. 

Vhael had emerged into the central corridor in time to see the Guardian emerge from the shaft, shattering the barricade they’d put up like a battering ram.  Because of the angle he couldn’t see far enough into the room to see Surina, but he knew where she was even before a globe of fire erupted under the Guardian, saw it dive forward out of his view.  Even with his own orders echoing in his mind, he’d taken a step forward before he could think, his sword coming up in his hands.  But while his view of the chamber broadened, a cloud of gas filled the place, obscuring everything—chasm, warlock, Guardian—in a roiling confusion of white mist.  

He hesitated, but before the struggle between duty and desire could resolve itself in his mind, a massive black sphere, easily eight feet across and studded with hundreds of short spikes, appeared around the far corner of the passage, coming straight toward him.  

He could have retreated back to the relative safety of the south corridor, but that would have taken him farther from the rendezvous, farther from the Guardian.  He could have dove forward, trying to beat the sphere to the central room where Surina faced the creature, but it would have been a close chance against the onrushing sphere.  

Instead, he turned and ran, first west to the bend, then down the long length of the passage north. The sphere rumbled on behind him, closing the distance rapidly, barely slowing as it negotiated the turn behind him, if anything seeming to pick up speed in the stretch despite any apparent source of animating power.  The mystery of the damaged corridor was now answered, the spikes scoring the floor and walls as the sphere moved.  Vhael ignored the relative safety offered by the side passage leading to the blood chamber—another false choice—and instead ran to the doors to the next room, the one where Carzen had been assigned his share of the ritual.  The globe was right on his heels as he darted through the open doors, and he could feel the wind caused by its passage on his back as it rumbled by.   

“General, look out!” Gral shouted from across the room, near the far door.  Vhael looked up to see some sort of mechanism affixed to the ceiling, one of two that hadn’t been there before, turning toward him.  The other one, he saw, was clogged with ice crystals, although it was still twitching, its mechanisms trying to operate. 

He didn’t stop to ask questions, running toward Gral.  Something struck the wall behind him, likely shot by the thing above, but he didn’t pause or look back.  Gral held the door for him and closed it behind him.  Carzen was there, his sword out.  Vhael looked around for Gez, but Carzen saw and shook his head. 

“Didn’t see him, I went to the other room, but the room was empty, and this noise… screaming… I had to retreat.  I saw Gral, and…”

“Seal the doors,” Vhael commanded, hurrying down the hall toward the room where Gez had been assigned his part of the ritual.  He avoided the blood marking the floor, but there was no sign of the ghosts that had set all this in motion.  The spirits had predicted that the Guardian would destroy them, and the brief glimpse he’d gotten of it had not left him confident.  

It was not too late; they could flee, leaving this place and its terrors behind.  He doubted that the Guardian would follow; it was bound to this place, its purpose set by creatures who had likely died before he’d been born.  

No.  They had come this far, and they would…

His thoughts were interrupted as the double doors ahead of him exploded outward.  The heavy slabs of iron-reinforced wood were blasted off their hinges; they shot forward, one bounding into the exit passage, the other caroming off the wall to his right, flipping twice before sliding to a stop at his feet.  

The Guardian came through the opening it had created.  The creature rose to its full height, huge and monstrous, its wings spreading behind it as it pushed through the threshold.  The weak pulsating light glistened off its scales. 

The green dragon radiated power and malevolence.  In its jaws it held something clasped tight, and it wasn’t until it dropped it that Vhael recognized it as what was left of Surina, now a bloody mess that was missing its arms and legs.  

The dragon opened its jaws and roared a bloody challenge before charging forward to put an end to K’rol Vhael.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 64


“Did you hear something?” Jaron asked. 

Mara shook her head as she tightened the belt around her waist.  The armor she’d taken off the dead gnoll had been oversized, damaged, and soiled with blood to boot, but with it around her body she felt far better.  She tested the heft of the spear she’d found lying on the floor not far from the body, and nodded to herself; it would do.  She had the sword Rendil had given to her, but even with the rejuvenating effects of the halfling’s potion, she wanted to be able to inflict damage at a distance if another fight was forced upon them. 

Jaron waited for her.  She couldn’t see Beetle, but Mara suspected he was somewhere nearby.  It was he who’d found the intact corpse whose armor now protected Mara.  

It had been immediately clear on entering the room that a desperate battle had been fought here, and not too long ago.  The stink of blood filled the room, and streaks of it covered the floor.  The room itself looked to have sustained some recent damage; they had found floor tiles scattered about, as if ruptured by some momentous tremor of the earth, or poked up by something below.  Neither scenario much appealed to any of them, so as soon as Mara was ready they moved on once again.  

There were two exits on the far side of the room.  After a brief pause, Jaron led them into the passage on the right.  Up ahead, the passage forked, with one branch jutting left and the other continuing straight ahead for a short distance before turning right.  Before they could evaluate their options, Beetle suddenly appeared from the left passage, all but jumping with excitement.  He burst out something so fast that Mara couldn’t decipher the words, something that sounded like “bippug,” and was running back before either she or Jaron could ask him to repeat himself.  

Sharing a look with the ranger, Mara hurried after him.  

The left passage ended after only about thirty feet in a set of double doors that were just slightly open, clearly indicating that Beetle had already explored in this direction.  The halfling ignored Jaron’s hissed warning and darted again through the opening, leaving the others little choice but to follow.  As they neared the doors, Mara could hear noises coming from beyond them, a harsh grunting noise accompanied by the clink of metal, a sound that made Mara’s grip on her spear tighten.

Then she pushed through the doors, and her eyes widened in surprise. 

Beyond the doors, the passage opened onto a fairly large rectangular room.  To her left, a crude pen maybe ten paces across had been erected, the wooden braces rising nearly to her waist.  That barrier was completely overshadowed by the massive boar that was imprisoned within the pen, held in place by a thick chain secured around its neck and bolted to an eyelet embedded in the floor.  Even restricted by the chain, the boar’s motions were powerful, shaking the ground with the ferocity of its movements.  Its tusks were as long as her arm from shoulder to fingertips, and she knew that they would poke through her armor just as effectively as a steel sword, backed by the sheer mass and strength of the creature. 

She could see that the creature had been mistreated; bloody scars were visible around its neck where the chain had dug into its flesh, and for all its size it looked as though it had not been fed for some time.  The boar shook its head, agitated by their arrival, grunting ferociously but ineffectively as it struggled uselessly against the chain.  Beetle had gone right up next to it, stepping under the barrier.  The boar spun menacingly toward him, but the halfling had judged the distance perfectly, and its tusks missed him by scant inches.  

“Big pig!” Beetle said, and Mara finally understood what he’d been trying to tell them before.  She looked around the rest of the room; on the far side opposite the chained boar a low wall fashioned out of bales of odd purplish hay had been constructed, stretching across the width of the room.  

“Leave the thing alone,” Jaron said.  “It can’t hurt anyone, and it’s cruel to torment it.”

Mara came over toward him, slowly; the boar shifted and grunted, but the energy that had animated it was clearly already fading.  “I know this boar,” Mara said after a moment.  “Well, not personally, but I believe it is the pet of a friend of mine, back in the Hall.”

“Who makes friends with a dire boar?” Jaron asked.  Beetle ran past them, heading for the bales of hay. 

“He’s a dwarf miner, the priest of Moradin I mentioned to you, when I was looking for information about Vhael and the others.  He said it was tame… well, mostly tame.”

“It doesn’t seem so… Beetle!  What are you doing?”

His cousin had picked up a bale of hay and ran it back across the room, despite the fact that it was larger than he was.  The boar watched him suspiciously as he tore at the twine holding the bale together with his knife.  “Pig hungry,” he said. 

“Do boars even eat hay?” Mara asked.  

“They eat just about anything,” Jaron said, frowning.  “Including careless halflings.”  Beetle ignored him and started feeding the boar, which accepted the fat bites of hay he offered.  He obviously had been listening to the others talking, for he talked to it in Dwarvish, and the boar grunted in response, fixing Beetle with an odd stare, as if trying to reconcile the halfling with what its small brain knew of dwarves.  He picked up another double-handful of hay, entering the boar’s reach to jam it into its mouth.  Jaron froze, but the boar only accepted the offering, slurping every last bit of straw into its maw.  The halfling laughed and made a face as the boar’s slobber got on his hands, but he wiped them on his coat and grabbed more hay.  Within just a few seconds, the bale was gone, and Beetle ran back for another one.  

“What the heck are we supposed to do with it?” Jaron asked. 

“Pig pet!  Pet pig!” Beetle said, with an enthusiasm that made Jaron cringe.  

“Maybe once we find the others, we can figure out a way to get it back to the Hall,” Mara began, but before she could finish the thought, a roar sounded through the room, coming from the open doors behind them.  It was answered by a much fainter cry, but one that both of them instantly recognized as belonging to Vhael.  

“Come on!” Mara yelled, dashing back toward the doors.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 65


Vhael felt a weird momentary sense of kinship as the dragon appeared before him in all its majestic power and menace.  There was intelligence in those dark eyes that fixed upon him, and malevolence in the roar that it unleashed before surging forward toward him.  Even as it tossed aside the mangled wreckage that had been a friend and ally just minutes before, he could not help but be awestruck by it. 

In all his long years and varied experiences, he’d never before faced a full dragon, and in those first few seconds he came to understand the stature that the beasts held in the legends and tales of the world.  Dragon stories crossed nations and cultures, and were told by all races, not just those that shared some link of blood with the creatures, as he did. 

But that realization came and went in a flash, as he had to fight for his life.  An answering roar to the dragon’s challenge came from him before he even realized it, and his sword came up almost automatically into a defensive stance.  But the dragon’s assault came with the force of an avalanche. 

He thought it was going to lunge right at him, and he’d even started swinging his sword to intercept its darting jaws before it abruptly stopped, arresting its momentum just out of his reach.  Too late he realized what it was doing, too late to avoid the blinding gout of caustic gas that blasted into him.  Agony filled his lungs as the gas entered him, burned his scales, sizzled at his eyes and blinded him.  It only lasted a second, but even as he fought to recover, the assault he’d expected before arrived.  

Claws tore into him, shredding armor and scaled flesh with equal ease.  The cuts weren’t lethal, but they burned even fiercer than the dragon’s breath.  He tore free before the dragon’s sheer mass could overbear him, staggered back and swung at it.  But the clumsy stroke failed to even connect with the dragon’s body, dragged him off balance.  The roar he issued sounded more like the mewling of a stricken beast than a challenge, and it hurt him just to cry out, his scorched throat protesting even at the passage of air.  

He tried to recover from his swing, but the dragon lunged in again, seizing his shoulder in its jaws.  White knives of fire pierced his body, and he could feel the dragon’s grip tightening, crushing with the force of a vise.  He could only hiss in agony as his bones started to give under the pressure. 

But before the dragon could finish the job it had started, Vhael’s companions came to his aid.  A javelin arced high and missed its target, glancing off the ridge of armored scales running along the dragon’s crest without so much as scratching it.  Carzen Zelos cursed and drew his sword, but he hesitated there, valor warring with the seeming inevitability of death against such a foe as this.  

“It’ll tear him apart!” Gral shouted at him, unleashing a series of freezing pulses that struck the dragon, but likewise seemed to have little effect.  They’d gotten the beast’s attention, however; with a shake of its head it tossed Vhael roughly aside, blood coursing down his side from the deep punctures where it had bitten him.  The dragonborn fell, his sword clattering uselessly from his grasp. 

“Gods damn it all!” Carzen cried, then he charged, screaming incoherently as he lifted his shield high to block out the dragon’s fearsome visage.  Clad in heavy armor, shield raised, his sword trailing behind at the ready, he looked for a moment like a knight out of some old story.  

Then he met the dragon. 

His arm tensed, the sword ready to strike as soon as he entered its reach, his target square in the middle of the monster’s chest.  But in the split second before he reached his goal, a battering ram slammed into his shield.  The impact stole his momentum and reversed it, and he staggered back, his feet barely moving quickly enough to keep him from falling.  

He lowered his shield, amazed to see a big dent in the hard steel plate.  The dragon had batted him like a cat playing with a mouse; he hadn’t even gotten close enough to have a chance of hurting it. 

He looked up, into the eyes of the creature looming over him, and saw death in that stare.  

It didn’t attack at once, and for an instant Carzen thought that maybe this was a dream, that he’d been reprieved, and would soon wake.  

Then the dragon opened its jaws wide, wider than Carzen would have thought possible, and breathed upon him.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 66


“Ware its breath!” Vhael shouted, but Carzen was already bringing up his shield.  He heard a terrible noise, and then everything around him vanished in a white haze.  Wisps of the stuff curled around his shield, causing his eyes to tear up, but he avoided any serious harm.  

Instinct warned him before his vision cleared enough to see the dragon’s follow-up attack.  His sword bit into something hard, the impact nearly jarring it out of his hand.  He didn’t have time to think about it, as he took another blow on his shield that spun him around in almost a full circle.  He tried to bring his sword up into something approaching a ready position, but another hard impact caught his forearm, and he felt an angry bite of pain as his bracer was torn roughly free.  

The dragon didn’t pause, didn’t hesitate, didn’t let up.  The best he could do was avoid being overwhelmed or knocked down; his own counterattacks were feeble at best.  He did manage to hit it once more, but his sword bounced off its chest as though it was wearing a steel breastplate.  Pale blasts of frost shot past them both; Gral was having a tough time scoring a hit despite the dragon’s size, its rapidly darting movements proving as challenging for the wizard as they were for the fighter.  As it reared up over Carzen again, one of those beams sprayed across its left wing, forming a white rime that immediately cracked into a thousand tiny pieces of ice.  The dragon hissed a warning, but apparently it considered Carzen a greater threat, as it did not push past him toward Gral.  

Even as Carzen struggled against the dragon’s assault, Vhael rejoined the fight.  Charging forward, the dragonborn delivered a two-handed stroke from his big sword that clipped the dragon hard across the neck.  The impact would have killed many foes, but the dragon merely jerked back, blood oozing from the shallow gash.  Carzen lunged in to exploit the momentary advantage, but before he could strike the dragon sprang back at both of them.  Spreading its claws wide to enfold both warriors within its reach, it caught them up and smashed the two into each other.  Carzen and Vhael both grunted as they collided hard and fell to the ground.  

Now it was the dragon that had the tactical advantage, and it surged forward to put it to good use against its fallen foes.  But as the creature spread its wings and lifted its body once more, preparing to attack, it let out a cry of pain and jerked roughly to the side.  The movement showed the companions the shaft of a heavy spear, jutting from the dragon’s side just under the socket where its right wing connected to its body.  The head of the spear was buried deep into the meaty flesh of the joint, and each movement was working it deeper into the wound, no doubt causing the creature considerable pain.  

“Quick, we’ve got to get up!” Carzen urged, grabbing at Vhael, who barely clung to consciousness.  Carzen’s own movements felt wooden, his body behaving as though he’d been drinking heavily.  The thought sent a quiver through him—he would have paid a hundred gold pieces, a thousand, to be in the seediest dive in Fallcrest right now—but he knew that the dragon’s distraction was likely to be short-lived. 

But its attention—and Carzen’s—was drawn to the charging form that rushed it from behind.  Carzen was amazed to see the enforcer from the Halfmoon Inn, the woman he’d fought beside against the Bloodreavers in the Chamber of Eyes.  She was clad in rags overlaid with what looked like a gnoll cuirass, but a bright steel sword blazed like fire in her hand.  

The dragon saw her coming, but it didn’t turn away from its current foes.  But Carzen saw the danger a split-second before it struck. 

“Look out!” he shouted, but it was too late to do anything to stop the dragon, as it snapped its tail around.  The long appendage cracked hard across the charging woman’s body like a whip, knocking her into the adjacent wall.  She hit hard enough for Carzen to feel the impact twenty feet away, hung there for a heartbeat, and then toppled over onto the floor, landing on her face in a bruised heap.


----------



## Richard Rawen

Once again I find myself cringing after one of the characters takes a hit... great descriptives LB, keep it comin!
Looking forward to the live game posts too!


----------



## Tamlyn

Your battle descriptions are usually spectacular. But for some reason I find myself particularly riveted by this one. Keep 'em coming!


----------



## Lazybones

Thanks, guys. Thought we were dead for a while there with the ENWorld shutdown. At least I can post now, even if it's ssslllllllooooooowwwww.

* * * * * 

Chapter 67


“Fight!” Vhael wheezed, lifting his sword—barely—and lunging at the dragon.  For all his spirit, the dragonborn’s strength was exhausted, and the thrust failed to so much as scratch its scaled hide.  The dragon’s counter was almost languid, and it slapped him aside with a swipe of a claw.  Vhael toppled over backwards, rolled to a stop, and did not move. 

Carzen was in better shape, although his arms throbbed, and he thought he could feel the bruises forming where the dragon’s claws had impacted him.  But other than the cuts to his right forearm, he hadn’t suffered any serious injuries from the dragon’s furious attacks.  That could change in an instant, though, a thought that dashed through his mind as he aborted his next attack to duck under a snapping lunge from the dragon’s ferocious jaws.  The fighter tensed, expecting another fearsome swiping attack from those nasty claws to follow. 

But the dragon didn’t attack him.  Instead it roared and reared up, and Carzen saw a spray of ugly dark droplets fly into the air from its flank.  It turned, nearly knocking him down as its wing buffeted him across the brow.  He caught a glimpse of the woman fighter, on her feet again, her sword glistening with the dragon’s blood.  There was another, smaller form behind her, in the mouth of the entry passage.  Carzen recognized the halfling archer, and saw that he’d already scored at least one hit, the tiny arrow jutting from the back of the dragon’s dagger-shaped skull.  He lifted his sword to help them both out, but before he could swing the dragon’s tail swept his feet out from under him, and he landed on his back hard enough to send stars flashing across his vision. 

“Damn,” he muttered, ordering his reluctant body to get back up. 

Mara had no time to spare for conscious thought.  The dragon was bigger and faster than anything she’d fought before, and it seemed to anticipate her moves before she even started them.  She’d gotten in two good hits, the first from surprise and the second because it had underestimated her, but now that the dragon’s full focus was on her, her luck seemed to have fled.  The sword that Rendil had given her was sharp and light, and it moved like a blur in her hand, but it couldn’t keep the dragon’s claws off her.  In that first exchange she took two solid hits that tore through her armor, digging bloody furrows in her skin.  She thanked the gods for the gnoll armor; without that, the dragon would have torn her to pieces in the first seconds of the fray.  

Jaron was sending a barrage of arrows at the dragon, but she knew that it was up to her to keep it busy long enough for the toll of damage that they were inflicting upon it to take effect.  The dragon _was_ hurt, bleeding now from several wounds, including the spear that still jutted from its side.  But the creature’s stamina seemed inexhaustible. 

Carzen got back to his feet, while Mara dodged a sweeping claw and lifted her sword to strike again before it could recover.  But even as the gleaming sword slashed down, the dragon’s head snapped around, and it grabbed her arm in a crushing grip that caught her from wrist to elbow.  Mara screamed as the dragon lifted her off her feet, unable to do anything except flail desperately; she pounded at it with her free hand, but she might as well have been a rabbit struggling against the jaws of a steel trap.  

Her companions tried to come to her aid; Gral splashed another beam of frost along the dragon’s flank, while Carzen lunged in and delivered another glancing hit that just drew blood along its hindquarters.  The dragon responded by swinging around, using its captive like a club, smashing Mara into Carzen hard enough to knock the soldier flying.  He landed and rolled, much like Vhael had earlier, and while he was still conscious, it was clear that his wounds were starting to slow him down. 

The dragon, still holding Mara, took a step toward him, but abruptly reared up, an angry hiss coming from the sides of its mouth.  It snapped its head to the side, releasing Mara at the end of its sweep, sending her flying into the nearby wall.  She impacted the hard stone a good eight feet off the floor, falling into a limp heap not far from where Vhael still lay unconscious upon the cold stone.  Her sword, torn from her grasp at the last, clattered off the wall and landed in a corner a good ten paces away. 

The dragon finished its turn, and now they could see what had drawn its ire; one of Jaron’s arrows had scored deeply, only a few inches of feathered shaft jutting from the spot at the base of its skull where its head met its neck.  The dragon fixed a malevolent look upon the halfling archer, who somehow withstood the fell power in that gaze.  Jaron’s hands did not shake as he reached into his quiver, where one arrow remained.  

But even as he drew out that final shaft, the dragon dropped into a crouch, and sprung at him, a charging engine of destruction against which the halfling ranger seemed to stand no chance whatsoever.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 68


Jaron stepped back, but did not flee before the dragon’s rush.  His hands shook slightly as he fitted his last arrow to the string, but the steel head did not quiver as his drew the bowstring to his cheek. 

But the dragon was faster, too fast; it covered the gap between them in a few bounds, its jaws snapping out to enfold him in a single deadly bite. 

In the scant instant before impact, a huge form, almost as big as the dragon, came hurtling out of the corridor, colliding into the drake with the force of a boulder tumbling down a mountain.  The dragon was flung aside by the force of that collision, and both it and the newcomer hurtled in a mad confusion across the crowded space of the hall, finally slamming together into the far wall with enough force to make the stones tremble.  

Carzen had gotten back to his feet, and still held his sword.  But he meandered back and forth, staggering dazedly as he made his way over to where Mara had fallen.  The woman warrior was conscious, but her battered arm hung limp at her side, and while she fumbled against the floor with her other hand, she couldn’t quite manage to get up.  Both of them stared in amazement at the scene developing in front of them.  

“What in the hells…” Carzen began.  His confusion only deepened when he heard a familiar yell superimposed over the roars coming from the dragon and its foe.  

The two fighters saw that the new arrival was the dire boar they’d encountered earlier.  Pinning the dragon against the wall, it twisted its head violently, working its tusks deeper into the monster’s body.  The dragon, caught off-balance, responded with a violent storm of claws and teeth that forced the boar back, bleeding from gashes across its face and shoulders.  Blood from both creatures started gathering upon the floor below, splatters joining into a muddled pool that was further scattered by their frenzied movements. 

And sitting astride the boar, shouting his lungs out, was Beetle, having the time of his life.  There seemed no way he could have kept that precarious perch through the charge and impact with the dragon, yet somehow he did, clinging to a bony spur jutting from its back as though it were a saddle horn.  

The boar, driven to a mad rage by its imprisonment, took out its frustrations upon the dragon.  Its hooves beating upon the floor, it surged forward, snapping its head up as it gored the dragon again.  One tusk, already slick with blood, stabbed into the dragon’s belly like a curved dagger, ripping the scaled hide and releasing a fresh gout of dark, stinking blood.  Beetle contributed by throwing a small knife that glanced off the dragon’s skull, narrowly missing an eye.  

The dragon’s rage easily matched that of the boar, and while it was now bloodied, it responded with no less violence.  Seizing the boar with its claws, it fired off another blast of toxic gas that scoured it at point-blank range, bleaching the thick bristles that covered its hide.  The boar staggered back, temporarily blinded and dazed by the attack.  The dragon’s breath had also finally dislodged Beetle, who was flung across the room by the force of the blast.  The halfling somehow managed to get his feet under him as he landed, and he tumbled to a safe if somewhat awkward stop, coughing to clear the remnants of the poison from his lungs.  

The dragon exploited its advantage as it had against its armored foes earlier.  The boar’s angry grunts became squeals of pain as the dragon’s claws dug deep furrows in its hide, but those cries were abruptly cut off as it sank its jaws into its neck, driving it down into the ground, pinning it there despite its weakening struggles. 

Carzen bent down to help Mara, trying to ignore the way the room started spinning when he lowered his head.  He had to put his sword down, but he was able to take her good arm and pull her to her feet.  She grimaced in pain as the movement jarred her battered arm, but her eyes were mostly lucid as they fixed on him.  

“My… sword… where…” she stammered. 

“We have to finish it, now!” Gral shouted.  The dwarf had come up to join them, his staff raised and surrounded by a wintry glow as he continued to draw upon his magic.  He hesitated by Vhael, clearly torn between two conflicting duties, but after a moment stabbed the head of the staff forward like a lance, unleashing another beam of magical cold.  

“Stay here,” Carzen said to Mara, propping her against the wall, while he reached down to recover his sword.  He almost lost it there, as the hilt of the weapon drifted out of focus when he dipped his head, and his equilibrium likewise threatened to desert him.  But he gritted his teeth and recovered, taking up the sword and stepping forward toward the dragon for one final confrontation. 

The boar’s struggles had grown weaker, and the dragon continued holding its death-grip upon the creature, digging its claws in deeper, holding its jaws tight around the boar’s neck.  Finally, with a shudder, the boar collapsed, blood splattering out around it as its bulky torso settled to the floor.  The dragon drew up, its jaws soaked with fresh blood, droplets spraying as it roared in triumph.


----------



## Lazybones

Yay, fast ENWorld is back!

In other news, check in Friday for a new thread with a teaser post from my upcoming new story. I think you'll find it both different and familiar. 

* * * * * 

Chapter 69


“MURDERER!” Beetle screamed, charging forward.  The dragon’s head spun to face him as the halfling sprang up onto the bulky hindquarters of the dead boar; battered as it was, the creature’s attack was as fast as it had been before, the wedge of its head darting forward to intercept this puny foe.  

“Beetle!” Jaron yelled.  There was nothing he could do to intervene; he’s shot his last arrow, and while he ran forward, drawing his sword as he charged, he was too far away to help his cousin.  

But as the dragon’s jaws snapped shut, they closed on empty air.  Beetle had kicked off the boar’s back and flung himself sideways; something in his hand flashed as his body intersected with the lunging head of the dragon.  Then both were flung in different directions; Beetle was knocked roughly off to the left; hitting the wall feet first, actually running along it for several paces before gravity drew him back to the floor.  He slid several paces before coming to a stop, breathing heavily. 

The dragon’s head reared back on its long neck, nearly bouncing off the high ceiling above.  Its wings and foreclaws flailed, and it tore free from the boar, almost falling over onto its back before the wall behind it arrested its gyrations.  Carzen, who’d come tentatively forward to confront it a moment ago, was forced to quickly retreat, lest he get trampled by the dragon’s wild movements.  Gral, however, held his ground, taking careful aim, firing a lance of white cold squarely into the center of the dragon’s chest.  The beam pierced it like a knife, forming a ring of frost around the point of impact. 

The dragon tumbled forward, its violent struggles suddenly transformed into an almost placid limpness as it sank to the ground.  The head was the last part to touch the stone, and as it came to rest, they could see the hilt of the tiny dagger that protruded from the ruins of its left eye.  

The dragon was dead.  

“By… the… gods…” Carzen breathed.  He glanced back at Gral, but the dwarf was already tending to Vhael’s wounds.  Mara was still standing, and gave him a funny look as he stared at her.  

Then Beetle came forward.  He came up to the dragon, looked down at it.  Even in death, the thing dwarfed him.  He reached down to recover his dagger, made a face as the weapon came free with a sick sucking noise.  

Jaron came up next to him.  “Wow,” he said.  

Beetle grinned, then his gaze turned to the dead boar, and the expression darkened.  “Stupid dragon,” he said mournfully, kicking it in the head.


----------



## Richard Rawen

HA!  "“Stupid dragon,” he said mournfully, kicking it in the head." 
laughed my arse off!
Don't mess with the Halfling!


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 70


They found Gezzelhaupt’s body where it had fallen, mangled almost beyond recognition by the rolling ball of force that had been conjured up by their completion of the ritual.  Dozens of puncture wounds covered his body, including several that made his face an unrecognizable mess.  One of his arms had been cut free of his body at the elbow, and they never did find it, carrying the rest of him hastily out of the way of the black globe before it could return on its circuit around the length of the rectangular hall.  

They gathered with the remains in one of the anterooms off that hall.  With the Guardian defeated, the corrupt effects that had been summoned by the ritual had faded, although the black sphere continued its course, rumbling as it passed the open doors leading to the central hall.  

Mara flexed her right hand; she’d kept doing that, as if to remind herself that she still had it.  While her arm had been painfully strained by being yanked around by the dragon, and her shoulder had been dislocated, miraculously the limb itself was intact, with no broken bones.  Gral had cleaned the dozen or so gashes the dragon’s teeth had made, and wrapped the entire forearm in a fresh linen bandage.  She’s shifted her sword to her other hip; if it came down to it, she could use it effectively with either hand, one legacy of her uncle’s training.  

But nothing in that training had prepared her for this.  

Carzen and Vhael were arguing, not far away.  Gral stood silent between them, but there was no doubt whose side he was on.  She felt detached, even her hatred for Vhael overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of what they’d just been through.  Beetle’s voice at her side drew her attention out of her musings, and she looked down to see the halfling there, holding a sword in his hands.  

“Hey, I found this,” he said, offering it to her. 

She knew the blade; half the size of hers, it was standard light infantry issue in the Nentir Vale, and she recognized the maker’s mark of Fallcrest just above the crossguard.  Gezzelhaupt’s sword, not that it had done him any good in the end.  Still, she took it, almost reflexively sliding it through her belt.  Somehow it made her feel more confident to have her usual two blades at hand as she stepped forward to the dragonborn and his companions. 

“There’s only so much abuse a body can take and fight on,” Carzen was saying, keeping his voice pitched low, his words clipped and controlled, but no less earnest for that.  

“The ritual fluxes and gathers,” Gral said.  “The spirits said that the doors would remain open but briefly.”

“There is no shame in knowing when you have reached your limit,” Carzen began.  He looked about to say more, but Vhael’s eyes had shifted toward Mara as she approached, and they all turned to face her.  For a moment Mara felt the force of those combined stares like a weight, but after all that she’d faced in recent days, gathering herself under that attention was not a difficult challenge. 

“It would appear that we are once more in your debt,” the dragonborn said.  He looked as though he’d rolled around atop a heap of daggers; cuts and gashes, some still trailing faint courses of blood, covered his body.  One of his nostrils was deeply notched, and one eye was surrounded by swollen flesh, almost obstructing its vision.  Old bandages and new formed a chaotic pattern across the scaled flesh that wasn’t protected by armor, which was a large portion of the whole, given the damage his gear had sustained.  

A sudden surge of anger filled Mara, filling her with its intensity.  “I don’t want your gratitude,” she barked.  

Vhael did not shrink from her anger.  “I am no stranger to hatred, but if I am to face it, I should know the reason for it.”

“The reason?  My reason is not unique, ‘general’.  Oh, yes, I am sure you know it well.  How many hundreds, how many thousands have you left behind, bereft?  How many lost everything they had, because of you?”

Gral started to interject, but Vhael forestalled him with a hand.  “Ibarion,” he said, the single word hitting like a mallet. 

“Ibarion,” Mara echoed, that word filled with pain. 

“I take full responsibility for what happened there,” Vhael said.  “The decision not to march to the relief of the militia of the town was mine.  My army was not yet ready; had I initiated the march in time to intervene, they would have arrived disorganized, unprepared.  It would have only led to a worse outcome.”

“Worse outcome?” Mara responded.  “Worse outcome!”

Carzen looked around nervously.  “Perhaps a bit less shouting…”

“That ‘outcome’ was a massacre.  You were entrusted with protection of those people.  The militia held out for days, almost a week, even as the enemy grew stronger and stronger.  By the time that you finally arrived, the militia had been decimated.  The walls breached.  Four out of every five within the walls were dead.  The militia trusted you, waited for you.  The great general K’rol Vhael, he wouldn’t leave an entire town to be destroyed.  Wouldn’t leave brave men to be killed.”

“You were there?” Carzen asked.

“No.  My father insisted that my mother leave with the other families, once the raiders were seen approaching.  He stayed, along with the other members of the militia, to protect their lands and property.  He was a trader, not a soldier, like the other craftsmen, merchants, and farmers that made up the militia.  They stayed, knowing that the Duke would send aid.  Believing a lie.”

“The general did what he could with what he had,” Gral said.  “Trederan was trying to provoke us at Ibarion, draw us out to fight before we were ready, before the levies from the east could bolster our forces.  Ibarion’s defense was not in vain.  The raiders were caught; Trederan’s army was destroyed, the rebellious baron hanged.  If Vhael had let his army get trapped prematurely at Ibarion, nothing would have been gained, and many more towns would have suffered the fate of Ibarion.  We avenged those lost…”

“I don’t care about vengeance,” Mara hissed.  “I cared about my father.  My mother died barely two months later, of the pestilence that followed in the wake of the war.”  

Silence followed for a long moment.  Mara’s revelation seemed to have deflated her; her shoulders sagged as the force of her anger bled away from her body.  But it still burned in her eyes as she watched Vhael. 

Jaron appeared from the corridor.  Sensing the tension in the room, he cleared his throat; attention shifted to him.  “The doors open onto a passage, not too long.  They end in another set of doors, big ones, rimned with red light around the edges.  I didn’t get too close, but I heard sounds, chanting, sounded like, sent chills down my spine.  

“The ritual approaches completion,” Gral said.  “We don’t have much time.”

Vhael turned back to Mara.  “I can say nothing to ease your pain, young woman.  Evadron wrote that in war, there are no good decisions, only choices less bad than others.  War is an ugly thing; the soldier practices an ugly trade.  But that is all that I am, all I have ever been.”  The warlord drew in a heavy breath, held it a moment before releasing it through his damaged nostrils.  A fresh trail of blood emerged with the exhalation and trailed down the front of his face.  “Perhaps it would have been better to march on Ibarion with what we had, no matter the odds.  There is rarely a day that passes that I do not think of that day.  The decision was mine, and I made it.  That is all that can be said.”

Turning to the others, he said, “It is time to finish this.”  He headed back to the double doors, waiting a few seconds until the rolling sphere had passed, then vanished into the blackened hall.  Gral followed, then Jaron, with Beetle hurrying after.  

Carzen remained a moment, looking at Mara.  He opened his mouth to say something; closed it.  Something unreadable flashed across his expression.  Finally he shook his head.  “Damn it all to hell and back,” he said, turning to follow the others, leaving Mara standing there alone.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 71


Yarine felt as though her body was on fire.  Pain wracked her, dragging her toward unconsciousness, but that release seemed to hover just out of reach, even that faint escape denied to her.  

She could see, but everything around her was green fire, rising up around the rune circle, currents of magic given form and shape by the pulsing ritual.  How long had she been here—hours, days?  Their arrival here seemed vague and indistinct now, memories overshadowed by the assault upon her senses being conducted here.  The rasping words of the gnoll shaman, by that _thing_, had faded into the background, but still present enough to know that it was there, inflicting this pain upon her for some nefarious purpose of its own.  The gnolls hadn’t bothered to share their plans with her, hadn’t bothered to do much more than lock her and her companion in a darkened room after their arrival here.  They hadn’t been given food, and only a few swallows of brackish water.  She suspected they had only gotten that because of a need to keep them alive long enough for this ritual to be completed.  She had no illusions about her fate at the end of it. 

Her muscles quivered, locked, but through a vast expenditure of will she managed to shift her head slightly.  She couldn’t see much more than the wall of green fire, but as she lifted her head more, she could just make out the body her of the other prisoner brought here by the Grimmerzhul, sold to the gnolls as fuel for their foul rite.  She tried to speak, but nothing but a tiny croak escaped her lips.  

Still, the other seemed to hear, for he stirred.  It took the same heroic effort for him to lift his head to meet her eyes.  When their gazes finally met, Yarine saw only the same despair that she felt.  

Rendil Halfmoon looked at her for another few seconds, then he slumped back down, pain and exhaustion overcoming him once more.  Yarine could do no more than echo him, fighting against the waves of agony as the corrupt drone of the gnoll chief all around them, growing stronger even as the prisoners’ strength continued to ebb.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 72


The heavy stone doors at the end of the passage swung ponderously open.  

The survivors of the expedition from Fallcrest stepped warily into the chamber beyond, into a scene of nightmares. 

The place was huge, the large open space ahead further extended by a higher tier on the far side of the room, an annex that continued out of their line of sight to the left.  The air was hot and thick, the chamber lit by a diffuse crimson radiance that shone from the walls, and by the light that came from several massive iron cauldrons that glowed red with heat.  Fetid vapors and an aggressive bubbling noise came from those containers, the nearest of which was directly to their right upon entering.  A massive stone statue of a minotaur rose up behind the cauldron, its carved features staring down malevolently upon them.  A raspy droning noise reached their ears, coming from somewhere atop the upper level, its origin out of their line of sight. 

A flight of broad stone steps led up to that upper tier on the far side of the room.  The chamber’s occupants were up there, including several evistro demons, their attention fixated upon the back of the platform, where an orb of sinister green flames pulsated in cadence with the droning sound.  One of them turned as the doors opened, and upon spotting the companions, let out a foul cackling noise that echoed through the chamber. 

“Stand ready!” Vhael warned.  He and Carzen took up positions near the door, while Jaron, armed now only with his small sword and dirk, huddled near the wall to the fighter’s left.  Gral stood behind and between them, protected but still able to get a clear view of the entire battlefield.  Beetle, unsurprisingly, was nowhere to be seen. 

The evistros leapt down from the platform, three of them in all, the last two joining the first in their fiendish cries.  They were obviously eager to join the fray, but hesitated for a moment, slashing the air with their claws. 

Vhael was quick to exploit their delay.  “Gral, if you would,” he said. 

The dwarf summoned his magic, drawing upon the power of his staff to enhance the _freezing cloud_ that he summoned around the demons.  The fiends shrieked furiously as they vanished within the icy fog, but they emerged almost at once, their fury quickly directed into a loping charge toward the intruders.  

“Wait for them,” Vhael rumbled, lifting his big sword.  Next to him, Carzen likewise readied to take the rush.  The demons kept on coming, and as they reached the line, they sprang into the air, leaping at the defenders in a surge intended to overwhelm through sheer speed and ferocity.  

But the adventurers were ready, and the terrible cackles of the demons failed to weaken their resolve, hardened by the terrible experiences they’d already overcome in the Labyrinth.  Vhael caught the first with a two-handed swing that dashed it to the floor, snarling as blood jetted from a terrible wound that slashed from its shoulder to its breastbone.  The demon failed to stay down, however, darting forward to tear at the dragonborn’s legs with its claws.  

Just two paces distant, Carzen interrupted the second demon’s charge with his sword.  He too scored a hit, but the demon caught his swordarm before he could draw back, tearing at the skin left unprotected since the Guardian had ruined his bracer.  He grimaced but escaped the trap, trying to ignore the pain from the bloody rents that trickled bright red in long trails down his forearm.  

He had no time to do more, as the last evistro leapt onto his shield.  Claws scraped at the metal, and the demon’s weight almost overbore him.  He couldn’t shake it off; the demon was too strong, too focused on taking his blood.  But then, even as the base of the shield jabbed against his side, as the demon’s claws started to scrape off his helmet, it shrieked and fell back.  As it dropped away Carzen saw Jaron standing there, his sword slick with the demon’s blood.  

“Thanks!” he yelled, lashing out with his sword again to keep the other demon at bay.  A pulse of white energy caught it in the chest before it could surge forward again, and it hissed in fury.  Gambling that the fighters were too heavily occupied by its comrades, the demon darted toward the gap between them, intent on dealing with Gral.  

Unfortunately for the demon, Carzen had been waiting for such a maneuver, and he slammed his sword down into it as it tried to get by, knocking it roughly to the ground.  The demon snarled and sprang back, now bloodied from its multiple wounds.  

Thus far the companions had more than held their own against the chamber’s defenders.  But even as the _freezing cloud_ started to dissipiate, they heard a new sound, a ponderous step that thumped upon the floor, an ominous noise accompanied by a faint scraping rattle.  Even embattled with the evistros, both Vhael and Carzen looked up as the fog cleared, and a new monstrosity stepped through it to face them.  

It was a skeleton, but only in the same sense that Vhael’s sword was a knife.  It stood easily fifteen feet from its feet to the tips of the curved horns that jutted from its long skull.  In life it had been a minotaur, a giant even for that race, and in death, it was a fearsome undead monstrosity.  It carried a huge club, a maul easily nine feet in length, and as it reached the bottom of the stairs it turned toward them, promising a most unwelcome meeting. 

And as if that wasn’t enough, as it came forward they saw another hulking figure behind it, coming forward to the edge of the platform.  Smaller than the minotaur skeleton only by comparison, they recognized it easily, having fought a number of its kin over the last few days.  

The barlgura waited only until the skeleton was clear, then it leapt down, ready to tilt the odds yet further against the would-be heroes.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 73


Carzen thrust back a snarling evistro with his shield, and glanced up at the monstrous skeleton lumbering ponderously across the chamber toward them.  “What’s the plan?” he yelled at Vhael, his voice edging just slightly toward shrill panic.  

“Hold and fight!” Vhael roared back.  The evistro he’d been fighting launched itself at him again, darting inside the reach of his sword, but he smashed the hilt across its face, crushing its nose and driving it back.  With another roar, he drove the sword down, cutting off half of the demon’s face, sending it spinning around and to the ground.  Somehow the grim thing still lived, but it was not enjoying the experience. 

Gral unleashed a barrage of _icy rays_ at the skeleton, but the frosty blasts seemed to have little effect upon it, passing through the empty spaces between the bones of its torso.  Vhael lifted his sword to meet it, but the undead monster had an incredible advantage in reach, which it put to good use as it smashed its club down and knocked the warlord clear off his feet.  Vhael was flung back and landed squarely on his back in front of Gral, who helped him back up.  

“Hits… hard…” Vhael wheezed.  But he still held onto his sword, and even as he struggled for breath, he started to stagger back forward to reengage.  But before he could regain his place in the line, the evisto he’d crippled sprang forward again, seizing his right arm.  The thing’s face was mangled beyond recognition, and it could only see out of one eye, but it clung to him with desperate strength, pulling him off-balance, tearing at the battered armor that covered the limb with its claws.  Vhael felt sharp, stabbing pains as the demon’s claws savaged his elbow joint.  He tried to break free, to win room to use his sword, but even as grimly hurt as it was the demon’s ferocity seemed unabated, and it held onto him with an iron grip.  

The barlgura had followed in the skeleton’s wake, in no great hurry, the demon content to let the undead creation handle the hard work of sundering the enemy’s line.  It was eager to rend, to tear with its oversized claws, but as it ambled forward, it suddenly stumbled, its left leg giving out under it with a sharp stab of pain.  

The demon snarled furiously, coming back up quickly into a ready crouch, its claws sweeping out to rend whatever attacker had dared to assault it.  But it caught only empty air, and as it swiveled its squat head around, casting out with its sharp senses, it likewise only found shadows. 

A guttural growl rumbling in its throat, it turned warily back toward the battle.  The skeleton had engaged, and was blocking the route forward, but its gaze shifted, toward the huge iron cauldron. 

“Holy crap!” Carzen exclaimed, ducking and just barely managing to avoid the sweeping arc of the giant skeleton’s club.  The evistros had just become a lesser threat by comparison, although they still pressed him, coming in low under his shield in an attempt to take his feet out from under him.  One turned to deal with Jaron, who’d been successfully harrying it with his small sword, but Carzen smacked it with his shin, knocking it roughly over onto its back.  There was no time to follow up with another attack, though, as the skeleton pressed closer, its club coming up in anticipation of a downward stroke that would likely relocate his skull to somewhere between his knees.  

“Oh crap,” he muttered.  He started to retreat, formations and defensive lines be damned, but he almost stumbled as the other evistro locked onto his right leg.  It snarled up at him, not bothering to try and worry through the heavy steel greaves he wore, content merely to hold him in place until the skeleton finished its work.  

“Oh crap!” he repeated, as the club started its downward arc.


----------



## Lazybones

"Oh crap," of course, is a redacted version of Carzen's comments. 

* * * * * 

Chapter 74


A resounding cry echoed Carzen’s yell, as Mara rushed into the chamber, both swords drawn.  She rushed past Gral, and past Vhael, who opened his jaws and breathed a cone of hot flames into the ruined face of the evistro.  She came straight at the giant skeleton, which sensed her coming, and shifted its blow, driving the club down powerfully to greet her.  The skeleton’s speed and strength seemed irresistible, but in the instant before the blow would have landed, Mara subtly shifted, twisting in mid-step into a pirouette like a dancer.  The club missed her by scant inches, slamming into the floor with enough force to shake the entire room.  Mara completed her spin and slid forward, her swords snapping up with the momentum of her body behind them.  Both blades lashed up into the heavy leg bones of the skeleton, chopping away pieces that went flying out in every direction.  The skeleton faltered, but only for a moment, and it snapped its club back, clipping Mara hard across the shoulder.  The impact jarred her wounded arm, and her shorter sword shot away like a bolt like a crossbow, sliding across the room almost to the foot of the stairs. 

Vhael tore the smoking remains of the evistro from his arm—the demon had not released its grip even in death—and tossed it to the ground.  Even that movement was enough to send hot knives of fire through his body; it felt like the blow from the skeleton’s club had cracked a few ribs.  But as he scanned the battlefield, taking in the tactical situation in an instant, the pain receeded to the back of his mind. 

He started forward again, but only got one step before a surge of power caught the attention of everyone in the room.  

The green radiance situated atop the far tier pulsed, echoed by the chanting drone, which rose to a harsh shriek.  The green glow flared brightly, filling the entire chamber with sickly light, which maintained its brilliance for a heartbeat or two before fading back to its original level.  

A woman’s scream accompanied the pulse, a sound of pure terror and agony that faded in the wake of the crescendo of the ritualist’s incantation.  All eyes were drawn to the upper tier of the room, but it was impossible to see what was going on up there. 

The brief interlude ended as quickly as it had begun, with the giant skeleton taking another swing at Mara, while the evistros continued their attacks on Carzen and Jaron.  Vhael started forward again, but hesitated.  

Carzen glanced aside and saw him, recognizing the warring pulls of duty that tugged at the warlord.  “Go!” he yelled, finally knocking the evistro off his leg, smashing his shield into it as it tried to get its claws back into him.  “We’ll hold them off!”  Another heavy thud followed his cry, as the skeleton smashed its club into the floor again, narrowly missing Mara for a second time.  The fighter darted through the skeleton’s legs, and took a chip out of its left knee with her sword before spinning back around to its left.  

Vhael heard Gral behind him, speaking just loud enough to be heard over the chaos of the battle.  “The success of the mission is the primary objective,” he said.

Vhael nodded, almost to himself, and turned around, heading toward the narrow space between the cauldron and the stone minotaur statue.  

He’d only just reached the gap when the barlgura demon leapt over the iron cauldron, landing with a loud thump almost directly between Vhael and Gral.  The ape-demon started to turn toward the dragonborn, but then Gral hit it squarely with a beam of icy frost, drawing its attention squarely upon himself. 

This time, Vhael didn’t look back.  The dragonborn ran across the chamber toward the staircase, focused on the voice that continued to croak chants from somewhere up above. 

The melee continued to rage near the entrance of the chamber, as Mara, Carzen, and Jaron struggled to hold off the chamber’s guardians.  The two remaining evistros proved frustratingly durable; while both bore numerous wounds, they refused to yield ground, pressing both the halfling and the human soldier with a relentless fury.  The demons fought well together, shifting and trading places, giving their foes no clear target.  Both Jaron and Carzen bore fresh gouges from their claws, but neither side seemed to have won a decisive advantage. 

The same could not be said for Mara.  She had singlehandedly held off the bonecrusher skeleton for a few precious seconds, and had inflicted serious damage on its legs, but the undead’s advantage in size, strength, and durability eventually began to tell.  The thing continued to sweep its club around its ankles with wild vigor, and there was little chance that Mara could hope to evade it forever.  She took one glancing hit that nearly knocked her sprawling, and a more solid impact on the backswing that knocked her roughly forward.  She was forced to give up her own attacks in a desperate attempt to stay alive, diving to evade a follow-up swing that would have taken her head off, had it connected.  She fell to the ground, trying desperately to regain her footing, as the creature lifted a skeletal leg, topped with a cloven hoof, and stepped forward to crush her under its bulk. 

Gral did not attempt to flee before the barlgura’s furious rush; there was no place he could go to evade it in any case.  He calmly focused his will and his magic, and a bright blue _shield_ appeared between himself and the fiend, frustrating the initial swipe of its claws.  His response pierced the ward as though it was not there and stabbed into the barlgura’s chest, draining still more heat and life from the angry demon.  

The demon, however, would not be denied.  Lunging forward, it engulfed the dwarf in its huge arms, bypassing the _shield_ and dragging Gral into his grasp.  Before he could do anything to attempt to escape, the demon dug its claws into his flanks and lifted him over its head.  The demon’s purpose became clear as it retraced its steps back toward the cauldron, which glowed brightly from the heat of the raw substance roiling inside.  Gral’s struggles came to nothing as the demon drew near to the edge of the huge vessel, and as it held him over the edge a twisting tentacle emerged tentatively from the boiling goop inside, coiling upward as if eager to take hold of the demon’s prize.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 75


Unable to break free of the demon’s iron grip, and definitely preferring to avoid immersion in the cauldron, Gral tried a desperate gambit.  He couldn’t even see the demon, as it was holding him facing up, so his options were increasingly limited. 

The dwarf still held tenuously to his staff, and as the demon thrust him forward, clearly intending to deposit him directly into the hot liquid, he thrust with it at the lip of the huge iron pot.  The _thunderwave_ he released reverberated painfully from the cauldron with a bone-shaking ringing, but that alone was not enough to shake the demon’s grip.  Nor was it enough to rupture the cauldron, which was fashioned out of thick iron, several inches thick, and which weighed thousands upon thousands of pounds.  The magic that fueled it was not affected by Gral’s discharge.

What the _thunderwave_ did, however, was to shake the cauldron with the force of a titan’s kick.  The near lip dropped, just a few inches, as the entire construction resettled upon its foundation.  But more significantly, the liquid inside sloshed heavily away and then back, spilling on its return a good thirty or forty gallons of the noxious stuff out over the lip and onto whatever was directly in front of it. 

More specifically, onto the demon’s face. 

The barlgura was a tough customer, but even its abyssal hide couldn’t fully absorb the sudden deluge of burning heat deposited upon it.  It screamed horribly, flinging Gral aside as it drew back, trying uselessly to protect itself from damage that had already been done.  It staggered back, steam rising from it and from the floor where most of the gunk had splashed.  While it kept its footing, it was far from happy at that moment. 

It became even less happy a moment later, as Gral, who lay splayed upon the floor where he’d landed a few paces away, tapped his staff to the floor.  A rime of white frost spread out from the point of impact, freezing the steaming liquid where it touched, forming a slick that extended out under the stamping demon’s feet.  The barlgura abruptly lost its fight with balance as the smooth ice stole its footing, and it fell heavily onto its back. 

Mara rolled out from under the descending path of the skeleton’s big hoof, which smashed into the ground as hard as its club had before.  Her respite was only momentary, however, as its empty skull swung to follow her, its club coming up again to deliver a crippling strike.  The fighter tried to get up, to crawl away, anything to put distance between her and the thing, but her battered limbs simply refused to follow her orders, and she saw that there was no way she’d get out of the monster’s insane reach.  

A loud cry drew her attention to behind the creature, where Carzen Zelos rushed forward, a demon still clambering at his side, trying to claw past his shield.  Mara saw the skeleton shift slightly, and she yelled a warning.  “Look out!”  The man from Fallcrest saw it too, and raised his shield, but the skeleton’s blow was far too powerful to deflect.  The impact drove the shield into Carzen’s body, and reversed his momentum, knocking him over onto his back.  

The demon gleefully leapt onto him, tearing and biting.  

Mara was on her feet, Carzen’s sacrifice restoring a jolt of sudden energy to her body.  The skeleton’s club came around toward her, but she was already inside its reach, and she lashed out with her sword, driving it through the joint of the creature’s left knee, smashing the cap bone into shards and dust.  She kept running, forcing the thing to turn after her.  The bones of its leg ground together, and for a moment she thought it would continue unaffected by the damage she’d wrought upon it, but then the big leg bones slipped apart, and the monstrosity tumbled over, landing in a boneshattering heap upon the floor.  Bits and pieces of it went flying, and while the bulk of it remained more or less intact, the animating force that had given it life seemed to have fled, for it did not try again to rise.

Dodging through the debris of settling bones and dust, Mara hurried to help Carzen.  

Vhael reached the stairs, and rushed up them, his blood pounding in his ears.  As he gained the summit, however, and looked out over the chamber’s upper tier, he paused, wary. 

Several more of the huge iron cauldrons bubbled upon their platforms on this level, filling the air with a noxious stink and a wafting haze.  To his right as he reached the top of the stairs he could see the captives, two halflings, imprisoned within a globe of shifting green radiance that seemed to rise up out of another rune circle inscribed upon the floor.  

But Vhael’s focus was drawn directly forward, where a monster knelt before a ritual altar. 

It was a gnoll, or at least that was Vhael’s first impression.  It was bent almost double before the altar, holding open a parchment scroll covered from end to end with spidery script.  As Vhael reached the top of the stairs it shifted, lifting its head slowly, as though with a great effort.  Its eyes were like bright red coals, and the dragonborn saw that what it had thought was a helmet was in fact a pair of curving horns that jutted from the front of its skull.  As if the horns and eyes were not enough evidence of its ancestry, as it shifted a pair of bat-like wings unfolded from across its back, spreading menacingly behind it. 

“So.  They have sent a dragon-man to challenge me,” the creature hissed, its voice sibilant and corrupt.  

“I am here to put an end to you,” Vhael said simply.  He lifted his sword and started forward, but the demonic gnoll made a motion, and a sick green glow that echoed the radiance shining from the rune circle erupted all around the dragonborn.  Vhael felt the foul taint of that power seeping into him, felt it take physical hold of him, lifting him off the ground until he hovered in the air before the evil adept.  

“Your power is nothing before the might of great Yeenoghu, dragon-man,” the gnoll said, rising from his stance before the altar.  As he stood, he took up a mace of black metal, its flanges crafted into the shape of spiked skulls.  He kept hold of the scroll in his other hand, and continued to utter syllables of the ritual, even as he stepped forward to confront Vhael.  The dragonborn struggled against the infernal magic of the gnoll warlock, but could not break free.  

“When your soul arrives at the foot of my master, you may tell him that Maldrick will soon send many more to him,” the gnoll cackled.  He lifted the mace-rod, and tongues of black fire surged out of the orifices of the carved skulls.


----------



## Lazybones

Chapter 76


With Vhael unable to do anything to stop him, the gnoll warlock Maldrick summoned his power and thrust his rod at the imprisoned warlord. 

But before the gathered black energies could be discharged, Maldrick cried out and staggered, jerking roughly to the side.  The surge of his _eldritch blast_ flared out harmlessly across the room, missing Vhael by several feet.  As the gnoll turned, Vhael could see the hilt of the knife jutting from his side, and then the subtle form of Beetle, springing back out of the reach of the warlock. 

But the gnoll had a few surprises of his own.  Twisting suddenly, he lashed out with a tail covered in spines, another gift of his demonic ancestry.  The tail only just caught the halfling, but it was enough of an impact to send him tumbling back, skidding to a rough stop a few paces from the glowing rune-circle. 

The _moon curse_ that had held Vhael imprisoned faded, and the warlord landed heavily back upon the stone blocks at the top of the stairs.  “The prisoners!” he shouted at Beetle, surging forward to attack the warlock. 

Maldrick was fast, and he reacted faster than Vhael thought possible.  The black mace met his sword, and deflected his stroke with a shower of blue sparks.  He countered with a blow that Vhael couldn’t avoid, crushing solidly into his right shoulder with enough force to number the entire limb.  The dragonborn staggered back, hurt badly.  Beetle had turned toward the glowing ring where the two halflings were held prisoner, but before he could reach it the gnoll lashed out with a surge of black magic, infecting Beetle with the _dire radiance_ granted by his evil patron.  The halfling cried out and fell back, slapping ineffectively at the insubstantial wisps of black energy that twined around his body.  

Maldrick started after him to finish the job, but Vhael forced him once more to defend himself.  The two exchanged a flurry of rapid blows, again surrounded by sparks as their weapons met, and this time it was Vhael who delivered a strike, his sword coming in under the gnoll’s guard on his third attempt, crashing into his side.  But Maldrick only laughed, and indeed as Vhael watched the gash he’d opened closed, the trailing blood seeping back into the wound.  

“You cannot slay me,” the gnoll hissed.  “The hour of my people has come.  The power of the Well of Demons shall be ours, and our tribe will rule over the Labyrinth… and beyond.”

“Your tribe is sundered,” Vhael responded through clenched jaws.  “We killed your minions on the way here.”

“There are always more minions to be found,” the gnoll replied with a laugh.  

Once he’d survived the black stingers that the evil monster had hurled at him, Beetle found himself confounded by the puzzle of the prison holding Yarine and the other halfling inside.  The green glow didn’t _look_ solid, and while the shimmering flames didn’t burn him when he touched them (he tried a couple of times, just to be sure), he couldn’t get through them, even with a knife. 

The problem was given urgency by the fact that Vhael seemed to be getting his ass kicked by the monster.  Beetle had a few more knives to stick into the bad guy, but first he had to find a way to free the captives.  Even leaving Vhael’s orders aside, Beetle had heard Yarine’s scream earlier, and knew that whatever this green glowy-thing was, it was hurting his friend, and therefore was a Bad Thing. 

Looking down, he saw that the glow seemed to be coming out of the runes in the floor.  Inspiration hit, and he drew out his biggest knife, along with a small climber’s hammer he’d picked up somewhere, and knelt at the edge of the circle.  

Vhael was weakening.  He’d just used up too much of his strength against the trials, fighting the dragon, struggling past the guardians of this room to get to this fight.  Will and sheer determination had carried him this far, but as strong as they were within the muscled form of the warlord, even they were not proof against the abuse that he’d absorbed in this place.  His sword felt like it weighted a hundred pounds, and his right arm felt almost entirely numb.  The dozens of cuts that covered his face, arms, legs, and body all melded together into one coherent landscape of pain, and his breath rattled in his throat, each new one he drew in causing a fresh surge of agony from his cracked ribs.  

The gnoll, on the other hand, seemed to be getting stronger with each passing moment.  Maldrick still held the scroll bearing his ritual, and after each exchange with Vhael he continued to utter incantations, each syllable he spoke echoed with a surge in the green light coming from the rune circle.  Vhael could feel the tendrils of power that flowed through this place, and although he did not understand the ultimate goal of the creature, he knew that it was inexorably connected to the fate of the captives.  

So somehow, he fought on, lifting his sword and bringing it down toward the gnoll’s head.  Maldrick parried and countered, and Vhael took another hit, a solid thump to the torso that he barely felt.  But the gnoll was engaged, and Vhael earned another few seconds for his companions.  

Maldrick was perhaps realizing the same, for he hissed and glanced aside.  Vhael, now all but dead on his feet, invested everything he had left in a last attack, a simple thrust forward with his sword, as he was no longer able to even swing the heavy weapon.  The point of the sword plinked into the gnoll’s gut, but it barely jolted him, perhaps drawing a drop or two of blood, if that.  

“Pathetic wretch,” Maldrick said.  He lifted his rod, but instead of striking with it he merely held it between them.  A black flare surged, and Vhael found himself on his back, unable to do more than stare up at the visage of doom that loomed over him.  “You have failed.”

But even as Vhael lay there, helpless, another surge of green energy exploded through the room.  This one lasted only an instant, but when it faded, the radiance that had suffused the chamber disappeared with it.  Maldrick’s expression told Vhael all he needed to know. 

“Your ritual is disrupted,” Vhael managed to say, through flecks of blood that bubbled up from his throat and trickled down the corners of his jaws.  “The prisoners are free, your allies are finished.”  Shouts drifted up to them, but these were not cries of battle, but rather familiar voices, drawing closer.  As Maldrick stared down at him, fury burning in his eyes, the dragonborn managed a weak laugh.  “And you will soon join them.”  

Vhael drew in a last struggling breath.  “Mission… accomplished,” he whispered, as Maldrick, with a violent cry of furious rage, smashed his rod down into the dragonborn’s skull.


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## Richard Rawen

A fine and fitting end to the driven dragonborn, thanks for a great nailbiter!
[sblock=LB] Towards the beginning of the last post there is a mixup of characters. The subject is Vhael, yet you wrote:
"
The moon curse that had held Vhael imprisoned faded, and the *warlock *landed heavily back upon the stone blocks at the top of the stairs.
"
I'm kind of an editting freak and it's a tribute to your skills that I don't find hardly any errors in your texts! I hope you are able to get published, you are one of the better writers I've read.
Blessings,
RR
[/sblock]


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## Lazybones

Thanks Richard, too many words that start with "warlo" I guess. 

I'm working on a new novel that I may publish as an e-book someday. But breaking into the world of professional publishing just seems impossible these days. 

* * * * * 

Chapter 77


A somber quiet hung over the company that made its way out of the Well of Demons.  

Jaron held onto Yarine, all but supporting her weight against him, while Beetle did the same for Rendil a few paces back.  Gral and Carzen bore the stretcher that supported the heavy weight of Vhael’s body, leaving Mara in the van, scouting ahead, a torch held high in one hand, the other resting on the hilt of her longsword.  

Jaron still remembered the first sight of Vhael, lying motionless upon the floor, the half-fiend gnoll standing over him, fighting off the wildly darting form of Beetle with surges of black magic.  Jaron hadn’t even gotten a chance to use his sword; Carzen and Mara had surrounded the creature and cut him down before he was able to get into position to help.  Yarine and Rendil had been in bad shape, but they had survived.  

They had been too late for Vhael, however. 

They were in better shape now, though Jaron knew that a long trek awaited them, back to the Seven-Pillared Hall.  While they had defeated their enemy in that final battle in the dark ritual chamber, all of them had been left wounded, with a number of the wounds quite serious.  Yarine, though greatly weakened, had been able to use her curative abilities to treat those worst off, enough so that they could regroup and seek out a secure place to rest.  While the death of the gnoll warlock seemed to mark the last of the major threats in the Well of Demons, and they found no more chambers beyond that final one where they’d killed him and his fiendish allies, they’d still retreated to a room they could fortify to rest, and still kept careful watch against any creatures that might wander by, looking for weakened prey.  Gral suspected that the grim reputation of the Well kept most predators away, but they’d gone through too much to take chances now.  The companions went through their tasks efficiently, as though hearing the orders that Vhael used to give them, when they’d set up their campsites before. 

But no new enemies had emerged to threaten them, and they’d survived to greet another “day” in the Labyrinth.  The supplies that Carzen and Gral had brought from the Hall were all but gone, but the carcass of the dire boar had provided them with meat, which combined with wood smashed from the gnoll furnishings gave them a hot meal.  What they did not eat they smoked over the remains of the fire, using a sack of rock salt carried by Gral to preserve the meat for the walk back.  

Carzen said the rites for Gezzelhaupt, who they interred under a cairn of stones in one of the side chambers.  Gral insisted that Vhael’s body be brought back, for burial under the rites of his people, and none of them had complained.  The dwarf had prepared the body for travel himself, cleaning his wounds and wrapping him in heavy cloths.  When it came time, Carzen took up his end of the stretcher without a word, and they set out again. 

They left without sacks of gold or other rich treasures; they hadn’t come for those, and in any case they hadn’t found much more than the few coins carried by the gnolls.  Carzen now wore the gnoll warlock’s cloak, which Gral indicated was magical, and they’d found one other item of note, a silver key on a throng around the creature’s neck.  Beetle and Jaron had looked around some, but they did not find anything that it might have unlocked.  In any case, even Beetle wasn’t much interested in lingering longer to search the complex more thoroughly.  

They were leaving the complex and were nearly back to the main passage when Mara lifted a hand in warning.  Carzen and Gral laid their burden down, while Jaron assisted Yarine to the wall, making sure that she was all right before he rushed forward. 

The halfling wasn’t much surprised to see the robed figure standing there at the intersection, quietly waiting for them.  The stranger did not appear to be armed, but his cowl concealed his face in shadow, even when Mara pointed her torch in his direction. 

“Who are you?” Mara asked.  

The figure shifted slightly, but made no threatening movements.  Mara repeated the question, more demanding, a hint of threat creeping into her words.  She started to take a step forward, but Jaron caught her, lifting a hand to touch hers.  She glanced down at him in surprise, but didn’t move to stop him as he walked past her toward the stranger. 

“I guess these are yours,” he said, holding up the black goggles that had given him nightvision.  

“You may keep them,” the stranger said, shrugging as if the potent magical device were inconsequential.  

“What about the halflings from Fairhollow?”

“They were returned to the Seven-Pillared Hall safely.  The way is clear; no creatures will obstruct your journey there.”

Mara seemed to belatedly make the connection, and lowered the tip of her sword, just a fraction.  “Why didn’t you just tell us who you were, before?”

The cowl shifted, and while they couldn’t see the stranger’s eyes, they could feel the weight of his stare upon them.  “Little is as it seems, in the Labyrinth.  You do not need to know the intricacies of our inner dealings; suffice it to say we have our own… concerns.”

“You wanted us to strike down that demon-worshipper, Maldrick,” Mara said. 

“We paid a heavy price,” Carzen added. 

“Why appear to us now?” Mara asked. 

“There is one more thing that I need.”

Gral came forward, and as he stepped up next to the fighters, he drew out the chain that held the silver key.  He held it up in his hand, but didn’t move any closer to the stranger.  “What does it unlock?” the dwarf asked. 

“Secrets,” the other replied.  He lifted a hand slightly, and the key flashed between them, traveling from the dwarf’s hand to his, then quickly vanishing into the folds of the stranger’s robe.  He regarded them silently for another heartbeat, and without warning just suddenly vanished. 

“Invisible?” Carzen asked. 

“No, I believe he’s gone,” Gral replied.  “Some sort of dimensional travel, matter-teleportation.”

“Well, good riddance,” Carzen said.  “Fat lot of good his kind did for us, back there.  We’ve got a long way still to go, and regardless of what that guy said, I don’t want to spend a minute longer down here than I have to.”  He walked back to the stretcher, waited for Gral to take up his end before lifting it with a grunt.  

Mara lingered a moment longer, staring at the corridor where the Mage—if indeed that was what he had been—had disappeared.  

“Are you all right, Mara?” Jaron asked.  

The fighter started slightly, and looked down at him.  “Yeah,” she said.  “Go get your friend, Jaron.  It’s time to get back.”


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## Lazybones

Chapter 78


It was quiet in the Seven-Pillared Hall.  

Much of the earlier tensions that had suffused the settlement had faded.  The Grimmerzhul were laying very low, keeping to the peace mandated by the Mages of Saruun.  But even so, there was still much less casual traffic than had been evident when Jaron had first arrived.  It seemed like such a long time ago, but when he tallied the days in his mind, he realized that it had only been a little more than a week since he had followed Vhael and the others into that dark tunnel embedded in the flank of Thunderspire. 

The halfling sat on a low rise that overlooked the sweeping stream that bisected the Hall.  The Halfmoon Inn was just a stone’s throw behind him; he knew better than to go off very far on his own, knew that for all their outward acceptance of the new status quo the Grimmerzhul would be all too happy to get their hands on him again.  There was considerable activity in the open courtyard behind the inn, where his companions were preparing for their journey.  But he’d needed a few minutes to himself, so after checking to make sure that Beetle wasn’t getting into trouble, he’d come over here to sit down and watch the water.   

He was tired, but didn’t feel like more sleep.  Indeed, that’s about all he’d done since their return from the Well of Demons, sleep and eat.  The Halfmoons had been more than welcoming, their earlier gratitude redoubled when they’d returned the emaciated and weakened Rendil to his kin.  

That mystery hadn’t been fully resolved, but he doubted he’d ever learn more than he had.  The Mages were a conundrum, barely known even to the long-time residents of the Hall.  When he’d been rescued, Rendil had told them that he’d been captured by the Grimmerzhul a few days before Jaron had left the Seven-Pillared Hall, seeking Mara.  Jaron had asked a few questions, but the answers hadn’t done much to clear anything up, so he’d let the matter drop.   

Yarine was starting to recover, although she could still only walk for a few dozen paces on her own before exhaustion overcame her.  But she was alive, and the gratitude that shone in her eyes when she looked at Jaron energized him every time he saw her.  The other halflings from Fairhollow were in better shape, and good food and rest had done much to restore what had been taken from them by their ordeal.  But Jaron was grateful for the fact that they wouldn’t all have to walk back to Fallcrest, or to Fairhollow from there.

He looked back over his shoulder, at the preparations going on behind the inn.  The tiefling merchant stood off to the side, watching as his men helped to load up the two mule-drawn carts with supplies from the inn.  The halflings from Fairhollow, finally presented with an activity they knew something about, were helping them, while Mara was adjusting sacks in the back of one of the carts to fashion a seat for Yarine.  Vhael’s body, he knew, had already been stored; he knew which cart carried the dragonborn’s body from Gral, who hadn’t moved more than a few feet from it since they’d started loading.  He also saw Carzen, walking toward him. 

“Time to go?”

Carzen glanced back over his shoulder.  Jaron noticed that his eyes lingered on Mara for a bit longer than they had on anything else.  “Nah, it’ll be another ten minutes or so, if not longer.  I thought you had the right idea, shirking work over here.”  He grinned as he sat down next to Jaron.  

“The merchant might get the wrong idea.”

“Bah.  He’s getting the services of two trained, veteran fighters all the way to Fallcrest.  Heroes that destroyed the infamous Bloodreavers, and a band of demon-worshipping gnolls, to boot.  I don’t think he’ll be complaining.”

“Mara’s helping out.”

“Yeah, but she has a work ethic, whereas I am an effete nobleman’s get.”  He smiled, but Jaron saw that he glanced back again, followed the quick look to its target.

“I wonder where Mara will go once she gets to Fallcrest?” Jaron asked 

“Not my concern,” Carzen replied, but Jaron had noted the slight hesitation before his reply. 

“What of your fate?  I suppose your father will be appreciative of your accomplishments on this mission.”

“Maybe,” he said, in a way that made it seem dubious indeed.  

“Well, I guess people like us don’t really do it for the accolades,” Jaron said.  “And I suppose, if I were interested in commerce, that the contacts we’ve made here could be useful, knowledge that could be valuable in the right hands.”

“I’m just a soldier,” Carzen said, but as he rubbed his chin, his expression was thoughtful.  After a moment, he shot a look at Jaron.  “You know, there’s a lot more to you than meets the eye, Jaron.”

“I’m just a farmer,” he said, with a grin. 

Carzen smiled back.  “You know, you and Beetle could stay in Fallcrest.  Lots of opportunities there for someone with a keen eye and a sharp wit.  I might even know someone who could help get you set up.”

Jaron shook his head.  “I appreciate the offer, but I’m village folk, at heart.  I don’t regret getting out into the bigger world, seeing what’s there, but Fairhollow is my home, and its people are my people.”

“Well, they’re lucky to have you.  Beetle too.  Where is he, anyway?”

“Around,” Jaron said.  “He’ll be here when it’s time to leave.  I’ve given up trying to keep him under control.  He is who he is.”

“Well, we wouldn’t have done this without him.  It’s been… interesting.”

“That it has been.”  He looked up as the pitch of noise from the caravan shifted slightly, growing more frenetic.  “Looks like they’re getting ready to leave.”  

Carzen rose, and offered a hand to Jaron, to help him up.  “I won’t be sorry to leave this place… but I don’t think I’ll soon forget it, either.”

Jaron nodded.  “There are certain events in a man’s life that change him, for good or for ill.”

“I don’t suppose I know yet which it will be, yet.”  They made their way back toward the caravan.  Carzen’s eyes returned to Mara, who was helping Yarine get settled in the cart.  The other halflings had gathered around, adjusting their packs.  They all carried slings and daggers now, and walking staves provided by the Halfmoons.  Rendil was there as well, chatting amiably, although they could also see Erra Halfmoon standing in the back doorway of the inn, watching everything with a hawk’s eyes. 

“I think you’ll find out the answer to that when you get back,” Jaron finally said.  “Often times a man needs to return to his old life to learn just how much he’s changed.”

Carzen nodded.  His expression remained thoughtful as they rejoined the others, and they helped with the final packing and preparation of gear.  Beetle appeared as they were setting out, just as Jaron had promised; the ranger pointedly ignored the bulging pockets of the other halfling.  There were a lot of farewells, then some last-minute adjustments as the company set out, the mules finally giving way after some token protest, the carts creaking faintly as their wheels started into motion.  Lamps were lit, while Gral, perched on the seat of the cart bearing the body of K’rol Vhael, lifted his staff, brightening their way with a globe of soft white light.  It shone like a beacon as the group set out, returning to the Labyrinth one last time.  It remained visible as the caravan crossed the Hall, then dwindled as the exit tunnel swallowed them up, finally diminishing to a point that eventually disappeared.


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## Tamlyn

As this is (supposedly) wrapping up, I must comment. I absolutely love how Vhael was portrayed over the last few encounters. We finally got to see how the characters who served with him could become totally loyal to him in spite of themselves. We even see how Carzen developed some character and moral strength as well. Great character development, LB.


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## Lazybones

Thanks Tamlyn. These characters did come alive for me toward the end, I was trying not to have them fall back into standard archetypes. 

The last chapter will be posted Monday.

* * * * * 

Chapter 79


The dream, like most of the ones he traveled, was full of blood, and violence, and dark emotions.  He walked through landscapes that would have paralyzed the minds of most men, and felt only a surging exultation that caused him to writhe in pleasure even in the grip of sleep. 

When he woke, it was suddenly, yanked from dream to full consciousness in a jarring transition.  He immediately gauged that something was wrong, even before his mind actively registered the absence of light. 

He rose into a wary crouch upon his pallet, uttering an invocation that should have filled the confined space of his personal quarters with bright magical illumination.  His right hand traveled of its own accord under his pillow.  His fingertips touched the hilt of the dagger he’d kept there ever since he’d been a child, a precaution that had saved his life more than once in those tender years.  Now, of course, it was unnecessary; he had his magic.  He could _feel_ it, his skin tingling as arcane power flowed toward him at his call. 

Nothing happened. The power just _stopped_, as though it had hit a brick wall. 

“Let there be light,” someone said, a voice so familiar and hated that the wizard would have known it from a single syllable. 

A globe of light appeared, on the far side of the room, floating above the hand of a robed, cowled figure.  He was not the one who had spoken, but the light illuminated the speaker as well, standing in front of the wizard’s bunk.  The glow from the globe cast him in silhouette, a tall, dark form, his face unconcealed but limned deeply in shadows.  The wizard couldn’t see the man’s eyes in those shadows, but he didn’t have to in order to gauge the sentiment there.   

“Hasifir,” he said, addressing the man standing before him.  “What an unexpected surprise.”

“No doubt,” the dark wizard replied.  “You are not an easy man to find, Paldemar.”

Paldemar chuckled, but inside his mind was racing.  His mind was sharp, and he quickly drew conclusions from what he saw before him.  Unfortunately for him, the results of his analysis did not speak well in his favor. 

He shifted to sit on the edge of his pallet.  The motion concealed his right hand, which closed around the hilt of his dagger.  “A man is entitled to his privacy.  What right do you have to break in here, and shield me within my own sanctum?”

“We have been lax with you, Paldemar, and thus have allowed your plans to develop more than they should have been allowed to progress.  From what we have seen in this place, this was a mistake.  A mistake that will be corrected.”

Paldemar glanced at the other wizard, the one maintaining the _light_ spell.  “What of you, Samazar?  You’ve thrown your lot in with this one?  I’d thought more of you.”

The robed mage did not shift, and Paldemar could not see into the depths of his cowl, but he could feel the impression of the other man’s stare.  Samazar was a man of few words, but in this case, his silence was answer enough. 

Paldemar turned his attention back to Hasifir.  “You presume much, coming here.  I am not without resources.”

“Yes, Niame is dealing with the last of your… _allies_ as we speak,” Hasifir replied.  “As soon as he rejoins us, we will return to the Hall, where we—”

He was cut off as Paldemar leapt at him, his dagger coming up in a blur as he lunged at the nearby mage.  Within the antimagic aura that Hasifir had erected, the vast arcane arsenals of the two men were useless, the pair reduced to mere men.  But Hasifir was not only strong in magic; he’d been a warrior in a past life.  He caught Paldemar’s wrist in one big hand, cuffed it hard with the other.  The knife went flying.  Paldemar tried to kick him, but Hasifir caught him across the face with a backhanded slap that knocked him sprawling in the other direction.  

Paldemar lay on the floor, dazed.  He tasted blood; he rubbed a hand over his split lip.  His teeth showed as his lips drew back in a snarl.  “You will pay for that!  I’ll make you all pay!”  

Hasifir merely shook his head, not bothering to hide his contempt.  Paldemar suddenly sprang up and ran toward the nearest door.  Hasifir turned but didn’t bother to chase after him.  Ahead of him, the door opened, and Paldemar let out a hiss of triumph that died as he recognized the short, fat outline of Niame, the mage’s doughy flesh tinged with the rough texture of a _stoneskin_ spell.  Niame was the sort of man who always had a jovial smile on his face, quick to turn into a laugh.  But he wasn’t laughing now.  “Going somewhere?” the Mage asked.  

Paldemar felt the exact moment that he left the radius of the aura of antimagic that Hasifir was projecting.  But before he could so much as mutter a cantrip, he heard a cacophonous roar, felt a massive invisible fist smash into his chest, knocking him backwards off his feet.  Samazar was never one for subtlety; battle mages rarely were. 

Barely conscious, he was dimly aware of the other three Mages clustering around him.  The anti-magic was gone; he could feel the flow of power around him, but when he reached for it, it may as well have been a thousand miles away. 

“Bind him,” he heard Hasifir say.  He tried to scream, but the darkness closed in around him, and this time, the horrors of his dreams followed him down into oblivion.


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## Lazybones

Chapter 80


It was a bright, cloudless day, cool but not oppressively so, with a soft breeze blowing down out of the mountains to the north.  The hills that flanked the road were covered with carpets of long green grasses that rose as high as four feet in places, with tangled knots of dense brush clustered in the dells between.  

A wagon pulled by a single draft horse rattled along the road.  The road was in decent shape, given how sparsely populated the western Nentir Vale was, but the recent rains had left it populated with ruts and bumps.  But the wagon was new, with good springs, and its passengers were content to put up with a few jolts now and again. 

From beside him on the wagon’s seat, Yarine smiled at Jaron.  The halfling cleric looked much better than she had when they’d left the Seven-Pillared Hall, although she still limped a bit when she thought that Jaron wasn’t paying attention.  The experience within the Labyrinth had aged her, but the sun and the wind, along with the good food and drink that had been heaped upon them at Fallcrest, had done well for all of them.  

Jaron grinned.  They’d started seeing landmarks since breaking camp that morning, and a sense of excitement was building amongst all of the halflings as they drew nearer to their home.  There was a touch of bittersweet in that for Jaron.  Unlike the other halflings, who viewed the entirety of their travels outside their village as one terrible nightmare to be put behind them, Jaron had found a renewed sense of purpose in his adventures, along with an excitement that would be hard to match in the relatively quiet environs of Fairhollow.  Maybe what he’d told Carzen would hold true for him as well.  And there was Beetle to consider.

As if summoned by the thought, his cousin appeared on the crest of a hill ahead to their left, jumping up and down with waving arms to get their attention.  Jaron’s grin broke into a full smile, and he urged the horse forward with a snap of the reins.  Several of the halfling villagers in the wagon behind him started up excited cheers. 

“I hope that Gral and Draela make it back over the mountains safely,” Yarine said.  “They have a much harsher journey ahead of them than we did.”

“I have no doubt that they can take care of themselves,” Jaron replied.  “In fact, I feel sympathy for any bandits that seek to bar their path.”

“It is so sad, their loss,” the cleric responded.  “They loved him very much.”

It was just like Yarine, Jaron thought, to feel sympathy for others, even in the wake of the terrible ordeal through which she’d suffered.  Despite her weakened condition, she’d provided a strong support for the other halflings stolen from Fairhollow, both during and after their captivity.  She’d kept them together, and protected them from the trauma that might have otherwise left them permanently broken inside.  As it was, they’d have nightmares, Jaron knew, but those would fade, in time.  

Jaron waved back at Beetle, who ran down the hill to greet them.  He ran along an outcropping of stone and sprang down fifteen feet into the bed of the wagon, almost landing on Tandrin.  He laughed and jumped up between Jaron and Yarine on the wagon’s seat.  He pointed as the wagon rolled up the rise between the two hills, the last two hills, toward the quiet dell where Fairhollow resided.  

And then it was there, the familiar houses and farms, the people and animals, tiny wisps of smoke rising from squat chimneys.  At the sight of it, Jaron felt a soft pressure on his heart, and he looked over at Yarine to see tears in her eyes. 

“We’re home,” both of them said, together. 


THE END


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## timothyddd

Just a quick note to say thankyou for another great read.

Really enjoyed this one.  Another set of excellent characters and some fantastic writting.  I could almost feel their suffering.....


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## Neurotic

Nice ending. Except for Beetle  We didn't get an explanation or see him get some purpose other then being 'kenderish'

So, what's next?


----------

