# Travels through the Wild West: a Forgotten Realms Story



## Lazybones

Greetings,
I had some trouble porting over my old ID, so I'm reposting my Forgotten Realms story over here from the old boards under a new moniker (although German-speakers will note that I haven't _really_ changed my handle).  Thanks again to all those who have given feedback on the story; I hope that the upcoming plot will continue to entertain.  

Faulpelz aka Lazybones

* * * * *

Travels through the Wild West: a Forgotten Realms Story

This is my first attempt at a story posting on this site.  I created it as a way of bolstering my familiarity with the Forgotten Realms (I just got the setting a few weeks ago, and have read a few of the novels, in particular the Salvatore ones), and to flesh out a few campaign ideas.  The characters are based on those played by guys I’ve actually gamed with back in the old 1e/2e days (the characters are adapted for FR, of course, and I’ve taken some dramatic license with motivations and background).   In the initial posts I’ll flesh out the setting and the characters, and once I’ve done that I primarily want to focus on action (lots of battle scenes!) and character development.  Once I get through the initial sections I’ll include the game-related info (character data, NPCs, combat details, etc.) at the end of each plotline as they come up.  I’m not running a campaign right now, but if this little exercise gets good feedback I’d like to convert a few of my past campaigns (those that I can still find my DM notes for) to stories for this page.  

I’ve really enjoyed all the stories others have posted on this board, they’ve really gotten me back into D&D in its new incarnation.  Thanks for reading and I appreciate all feedback.  
FP

* * * * * * * * 

Part 1

It was a late afternoon in that region of Faerun known as the Western Heartlands.  The cool breeze and overcast sky said it was late autumn, creeping over into winter.  In an empty area of scrub plains and rocky hills three sparsely traveled tracks met at a crossroads.  While a relatively short distance from the trading town of Elturel, Lord Dhelt’s Hellriders didn’t make it this far out, almost in the shadows of the low but menacing hills aptly named the Trollclaws.  To the west lay the farmsteads of the doughty folk who had colonized the ancient battleground of the Fields of the Dead, while to the south, within the dark shadows of the Wood of Sharp Teeth, creatures both mundane and bizarre waited eagerly for daring fools to brave their lairs.   

On this overcast day the road was all but deserted; most of the merchants seemed more inclined to take their chances on the River Chionthar this season, it seemed.  Perhaps the recent upsurge in bandit activity along the desolate trails that crossed the reason had something to do with the trend; in any case, lone travelers were becoming increasingly rare, replaced by well-armed groups of men who sought only to reach their destinations quickly and leave this dangerous region behind them.  

But as the afternoon deepened, not one but several solitary individuals approached the crossroads this day.  From the north wound a lonely road that stretched off into the yet harsher lands of the North.  Down this road came a powerfully built, yet short figure.  At first glance he seemed a Shield Dwarf from the Spine of the World, dressed in the plate armor and dark woolens of that people, and carrying a broad-bladed battle axe across one shoulder with easy familiarity.  His shield bore no sigil or insignia, but that, too, was not uncommon in these parts.  Upon closer examination, however, a careful observer would note some strange features about this traveling warrior.  Even in the dim light of the cloudy day his skin seemed darker and more weathered than even the oldest dwarves.  A closer look would show that his skin seemed hardly flesh at all, but resembled the coarse texture of stone itself.  

Even in a magical place such as Faerun, the genasi, or half-elementals, were rare, and a dwarf with elemental blood traveling the highways alone rarer still.  

From the west, where a more traveled road wound through the more populated lands of the Fields of the Dead to the city of Baldur’s Gate, another traveler came.  This one was a stark contrast to the silent and sturdy genasi warrior.  Shorter still than the genasi dwarf, this traveler was clearly a rock gnome, a race not uncommon to the western regions of Faerun.  He was dressed in a tunic of finely trimmed blue cloth with a slightly darker wool cloak as proof against the elements.  The lute he carried slung over his shoulder advertised his profession, but the crossbow and shortsword he carried showed that he could defend himself as well as play.  He seemed oblivious to the dangers of the region through which he traveled, whistling a merry traveling tune and tapping the short walking stick he carried against the packed dirt of the road in tune with his music.  He seemed like a carefree soul, unconcerned with whatever the road would bring him this day.  

From the east came another figure, from the direction of Elturel.  This figure was not so carefree as the gnome, from the way he was constantly scanning the surrounding area, in particular casting wary looks back down the road in the direction from which he’d come.  Like the genasi, however, there seemed something odd about him, besides his fleeting manner.  He seemed typical enough, a man with the frontier look common in the Western Heartlands, with a scraggly untrimmed beard, wild brown hair that hung unchecked down to his shoulders, and a muscular frame.  He wore a chain shirt and carried a well-crafted longsword and longbow, both of which had clearly seen frequent use.  He was also struggling a little with the weight of a heavy shoulder bag, the hard lines of something bulky hidden within its folds.  He looked the part of an ordinary frontiersman, a common breed—yet at the same time, somehow… wrong.  

Finally, from the south came a final traveler, another human.  This one must have either been ignorant of the dangers of traveling cross-country along the edges of the Wood of Sharp Teeth, or sufficiently desperate that he was willing to take that risk.  His clothes suggested that he was of the more southern lands, Amn perhaps, or Tethyr, and while they had once been of excellent quality, they were now ragged and worn from hard travel.  Like the other human traveler he seemed wary, but in his case there was something more, something in his eyes that seemed haunted… or hunted.  He was young, still in his late teens, perhaps, and he too carried weapons, a crossbow and a long dagger at his hip.  A heavy bedroll and leather backpack as worn as his garments were slung across his back.  

The four travelers, each from disparate backgrounds, each with his own secrets and dreams, converged on the crossroads.  For all that this was a place where trails met, there were no settlements or outposts here, nothing save for an old stone ruin that was little more than a foundation and some remnants of walls, its function impossible to identify.  A few birds stirred and flew off as the travelers neared the place, but that was all.  

Gradually, each of the travelers noticed the others, and the four of them slowed to a halt while a fair distance still separated them.  For a moment there was a silence over the place, then the gnome was the first to speak.  

“Hail, fellow journeyers!” He took in all of them with an expansive glance.  “Luck of the trail, that four roads come together this day, where only three are blazed!  Will you take rest with me, and tell your tales of the road in my camp this night?”

The man who had come from the east replied quickly and with an easy tone, quickly sizing up the others.  “Aye, its comfort in numbers on this road, sure enough,” he said.  “Perhaps yonder ruin would suit us well for a camp, some shelter against the wind and the beasts that hunt the plains at night.”

The gnome beamed, and came forward, taking in all of them, even the genasi and the other human, neither of whom had yet spoken or moved.  “Well then, and well met!  I am Balander Calloran, or just ‘Cal,’ if you like, of Waterdeep.”

“Benzan,” the other replied.  “Of the East Road, this day.”

“The name of a wanderer,” the gnome said, giving the man another sizing up.  It seemed that he, too, noticed something strange about him, although he could not place it.  After a moment he shrugged, and turned to the other two.  “And you, fellow travelers?  Yonder warrior speaks true--the comfort of a shared fire and hot food is a fair boon, in a region like this.”

“Lok,” the dwarf said, and after a moment the others realized that this was his name.  

“Well met,” the gnome said, turning his attention on the last member of their gathering. 

The young man looked trapped, and for a moment it seemed as though he would bolt.  The obvious hunger and weariness in his eyes ultimately won out, though, for he settled down some, and finally said, “I am Delem, of… of Tethyr,” in a timorous voice. 

“Well met, Delem,” Benzan said.  “You choose a difficult route, traveling cross-country near the Wood of Sharp Teeth.”  The young man did not respond.

“Well then,” the gnome said.  “If we’re done with introductions, let’s see about that fire, and that food.”


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## Lazybones

*Part 2*

Part 2 

_Under the ground, a presence stirred.  Long had it remained here, buried, quiescent.  Long had the world continued unabated around it, and long had it remained all but oblivious to its passing.  _

_It had no memory of what it was, or what it had been.  It did not even know what had awakened it, but now, as it stirred, it felt a sudden, overarching, overpowering need.  A hunger._ 

_As its awareness expanded, it could sense that the fulfillment of that hunger was nearby, drawing it to them.  _ 

_Slowly, it began to move. _ 

* * * * * 

“Did you hear something?” Benzan asked.  The small group was comfortably ensconced within the ruined shell of the long-gone structure, sharing the warmth of a roaring fire.  

“No,” Cal said.  “Just the wind, and the fire.”  Knowing the sensitivity of gnomish ears, Benzan shrugged and looked satisfied.  “So, Delem, you were telling us about Athatkla?”

The young southerner looked uncomfortable to be the center of attention, but at the same time looked grateful for some companionship.  “Yes,” he said, “well, I wasn’t there very long, a few months, perhaps.  It’s a wonderful city; you’d be amazed at the sights to be seen, in Waukeen’s Promenade—that’s the big market district.  There’s churches to several of the major Faerunian deities, the Shadow Thieves are said to have a secret base there… and I even heard that one of the Baalspawn came through there—although I don’t know much of such things.”

“Why did you leave?” said Lok, his voice like leather dragging over gravel.  The others glanced at him in surprise—those were the most words he’d spoken that evening.  Other than the fact that he was from the north, and of obviously mixed blood, the others had divined little else from him.

The young man looked down at his hands.  “I didn’t want to,” he said, softly.  “I didn’t want to leave Tethyr, either.  But sometimes you just don’t have any choices in life…”

He trailed off, and rather than press the obviously distressed young man further, Benzan jumped into the gap.  “Well, I know what it’s like to be on the road,” he said, his open and easy manner a contrast to Delem’s.  “Been traveling most of my life, it seems sometimes.  I was born in Unther, one of the old empires, but I barely remember anything of that place.”  For a moment, something flared in his eyes, a memory given shape for an instant, but then it was gone.  “Since then, I’ve been all over the lands around the Sea of Fallen Stars, and seen many strange and wonderful things, I’ll tell you.  I’ve never been this far west, but I’ve heard a lot of stories about Waterdeep, and I thought I’d give the City of Splendors a go.”

“A fellow wandering soul,” Cal said pensively, taking a draw from the long-handled pipe he carried and blowing the smoke in a cloud before him.  “I left Waterdeep for the opposite reason—it’s an easy place to get caught up in, and easy to forget there’s a very big world outside its walls.  For a while I was content to stay and let it all come to me.  Then one day I realized that I knew all the tales and songs that had come through the Southern Ward, but I hadn’t written one of my own in near on a year.  It was then that I decided to leave my kin and friends in the city, and take to the road for a time.”

“So, a company of adventurers we be, then,” Benzan said, his eyes shining with reflected firelight.  “If one be a tad reluctant, and another a fair silent.”  He turned to the dwarf, or half-dwarf, with a look determined to piece his reluctant shell.  “So, Lok, what is your tale of woe?  What brings you down out of the North, to these wild lands?”

“Small minds,” the genasi said.  

The others exchanged a look, trying to decipher the comment.  Benzan opened his mouth to try again, but then, suddenly, the gnome started up.  “Someone’s coming,” he said, “and they’re not trying to advertise their coming…”


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## Lazybones

*Part 3*

Part 3

Benzan was quick to react.  “Ambush!” he cried, darting to his feet at the same moment that a half-dozen armed men burst into their camp, weapons drawn and intentions clear.    

For a moment things looked dismal.  Despite Cal’s warning, the suddenness of the attack caught all of them, save the agile Benzan, off guard.  He lashed out with his longsword at the first of three attackers to rush him.  The stroke penetrated the man’s scale armor, hurting him but not taking him down.  His companions lunged in, scoring two hits on Benzan through his armor.  Suddenly, only moments into the fight, he looked about to fall, bleeding from the severe wounds. 

The gnome was isolated on the far side of the fire, so the other attackers fanned out to attack Lok and Delem.  Two attacked the genasi, but their blows might as well been with practice swords for all that they did through his heavy armor.  The last darted around toward Delem, whose eyes widened with horror as the man leered at his unarmored and virtually unarmed opponent.  Had the brigand been more experienced, he might have recognized what that combination signified, here in the Realms.  Delem darted back inelegantly, taking a glancing blow to his shoulder from the man’s sword.  He fell back hard against the remnants of a wall, trapped.  

Once the companions were able to react to the assault, though, the tide of the battle quickly turned.  Cal acted first, almost indignant that none of the bandits had targeted him.  “Overlook me, will you!” he shouted, as he drew a slender wand from a hidden pocket in his coat.  He stepped around the fire, and approached two of the men attacking Benzan.  “Hey, look at this!” he said, to catch their attention.

A stream of blinding colors erupted from the wand, catching up the two bandits in its wake.  The color spray lasted only an instant, but when it had faded, both men were lying unconscious, their senses overloaded by the magical display.

Benzan took advantage of the distraction to attack his remaining opponent, but the bandit caught his stroke on his own sword.  For a moment the two hung on the parry, the bandit’s ragged face only a foot from his own.  

“I never liked you, half-breed.  You made a big mistake stealing from Guthan,” the bandit hissed at him.  

Meanwhile, Delem’s opponent had him cornered.  His eyes shown with a feral glint that he matched with a dark smile.  “No… don’t… make me…” Delem begged, as he approached for a final strike.  

Misunderstanding his fear, the evil warrior lunged forward.  Delem cried out and pushed out his hand, as if that alone could repel the bandit.  The man’s gloating look was replaced by one of surprise, though, as a fan of roaring flames erupted from Delem’s hand, slashing into him with a roar and the tang of roasted flesh.  The bandit lashed out at Delem blindly as the flames died, cutting him again and knocking him prone.

“No… no…” Delem sobbed, his eyes witnessing something entirely different than the deadly melee around him, a remembered scene from the past.

Lok took another several hits from his attackers, but none of them penetrated his armor.  Now he struck back, slamming his axe into one bandit so hard that the man nearly fell into the fire.  Saved from instant death by his armor, he and his companion suddenly looked reluctant to continue the battle against this dangerous opponent. 

Then, abruptly, a globe of absolute darkness fell over the camp.   

“It’s a spell!” Cal’s voice sounded through the confusion that followed.  “Retreat out of it, and you’ll be able to see!”

Taking his own advice, he dodged back with agility until the utter dark of the spell was replaced by the comparatively bright darkness of the overcast night.  Luckily, his gnomish eyes could see clearly in even this meager light.  As he watched, he saw Delem crawl blindly out of the ruin a few feet away, followed a few moments later by a bandit, still trying to finish him off by the sounds of his passage.  He didn’t hear Cal, but he felt the crossbow bolt that sank to the feathers in his chest, knocking him roughly to the ground.  Delem, confused and injured, continued to seek escape, stumbling through the brush.

Lok and his two attackers emerged from the darkness together.  The genasi had a slight trickle of blood running down the side of his head from a lucky stroke in the darkness, but the injury was a slight one.  As the two bandits came on him simultaneously, he slashed his battleaxe in a welcoming arc backed by all his considerable strength.  The first went down with half his side caved in, and then, so quickly that the other could only gurgle in surprised pain, he switched momentum and cleaved the second’s skull in with his backswing.  Both bandits fell to the ground, dead.   

Two attackers were down, but Lok did not see another that crept up behind him.  Suddenly, though, his limbs felt leaden, his muscles refusing to obey his commands.  He stiffened, paralyzed.  

Benzan emerged from the darkness a short distance away, limping from the loss of blood and the pain of his injuries.  His sword, however, was also bloody, and no bandit followed him out of the darkness.  Even as he finished moving, though, he took a small vial from a pouch at his belt, and downed the contents in a single gulp.  The elixir worked its magic swiftly, and soon the bleeding stopped.  

He looked around to get his bearings, and saw the genasi standing motionless a few strides away.  “Look out, Lok!” he shouted in warning.  

But the genasi could not react, helpless as his attacker came up behind him and slammed him hard in the back of his skull with his mace.  Lok fell face down, and it wasn’t clear if even he could have survived such a stroke.  

“You bastard,” Benzan said, raising his sword in challenge. 

The newcomer was wreathed in robes that concealed the details of his form, and he wore a cloth mask that shrouded his features in blank darkness.  When he spoke, his voice was like the whisper of velvet over smooth stone.  

“You were a fool, to think you could escape me,” he hissed.  “The Lord of Shadows sees all that creep away in the night, even if they hide behind new friends.”  He glanced down at the fallen genasi.  “Although it is a wonder that any would trust a bastard tiefling rogue, who are known for their duplicitous natures…”

“Let’s finish this, Guthan,” Benzan said in response, launching himself at the evil cleric with a sudden fury.  The two met and exchanged blows, and it was quickly clear that Guthan wore mail under his robes, for the first stroke was turned with the sound of metal striking metal.

“Flee, fool—you cannot win!” Guthan said, and as Benzan felt a chill sweep through him he knew that the words were backed by a magic spell.  He gritted his teeth, and somehow managed to resist the power of the enchantment.  He struck again, and this time hit home, feeling his blade bite deep under the robes.  The cleric danced back, injured.  

“Ah, so the fly has a sting!  Well then, follow me—if you dare!”  And with that, he darted into the sphere of darkness.  

Benzan nearly did that, but Cal appeared around the edges of the darkness, his crossbow again at the ready in his hands.  “Be wary,” he said.  “The followers of Mask have deadly instincts fighting in the darkness.”  Benzan saw that Delem was with the gnome as well, hovering back a few feet, giving the darkness a wide berth.  

“Are you all right?” the gnome asked him.

“He killed Lok,” Benzan said, gesturing to where the genasi lie, not taking his eyes off of the darkness.  Nothing stirred, though—if the cleric was still inside, he was not making noise.  

The gnome bent over the fallen genasi.  “By the gods, he’s alive—somehow,” Cal told him.  “Cover me,” he said, as he dug a wand—another one—out of another pocket.  He touched it to the genasi’s side, and whispered a command word.  A blue glow spread from the tip of the wand, fading into the battered genasi’s body, restoring him.  

“I didn’t know you were a cleric,” Benzan said. 

“We bards can channel some of the gift,” Cal said.  “A friend of mine sold me this, and I’ve found that healing wands are a useful thing to have around, if you can afford them.”  He glanced down to check the effect of the glow on the fighter.  “He’s hurt bad, this might take a minute,” the gnome said, extending the wand again.  “Keep an eye on—”

He was interrupted by a violent rumble that shattered the night, a sound of shattering stone that came from the center of the ruin where the darkness still held sway.  That sound was followed by a scream, a cry of agony that mercifully ended after an instant.  That was followed by something even worse, though, an unfamiliar sound that each of them gradually realized with horror was the sound of rending flesh.  

“What in the hells?” Benzan said, stepping involuntarily backward from the globe of darkness.  Cal had not risen from Lok’s side, although his face had darkened.  Delem blanched, and it wasn’t clear what force was keeping him there with them—he looked as though every bit of instinct in him was telling him to bolt.

The horrible sounds subsided somewhat, but the silence that replaced them was even more forbidding.  Benzan reached reflexively for his bow, only to realize that he’d left it by the fireside in their camp.  His fingers tightened on the hilt of his sword.  

And then it came out of the darkness, somehow silent despite its massive bulk.  It was huge, its skin mottled and gray, its eyes burning with an ember of dark hatred as it looked upon them.  It looked like an ogre, a common if powerful threat in these frontier regions, but as they looked upon it, they realized that this thing was no living being, but rather one of the undead, animated by evil power with a hunger for living flesh.  

Apparently, what it had gotten from the cleric and his followers had only whetted its appetite.  

“Oh, sh—”

Benzan did not even get to finish his thought as the creature lashed into him.


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## Lazybones

*Part 4*

Part 4

He ducked its first sweeping claw, but the second slammed into him with a force like a battering ram, knocking him roughly back.  With a numbing horror he felt a cold freeze creeping through him where the thing’s claws had cut him, stiffening his body where he had fallen.  He tried to fight it off, but he could only shiver in frozen fear as the undead horror loomed over him.

But before the thing could end his life, his new companions came to his aid.  He heard a strange sound, and belatedly realized it was singing—singing!—coming from the diminutive bard.  A bolt from Cal’s crossbow jutted out from the ogre’s shoulder, although the wound seemed to do little to hinder the massive creature.  As it turned toward this new threat, Lok, finally revived by Calloran’s magic wand, slashed into it.  The blow, backed by the full measure of his strength, tore a huge gash in its torso.  The thing roared at him, an unnatural screech that filled the bones of all of them with fear.  But Cal’s song revived their spirits as the creature’s furious cry faded, and they continued to attack it.  

The undead ogre tore at Lok with its claws and tried to catch him up in its massive and uneven jaws.  The bite tore into his shoulder before the already injured fighter could pull free, and there was a moment of fear from his companions as they waited for its paralysis to take hold.  But against a physical attack, as opposed to the mental power of the dark cleric, Lok’s fortitude was far greater, and he fought on.  

Delem was caught on the knife’s edge between panic and determination.  His instinct was to flee, but he was motivated by something to remain.  Perhaps it was the connection he felt to these new friends, men who he’d barely met and yet who had welcomed him into their company.  After months of running from his own inner demons, it felt good to stand his ground and fight.  With a very uncharacteristic battle cry, he ran up behind the ogre, and let his magic free.  The flames scored the rear of the creature, roasting its taut dead flesh and drawing its attention.  Delem awaited the blow that would end it all—strangely, a part of him even welcomed it—but before it could strike, Lok brought his axe down one more time, severing the creature’s spine.  Still it reached out for Delem, the hunger flaring once again in its unnatural eyes, but as the sorcerer scrambled hastily backward the undead life-force that animated the ogre finally failed, and it crashed noisily to the ground.


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## Lazybones

Part 5

The common room of the Wayfarers’ Rest was busy, which was unusual for the sole inn in the quiet frontier village of Danderion.  A wagon train of Sembian merchants willing to brave the difficult road to the Sword Coast had stopped in for rest and supplies before hitting the long stretch of road that wound through desolate country before breaking into the sparse farmsteads of the region still known as the Fields of the Dead.  The merchants and their guards all but filled the long chamber, driving most of the locals away this night with angry mutterings about outsiders taking their establishment away from them.

In one corner of the busy inn, four men crowded around a table built to comfortably accommodate two.  The table was far from the warmth of the fire and the light of the three flaring oil lamps that dangled from chains from the ceiling, but the shadows suited the four travelers, who were content not to draw extra attention to themselves. 

“I suppose it’s time to share with us the tale of why those bandits were after you,” Calloran said, pausing to wipe some foam from his tall ale from his chin.  “We’ve respected your silence on the road, Benzan, but it seems after what we went through, you should come clean with those who fought beside you.”  After the briefest hesitation, he added, “If, that is, you would like to remain in our company.  I suppose that goes for all of us, without saying,” he said, glancing at each of his companions in turn.

It was hard to believe that only the night before they had fought the battle at the old ruin beside the crossroads.  A day of hard marching had brought them here, to the very edges of the lands under the protection of Lord Dhelt.  They had taken a fair haul from their efforts, starting with the weapons and other gear possessed by the late bandits.  Their equipment was not top notch, but what they had bundled into an old cloak, carried by Lok with little apparent effort, would fetch a fair pile of coins in a town. 

And that wasn’t even considering the jewelry.  Once the undead ogre had been slain, none of them had been that eager to approach its vile and stinking corpse.  Benzan, however, had been the first to notice the faint gleam of metal around its neck and wrists.  The ogre wore totems that had been cut into its flesh, which Cal explained were proof that the thing had probably once been a witchdoctor or tribal shaman.  Why it had been buried here, and how it had transformed into such a monstrosity, he could not fathom.  But he had an easier time appraising the necklace and bracelets of pounded silver plates, set with small chips of lapis, that it had been wearing.  The workmanship was crude, but the items would likely fetch several times over all the other gear combined.  If they could find a buyer, that is. 

And so they were here.  They’d elected to remain together, and after a brief discussion agreed to travel southeast, to Elturel.  There they would find a merchant or artisan willing to turn their hard-won loot into cold cash, and then they could travel on their individual ways, with a full coin purse paving the road ahead. 

There was one other reason they had wanted to travel together, but they did not speak of it on the road.  When the magical darkness had finally lifted, and they had poked around through the disaster of the ogre’s passage, the cleric of Mask was not among the dead.  

Benzan cleared his throat, a gesture that was all but lost in the bustle of the common room.  “I admit, I have been guilty of the odd bit of thievery here and there,” he said.  “I seek neither approval nor condemnation from any of you,” he added, defensively, “but before you offer any, consider what you would do, if you were birthed with a taint that all on the face of Toril saw as a mark of inborn evil and corruption.”

“I think some might understand the challenges of living with an unusual birthright, more than others,” Cal said, and he glanced meaningfully first at Lok, and then at Delem, who did not meet his eyes. 

Benzan saw the looks, and for a moment he looked a tad humbled.  “Anyway,” he said, his voice more level now, “I ended up here, in the Western Heartlands, about six months ago.  I did some mercenary work, but after a while people seem to figure out that there’s something… wrong with me, and I have to go on my way.  I encountered Guthan through a back-alley deal in Iriaebor, and went with him and a few other rogues into the open country of the west, to live off the land, as they say.  It was a mistake—I guess I knew it even at the time.  I didn’t stay with them long, not even long enough for them to stage a raid on one of the passing caravans.  Once I made up my mind, I waited for a dark night and went on my way.”

“One of them said you stole something from him,” Cal prodded him. 

 “Yes, I did,” he said, not dodging the question.  “I’ve stolen my fair share of things in the past—more than my share, probably—but I don’t take things wantonly, and I don’t steal from my friends.  Guthan was no friend of mine, and he deserves whatever happens to him, you can trust me on that count.  I take it that everyone here is familiar with the concept of taking that which doesn’t belong to you?”  He looked around at the others, a hint of challenge in his eyes.  Cal shrugged, Lok simply returned his look with his stoic and unreadable expression, and Delem huddled within himself, not venturing to lift his eyes to meet Benzan’s challenge.  Satisfied, Benzan turned to his shoulder bag, slung within easy reach across the back of his chair, and withdrew a small package wrapped in several layers of heavy burlap.  

Benzan carefully unwrapped the object and set it on the table—and each of the others observed how he placed it so that it would be difficult to see from the main part of the room.  It was jet black, and difficult to see even right in front of them.  

It was a small statue, perhaps eight inches long, fashioned from a thick piece of a shiny black rock that seemed to absorb the faint light coming from the far end of the room.  Its features were difficult to make out in the shadows, but it seemed to be the bust of a well-built, handsome man of middle years.  The carving depicted his head and upper body from the waist up, with a flat base so that it could stand upright.  He bore an unusual weapon in one fist, a long-bladed sword with a twisting blade that undulated in smooth curves down its length.  

“What is it?” Delem asked.  

“I don’t know,” Benzan said.  “I only caught a glimpse of it, before, enough to see that Guthan valued it.  If I’d known how much he treasured it, I wouldn’t have stolen it.”  He did not seem remorseful for the theft itself, but he did not share with the other something else, something he himself had yet to fully understand.  In some way, the statue had seemed to call to him, urging him to take it.  He’d experienced the tug of valuables before, but never had the lure to steal been so… well, so unsubtle.  

“It’s careful craftsmanship,” Cal said, examining the fine lines carved into the stone.  

“I don’t even know what it’s made of,” Benzan admitted.

“Obsidian,” Lok said.  He was staring at the thing, his brows furrowed so tightly together that they nearly obscured his eyes.  

“Do you know who it is supposed to be?” Cal asked.  He, too, was looking intently at it, but with an obvious hint of wariness in his manner.  

“No,” Benzan said.  He added quietly, almost inaudibly, “but it seems somehow familiar…”

Cal reached out a hand toward it, not quite touching it as he softly murmured a soft singsong phrase.  He regarded the item for a moment, and then drew back.  “It is magical,” he said.  “Strange—it’s almost like what I feel is the afterimage of a greater power, almost like a memory.”

Delem interjected, “There’s something dark about it… uncomfortable… put it away!”

The others looked at him in surprise; the last words had been loud enough to draw some curious attention from nearby tables their way.  Their attention was quickly drawn to the outer door of the inn, however, as a tall figure entered, letting in a gust of cold air in his wake.  He was an aged but still hale figure who was quite obviously a warrior, even without the longsword he wore at his hip.  He wore a surcoat that bore the sigil of Lord Dhelt of Elturel, which failed to hide the coat of chainmail he wore underneath.  Cal overheard someone at an adjacent table whisper the man’s identity to his neighbor; he was Kevrik Telwarden, the sheriff of this small community.  

Telwarden took advantage of the dramatic stir caused by his entry, drawing the attention of the room to him.  “I have an announcement to make,” he began, his stentorian voice easily filling the crowded room.  “I need all able-bodied men of fighting skill to join a posse, to ride out before first light.  Just a few hours ago, a group of raiders waylaid a small caravan along the South Road just a few hours from the walls of Danderion.  The attackers were a mixed force of men and hobgoblins, at least a score in number, by the description of the few who escaped the initial attack.  Most of the rest were taken prisoner, from what they could see as they fled.”

A murmur spread through the crowd.  Most present were merchants or caravan guards, who understood all too well the dangers of the western roads for even well-armed caravans.  Even before his words had sunk in, though, Sheriff Telwarden added another bit of information.  

“Among those taken was Lady Dana Ilgarten, daughter of the fifth house of Iriaebor.”

The murmur became a babble, as everyone present started talking at once.  The four companions at the corner table exchanged a look, but none of them did anything more at that point.  The statue had vanished back into Benzan’s bag, so subtly that none of them had seen it happen.

Telwarden let the clamor continue for a few moments, then hushed the crowd again with a raised hand.  “I need volunteers—”

“What about the Hellriders?” someone in the crowd interjected.  “That’s what they’re there for!”

Telwarden’s return look could have cut glass.  “A rider has already been sent, with the best horse in the village, and I’ll send another with the coming of the dawn in case the first befalls ill on the road.  But even risking riding at night, Elturel is at least a full day away if the weather holds, and another day back.  Unless he’s lucky enough to encounter a patrol on the road, that’s several days at least until help can arrive.  Do you want to wager on the girl, or any of the prisoners, still being alive at that point?”

No one offered a response to that question.  Telwarden continued, “There’s good money—gold coins of Baldur’s Gate, not the local silver—and the thanks of two lords in it for those who volunteer.  Plus the chance to rid the trade routes of some of the scum that threatens all who travel the roads.”

“All right then, who can I count on?”

There was some grumbling and some more discussion, but ultimately a half-dozen of the caravan guards came forward, some ‘volunteered’ by their masters.  Telwarden offered to cover the costs of any merchants who elected to remain in the village until their guards returned, and the innkeeper bolstered that with a promise of free ale for those who agreed to go.  

The four companions exchanged another long, meaningful look.  Finally, Cal stood, and walked over to the small knot of men surrounding Telwarden.  The sheriff did not notice him for a moment, but when he did, he nodded politely. 

“Balander Calloran, at your service, sir.  I wish to join this expedition, and be the one to record its tale of righteous vengeance,” Cal said.  

A few of the guardsmen looked askance, but Telwarden’s face betrayed a hint of respect.  “No offense, my little friend, but we will be traveling swiftly, and into great danger.  What can you offer to this mission?”

Cal squelched his rising indignation with an obvious effort.  He was used to the big folk giving his kind short shrift, an attitude that often came around to haunt them.  He sensed a presence behind him, and glanced back to see Lok approaching, his face its usual unreadable mask but impressive nonetheless with his heavy mail and battle axe at the ready, as always.  Benzan and Delem, he noticed, were still at the table, although Cal thought that they were following the course of the encounter. 

The support from the genasi was welcome, but Cal was determined to speak for himself.  “Well,” he said to the tall human, “I am a bard of no small talent, and my rousing songs will bolster the morale of this small company of would-be heroes.”

“And secondly…”

He trailed off as he muttered something softly under his breath, and then, to everyone’s amazement, began to grow!  He swelled up quickly to twice his size, then continued to grow to dwarf even the sheriff, who stepped back in alarm along with the other guardsmen and everyone else close by.  In a moment, he was touching the rafters, it seemed.  He stretched his arms out, his grasp now an eagle’s wingspan across, and when he spoke, his voice filled the chamber even more than the loud hail of the sheriff, as loud as the voices of four men speaking together.  

“WHAT CAN I ADD?  WELL, I KNOW A BIT OF MAGIC!…”

And then he was gone, or rather, he was once again standing there, an ordinary—or not so ordinary, as was now evident—gnome.

Telwarden just looked at him for a moment, his jaw hanging, but then he laughed, a warm belly laugh that was quickly picked up by most of the onlookers.  “Well, I’ll be a half-orc!  So you do, and welcome indeed!”  

Cal glanced back over his shoulder, and saw that Benzan and Delem had finally joined Lok in quiet support.  The gnome smiled, inwardly relieved that his new friends had elected to join him—if reluctantly.  He turned back to Telwarden, and said, “And I can offer you the potent aid of my companions, Lok, Delem, and Benzan.  I can promise that their skills will prove as valuable as mine, and that we’ve faced the odd bandit together as well.”

Telwarden took them all in, frowning slightly when he looked at Benzan but ultimately welcoming them all and promising them the same glory and rewards he’d already offered the men-at-arms.  Benzan shrugged, and said, “Oh, well, my ma always said, the really famous heroes never pass up a chance to help a pretty girl in distress…”

He eyed Telwarden, and added, “But wait--she is pretty, isn’t she?”


----------



## Lazybones

Part 6

By the time that the sun rose on another blustery autumn day in the Western Heartlands, the small company of vigilantes from Danderion had already traveled miles out into the wild countryside.  The farms that supported the village, huddled close around the community against the dangers of the wilds, had already fallen behind them, leaving only wide open plains for as far as they could see.  Down the track toward Elturel were more farming communities and more settled lands, but that was not the direction that they would be ultimately headed.  

The force that Sheriff Telwarden had assembled looked tough and determined, for all that it had been so hastily cobbled together, and was relatively few in numbers.  The sheriff rode at the front, in the company of a tracker named Cullan, a grizzled old veteran draped in a cloak that was obviously magical, the way it tended to blend into his surroundings and blur the outlines of his figure as he rode.  In addition to the six men-at-arms raised from the merchant caravan, he had another half-dozen locals, determined members of the town militia who wore leather armor and who carried small but powerful bows at the ready.  And then there were the four companions, riding in the rear of the column.

The posse was mounted on the best horses the village could provide on short notice, and they ate up the miles as the pre-dawn gave way to a sunny but cold morning.  The weather looked to hold for the moment, but there were some ominous looking clouds to the north and west that each of the companions hoped would blow past them without bringing rain. 

They reached the site of the ambush an hour after sunrise.  There wasn’t much left, only the burned-out shell of a wagon, the dead body of a horse punctured by crossbow bolts, some tattered bits of cloth fluttering from the surrounding brush, and a faint stink of decay that hovered in the wind before disappearing.  A search quickly uncovered a pile of bodies that had been dragged into the thick bushes along the trail.  Five men lay there in a bloody heap, what was left of their clothing still showing the symbol of House Ilgarten, a stylized griffon with a sword clutched in one claw and a coin in the other.  They had been killed by crossbow bolts or by deep gashes probably caused by an axe or heavy sword, and looked to have been hastily but thoroughly looted by the attackers.  There were no signs of the raiders; if any had fallen in the brief assault, their bodies must have been claimed when they retreated with their loot and hostages.  After a hurried burial, the posse set out after the bandits.  

It wasn’t hard to follow their trail.  The tracks of several wagons headed away to the southwest; clearly the raiders did not seem particularly concerned about concealing their tracks.  At least it would make them easy to track, and it would make them slow moving and easier to catch.  By the looks that were exchanged by some of the pursuers, they weren’t particularly eager for that prospect.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Benzan said, as sun approached its zenith and they passed into a region of gently rolling low hills.  “I’ve never known bandits to be this… obvious.  Something’s not right.”

“It’ll be all right,” Cal said, although it was clear that he was a little nervous as well.  The gnome had started the morning telling a few tales of famous adventurers and songs of noble deeds, but after what they’d seen at the ambush site, none of the company seemed much interested in songs.  Beside him, Lok seemed uncomfortable in the saddle of his borrowed horse, and the beast seemed equally unhappy with the arrangement.  

“Those men… they were just slaughtered,” Delem said.  

“Yeah, well, this whole region is chock full of things like hobgoblins—and worse—that’d just as soon kill you as say hello, so keep your eyes open, and those spells of yours ready,” Benzan snapped.  At the outburst, Delem subsided again into subdued silence.  

The hard pace that Telwarden set ate up the miles, even as the terrain grew more forbidding.  The hills were too low to be a real obstacle, but the dells in between them were increasingly choked with tangled growth, much of it brown and dead and as tough as thick rope.  The wagons stolen by the raiders had to some degree blazed a path, though, and as they pressed on, they encountered more signs of their quarry.  Cullan pointed out a boot print here, a broken and discarded harness there, and other signs that most of them would otherwise have missed.  The bandits seemed to have set a rapid pace as well.  After a few hours of hard riding they came to an abandoned wagon, one of its wheels shattered where it had gotten caught in a gouge between two rocks.  The tracks continued toward the southwest.  

As the day deepened into afternoon the posse began to show the results of Telwarden’s hard pace.  The village had not been able to spare the luxury of extra mounts, so their horses were flagging and they had to increasingly walk the beasts to spare their strength.  A few miles beyond where they had encountered the wagon, Telwarden called a halt beside a slightly taller hill whose crest rose up perhaps a hundred feet above their current position.  The men-at-arms and villagers immediately started tending to their mounts or taking cold rations out of their saddlebags; a few just plopped down on the hard ground, taking advantage of even a few minutes of rest.  

Telwarden, however, handed the reins of his horse to one of the village militamen, and with Cullan close behind started up the hill.  After only a momentary pause to secure their mounts where they could forage amidst some of the scrub grass, the four companions headed after him.

“We’ve covered a lot of ground today,” Cal said as they ascended.  “We must be nearing the river.”

His words were borne out when the neared the crest, and could see the River Chionthar below them, winding its long route between Elturel and the trading cities further inland, and Baldur’s Gate and the Sea of Swords.  They were closer than they thought; perhaps a mile further separated them from the near bank of the river. 

Taking Telwarden’s example, the companions stayed low and within the cover provided by the scrub-shrouded boulders that topped the hill, so as not to provide a silhouette that the raiders—or other threats—could see easily.  

“Are there any fords near here?” Telwarden was asking Cullan as they approached.

“None within three day’s ride, sheriff,” the old tracker responded.  

“Well, they got across somehow, so we will too,” Telwarden muttered under his breath.

“We might want to think about setting up camp soon,” Benzan offered.  When Telwarden fixed his hard eyes on the warrior, Benzan continued, “You might want to remember that hobgoblins can see in the dark, and you and your men can’t.”  He didn’t add that his own mixed heritage gave him that gift as well.  

Telwarden’s expression softened only slightly as he recognized the truth in Benzan’s words.  He turned to head back down the hill, but suddenly Cal said, “Do you smell smoke?”

Everyone turned their attention back to the southwest, where the trail they were following had wound steadily all day.  There was only the faintest hint of a breeze from that direction, but no sign of smoke across the horizon.  

“I don’t see or smell anything,” Cullan admitted.  

“I’d trust his gnomish nose, if I were you,” Benzan offered.  He leaned forward, using a boulder to support his weight, staring out into the growing shadows across the hills ahead as if that little extra distance could help him penetrate what was hidden amidst the ups and downs of the terrain.  “They might be bandits, but they aren’t stupid.  If they have an encampment around here, it would be hidden, and they wouldn’t let any smoke be visible, either.”

“All right,” Telwarden said decisively.  He turned and quickly made his way back down the hill, the others hurrying to catch up.  The men were already readying to ride out again, sensing the renewed determination in the manner of their leader.  

“Any sign of them?” one of the militiamen asked.

“No, but we’re nearing the river,” Telwarden told them.  “The gnome thought he smelled smoke, so they might have an encampment nearby, on this side or the far bank.  Keep your eyes open for anything.”  They didn’t really need the warning; all of them were on edge. 

It didn’t take them long to reach the near bank of the river, but by that time the sun was nearly touching the horizon to the west.  The river wasn’t especially wide at this point, nor was the current particularly rapid, but it would be a difficult crossing with their mounts and equipment.  The trail of the wagons led right down to the water’s edge and then disappeared.  Sheltered within a copse of trees and thick bushes a short distance back from the riverbank, the company debated their next course.  

“What happened to those wagons?”

“Maybe the raiders ’re in league with river pirates, smugglers from Baldur’s Gate…”

“Maybe them’s ghosts, and just floated across.”

“Shut yer yap-hole, you stupid—”

“It’s gettin’ late, and them horses aren’t gonna be goin’ much further, the way soldier-boy keeps drivin’ us…”

“Quiet—he was a Hellrider, you know…”

“All right,” Telwarden’s muted but potent voice cut through the chatter.  “We’ll camp on this side of the river tonight, and make the crossing in the morning.  Set up camp, but keep it out of sight of the track and the river.  Cullan, help set up a picket line—”

“There, don’t you smell that?” Cal said again.  The breeze had picked up in a sudden gust, and suddenly they all _could_  sense it, a faint but discernable tang of woodsmoke that hung in the air.  It came from the direction of the river.

“They must have a campsite hidden on the far bank,” Telwarden said.  “Maybe those bandits aren’t as clever as you give them credit for, warrior,” he said to Benzan.  

“Or maybe they’re waiting for us, with an ambush ready,” the tiefling retorted.  “Or maybe they’re traveling at night, and are getting ready to break camp.”

“Well then, since you seem to understand these raiders so well, what course do you suggest, outlander?”

Benzan hesitated, as the attention of everyone turned squarely upon him.  He glanced once at his new companions, and then at the river a short distance away, as if measuring something in his mind.  Finally, he sighed.  

“I guess I’ll have to swim over there and see what they’re up to,” he said.


----------



## Lazybones

Part 7

The water was cold, and Benzan didn’t like cold.  He was a passable swimmer, but he’d learned that skill in the warm shallow waters off the coast of Unther in the summertime, not fording some river in the grasp of an early winter in the trackless wilds of the far west.  He had to make an effort not to let his teeth chatter as he cleaved the water with sure strokes.  To distract himself from his discomfort, he focused his mind on the teachings of Balisarius, an old friend of his mother’s with whom they’d stayed for a time in his youth.  They’d been running, he recalled—it seemed he could recall little else but running, from his all-too-brief childhood—and the time with Balisarius had been little more than an interlude for them, one of many until he finally found himself alone for good.  Balisarius had been a magic-user, and had tried to teach the bored young man some of the rudiments of his craft to keep his mind occupied.  He hadn’t been much of a student at the time, but sometimes, since then, some of what he’d learned resurfaced, bobbing to the surface of his mind like an apple in a barrel of water.  

The trick worked; before he knew it he felt the stony bottom of the river beneath his feet.  Slowly, scanning the twilight shores of the far bank carefully first, he slipped out of the water.  The evening breeze felt like a cold gale against his wet skin; his torso was bare and he carried little more than his long dagger and a few small odds-and-ends about his person.  He’d had to leave his magical chain shirt behind, but even as he’d turned to go on this errand (which seemed more insane with each passing moment), Calloran had pulled him aside.  

“It’s a brave thing you’re doing, lad,” he said.  “I’d not like to see you head into any trouble completely unprotected, though.”  The gnome felt around for a moment, then pulled a wand from another hidden pocket.  

“I’m not injured,” Benzan said.  

“Shut up and hold still,” Cal said, uttering a faint command phrase that Benzan could not quite make out.  The gnome touched the wand to his bare chest, reaching up to do so.  

Benzan felt a tingle pass through him.  A glow surrounded his body, coating him from head to toe.

“This will protect you somewhat,” Cal said.  “Be cautious though—it is not as durable as real armor, and it will only last an hour, so you’d better be quick.”

Benzan appreciated the gesture, but he saw the immediate problem.  “This glow will give me away from a mile distant,” he said. 

“It will fade in a moment,” the gnome said, and in fact, it was already dimming, its potency still there by the reminding tingle in the air.  By the time he reached the water, the mage-armor was a second skin.  Unfortunately, it didn’t keep out the cold of the river.  

Benzan quickly scouted the far bank of the river.  The riverbank gave way a steep embankment like a rampart ahead of him, its crest perhaps fifteen feet above him.  The waterside was flush with thick bushes and water-reeds, giving excellent cover but forcing him to tread carefully lest he give his position away to any hidden watchers.  He remembered Cal’s warning and tried to force a balance between speed and stealth.  

He’d come some distance downstream with the current, so he started back up along the riverbank before heading inland.  Within a few minutes he came across a cleft where the water gathered in a stagnant side-pond about thirty feet across.  Inside the pond, carefully shielded by gathered brush, was a barge.  

_So there goes the mystery of where the wagons went_, Benzan thought to himself.  The attack of these raiders was looking less and less the work of a chaotic band of brigands and more like the work of a group of skilled professionals.  The thought added an extra measure of caution to his movements as he scouted the area.  

There were no signs of any guards in the area, but he found tracks that led up into the cleft, rising along an embankment of packed earth to the higher ground inland.  The wagon ruts, hoof prints, and boot prints that he found were fresh.  He followed them carefully up the trail, where the riverside gave way once more to rolling hill country that led inland.  A short distance beyond, Benzan knew, lay the borders of the Wood of Sharp Teeth—rough country indeed, if the stories he’d heard were true.

The trail turned and ran into a declivity between two mounds of stone boulders, worn smooth by years of wind and rain.  Rather than walk directly between them, he took a long route around the edges of one of the mounds.  His sure fingers found easy purchase as he swiftly climbed, and the activity was beginning to warm his chilled body.  

He paused at the lip of a ridge that ran back from the mound, a rocky rise that shielded a bowl-shaped depression beyond.  Before he could even get a good look at that area, though, he heard a cough not ten feet from his current position, and froze.


----------



## Lazybones

Part 8

Benzan lay crouched in a gap between two boulders barely wide enough to fit his lean torso, perched on the edge of a steep rock-strewn rise.  The crest of the hill was just a few feet ahead, beyond which lay, he surmised, the hidden camp of the bandits that they had been tracking.  For the moment, however, the tiefling found himself trapped, just a few feet from where a pair of sentries were talking.

“Goin’ be a cold night,” one of them offered.

“Yeah, and them hobgoblins sure are playing the lords, making us stand guard duty,” his companion offered.  

Benzan offered his own quiet assent—had hobgoblins been on watch, their darksight would have made it impossible for him to escape being seen.  As it was, with the light of the just-set sun still lingering in twilight, the slightest movement would probably give him away.

“Yeah, well, you tell it to that wizard of theirs,” the first suggested.  The snorted response left no question how the second bandit felt about that course.  

“That woman was quite a piece, eh?” the first continued after a brief pause.

“Yeah, and you know that’s why we’re here, and they’re down there,” the second replied ruefully.  “My ribs are still hurting.”

“Could be worse.  She broke Darron’s neck.”

“Yeah, well, I never liked Darron.  Bastard owed me money, though.”

“Steel Jack comes up here and sees us loafing, you’re going to envy Darron,” the first man said.  “Those town folk don’t much like the wilderness, but you can bet that Dhelt’ll send some Hellriders after us, for a noblewoman and all.”

“Ah, it’ll be days yet before anyone follows our trail, and we’ll be long gone by then,” the second man responded.  But he joined his companion and began moving along the ridge, crossing close enough by Benzan’s hiding place that he could have reached out and touched them.  He willed himself to remain completely still as they headed further away, the faint sound of their voices still carrying to him.

“So, did you ever think it would come to this?  Running with a bunch of hobgoblins, working for someone like Steel Jack?”

“Well, I suppose I’ve thought about it now and again… Really, I blame my parents…”

Their voices faded into the night, but it was another long minute before Benzan dared to stir from his hiding place.  Wary of additional guards—apparently this “Steel Jack” wasn’t taking chances, for all that the bandits thought they were well ahead of any pursuit—he crept cautiously forward, until he could get a good look at the bandit camp in the dell below.  Then, as the night deepened around him, he retreated back in the direction of the river.

* * * * * 

“I didn’t see any sign of the prisoners,” Benzan said, “But I saw at least one of the wagons, which looked to be empty, and a half-dozen tents.”

The rest of the posse crouched in a circle around the tiefling, save for the two watchmen who warded their temporary camp.  Cullan had found a clearing surrounded by uneven boulders that rose like sentinels in the darkness of the surrounding night.  Telwarden had only allowed them a small smokeless fire for hot tea, and that was only embers now.  He wasn’t taking any chances of the raiders detecting their presence, especially after what Benzan had already told them.  The clouds from the north had already begun to obscure the night sky, leaving them only the faint hints of moonlight that made it through.  Whether the storm would break before tomorrow was anyone’s guess.  

“How many bandits?” Telwarden’s disembodied voice carried to him.  The leader of their group was standing outside the circle, at the edge of the ring of stones.  

“I couldn’t see for sure—there wasn’t much activity around the camp.  I saw two guards, both human, and a few others around the tents.  From what I overheard, though, there are at least some hobgoblins in the tents, and one of them is a wizard.”

That got a response from the assembled men, a dark murmur of obvious concern.  Telwarden squashed it by saying, “Well then, we’ll have to make sure we kill him first, then.”

“You’re going to attack the camp, then?” Delem asked.  

“We didn’t come here to sneak kisses behind the barn, boy,” Telwarden replied.  “So, you said that they were keeping a fairly lax watch?” he asked Benzan.

“Well, I’m sure they have other guards posted, although I didn’t see anyone along the riverbank, which is the first place I would have posted a sentry.  But there’s only one straightforward approach to the camp, and it’s easily warded.”

“You got past that, though,” Telwarden said.  His view of Benzan seemed to have shifted some since the tiefling had returned from his scouting mission, now bearing a hint of grudging respect.  “Perhaps a two-pronged attack, with a few of us sneaking around the back to catch them unawares when the rest attack from the front.  Even better if you could take out a few of the sentries, first.  We can attack in the deep of night, when they’re at their least aware.”

Benzan opened his mouth to reply, but Cullan beat him to it.  “With all due respect, sir, if there are hobgoblins in the camp, they would have a big advantage in the dark, while our men won’t be able to see.  Most of our men,” he amended, with a glance at Benzan.  

“In addition, we’re all worn out from traveling,” Cal added, “and it looks like they have been there for at least a little while, enough time to be well-rested.”

“Very well, then, we’ll attack at dawn, hopefully just as the camp is stirring.  If you don’t mind another swim, Benzan, I’ll have you and another man cross the river while it’s still dark, to steal that barge.  Once we make it across, we can see about setting up our own little ambush for this ‘Steel Jack’ and his men.”

He waited until his words had sunk in.  A tangible air of anticipation had begun to sink in, as each man prepared for the culmination of their long chase.  “All right then, get some sleep.  You know the watch schedule.”

“Hopefully the bandits will keep to the schedule as well,” Delem said softly as they prepared for sleep.  

“In battle, any plan rarely survives the first clash of arms,” Lok rumbled, the genasi seeming to blend into the stone itself in the near-darkness.  

The night crept slowly onward.


----------



## Lazybones

Part 9

Delem dreamed of fire.  

It was a familiar dream, one that haunted him no matter where he fled to in the waking world.  

When he was a child, Delem had been as precocious as most boy-children in the untamed lands of Tethyr, if a little more reserved than most.  From an early age, however, he’d been fascinated by fire.  The dancing flames seemed to mesmerize the lad, and he could call them from wood and tinder with hardly any effort.  It was a useful skill, but perhaps one fated to bring grief upon the boy.  

His father had died while he was still learning to walk and talk, and the man his mother later married wasn’t really bad or good to the boy, just a somber and distant figure who spent most of his time working his trade as a mason in the villages around Umbarthon.  Delem had already gotten a few beatings for playing with his particular nemesis, but no beating could long keep him from his fascination, drawn to it like a moth to an open flame.  

One night, he had just received such a chastisement, and his mother and stepfather had gone to bed after banishing him (with a smarting reminder of his crime) to his small cubby in the back of the house.  Delem’s injured pride, more than the physical hurt of his punishment, drew him to the one consolation that he could find.  

Only that night it had gone horribly wrong.  The flames had gone beyond his control, spreading with a violence that seemed born of an inner volition of their own, roaring through the curtains that separated his room from the kitchen of their home, catching on the wood paneling seeped in oil from countless evenings of his mother cooking there.  The flames tore eagerly at his mother’s woven tapestries, at the plush carpets his stepfather brought back from his journeys to distant towns.  

Delem tried to fight the flames as they spread, to undo what he had begun, but his former friends burned him, causing him to writhe in torment on the hard stone floor of his room.  He screamed, but the sound was lost over the roar of the flames.  He didn’t know how he got out of the house, but could remember watching the fire, more terrible and beautiful than anything he had ever seen, consume everything that had been his life.  

The now grown man continued to writhe in his sleep, unable to waken.  The dream would not release its hold upon him this evening as it usually did at this point, to leave him shaking and cold and alone.  It continued, sweeping him up in the flames, wrapping around him in an uncontrollable conflagration.  This vision was a new one, and it caught Delem up in its energy.  Unable to feel either amazement or terror in the power of the dream, he could only experience it.  

And then he heard the voice.  It came from the flames, and surrounded him and filled him all at once.  He could not identify it, and when he remembered it later, it would be impossible for him to recall exactly how it had sounded.

_The flames have scarred you, my son, but they have also shaped you, like iron that is tempered in the furnace before being shaped by the hammer of the master smith.  They are a part of you, part of the power that you hold deep within the soul of your being.  The power is not your friend, not your enemy.  It is you, Delem.  Understand yourself, and you will understand the flames._ 

_It is this gift—or curse—that has brought you to me.  I will be there, waiting, when you find that which you seek._

It was then that Delem woke, shaking… but instead of feeling cold, he was filled with an inner warmth.  

* * * * * 

Dawn broke reluctantly on a dark and dreary day.  Cold winds from the north whispered through the hill country just north of the Wood of Sharp Teeth, and already fits of drizzle had come and gone, promising more wet weather to come.  

In the temporary camp of the bandit leader Steel Jack, the morning began quietly.  Six ramshackle tents stood in the middle of a stony dell, surrounded on all sides by a ridge of steep hills where bleary-eyed sentries kept watch from hidden positions.  To the east two large mounds of boulders marked the entrance to this little hideaway, with a narrow corridor running between them.  

Orn Throatripper did not greet the morning happily.  He half-staggered out of the large tent that served as communal quarters for the half-dozen hobgoblin warriors that remained with Steel Jack’s band.  He snorted in general ire at the world as the cold air of the morning hit him fully, and he shot an envious glance back at his companions still snug in their bedrolls behind him.  For a moment he considered leaving the tent flap open behind him—that would show the lucky bastards, he thought—but finally tugged it closed and walked out into the camp.  He was immediately greeting by the mud sucking at his boots, and he uttered a few choice curses at the climate, his superiors, the ground, Steel Jack, horses, and life in general.  

Orn headed in the direction of the horses, grumbling all the way.  If it wasn’t for his big mouth, he wouldn’t be out here, tending to the mounts and walking the perimeter of the camp.  That was work for the weakling humans, their “cohorts” on this job.  He and his fellows were the mighty children of Nomog-Geaya, not the nursemaids for a bunch of scrawny humans.  Everyone had been having fun last night, and the drink they’d stolen from the puny caravan had flowed freely.  They were due a reward, after the hard pace Steel Jack had set for them to get here.  Too bad that the slaves had already been turned over to Zorak, so they couldn’t have any fun with them, but ale and fresh meat—one of the horses had gone lame while being unloaded from the barge yesterday—did quite nicely.  And if only he hadn’t told that joke, pissing off the humans—and more importantly, Steel Jack—he’d be sleeping off last night’s revels like his companions back in the tent.  

It was not going to be a good day.  

It was slow going trudging through the mud, and Orn hadn’t even reached the reached the picket line where the horses were kept, when a noise drew his attention around.  It seemed to be coming from the direction of the main entrance to the canyon.  Orn glanced around for the sentries who were supposed to be watching along the ridge.  None were visible—of course, if they were doing their job right, he shouldn’t see them—but his eyes narrowed anyway.  _Stupid humans_.  

His eyes widened again as the noise grew louder, and a knot of armed riders charged through the gap into the canyon.  

Finally realizing what was happening, Orn shouted a cry of alarm and drew his heavy scimitar from its scabbard at his hip.  Some of the guards seemed to finally realize what was going on, as he saw movement along the ridge, but instead of firing their bows at the intruders, they leveled them down at the tents.  

Pain erupted through Orn’s body as a long steel-headed arrow shot through him.  He was dimly aware of several of the riders heading at full gallop toward him, the only enemy visible in the open.  He could hear his comrades stirring from the tents, but none had emerged as yet.  Their enemies had achieved complete tactical surprise.  

But he was a son of Nomog-Geaya, and he would make the painful journey down to Acheron with blood on his blade.  

He swung at the first attacker, missing the rider but at least feeling some satisfaction as the blade dug into the shoulder of his mount.  The horse staggered as the rider hurled past.  The next rider was on him before he could recover, and thrust his longsword like a spear through Orn’s chest.  The hobgoblin warrior faltered and collapsed, and the darkness came swiftly.  

* * * * * 

The camp was coming alive, and despite gaining surprise Benzan could see that they still had a fight on their hands.  From his position atop the ridge he had a good view of the battlefield, and along with the two militiamen with whom he’d crept up the slope he peppered whatever target he could make out with arrows.  He saw a sentry emerge from the rocks along the far side of the canyon, a good sixty yards away, and fire his bow at one of Telwarden’s riders.  The bandit hit his target, one of the caravan guards, but fell back off the ridge a moment later as Benzan’s arrow buried itself to the feathers in his chest.  

_Damn, I knew we missed some,_ the tiefling thought grimly.  

Half-armored men and hobgoblins were emerging from the tents, launching themselves with desperate ferocity at the intruders.  One man from Dunderion went down with a hobgoblin spear buried in his belly and a bleeding cut laying open his scalp, but both of his attackers quickly fell under the combined might of Telwarden and Lok.  Now that the initial charge was over, most of the posse had dismounted, and the area in front of the tents was degenerating into a muddy, violent melee.  

Cal had reined in directly in front of the entrance to one of the tents, and as the first pair of disoriented bandits emerged, he fired his wand of color spray into their faces.  Delem was right behind him, and he released a fan of flames into the tent as he rode past, the magical fire setting even the damp cloth ablaze.  His lack of experience with the horses showed, though, as his mount stumbled on a patch of deep mud and he lost his grip, falling hard to the ground a few paces away.  Raising his hands to the air in supplication to whatever gods were watching, Cal quickly moved to help his companion.  

“Come on!”   Benzan was having a tough time finding targets in the confusion of the melee, so he led his two allies along the lip of the ridge, trying to mark a better shot.  He failed to spot the shadowy figure that emerged, not from the tents, but from a shallow cave opening near the rear of the camp.  

Lok and Telwarden were forging a storm of death around them that the bandits could not penetrate.  Both were wounded, Lok from a glancing blow from a hobgoblin morningstar to his temple, and Telwarden from a spear that had dug through a chink in his chainmail armor.  But three men and two hobgoblins lay dead at their feet, and the others had drawn back, reluctant to join that tally.  Their charge into the midst of the enemy had spared several of the Dunderion folk and guardsmen who had taken wounds and retreated from the fray.  One of each remained where they had fallen in the initial rush.  Cullan gathered the rest of the unwounded, two militiamen and three guardsmen, and charged toward the flank of the small group of bandits that faced off against Lok and Telwarden.  

For a moment it looked like the bandits were finished, but then, suddenly, the surge of reinforcements faltered.  Cullan staggered, and the men around him collapsed, falling unconscious to the muddy ground.  Soon the old hunter was alone, facing several opponents.  

“The wizard!” Telwarden shouted, pointing to the hobgoblin adept that had emerged from the hidden cave where he had spent the night practicing whatever foul rites powered his magic.  The hobgoblin, his face garishly marked with vivid and unholy tattoos and ritual scars, held a black wand in his hand, and his face creased in a dark smile as he turned it toward Lok and Telwarden.  

But the hobgoblin did not get the chance to unleash his dire magic a second time.  Benzan’s arrow knifed through the morning air, slamming with the full power of his mighty bow into his head.  The critical hit dropped the evil adept instantly, his wand rolling uselessly away into the muck as he fell.  

A bandit had emerged from the back of the burning tent, his eyes alighting on Delem as the young man tried to stand in the slippery mud where he had fallen.  Cal fired his crossbow at the bandit, but missed, and he shouted a warning to his friend as the bandit raised his sword and charged at the sorcerer.  Delem looked up and raised his hand palm-out against the charging raider, calling upon his magic once again.  His eyes seemed to glow with the reflection of his power as two small spheres of fiery energy exploded from his hand and darted unerringly into the torso of the bandit.  The man screamed and fell, writhing in the mud as the flames ravaged his body.  

“KILL THEM ALL, YOU DOGS!”

The cry echoed through the canyon as another figure emerged into the fray from the last tent.  It was instantly obvious that Steel Jack had finally entered the fray. 

He was a powerful man, with perhaps a touch of non-human blood coursing through his veins.  His curly hair and full beard were the color of rusted iron, and he was clad in a suit of heavy armor, banded mail that hung over his frame like a second skin.  He carried a large shield set with the symbol of a red hydra, and in his other hand clutched a battle axe.  As he hefted the weapon, a nimbus of pale white energy wreathed the blade, indicating that the weapon was magically enhanced.  

The appearance of the bandit leader, coupled with the adept’s blunting of the posse’s charge, gave the surviving bandits new courage.  As Cullan tried to revive their unconscious allies, Lok and Telwarden met the enemy charge alone, side by side forming a wall.  Three hobgoblins and the lone remaining human bandit hit that wall, their blades seeking openings in their foes’ armor.  The two fighters’ weapons responded in a blur.  Lok struck down an already injured hobgoblin and cleaved into a second, his axe opening a wide gash in his hip.  Telwarden slew the human warrior with a backhanded slash that tore open his throat in a bloody torrent, bringing his sword back around to parry the hobgoblin’s attack.  

Then Steel Jack hit the fray.

His first blow was a mighty overhand chop that slammed through Telwarden’s defenses, ripping a tear in his chainmail and digging into the fighter’s shoulder.  The sheriff screamed out in pain as the magic of the bandit lord’s blade sent the icy chill of death through his torso, freezing the blood even as it ran down his body.  Somehow he managed to keep his footing in the mud, giving ground as he brought his sword around to try to keep his new enemy at bay.  

“Say hello to my comrades when you get to hell,” Steel Jack said as he came in again, his deadly weapon carving the air as he approached.  

Lok, meanwhile, was having troubles of his own.  The hobgoblin that had been fighting Telwarden had been all too happy to leave the sheriff to his boss, and turned to flank the genasi and help his injured comrade.  Facing two opponents, Lok missed with his first attack and suffered a serious thrust that dug in between the plates of his armor and tore deep into his side.  Staggered by the blow, he fought on.

Telwarden stumbled backward, somehow managing to bring his sword around to deflect Steel Jack’s axe.  The impact caused him to lose his footing, however, and he went down, groaning as he landed on his ravaged shoulder.  The bandit chief stepped forward, ready to claim victory over his fallen opponent.  

“You’ve got to get through me, first.”

Benzan drew his sword from its scabbard as he faced off against Steel Jack.  Unable to fire into the melee for fear of hitting his companions, he had all but run down the treacherous inner slope of the ridge, his boots slipping on the slick rocks with every step but his natural agility allowing him to hit the ground running.  He’d seen the bandit leader fight, and knew deep down that he was outmatched, but he hoped that he could at least give his companions—and even Telwarden—time to come to his aid.  

“All right then,” the bandit said, hefting his axe.

Two bolts of liquid fire arced into Steel Jack from the side, blazing black scars on the side of his armor.  Delem’s volley had an effect, but it was clear that this adversary would not be so easily defeated.  

Benzan tried to take advantage of the distraction and lunged at the bandit.  Steel Jack, however, responded quickly, and the potent axe clipped him in the side as he dodged back.  It was just a glancing blow, but even with that Benzan could feel the magical chill seep into him, biting deep.  

“Even if you defeat me, you’re too late to save them,” the bandit said as they circled for another exchange.  Both had to be cautious on the difficult footing, lest one misstep give the other a critical advantage.  “Your pretty noblewoman won’t be coming back from the journey she’s embarked upon.”

He had to pause in his tirade as Benzan launched another attack, the tiefling swiping in a high arc that the bandit only narrowly dodged.  His own return stroke struck Benzan’s buckler with a ringing clash that filled the enclosed space of the canyon.  

“Time is working against you, Jack,” Benzan said between gritted teeth.  

The bandit leader took a quick glance around him and saw that Benzan’s boast was true.  Lok, hard pressed a moment ago, had defeated his opponents with the aid of Cullan and several of the revived guardsmen.  Cal and Delem had their own situation well in hand, also, and were quickly approaching from the opposite flank.  Telwarden had managed to lurch to his feet, but although he still held his sword he could barely stand, let alone attack.  

“This is not the end of this, rake!” the bandit hissed.  He took a small step back, and downed in a single swallow the contents of a tiny vial that he produced from a small pouch at his belt.  Almost immediately, he lifted off into the air, surging thirty feet straight up in a smooth climb.

“Farewell, fools!” his voice drifted down to them.  

Cal’s crossbow bolt tore into his ankle, penetrating the thick leather of his boot to stick in the tender flesh there.  An instant later, two flame-bolts from Delem’s hands slammed into the bandit’s legs, causing him to grit his teeth in sudden pain.  

Benzan moved with smooth efficiency, unlimbering his bow and drawing a long arrow in a single fluid motion.  He sighted and fired, the arrow speeding on a straight track to slam upward into Steel Jack’s gut, slanting through his banded mail deep into his belly.  The bandit lurched through the air, his incredible fortitude letting him stay conscious even through those wounds, while his fingers dug in his pouch for another vial.  He continued to gain altitude, and for a moment it looked as though he might yet escape.  

And then he looked up, and saw a small dragon swooping down upon him.  

Jack Corrigan had seen a lot of scary things in his life.  He’d killed his first man at fourteen, and his career since then had been one of mayhem, destruction, and wanton pillaging.  But now, wounded and defeated, relying on an unfamiliar magic to escape, his nerve failed.  He lurched to the side, raising his hands to protect them from the dragon’s gaping maw as it dove at his face.  The healing potion slipped from his fingers to fall uselessly to the distant ground below.  The dragon’s jaws opened…

…and the figment passed right through him.  

Too late, he realized that the illusion, even without sound, had fooled him.

Too late for Steel Jack, as a volley of arrows from below caught up to him.  He hovered in the air for a moment longer, his body penetrated by a several more shafts, then the magic of the potion failed as his life did, and he plummeted sixty feet to the ground.


----------



## Lazybones

Part 10

Cold rain fell in sheets across the country around the River Chionthar, driving the inhabitants of the region’s farms and villages indoors to share the warmth of fire, ale, and good conversation.  Well, _most_ of the region’s inhabitants, anyway…

The small company from Dunderion marched steadily southward through the rain.  Ahead of them, the line of trees that marked the border of the Wood of Sharp Teeth was looming ever nearer.  The weather was making it increasingly hard for them to follow the traces left by the prisoners and their guards, wiping away tracks and turning the ‘trail’ they followed into an indiscriminate morass of sticking mud.  

After the battle at Steel Jack’s camp, most of the members of the posse had just assumed that they would now return to Dunderion.  Cal had plied the power of his healing wand to restore Telwarden and the other injured members of the group to health, depleting much of the item’s power in the process.  A search of the camp revealed what Benzan had already learned; that the prisoners taken by the bandits, including presumably the Lady Ilgarten, had already been sent on to some unknown destination.  They buried the one guardsman and one villager who died in the battle.  The surviving members of the posse rounded up the bandit mounts, sorted through their gear for items that could be salvaged, and poked around for loot.  Lok found a small strongbox buried under Steel Jack’s tent, and forced the lock to reveal it full of shiny silver pieces.  That raised the spirits of the posse somewhat, although Telwarden’s eyes had already been focused southward, toward where their ultimate goal still eluded them.  

Benzan had searched out the cave where the hobgoblin spell-caster had laired, looking for his book of spells.  Cal told him that such tribal adepts often did not use such traditional means of working magic, relying instead on their totems and dark rituals to draw upon their powers.  The gnome did claim the adept’s wand, which vanished into one of his many hidden pockets.  

One of the mercenary guardsmen removed Steel Jack’s banded mail, which though a little battered was still obviously of masterwork quality.  The guardsman offered it to Telwarden, but the sheriff shook his head and refused even to touch the blood-stained mail.  The guardsman shrugged and took the prize to his fellows, who after drawing lots assigned it to one of their number.  

Lok had already claimed his prize: Steel Jack’s magical axe.  The weapon seemed to thrum with power as he lifted it, and the icy aura that surrounded the blade when it was hefted did not affect him in the least.  

They had come a long way and fought a mighty battle, so when Telwarden ordered them to gather up their gear and prepare to ride—south, not north as they had expected—there was immediate and open dissent.  

“We’ve done our duty, and more, sheriff.”

“Those prisoners are long gone, and there’s only so much we can do!”

“What lies that way anyway, but the Wood?  Surely you’re not expecting us to follow you into there!”

“Sir, my wife and small ones are home, waiting for their dad to come back.  They can’t eat noble intentions.”

“What about the Hellriders?  Let them chase down this noble wench—you can bet that one of _them_ wouldn’t do so much for one of _us_!

Telwarden just stood there with that trademark hard look on his face, although the tightness of his jaw testified to the intense feelings he was battling—or restraining.  After a few moments, though, the guardsman and militiamen began to shift their attention to the four companions, who stood apart as a group and who had not engaged in the protests or debate.  Everyone present had witnessed their role in the battle, and realized that these talented individuals had played the crucial role in their victory over the bandits.  What side would they now come down on?

Cal stepped forward into the circle.  He pulled his lute from the oilskin bag he wore across his back, strummed it gently, and began to sing.  

His song didn’t seem to have much to do with the current quandary.  It was a song well-known through these parts, a song of the old frontier.  Its subject was the great historical battles that had been fought nearby, in the area now called the Fields of the Dead.  But the focus of the song wasn’t famous heroes or noble causes, but rather its somber chords spoke of the fallen dead, the ordinary men who gave their lives on the battlefield.  The assembled men bowed their heads as the gnome’s expert fingers played out the eulogy to their two late companions, his voice filling out a soft accompaniment to the music.  When it was over, more than one man present had to wipe away a covert tear from his eyes.  

“We came out here to do a job,” Cal said.  “Carus and Jolan gave their lives to help us rescue those men and women, and it doesn’t seem right to just turn back now, to leave the job unfinished.”

“Aye,” Lok added in assent.  

There were a few murmurs, but Telwarden could sense that the mood had changed.  With a nod of thanks to the gnome, he mounted up and rode out, the others following his example behind him.  

* * * * * 

Once again, it was time for a decision.  

The company had reined in on the very edges of the forest.  Tall trees rose up all around them, shielding them from the rain, which had fallen off again to a more-or-less omnipresent drizzle.  The transition into the forest was so sudden, so abrupt, that it had an unnerving unnaturalness to it that all of them could sense.  That wasn’t even considering the reputation of the forest as a haven for horrible creatures like hydras and dragons, beasts beyond even the imagination of simple folk like the villagers from Dunderion.  

And yet it was into the wood, apparently, that the prisoners had been taken.  Cullan could no longer say with surety, now that the rain had obscured their trail.  

For a moment they just remained quiet, sitting their mounts while the horses nibbled at the sparse grasses.  

“Well, what now, sheriff?” Benzan finally asked, putting into words the question that was on everybody’s mind.  All of them, even Telwarden, had hoped that the trail from Steel Jack’s camp would lead to some resolution, any course but this one.  

Telwarden turned to face them, all of them, and for the first time since they had begun this journey, his expression softened.  “You have all done well,” he told them, “and I am grateful for your company on this mission.  You were right earlier, Kamin,” he said to one of the villagers, “you’ve all done what is demanded by duty, and more.  We are far from home, in a dangerous land.  We all know the reputation of this forest, and have heard the tales of dark things that lurk within.  I cannot ask you to risk your lives without a better understanding of what we might find.”

The sigh of relief that came from the assembled villagers and guardsmen was clearly audible.  Benzan, however, asked, “But that’s not all of it, sheriff,” he said softly.  

Telwarden actually smiled, but it was a wry smile, the smile of a man who knew his doom.  “No, warrior,” he said.  “My duty lies down this path, even if I must walk it alone.  I have asked much from you and your friends, from all of you.  Return to your homes, your caravans, or whatever calls you.  Take the silver, and divide it amongst yourselves—I only ask that you give an equal share to the families of Carus and Jolan.”

“What of your duty to Dunderion?” Benzan prodded.  “You have a responsibility to those people as well.”

“That responsibility was forced upon me, but I have tried to live up to it as best I can, to do my best by the people of that community.  But at the moment, others need me more.”

“Getting yourself killed isn’t going to do anybody a lot of good,” Benzan said.  

“I have to try.  You heard what Steel Jack said.”  

Benzan remembered.  Until that moment, he hadn’t known that Telwarden had heard it too.  

“Cullan, brief Lord Dhelt’s men on what we discovered, and where we tracked the prisoners—”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Cullan interrupted, “I can’t do that.  You’re going to need a tracker, in there, if you are going to have any hopes of finding those prisoners.”

“And surely you can’t expect to ride off on such a foolish, noble adventure like that without a bard along?” Cal added.  “Tales of self-sacrifice and all make for good art, but the crowd likes it when the good guys win in the end.”

Lok said nothing, but urged his horse up beside Cal’s in a clear gesture.  

Benzan shrugged.  “Well, my ma always said, if you’re going off on a half-cocked mission to rescue a pretty woman being held prisoner inside a dragon-infested forest, you might as well go all the way.”

Cal turned back toward Delem.  “There’s no shame in going back with the others,” he said.  “The road back’s just as rough as the road in, and they could use your protection.”

Delem looked at each of his new companions before responding.  “I want to stay with you guys,” he said.  

Telwarden was moved by the expressions of support.  “You all know the dangers,” he said, “but I welcome your companionship as we face it together.”  To the remaining ten members of their company—none of whom had come forward to volunteer—he said, “Head back to Dunderion as quickly as you can.  You should encounter a party of Hellriders on the way—let them know what we’ve learned.”

One of the militiamen, a young cooper, replied, “You can count on us, sheriff.  Good luck, all of you.”

They sorted out their equipment, leaving most of the heavy items taken from the bandit camp with the group that was returning.  As Lok handed over the strongbox to one of the villagers, however, Benzan stopped him.

“Ahem!  Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Lok looked blankly at him for a moment, but then understood as Benzan came over and scooped a generous portion of coins into a small sack.  

“Our cut,” he said, simply.


----------



## Lazybones

Part 11

The Wood of Sharp Teeth didn’t seem that scary, at least at first.  The boots of the companions, as they led their horses through the maze of towering trees, squished softly on the carpet of wet dead leaves with each step deeper into the wood.  The trees formed an interlocking canopy above them like a roof, ensuring that the forest floor below was not choked with impassable undergrowth.  The rain had eased, making the forest seem like a cathedral with its domed ceiling high above them.  

They didn’t head straight for the heart of the forest, instead charting a course that led more or less parallel to the northern border of the wood, heading to the west.  That was Cullan’s best guess as to the direction taken by the raiders and their prisoners, and by staying near the edges of the wood they would hopefully intersect the trail of their quarry.  None of them commented on the obvious possibility that the bandits had gone east instead, and that each step they took might be taking them further in the wrong direction.  It was slow going, as they went on foot most of the time to rest the horses and keep a close watch for any signs of the trail.  

They came to a massive fallen log, nearly rotted through, that rose up out of the forest ahead like a rampart.  They started to move around it when they heard a loud flutter ahead of them, like a flight of birds taking off all at once.  

“That can’t be good,” Benzan said as his hand dropped to the hilt of his sword.

A moment later, nearly a score of small, bat-like things erupted from the ruins of the log and swarmed over them.  They dove at the companions and their mounts aggressively, seeking to latch on with their eight hooked, spindly legs, and stab them with long, pointed beaks shaped like thin stilettos.  

“Don’t let them touch you!” Cullan shouted, trying to fight off a pair of the creatures with his shortsword.  “They’ll drain the blood right out ‘er your body!”

“Yeah, we’re working on it!” Benzan cried back, dodging as one landed on him and dug its claws into his mail-links, trying to poke through to the soft flesh underneath.  In revulsion he poked his dagger through it before its head before it could stab him.  

A scream and a roar of flame announced Delem’s response as several of the creatures converged on the unarmored sorcerer.  Lok and Telwarden were each attacked by one, but the fluttering creatures had a difficult time finding a vulnerable point through their heavy armor.  

Most of the rest descended on the horses.  The panicked beasts reared and flailed as the little creatures stabbed them and latched on, draining their blood hungrily.  With the companions distracted by their own battles, most of the horses broke free and bolted blindly into the forest, bearing their deadly burdens with them.  

An angry yell from Cal, however, turned their attention from the plight of their mounts.  Two of the creatures had latched onto him, one on his hip and a second square in the middle of his back.  

“Augh!  Get off me, you filthy little blood-grubbers!”

His companions came quickly to his aid.  Unwilling to risk hitting the gnome as he danced around, trying to shake loose the creatures, Lok used his dagger rather than Steel Jack’s deadly axe.  His blow tore the creature attached to Cal’s back near in half, ending its vicious drain.  Cal himself was trying to dislodge the second with his shortsword, but his own motions were making it difficult to land a telling blow.  

It took another few seconds of desperate stabbing and frustrated curses, but then quiet returned to the wood, with the dead creatures littering the soft loam of the forest floor all around them.  Cullan and Delem had each taken a hit from the creatures, but none were as seriously injured as Cal.  He used his healing wand on himself, but while that closed the wounds, he was still weak from losing blood.  

A more pressing problem, as Telwarden pointed out, was the horses.  Only he and Benzan had managed to keep their mounts from bolting, and both horses had suffered blood drains as well.  They cast around for the other panicked creatures, but found only one, lying dead from half a dozen oozing punctures.  They also spotted a few more of the creatures in the area, fat with blood and slow, and Cullan and Benzan dispatched them in disgust with arrows.   

“What were those things?” Delem asked.  

“‘Filthy blood-sucking nasty-bastards’ would be my vote,” Benzan said.  

“They’re called stirges,” Cullan replied.  “Individually they’re not that tough, but in packs… well, you saw.”

“Well, it looks like we’re walking from here on out,” Telwarden said.  They transferred the saddlebags from the dead horse to their two remaining mounts, and headed on.  

“This probably means that they didn’t pass this way,” Delem pointed out.

Cal had tried to push on despite his hurts, but he sagged against a moss-covered stone.  “I need to rest,” he said.  

“You should ride,” Lok said.  “The horse can manage you.”

“We all need rest,” Benzan said.  “We’ve only covered half the distance today as yesterday, but that includes fighting a battle—two, now—and it’ll be dark again in a few hours anyway.  Plus the magic-users need to recover their spells.”

Telwarden was clearly reluctant, but the tiefling’s logic was inescapable.  They camped in a sheltered overhang near the fallen log, figuring that the surrounding area had already been cleared of immediate threats by the presence of the stirge colony.  They kept a sharp watch for more of the creatures returning, but the night remained quiet as they hunkered down to await the coming of the day.  

In the morning, they risked a small fire to brew hot tea and oatmeal for breakfast.  Fortunately their supplies had been more or less equally distributed among them, so the loss of most of their horses was not catastrophic.  They would run into difficulties if their search continued for more than a few days, however.  Cal looked much better, but was still clearly a little weak from his encounter with the stirges.  After eating and giving Cal some time to study his spellbook, they set out again.    

Although the rain had let up for the moment, the forest floor was still damp and musty, with a thin mist that hung persistently in the air obscuring their view beyond a few hundred feet.  The woods seemed unnaturally still, the soft ground muting even the sounds of their passage.  A stray cough sounded disturbingly loud in the quiet.

After only about an hour, they paused as Cullan stopped to check the ‘trail’ around them.  

“There’s no way of telling where we are going, or where those bandits went,” Delem said to Benzan, quietly so that his words would not carry to Telwarden.   

Benzan shrugged in reply.  Cal, however, dismounted—he was the only one still riding—and headed toward a mound of packed earth a short distance off.

“Where are you going?” Delem asked.  

“I have an idea,” the gnome replied cryptically.  The others exchanged a glance and followed after him.  They saw that the mound was actually a burrow of sorts, piled around the roots of a massive tree with an uninviting dark hole near its base.  The hole was nearly large enough for the gnome to crawl inside, but he just crouched near the opening, and started making some unintelligible chittering noises into the opening.  

“Squeaking into a hole in the ground.  Well, it was bound to happen,” Benzan said.  “Cal’s lost his mind.”

The gnome bard ignored him and continued making the strange noises.   The companions leaned forward as something stirred from within the darkness of the burrow.  They watched as the head and upper body of a large badger—easily half-again the size of the gnome—emerged from the barrow, and regarded them with a wary look.

Cal chittered at it some more, then without turning his attention from it, spoke softly to his companions.  “She’s got a litter of cubs, so she’s a bit skittish.  Don’t make any sudden moves or threatening gestures.”   As if to punctuate the gnome’s statement, the badger clawed at the ground with its powerful forearms, digging long gashes in the earth.  Clearly, if the badger did feel spooked, it wouldn’t have much trouble ripping open the gnome with those same claws.

“Ah, yes.  Don’t piss off the badger.  Got it,” Benzan said.  

The gnome continued making his noises, pausing to let the badger respond now and again.  This went on for about a minute, after which point the badger drew back into its lair, and Cal carefully retreated back to where his companions stood waiting.  

“I’ve heard of druids that could speak to the beasties like that, but I’ve never seen it before,” Cullan said, a look of amazement on his face.  Telwarden looked more dubious, but he said nothing as Cal delivered his report of the strange conversation. 

“She said that she used to live some distance away from here,” he began, gesturing vaguely toward the southwest, “in a rough area of uneven hills.  A few seasons back, she had to leave when a bunch of foul-tempered two-leggers—her words—moved into the area and started cutting down trees and killing the local wildlife.  She’s avoided the area ever since.”

“A little vague,” Benzan said.  

“Well, animals aren’t much for keeping precise calendars,” Cal quipped.  “But it’s solid information.”

“It’s the best lead we’ve had thus far,” Telwarden said, “and it’s better than stumbling blindly through the forest.  Let’s go check it out.”


----------



## Lazybones

Part 12

The Wood of Sharp Teeth stretched for over a hundred miles southward from its beginnings just south of the River Chionthar, a dense old-wood forest appropriately named for the hazards that lurked within its depths.  Just a few miles from its northern edge, but well within the thick of the wood, rose a small knot of uneven hills.  The forest spread over this area unabated, with trees and bushes filling every slope and dip in the terrain.  In a region known for being inhospitable, the landscape here seemed particularly uninviting to the traveler.  

And yet, nestled in at the edges of one of these hills, there was a clearing forced from the forest, and in that clearing stood a small fort.  The structure was neither as elaborate nor as permanent as the constructs of the lords of the Western Heartlands, but at the same time it was clearly built to withstand a considerable attack.  The massive trunks of the trees that had once stood nearby had been shaped into a stockade that rose a full twenty feet, while boles of smaller diameter had been used to form a hedge of sharp stakes that would keep any but the most determined beast from even reaching those walls.  Two covered watchtowers with shadowed interiors held alert eyes warding the dangers of the forest, while inside the stockade several crude but functional structures served the needs of the bold intruders who had challenged the reputation of the Wood of Sharp Teeth.  

From within the stockade came a constant noise of activity, dominated by a regular pounding of metal against metal that indicated a working smithy.  But the most important activity going on within the fort was neither noisy nor obvious, but rather involved the meeting of two individuals in a shadowy room located within the bowels of the place.  And only one of them was actually _at_ the fortress.  

A powerfully built figure sat at a crude desk fashioned from heavy wood planks.  Even the half-darkness could not conceal the hard lines and ferocious features of an armored hobgoblin warrior.  He seemed a particularly imposing example of that martial race, but there was also a gleam of intelligence in his eyes, matched with a feral cunning that masked whatever dark emotions were hidden within.  

“It was a foolish move, Zorak, to authorize that attack,” a soft voice whispered.  The words did not come from the hobgoblin, but rather materialized in the air around him, like the sweet siren’s song that drew sailors to their doom.  

“We needed more slaves,” the hobgoblin said, his own deep voice a stark contrast to the faint whispers.  He accompanied them with a slight shrug, as if this matter were of no importance.  “You yourself suggested I gather them from the road.”

The whispered voice kept its same soft tone and keel, but the agitation in the hidden speaker was clear nonetheless.  “But not within a day’s ride from Elturel, and certainly not on the outskirts of a populated village.  Your little band of mercenaries has caused quite a stir, I can tell you.  Were you possessed by madness, to allow such a provocation to occur?  And as if that proximity was not sufficient, they choose a caravan with a noblewoman passenger, and take her prisoner.”

“That’s not uncommon for bandits, to take captives that they can ransom…”

“What part of ‘keeping a low profile’ don’t you understand?” the voice interrupted.  “The goal is to avoid drawing attention to this operation.  Have you never heard of magic?  Don’t you think that her family will be interested in finding out where she is?”

“Shall we kill her, then?” Zorak asked.  

“No, the damage has already been done.  But you’d better ensure that you cover up your tracks thoroughly.  I assume that you have already arranged for Steel Jack and his men to take a long trip out of the region.”

“They should already be on their way down the Sword Coast by now,” Zorak replied, “taking the long way, around the eastern side of the wood.  By the time Dhelt’s Hellriders track them to their camp, they’ll be long gone… and the weather will have taken care of any traces that lead this way.”

“Don’t underestimate them, Zorak.  I don’t care if they eliminate Steel Jack’s little company, but they must not connect us to them.”   

“Bak Morok has clear orders on that point.”

“Good.  Because as important as this operation is, understand that I will have no qualms sacrificing <I>it and you</I> if necessary to protect my own position.”

Zorak didn’t say anything, but it was clear that the message was understood.  

The voice continued, “It is too great a risk to wait until the next shipment.  Send the woman immediately with whatever more you have accumulated—drugged and quiet, preferably, but undamaged—and I will see that she is properly disposed of.  Perhaps her death, if nothing else, can still be of use to me… ”

Zorak nodded stoically in acknowledgement.  

A long silence followed, and finally Zorak rose and headed for the room’s single door.  Before he reached it, however, the soft voice whispered one more time.  

“Just one more thing, Zorak.”

“Don’t fail me again.”


----------



## Lazybones

Part 13

“Where is he?” Delem asked nervously.  

“He’ll be all right,” Cal said in reassurance.  

He and the rest of the companions, save Benzan, were perched along the knobby crest of a low knoll, lying prone among the tufts of thick weeds and small boulders.  In the distance, between the trees of the forest, the stockade and towers of the small fort dominated their attention.  It was late afternoon, with the sun well on its way toward the western horizon.  

Heading in the direction suggested by the relocated badger, they had encountered the trail taken by the prisoners and their guards in a few hours.  Even if Cullan hadn’t spotted the signs of fairly recent passage, though, it would have been difficult for them to miss the impact of this place on the local environment.  Massive stumps dotted the forest floor here and there, surrounded by discarded branches and deep runnels in the forest growth formed by whoever had dragged the trunks away.  Those trails had all converged here, making it easy for them to find the place.  It also made them a bit nervous, when their imaginations tried to figure out who or what had managed to move those trees…

They had been hyper-alert, expecting patrols or sentries, but they’d had no encounters since Cal’s conversation with the badger that morning.  It was Delem who had first spotted the stockade through the thinning screen of trees as the land began to grow more rugged around them.  It was clear that the place was occupied, from the smells of food and more unpleasant things that drifted over on the breeze, and from the sounds of clanging metal that were audible from within.  They cautiously found a place where they could observe unseen, and debated their next course.  

Even if they’d had all of the men who’d returned to Dunderion with them, a frontal assault on the place clearly would have been foolish.  The surrounding forest had been cleared out to a distance of several hundred feet around the stockade walls, giving the occupants of the two watchtowers a clear line of fire to anyone approaching the fort.  And while there was no way to guess how many men, or hobgoblins, or whatever else might be occupying the place, it was clearly large enough to support a significant garrison.  

In this context Telwarden gave no orders, but solicited the advice and comments of his companions.  Ultimately they decided to send Cullan and Benzan out in a wide arc to scout out the approaches to the fort, and learn what they could.  Cullan’s cloak of elvenkind allowed him to blend easily into the surrounding scenery, and Benzan just seemed to have a gift for not being seen. 

Cullan had returned after about a half-hour, but another hour had since passed—and no sign of Benzan.  

“But what if he doesn’t come back?” Delem persisted.  

“If something does happen to him, we’ll hear about it,” Telwarden said.  “Cullan said there’s only the one main gate, and we can see it from here.  We’ll know if anyone comes or goes.”

“Hsst! Someone comes!” Cullan whispered, and they all hunkered down in their concealment, readying their weapons just in case.  But it was only Benzan, who materialized out of the bushes at the base of their redoubt and quickly skipped up the slope to join them.  He looked a little haggard, and there was a sheen of sweat across his face.  A shallow cut across his forearm showed a thin line of red blood.  

“What happened?” Cal asked, when he was close enough so that they could talk without raising their voices.  

“They have dogs,” he said, dropping to the ground and gratefully accepting the waterskin that Lok handed him.  After taking a few swallows and rinsing the heat off his face, he told them all what he found.  

“I had a close call, but they didn’t see me—or at least, they didn’t realize what was setting off their guard dogs.  I skirted the entire ring of forest around the fort, and found a track that leads deeper into those hills, on the opposite side of the fort from where we are.  I followed the trail for a bit, and it ends up in a nest of those hills, by a cluster of cave openings.  There’s a hobgoblin guard post there, but it looks like most of the activity is going on inside those caves.”

“What are they doing in there?” Telwarden wondered out loud. 

In answer to his question, Benzan produced a small chunk of rock from his pocket.  It was bluish-gray in color, marbled with striations of varying dark colors.  “I found this along the trail.”

“Silver ore,” Lok said.  Benzan nodded.  

“Looks like our bandit friends have got a little mining operation going on here,” he said.

“So that’s why they needed the prisoners,” Telwarden said, his jawline tightening at the thought of the captives—and in particular, the Lady Ilgarten—being put to slave labor in a silver mine.  “They’ve probably been raiding the surrounding trade routes for some time; people have been known to disappear in the wilds, a fact of life in these dangerous lands.  Any sign of how many hobgoblins might be there?”

“There were four keeping watch over the entrance, but I didn’t see any more.  I’d be really surprised, though, if there weren’t more inside.”

“And yet more at the fort,” Cullan pointed out.  

“I would guess that they return the prisoners to the fort for the night, although that isn’t a certainty, given the fact that hobgoblins function just fine in the darkness,” Cal suggested.  

“We’ll be outnumbered, whichever plan we try,” Benzan said.  

“Fine with me,” Lok offered, hefting his magical axe.  

“We’ll free the captives first,” Telwarden said.  “Then we’ll worry about that fort.  Agreed?”

His gaze traveled the circle of companions, who each nodded in turn.  

“Lead on, Benzan.”

* * * * * 

As Lok had said, most plans rarely survived the first clash of arms.  

With Benzan blazing their route, the companions made a wide circle through the forest, giving the fort a wide berth.  They left their horses behind in a concealed copse, relying on stealth rather than speed this time.  They came up on the entrance to the mines from an angle, avoiding the well-traveled trail that led back to the fort.  

As they made their way toward their destination, Cal came up beside Delem.  “You might find this helpful,” he said, touching one of his wands to the sorcerer, who could not help but flinch a little at the contact.  As it had with Benzan, the magic of the device shrouded Delem with a faintly glowing coat of _mage armor_, which faded into invisibility after a few moments.  

“I’ve already treated myself to the same,” the gnome said.  “It will last about an hour, and protect you from attacks for that time.  Be careful, though—it’s not as effective as Lok’s platemail by far.”

“Thank you,” Delem said.  

“And take this,” Cal said, offering him another wand, the one he had taken from the hobgoblin adept.  “I have the sleep spell already, and we might need to refrain from throwing fire bolts and sheets of flames all around if there are prisoners about.”

Delem looked reluctant.  “I don’t know how to use it,” he said, holding the wand as if it were a live serpent.  

“It’s easy.  You can feel the magic held within, can’t you?” At Delem’s nod, he continued, “All you have to do is tap it, to focus your thoughts on the power, and summon forth the stored spell.  If it was one of those items made with a command-word, that would be something else, but the mage who created this wand kept it simple.”

Delem nodded.  

As they neared the mines they slowed their course, Benzan leading them carefully around the thick knots of boulders with weeds poking out from in between.  They climbed slowly up a slope that culminated in a single huge granite slab the size of a house.  Benzan gestured to indicate that the entrance was on the far side.

The plan was simple.  When Benzan gave the signal, they would unleash a volley of missiles and spells to take out the initial guards quickly, then charge into the mine to overcome whatever guards were within.  Then, after freeing the prisoners, they could learn more about what they could expect from the occupants of the fort.  If they were lucky, they could kill the guards and be off with the hostages before the remaining garrison was even aware that enemies were in the vicinity.

That was the plan, anyway.  

They realized that something was up even before they made it around the huge slab, when they heard the crack of a whip and the shout of a deep voice.

“Pick up that sack, you lazy human!”

Benzan gestured for the others to stay back while he crept up onto the back of the slab and looked out over the area beyond.  Instead of four hobgoblin guards, there were a dozen, watching and cajoling half again that many slaves.  Most of the prisoners were human, but Benzan quickly made out several kobalds, a very bedraggled dwarf, and an orc.  Most showed signs of abuse at the hands of their masters, and all wore crude shackles on their ankles and linked to at least two other prisoners by a length of chain.  The slaves were in the process of gathering heavy sacks from a large pile near the entrance of the mine, obviously to carry back to the fort.  Overseeing the whole operation was a large hobgoblin wearing a suit of chainmail and carrying a heavy maul slung across one shoulder.  Beside him was a smaller hobgoblin, perhaps an adolescent, who held two large and very vicious looking hounds by chains linked to spiked collars.  Several of the guards carried loaded crossbows, but the weapons and their attentions were pointed in the direction of the slaves, not outward toward a potential danger from the forest.  

Benzan turned to retreat back down the slab to rejoin the others, but at that moment the dogs started barking.  Several of the hobgoblins turned and began scanning the surrounding area, looking for whatever had spooked their pets.  

Benzan and Telwarden exchanged a quick glance.  The sheriff from Dunderion nodded.  

“Attack!”

Benzan opened the battle by standing atop the slab, drawing back his longbow and sending a shaft into one of the hobgoblin archers.  The arrow bit deep into its shoulder, causing it to loose its bolt harmlessly up and away to the side.  Even as several of its companions sighted in on him, Delem and Cal both launched their magic into the enemy ranks.  Both used the same spell, Cal from his own repertoire of magic and Delem from his new wand.  Two of the archers wavered and collapsed into magical sleep, their crossbows falling harmlessly to the ground, while on the other side of the group, Delem’s aim was less true as three of the prisoners and one of the guards joined them in unconsciousness.  Another of the slaves, the orc, took advantage of this to rush forward—all but dragging the two humans attached to his chain with him—and picked up the fallen guard’s battleaxe.  Another of the guards noticed this and stabbed at the orc with his spear, but misjudged the distance and failed to connect.  The other prisoners, disoriented by the sudden outbreak of battle around them, either cowered near the cave entrance or tried to slip off into the surrounding woods, hindered by their shackles and chains.  

Several of the enemy were already down or wounded, but the hobgoblins still had the advantage of numbers as Lok and Telwarden rounded the slab and charged into their nearest opponents, Lok loosing a bolt from his heavy crossbow as he came.  The missile slammed into the side of the nearest opponent, staggering him enough for Telwarden to take him down with a mighty stroke to his head.  

As Cullan scrambled up atop the slab to join Benzan, the hobgoblins counterattacked.  The youth released his hounds, and the two ferocious beasts launched themselves at the melee gathering around Telwarden and Lok.  The two warriors fought well as a team, though, protecting each other’s backs so that their enemies could not flank them.  The sound of heavy blows surrounded them as they took blows on their shields or heavy armor.  The two war dogs, trained for battle by the hobgoblins, tried to bring them down by latching onto them with their powerful jaws, but both warriors were able to hold them off.  Still, with two warriors against three, plus the two dogs, the odds were decidedly against the embattled warriors.  

The companions of those two warriors sought to even the odds, however.  Benzan shot another arrow, dropping the archer that he had earlier wounded.  The last archer left standing returned fire, but the bolt missed the agile tiefling, who had the advantage of cover provided by the mass of the slab.  Benzan realized the error in his choice of targets a moment later, however, as the hobgoblin leader, who had not yet joined the fray, lifted a horn to his lips and blew out a loud rumbling blast from it.  The sound echoed through the hills, and the companions had no doubt that its note was heard quite clearly at the fortress just a short distance away.  His warning given, the hobgoblin took up his maul and charged toward the embattled genasi and sheriff.  The last hobgoblin, the youth, hefted a javelin and followed him.  

The two magic-users had not been directly engaged by the enemy, and they used that oversight to their full advantage.  Cal came forward and lined himself up for a blast from his wand of color spray, carefully aiming to make sure that Telwarden would be on the periphery of the blast.  The streaming colors caught not only one of the warriors engaged with the sheriff, but also the charging leader.  The first warrior went down, but the leader only stumbled, temporarily blinded by the gnome’s magic.  Behind him, the hobgoblin youth faltered, uncertain, the javelin forgotten in his hand.   

Rather than risking another use of the wand, Delem relied on his innate magic, launching a pair of fiery missiles at one of Lok’s adversaries.  The two burning bolts staggered the hobgoblin, but it did not fall.  Lok’s attention was focused on the dog, still trying to get a grip on the doughty genasi fighter.  Both he and Telwarden realized that the hounds were the greater danger, for if they managed to trip either of them up, they would be easy prey for the hobgoblins they still confronted.  Lok managed to reduce that threat as he brained the hapless mutt with a chop that crushed its skull, dropping it with a thin veneer of ice crystals matting its mangy fur around the wound.  Telwarden was less fortunate, although his blow ripped into the second dog’s shoulder and kept it at bay for the moment.  

The melee raged in a mass of confusion, but the suddenness of the attack and the effect of the companions’ initial attacks had thrown the hobgoblin ranks into disarray.  Only half of the twelve guards were left standing, including the blinded leader and the timorous youngling.  Only Telwarden had been wounded, a slight cut on one arm where a hobgoblin spear had grazed him.   Perhaps the leader, blinded though he was, realized the shifting balance, for he shouted out an order to his allies.  “Brakthok Morok!” he yelled, and those hobgoblins that still could started to disengage, heading in the direction of the fort.  

But the retreat quickly became a rout.  The orc prisoner was grappling with one of the guards, and even as the hobgoblin leader issued his command he managed to slay his opponent with a blow from his stolen axe.  The kobold prisoners, realizing that their captors were indeed beaten,  had fallen on the pair of sleeping archers, and were even now tearing them to pieces with their sharp little teeth and claws.  From atop the slab, Benzan and Cullan plied their bows, dropping several of the hobgoblin warriors as they sought to retreat.  Cal and Delem, realizing the need to conserve their own magic, joined them with fire from their crossbows. 

Lok and Telwarden, meanwhile, had combined to finish the remaining hound, and now converged on the still half-blinded leader.  Instinctively sensing the danger as it stumbled toward the trail, it swiped its maul in a powerful two-handed arc, but missed the cautious fighters.  Moments later Lok’s axe and Telwarden’s sword made short work of it, marking an end to the battle.  Only two hobgoblins had escaped, the adolescent and the last archer.  

“They’ll be back soon enough, with friends,” Telwarden said as the victorious companions surveyed the battlefield.  Dead hobgoblins lay in a haphazard mess around them.  But more pressing was the problem of the prisoners.  Those that hadn’t fled were watching the companions expectantly, waiting for whatever was going to happen to them next.  

The hobgoblin knocked out by Cal’s color spray was beginning to stir.  The ones put to sleep had already been slain, two by the kobolds, who had already vanished into the forest, chains and all, and the last by the orc, who still stood over the bodies of the two it had killed, holding the axe tightly and staring at them defiantly.  The two humans chained to it seemed to be trying to stay as far away from it as they could, given the limits of the chain.  

“Let’s get these prisoners freed,” he said to his companions.  “Hopefully one of these hobgoblins has the keys on him…”

“If not, I’ve got one,” Lok said, holding up his axe.  

“Benzan, you and Cullan had better scout out the road, see how soon we can expect company,” Telwarden said.  The tiefling and tracker nodded, and were soon gone out of sight down the trail.  The others worked quickly to free the prisoners, pausing only when they came to the orc.  The creature had not moved since the end of the battle, and still watched them intently.  Up close, they could see that its naked torso was covered with both old and new scars.

“Do you speak common?” Telwarden asked it. 

“Perhaps goblin,” Cal said, and offered a few phrases in that guttural language.  The orc did not respond.  

“We don’t have time for this,” Telwarden said.  “Fight hobgoblins?” he said, gesturing toward one of the bodies and making a chopping motion to indicate what he meant.  

The orc smiled, its harsh visage marred by several broken teeth, and nodded.  Even so, Cal and Delem watched it intently as Telwarden unlocked its chains, but once free it only walked around a bit, pausing finally to start stripping the armor from one of the dead hobgoblins.

“What about the Lady Ilgarten?” Delem asked.  

Telwarden had not forgotten about the main reason they were here, but he had postponed asking the most pressing question on his mind.  There were two human women among the slaves, but they were both older, well into middle age, and like most of the other slaves, had clearly been under the control of the hobgoblins for some time.  Telwarden did not want to ask his question because a part of him was afraid of what he would hear in response.  

But at the mention of the name, one of the prisoners, a young man with shoulder-length hair the color of summer wheat, stood up quickly.  “You’re looking for Lady Ilgarten?  I was with her caravan—they’ve got her at the fort.  At least, they did last time I saw her, which was yesterday morning.”

“Who are you?” Cal asked. 

“My name’s Aric,” the young man replied.  “I was one of the wagon drivers—as was Jarrick, here, and Tomas, over there by that orc.”  His face fell a little as his thoughts turned back to recent events.  “They killed all of the Lady’s guards, and Master Gondolio, on the road.  I don’t know why they killed him—he’d never hurt anybody.”

“The lady—have they… have they mistreated her?” Telwarden asked.  

Aric spoke quickly, his words almost falling over one another in his eagerness to get them out.  A few of the others had gathered closer, although there were still many fearful looks back down the trail in the direction of the fort.  “She got beat some,” he said sadly, “especially after she killed that bandit.  They didn’t like that one bit.  But after they found out who she was, I think the idea was they’d keep her for ransom, from what some of the human bandits said.  I didn’t see them hurt her again, even after she tried to escape later.”  Aric swallowed, suddenly putting something together in his mind.  “That was when they killed Gondolio, though, I remember…”

“Listen carefully,” Telwarden said, keeping his voice calm and reassuring, although it was clear to those who knew him that it took some effort to do so.  “I need to know—”

He was interrupted as the clear note of a horn sounded through the forest.  Benzan reappeared, running full speed down the trail toward them.  From the look on his face, his message was clear even before he delivered it, but the words sent a chill through them anyway.

“They’re coming.”


----------



## MasterOfHeaven

This is really an excellent story hour.  I really loved this, and along with Wulfs story hour, I'd rate it the best story hour in the forum.  Keep up the fantastic work.


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## Horacio

A superb story hour I've just discovered today!

Please, keep posting it!


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## Lazybones

Hey, thanks guys!
I'll get another post up later today.  
Lazybones


----------



## Lazybones

“They’re coming.”

“How many?” Lok asked.

“All of them, I’d guess,” Benzan said, but there was no humor in his voice.  After a moment’s pause to catch his breath, he added, “Looks to be about a score.  I didn’t stay around long enough to get a clear count.”

The faces of the companions became grim.  It was clear that the same thought was going through their minds.  _A score!  We defeated a dozen, with the advantage of surprise and luck, but twenty…_

“How long?” Telwarden asked. 

“Five minutes, no more,” Benzan replied.  “Less, if they hasten their pace.”

“All right then,” Telwarden said grimly.  He glanced over his shoulder at the freed slaves, who were milling about, their looks of fear writ clear on their faces.  “You can flee now if you wish,” he told them, “but we’re going to make a stand, and in all honesty you’d probably be just as safe staying as trying to make it out of the forest without food and weapons.  How many of you know how to fight?”

A few hands went tentatively up.  The dwarf, his wheezing breath audible even from a distance, came forward.  “I’ve swung an axe more than once in me day,” he said, even the short declaration causing him to cough fitfully.  “Them hobgoblins have taken a lot of me strength, but what I have left, I’ll lend ye.” 

The sheriff nodded.  “Cal, see what you can do for him.”  The gnome was already moving to help, his wand of healing at the ready.  “The rest of you, gather up what weapons you can.  Quickly, now.  And those shields, too.”

As the slaves moved hurriedly among the bodies, Benzan came up close to the sheriff.  “Those people will be no match for veteran hobgoblin warriors,” he said quietly.

“I know,” Telwarden replied.  “But we need to give them a chance, in case they get past us.  And maybe even just a few more crossbow bolts will make the difference.”

Lok was talking to another of the freed prisoners, and he took a quick look inside the entrance of the mine.  “What do you think?” Telwarden asked him as he returned.  “Retreat into the mine, use it as a redoubt?  They’ll have a tough time forcing the entrance if we defend it from within, and only a few will be able to squeeze through at once.”

But the genasi was shaking his head.  “They could just collapse the entrance, and there’s nothing we could do except slowly suffocate,” he said.  “Stone’s too hard to tunnel through quickly.”

Cal came up, slipping his wand back into its hidden pocket.  “I suggest we make our stand there,” he said, gesturing toward the massive slab from which they’d launched their initial attack.  And indeed, the granite outcropping looked from their current angle almost like a miniature rampart, its vertical edge between six and eight feet high on three sides.  It sloped down to a relatively easy climb from the back, but it would take some effort, and precious moments, for their enemies to make it around to that side.  

“Take the prisoners into the mine.  You and Cullan can hold the entrance while the rest of us distract their attention toward us.  We’re closer to the trail, so they’ll have to get past us to get to you.”

“You’ll be a sitting duck for their archers,” Telwarden said.

“Leave that to me,” the gnome said cryptically.  “I’ll draw their fire, while you guys do as much damage as you can.  Try not to miss,” he said to Benzan, jostling his arm in a companionable manner.  The tiefling smiled, but it was a grim one.   

“It’s not the most elegant plan I’ve ever heard, but it’ll do—and we’re out of time,” Telwarden said.  “Good luck, then,” he said, clasping the gnome’s shoulder.  

“And to you.”  He turned to his companions.  “Sorry to speak for you guys, but it was all I could think of, on such short notice.  Everyone all right with the plan?”  

Surprisingly, it was Delem who responded.  “Let’s go,” he said, cocking his crossbow and setting a bolt at the ready.  The four companions headed for the rock while Telwarden and Cullan started ushering the prisoners into the gaping entrance of the mine.  They hefted their new weapons with uncertainty, and as he watched them Cal hoped that it would not come to them having to use them.  

One of the prisoners had not retreated into the mine, however.  The orc stood before them, clad now in ill-fitting hobgoblin armor, with a loaded crossbow in one hand and its bloody axe in the other.  “Brakthak chupat,” it said, pointing to the gnome, and then at itself.  “Chupat glak-morot.”  

“What does it want?” Delem asked.  

“We don’t have time for this…” Benzan said, glancing down the trail, still quiet, for the moment.  

“It saw you before, with the dwarf,” Lok said.  “Maybe it wants healing.”

“Oh, very well,” the gnome said.  He tugged out the wand and held it up, and the orc nodded.  Cal touched it to the orc, who did nothing to interfere with the action.  The healing power flowed into the creature, and when it stepped back, it seemed noticeably stronger.  

“Never thought I’d see the day when I healed an orc,” Cal said to himself as he followed the others around the base of the slab toward the rear slope.  The orc followed them.  Benzan and Lok helped Cal and Delem navigate their way up atop the stone, the orc close behind.  

“Just so long as you point that thing at hobgoblins, pal,” Benzan told it as it passed him. 

A harsh battle cry sounded from just a short distance down the trail, drawing everyone’s full attention.  

The enemy had arrived.  

* * * * * 

His guess had been a bit low, Benzan thought to himself, as he quickly counted the hobgoblins as they moved cautiously into the clearing at the end of the trail.  There were twenty-two of them, counting the one that they clustered around, a tall creature wearing an elaborate suit of half-plate chased with red ochre along with an open-faced helm and matching shield.  _All right, that’s my first target,_ he thought to himself as he tugged a long arrow from his quiver.  A quiver that was becoming noticeably lighter, he realized.  He glanced over at Cal.

“Stay low, and use the cover of the rock,” Cal instructed them, and he stood, moving almost to the edge of the slab, in full view of the hobgoblin force.  A fierce cry immediately resounded from the rocky slopes of the surround hills, and even before its echoes had faded, the first volley of bolts was knifing through the air around him and his companions.  

But Cal had been prepared, and even as the hobgoblins spotted him, he uttered the words of a magical spell.  Hobgoblins were known for being adept marksmen, and several of the bolts of that first salvo were accurate.  At the last instant, however, they were turned, glancing off of an invisible shield of force erected by the gnome’s magic.  One did get through, cutting over the upper edge of the shield, but it too was deflected, hitting the still-potent mage armor that Cal had evoked earlier.   

“Now, guys,” Cal said to his companions without turning, already focusing on the magical incantations of his next spell.

Benzan rose up into an archer’s crouch, sighting and firing his bow in a single smooth motion.  The arrow flew fast and true to its target, but it lodged in the shield of the heavily armored hobgoblin leader, doing no damage.  

“I knew that blasted gnome’s comment jinxed me,” he said, reaching for another arrow.  

The bolt from Lok’s heavy crossbow was likewise ineffective, but Delem’s shot scored a glancing hit, his bolt sinking into the arm of one of the hobgoblin archers as it reloaded its crossbow.  The orc fired as well, but the others did not see if the shot connected with a target. 

The leader issued a command, and the bulk of the hobgoblin warriors rapidly formed into a fighting wedge, their shields held high as they charged to deflect more missile attacks from atop the slab.  That defense was not enough for a few as they staggered, and one went down with an arrow jutting from its hip.  

Telwarden and the others had joined the battle, firing their bows from the shelter of the mine opening.  

The leader stepped forward from the midst of the hobgoblin archers as they reloaded, a menacing figure even from fifty paces away.  He pointed at the defenders atop the great stone, and shouted a fell curse upon them.  The four companions could feel the power of dark magic sweep through them in a tangible wave of fear and despair.  But they gritted their teeth, and fought on through whatever dark magic was being wrought against them.

“He’s a wizard!” Benzan said. 

“No,” Delem said, haltingly, “A priest of dark gods…”

More bolts came in at them from the enemy archers, followed by a volley of hurled javelins from the charging phalanx.  Again Cal’s magic deflected the attacks aimed at him, but his companions shared no such protection.  Lok’s plate mail provided an effective barrier, but both Delem and Benzan took hits.  Benzan pulled the javelin from his leg and fired again, letting out a vile curse as his second missile glanced harmlessly off an enemy shield.  

Thus far, the battle was not flowing in the favor of the good guys.  

The phalanx approached the base of the stone, but the hobgoblins reacted in sudden alarm as a knot of mail-clad warriors emerged from the weeds and boulders to their left.  The four newcomers were elves, their armor gleaming in the sun and their longswords at the ready.  Confronted by their traditional enemy, the hobgoblins in the phalanx shifted eagerly to meet this new threat.  

The delay gave the defenders more time.  More arrows and bolts fired into the phalanx, and as they turned toward the elves more of the missiles found their mark.  Another went down, with two arrows jutting from its side, and others bit back curses as they suffered wounds.  It was a slow attrition, as a full score still stood, but it was a start.  

The charge against the ‘elves’ failed, of course, as the hobgoblin blades passed through Cal’s illusion.  He let the phantasm fade as the enraged hobgoblins charged around the base of the slab, eager to kill these few defiant enemies.  Another went down, as Lok fired a bolt point-blank over the edge of the slab into its chest.

The hobgoblin leader—identified as a cleric by Delem—had not been idle.  As the archers continued their desultory barrage against the defenders atop the slab, he unlimbered a massive crossbow of his own, loading a bolt that was more like the missile fired by a ballista.  

As the charging horde reached the rear of the stone, still more than a dozen strong, the situation looked dire for the four beleaguered companions.  Lok dropped his empty bow and hefted the magical axe, and moved to block the route up the slab.  Behind him, Benzan fired his bow again into the crowd, rewarded finally with a grunt of pain as a hobgoblin fell back, clutching the arrow jutting from its shoulder.  Delem used the wand of sleep, targeting the center of the dense cluster of enemies.  Its power was partly effective, and two fell unconscious, but another pair resisted the magic, shaking their heads as if to clear the suggestion of sleep from their minds.  

On came the hobgoblins, scrambling over the rocks to attack.  Lok smote the first one with a mighty blow that separated its head from its shoulders.  Three others came at him, and while his armor protected him from the first two thrusts, the third clipped him a painful blow on the shoulder with his wickedly spiked morning star.  Lok stood his ground, shrugging off the pain of the impact.  

Cal shifted to the side, along the very edge of the rock, to give him a better angle of attack and to give him a clear shot past Lok.  He launched a blazing stream of colors right into the faces of a half-dozen hobgoblins.  The first three went down, stunned, but the others came on over their fallen comrades, trying to catch the elusive gnome.  

From the other flank, the orc entered the melee, swinging his axe at the hobgoblin that had struck Lok.  The hobgoblin sensed the danger too late, and it suffered a powerful stroke that knocked it bodily backward, to tumble off the edge of the slab to the ground below.  

The companions were still outnumbered, though, and the odds got suddenly worse when Cal staggered, crying out in pain as a long and deadly shaft, launched by the hobgoblin leader, struck him hard in the torso.  The gnome fell prone, blood from the vicious wound jetting out all around him over the cold stone.  Fighting for consciousness, he clutched at the bolt with one hand and his wand of healing with the other.  

Benzan saw the gnome go down, but before he could move to help him, another arrow hit him, sending a wave of pain through his left side as the missile punched through the links of his chain shirt.  Suddenly he too was in bad shape, but as he reached into his pouch, he saw that help, such as it was, was on the way.

Telwarden was leading a charge out of the mouth of the mine cavern, his sword cutting a swath through the air.  Cullan and the dwarf warrior flanked him, matching him stride for stride, and behind, more cautious, came several of the former prisoners, loading their crossbows as they ran.  

More hobgoblins were reaching the summit of the stone, but Lok would not give ground even as more blows rained down on him.  His axe swung in deadly arcs, crushing one hobgoblin’s skull into a frozen mess, then cleaving on into the side of a second with equal force.  The genasi seemed like a vengeful spirit of the earth, possessed of an elemental fury that could not be placated.  Beside him, the orc fought on as well, motivated by an equal anger, striking down another hobgoblin before two others thrust their blades deep into its torso.  Somehow it remained standing, roaring in defiance as it lifted the axe to strike again.  

“Cal…”

Delem crouched beside the gnome, who was clearly dying.  He had pulled the bolt out of his body, but had passed out from the loss of blood, and his skin was growing swiftly paler.  Delem could not remember ever seeing so much blood before, and from such a small body…  He felt an upsurge of emotions, anger mixed with impotent frustration, but as he felt the hot sting of tears blurring his vision, he heard the voice… _that voice_… in his thoughts again.

_Trust in yourself, my son... Trust in who you are…_

Delem reached out and grabbed Cal’s healing wand.  It was a different sort of magic; he knew that, knew that it was not something that his sorcerous talent could access.  But as he focused upon it, touching it almost tenderly to Cal’s ravaged side, he felt _something_ awaken deep inside him.

The healing power flowed, and the bloody wound closed.  

Cal would live. 

Benzan felt the welcome surge of healing energies himself, as the potion worked its effects.  He lifted his bow and sought out another target.  Lok seemed to be doing well enough, for all that at least three opponents were still trying to force their way up the side of the slab; the bodies and the blood of their fallen comrades was making their progress difficult, however.  The tiefling turned to seek out the cleric, who had struck down Cal… 

But the hobgoblin commander was just disappearing from sight, retreating back down the trail toward the fort.  Telwarden and the others had engaged the archers in melee, and Benzan could see that two of the four were already down, one with two arrows jutting from its body and another split open by Telwarden’s blade.  Even as he watched, the dwarf, ignoring the bolt sticking from his shoulder, smote one in the leg with his axe, and in an almost berserk fury continued to lay into it even as it fell, chopping it apart like a woodsman gathering branches for a fire.  Since there were no clear targets there, he rose and moved to Lok’s side, firing an arrow point blank into the face of one of his remaining opponents.  The other two exchanged a look, and apparently decided that the genasi had already claimed enough of them, as they darted for the cover of the trees.  

One made it, but only because he ran really fast, and because Benzan couldn’t reload quickly enough.  

And just like that, the battle was over, and incredibly, they had won.  They had suffered grievously, with all of them sporting wounds.  Once the enemy was gone Lok nearly collapsed, his wounds greater than he had let on.  Cal, restored to consciousness by Delem’s intervention, used his wand repeatedly upon himself and his friends, but its power gave out before all of them were returned to full health.  

But there were some allies that they could not help.  The orc, to their surprise, had been a loyal ally, at least against their common enemy.  His body they left in the grasp of his final opponent, who he had struck down even as its weapon had ended him.  And the young man Aric, whose bolts had knocked down more than one hobgoblin, was likewise dead, a lucky shot piercing his heart as he bravely charged behind Telwarden into battle.

They had won, but all of them knew that it was not over, not yet.  

“We can’t let him get away,” Telwarden said, torn between his desire to chase after the evil cleric, and his duty to his companions.  “He may yet—”

“I know,” Benzan said.  He turned to Delem, who alone of the others could keep up with him.  The sorcerer nodded, and moved to join him at the opening of the trail.     

“Follow as quickly as you can,” Benzan told the others. 

“We’ll be right behind you,” Cal promised.  

Benzan and Delem started off down the trail at a trot, pushing their exhausted bodies yet further, toward what they all hoped would be the final confrontation.


----------



## Lazybones

Part 15 

The fort was deceptively quiet, but they knew that enemies still lurked inside.  They could feel the eyes watching the forest from inside the watchtowers, and to Benzan and Delem it was almost as if the place itself was waiting, a malevolent entity with hostile intent.  

Benzan had thought that they’d be able to catch the heavily armored cleric, but he’d had too great a lead.  Even as they’d neared the fort they could hear the sound of the gate being closed, and rather than rush in blindly, they’d faded into the forest edge to await their companions.  

Benzan turned as he heard a noise from down the path.  It was Telwarden, clearly pushing himself as he ran despite the weight of his heavy armor and weapons.  For a moment Benzan thought he would run right into the clearing toward the fort, but at the last moment the sheriff spotted Benzan’s urgent signaling and he veered into the shelter of the brush.  His face was bright red from his efforts, and his breath came in short gasps.  At that moment his age showed more than in the entire time they’d known him, but his determination had not flagged in the slightest.  

“We… we’ve got to attack… can’t give them time…”

“We’ll wait for the others,” Benzan said firmly.  “You rest and catch your breath—you’ll be no good in a fight if you can barely stand up.”

Telwarden glared at him, but said nothing.  The next few minutes passed with agonizing slowness, but finally they could hear Lok and Calloran, moving steadily up the trail.  Benzan signaled to them and within a few moments they were all clustered amidst the brush, watching the fort.  

“We left Cullan and the freed slaves back at the mine,” Cal said at Benzan’s inquiring look.  “They wouldn’t be much use in this sort of thing, anyway.”

“The question now, is how we are going to get inside,” Lok said pragmatically.

“There can’t be many left in the garrison,” Telwarden chimed in, his voice much more normal now.  “A quick attack is the best option, in my view.”

“And how were you planning on getting over the walls?” Cal asked.

“I think I can manage that,” Benzan said.  He had been staring intently at the stockade, as if figuring out the pieces of a puzzle in his mind.  “But it’s those guard towers that worry me.  I can’t quite make out who’s inside them, but they’ve got excellent cover, and a clear field of fire all around the fort.”

“It looks like there are two hobgoblins in each,” Delem said, squinting.  “I can’t quite make out the far one.”

Benzan looked at him.  “You’ve got good eyes,” he said.  Turning to the others, he said, “All right, I think I can handle the near tower, at least enough for me to get over the wall.  But once I clear the edge, whoever’s in that second tower is going to have an easy shot at me.”  Not to mention whoever’s inside the fort, he thought to himself.

“I’m sorry, but I’ve used just about all of my spells already,” Cal said.

“What about that sleep wand?” Benzan asked.

“That would work,” Cal said.  “But its range is too limited to use it from here.  It would have to be taken closer…”

They turned to Delem.  After a moment, he swallowed and nodded.  “I’ll go,” he said.  “My legs are a lot longer than Cal’s, anyway.”

Benzan nodded.  “All right then.  Stay behind me; we’ll take an angle so that the first tower blocks the line of fire of the second as we approach.  Once I start climbing the wall, take out the second tower.”

“Here, take this,” Lok said, offering his shield to Benzan.

“Thanks.  Ready, Delem?”  At the sorcerer’s nod, Benzan turned to the others.  “Follow us out when we’re half-way to the wall.  If I can’t get the doors open, you may have to get back in a hurry…”

“Just get them open,” Telwarden said gravely.  “We’ll do the rest.”

They each felt the pressure of passing time as they hurried into position.  It was hard to believe that less than ten minutes in all had passed since the end of the battle at the mine, but with the fate of Lady Ilgarten hanging in the balance, even a few seconds felt precious.  

Benzan crawled up to the very edge of the concealing undegrowth, and set an arrow to his bow.  Rising slowly he drew and sighted, and called upon the innate power of his mixed ancestry.

With the power came memory.  

* * * * * 

“You’re nothing but a worthless half-breed!” Malak cried, taunting the scrawny little boy trapped in an accusatory circle of his peers.  

Benzan had always known he was different.  There were the little things, like the way that he could see so clearly in the dark, and the way he could hold a piece of burning pitch in his hand and not feel any pain from the fire.  But mostly it was the way that people always looked at him, the perception that he was just… _wrong…_

The boys closed in around him, jeering and pushing.  Fear and anger were both present in their eyes, but the scared youth saw only danger there.  Danger for him.  

“Let me go!” he shouted.  “I never hurt you!”

“Freak!” Malak yelled, striking him with a painful punch to the shoulder.  That action was a trigger for the others, who began pounding on him from all sides.  

“Let me go!” Benzan cried out again, as pain shot through his body.  “Let me GO!”  

As he spoke the last word, something snapped inside him.  He felt power flow from his body, a magical legacy from a father he’d never known, a power that he’d never asked for nor desired.  A globe of pure darkness appeared around him, enveloping the knot of suddenly startled boys.  Alarmed cries filled the dark, accompanied by the clatter of bodies as boys tripped over each other in the confusion.  

Out of it the darkness came Benzan, running for safety.  

Always running.

* * * * * 

Forcing down the unwelcome memories, Benzan called upon the power, focusing it on the steel tip of his arrow.  As the darkness bloomed into being all around him, he closed his eyes and visualized the target, letting the arrow fly toward the distant tower.  The world suddenly reappeared around him as the globe of darkness stayed with the arrow, floating across the open space to thud into the peak of the stockade wall, just ten feet below the top of the watchtower.  The guards in that tower were now effectively blind.  

“Let’s go!” he yelled to Delem, and started across the open ground.  

The hobgoblins had been expecting an attack, but there was no way that the two sentries in the tower could respond effectively as Benzan and Delem sprinted across the open space between the forest edge and the stockade wall.  Shouts of alarm came both from the darkness and from the other tower on the opposite side of the fort, but no missiles came at them from inside.

As they reached the shadow of the stockade wall, Benzan tossed Lok’s shield into the grass and launched himself at the rough wood of the gates.  He crawled up the uneven surface quickly as Delem ran to the far corner of the fort, to put the sentries in the other tower to sleep before Benzan reached the top of the wall.  One of the hobgoblins saw him as he leaned around the corner, but before he or his companion could target the sorcerer both succumbed to the magic of the wand and fell into unconsciousness.  He then turned the wand toward the second tower, where the first of the two hobgoblin sentries within the sphere of darkness had already appeared along the parapet that ran around the interior of the stockade.  A few seconds later, those two guards were neutralized as well.  

Benzan, meanwhile had reached the top of the gate, and levered himself over onto the inner side of the wall.  For a moment he expected to hear the hum of bows firing their deadly missiles at his exposed form, but the inner courtyard of the fort seemed to be deserted.  He quickly descended halfway down the inside of the gates and dropped the rest of the way to land in the packed earth at their base.  The gates were sealed with a wooden beam as thick through as his waist, and he set himself to the difficult task of lifting it free from its frame.  

Then he heard the shout, followed by the sounds of angry growling behind him, and knew that he was in trouble.  

Benzan glanced over his shoulder to see a familiar adversary, the hobgoblin adolescent that had fled from their first encounter back at the mine entrance.  The creature was standing in the doorway of one of the buildings that lined the inner wall of the stockade, next to a row of kennels fashioned from wooden slats, two of which contained vicious hounds that were even now straining at the gates, slavering and barking in apparent eagerness to set upon this intruder.  

Benzan and the hobgoblin locked gazes.  But even as the tiefling reached for his bow, the hobgoblin dashed over and lifted the latches that held the gates of the kennels closed.

Benzan turned back to the gates, and to the heavy bar.

“Damn, I would have gotten away with it, too, if it hadn’t been for that meddling kid and his dogs,” he said under his breath as he pushed with all his strength against the weight of the bar.  He could almost feel the dogs charging across the not-so-great open space of the courtyard toward him, but he focused himself on his task, pouring every last amount of strength he possessed to the task of lifting the bar from its channel. 

With a final mighty heave, the bar fell free, and the dogs tore into Benzan from behind, dragging him roughly to the ground.


----------



## Talindra

I love the cliffhangers......This is one storyhour I am completely hooked on.  I check for updates at work, even.  All that is just my way of saying, keep it coming!


----------



## Lazybones

Thanks again, Talindra, and thanks to all of you who contributed to my new 5-star rating!  As Homer Simpson would say, Woohoo!

As for the story, I will put up a new post later today.  I can promise a dramatic ending to the attack on the hobgoblin fort, but I won't reveal anything more, except to say that sometimes victory can be bittersweet...


----------



## Lazybones

Part 16

With a powerful heave against the gate, Telwarden burst into the interior courtyard of the hobgoblin fort, the others close on his heels.  His attention was drawn immediately to the swirling mess of fur and limbs and teeth that was ravaging Benzan, just inside the open gates.  Telwarden immediately leapt into the fray to aid the tiefling, thrusting his sword deep into the back of one of the raging mutts.  The creature crumpled, crippled by the blow.  The other was already injured, Benzan’s dagger sunk to the hilt in its shoulder, but it refused to relax its grip on the tiefling’s leg as it tore back and forth, trying to rip him apart by sheer force of will.  Blood belonging both to the warrior and the animals was everywhere, staining the mud a dark crimson.  

Lok appeared in the entryway, and instantly divined the danger.  Without hesitation he brought his axe down in a precise arc that half-severed the dog’s head from its body.  Delem and Cal were right behind him, and both crouched over the fallen tiefling, who was not moving.  

“He lives,” Cal reported, “but not for long, unless we can do something.”

“We have no more healing potions,” Lok said, frustration cracking his ordinarily neutral tone to reveal the emotion underneath.  Cal was already fumbling with bandages, but it looked like it was already too late for the dying tiefling.  

“Let me,” Delem said.  As the gnome drew back in surprise Delem leaned over the dying form of his friend, one of the few people whom he’d been able to grant that title since he’d started running away from the legacy of his birth as a youth.  He’d always felt a strange kinship with the tiefling in that regard, for all that they were so different otherwise.  It was the acceptance that he’d found in the company of these diverse outcasts like himself that gave him the ability to accept his own birthright, and call upon the power of the fire that burned deep within him to bridge the gap to another sort of power that Delem was just beginning to comprehend.  

They watched with amazement as the soft blue glow of positive energy flowed from Delem’s hands into the savaged warrior.  The bleeding stopped, and the pale aura of death that marked his flesh turned into the faint yet unmistakable flush of life.  Still unconscious, but now stable, Benzan rested.  Delem slumped forward, feeling suddenly drained of energy, but there was a smile of fulfillment upon his face. 

“Stay with them,” Telwarden said.  “I’m going to find that cleric.”

“I will accompany you,” Lok said.

“We’d better get them inside one of the buildings first,” Cal said, his concern for his companions overriding Telwarden’s urgency.  “Those sleep spells will wear off in a few seconds.”

Telwarden’s face betrayed his frustration, but he helped Lok and Cal get Benzan and Delem into the cover of the nearest structure, a cramped but thankfully empty barracks.  While Cal and Delem kept watch there over the unconscious Benzan, Lok and Telwarden crossed the courtyard to the fort’s largest structure, a tall, wide building fashioned out of the same massive hewn logs that made up the stockade walls.  Telwarden kicked open the door, and headed inside.  

The area beyond was a small antechamber, dimly lit by the light that filtered through the securely shuttered windows high up along the walls.  There were two exits, both shrouded by heavy curtains.  The decision of how to proceed was made for them, as they heard a muffled sound coming from the doorway to their right.  The sheriff darted heedlessly through the curtain, the genasi only a step behind.  

The room beyond was much larger, perhaps twenty feet on a side.  It contained a variety of furnishings, including a desk and a comfortable-looking bed, but their attention was immediately drawn to the room’s occupants.  

The cleric was there, his red-chased mail appearing particularly garish in the room’s half-light.  He was holding a bound and gagged young woman that could only be Dana Ilgarten in his arms, a gleaming and slightly curved dagger pressed close against her exposed throat.

“I waited for you,” the hobgoblin hissed at them.  “I wanted to see the looks on your faces, when I bathe my blade in her blood.”

“No!”

Telwarden launched himself forward at the cleric, for all that it was clearly too late for him to do anything, as a good fifteen feet separated him from the cleric and his prisoner.  Even as he started to move, the gleaming dagger sliced…

And then, to the surprise of everyone, including most of all the cleric, the blade cut only empty air.  The woman twisted her head back under the arm that was wrapped around her torso, at the same time that her bound-together legs snapped up at an improbable angle to connect with the wrist-joint of the cleric.  The hobgoblin’s hands and arms were protected by gauntlets, but the impact of the woman’s bare foot still managed to dislodge the knife from its grasp.  

Roaring in fury, the cleric grabbed the woman bodily and hurled into the back corner of the room, where she slammed hard into the wall and fell in a painful heap.  He just had time to draw a curved sword from its scabbard at his hip before Telwarden launched his first attack.

The room filled with the ring of metal on metal as the two combatants locked swords and sought an advantage.  Lok was already moving to Telwarden’s aid when a side curtain parted and two hobgoblin warriors charged into the room, their swords clanging on Lok’s armor as he turned to face this new threat.  He swung with the full power of his magical axe and his incredible strength, but misjudged the blow and ended up gouging a deep gash in the nearby desk.

Telwarden and the hobgoblin cleric sparred, each fighting with deadly intensity.  They did not exchange barbs or dire threats, letting their blades speak for them.  The sheriff caught the cleric a glancing blow that drew a line of red through the gap in his shoulder-plates, and the hobgoblin in turn responded with a slash that raised blue sparks as it cut through the links of his chainmail and scored the flesh underneath.  Despite the pain of the cut from the magically keen weapon, the sheriff fought on, driven inexorably on by the heavy hand of duty.  

Lok hurled himself at his two opponents, knowing that Telwarden would need his aid.  One stabbed him with a forceful blow that drove through a gap in his armor, cutting deep into his side.  Ignoring the sudden pain, Lok responded with a powerful stroke that crushed armor, leather, and the bone underneath.  The hobgoblin staggered back, the hole in its chest ringed by icy frost, and collapsed through the curtain into the next room.  

Telwarden took another hit as the deadly exchange between him and the cleric grew more intense.  The blow left him favoring his left side as a current of crimson ran out from under his armor and down his leg. 

Sensing that his opponent was weakening, the cleric smiled grimly.  “I will make you feel pain, human.  I will make you suffer, and then I will make her suffer, for your sake.”

“Shut up and fight!” Telwarden hissed between clenched teeth, lunging forward with a speed that caught the cleric off guard.  Their blades met in another series of exchanges, leaving the cleric without another wound, a slight cut along the back its weapon-hand.  

Clearly, though, Telwarden was taking the worse of these tradeoffs, while the cleric, though wounded, was still hale and ready.  

“When you meet your god, tell it that it was Zorak who crushed your skull and feasted on your weak flesh,” the cleric said, as it swept in with a vicious overhead stroke intended to cleave Telwarden’s head apart.  

The sheriff ducked in under the blow and charged, ignoring the stinging pain across his back as he thrust hard with his own blade, backed by the full momentum of his weight.  The blade crunched through plate, chain, and leather, sliding a full foot of its length into the gut of the evil cleric.  Zorak grunted in sudden and unrelenting pain, the madness in his eyes allowing him somehow to fight through the agony as he reared back, the sword unleashing a flood of blood as it came out of the wound and the cleric fell back against the edge of the bed.  

Lok joined Telwarden as they faced off against the crippled priest, the genasi’s two foes lying defeated behind him.  “Sorry for the delay,” the genasi said in an aside to Telwarden, his own wounds nothing in the face of their ultimate enemy. 

“Let’s finish this,” Telwarden said, his face as grim as death as they came in at the cleric.  

Zorak rose up to meet their charge, and as the two warriors launched their attacks he made no effort to defend himself.  Even as sword and axe struck home, though, he dropped his scimitar and reached forward, placing his hand down lightly atop Telwarden’s head. 

“By the power of the Master,” Zorak croaked through bloody lips, and he smiled as he died.  

Telwarden stiffened, his body shaking as the cleric’s last spell wrought its evil through his already ravaged body.  His eyes grew clouded as blood drained from his mouth, nostrils, and ears, and even as the dread cleric fell, breaking the momentary contact between them, Telwarden staggered a step back and fell hard to the ground.  

Lok was there in an instant, but there was nothing to be done.  

Kevrik Telwarden, sheriff of Dunderion, was dead.


----------



## Horacio

Wow!
What a bitter victory...

Have you posted the character's stats in the Rogues Gallery? I would love to see them...


----------



## Maldur

Very Nice!!

You know how to keep us lurckers happy


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## Lazybones

Ask, and you shall receive, Horacio!

Actually, I created the characters even before I began the story, and my intent all along was to start a Rogues' Gallery thread once the story got going.  I was holding off because I didn't want to give away any upcoming plot developments by posting all of the character info too soon.  But now that the story's moving right along, and people want to see stats, I've gone ahead and started a new thread over there.

As for the story, it's already started moving in a new direction.  Stay tuned for some interesting (I hope!) happenings once our four heroes make it back to civilization, and find that fame and renown isn't all it's cracked up to be...

Lazybones


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## Broccli_Head

I'm still on part 14 but I wanted to reply since I had this thought. This story would make a good 'module'. Have you conceived of stats for the badguys? The NPCs (like Cullan and Telwarden)?

Well, hopefully will catch up soon.


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## Horacio

Thanks for the stats!!!

And yes, I agree, this story looks great as a module for almost any campaign


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## Lazybones

Part 17

When Lok emerged from the building shortly thereafter, with the freed Lady Ilgarten walking beside him, one look at his face was enough to reveal to his companions what had transpired.  A knot of dead hobgoblins—the guards from the towers, who had finally woken from the magical sleep of Delem’s wand—lay dead in front of the door to the barracks, their burned corpses revealing their cause of their demise.  No other enemies stirred within the confines of the fortress, giving the heroes a chance to catch their breath and recover from their wounds.  They were uncertain how many of the hobgoblins had escaped, but they knew that at least one had; they never did find the youth that had released the dogs upon Benzan.  

“He’d better hope that we never come across him again,” Benzan said, as he lay recovering in a cot in the hobgoblin barracks, converted into a temporary hospital.  

They gathered all of the freed prisoners at the fort, where they found more than sufficient provisions to sustain them.  They brought the horses in as well, glad that their two surviving mounts had not befallen ill while their owners were fighting the hobgoblins.  

Once they had rested, Cal used his bardic magic to work some minor healing, and Delem explored his own newly awakened powers as well.  Still not completely sure what was happening to him, or the origin of his new abilities, he vowed to seek out more information when they finally made it to Elturel.  

They buried Telwarden out in the forest, not willing to leave him at the site of the evil fortress.  Cullan seemed hard hit by the loss, but all of them felt the sadness at the loss of a man who had been curt and officious at times, but whose keenly felt sense of duty had been the driving force in their pursuit, and the success of their mission.  

They also took the opportunity to speak to the Lady Ilgarten, whose capture had brought them all the way out there in the first place.  Dana, as she insisted on being addressed, was a plain spoken and clearly intelligent young woman, and even after the harsh experience of her capture and imprisonment was still able to warmly express her thanks to her rescuers and her sympathy at their loss.  When asked by the companions, she explained what had happened to her.  She had been traveling from Iriaebor to Baldur’s Gate to represent some of her father’s trading interests there when the bandits had set upon them.   The caravan, so near to Dunderion, had been relaxed, and they were caught be surprise.  Most of the guards were overcome by the sleep wand wielded by the hobgoblin adept or slaughtered by the first volley of crossbow bolts, and although the others tried to fight back, they were quickly overwhelmed by Steel Jack’s veterans.  Her voice cracked some when she recalled the murder of Gonvolio, a long-time friend of her family, and she was saddened to hear of the death of Aric, who had tried to come to her aid during the ambush but had been knocked unconscious by a hobgoblin warrior.    

To their surprise she quickly joined in with the treatment of the sick and injured, and they were even more surprised when they saw the telltale blue glow of positive healing energy being channeled.  She explained that her father had sent her to a monastery for her education at a very young age, and that she had been initiated into the mysteries of the priesthood of Selune while there.  She had kept that fact hidden from her captors, rightly afraid of how the evil cleric Zorak would respond.  

“Apparently they also initiated her into the mysteries of ass-kicking,” Benzan commented, as he talked with his friends later.  Lok had let them all in on what he had seen in Zorak’s lair, and how the woman, who had acquitted herself admirably when captured, had also managed to somehow avoid being slain while in the power of the evil cleric.  When questioned about it, Dana demurred, saying only that the monastery she had been fostered at had been affiliated with a sect called the Sun Soul, and that they had taught her the basics of self-defense there.  

Most of their discussions, however, focused on Zorak, and the operation he had been running out here in the wilderness.  

“Did you find out what god he worshipped?” Cal had asked Dana as they spent the day after the battle resting.  They had found no holy symbol or other identifying mark on his body, and it was unclear what he had used as a divine focus. 

“No,” Dana replied.  “He only referred to him—it—as ‘the master’.  I’m sure he was working with others, though.”

That guess was born out by what they had discovered when they searched the large structure where Zorak had finally been defeated.  In a locked inner chamber without windows, they found a huge wooden chest, reinforced with iron bands and bolted to the floor, and large enough for Cal to stand within it with the lid closed without having to bend down.  Once opened with Zorak’s key the chest was found to contain only a half-dozen silver trade bars, each five pounds in weight.  The rear part of the fort behind the barracks was found to contain a crude but fully operational forge, with molds to cast refined ore into bars.  

Benzan had almost come to tears when they related the discovery of the nearly empty chest.  “Ah, if only we’d gotten here sooner!” he lamented, closing his eyes to thoughts of what might have been, had they found the chest when it was full.  

There were other clues that the fort and its mining operation had been part of a larger operation, but no concrete information about whom those unnamed others might be, or where they might be located.  

“We shall have to report to Lord Dhelt about this,” Cal said, but there was nothing else they could do at the moment.  

Still, as they prepared to move out on the morning of the second day after the battle, they could feel proud of what they had accomplished.  The prisoners had already begun to show signs of recovery after being well fed and rested, although the dark shadows in their eyes would take much longer to heal.  They considered burning the fort behind them, but ultimately decided to leave that decision to Lord Dhelt’s men, as such a strong outpost here on the edge of the wood might prove to be useful.  

Despite the empty treasure chest, they did not return empty handed, either.  Both Zorak’s armor and his deadly scimitar detected as magical.  Benzan took the weapon, and since none of them desired to wear the armor, they packed it up and put it with their other gear on one of their horses.  Cal suggested that they trade in the armor for recharges for their magic wands once they reached Elturel, a suggestion that met with immediate approval even from Lok and Benzan.  The six trade bars were not inconsiderable treasure either, even though Benzan could not look upon one without muttering a string of profanities.  There was other treasure too, useful equipment, coins in the pockets of the dead guards, the odd piece of jewelry, and other valuables.  Most of those items eventually found their way into the hands of the former slaves, and even Benzan was caught slipping a few silver pieces into the pocket of one of the poor wretches who’d had everything taken from them.   

So, victorious for the moment, the company set out once again for Dunderion.


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## Broccli_Head

Hey Lb, caught up! Bittersweet victory makes for the best storytelling...
Thanks for the posts. Hope the tale continues after this first adventure.


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## Horacio

Well, a bittersweet ending, as you said. But a victory that takes a great loss is a greater victory...

What are they doing now?


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## Lazybones

Hello, readers!
I just wanted to give you all a quick heads-up on the plans that I have for the Travels through the Wild West story hour.  I’ve posted more stats over in the Rogues’ Gallery, and if any DM would like to adapt the story to use as an adventure in their ongoing campaign, please feel free to do so (I’d be happy to give suggestions or feedback on running any of the encounters described in the story).  I will try to post stat blocks for more “generic” enemies as well as the major heroes and villains depicted in the thread.  

With the defeat of the hobgoblins, I’m taking the story hour urban, and the upcoming plotline includes a mystery element as the characters must sift through a web of intrigue in Elturel.  For those of you more interested in the action scenes, fear not!  There will be battles aplenty coming up, I assure you.  As for after that, I’m not 100% sure, but I’ve already got an idea for sending the four adventurers someplace in the Realms that could really be considered the “wild west”…

I hope that the characters are becoming fleshed out for you as you read.  The only one I feel I’ve neglected thus far is Lok, but I intend to get to him eventually…

Anyway, thanks for all the great feedback, and now, without further ado, the story continues…

* * * * * 

Part 18 


They city of Elturel and its more than twenty thousand inhabitants occupied a bluff along the winding course of the River Chionthar.  To the inhabitants of the Heartlands, or the urban conglomerates of the once-empires of the east, Elturel was just another provincial bordertown of the far west, an outpost on a distant and dangerous frontier.  But to those who lived in the Western Heartlands, or who traveled through it on missions of trade, the city was an important waystation on the route between the Sword Coast and the inland regions around the Sea of Fallen Stars.  Its reputation was enhanced by the benign rule of the powerful Lord Dhelt, a paladin of considerable renown.  From his fortress keep of Riverwatch, Dhelt’s elite force of two hundred mixed cavalry, the Hellriders, maintained a potent ward against the evils that lurked in the hills and forests of the region.  

Elturel still bore the mark of its origins as a frontier town, both in its military veneer and in the individualism of its inhabitants.  Its important location on the major western trade routes also showed in the presence of numerous powerful merchant houses and its wide variety of skilled crafts, both fantastic and mundane.  The representatives of the city’s elite class that sat on the town council reflected all of these traditions, and many of the aristocrats, soldiers, and master merchants that sat on that body could trace their ancestry back to the initial pioneers that had blazed this region from the wild centuries ago.

Cal commented on what he knew of the city’s history and lore as he and Delem walked down one of the city’s crowded thoroughfares.  Although the city only had a little over twenty-two thousand inhabitants (making it seem small indeed in comparison with metropolises like Waterdeep or Athkatla), the city’s need for defense meant that the layout of the city was compressed into a relatively small area within the outer walls.  Some neighborhoods had begun to expand outward along the river cliffs, but there was always a tentative air about them, as if the inhabitants there were keeping ready to scuttle back into the city should danger rear its ugly head.  

“I’m a little nervous,” Delem admitted, as they made their way through the afternoon crowd.  The sorcerer looked a little uncomfortable in his new—and fairly expensive—clothes, which included a fur-trimmed cloak and a double-stitched tunic over wool breeches.  

“It’ll be fine,” Cal said, dressed in similarly improved fashion.  The gnome noted to himself the changes that had come over his young human companion in just the short time since they had met.  While he could still be hesitant at times, Delem had learned to be comfortable with the power that he wielded, and be more confident as an equal member of their little company.  Perhaps it had something to do with the symbol he now wore around his neck, tucked inside the front of his tunic under his coat.  He’d made it himself, with some assistance from Lok.  The symbol was a stylized depiction of a flame fashioned from slender slips of iron, and was the icon of the followers of the elemental god Kossuth.  

Cal knew that Delem was still trying to come to grips with his new calling as a cleric.  There was no denying the power that he had channeled during their final encounters in the Wood of Sharp Teeth, however, power that had ultimately saved the lives of both Cal and Benzan.  What Delem had learned since arriving in Elturel was limited, for devotees of the Firelord were apparently quite uncommon in the West, but the sage that they had questioned had mentioned that many of the Red Wizards were known to follow Kossuth, a linkage of dubious appeal to say the least.  

“There’s Benzan and Lok,” Delem said, rousing the gnome from his ruminations.  

They rejoined their companions, who were dressed in similarly elaborate clothing, in front of a corner bakery that fronted an intersection of two city streets.  Lok wore his armor, which had been attentively polished, and Benzan wore a colorful silken surcoat over his chain shirt that seemed to be in imminent danger from the globs of honey dripping from the sticky bun that the tiefling was gobbling down as the others approached.  

“You know, they will have food at this thing,” Cal chided him.  

“I wouldn’t be so certain,” Benzan replied as he sucked honey from his fingers.  “We’re going to be there to be oohed and aahed over, and poked and prodded by a bunch of inbred aristocrats.  I won’t be surprised if they don’t let us get a word—or a bite—in edgewise.”

“An invitation from Lord Dhelt himself is a considerable honor,” Lok said.  

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m honored, I’m honored,” Benzan protested.  “I was even more honored by the reward that the Merchant’s Circle gave us, for all that one of those silver bars we found at the hobgoblin fort was worth more.”  Cal cringed momentarily, awaiting the seemingly obligatory profanity, but apparently Benzan had gotten over the debacle of the nearly empty treasure chest, for he merely scowled and turned up the street.  

“Your song was very popular at the gathering,” Delem said to Cal, changing the topic as they headed out again as a group.  “Are you going to perform it again tonight for the nobles?”

“A good artist always tailors his work for the audience,” Cal said, but he wouldn’t elaborate more.  

“Did you find what you were looking for?” Benzan asked as they rounded a bend in the street and saw their destination ahead.  Riverwatch looked impressive, perched on the edge of the bluff, the light of the setting sun catching majestically on the ramparts of Dhelt’s stronghold, but all of them were had traveled through enough lands to put the appearance of the fortress into context.  

“The priests of Oghma were very helpful,” Cal said, patting his pocket where his new wand of healing resided.  “We got a good rate of exchange for Zorak’s armor; I also have some vials of healing elixir back at the inn for each of you when we return.”

“Let’s hope we don’t need them tonight,” Benzan muttered.

“Now, the bark of aristocrats is far worse than their bite,” Cal chided him.  “Just try not to let any words come out of your mouth, and you’ll do fine.”

“I feel like I just want to sleep for a week,” Delem added.     

It had been a busy week for all of them, Cal reflected, and tonight’s audience with the leaders of the city was only the capstone of all that had happened since they had left the empty hobgoblin fort behind them.  The road back to Dunderion, and from there to Elturel, had been much easier than the journey out, as the winds had elected to keep the northern storms at bay for the moment.  They had barely exited the forest when they had encountered a full platoon of Hellriders, under the leadership of a Lieutenant Gryphon.  After an extensive questioning, during which Cal reported all that had transpired since leaving Dunderion, they were escorted back to the village, where they delivered the news of Telwarden’s death. 

They had expected to accompany the Lady Ilgarten back to Elturel, on her way back to Iriaebor and her father, but to their surprise she had insisted on continuing directly on to Baldur’s Gate.  Unable to convince her otherwise, they left her in the company of another merchant company heading west, and continued on to Elturel.  

On arriving in Elturel, things had become only more bustling for the four companions.  They’d been quickly ushered into an audience with a full captain of the Hellriders, representing Lord Dhelt, and the powerful Secretary of the City Council, a reedy middle-aged official named Gergan Podranus.  Apparently news of what had happened had preceded them, for everywhere they went over the next few days there were people wanting to talk to them, from lower-level officials and guard officers to representatives of the merchant companies who traveled the western routes.  They were even approached in their inn by a traveling bard wanting to pen a song about their adventures, an encounter that caused Cal considerable amusement. 

“Ha!  If anyone’s going to write a song about our travels, it’ll be the bard that was actually there!” he had declared loudly.  

It wasn’t until today, their third day in the city, that they could actually start to attend to important business.  Their equipment was generally in need of upkeep and repair, and their clothes showed the hard wear of their recent days in the wilderness.  Benzan and Lok found places where they could convert their various treasures into ready cash, including the extra equipment they had salvaged from the bandits and the jewelry they had taken from the corpse of the undead ogre.  In addition to trading Zorak’s armor for a new healing wand, they also bought new ammunition for their bows, stocked up on wilderness gear, and even checked out the local alchemist’s shop for some relatively inexpensive magical potions.  Cal purchased the arcane supplies needed to add a few spells to his spellbook, and Benzan practiced with his new scimitar.  That weapon proved to be quite a boon, for although he was reluctant to part with his heavier longsword at first, he quickly discovered that the scimitar’s magically keen blade could cut finer and deeper than even the masterwork blade that he wielded.  

They had discovered something else on their journeys, as well.  The four of them, so very different in so many ways, had forged a bond between them, a friendship that was able to transcend those differences.  Cal thought often about what strange circumstance had drawn the four of them together on that lonely road just a week past, and the wanderer in him could not help but look ahead and guess what roads lay in their future.  

For now, anyway, the road led to a big party.


----------



## Broccli_Head

I like parties! I agree, you still  have to develop Lok.  However, his taciturness makes it difficult.  Maybe some insight into what he is thinking?


----------



## Lazybones

Part 19

“Welcome,” the slightly chubby-faced young man in the white surcoat said to the four companions in greeting.  “My name is Bolin, and I have been assigned to assist you this evening.”  

“A chaperone?” Delem said in an aside to Benzan, who shrugged in response.

“Probably here to keep us from pocketing any of the silverware,” the tiefling muttered under his breath as they were escorted into the grand foyer of the central keep.  

After just a short time, however, even Benzan had to admit the utility of having the young guide.  The large central hall of the keep had been transformed into a grand ballroom for the occasion of this gathering, the hard lines of the cold stone softened by numerous woven tapestries, thick plush carpets, and other expensive decorations.  Numerous heavy candelabra along the walls supplemented the light that shone down from the dozens of candles in the large chandelier above them.  A blazing hearth in the rear of the chamber provided warmth, and a seemingly endless string of young men and women in Dhelt’s white livery darted through the maze of people carrying heavy trays piled high with food and drink for the guests.  

If the surroundings were impressive, the people that filled the room were doubly so.  Even Benzan was taken a bit aback at the opulence of the hundred or so guests that had already gathered, men and women draped in varying layers of silks, brocaded wool, furs, and even the occasional suit of highly decorated armor.  

Delem commented that he hadn’t been aware that so many nobles lived in such a small city as Elturel, and Bolin replied that many of those in attendance were leading figures of the merchant class or the top clergy of Elturel’s major churches, and that there were even a few representatives from other cities present as well.  It was a swirling maze of personalities and interests, difficult for them as outsiders to keep straight, and they welcomed the insights that Bolin was able to give as they made their way through the crowd.  

“Ladies and gentlemen,” a powerful voice from above echoed through the room.  Instantly the attention of everyone present was drawn to the balcony that overlooked the room from the wall across from the entry, where a man had appeared.  

None of the companions needed Bolin’s prompt to know that this was High Rider Lord Dhelt himself, the paladin of great renown who ruled over the city.  He was dressed in a long vest of silvery mail-links that shone in the light of the chandelier, partially covered by a tabard of purest white marked with the symbol of Helm’s warding hand.  His mighty sword, Fangor’s Bane, was visible from behind his shoulder, its long hilt ready for use if evil threatened.  He was flanked by two companions, an elven man in the attire of a senior priest of Helm on one side, and a slightly plump, balding man in the rune-laden robes of a wizard on the other.

“Thank you for coming,” the paladin continued.  “It is good to see all of you so hale and hearty, and I would like to extend my wishes for a safe and prosperous winter season.”

“Hear, hear!” came a loud voice from the audience.  

“Ah, I see that Lord Mandragon shares my thoughts,” Lord Dhelt said.  “In any case, I offer you the blessing of Helm’s peace, and hope that you find the favor of the Vigilant One, or whichever deity offers you personal solace in the cold months to come.”

“On the morrow, as you know, I travel to Berdusk for the semi-annual parlay between the lords of the west.  I know that all of you have felt the pressures of the trade disputes that we have been experiencing with our neighbors, but I assure you that we will do all that we can to smooth out the differences that divide us, and assure success for the coming year.”

“I leave you content that the city, and those villages under its protection, are safe from the dangers that lurk in the wilds of this region that we call home.  The Hellriders, as always, will remain vigilant in defense of what we have struggled to erect from the wilderness that was here before our ancestors came along to claim it.  While there are still threats out there, we stand a little safer today than the day before, thanks largely to the efforts of a few brave souls who volunteered their aid when a noble scion of our friend and neighbor city of Iriaebor was placed in grave peril.  Let us offer our warm thanks to those heroes in our midst today, whom we gather to honor.”

Lord Dhelt gestured down to where the companions were clustered, and all eyes turned upon them.  As a wave of applause swept through the gathering, Cal smiled and waved, Lok stood there as unflappable and unreadable as ever, Delem flushed and looked uncomfortable, and Benzan beamed while grabbing a flute of sparkling wine from a passing attendant.  

“Maybe this hero business isn’t such a bad deal after all,” he said, drinking in the adulation as he downed the sweet wine in a single gulp.

Cal stepped forward to address the crowd, but their attention had already returned to the High Rider.  

“Enjoy yourselves,” Lord Dhelt told the gathered guests, “and until the High Festival of Winter, may Helm keep you safe.”  With that, he and his companions vanished back into the interior of the keep.  

“Well,” Cal said, a little put out that he didn’t get to make his speech, “that was rather abrupt.”

“The High Rider is quite busy,” Bolin said apologetically.  “There are many preparations to be made, for his journey on the morrow.  He may come down and say hello later, though.”  The young man’s expression didn’t suggest that he thought much of that possibility.

“High folk run in different circles than us commoners,” Benzan said, punctuating his statement with a big bite from a crab cake that he’d gotten from somewhere.  “And he’s as high as they come, at least from what I’ve heard.”

“Yes, well, why don’t we see if we can get some more of that food,” Cal said, not wanting to start any trouble by getting into rumors of the Lord whose castle they were occupying.  But their chaperone had other ideas, as he gestured toward the crowd.  He swept the four companions up, drawing a dangerous look from Benzan as he urged him in the opposite direction from the dessert table he’d been eyeing.  

“It’s the Secretary, Lord Podranus,” Bolin said, the gravity of his tone conveying the message that the companions should be impressed.  “He wants to speak with you.”

The Secretary of the City Council was talking with a pair of elderly men as they walked up, who excused themselves when he turned to greet the companions.  “Ah, I’m so glad that you could make it tonight,” he told them.  “Lord Dhelt wanted to honor you for your bravery tonight.”

“I wish he hadn’t forgotten Telwarden,” Lok said.  “He sacrificed much more than us.”

Podranus was nonplussed.  “I assure you, Lord Dhelt is quite aware of the bravery of Sheriff Telwarden,” he said.  “Now, I know that you would like to eat, drink, and enjoy yourselves, but if you don’t mind, there are a few people who would like to meet our city’s newest heroes.”

There was no escaping, although Benzan tried to slip away once or twice into the crowd as they made their circuit around the room.  Between Podranus and the ever-watchful eyes of Bolin, however, they had no choice but to be ‘poked and prodded,’ as Benzan had put it.  Their young guide hung back in the background, and his whispered comments before and after each meeting gave the four companions some insights into these people, the true elite of the city.  

They met Lady Rowene Eberon, an elderly woman in her sixties who possessed a powerful presence that all of them could sense upon meeting her.  Her gray eyes seemed to weight them like scales as she looked upon them, as if judging how valuable they might be to her.  Bolin told them that she was one of the largest landholders in and around the city, and a powerful ally to Lord Dhelt in the Council.  

Lord Horvik Mandragon was a stark contrast to the regal old dame.  He was the stereotype of the brash, elitist aristocrat, his snobbery evident in his first look upon the companions.  His query on what manner of creature Lok might be was clearly in bad taste, although Podranus covered for him by quickly changing the subject.  Bolin revealed that Mandragon was the current head of one of the oldest families in Elturel, and that he had powerful connections in Sembia and Westgate as well.  

“I guess that’s why he can afford to be such a jerk,” Benzan said after they left him, too softly for anyone around him to hear.  

Lord Evan Rathman seemed too young at first to be a great nobleman, perhaps in his early twenties by the look of him.  Once they interacted with him, however, they could recognize the hints of elvish blood that showed in his features, and Bolin later revealed that the young lord was in fact in his thirties, having come into his inheritance just a few years back.  Rathman was charming and even a little self-deprecating, laughing at some apparently inside joke with Podranus over some vague matter before the Council.  He shook hands with each of the companions in turn, and showed no bias toward any of them in particular.  Bolin said that he had his hand in several mercantile activities in the city, including the town’s largest importer of expensive luxury foods like eastern tea, spices, and wine from the Dalelands.

Bodran Cobbledon was not a nobleman, but Bolin whispered that he was one of the richest men in Elturel, owning the largest barging company on the River Chionthar.  He was in his early fifties, more than a little overweight, and looked completely harmless until one saw the sharp look in his eyes when he turned them upon you.  He was talking with a woman of like age, dressed in a simple white robe marked with a carved wooden symbol of a blank scroll around her neck.  Padronis introduced her as Lady Darine Palintz, the head of the church of Oghma in Elturel.  The companions already knew that the Lord of Knowledge had a strong following in the Western Heartlands, and were taken in by the way that the cleric’s eyes seemed to sparkle with merriment as she talked.  She showed interest in all of them, commenting that she’d rarely seen such a diverse group as the four of them traveling together.  On learning that Cal was a bard, she invited him to come and share his tales of their travels, at his convenience.

As Padronis was finally about to release them, one more notable made his way to them.

“Ah, Lord Fariq.  I was not aware that you were back in town,” the Secretary said.  

“Just returned this morning,” the man said in thickly accented Chondathan.  His skin was dusky, and he wore a thin beard carefully trimmed almost to a point.  He was dressed in fine fabrics in an unusual color scheme that emphasized reds and oranges in rippling layers.  

“Lord Fariq is a visitor from the far south, from Calimshan,” Padronis said by way of introduction.  “He travels the Western Heartlands, making himself known at most of the major courts of our land, bringing news and information from the south.  And how is the Pasha Persakhal doing, these days?” 

“Ah, he is well, may the gods preserve his reign for a thousand years,” the Calie said with a bow and a flourish.  “I just wanted to meet these heroes, of which the gracious Lord Dhelt spoke with such favor.  An unusual group of companions, to be sure—meaning no disrespect, sirs.”

“None taken,” Benzan said, sipping another glass of wine he’d pilfered from a passing tray.  

“We have many of the plane-touched in our own land, master warrior,” the Calie said to Lok.  “Perhaps you will visit the south some day?”

Lok shrugged.  “At the moment, we’re finding the west quite enough to handle,” Cal said.  “Perhaps some day, though—who can tell where the road may lead?”

“Ah, true enough,” Fariq said.  “Perhaps we will meet again, then?” 

The southerner headed into another group of chattering nobles.  Padronis left them as well, with a suggestion that they enjoy themselves and eat heartily.  

“Been trying,” Benzan muttered as he left.

“Just who was that guy?” Delem asked Bolin, once they were again at least relatively alone.  

“Fariq?  Informal ambassador, merchant, spy—no one’s really sure, and everyone has at least a few guesses.  He’s an interesting fellow, though, and according to some accounts, he possesses some fairly potent magic as well.”

“Let’s get something to eat,” Lok suggested.  

Time had passed more swiftly than they had expected, though, and the party was already beginning to wind down.  Benzan liberated an entire platter of small breads stuffed with meat paste against the protestations of a server, and they were able to at least enjoy something as they followed the little clusters of nobles, merchants, and other people of power as they began making their way out of the keep to their waiting coaches.  The companions stopped off at the cloakroom, where they’d had to leave their weapons as well as their outer garments, and with their various accoutrements of death-dealing secure on their persons, they made their way out into the outer bailey of the keep.  

“I’ve ordered you a coach, to return you to your inn,” Bolin said.  

“You’re a good kid, Bolin,” Benzan said, slapping a gold piece into his hand.  Shaking his head, Cal wished the young man well and joined the others in the carriage as it took them through the quiet streets back to their inn.  

“Well?” the gnome asked his companions as the coach rattled through the cobblestone streets.

“Let’s talk about it tomorrow,” Benzan said, leaning his head back against the padded rest of the coach.  “I need about a week’s worth of sleep.”

“That’s probably because you had at least a week’s worth of wine,” Delem pointed out.  

But the tiefling, already asleep, did not respond.

“We’ll be in our beds soon enough,” Cal said.  

He did not know just how wrong he was.


----------



## Broccli_Head

I wonder if what I think you are planning next would actually work with a party of advnturers. They tend to be so paranoid and think (probably rightly) that there are enemies around the corner.  I doubt that they would consent to leaving their arms and armour in the 'closet'.  I wonder how you could pull it off.  However, I definitely like your story. It makes sense and the adventures are more about story and not about stuff. I argue this point with one of my players a lot.


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## Lazybones

Thanks for the feedback.

I hope it was clear that they had to check their weapons when they went into the party, and recovered them as they left.  Not that their weapons will necessarily help them with what comes next (muwhahahaha).

Your point is a good one, and I think it depends on what sort of game you are playing.  I wouldn't run a "hack-and-slash" group through a city adventure, unless the bad guys were clearly identified from the getgo.  I think if a DM made it clear to players what the rules were in a high-society gathering (and let them know in advance, maybe from a character with Diplomacy skill), then the players might be more likely to go along with checking their weapons at the door.  Still, I once had a group (younger players--I was in college, and most of them were in HS) that went into a nice "peaceful" town where they were just supposed to get supplies and learn a few rumors about the local dungeon.  They immediately started flashing their weapons threateningly at everybody, started a few fights, and finally tried to knock over a jewelry shop.  That was one session that never made it to the dungeon (although it was fun in a weird sort of way, with six 1st level characters ending up taking on an entire town... ultimately three of the characters ended up at the end of a hangman's noose, and the rest had to flee for their lives).  Next time we played I just let them go right into the dungeon and slay monsters.


----------



## Lazybones

Part 20

The coach dropped the four companions off in front of their inn, a considerable three-story structure named The Laughing Elf.  It was late enough that the streets were deserted, although the sounds of talking, and appropriately enough, laughter, could be heard coming from the inside of the inn.  Apparently for some, the party had not yet ended this evening.  

Benzan had stirred as his companions exited from the coach, and now he was awake, if swaying a little.  “What, you guys not gunna call it a night already?” he said.  “Lesh go find someplace fun, and have a drink.”

“I think we could all use a quiet night of rest,” Cal said firmly, and he turned toward the front door of the inn. 

“Excuse me, sirs?” a voice said, drawing their attention around.  

The speaker was a woman, perhaps in her late twenties, thin enough to be almost gaunt.  She was dressed in a threadbare cloak that did not fully cover the thin tunic and breeches she wore underneath.  “I’m sorry to disturb you, sirs, but could you spare a few coppers for my hungry children?  The night is cold, and there is no money for coal for our stove.”

Lok immediately dug into his purse and offered the woman a few gold pieces, but Benzan stumbled drunkenly forward and leered at the woman.

“I’ve got something better for you, sweetie,” he said, reaching clumsily for her.  “A treasure beyond all imagining… Why don’t you just come up to my room with me— Ouch!” he said, as Cal stepped painfully on his foot.  

“Get away from me!” the woman cried, recoiling in horror from the drunken tiefling.  Without even stopping to take the money in Lok’s stony palm, she ran across the street and down the far sidewalk.  

“Oh, smooth, very smooth,” Cal said in disgust.  

“I’ll catch her, and give her the money,” Delem said, but he’d barely managed a half-dozen steps when suddenly, as they watched, a shadowy form reached out from a darkened alley mouth as the woman ran past and dragged her out of sight.  

“Let’s go!” Cal said.  Lok was already jogging across the street, his finely crafted platemail making a small clatter as he ran.  The others were close behind, Delem all but dragging Benzan with him.

“All right, all right, I’ll tell her I’m sorry,” Benzan said, clueless about what had just happened.  

Slowed as he was by his heavy armor, the others caught up with Lok even as he reached the mouth of the alley.  Lok and Benzan could see just fine in the dark, but Delem summoned a flickering flame into being a short distance down the darkened corridor, allowing the rest of them to see clearly.  

The light revealed two men in black cloaks, standing a good twenty feet into the alley over the struggling form that of the woman.  They looked up at the sudden illumination, their expressions clearly hostile.  

“This is none of your business, move along,” the first said, drawing a long dagger from inside his cloak to punctuate his statement.

“Delem, if you please,” Cal said.

The sorcerer launched two bolts of fire from his hand, striking the first man solidly in the chest.  He staggered back, twin wisps of smoke rising from the charred holes in his jerkin.  He dropped the dagger, and along with his companion, ran deeper into the alley and around a corner.

“Should we go after them?” Lok said.  

“You and I would never be able to catch them” Cal said as they headed into the alley to check on the woman.  “Ordinarily, I’d suggest Benzan…”  He gestured toward the tiefling, who was looking around, a little disoriented.

“Did I miss a battle?” he asked.  

“It’s all right, miss,” Cal said gently as he neared the sobbing woman.  To his surprise, however, she suddenly jumped up, her expression shifting to a rueful smile.  

“So sorry,” she said.  “Nothing personal, you understand…”

“It’s an ambush!” Delem cried out in warning, as two more shadowy forms slipped into the alleyway behind them, blocking off their escape.  As the woman stepped backwards, more armed men emerged at the edge of the light cast by Delem’s flickering flame.    

“Hey, what’s up, guys?” Benzan said, as his companions faced off against their attackers, Cal and Delem against the two blocking the alley exit, and Lok against the other two behind them.  

For a moment, the two sides faced off in expectant silence, and then, to make things worse, the sound of several crossbows being cocked sounded ominously from the roof above.

“Time to die,” one of the men said.


----------



## Horacio

I hate cliffhangers!
Well, I love them, but I hate them...
The party description was really good, I almost prefere it to the combat scenes... almost. 

I'd love to have roleplaying oriented players, it's difficult to find them...

And now an ambush... And it seems rough. Please, continue, now! now!


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## MasterOfHeaven

Yes.  More!  More!  Great job, I really enjoyed the party scene, and I can hardly wait for the battle.


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## Lazybones

I love to come in to work in the morning, check the web, and find multiple requests for more story!  Thanks guys!  I'm having a lot of fun writing this story and I'm glad people are enjoying it.  Your feedback is really pushing me to keep writing more (and this from a guy who uses the name 'Lazybones'...) 

I'll have an update up real soon (sometime today, definitely), wouldn't want to leave my readers hanging...   

Lazybones


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## Lazybones

Part 21

Trapped in the alleyway, with enemies around and above them, the companions found themselves the victims of a carefully planned ambush.  

Something crashed into Lok, splattering open as it hit his heavily armored body.  The light revealed the item to be a sack of some sort, which as it ruptured spilled a thick, gooey substance all over the genasi’s upper body.  He tried to brush the stuff off of him, but it clung tenaciously to his fingers, working its way into the cracks of his armor as he tried to shake loose.  

“Tanglefoot bags!” Cal shouted as he realized what their adversaries were using against them.  A second bag missed and splattered against one of the alley walls, and a third hit Benzan on the leg and burst, its sticky contents fixing the tiefling solidly to the ground.  

But while the alchemical goo was a hindrance, it was not as dire a threat as the crossbow bolts that lanced down from above.  Delem cried out as a bolt sank deep into his shoulder, and Cal was barely able to roll out of the path of a second.  Another bounced off Lok’s armor, and stuck in the tanglefoot mixture.  

At the same time, the men blocking the exits lunged forward to attack, wielding short but deadly swords.  One stabbed at Benzan, ripping through his expensive tunic but failing to penetrate the magical shirt of chain links that the tiefling wore underneath.  As the danger of the situation finally made its way felt through his drink-befuddled senses, he drew his scimitar, but looked down in confusion as the tanglefoot goo held him firmly in place.

“What the--?  Why can’t I move?”

Lok faced off against two attackers, ignoring the hindrance of the rapidly hardening mixture as he fended the two men off with his magical axe.  He’d left his shield in their room back at the inn, along with their missile weapons, earlier that day, but his masterwork armor, crafted by his own hands, turned the attacks of his enemies.  His own first attack missed, largely due to the difficulties caused by the tanglefoot concoction.  

Delem staggered against one wall of the alley as a sudden wave of weakness, beyond the considerable pain of his wound, flashed through him.  Forcing himself to ignore the twisting sensations inside him, he lifted his gaze to the rooftops above, where dark forms were moving around, angling for better shots.

Twin bolts of liquid fire flared into the night, darting unerringly into one of the shadowy archers.  The target of Delem’s magic missiles let out a strangled cry of pain and slumped forward, falling the twenty feet to the stones of the alley below, narrowly missing Cal as he hit the ground with bone crushing force.  

That was one enemy that would not be getting up.  

Cal had not yet been hit, and while his first instinct was to deal with the archers above, he was interrupted by the charge of one of the assassins coming in from the alley entrance.  He felt pain as man’s blade sliced along his arm as he dodged back, but responded with a color spray from his wand that sent his attacker unconscious to the cold ground.  He barely had time to look up, however, before two bolts slammed hard into his body, staggering him.  

“Poisoned,” he gasped, as he too felt the dark tingle of venom entering his veins.  

Adrenaline burned away some of the fog of alcohol as Benzan swung his scimitar at his opponent, but he badly miscalculated and struck sparks against the stone wall of the alley instead.  The assassin retreated a step, out of his reach, but seemed content to wait there, warding the entrance of the alley.  The tiefling couldn’t understand why he wasn’t trying to finish him off, but realization struck a moment later when an explosion of pain blossomed in his back as a crossbow bolt jabbed him hard between his shoulders.  

Lok, meanwhile, had taken a hit from one of his two opponents, as the two assassins expertly flanked the hard-pressed fighter.  Lok ignored the shallow puncture wound in his hip, however, and instead launched himself hard at the man in front of him.  The agile assassin tried to dodge back, but he wasn’t fast enough to escape the sweep of Lok’s axe as it tore deep into his torso.  The assassin staggered and fell.  His ally sought to take advantage of Lok’s distraction to backstab him, but to his surprise Lok swept his axe back in a sudden backswing, catching him with a glancing blow to the side of his face.  The magical axe crushed the assassin’s jaw and froze it into a bloody mess, and he too fell to the ground, dying.  

Another crossbow bolt glanced from the wall just inches above Delem’s face, but luckily for him his companions had drawn enough fire to leave him unharmed for the moment—and dangerous.  He took aim with his wand of sleep, releasing its magic toward a group of bowmen as they reloaded their crossbows.  Three of the shadowy forms dropped from view, temporarily neutralized as threats.  

But that still left two on the opposite roof, as far as he could tell, and suddenly he felt very vulnerable as they turned their weapons on him.  

But Cal, still fighting off the effects of the assassins’ poison, came to his aid.  Seeing the effectiveness of Delem’s efforts, he cast his own sleep spell on the other group of bowmen.  His low-light vision allowed him to mark them clearly, and one slumped into unconsciousness, while the last resisted the magic and dropped back out of sight.  

Lok had come back down the alley to help Benzan and Cal, but the last assassin on the ground, clearly seeing the way that the tide had turned, had already vanished back into the night.  

“Help me get out of this damned goo,” Benzan said, adding a few obscenities as he cut at the mixture with his scimitar.

“You’re going to cut your foot off,” Delem protested.  Gritting his teeth against the pain, he pulled out the bolt from his shoulder, and using his newly awakened clerical powers healed his wound.  Across the alley from him, Cal was doing the same with his new wand.  

“Is everyone all right?” Cal said.  They were all injured, and all but Lok were still feeling weak from the lingering effects of the poison, but they were all otherwise sound.  

Benzan managed to free himself, and slipping his scimitar into its scabbard, turned to the stone wall behind him.

“What are you doing?” Delem asked.  “We’ve got to get out of here.”

“Nobody shoots me in the back with a crossbow and walks away from it,” the tiefling growled, his earlier drunkenness replaced by a simmering anger that shone in his eyes.  Whether it was directed entirely at their attackers, or perhaps also at his own earlier foolishness, none of them could tell.  

“You’re going to break your neck,” Cal warned, but the tiefling started up the wall anyway, using a rain gutter that descended to the alley floor as an impromptu ladder up onto the roof.  Near the top he slipped, nearly fulfilling Cal’s prediction, but he recovered and a moment later he vanished atop the roof.  

“What are we going to do?” Delem asked his companions.  

“Well, we need to get out of here, first thing.  We need to rest, and decide how to proceed in the light of the morning,” Cal said.  

“What about these bodies?” the sorcerer asked.  “Shouldn’t we go to the authorities?  Elturel’s supposed to be a safe city.”

“I know,” Cal replied, “and that’s why I’m not going to talk to anyone about this, not yet.  Not until we get a chance to learn more, first.”  He looked over at Lok, who was crouched over one of the bodies.  “Are you all right, Lok?”

“Yes,” the genasi said.  They joined him to see that he had ripped away one of the assassin’s black tunics, revealing a suit of well-crafted studded leather armor underneath.  

“What is it?” Delem asked.  

“This armor,” the genasi said, “and these weapons,” he added, indicating the man’s shortsword.  “They are masterwork quality.”

“Such items are commonly available, if expensive, in a city of this size,” Cal said, not understanding what the genasi was trying to say.  

Lok looked up at him.  “These items—they were manufactured from the same forge as Zorak’s armor.”

“Are you sure?” Cal asked in surprise.  

“I will look more carefully tomorrow,” Lok said, gathering up the items he’d collected into a small bundle.  “But I believe that it is so.”

They turned as Benzan jumped back down to the ground behind them.  His face was a grim mask and his eyes seemed to shine eerily in the night.  “Those archers won’t be conducting any more ambushes,” he said.  “But we should get out of here.  I sensed others, watching.”

“Where are the town guards?” Delem asked.  “Shouldn’t they have heard the ruckus, and come to investigate?”

“I don’t know,” Benzan said.  “But it would be a good idea if we found someplace safe to spend the night.  Lead on, Lok—your darksight will give you an advantage.”

“And you?” Cal asked.  

“I will follow behind,” the tiefling said, and as he tugged his cloak close around him, it was as if he was absorbed into the surrounding night.  “To make sure that no one follows us.”

“We need to recover our gear back at the inn,” Cal pointed out.

“Fine,” Benzan said.  “But we take the back door in, and we leave quick.”

“Won’t the back door be locked, at this time of night?” Delem asked. 

“Leave that to me.”


----------



## Broccli_Head

I think the quiet and deadly Lok is becoming my favorite character.  He seems to always have something important to say and he doesn't say much. He lets his axe speak for him!


----------



## Lazybones

Part 22

The unseasonably moderate weather came to an end the next day, as a winter storm blew down from the north and dropped its wet cargo on the city.  Lord Dhelt and his entourage left early in the morning, before most of the city’s citizens had even stirred from their beds, and the hour and the weather kept all but a few die-hard well wishers from gathering to bid their ruler farewell on his mission.  The rain ran down the gutters of the city streets, washing away the dust and grime, and in at least one case, the blood from a night of ambush and battle.  

Three figures in waterproof cloaks with heavy cowls huddled in the lee of a large building, from which the constant din of metal striking metal issued.  From a distance, they looked like a man and his two children—although one of them seemed rather bulging, his cloak barely managing to cover his stout form.  From a little closer, though, it became quite clear how unusual this small group of strangers were, even before one caught sight of Lok’s stony-textured skin.  

“He’s late,” Lok said.  

“He was supposed to meet us here after an hour.  What if something happened to him?” Delem asked.  

“Benzan can take care of himself,” Cal said.  “But I’m all for getting out of this rain.”  They moved to the entrance of the building, a large wooden door built to slide open on heavy iron rails.  A blast of heated air blasted them as they stood before the opening, welcome for the first few moments but quickly growing oppressive even before they had fully entered the place.  

“Ah, the smell of the forge,” Lok said, clearly remembering a distant memory.

The place seemed quite busy even given the bad weather outside, with at least two dozen men—and at least one dwarf that they could see—working the equipment inside.  The “forge” was in reality at least a half-dozen fully operating furnaces, with other stations along the walls for shaping, molding, and working metal.  A big pile of iron stock was set near the doors, and storage racks further down displayed a wide variety of finished or nearly finished items, including weapons and armor.  Through an open doorway on one side wall they caught a glimpse of another chamber, where yet more men were seated at tables apparently doing detail work on items that had come out of the forges.  

For a few moments they just tried to take in the scene with all of the noise, heat, and confusion.  Finally, Lok nudged Cal and gestured to a mountain of a man who was helping two others shape what looked to be the basis of a heavy iron plow.  

“The master smith, I take it,” Cal said, walking with his two companions over to where the man could see them.  

The smith did notice them, but he continued at his work for several long minutes, finally turning over the plow to his assistants before coming over to them.  

“What do you want?” he asked them bluntly.  

Cal almost had to shout to be heard over the din, but the gnome had never had any difficulty in being loud when necessary.  “We have some questions about some armor and weapons that were forged here,” he began.  

“Purchases and inquiries are handled at the main office, outside and across the street,” the smith said.  He had already half-turned to go back to his work, but Cal quickly forestalled him.  

“Please, this is quite important,” Cal said.  “We won’t take but a minute of your time.”

“Look,” the man said.  “We get a lot of people in here on a daily basis, each of whom only want a ‘minute of my time’.  Go to the office.  The clerk can help you with whatever questions about your order that you might have, and can tell you about our refund policy if need be.”

A loud clanging sound came from further down the building, followed by several loud curses.  The smith turned immediately in that direction, the companions already forgotten.  

“Let me try,” Delem said, as he quickly moved into the path of the smith before he could leave to help his employees.  

For a moment, as the smith’s face darkened, it looked like Delem was about to suffer a rather unpleasant fate.  The smith was almost twice his size, with thick arms nearly as thick around as the slender young man’s waist.  But the sorcerer only smiled, and when the smith looked down into his eyes, he saw flames dancing inside them, flickering, drawing him into their depths.  He stared at Delem for a dozen heartbeats, mesmerized, before he shook his head.

“Please, sir, just a minute of your time.  It will be worth your while, I promise.”

“Uh, yeah, all right,” the smith said.  He paused to shout something at the workers who had dropped the shield they were working on, then moved to join the companions in the relatively quiet area by the open doorway.  

“Now then, my friend just had a few things we wanted to ask you, and you can get back to your forge,” Delem said to the man companionably.  

“Of course,” the man replied.  “Anything for a friend, I guess.”

“Now then,” Cal said.  “We were wondering about some items—weapons, and armor, that were apparently produced here.  We asked around, and it seems that this factory produces the best such equipment in Elturel.”

“That’s true,” the smith said.  “The Blazing Shield Works have been running for almost thirty years now, and it’s well known throughout the west that we produce the best.  I’ve got four smiths, including an armorer and weaponsmith, who are masters in their own right, and I’ve sold some of my own work to His Lordship the High Rider for magicking and stuff.”

“Quite impressive,” Delem said, and the man smiled broadly at the compliment.  

“We’re particularly interested in a suit of half-plate that we encountered a while back,” Cal said, and he described the armor that had until recently belonged to Zorak.  Lok, himself an expert armorer, added some comments about the unique features of the armor that he remembered from handling it, and the man’s face brightened in recognition.

“Yeah, I remember it,” the smith said.  “Part of a shipment that we sent out for Lamber Dunn, almost… the better part of a year, I suppose.  It was a big order, assorted armor, weapons, for shipment down river to Baldur’s Gate—part of a contract for the Flaming Fist, if I recall correctly.  They’ve got the invoices in the office, I’m sure.  I remember that piece, because they wanted something really top notch, for magical enhancement I’d guess.” 

The companions exchanged a glance.  “So you weren’t handling this contract?” Cal asked.

“Oh, no.  We sell most of our armor and weapons here locally, and have a lot of customers who come a long way for our gear.  But the distance stuff, we work with distributors who buy up what they need, and then they have to worry about the transportation, security, and all that.  It works fairly well, overall.”

“And this Lamber Dunn is a distributor?” 

“Yeah, mostly along the river, up to Iriaebor and down to Baldur’s Gate.  He’s hooked up with one of the major houses…  hmm… Cobbledon, perhaps?  Anyway, he’s got a warehouse down along the docks, at the base of the road down the bluff.”

“What about this?” Lok asked, lifting out from under his cloak one of the shortswords that they’d taken from the dead assassins.  The smith examined it carefully.  

“Yeah, I think this might be from that shipment, but it’s tough to say.  We make a lot of swords, and we don’t mark each batch separately.  I could ask Balak, he’s the weaponsmaster, if you want.”

“That’s all right,” Cal said.  “Thank you for your help, master smith.”

“No problem.  You let me know if you need anything else, ok?”  He smiled at Delem, then turned back to his work.  

“Oh, one more question,” Cal said, drawing the smith back around.  “Who owns The Blazing Shield Works?”

“Well, most of us masters have a stake in it,” the smith replied.  “But I don’t suppose it’s a secret that Lord Mandragon owns a majority share in the operation.”

Actually, no one they had talked to earlier had been able to furnish that simple bit of information, but Cal only said, “I see.  Thank you.”

As they were leaving the building, they caught sights of Benzan coming up the street.  The four of them ducked into a nearby tavern, where they settled briefly at a crooked table near a roaring fire.  

“We were worried when you were late,” Delem said.

“What did you find out?” Cal asked the tiefling.  

“Somehow, no bodies turned up anywhere near The Laughing Elf this morning,” Benzan told them.  “I poked around the area a little, but no one was talking about anything unusual happening last night that they noticed.”

“So somebody cleaned up after us,” Cal said.  

“Looks like it,” the tiefling replied. 

“Shouldn’t we go to the authorities now?” Delem asked.  “I mean, we’re no longer out in the wilds—this is a major city.”

“Go to the guard… and tell them what?” Benzan asked.  “We have no evidence, now, save for a few weapons and pieces of armor.  Those assassins were very well equipped, and knew exactly where we would be and when.  Even leaving aside the masterwork weapons and equipment, tanglefoot bags aren’t cheap or easy to come by, and the poison they used… well, let’s just say a single dose is rather pricey, and you can’t just walk into a shop and buy some.”

“What are you saying?” Delem asked.

“What I’m saying, is that maybe we’ve stumbled into something bigger than we thought, that maybe someone in a position of power is involved in what’s been going on around here.  It usually ends up that way, anyway, in my experience.  The only difference between the rich and the poor, in terms of criminal behavior, is that one gets their hands a little dirtier than the other.”

“Benzan, you’re a cynic,” Cal said.

“Just experienced,” the tiefling shot back.

“So what do you suggest, then?” Delem asked, a little cross at Benzan’s attitude toward him.

“Well, that depends.  What did you guys find out?”

“The smith admitted to making the armor we found on the hobgoblin cleric, and probably made most of the other weapons and armor we’ve been fighting against over the last week,” Cal said.  “He doesn’t sell directly to purchasers out of town, however, working instead through outside distributors.  We got a name, and an address to check out, down by the docks—a distributor who was supposedly buying the gear in question for the Flaming Fist in Baldur’s Gate.”

“And it just happened to end up in the hands of a bunch of hobgoblins operating a major silver mining operation in the Wood of Sharp Teeth, not to mention a group of assassins who try to kill us,” Benzan said.  “It could just be coincidence, I suppose—weapons and armor often make their way to new owners, after all—but I don’t like this many coincidences stacking up together when it involves the continuation of my good health.  As my ma always said, if it smells like a sheep and has wool, it’s probably not a goat.”

His three companions just looked at him blankly.  

“Anyway, let’s check it out.”


* * * * * 

After defeating the hobgoblin fort in the Wood of Sharp Teeth, the group leveled up; new stats are posted in the Rogues' Gallery.


----------



## MasterOfHeaven

Interesting.  I'm looking forward to the next update.  Good work.


----------



## Lazybones

Part 23

In a shadowy room, silent but for the patter of raindrops on the roof above, a man sat waiting.  A gray slant of light that came in from the two windows high along the walls barely illuminated him enough to outline his visage.  He was well into middle age but not yet truly old, with a carefully trimmed beard and penetrating, hooded eyes.  He was dressed in a simple outfit of undyed wool, the sort that might have been worn by a middling townsman, or perhaps even by a well-off peasant making a visit to relatives in the city.  

He looked a little pensive, as if grappling with serious thoughts this day.  He did not show a reaction when the sound of a door being opened sundered the silence, nor did he turn to view the newcomer who came into the room, staying deep within the shadows.  It was impossible to tell more about him—or her, as it may have been, for even when the newcomer spoke, it was with a voice pitched so deliberately neutral that it might have belonged to anyone.  

“You sent for me,” the shadowed one said.  

The seated man did not respond for a long uncomfortable moment.  When he finally did speak, his voice was soft and melodious, yet somehow it seemed as cold as frost on a winter’s day.

“What were you thinking, Enialis?” he finally said.  

Enialis shifted, and came briefly into the beam of light long enough to reveal a finely stitched wool cloak, trimmed with fox fur and silver thread.   

“Why do you mock me with that name?” Enialis said.  “It is not who I am, nor ever truly was.”

“Sending those assassins was the epitome of foolishness,” the seated man continued, as if the other had not spoken.

“Those four adventurers are dangerous to us.  They needed to be eliminated—they were getting close…”

“Bah!  They had nothing, nothing to link us to the operation in the Wood of Sharp Teeth, nothing to connect the banditry along the roads to us here in Elturel.  That fool Zorak gave us that much, at least.  Now, they are engaged, and curious, and… dangerous.”

“I admit, they proved more adept than I anticipated, but no one found out about the attack, and the four did not go to the Guard.”

“That only confirms that they suspect something.”

“They are outsiders,” Enialis offered.  “They won’t get very far in their search, and—”

“They’ve already gotten farther than they should have,” the seated man cut him off.  “And two things that you should remember, my friend.  First, these outsiders are ‘heroes’ to the public, at least for the moment, and that gives them the ear of those who would not otherwise be inclined to hear.  And second, and never forget this, your noble title and all your wealth won’t be worth a thing if even the whisper of your other… affiliation… becomes public.  Or do you think that Lord Dhelt will be understanding, should he find out?”

That seemed to cow the shadowed figure, who finally said, “So, what should we do?”

“YOU will go back to your normal routine, and keep playing the foolish games that you do.  Luckily, I had anticipated something like this, and I have already acted to bring in an ally to clean up the mess that you and Zorak have created here.”

“You don’t mean—” 

“Exactly.  I would just as soon not have brought them into this, but at the moment I have little choice.  Now, get out of here.”

The dismissal was one that could not be refused, and ‘Enialis’ quickly scuttled out of the room, leaving the other to return to his dark thoughts.


----------



## Lazybones

Part 24

The rain continued in a steady patter as night settled over Elturel, and its citizens settled by warm fires to banish the chill of the day from their bones.  The area along the city’s docks, at the base of the bluff atop which the city perched, was particularly quiet, the night and the rain casting a pall that was barely interrupted by the infrequent light cast by the street lamps along the crowded riverfront boulevard.  

The end of that narrow stretch of road, away from both the docks proper and the circuitous road that led up the cliff to the outer wall of the city, culminated in a cluster of old but sturdy warehouses.  Owned by the city’s major merchant interests that engaged in long-distance trade, they were typically used for temporary storage or to hold items slated for transshipment to other destinations along the various trade routes that the city intersected.  Only a single lamp cast a faint glow along this dead end, its flame flickering as if it was reluctant to serve its duty this night.  

Thus it was that the four shadows that moved down this dismal street went unseen, moving silently in the shadows of the looming warehouses toward a structure near the very end of the street, near the lapping waters of the River Chionthar.  The cobbles here were choked with thick growths of weeds and a slippery layer of muck that clung at their boots as they walked.  The four figures were determined, though, ignoring the weather that had most decent folk resting in the shelter of their homes this night.  Soon they marked their destination, a place that they had already scouted earlier that day, and with purpose slipped into an alleyway between two of the squat buildings.  At the end of that alley, with little but mud and the face of the cliff beyond, they found a heavy door in a recessed threshold.  

“Just a second,” Benzan said, bending before the heavy but not particularly sophisticated lock on the door.  The darkness did not hinder him in the least, but Delem was utterly blind, and even the gnome’s low-light vision was little help in the gloom.  They had considered having just Benzan and Lok sneak out to the warehouse, as they possessed darkvision, but with assassins still possibly seeking them, they decided against splitting their strength.  Once they got inside, Delem could provide his own light.  

The lock clicked audibly, and the door opened to reveal a black interior.  Benzan urged them all inside, and then closed the door behind them.  

The place was silent, save for the patter of the rain on the roof above them.  The interior of the warehouse was a single open space, perhaps twenty-five feet across and double that in depth.  There were windows, cloudy panes high up along the walls, but with the darkness outside they were only distinguishable from the walls as vague gray squares.  What struck them immediately were the smells; the sharp odor of herbs and spices with a hint of coffee grounds mixing with other, unfamiliar scents.  

“A light, then,” Benzan said, “but keep it dim.”

In response, Delem called up a faintly flickering flame, sufficient to illuminate the area around them but unlikely to draw attention to themselves.  The light revealed several rows of large crates, marked with a variety of merchant symbols, but the cavernous interior of the warehouse was far from crowded.  A thin layer of dust hung over the place, indicating that no one had been in here for some time.   

“Looks like this might be a dead lead,” Benzan said, as he walked slowly out into the place, his bootsteps making a slight echo on the hard stone floor.  “Doesn’t look like anyone’s been here for a while.”

“Well, we’re here, so let’s check it out,” Cal suggested.  

The four men spread out into the interior of the warehouse, checking the boxes and sifting through piles of discarded old materials like moth-eaten and moldy bolts of cloth and staved in barrels that still smelled strongly of the wine they had once held.  Delem’s flickering flame faded after about a minute, so Cal cast a cantrip that caused the tip of his sword to glow like a torch, allowing him to poke it into dark crevices to look for clues.  

“Hey, over here,” Benzan called from the other side of the warehouse.  “I think I’ve found something.”

Cal and Delem joined him beside a pile of crates that he and Lok were moving aside, revealing what looked to them like just another foundation block.  “I don’t see anything,” Cal remarked.

“Ah, it’s good work, I’ll grant them that,” Benzan said, as he drew his dagger and began poking around the edges of the slab.  Finally he was rewarded with a loud click, and a section of the seemingly-solid slab rose up out of the floor, revealing a wide but shallow space underneath.  

“A secret compartment!” Delem said.   

“Looks like someone has something to hide,” Lok commented.  

Cal shone the light down into the space, which was about fifteen feet square, extending for a fair distance under the foundation of the warehouse, and about four feet deep under the thick stones of the foundation.  Before anyone could suggest caution, Benzan jumped down into the space, and began poking around.  

“Looks like some weapons racks, storage shelves, and a few crates… all empty,” he called up.  “Whoever used this space, they cleaned up real well—hello there.”

“What?” Cal asked.

“Found something,” he said.  “Stashed behind a rack—looks like someone missed it.”

He popped back up through the narrow opening, showing them a small wooden box, just a few handspans across.  

“What is it?” Delem asked.

“It’s a box,” Benzan said dryly, but he was already examining the box, carefully checking for hidden traps or catches.  He didn’t find anything, and the box came open after a few moments of jimmying its clasp with his dagger.  

Inside were several padded spaces, all but one of which were empty.  The last, however, held what looked like an open metal box, the bottom of which was fashioned with a design that protruded from the metal.  

“So we have our answer, it would seem,” Benzan said.  Lok and Cal were silent, but their faces bespoke a similar understanding.  

“I don’t understand,” Delem said in confusion.  

Benzan held the object up into the light.  “This, Delem, is a casting for a five-pound silver bar,” he said.  

“But—the hobgoblins were casting their own bars at the fort,” Delem said in confusion.  “I don’t see how this is linked.”

“Their refining facilities were very crude,” Lok said, “and those bars we found contained impurities that would have to be removed, and the bars recast.  In addition, silver bars are not generally accepted in trade unless they are marked with a reputable stamp, attesting to their purity and weight.” 

“There’s more to you than meets the eye, my friend,” Benzan said as he looked at the genasi.  “For a guy who doesn’t say much, you’ve got a brain inside that thick skull of yours.”

Seeing that Delem still hadn’t fully made the connection, Benzan indicated the metal design at the bottom of the mold.  “See that symbol?  Recognize it?  I’ll give you a hint—we saw it last at the party the other night, on the breast of one of our new aristocratic friends.”

Delem nodded, realization finally setting in.

“I should have seen it earlier, really,” Cal said, “It does make sense—”

“A pity you will never get the chance to share your revelation with anyone,” a voice came from the darkness behind them.

The four spun as one toward the sound.  “Benzan?” Cal whispered, drawing one of his wands from his coat.

“I can’t see anything,” the tiefling hissed, as the four rose, weapons coming into their hands as they spread out warily.  

“A fascinating little group,” the voice continued, coming from somewhere in the direction of the door, on the far side of the building.  “A gnome, a sorcerer, a genasi, and… ah, a demon spawn, no less.  Interesting, very interesting.  A challenge—and I so like a challenge.”

“Why don’t you reveal yourself, and I’ll show you a challenge,” Benzan said.  

As if in response, the light from Cal’s sword suddenly grew dim, its light fading to a feeble glow.

“Oh, that can’t be good,” Benzan said.


----------



## Lazybones

Whew, wrote a lot over the last week!  Big confrontation coming up, but first of all, I’d like to conduct my own informal poll of my readers (all five of you  )…

Who is the mysterious ‘Enialis’?  I won't ask you about the plainly-dressed guy who was giving Enialis and Zorak orders (i.e. Mr. Big Boss), as I didn't give enough clues for you to figure out who he is (but a big bonus if you can guess ).

And

Who or what is about to attack the companions in the warehouse?

(Just trying to gauge how effective my set-up was!)


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## Broccli_Head

After two days of trying, I am finally able to reply!
I think that the big bad guy is Lord Mondragon since he is the only guy that is mentioned. 
Also went to the rogue's gallery and saw the characters. Liked Delem becoming a priest. Thought that Cal would take a level of bard instead. See the logic in Benzan's fighter pick up. Lok is a no-brainer--dwarven defender PrC in the future?


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## FreeZ0r

Make that six readers 

Just have to say that so far the story is great, you have got a very good balance of story and action, I like it.

I am thinking that maybe the not so young half-elf, Lord Evan Rathman has something to do with it....at the party we found out that

"...he had his hand in several mercantile activities in the city, including the town’s largest importer of expensive luxury foods like eastern tea, spices, and wine from the Dalelands."

And as we all know the warehouse smelled strongly of herbs and spices, and they found a number of old wine barrels....coincidence?

On the other hand it could be Lord Fariq...

"Fariq? Informal ambassador, merchant, spy—no one’s really sure, and everyone has at least a few guesses. He’s an interesting fellow, though, and according to some accounts, he possesses some fairly potent magic as well."

Or maybe they are both mixed up in it....

I wonder if maybe Lord Mandragon is just a red herring throw into the mix....it will be interesting to see how it all pans out.


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## Lazybones

Thanks for persevering, Broccli_Head--I got a notice a few days ago that you tried to post to this and the RG forum, but then the boards got all funky on us.  For a while I feared I'd lost my readers as my view tally slowed to a crawl, then I realized that everybody was having problems as new posts on the Story Hour forum went way down.  I heard that the slowdown was due to all the new registrations; hopefully it'll smooth out soon.  

You weren't the only one who thought that Cal would focus more on his bardic skills, but I think that his future lies down a more arcane path (although nothing is set in stone, yet).  

FreeZ0r, welcome to the story, and thanks for posting!  Of course, I can't comment on anybody's predictions yet, but I think that you'll like the way the story develops  .

I'll post the next installment first thing tomorrow (PST).

LB


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## Horacio

I don't dare to guess who is the villain, I'd had said Lord Mandragon, but I think it's too easy as an answer. 

Great stroy, I hope you will post the next update today!


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## Lazybones

Part 25

“Stay close, everybody,” Cal said, as the four companions searched the darkness for their still-unidentified assailant.  

“I think—aaahhhh!” Delem cried out, collapsing to the ground as a dark shadow materialized behind him.  

The others turned to face their enemy.  In the faint light cast by Cal’s spell he was just a shadow in the shape of a man, a dark figure in an enfolding cloak that shrouded his lean form.  He carried a longsword in his hand, the blade slick with Delem’s blood, the steel black like a slick of oil upon water.  

“Let’s dance, shall we?” he said, taunting them, blocking the route to where Delem lay bleeding out his lifeblood upon the stone.  

Benzan and Lok both charged, but before they could reach the man, he split into a quartet of images, identical copies of himself that followed his every movement, blurring in and between him until his confused attackers could not identify which was the real foe.  Benzan snarled and launched himself at one anyway, but his blade passed through empty air, causing the mirror image to vanish.  

Lok came forward to strike, imitating Benzan’s strategy, but before he could swing his axe the images all lunged nimbly at him.  His heavy armor was proof against most attacks, but this enemy found a crease between plates and stabbed deep, causing the genasi to grunt in heavy pain.  The genasi returned with a powerful arcing swing, but his attack too clipped only an image, leaving two—one of which had to be the real foe.  

Cal, meanwhile, was trying to circle around to help Delem, but was having difficulty getting around the battle.  He considered using a sleep spell, but realized that it might inadvertently catch one of his friends as they battled their dark adversary in a swirling melee.  Instead, he cast a minor illusion, causing the sound of clanking metal to appear behind their enemy in an effort to distract him and give Lok and Benzan an opening. 

The enemy warrior, however, paid no heed.  “Nice try, gnome!” he said, lashing out again, this time at Benzan.  His sword again struck hard, drawing a cry of pain from yet another adversary as he penetrated the tiefling’s armor and the shoulder beneath it with a thrust from his dark blade.  Benzan staggered, but retaliated with a swing that actually connected, but which was deflected by the hard coat of mail-links that the dark warrior wore under his shroud.  

“He’s armored!” Benzan said, to warn Lok.  

“Indeed, foolish tiefling, my armor is quite—arrgh!”

Their enemy’s taunts were suddenly cut off as Lok barreled quickly in, slicing into him with a powerful sweep of his axe into his torso.  The blow clearly had an effect, tearing through the man’s armor to cut flesh, but he spun with the impact and danced back, still dangerous.  

“It would seem that I should not underestimate you,” he said, waiting for them to come again.  

The exchange had given Cal time to get to Delem.  The gnome crouched over his unconscious friend, and was amazed to see that somehow, the deep wound had already closed, seemingly without volition from the stricken sorcerer.  Delem was still unconscious, but not in danger of dying.  There was no time to consider this mystery, however, so Cal drew out his wand of healing and called upon its power.  The pale blue glow suffused Delem’s form, restoring him to consciousness.  

“You’ll have to do the rest yourself,” Cal said to him with urgency as the sorcerer-cleric stirred.  “The others need my help!”

Indeed, the battle raged on.  The unknown adversary, still with one shifting image obscuring his form, came at them again.  He thrust at Lok, who had proven himself the more dangerous adversary, and again hit, although this attack only tore a slight gash in the genasi’s weapon arm.  

Benzan moved to flank the dark warrior, coming in from behind to sneak attack him.  His stroke was perfect, but unfortunately found only an image, causing the last figment to vanish but leaving the warrior just a few feet away unharmed.  

“Damn!” the tiefling cursed.

“Wait your turn, now,” the warrior said without turning.  “I’ll get to you in just a moment.”

With the last of the images gone, and his target now clearly defined, Cal strode deliberately right up to the edge of the melee, one of his wands ready in his hand.  The dark warrior sensed him and turned toward him right as the gnome released a color spray full into his face.

The splash of blinding colors lasted only a moment, but when the brilliance faded, the warrior was still there, unfazed.  

“Fool!  Your petty enchantments cannot harm me!  The darkness is my cloak, my shield!”  With his words he slashed out at Cal, connecting with a devastating blow that sent the gnome reeling.

“Let’s see how you do in the light, then,” Delem said, as he staggered to his feet a few yards away.  He lifted one hand, and summoned the power of a spell.  

Four twinkling lights came into being, forming a box around the warrior.  Each was only half the brightness of a torch, but collectively, they dispelled the shadows around the warrior and for the first time clearly revealed their adversary.

He was a powerfully built man, still in the prime of youth, but his skin was a sickly gray color, like ashes in a fireplace, and his eyes were dark orbs that bespoke the corruption of whatever fell magics had created him.  The rent in his black shroud caused by Lok’s axe revealed a coat of silvery gleaming mail links underneath, although as they watched it seemed like the cut in his flesh was already healing, the flow of blood all but stopped.   

“What manner of demon are you,” Benzan breathed.  

“You cannot begin to comprehend the truth of what I am,” the man said, his scowl taking in all of them at once.  “Your corrupted societies will come to understand soon enough, though.”

“Whatever you are, prepare to taste steel!”  Benzan shouted, charging at him as Lok came in from the opposite side.  

The dark warrior seemed weakened, slower in the ring of light, but he still reacted with speed and fury to the combined assault.  His blade turned Benzan’s attack, but he staggered as Lok chopped into his hip with a powerful sweep of his axe.  Delem had moved to help Cal, but the gnome had already retreated from the battle, using his healing wand on himself, so the sorcerer fired two magic missiles into the warrior.  As with Cal, however, the magic faltered upon whatever arcane resistance the shadow-man possessed, the bolts dissipating into nothingness as they touched him.  

There was still a lot of fight left in the dark warrior, though, as the companions quickly learned.  He staggered back a step, as if trying to disengage, but as Lok and Benzan pressed him, he suddenly lunged and thrust powerfully at Lok.  This time, however, the genasi was ready for the attack, and took the blow on his shield.  Side by side Benzan and Lok attacked again, but their thrusts missed, Benzan’s swing glancing once again off of the warrior’s resilient coat of mail, and Lok’s powerful swing missing the mark as the warrior dodged nimbly out of its path.  As they moved, Delem summoned another quartet of floating flames, keeping their enemy completely bracketed by light.  That seemed to weaken him, and in fact his face twisted into a dark scowl as he stared at the sorcerer.  

“This isn’t over!” he hissed, and he suddenly changed direction, darting back from Lok and past Benzan, his cloak billowing out behind him like a cloud of smoke.  

Lok could not reach the quick-footed warrior, but Benzan did not stand idly as he passed.  The scimitar slashed upward so rapidly that it was just a gleaming blur in the light of Delem’s dancing flames, intersecting with the black shadow that was the warrior as he darted in the direction of the exit.  A sudden cry rewarded him as he finally hit with a critical blow, the keen weapon slicing deep into the warrior’s neck.  For all his fell powers of the dark, he bled common red blood, a fountain that poured down his shoulder relentlessly with every step he took.    

But the warrior kept going, staggering away, calling upon some reserve of fortitude as he made for the promise of the darkness just a few yards away.  And in fact, as he left the muted radiance of the lights, he seemed to recover some, his steps growing surer, his pace growing faster.  

“Not so fast,” Delem said, and he spoke a word of magic.  

A flare of sudden, brilliant light exploded in front of the warrior’s face, dazzling him.  His magical resistance could not protect him from the flare, and he stumbled, the light stabbing pain into eyes accustomed to the dark, but causing no real damage.  

But that moment of hesitation was costly.  Even as the warrior started forward again, a crossbow bolt from Cal’s bow slammed into his back, penetrating the links of mail and stabbing deep into a lung.  The dread warrior still staggered forward, reaching out as if to grasp the cloying darkness.

And then Benzan came up from behind him, and ended it with one final blow.  

“By the gods,” Delem said, moving quickly to help Lok, who was grievously wounded.  They were all injured, and cognizant of how close they had come to disaster.  If the warrior had landed that third strike and dropped Lok, he would not have tried to flee, and opened himself to Benzan’s counter.  As it was, they were amazed at the punishment that he had taken, and the dark magics that he had summoned forth.  

“Good thing he wasn’t that smart,” Cal said.  “Or he might not have given us the clue needed to defeat him.”  _And a good thing that Delem somehow managed to survive that first strike,_ the gnome didn’t add out loud, curious at yet another unusual power manifested by the surprising young human.  

After Cal and Delem worked some needed healing upon them, they gathered around the body of the fallen warrior.  There was little more that they could divine about him now that he was dead, except that the armor he wore turned out to be a finely crafted suit of chainmail fashioned of mithril, an incredibly rare and expensive metal that was both light and durable.  

“You might have left him alive, so we could question him,” Cal said to Benzan.  

“Under the circumstances, I didn’t want to take the chance,” the tiefling replied unapologetically.  “Who knows what other tricks he might have had up his sleeve?”

The tiefling had crouched over their dead foe, and was beginning to remove the man’s armor when he paused.  “Hello, what do we have here,” he said, pulling a tightly rolled scroll from the man’s cloak.

“Careful,” Cal cautioned.  “Sometimes there can be danger in the written word.”

“Spoken like an educated man,” Benzan replied lightly.  But the others noticed that he handled the scroll with caution as he unrolled it and held it up in the light so they could all see the writing upon its surface.  

“What language is that?” Delem said.  “It looks like scribbles to me.”

Benzan sighed.  “It is Draconic—a language used by wizards.”

“And you understand it?” Cal asked.  

The tiefling nodded.  Cal knew there was another story there, but he let it rest for the moment as Benzan read to them the contents of the scroll.  

_“I am pleased that you could return to Elturel on such short notice,”_ Benzan read. _“I apologize that we cannot meet in person; with so many eyes watching, it is too great a risk even given your particular talents.  I hope that you will find the armor in the enclosed package to your satisfaction; it was quite difficult to acquire.  At the bottom of this scroll you will find detailed descriptions of the four men requiring your attention; I leave it to you to decide the time and place of their elimination, so long as they are removed swiftly and quietly, without any evidence.”_  There was no signature to the missive, but by now they had all gained a fairly good idea of its origin.  

Benzan scanned the bottom of the scroll, and looked up at them.  “Wow, their descriptions are pretty thorough… I don’t really have an ‘irritating manner,’ do I?” 

Despite Benzan’s attempt at lightening the mood, for a moment the companions said nothing, only looking at each other in gazes that said much.  Finally, it was Cal who spoke.  “We have unfinished business, it seems.”

“Some of us are still injured,” Benzan said.  

“Not for long,” Cal replied, taking out his wand.  

“Your other magic?” Benzan asked.

“I still have most of my spells remaining,” Cal said.  He looked over at Delem, who nodded in response.  

Benzan walked over to where the box they had found lay discarded on the stones, and picked it up.  He lifted out the metal mold, and examined it.  “Then let’s finish it tonight,” the tiefling said.


----------



## Broccli_Head

A shade?! If that is true, I am definitely going to enjoy the ramifications of the hero's involvement....

I want to see them finish the other conspirator/s soon. When you gonna post?


----------



## Horacio

Wow! The plot is getteng denser and denser. A true conspiration... It seems the heroes are paying their good performance againt the hobgoblins. They must have pissed off some big foes.


----------



## Lazybones

Part 26

The noble estates of Elturel were located for the most part on a low rise just inside the city walls near the eastern gate.  In stark contrast to the crowded blocks of the rest of the city, the opulent manor homes and well-tended gardens in this district were spread out lazily over the gentle slopes of the hill, with the size of each estate giving a not-so-subtle clue as to the long-term standing of that family in the affairs of the city.  Few of the city’s commoners came up here without pressing business, and armed guards in the livery of their lords were commonplace, watching all pedestrians with hawk-like eyes.  

But the clean and well-maintained streets of Lords’ Hill were empty now, as the hour approached midnight and the rain continued unabated.  That did not mean that eyes were not watching, as the noble lords paid well to ensure that their luxuries were protected at all times of day, and in all sorts of weather.  But no one saw the four shadowy forms that made their way up from the more crowded section of the city via shadowed alleyways and neglected shortcuts.  The night was so deep that even the miserable patrols of city watchmen who splashed through the streets in sopping cloaks could not see beyond the faint circle of light cast by their lanterns, and they were easily avoided by the stealthy quartet.  At last they neared their destination, a darkened estate surrounded by a high stone wall with a heavy iron gate facing out into the street.  The dark shadow of the manor house was just visible back in the distance, shrouded by numerous evergreen trees.  

The four crept up to one of the walls that ran along the side of the estate, ducking down amidst the bushes that grew right up to the mold-encrusted stone.   

“Well, here we are,” Benzan said.  

“How did you know how to get here?” Cal asked, his voice a harsh whisper.

“Well, I had an idea that we might end up on the Hill at some point, so I asked some questions,” Benzan said.  “You’d be surprised what you can learn if you keep your ears open.”

Cal frowned at the tiefling, but didn’t question him.  Whatever his motivations had been, his knowledge had gotten them here.  

“Well, which way do we go?” Lok asked.  “Front gate?” 

“I wouldn’t recommend that,” Benzan said.  “If I was responsible for security for this place, that’s the first place that I’d put a trap.  Let’s take a look around back.”

They followed the tiefling along the length of the wall, trudging through the mud at its base.  Delem, who could not see at all, stayed right behind Lok, one hand on the genasi’s shoulder and another on the wall to guide him.  At least they took some solace in the fact that if he could not see anything, it was unlikely that anyone would be able to see them.  

That was the thought, anyway.

They followed the wall for its entire length before it gave way to a hedgerow of roughly equal height that ran along the slope of the hill for as far as they could see.  After a quick look around, Benzan crept forward and peered through the thick vegetation.  

“It looks like another estate backs up against this one,” he told the others.  “The wall continues straight ahead, perpendicular to the way we just came.”

“Looks like we have to go over,” Cal said, looking up at the top of the obstacle, fully five feet higher than the top of his head.  

For Benzan, however, it was just a few extra feet.  “Boost me up,” he said to Lok, who looked like a wall himself as he leaned back against the stony surface to provide leverage for the tiefling.  

“It’s not that high—why don’t you just jump up?” Delem said.  He could distinguish the line of the wall’s upper edge above them, but that was about it in the darkness.

“Because, if it were me, I would line the top of the wall with shards of broken glass set in mortar, to discourage just that sort of activity,” Benzan said, his tone slightly condescending as Lok carefully levered him upward against the wall.  The tiefling peered over for a long moment, then dropped back down to the ground.  “I didn’t see anything, but there will probably be guards,” he whispered.  

“So, what’s our plan?” Delem asked.

“Benzan will lead,” Cal said.  The others, including the tiefling, nodded, respecting Benzan's abilities of stealth.  “But be careful,” he said, to all of them.  “Remember, we’re still invading the private home of a noble, and we still don’t have any hard evidence that would stand up at an inquiry, just hints and circumstance.  And we might be wrong, after it all.  Let’s not kill anybody until we find out for sure, one way or the other.” 

“And once we’re inside?”

“Delem, can you use that spell that you used on the smith again?” Cal asked.  The sorcerer nodded.  “Lok, you stay with Delem, and be his eyes.  If necessary, use sleep spells to take out any guards.  I’ll use my own magic as well, and keep your weapons ready, but remember… quietly!”

“All ready, then?” Benzan asked.  Once everyone had whispered their assent, he leapt up and nimbly darted back up atop the wall. 

“All clear,” he said.  “Lift up Cal, and then I’ll set a rope to help Lok.  Delem, you go last—you should be able to jump right up.”  

They navigated the wall quickly, and within a few moments they were all in the lee of the far side.  

They were committed. 

* * * * * 

Another was committed, as well.  

In a shadowy room encased in stone, the ordinary-looking man in the common woolens sat quietly in a small chair, his eyes half-closed as if he were about to fall asleep.  He swayed slightly as his thoughts ranged far, but opened his eyes as a shadow entered the room.  This shadow was not merely a stealthy man, but rather some entirely different manner of creature, for it passed _through_ the wall, and what little light did reach it seemed to pass right through its insubstantial body.  

_“They draw near,”_ it said, its voice a sibilant whisper that sounded like the soft promise of oblivion to a dying man.  

“Very well,” the man replied after a moment.  The news was not that great a surprise, not after what he had seen of the fate of his agent in the warehouse along the docks.  “Monitor their progress, and hinder them if you can, but do not reveal yourself to them until they have reached the first ward.”

The shadow hovered there, and for a moment it seemed to be undecided, for it drifted a short distance into the room, toward a dark object nearby.

“Stop!” the man said, and his voice held an echo of power that indeed brought the undead thing to an immediate halt.  “You were bound over to me, and you _will_ obey!”

_“Yes, master,”_ the shadow hissed, and it retreated back through the stone.  

The man rose, and walked over to the object that had so lured the shadow.  He brought one of the candles with him, and touched the flame to two other tapers atop a table there.  The brighter light illuminated the dark object enough to reveal that it was a man, gagged and bound securely to a heavy stone chair.  The prisoner looked up as the man approached, and he started to struggle faintly but earnestly against his bonds.  

“I am sorry that it had to come to this,” the man said to the captive.  “But it seems as if our secret is out, and I’m afraid that your usefulness to me has come to an end.”  The prisoner’s struggles intensified as his captor paused, and uttered a brief invocation.  In response, a glowing energy surrounded him momentarily, seeping into his body, strengthening him with divine power as it faded. 

The prisoner was trying to say something through his gag, but the spellcaster ignored him.  He walked a short distance to the end of the table, where a rack held a breastplate that reflected the light of the candles in the polished metal.  He put the armor on quickly and efficiently, then turned back to the prisoner.  

“You can take some solace in that you will make one last sacrifice for the cause,” he said, taking a scroll out of an inner pocket as he spoke.  “Though I don’t imagine that it will be that pleasant an experience…”

Ignoring the prisoner’s desperate struggles, he unrolled the scroll and began to read.


----------



## Broccli_Head

Scary! Who are these people?


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## Lazybones

Slow day at work today... let's make it a double-post day!
LB

* * * * * * 


Part 27 

“It’s been easy thus far,” Benzan said, as he checked the knots again before standing.  “Too easy.”

They were in a small guardroom that adjoined the rear wing of the manor house.  The bound and gagged forms of three guards in studded leather armor lie flat on the floor, struggling futilely against their bonds.  Well, two of them struggled, anyway—the one that Benzan had knocked unconscious just lay there, unmoving.  

“Let’s just find out what we can and get out of here,” Cal said.  

Getting inside had not been difficult, for all of their wariness.  There had been no traps or alarms that Benzan could detect, and they hadn’t even had to work the back door, as Benzan had spotted a guard walking the perimeter of the building and waited for _him_ to open the door before knocking him out with the hilt of his dagger.  They found two other guards in this room, half-asleep already before Delem’s wand sent them to join their companion in unconsciousness.  By the time they woke, Benzan had already secured them.

They hadn’t even needed to use Delem’s charm spell, as the guards had readily revealed what little they knew with only a little prodding.  After getting what information they could from them, Benzan gagged them.

“Not very loyal to their employer,” Delem remarked about the guards as they crept quietly back out into the main hall that bisected the wing.  From what they had learned, this part of the building was deserted at night save for the guards, and the servants and the lord generally slept on opposite ends of the main wing.  If they were careful, they should be able to find the lord, surprise him, and confront him with what they knew.  If necessary, Delem’s charm could be used to help persuade him to be forthcoming.

“Loyalty and foolishness aren’t always the same thing,” Cal said.  “Those guards will—Benzan, what’s wrong?”

They all turned as the tiefling staggered, leaning against a nearby wall for support.  His breath came in sudden gasps, and he shuddered as if a sudden chill had come over him.   

“I… I don’t know,” he said.  “Something… like a tear in the world, I could feel it…”  He glanced down at the large pouch that he wore at his belt, the pouch where a carefully wrapped item had rested, all but forgotten for some time.  He wrenched his gaze back up to his companions with an effort, and after a moment the confusion in his eyes began to clear.  “It’s below us, here, beneath the house, close.”

“Let’s find the stairs to the cellar,” Cal said, and they moved out with determination.

None of them looked back into the guardroom as they left, so they didn’t see the dark shadow that rose up out of the floorboards, and hovered greedily over one of the bound guards.  

* * * * * 

The very air around him seemed to roil with dark energy as the cleric continued reading from the scroll.  His voice became a hoarse shout as he reached the crescendo of his incantation, and released the power of the spell stored in the writing.  

A dark rent opened in the air in front of him, and a _thing_ stepped through it into the room.  A choking, charnel smell followed it, and wisps of smoke rose from its body.  It looked like a giant ape of some sort, like the powerful orangutans that trappers sometimes brought out of the jungles of faraway Chult.  One look at its face, however, was enough to reveal that this creature was no ordinary animal.  Its massive jaws slavered hungrily, dripping hot beads of ichor that steamed and sizzled as they hit the stone floor.  Its features were beyond bestial, unnatural and vile, with splotched, unhealthy flesh covered by thick hairs that bristled like tough wire.  But it was its eyes that were truly unnatural, eyes that possessed an intelligence that was otherworldly, alien, deadly.  Before the creature, the cleric seemed a pathetic nothing, only moments from becoming its first victim.

It opened its jaws to snap at the air, and then, improbably, it spoke.  

“Hoo-man,” it said, its voice like iron nails dragged over stone.  “Call you me why?”

If the priest was affected by the thing’s horrid appearance, he gave no sign.  His voice was calm and in command as he replied, “I have summoned you to complete a task for me, demon.  There are intruders approaching this stronghold, servants of the forces of good in this world.  You will aid me in destroying them.”

The demon seemed to mull this over.  “You call Bar-lgura, bring to this world.  What give Bar-lgura, kill these for you?”

The cleric stepped slightly to the side, and indicated the prisoner.  “I offer this man, a powerful member of my own order.  A fitting sacrifice, for one such as yourself.  His soul is yours, if you do this for me.”

The demon shuffled forward, its nails digging gouges in the stone floor as it walked.  It hovered over the prisoner, who mercifully could not see it—he had passed out just moments after it had appeared, and a foul odor wafted from the chair in which he was seated—as it sniffed at him.  The demon’s otherworldly senses weighed the offering, penetrating beyond what mortals could detect into the very essence of the unconscious man.  

It turned back to the cleric, and nodded.  

“Very well, then,” the cleric said.  “They will be here soon—let us make preparations.”


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## Talindra

*Adoring Praise*

Wanted to pop by and put my two cents in....I absolutely love your story and I look forward to more.  I have to check for new posts at lunch during work, because I can't wait.  Anyway, Benzan is my favorite, but what can I say?  I always choose the bad boys.    Keep it up, I'm addicted!


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## Horacio

More spooky, creepy and scary than ever... Your story hour has completly captured me since the beginning, but now it's getting ever better.

More! More! Please...


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## MasterOfHeaven

Great job, as usual.  Have you considered writing professionally?  This story is certainly better than many published works I've read.


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## Broccli_Head

Lazybones said:
			
		

> *
> 
> “I… I don’t know,” he said.  “Something… like a tear in the world, I could feel it…”  He glanced down at the large pouch that he wore at his belt, the pouch where a carefully wrapped item had rested, all but forgotten for some time.  He wrenched his gaze back up to his companions with an effort, and after a moment the confusion in his eyes began to clear.  “It’s below us, here, beneath the house, close.”
> 
> *




This is a great line! 

LB you are rough. This was an actual campaign, right? Sending demons (and Bar-igura!) at 4th level?  I have to say, however, that you mean DM's are rubbing off on me. I had an EL13 encounter against 3 ECL 7 PC's last night...

I must have missed something, however. Who is the ringleader?


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## Lazybones

Hey, thanks everybody!  I appreciate the words of praise.  

MasterOfHeaven, yes, I've been trying to "break in", as they say, for some time.  It's very difficult these days, even to get someone to take a look at your work.  I've been writing fiction since grad school (ten years now), and have shopped a few novels to publishers and agents, but without luck so far.  This story, and the great feedback I've been getting, has motivated me to keep at it.

Broccli_Head, your point is well taken, and it's true that one can take certain liberties with a story that might be dangerous in an actual campaign.  The people I used to game with were generally pretty good, though, and I could usually throw tougher challenges than the "book" levels at them.  

Of course, this challenge might just be too much for our heroes...

* * * * * 

Part 28

The four companions crept down the steeply sloping stair that led even deeper under the ground than the cellar they had just left.  All could feel a growing sense of unease that seemed to hang in the very air.  Maybe it was Benzan’s earlier awareness that had led them in this direction in the first place.  Maybe it was the fact that the secret door that warded the entrance to these stairs had been left slightly ajar, as if whatever lurked below was waiting for them…

“Man oh man, I’ve got a really bad feeling about this,” Benzan said.  

“Wait a moment,” Cal said, urging them to pause.  

“What is it?” Lok asked.

“Well, if whatever’s down there is prepared, then we should be as well,” the gnome said.  With that, he handed his sunrod to Lok, took out his wand of _mage armor,_ and touched it to himself and to Delem, in turn.

“What about us?” Benzan asked.  

“The protection won’t help you beyond the armor that you already wear,” the gnome explained.  Still, as he put the wand away, he could not shake off the nagging feeling that he was missing something…

Thus fortified, they continued their progression down the stairs.  Benzan took the lead, carefully checking for traps.  The stairs ended in a heavy stone door that also was open, with a small antechamber located beyond.  The light from Cal’s sunrod revealed that the walls and ceiling were fashioned from heavy blocks of stone that seemed ancient.  

“How far underground are we?” Delem asked.

“About thirty feet,” Lok said, as they turned to the only feature of note in the small room, a narrow archway through which another room was visible.  

Lok moved toward the arch.  “Wait,” Benzan said, already moving to investigate.

He was too late.

A flash and a roar of flame announced the triggering of the trap, and Lok vanished for a moment as fire exploded around him.  Benzan was caught on the edges of the blast, but his reflexes took over and he dodged back.  The flames that did reach him seemed to fade just as they touched his flesh, as if reluctant to burn him, and he landed back by the others virtually unharmed.  

The same could not be said for the genasi, who staggered back from the arch ravaged by the explosion.  His incredible constitution had allowed him to weather the trap through sheer fortitude, although wisps of steam continued to rise from his armor where the flames had engulfed him.  

“Hold on just a second,” Cal said, already coming to his friend’s aid with his wand of healing.  He had just reached the genasi when Delem suddenly cried out in surprise.

Benzan, Lok, and Cal spun around to see Delem struggling against a dark form that hung around his torso like a wisp of smoke.  As the brilliant light of the sunrod fully illuminated it, they saw with horror that the attacker was in fact a man-shaped, nearly insubstantial being, with eyes like black pits that stared out at the four companions mockingly.  They could see the effect that the thing’s touch had had upon Delem, as the sorcerer swayed, clearly weakened.  

Their horror deepened as three more of the things, which had until minutes ago been the life essences of the three guards above, drifted through the far wall and moved menacingly toward them.


* * * * * 

Part 29, later today...


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## Lazybones

Part 29

The four shadows drifted toward the adventurers, who, despite their trepidation at their chances against these undead horrors, rushed to defend themselves.  

The shadow that had attacked Delem seemed larger and stronger than the others.  Before any of them could react, it reached out for the sorcerer again, to sap yet more of his vital energy.  Delem jerked back reflexively, but could not escape that draining touch.  But even as the shadow greedily swept in, its insubstantial hand brushed against the protective force of Delem’s _mage armor_, and was stayed.  

Benzan moved swiftly, drawing and firing an arrow.  The missile passed harmlessly through one of the swiftly approaching shadows to slam hard into the wall behind them.

“Only magic will affect such as these,” Cal said, and Benzan grimly drew his enchanted scimitar.  “Don’t let them touch you!” the gnome added, needlessly after what they had seen happen to Delem.  

Delem’s sudden motion as he twisted desperately back caused the front of his coat to open, and his eyes caught on something glittering right before his eyes.  It was the symbol of Kossuth that he had fashioned, freed by his movements—or perhaps by some strange volition of its own.  Delem shook off that mad thought and grasped the symbol, drawn to it like he had been drawn by the voices that sometimes filled his head.  

As his hand clasped over the symbol, its rough edges pricking the flesh of his palm, he felt power surging through him.  The young man cried out a glowing nimbus of fire erupted from his hand.  The fire didn’t harm him, but the brilliance that shone from the otherworldly flames filled the room with light, driving back the shadows.

But these creatures had their own dark power, the counter to the positive energy channeled by the cleric.  Delem was still young, and his powers newly awakened.  The light seemed to falter as the lead shadow swelled and came at him again, reaching out as if to seize the very fire from his hand.  

Two of the weaker shadows hesitated, and retreated back through the walls.  The last came on and reached for Lok with its strength-draining touch.  The genasi’s armor had been proof against any number of physical attacks, but it could not stop this adversary as its cold fingers passed right through shield and mail and pressed against his hard flesh.  The genasi shuddered, but did not falter, sweeping his axe through the thing.  The magic in the weapon tore into the fabric of the undead creature, and sundered it into wisps of darkness that quickly faded into nothingness.

Cal knew that his illusions would prove of no use against these monsters, and he possessed no magical weapon that could harm them.  But an idea did occur to him, and he drew one of his wands from its pocket.  The little gnome rushed at the shadow still trying to get at Delem, thrust the wand into the outline of its body, and released its power. 

The healing power of the wand slashed through the dark substance of the shadow, the positive energies of the magic injuring it.  The shadow screamed, a horrible, screeching sound, and instantly turned on the gnome, lashing out for him.  The gnome dodged back with great agility, and the attack was turned again by the magical field of force that surrounded him.   

The companions surrounded the abomination, and before it could retreat to safety like the others, came at it as one from all directions.  Benzan’s scimitar slashed right through it harmlessly, but Delem channeled a beam of positive energy into it that opened a great rent in its form.  Then Cal thrust the healing wand into it once more, and with a final terrible screech it disintegrated.  

“Is everyone all right?” Cal asked, worried.  “Delem?”

“I am… I am ok,” the sorcerer said, although he belied his statement by leaning up against the wall for support.  “Feel a little weak…”  He gestured toward the genasi.  “One of them touched Lok, as well.”

“I am fine,” Lok said.  

“I’m sorry,” Cal said.  “I should have put the mage armor on all of us—it might have protected you from the shadow’s touch, Lok.”

“You could not have anticipated this attack,” the genasi said.  

“Look, I don’t want to interrupt this nice scene,” Benzan said, “but those shadows that Delem drove off might be back any minute, or there might be more of them, and Lok’s still injured from that trap.”

Taking that advice to heart, Cal quickly healed Lok with his wand and surrounded Benzan and Lok with the mage armor.  Neither he nor Delem could do anything about the lingering effects of the draining touch of the shadows, though, but Cal insisted that they would recover fully in time.  

They waited for several minutes, but the shadows did not return, nor did anything else come to investigate the noise they’d made in the brief combat.  They all felt the same sense of expectation, however, as if an even more dire threat awaited them further ahead.  A careful examination of the next room through the arch revealed some old, empty crypts, and a single heavy wooden door.  Now, they faced another decision.

“We are being worn down,” Cal said.  “We’re all tired, Delem and Lok have been weakened, and our spells and items are being drained.  Do we press on, or retreat to recover our strength?”

“It’s the same choice that we had back at the warehouse,” Benzan said.  “I don’t know how I know this, but I just feel that if we retreat now, we’ll never get a chance to confront whoever is behind all this.”

“Fight onward,” Lok said, hefting his axe.

“Yeah,” Delem said, adding his assent. 

“All right,” Cal said.  “Victory or defeat together, then.”

With Benzan in the lead, scouting for more traps, they crossed to the door.


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## Horacio

Hey, Lazybones, another great update...
What a practical cynical is our Benzan! I've loved this line:


> “Look, I don’t want to interrupt this nice scene,”






So waiting for the chapter 29


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## Lazybones

Thanks Horacio-- I think Benzan is the most fun to write (I'm something of a cynic myself, so I let it come out in that character).

Going hiking today and the theatre tonight, so I'll get the next update up either late today or early tomorrow (PST).  Part 30 is the culmination of this plot thread, and is going to be a monster post (I think it's about five pages in Word at this point).  I can promise an all-out battle... and a surprise ending...

Thanks for reading!
LB


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## Horacio

Hey, Lazybones, I don't want to press you, take your time, I can wait until... Monday? 

Good weekend!!


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## Broccli_Head

Lazybones said:
			
		

> *Part 29
> 
> 
> “Fight onward,” Lok said, hefting his axe.
> 
> . *




That's my favorite quote! now that's practical.


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## Lazybones

Part 30

The door opened, revealing a large chamber beyond.

All four of the companions could feel the taint that hung over the place like a miasma, floating in the air and seeped into the heavy stones of its walls.  The room was of considerable size, at least twenty-five feet across, with a heavily buttressed stone ceiling about fifteen feet above them.  The walls were carved with designs in faded bas-relief that seemed very, very old, whatever images or writings they had once indicated now lost to time.  Several thick candles in sconces along the walls cast a ruddy light over the place, bolstered by the brilliant radiance of Cal’s sunrod as they entered.  

But they noticed all of these things only in passing, for their attention was immediately drawn to the far side of the room, where a slightly raised platform fronted a dark alcove.  Atop the platform, facing out into the room, was a heavy stone block that seemed to serve as an altar of sorts, and to the side and behind the altar was a slumped figure bound to a stone chair.

And above the altar, carved into the sloping ceiling directly above, was a symbol. 

They took in a collective breath of surprise, both at their recognition of the prisoner and of the dread symbol.  For the carving, that of a jawless skull in the center of a black sunburst, was well known—and dreaded—throughout Faerun.  

“The Dark Sun,” Cal breathed.  “Cyric, the Father of Lies.”

As if called by the mention of that name, a figure walked out of the shadows of the alcove to face them.  He was a man well into middle-age, his features decidedly average, with a close-cropped beard and eyes that seemed to blaze as they stared out at them.  He was ready for a confrontation, dressed in a shiny breastplate and carrying a light shield fashioned of steel.  A morningstar hung from his belt, but none of them believed that the weapon was most dangerous threat from this man.  The air around him seemed to roil slightly with faint wisps of dark shadow, indicating the possible existence of some sort of magical barrier, as well.  

“I suppose you would be Lamber Dunn,” Benzan growled.  

“Just one name, of many,” the man said to them.  “Welcome, adventurers.  You have done well, better than I would have thought, to make your way here.”  He walked a few more steps behind the altar, to where the bound prisoner sat unconscious.  “I believe that you already know my former associate, here.  I call him by the elf-name that he has forsaken, Enialis… but you know him, of course, as Lord Evan Rathman.”

The nobleman did not stir, lost deep in whatever nightmares Dunn had prepared for him.  

“It’s over, Dunn, or whoever you are,” Benzan proclaimed.  “We’ve taken apart your little operation in the Wood of Sharp Teeth, and now we’re here to finish the job.”

“Over?  No, my stupid little demon-spawn, nothing is over, save for your interference in things you do not understand.  Do you think that I would let you find your way here, defeat my guardians, intrude upon my sanctuary, had I not allowed it?  Did you really think that a quartet of pathetic younglings like yourselves could upset all that I have built?”  He drew himself up, seemed to grow bigger, stronger, more malevolent in their sight as darkness flared in his eyes.  “No, nothing is over, fools, save your petty lives!”

Only Delem saw it, a rippling in the very walls themselves, in the dark shadow of one of the stone bolsters that ran up the wall to the ceiling above.  The stone shifted, moved…

“Look out!” the sorcerer cried, as a powerful form leapt into their midst, and attacked.

The demon-ape tore into Lok, its weight adding to the force of its blow as it slashed across his face with a vicious claw.  The genasi stumbled as the weight of the demon struck him, but he held his ground, pushing it back with his shield and raising his axe.  

The cleric made a motion that was partially concealed by the altar, and a portcullis came crashing down in the doorway behind them, trapping them in the room.  

There would be no fleeing from this confrontation.  

Benzan drew back his bow, and in a blur fired one, and then a second steel-tipped arrow.  The first missile struck the cleric’s shield and glanced off, but the second stabbed into his leg just below the hip, staggering him.

Delem raised his hands and fired a pair of magic missiles at the demon, but the bolts faded harmlessly as they struck it, dissipated by its innate resistance.  

Cal dug out his wand of color spray and pointed it at Lamber Dunn, but before he could activate its magic, the priest spoke an incantation and invoked the full force of his dread power.  A greasy cloud of fell blackness erupted throughout the room, engulfing all four of the companions within its murky depths.  It only lasted for a few moments, but when the blight cleared, Cal was staggered, his face pale as he fought for gasps of clean air.  Lok, as well, had been hard hit, his already bleeding face burned by the evil vapors.  Delem and Benzan had managed to weather the storm far better.  The demon was unharmed by the cleric’s magic, and if anything, seemed energized by the dark storm.  It lunged at Lok again, tearing at him with its claws and biting with its massive, jagged maw.  Lok deflected the first attack, but the second claw latched onto his weapon arm and twisted painfully, and its bite punched two deep gashes in his armored shoulder.  With a tremendous and desperate surge of strength Lok pulled his arm free and slammed his axe into the creature, but the blow lacked power and glanced off the thing’s unnaturally tough hide.  

Cal finally managed to stagger forward and launched his color spray at the evil cleric.  The colors splashed all around the altar and into the dark alcove, but when they had faded the cleric stood unfazed.  He called upon his dark master yet again, and uttered a bane upon the brave companions.  The spell filled them with dread and fear, hindering them as they struggled to fight off the attacks of the cleric and his demon minion.  

Benzan stood torn, recognizing the danger posed by the cleric, but realizing that Lok was in grave peril from the attacks of the demon.  With a curse of frustration he tossed his bow aside and drew his scimitar, rushing at the demon’s flank to the aid of his friend.  The weapon struck hard, drawing a red gash across its hide that splashed hot drops of black ichor to sizzle and steam on the floor.  The demon shifted to look at Benzan, and its eyes were dark with fury.  

Delem, seeing that his magic had no effect upon the demon, turned instead toward the evil cleric.  His power surged again, but he held it, waiting for the dark priest to begin another spell.  He did not have long to wait, and as Lamber Dunn called upon his god again the twin bolts sizzled into him, disrupting his concentration and ruining his spell.  

“That’s it, keep him busy!” Cal shouted in encouragement to the sorcerer.  He fought back the lingering sickness from the unholy blight to cast his own spell, creating an illusionary cloud of bats that fluttered wildly around the cleric, distracting him and making it all but impossible for him to see them.

The battle seemed to be turning for the companions, but then, without warning, the demon suddenly sprung backward ten feet, putting Benzan, Lok, and Delem in front of it, and released a horrible, keening wail.  

The three companions felt the dark power of that unnatural cry sound all the way to the depths of their souls.  Lok withstood it, fighting off the sinister visions that swam through his mind through a sheer effort of will, and Delem, reinforced by both his innate powers and his newfound faith, resisted as well.  But Benzan, tormented by the overwhelming suggestion within that howl, cried out in sudden terror and fled, dropping his scimitar as he crashed futilely into the iron portcullis and collapsed into a huddled ball, sobbing in terror.  

Lok came on again with determination, slashing at the creature again with his axe.  This time the blade bit deep, ripping a deep gash in the demon’s torso, and it shrieked, this time in pain as well as fury. 

Delem moved to aid Benzan, crouching beside the huddled tiefling and calling upon his own divine magic to intercede.  The sorcerer could feel the demon’s magic on him like an oily skin, and he channeled his power into it, giving Benzan another chance to resist the demonfear.  

Benzan stopped shaking, and the terror in his eyes cleared as he looked up at Delem.  “Thanks…” he croaked.   

Cal knew that he had to buy his companions some time, and he strained to keep focus on his illusion as nausea continued to flash through his body.  The dark cleric, however, maintained his focus and cast another spell.  Cal looked down in horror as a trio of tiny snakes slithered up out of the floor around him, their eyes little pinpoints of baleful red fire as they lunged at him.  

The demon and Lok continued to trade blows, and while the genasi held his ground, it was clear that the attacks that got through were wearing him down.  The demon, conversely, while it had taken several serious wounds, seemed possessed of an inhuman fortitude that did not suffer with each new splatter of its black blood upon the stones.  

And then the cleric pointed at the genasi, and Lok’s eyes widened in horror as his limbs suddenly stopped functioning.  His axe stopped in mid-swing, and the demon, quickly sensing what had just transpired, chuckled and came forward, jaws slavering eagerly.  

But before it could reach its now helpless prey, Benzan and Delem charged to their friend’s aid.  Benzan slashed at the demon, driving it back with a frustrated screech, while Delem touched Lok, surrounding him with a protective ward that would keep the demon’s attacks at bay—or that, at least, was his hope.  

Cal, meanwhile, desperately rushed forward and rolled onto the low platform, just a short distance from where the cleric stood behind the altar.  He felt giddy, a numbness spreading through his body from the point on his leg where one of the snakes had breached his defenses and bitten him.  As his spells were not proving of much use against the tough discipline of the cleric, he hefted his crossbow, loading a bolt into place as he tried to fight off the growing wave of dizziness that threatened to overcome him.   

Benzan spun at the demon, his agility foiling its efforts to grasp him and rend him to pieces.  Its shoulder bled from another deep gash, and now it was beginning to show signs of weakening, its motions a little slower as it tried to catch up to the darting tiefling.  

Then, suddenly, it halted, and dark power flared in its beady eyes.  

Benzan shouted in alarm as a great force caught him up and hurled him across the room, slamming him hard against the far wall.  His breath was driven from his lungs with the impact, and he fell to the ground, staggered.  He looked up to see the demon charging straight for him.  

Delem, meanwhile, saw that Cal was in trouble, and moved to his aid.  The snakes were slithering after him up the edge of the platform, but they turned toward the sorcerer as he charged up.  He spread out his hands and cast a fan of burning fire upon the fiendish serpents.  Their unnatural hides resisted the magic, but Delem’s power burned through them to their cores, consuming all three of the foul creatures.  

Cal faced off against the evil cleric, who looked down at him with contempt obvious in his eyes.  To be sure, it looked like quite an imbalance, with the armored human against the gnome who could barely keep on his feet.  As the cleric took a step toward him, though, Cal fired his crossbow at point blank range into his leg, opposite the place where Benzan’s arrow already jutted.  The cleric staggered, his face a rictus of barely controlled fury.  

“Prepare to die, gnome,” he hissed.  

He lunged with surprising speed at Cal, invoking yet another dark spell as he reached out and touched the gnome lightly on the shoulder with his fingertips.  

Cal staggered as a fresh rush of burning weakness seemed to pour into him through the brief contact.  He looked up at the look of triumph and anticipation in the cleric’s eyes, and fired off a color spray right into his face.  

This time, the cleric wasn’t ready, and the blast stunned him.  He staggered back, crying out in surprised pain as two bolts of fire from Delem’s hands slammed into him.  

Benzan knew that this was it, as the demon charged him.  If he fell, then Lok was surely dead, and likely his companions after that.  He held his ground, waiting, and then, as the demon leapt, he darted ahead and to the side, his blade coming around in a sweeping arc.  

The magically enhanced scimitar bit into the side of the demon’s neck, its own momentum driving the blade deeper as Benzan swept past it.  One claw caught him hard as he passed, drawing a line of blood across his hip, but he spun with the impact and landed safely a few feet away.  

The demon took by far the worst of that exchange, yet somehow managed to remain standing.  It turned and locked gazes with the tiefling, and to Benzan’s horror he could hear the thing’s voice in his mind.

_Your flesh will yet be mine, brother,_ the voice said, and it came at him yet again, sheer hate alone driving it now.  

Benzan was waiting for it, and one more stroke ended its final rush.  As it fell its form became insubstantial, until it melted away into a greasy black stain that lingered on the stones.  

The cleric, meanwhile, had apparently decided that he’d had enough, for he moved back into the shadows of the alcove, where a hidden portal clicked open at his touch.  Before he could move into the narrow corridor beyond, however, Cal, somehow still on his feet, drew his sword and charged into the surprised cleric.  The two got tangled up in each other’s legs, and the cleric stumbled, falling against the threshold of the doorway. 

“Why won’t you die already?” the cleric said, slamming his armored hand into the gnome’s face.  The blow, backed by the power of yet another spell, ripped a tear across Cal’s forehead, baring the stark white of the bone beneath.  Unable to see with blood flowing into his eyes, Cal latched onto the cleric’s leg, refusing to go down, until the cleric literally tore him free and hurled him bodily to the side.  

He looked up to see Benzan and Delem standing in front of him, murder in their eyes.  

Delem’s last two bolts of fire tore into the cleric, driving him back again into the narrow space of the doorway, and before he could act again, Benzan was on him, thrusting his scimitar into the hollow point of his throat just beneath the edge of his helmet.  The cleric gurgled and staggered, his lips moving as he still tried to summon his magic, but finally he took a step forward and fell to the ground at their feet, dead.  

They heard Lok come up behind them, finally free of the cleric’s spell of paralysis.  He joined Benzan and the two walked over to where Delem was crouched over Cal’s motionless form.

The sorcerer looked up, tears streaking his face.  

“He’s dead.” 


END OF BOOK I


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## Talon

WOW! 
What a great story. Keep it up Lazy Bones. I'm waiting with anticipation for the aftermath of that battle.

Talon


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## MasterOfHeaven

Excellent update.  That was quite a surprise at the end.  Great job, as always.


----------



## Horacio

No!!!!!
He cannot be dead!!!!!
 

Lazybones, you're the master of the bittersweet ends of adventure, aren't you?


----------



## Lazybones

Thanks for the kudos, readers. 

I gave two clues to the identity of the nobleman who was sponsoring the activities of the cult of Cyric in Elturel. FreeZ0r hit right on the first, that Evan Rathman was involved in luxury trade in spices, coffee, wine, etc... and that the warehouse where the companions were ambushed by the shade smelled of those things. Rathman's trade contacts allowed Lamber Dunn to ship silver and weapons between his hobgoblin allies and other connections in the region. The second clue was the name "Enialis," which Dunn used to refer to Rathman. That name I got right from the Player's Handbook's list of suggestions of names for elves (as a general rule I always come up with my own names, but this time I made an exception for the sake of the clue  ). And of course, we know that Evan Rathman was a half-elf, who rejected his elvish heritage... 

The other nobles were all false leads. Lord Fariq is going to reappear later in the story, but I won't say anything more about him right now, save for the fact that he has affiliations that we don't know about at the moment. The companions have made some powerful enemies as well, and there are some other past characters who will be making new appearances as well in the story as the plot develops. 

I've already started Book II of the story, and will post the prologue, which fleshes out the background of a somewhat neglected character, shortly. Then we'll find out how the three surviving friends are dealing with the loss of a comrade. 

Lazybones


----------



## FreeZ0r

Woohoo, looks like I win the prize 

Can't wait to see where the story heads off to now...gotta say that I just love shades and hope they will continue to feature.


----------



## Horacio

Lazybones said:
			
		

> *I've already started Book II of the story, and will post the prologue, which fleshes out the background of a somewhat neglected character, shortly. Then we'll find out how the three surviving friends are dealing with the loss of a comrade.
> 
> Lazybones *




So he is dead. Dead...      

Please, write the continuation soon...


----------



## Lazybones

Travels through the Wild West: A Forgotten Realms Story

Book II

Prologue

The old dwarf didn’t quite hurry—that would have been undignified—but his heavy boots made a rapid patter on the hard stone as he clambered up the narrow, twisting staircase.   

He realized that something was wrong as he passed into the dwelling, could sense it on the faces of those dwarves in attendance.  His brow furrowed as he pushed on into the birthing chamber, where the midwife looked up at him with something approaching relief in her eyes.  The mother, he saw, was half-unconscious from exhaustion but looked otherwise hale.  

“How is the child?” the dwarf elder asked, his voice like the rumbling of stones down a hillside. 

“He is strong,” the midwife reported, and she held up the infant, partially covered in a thick wrap of coarse gray cloth.  

The elder’s eyes widened. 

“By the gods…”

* * * * *  

A few days later, that same elder was sitting in a small audience chamber.  His face showed that same pensive frown that had not left him since the day when he had first seen the child.  That child was now before him, clutched tightly in the protective embrace of his mother.  

Gira Deepforge still looked drained from the experience of giving birth, the otherwise animated young woman now wan and ashen.  But the fire of the forges still burned in her, the old dwarf saw, evident in the way that she held her newborn son in her arms, and in the way she met his gaze with steel in her eyes.

“Why don’t you tell me what happened?” the old dwarf said.  

She spent a moment searching for the words that she wanted to use.  “I… my husband, as you know, was serving his term on the Shield Wall,” she began, faltering a little.  

“Oleg Deepforge’s axe was mighty, and tales of his bravery are still told in the gathering halls,” the elder prodded, to get her to continue.  

Gira looked at him gratefully for the comment.  “He came to me, my husband, one night,” the woman said, her thin veneer of self-control threatening to falter as she revisited the memories.  “I thought he had returned from his duty, returned to me.”  Her eyes fell for a moment, and when they came up again, they were rimmed with tears.  “I did not find out until later that he had fallen that very day, holding the Shield Wall against the invaders.”

“Why did you not come forward, and tell someone of this?” the elder queried.

“I… I could not,” Gira said defensively.  “I myself did not understand—someone must have made a mistake… I wanted that last memory of my husband, needed it…”

The elder nodded, and his gaze fell again to the child.  

“What will happen to us?” Gira asked plaintively.

“Your child is touched by the gods,” the elder said.  “There are tales among the urdunnir, the most ancient stories of our people, of such a thing, although it has never happened in the lifespan of any of our people currently living, or of their fathers, or fathers’ fathers.”

“With the guidance of Dumathoin, we will learn what we can, but something tells me that the fate of this child is not within our hands.”

* * * * * 

“They have breached the Shield Wall!” the dwarf shouted, darting away a moment later deeper into the fortified warrens that were the dwellings of the urdunnir.  His words spread fear among the small group of dwarves, mostly women and children clustered in the gathering hall outside of their residences.  That fear was matched by hard-eyed determination, however, and most of the dwarves, weapons at hand, immediately went into action, following the outlines of the practiced defense plans of the community.  

Gira Deepforge’s place was at the third redoubt, but instead of rushing off to her assigned position she instead turned back into the shelter of her dwelling.  There, in the front room, waiting for her, she found her son.  The boy looked up at her as she entered, his eyes wide with fear.

“What is it, mamma?” he asked.  

“Hush, child,” she said softly, as she wrapped him up in her arms.  She could barely lift him; even though the boy had only just reached his fourth birthday, he was already heavier than most children twice his size.  Her desperation gave her strength, though, and she pulled her cloak over the child to conceal him, setting back out into the warrens.  

She did not know why she had not taken the boy to be with the other children at the last redoubt, as soon as the alert had been sounded.  She did not know what power guided her steps now, or what hidden sense told her that this time, the enemies of the urdunnir would not be stopped.  Even as she ran on, the fear for her people filled her and threatened to overcome her, but the love she felt for her son drove her on. 

She came to a landing where a steep staircase descended into the darkness.  She let out a sudden cry as a pair of the dark ones suddenly appeared, startled that they had already penetrated this far into the fortress.  

“Kill her!” one of the duergar cried out, and both came at her with their vicious axes at the ready.  Before they could reach, her, though, a battle cry rang out from further down the corridor, and a trio of urdunnir warriors—all well past fighting age, she saw—charged into the duergar from the side.  

Gira fled down another corridor, quietly praying to Dumathoin to shelter her from the view of her enemies.  The sounds of battle seemed to come from all around, now, as she turned into another long passageway that was clear for the moment.  

The corridor continued for an interminable length, until Gira could smell the faint hint of fresh air coming from up ahead.  She slowed, her legs feeling thick from the exhaustion of carrying her son, and emerged from the passageway at the edge of a great vertical shaft.  

The shaft extended both up and down as far as Gira could see, and was completely smooth, the surface of the stone worn down by air currents and the flow of water for centuries under the ground.  Gira placed her son down on the ground beside her, and embraced him warmly.  

“Mama, what’s wrong?” the boy asked.  

“Mama’s got to send you away for a time,” she said, checking his person quickly to make sure that his clothes were in order, covertly tucking a small disk into a pocket of his jerkin as she did so.  Tears flowed freely from her eyes as she tugged him to her again, bending down to kiss his forehead.  

“Dear spirits, protect him,” she whispered.  

The boy stood confused as Gira stood, and closed her eyes in concentration, invoking the power that was a part of the tradition of her people, and their link with the deep earth.  At her call the stone at her feet shifted, and a small form, barely larger than the boy, rose up out of the rock to stand before her on stubby legs. 

She placed the boy into the embrace of the creature.  “Take him to the surface,” she bid the elemental, which bowed slightly at her bidding.  

“There is a clan of our people, surface dwellers, who live nearby,” Gira said to her son.  “They will care for you.” 

“Mama, please, don’t go!” the boy cried.

“I must,” Gira said.  She could already hear the sounds of footsteps approaching down the long corridor, and she knew, instinctively, that they were not her friends and kin, arriving to tell her that the enemy had been defeated.  

“Goodbye, my love,” she said, and gestured to the elemental.  The creature moved effortlessly into the shaft, bearing the boy swiftly upward, the lower half of its body melded with the stone.

“Never forget who you are, Lok!” she cried out, before she vanished into the darkness of the tunnel.  

“Mama!” the boy cried down into the shaft, but she was gone.


----------



## Tokiwong

*Always the last to know...*

Another Forgotten Realms story to read... man good things I am seeing... going to have to stay with this one... keep up the good work... been away much too long... me I mean... new better stories on the board


----------



## Broccli_Head

You k-k-killed C-c-c-cal!
Great story! A fight like that is bound to have casualties. 

LB, touching story about Lok. Definitely, my favorite character, but I am glad to see all of the PCs being fleshed out in an amazing way. Benzan being self-sacrificing against the Bar-igura (his _brother!_...nice touch). Delem employing counterspell! 
I thought Lok was going to die but he stood up to the demon.

I'll have to catch up on my story after reading yours a few times to improve my writing style. thanks for the offering.


----------



## Lazybones

Sheesh, I leave the story for one day, and it nearly falls off the first page!  You guys gotta bump me when that happens! 

* * * * * 

Book II, Part 1

The flutter of a flight of riverbirds lifting off from a nearby sandbar jolted Lok from his memories, and back to the present.  He looked down and opened his stony fist to reveal the silver disk resting in his palm.  The runes in its surface were all but worn away, now, but it still had the power to provoke memories of the distant past.

The genasi shifted slightly, and stared out over the river.  Their keelboat was drifting swiftly with the current, but it would be his turn to take the oars again soon.  The genasi’s arms were sore from working the oars through the morning and much of the afternoon as well, but he would never admit as much to his companions.  

He hadn’t experienced the memories for some time, now.  Why he’d chosen to revisit them now—he knew why, really, as his gaze turned reluctantly to the small box lashed to the top of the piled crates being moved downriver by Cobbledon’s boatmen.  Benzan and Delem were nearby on the small boat, he knew, but they’d been avoiding each other somewhat, of late.  None of them wanted to talk about what had happened.  

Lok let more recent memories play through his thoughts as he put the disk back into its pocket.  

The death of Cal had blighted whatever sense of accomplishment they could take in their victory over the evil cleric and his minions.  Once the depth of Evan Rathman’s treachery had been uncovered, the city leaders had been stunned.  Rathman had paid the ultimate price, however; upon the conclusion of the battle, the companions had discovered that he was dead, his heart stopped.  Gergan Podranus immediately sent messengers to notify Lord Dhelt in Berdusk of what had transpired, but it would be days yet until the news reached him.

The companions decided quickly that they were not going to wait.  In the absence of the high priest of Helm, who was with the High Rider, Lady Darine Palintz was the highest ranking cleric in Elturel.  Her power, however, was not sufficient to bring Cal back to life.  His three friends unanimously agreed to set out immediately for Baldur’s Gate, to seek out the aid of the high priestess of Tymora in that city’s temple district.  Lady Palintz, though she could not help Cal directly, placed a spell of preservation upon him, so that his friends could take his body to the city in time for divine intervention.  

They had seven days until the spell faltered.  

There had been other changes as well, minor things in the face of what they had lost.  Their skills had improved, honed in the trials they had faced in Elturel.  Their packs were full of wealth, gold granted by the grateful citizens of Elturel to those who had uncovered the diabolical cabal operating right under their noses.  They had found a cache of precious gemstones in Dunn’s sanctuary; garnets, spinels, and opals that they hoped would prove sufficient to pay for Cal’s resurrection.  They found a few of the silver trade bars, as well, but Benzan quickly noted that the gems were many times the value of the silver, and more portable to boot.

They had found other things, as well.  The evil cleric had possessed several scrolls of divine magic, which were claimed by Delem.  His armor and shield were likewise magical, and both were being worn by Benzan, for the moment.  In one room they found a large bowl fashioned of blue porcelain, which radiated a potent magic.  Lady Palintz told them that the device was empowered with scrying magic, allowing its user to see distant places and persons.  That explained how Lamber Dunn had been able to keep track of them, Benzan observed.  The bowl also radiated evil, however, its magic requiring the ability of a dark cleric to channel negative energy to function, and so the companions left it with the cleric of Oghma, to study—and if necessary, destroy.  

With the press of time keenly felt by all three of the surviving companions, they had not tarried long in the city.  By the time that the sun rose on the second morning after the confrontation at Rathman’s manor, the three of them—with the body of the gnome in their care—were riding a keelboat laden with goods down the River Chionthar, four days’ travel from the city of Baldur’s Gate.  Ordinarily the journey took a week, as the river was dangerous to negotiate at night, but the companions had made it clear—backed by the writ of Lady Palintz and the Council—that they would brook no delays in getting to their destination.  

The four boatmen, reluctantly, had no choice but to go along with the plan.  

Lok watched as Benzan came around the pile of crates and stood in the bow of the craft, facing the setting sun.  The bright rays of the day’s end shone brilliantly on his breastplate, an item of potent magic that he’d taken from the fallen cleric.  The tiefling complained about the limitations of the armor on his speed and maneuverability, and had professed his intent to see about enchanting the coat of mithral chain they’d taken from the shade warrior, once they had seen to Cal’s restoration.

“Delem,” Benzan said, an edge of danger in his voice. 

“What is it?” the sorcerer said, emerging from a shaded nook in between two of the supply crates.  Lok, sensing that something was amiss, joined them at the bow. 

Delem shaded his eyes and looked ahead.  The riverbank to both sides was lined by a steep embankment, almost vertical at times, rising some thirty feet above the level of the river.  To their right, a sandbar rose up out of the waters, stretching for several hundred yards.  About half-way down its length they could see what looked like four man-sized piles of stone, sitting incongruously upon the sands.  A fifth was just visible as a silhouette against the setting sun atop the far embankment, warding the river like a sentinel.

“Odd—they look almost like statues,” Delem said.  “With wings…”

“Gargoyles,” Benzan hissed, already stringing his longbow.  His assessment was borne out a moment later, as the four creatures stirred to life, their powerful wings lifting their stone-like bodies into the air.  

“Stay down, and behind cover,” Lok cautioned the boatmen, who were already readying light crossbows taken from a storage locker along the gunwale of the boat.  They were all too willing to take that advice, while the three companions awaited the apparent attack in the bow.  In preparation, Delem used the power of the wand of _mage armor_ upon himself, surrounding his body with the defensive magic. 

The four gargoyles—the fifth, atop the embankment, had not yet stirred—flew through the air toward the boat as it drifted inexorably closer to the embankment.  As they drew nearer they could all see that the creatures had wrapped themselves in strips of cloth that covered much of their bodies, save for their wings and powerfully muscled and clawed forelimbs.  

“I think we can assume that they’re hostile,” Benzan said, and he let fly with an arrow as the gargoyles were still several hundred feet away.  The missile narrowly missed its target, but the angry screech the creature made clearly indicated its reaction to the attack.  The four creatures beat their wings in concert to lift them high into the air, and then they dove toward the boat.  

Benzan fired again, as did several of the boatmen, and they scored the first blood of the encounter as Benzan’s arrow slammed hard into a gargoyle’s leg.  Lok had loaded his crossbow but waited for them to draw closer, finally launching his bolt at the same time that Delem fired a pair of magic missiles.  Both volleys struck the lead creature, staggering it but not halting its dive.  

Benzan fired one last shot and then switched to his scimitar, waiting for the seemingly inevitable clash as the creatures dove into them.  But to their surprise, the gargoyles pulled out of their dive while still thirty or so feet above them, flying in a broad circle above their heads.  

They understood the gargoyles’ strategy when one pointed at Lok, and a twisting gray shaft of energy darted from its fingers to strike the genasi.  Lok shuddered as a wave of weakness swam out into his body through the contact, much like the draining touch of the shadows they had fought under Rathman’s mansion.  

“Look out!” Delem cried, as the others fired their own rays at the occupants of the boat.  Delem was struck and he staggered against the rail of the boat, barely catching himself before he plunged into the river.  Another lanced past Benzan, who was barely able to duck back out the beam’s path.  Behind them, they could hear one of the boatmen cry out as he was struck.  

“Let them have it!” Benzan cried, hefting his bow again and firing at the one he had injured.  He hit again, but the creature still remained in the air, ignoring the twin arrows jutting from its muscular frame.  The boatmen added bolts from their crossbows, but none of the panicked men found their mark.  

Delem fought off the weakness and stood, and saw the final gargoyle alight from the embankment and start toward them.  “That last one—it’s coming too!” he cried in warning. 

“Tell him to wait until we can take care of these four!” Benzan returned as he nocked yet another arrow.  

Delem sighted in on one of the leering gargoyles, the one that he and Lok had injured, and summoned his magic once again.  He pointed and a stream of liquid flame erupted from his hand, arcing across the water to strike the gargoyle in the chest.  The creature screamed and fell as the flames surrounded it, splashing into the water and vanishing into the cold depths of the river.  

“That’s one!” Benzan shouted in encouragement, then cursed as his next arrow missed.  

The three surviving gargoyles launched more beams of gray light at the boat.  Lok was struck again, although he cried out in defiance as he fought off the draining touch of the gargoyles’ magic.  The boatmen were not so fortunate, and one crumpled to the deck of the boat, barely able to move after being hit by his second ray.  

“Slay the god-slaves!” the last gargoyle cried out, as it reached the fray.  They could see that this last creature was significantly larger than the others, and it carried a longsword that gleamed in the bright light of the setting sun.  The other gargoyles cried out their own battle cries, and then dove at the occupants of the boat.  

The first, already wounded by two of Benzan’s arrows, took a third to the throat, and it splashed into the water a few feet shy of the boat, dousing the companions with water.  Lok took the full impact of the second’s diving charge on his shield, holding his ground and slashing into it with a devastating blow from his axe.  On the far flank, the last gargoyle dove at Delem, ripping into him with a vicious cut from a clawed arm.  Delem cried out in pain as black energies rippled from the creature’s claw into him through the wound, drawing life-energy from the sorcerer and transferring it to the gargoyle.  

Benzan came to Delem’s aid as the sorcerer fell back, slashing at the gargoyle with his scimitar.  The blade cut deep, slashing through the wrappings into its torso.  

The last gargoyle swept down out of the sun and landed heavily on top of the crates.  One of the boatmen tried to back away from it, but too slowly as its sword came down and cut deep into the poor man’s skull.  He spun away from the force of the impact and fell into the water with a bloody splash.  Another of the boatmen fired his crossbow at the creature, but the way his hands were shaking in fear caused the missile to fly harmlessly wide of his target.  

Now that the gargoyles were aboard the craft, the battle degenerated into a furious melee, with neither side willing to grant quarter.  The wounded gargoyle facing Lok grasped his shoulder with a claw and drained power from him much as its colleague had done to Delem.  The stolen energy clearly aided the thing, as the bleeding from its wound stopped, and the torn flesh of the cut came partially together.    

The thing cackled in satisfaction, but that ended as Lok hefted his axe, and with the full power of his still-considerable strength behind the attack, dashed the gargoyle’s head from its shoulders with a single stroke.  

“Heal that one, wretch,” he said as he kicked its headless body into the water.  

“Look out, Lok!” Delem cried in warning, as the gargoyle leader jumped down from atop the crates and slashed into him with his blade.  The blow caught the genasi hard on the shoulder, tearing through his mail and digging deep.  Lok grunted from the impact, but kept his footing as he staggered against the rail of the boat.  

Delem fired a pair of magic missiles into the creature from the side, gouging two smoking pits in its powerful frame.  But its focus seemed exclusively upon Lok, and at the moment the genasi was far more injured than the powerful gargoyle. 

Delem looked back at Benzan, but the tiefling was having problems of his own.  He’d hit again with his scimitar, but the gargoyle had countered with its energy-draining touch, weakening the warrior and healing its own wound.  Its claws could not penetrate the combination of Benzan’s new armor and shield, however, so he was otherwise uninjured.

Lok swung his axe at his new adversary, but missed.  The gargoyle feinted with its sword, scoring a glancing blow against Lok’s shield, but then suddenly lunged with its other hand and locked its claw around the genasi’s armored throat.  Black energies rippled from Lok’s body through the contact into the gargoyle, and it laughed as the life force replenished it.  

“Let… me… go!” the genasi said, struggling.  He brought his axe around, but couldn’t get an angle for an attack.

Delem fired a stream of fire into the back of the gargoyle, the flames splashing over its wings and burning its flesh.  The gargoyle screamed, but it was clear that the attack had done little more than enrage it as it twisted its head to regard the sorcerer.

“I will drain all the life from your friend, and then I will kill you, magi,” it spat at him.  

Benzan, who had finally defeated his adversary, leapt over the crates, his scimitar cutting a swath before him as he dove into the gargoyle from behind.  The blade tore deep into the scorched back of the creature, staggering it.  Lok took advantage of the distraction to drive the edge of his shield into the gargoyle’s elbow, forcing it to release its hold on him.  With a roar he brought his axe up and slammed it into the gargoyle’s chest.  The sound of its breastbone cracking was audible even over its gibbering cries, but the dark fire of its hatred still flared in its eyes, and it reached for Lok still, a dark nimbus of negative energy forming again around its claws.  

But before it could touch him, Delem fired another pair of missiles into its head, and it collapsed in a blackened and bloody heap on the deck of the boat.  

The three of them regarded the creature for a moment, each of them drained and battered from the brief but vicious battle.  Finally, Benzan looked over at Delem.  

“I think we need some healing.”


----------



## Tokiwong

*Sweeeet*

Healing is always good... nice even


----------



## Horacio

The prologue of book II was simply a masterwork.
As most masterworks, I can find some influences (Arthurian mythus anyone?) that enrich the tale. Wonderful!

        Horacio


----------



## Lazybones

Thanks, Horacio!  I was debating spending the extra 300gps, but it really paid off I guess .  Yes, the story of Arthur's birth through deception does resonate in my account of Lok's origins, but I can promise that our genasi won't be drawing any swords out of big rocks...

I've added some more bad guys to the Rogues' Gallery page, including the shade and Lamber Dunn.  As always, feel free to give feedback either there or here.

The story continues tomorrow, as the companions arrive in Baldur's Gate, and find out that getting Cal raised isn't as simple a proposition as they thought...


----------



## Broccli_Head

Mwhahahaha! Kir-lanan!

You know, LB my players made the comment "You've delved into the _Lords of Darkness_,  and you haven't come out!" 

do you feel the same way? 

"god-slaves"..._chuckles..._


----------



## Horacio

Lazybones said:
			
		

> *Thanks, Horacio!  I was debating spending the extra 300gps, but it really paid off I guess .  Yes, the story of Arthur's birth through deception does resonate in my account of Lok's origins, but I can promise that our genasi won't be drawing any swords out of big rocks... *




And what about an axe? 
"The king once and future raised the mighty Axe of Dwarvenship from the rock and all the dwarves kneeled to acknowledge their sovereign. A thousand of grave and deep voices cried withour hesitation:

_Gods save Lok, the Kings of all Dwarvenship!_"

It could be an epic ending for the campaing...
 

BTW, book 1 chapter 1 was great, I like gargoyles...


----------



## Lazybones

Broccli_Head,
I haven't picked up LoD yet, but I did just get Magic of Faerun.  Cool content, horrible artwork.  Some of the spells are a little cheesy IMHO, but at least one of the prestige classes will be making an appearance in the story soon.  

I've used two of the adversaries at the back of the FRCS now... perhaps I should have the companions encounter a group of murderous killer-rothe, to fill out the set?

Horacio, great idea!  I do have some pretty dramatic ideas bouncing around for the end of the story, but that's a while off yet... Lok will delve back into the mysteries of his past, and as for the others...

Well, wait and see!

* * * * * 


Book II, Part 2

The city of Baldur’s Gate was widely renown as one of the great metropolises of the northwestern coast of Faerun, its significance rivaled only by the City of Splendors, magical Waterdeep itself.  Baldur’s Gate was a nexus of trade, connecting the wild North, the rich Heartlands, and the Sword Coast, all bound together by the trackless avenues of the ocean, the many rivers that ran through the region, and the various trade roads.  For all that it was now a bustling city of tens of thousands, nearly twice the size of Elturel, Baldur’s Gate still bore the mark of the impermanent frontier, a place of exotic treasures, mysterious dangers, and unique characters.  

The three companions paid little heed to the wonders of the city, however, focused as they were upon their vital errand.  Their encounter with the gargoyles and the sudden appearance of a brief storm that had blown down from the north had slowed their travel down the river, but despite those obstacles only five days had passed since they had left Elturel.  They disembarked from the keelboat at the city docks, paid the nominal entry tax for admission into the city, and made their way into the crowded streets.

They decided not to wait, and after getting directions from a passing merchant, made their way to the temple district.  They got a lot of curious looks, both at Lok’s unusual appearance and at the small coffin they were carrying, but no one who got a look at the determination in their eyes tried to interfere with them.  

The Lady’s Hall, the temple of the goddess Tymora, was a remarkable edifice, its thick columns and elaborate carvings tribute to the regard with which the Lady Who Smiles was held in the city.  There was a steady stream of petitioners entering the temple through the massive double doors in the front of the structure, so the three companions joined the queue and passed through into the temple portico.  

Perhaps it was their unusual appearance, or the obvious quality of their equipment, but it only a few minutes before an acolyte approached them in greeting.  The young woman was a little taken aback when they asked for an audience with the High Priestess, and tried at first to deflect them, but Delem’s impassioned plea finally had her scurrying into the private chambers in the rear of the place.

“Way to go with that charm spell,” Benzan said. 

“I didn’t use it,” the sorcerer insisted.  

They did not have long to wait, and soon the acolyte returned and escorted them into a small but elaborately adorned chapel that adjoined the main temple.  There, they met Ilyessa Beldarin, High Priestess of Tymora and one of the most powerful clerics of the Sword Coast.  A fairly new resident of the city, Ilyessa was around forty, still youthful despite the traces of gray in her hair, and still possessed of a potent personality that each of the companions felt as she turned her steel-gray eyes upon each of them in turn.  

“Thank you, child,” she said, dismissing the acolyte.  If she felt any fear at being left alone with three armed strangers, she did not show it.  Her gaze returned to Benzan, and she stared intently at him for a long moment.  “What purpose do you have here, tiefling?” she said, her lips tightening slightly in an obvious gesture of disgust.  

Delem opened his mouth to say something, but Benzan cut him off with a gesture.  He stepped forward boldly, and stood before the regal woman.  “I am here because my friend sacrificed his life to defeat a great evil, the kind that your gods of good are supposedly dedicated to fighting.  We have letters from Lady Cleric Palintz and Secretary Padronus of Elturel, detailing our deeds, but if you are going to stand there and judge me, without even knowing me or my friends, on the basis of a heritage I had no choice in selecting, then perhaps we came to the wrong place for aid.”

The priestess’s eyes narrowed as she regarded him, but Benzan stood his ground, meeting her gaze squarely.  Finally, her frown cracked, and the hint of a smile appeared on her face. 

“It has been a long while since anyone has put me in my place,” she said, “and a fair time since I have deserved it so rightly.  Very well then, strangers, I will read your letters, and hear your tale.  But first tell me your names, so that I might know who it is who rebukes me so.”

They introduced themselves, handed over the sealed letters, and began relating what had happened to them.  Cal had been the natural storyteller among them, but together, with even Lok contributing bits and details, they related their story to the priestess.  

At her gesture they removed the top of the box, revealing Cal’s motionless form, his features preserved exactly as they had been by the power of Palintz’s spell.  The priestess looked down at him for a moment, then she muttered a brief incantation over him, her hand moving in a small circle above his head.  

“There is a lingering goodness about this one, that I can still feel,” she said.  

“So you will help us?” Lok asked.

The priestess turned and walked back to the far wall of the shrine, where rays of light slanted down through windows of stained glass fashioned into a variety of colorful designs.  “It is a great boon you seek,” she told them.  “Bringing a soul back across the veil is not something that is done lightly, for all that so many in these times seem to wield such great power recklessly.”  Her tone suggested that she knew personally of such cases.  

“We have wealth,” Benzan said, and he opened the small box he carried to let the light play on the surface of their gemstones.

“It seems that the reputation of Tymora’s church is well-established,” Ilyessa said dryly.  “While it is true that Our Smiling Lady’s church is known for selling healing spells and enchanted items for profit, I feel that what you are asking for goes beyond a simple mercantile transaction.”

“What do you mean?” Benzan asked, his tone admitting more than a little suspicion at her words.  

“I will be happy to provide you with assistance—divine scrolls, potions, or other items of minor magic that we can provide.  But for this boon you seek, I will require a service.”

“If you can help Cal, we will we do whatever you ask, be it within our power,” Lok said.  

“Wait a moment,” Benzan added, before the priestess could respond.  “I would like to find out what sort of chore you have in mind, first, if you don’t object.”

“Of course,” the priestess said, that enigmatic hint of a smile briefly returning for a moment.  For some reason, Benzan found that that little smile worried him.  “I promise that the aid I seek is in the cause of good, a cause that your friend here sacrificed so nobly to advance.  It involves risk, but very existence here in the ‘wild west’ involves that, and I can see from your story thus far that you are no strangers to that challenge.”

“Ah, my good Benzan, I can see that your patience is wearing thin at my riddles.  Very well, then, the favor I request is this: I require your help escorting a member of my order on a long journey, an important voyage to the farthest reaches of our continent of Faerun.  Her destination, the place she requires safe escort to, is Port Nyanzaru, in the land of Chult.”

Delem and Lok exchanged a blank look, but Benzan, who was more widely traveled, and who had heard more stories from travelers, exclaimed, “Chult!  The ‘farthest reaches,’ indeed!  What business could you possibly have in that gods-forsaken land?”

“My own business,” the priestess replied, not giving the tiefling an inch.  “All I ask of you is that you see my emissary to her destination safely, and see that she safely return.  It should not take more than a few months of your time in total—a small price, I would think, for the life of your friend.  And I promise you that your help will be aiding the cause of good, although I can say no more at this time about the nature of her errand, nor will she.”

“Where is this place?” Delem asked.  

“Chult is a harsh land, a deep jungle, at the tip of a long peninsula that juts out into the Trackless Sea,” Benzan answered.  “Cal would be able to tell you more, no doubt, were he able…” the tiefling broke off, uncomfortable at his own reminder of why they were here.  He met the eyes of each of his companions, saw reflected there the feeling in his own heart, and then turned back to the priestess.  

“If it will bring Cal back…” he began, but then something occurred to him, and he added, “But I cannot speak for Cal on this.  If we agree, it is the three of us, unless he agrees willingly to go.”

“Had you not noted that, I would have suggested the same,” Ilyessa said.  “I will not accept a service that is not freely granted—such a thing goes against the core tenets of the Lady’s creed.”

“How will you know if we honor our part of the bargain?  I mean, what if you restore Cal, and we just leave?” Delem asked.  By the look that Benzan shot the sorcerer, it was clear he’d been thinking the same thing, and regretted having it asked.  

But the priestess had a ready answer for that question as well.  “If you do accept this charge, I will administer a spell of questing, what wizards call a _geas_, upon each of you.  If you honor your commitment, it will not hinder you in any way, but if you violate the bargain intentionally… well, you will not find the effects pleasant.”

Benzan looked like he wanted to say something more, but he felt Lok’s heavy hand on his shoulder, and held his tongue.  He looked back at Delem, but the sorcerer, too, nodded his assent.  

“Very well,” he said.  “We accept.  But if possible, can we have some time here before we leave on this ‘quest’?  We need to reequip ourselves, and I think Cal might want some time to get used to being alive again.”

“Of course,” the priestess said.  “A ship, the _Raindancer_ out of Waterdeep, will dock here in a few days, and will depart a tenday’s hence.  Do you have lodging here in the town?”

“We came straight here from the docks,” Delem said.  

“Speak to the acolyte on the way out, and she can recommend a few comfortable places nearby, where you can take you rest.  Return tomorrow morning, and I will cast the spells then.  You may leave your friend in our care until then, and goddess-willing, tomorrow he will be restored to you.”

The three bowed—Benzan a little reluctantly—and took their leave, each bidding their friend a quiet farewell as they went.


----------



## Horacio

So it seems they have been engaged for another nasty adventure. And Cal will go back!!!!

Cool!


----------



## Lazybones

Book II, Part 3

They returned when the first rays of winter sunshine were just illuminating the bright dome of the Lady’s Hall, as the city was just beginning to stir from its night’s sleep.  The companions were silent, each nursing their own private fears and anticipation as they entered the outer precincts of the temple.  They were early, before the temple normally opened for the day, but they were not entirely surprised when an acolyte was waiting for them in the columned portico, and waved them inside through a side door.  

They were escorted directly to the same chapel in which they had met the high priestess the afternoon before, and left to wait there.  

“I didn’t get any sleep at all last night,” Delem said, fidgeting slightly with the hem of his cloak.

“I know,” Lok said, his manner a reassuring stability that bolstered them all.  “I hope that everything goes well.”

“Indeed,” came a voice from the rear hallway.  They turned as one as Ilyessa Beldarin walked into the room.  She was clad in a simple robe of shimmering silk that brushed on the polished stone of the floor as she walked.  She looked tired, with faint hints of rings under her eyes, but there was a gleam in those eyes that matched her smile as she greeted them.  

“Good morning,” she said.  “I believe there is someone here who wishes to see you.”

She stepped aside, and for the first time they could see the small figure who stepped up in her wake, dressed in a plain wool robe.  

“Cal!” Benzan and Delem cried out together, as all three friends rushed over to their risen comrade.  

“Hey guys,” the gnome said, his own smile weary but full of warmth.  If the high priestess looked tired, Cal looked exhausted, but he clasped arms with each of his friends, and for a moment everyone was talking at once, and laughing.  

It was Benzan who first looked up at the high priestess, whose normally cool expression had cracked on witnessing the open display of camaraderie.  The tiefling said to her, “But—you haven’t cast the questing spell yet, the one that you mentioned last night.”

A hint of wry humor twisted the woman’s smile.  “No, I haven’t,” she said.  “Actually, that spell is beyond my abilities, you see.”

Benzan nodded, understanding, and he bowed to the woman with respect.  

“Well, the duties of the day are calling me, and I am sure that you have many things to discuss,” the priestess said to them.  “I will send an acolyte to the inn where you are staying in a few days, with more information about your upcoming journey.  Remember that the _Raindancer_ departs on its voyage in a tenday.”  

“We’ll be there,” Lok said, and with another round of heartfelt thanks to the priestess, the companions, reunited again, departed.

* * * * * 

The tenday passed quickly, as the companions rested from their ordeal, enjoyed the pleasures of the city, and made preparations for their next adventure.  Cal was briefed on what had happened since his demise at the hands of the evil cleric—as Lok had put it, “Now, for once, someone else gets to be the storyteller.”  The gnome was happy to be back among his friends, but there was a shadow that crept into his expression at times when he was alone, and some of his previously mastered abilities were no longer available to him, drained by the ordeal of being restored from death back to life.  

They were wealthy, now, with the reward they’d received form the Town Council of Elturel and the treasures they’d found in the hidden shrine of Cyric.  Their combined treasure, once they’d sold the gems taken from the evil priest’s quarters, came to just over two thousand gold pieces for each of them.  Cal tried to insist that his share should be divided among his three friends, given all they had sacrificed for him, but Lok and Delem (and, belatedly, Benzan as well) vetoed that suggestion.  They also had accumulated several magical items that they hadn’t taken the time to examine closely before, including the black sword wielded by the shade warrior, and a silver ring that had been worn by the gargoyle leader, and which proved to be a minor protective item.  As the sword proved to be inferior to Benzan’s scimitar and Lok’s axe, and neither Delem nor Cal could use it, they elected to sell it trade it for something more useful, and they collectively agreed that Delem should wear the magical ring.   

“You need some protection, to keep you from going down with the first blow of the battle,” Benzan teased him, referring to their encounter in the warehouse with the shade.  

Benzan located a wizard who specialized in enchanting magical armor, and traded him the potent magical breastplate that had belonged to Lamber Dunn for lesser enchantments upon his mithral chainmail and Lok’s suit of full plate.  Lok added a tall pile of gold coins and placed his shield into the transaction, requesting a similar enchantment upon it.  With that hefty cash incentive the wizard was able to complete the task within the allotted time, and by the end of the tenday the two warriors were outfitted in their newly enhanced protection.  Benzan kept the magical chain shirt that he had previously used, for it was light and easily stored.  

They took advantage of the high priestess’s offer to sell them items created by the clerics of Tymora, and soon they had equipped themselves with potions and scrolls containing potent healing magic.  Cal also purchased a new magical wand, a slim rod of polished ivory that could cast a protective ward against evil.  After their battle with the demon, all of them welcomed the addition of that item to their arsenal.  

While exploring what the city’s shops had to offer, Delem found one other item of note.  After sharing his discovery with his companions, they agreed to pool much of what was left of their cash and purchase what he had found: a magical bag of holding, a remarkable device that could store goods inside much in excess of what its outside dimensions seemed to indicate.  They all agreed that such an item would prove very useful on their upcoming journey, and were soon placing carefully packed sacks of supplies into the magical bag.  Benzan in particular seemed interested in filling the bag with expensive foodstuffs and quality wines, so much so that Cal had to covertly remove a few of his additions to make room for more fundamental gear like rope and lamp oil.  Lok took custody of the bag, as they all agreed that the item would probably be safest on his person.  

Toward the end of the tenday another winter storm blew in off the Sea of Swords, soaking the city with a deluge of cold rain and blustery winds.  People without urgent business out in the streets remained in the warm shelter of the indoors, and as the day passed into the night in Baldur’s Gate, the four companions were no exception.  

Cal came down the stairs of the inn, and waved at his friends, who were already seated at a table near the massive stone hearth.  The common room was crowded, but people made way for the gnome, who quickly moved to join his companions. 

“He’s been spending a lot of time alone, lately,” Delem said in an undertone to his friends as Cal approached.  

“Give the guy a break, he’s just been dead for half a tenday,” Benzan said, then turned to greet the gnome as he finally reached them.  “Hey, Cal, buy you a drink?”

“I should be the one buying drinks for all of you,” Cal said, as he seated himself at the table.  He smiled at them, but it was a wan smile, lacking the typical energy that they were accustomed to seeing in their friend.  Still, there was a mischievous hint of something in his eyes as he turned to Benzan.  “So, I was putting a few of those wine bottles you left out back in your room, and I found something… _unusual_ among your things.”

“Oh?” Benzan said, but he clearly looked uncomfortable.  

“Not that it’s any of my business, or that I want to pry, but do you want to talk about it?”

The tiefling looked over at Lok and Delem, who had turned to him with curious looks on their faces.  “Oh, all right, it’s not like it’s a secret or anything.  I bought a spellbook, and some minor spells from that wizard who enchanted our armor.  I thought I’d take some time to study them on the voyage—not like we’re going to have much else to do with the time, especially with you taking most of my wine out of the bag of holding.”

“You, a magic-user?” Delem asked incredulously.  

“Yeah, me!” Benzan said.  “I grew up in Unther, where the gift is commonplace, and my mother… spent some time with a wizard friend of hers, when I was a child.  I didn’t think that I learned much then, but I guess some of it must have stuck.  Anyway, if you can become a cleric of Kossuth, then I can become a wizard.”

“Well, maybe Lok will become a paladin, next,” Cal chided lightly.  With more seriousness, he added, “It is every man’s right to develop his talents in whatever direction they may lead.  Let me know if I can be of any help in your personal explorations into the Weave.”

Benzan opened his mouth to reply, but his thought was interrupted as he caught sight of someone approaching them through the crowd.  The others saw his expression of surprise and turned to match his gaze, recognizing the individual who stepped up to their table and greeted them.  

“Hello there,” Lady Dana Ilgarten said to them.  

Cal recovered first, and replied, “Well, hello, Lady Ilgarten—Dana.  What a surprise to run into you here; I mean, we knew you were headed to Baldur’s Gate, but we certainly didn’t expect to see you.  Please, join us.”  He looked around for a vacant chair that they could appropriate, but all of the ones around them were occupied.

“I have a favor to ask of you,” the young noblewoman said.  

“Well, of course,” Cal replied.  “What can we do for you?”

Her gaze traveled over each of them in turn, fixed with determination.  “I wish to accompany you on your journey tomorrow,” she said. 

For all of the noise in the crowded common room, there was shocked silence at one table, at least.


----------



## Lazybones

I've updated the character stats in the Rogues' Gallery, including information from the most recent post.

Happy weekend everybody!
Lazybones


----------



## Lazybones

Book II, Part 4

“This is not a good idea,” Benzan said, as he paced across the floor of his room.  

Dana Ilgarten did not respond as she watched him from the bed.  Cal, Lok, and Delem were seated at the small table near the windowsill.  They had moved the discussion up here to gain some privacy and quiet, and thus far the young noblewoman had not wavered in her determination to join them on their quest for the church of Tymora.

“We will likely be gone for several months,” Cal offered.

“How did you even find out about this?” Benzan added, spinning to confront her.  Dana, for her part, seemed nonplussed at his hard tone and fixed stare.  

“My family’s business is all about knowing things before the competition,” she said. 

“It’s too dangerous…” Benzan began, then caught himself and paused.

Dana’s eyes narrowed.  “Too dangerous for a _woman_, you mean?  Because I know how to take care of myself.  I’ve been doing it for a long time, now.”

Benzan didn’t back down.  “I was going to say, too dangerous for a lord’s daughter, even one with your… talents.”

“What my friend is trying to say,” Cal interjected smoothly, “is that you aren’t the typical adventurer.  Won’t your father be concerned if you suddenly disappear on a long journey half-way around Faerun?  What of your responsibilities here?”

Dana sighed, and when she spoke again it was with heartfelt feeling.  “Look, I know that you hardly know me, but I can assure you that this is not a decision that I am making lightly.  I know that you four answer to no one except yourselves, that all roads are your home and every choice yours to make.  Can you understand what it is like not to have that freedom?  I know that there are many who would say that I am spoiled, that I have through a simple accident of birth inherited a station that would be the envy of most in this dangerous world we live in.”

“But all I’ve ever wanted is to live my own life.  My father has sons and daughters who can give him what he wants, _be_ what he wants.  Just for once, I want to be Dana, not ‘Lady Ilgarten’.  I have honed my skills, pushed myself to develop new talents, for just this opportunity.”

“And…  and I owe you four.  I’m not so naïve that I don’t know what those men—and that monster, Zorak—might have done to me.  I still wake up shaking, sometimes, but then I think of you four, and all that you did…”

She stood, and met their gazes squarely.  “I’m not asking for your protection, and I’m not asking as the Lady Ilgarten.  I’m just Dana, and I want to go with you as an equal member of your company.”

“Well spoken,” Cal said, and it was as if her words had eased a lingering pain within him as well, for when he smiled there was a hint of his old fire back in it.  

Benzan, however, was not ready to surrender his point just yet.  “You say that you want to be an equal member of the group—how do we know that you can take care of yourself?”

There was a blur of motion, and Benzan suddenly found himself lying on his back up against the wall, dazed.  Dana stood above him, unable to keep a satisfied smirk from her expression. 

“Good answer,” Lok said.  


* * * * * 

As the evening deepened into night, and the storm continued unabated over Baldur’s Gate, the fast sloop _Raindancer_ bobbed at her moorings at the city’s docks, securely battened down against the wind and the rain.  A pair of miserable watchmen cursed their ill luck as they paced the deck, envious of the fun that their comrades were having in the city—or even those few still aboard, below decks, playing dice and swapping tall tales. 

The sailors took their duty seriously, but neither spotted the dark shadow that crept on board along the lowered gangplank and darted swiftly into the ship’s open hold.  Nor did they notice anything unusual when the shadowy figure reappeared ten minutes later, and slipped off the ship and disappeared back into the night.


----------



## Horacio

So the party has a new member, well, well, well...
And the adventure begins again!

Lazybones, as usual, a great update, but with a big drawback...

It leaves me hungry for another update!!!!

Please, more soon!


----------



## Maldur

I couldn't agree more.

Horatio, your right !

keep it up lazybones.


----------



## Lazybones

Book II, Part 5

The storm broke by morning, leaving a few scattered gray clouds that continued an intermittent drizzle over the city.  Cal, Benzan, Lok, and Delem left their inn early, making their way toward the docks district of the city.  The would meet Dana there; after they had agreed last night to let the young woman accompany them, she had departed to, as she put it, “wrap up some loose ends.”  They would also meet the Tymoran agent that they were supposed to escort for the first time; apparently she had been unavailable to see them until the very day of the departure.  They knew the way, having already made one visit earlier in the tenday to see the ship and introduce themselves to its captain, an elf by the name of Kael Horath.  

“I hope the weather holds up,” Benzan said, looking up at the lingering clouds overhead.  To the west, over the sea, the skies appeared clear, but they all knew how quickly the winter storms could blow in from the ocean and unload their wet cargo.  

“Well, hopefully the name of the vessel bodes well for a winter journey,” Cal said optimistically.  “And that captain seems to know what he’s about, from what I could see.”

“Never did any ocean sailing, did you?” Benzan returned.  “I’ve only sailed on the Sea of Fallen Stars, but I can tell you, that even that isn’t pleasant to ride in the wintertime.”

“Well, I _did_ live in Waterdeep, and there was a fair amount of sailing going on out of there,” Cal replied.  “It will be all right, you’ll see.  Once we get further south, past the horn of Tethyr, the weather will improve some, and we’ll have a strong southerly breeze to speed our way.”

At the mention of Tethyr, Delem frowned, but did not say anything.  

They saw that they were passing into the docks district of the city, a place of loud noises, strange smells, and unusual sights.  People from all over the west of Faerun were in evidence despite the lingering rain, and the sounds of a dozen tongues filled the air.  Over it all hung the salty tang of the sea, and the cries of seagulls hovering on the breeze.  

“Starting a journey, travelers?” a scratchy voice called out to them from alongside the boulevard.  “A long journey, should see what the fates have in store fer you, first.”

The four companions turned to see that the voice belonged to a wizened old woman, her face a maze of wrinkles, dressed in a once-colorful smock that hung about her bony frame like a shroud.  She was hovering in the entry of a small shop, its waterlogged frame looking like it could collapse at any moment.  

“A fortune teller,” Delem said.

“Read the threads of fate fer you, travelers,” the woman crowed at them, “only a pair o’gold fer each of you.”

Benzan and Lok had already turned to go, but Cal stopped them.  “Maybe I should,” the gnome said.  “Might help keep me from getting killed again.”

Benzan turned to him.  “Don’t tell me you believe in this mummery?”  

“Come on, we’ve got a little time,” Cal persisted.  “What do you say, Delem?”

The sorcerer shrugged.  “I guess.”

The four of them followed the old crone into the crowded front room of the run-down shack.  The place smelled of herbs and other odors less readily defined, and old hangings of tattered cloth decorated with arcane symbols covered the walls.  There was a tiny table in the center of the room, upon which rested a block of quartz that was only approximately spherical in shape.  

The old woman directed them to sit down at the chairs around the table; or at least for Cal and Delem to sit, for there were only three chairs in the room all together.  She sat down facing them and bent low over the crystal. 

“So, who wishes to know of their future?” the old woman cackled.  

“Why don’t you do a reading for all of us,” Cal said.  “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it,” he said, somehow reading Benzan’s scowl without even turning.  He counted out a number of gold pieces, and placed them on the table beside the quartz crystal.  

The money quickly vanished, and the woman began moving her hands over the crystal, muttering phrases to herself that might have been arcane syllables or manufactured gibberish.  The crystal did begin to glow, slightly, a blue radiance that cast a pallor over the woman’s face.  

“Four strangers, meet on a desolate road,” she said.  “Already they have faced dangers together, binding them as one against the darkness that lurks hidden.  Spirits of fate, speak through me of where their course will take them.”

Delem glanced up at Benzan, who shrugged.  “She’s got the showmanship down, I’ll give you that,” he whispered.  

The woman opened her mouth to speak again, but suddenly, surprising them with the violence of it, she jerked back in her chair, her eyes popping wide.  She opened her mouth, and a hollow voice, different from her earlier screeching, came from deep within her.  Her lips did not move, but the voice was clearly audible.  



“Four strands in the web of fate, four threads in the weave of life
Will walk the roads of the West during a time of strife
One will produce a scion that will prove the bane of nations
One will end his days in peace, surrounded by generations
One will be forever destroyed, his soul consumed in the fire 
One will…  one will…”

The old woman hesitated, squirming in her seat as if resisting the words that wanted to come.  

“… one will join the ranks of gods, to which few mortals can aspire!”

With that, she collapsed forward onto the table, as suddenly as if the string keeping her taut had been abruptly cut.  Delem crouched beside her, concerned, but Benzan said, “It’s all part of the act, I’m sure she’s fine.”

Indeed, the woman stirred, and as her head rose she looked at them with a lingering confusion in her eyes.  “I’m sorry… sometimes the spirits do not wish to share their wisdom.  No refunds.”

As the four companions left the shack and continued on their way, they spoke of the unusual scene they had just witnessed.  

“That was weird,” Cal said.

“She knew about us, how we met,” Delem said, his expression troubled.  Clearly, the “consumed in the fire” line had given him pause, and he glanced back several times at the shack even after it disappeared into the crowd behind them.  

“They always make it vague enough to apply to anybody,” Benzan said.  “Look, if she really was legit, a powerful diviner, do you think she’d be selling visions for two gold a shot down by the docks?  She was a canny one, I’ll grant you that, and maybe it was worth the gold for the show, but I wouldn’t worry too much about that ‘prophecy’ if I were you.”

“I liked the ‘end his days in peace’ one, myself,” Lok offered as they saw the tall masts of ships rise up above the crowds ahead of them, marking their destination.  

Still talking about their strange encounter with the fortune teller, they made their way to their ship.


----------



## Horacio

Wow! Now they have even a PROPHECY...

Lazybones, your story is getting better and better. I love your descriptions, and I love your "non-combat" post, they are even better than combat oriented ones...


----------



## Lazybones

Book II, Part 6

“Permission to come aboard, Captain Horath,” Cal said loudly from atop the gangplank.

“Permission granted,” the elf replied, gesturing for him and the others to join him on the rear deck of the _Raindancer_.  The four companions made their way through the busy stir of activity as the crew of the sloop, a mixed group of twenty men and women of various races, readied the craft for departure.

The ship was a sleek vessel, twin masted, perhaps twenty feet in beam and just under a hundred in length, its form a compromise between speed and carrying capacity.  A heavy ballista was mounted in the bow, and a bright standard showing the sigil of Waterdeep fluttered in the wind at the stern.

As they reached the aft deck, clambering up a short but steep stair to reach the raised area, the captain gestured to a woman standing beside him.  To their surprise, the woman was a halfling, smaller even than Cal, but with a stern expression on her face as she looked them over.  

“I’d like to present Ruath Talasca, most gracious servant of the Smiling Lady,” the captain said in introduction.  The halfling shot a brief glance at the elf that seemed almost… suspicious, but quickly shifted her attention back to the companions.  

“A pleasure, always, to meet one of the followers of Lady Luck,” Cal replied with a polite bow.  “I am Balander Calloran, or just ‘Cal,’ if you please, at your service, and these are my companions, Lok, Benzan, and Delem.”

Ruath’s expression did not change.  “Well, you all certainly look dangerous enough.  You were saying, captain, why we had to delay our departure?”

“Just for the afternoon tide, ma’am.  I assure you, we’ll be well on our way by nightfall, with a following wind to speed our way.”

The cleric let out a harrumph, but did not question him further.  “If you don’t mind then, captain, I will retire to my quarters.  Please notify me when you are prepared to depart, so that I may offer a blessing for our safe journey.  Gentlemen,” she said to the four companions with a dismissive nod of her head, then turned and descended the stairs down to the lower deck.  

“Charming woman,” Benzan said, once she was safely out of earshot.  “I shudder to think of what she’d be like if she were full-sized.”

“Crewman!” the captain called out, summoning a passing youth from the lower deck.  “Maric here will show you to your quarters—I hope you don’t mind sharing a stateroom, but accommodations are a little crowded on a vessel like this.  You don’t have any extra baggage?” the captain asked them.  

“We like to travel light,” Cal said, feeling that it was probably better to keep the existence of their magical stash in the bag of holding quiet for now.  “We are expecting one more member of our party, however, a young woman.  Have you seen her, yet?”

“No,” the captain said, frowning slightly, but then Delem cried, “There she is!”   They looked out over the rail, and there indeed was Dana Ilgarten, running up the dock at quite a rapid pace, a heavy satchel slung over one shoulder.  

“I’m afraid I don’t have another private room available,” the captain said as the young woman drew rapidly nearer, weaving her way through the crowd of people on the docks.  

“Oh, put her with lady Talasca,” Benzan said.  “I’m sure that the good cleric won’t mind some company.”

The captain’s grin was contagious.  “An excellent idea.” 

* * * * * 

The sun was just about to touch the waves on the western horizon when the _Raindancer_ made its way out of the harbor into the open seas.  The sleek ship had the afternoon tide to itself, for though Baldur’s Gate was a busy port, there were many captains who chose not to hazard the rough winter storms common along the Sword Coast at this time of year.  Dark clouds to the north and west promised another such storm shortly, and people in the city went about their business with a sense of urgency in their steps, enjoying the respite while they had it. 

From the southwestern battlements of the city, looking out over the frothing whitecaps of the sea, someone watched the ship as it headed out into the horizon.  The light of the setting sun shone brightly on the slick stone of the battlements around her, while the wind tugged at her plain cloak and caused her hair to dance in the air behind her.  

A second figure came out of the shadows of a nearby guard tower, a man, moving to join the lone watcher.  She shifted her gaze briefly to him at his coming, then looked back out at the seas where the ship was already just a speck in the distance.  

“I thought I might find you here,” the man said to the woman.  “I heard that you sent those four who stirred up a hornet’s nest in Elturel along with your emissary.”

“Yes,” she responded.  “An unusual group of companions—unlikely heroes indeed, but perhaps what is needed at this junction of events.”

“Are you sure it is the right decision, sending them out of the Western Heartlands at this time?” the man asked.  

“These are tumultuous times we are facing,” the woman responded, “Not suited for certainty of any sort, I think.  But for those four, who did so much in such a short time, it is better that they leave these troubled shores for a while.  With luck, they may earn the experience that they will need for the trials to come, and return to us like the steel that is tempered in the forge…”

For a while neither of them said anything more, as the sun began to sink into the western sea.  “May the luck of the Lady follow your steps, travelers,” the woman finally whispered, and the two left the seascape behind them for the noise and clutter of the city.


----------



## Lazybones

Book II, Part 7

The full sails of the _Raindancer_ strained with the potency of the cold northern winds, driving the ship through the ocean swells on its long southern journey.  A tenday had passed since the craft had left Baldur’s Gate, and this blustery day the crew was enjoying a respite from the numerous winter storms that they had passed through thus far on their voyage.  Captain Horath had his crew crawling over the ship, both abovedecks and below, making repairs, checking lines and rigging, and inventorying the supplies that they had remaining.  The vessel had stopped briefly in Athlatka to take on supplies, and now was making for Asavir’s Channel, along the western peninsula of Tethyr. 

The long days had not passed quickly for the companions.  As passengers, they spent most of their days in their stateroom, venturing out when the close quarters and forced inactivity made tempers tight and patience thin.  

Lok’s incredible fortitude seemed to have found a weakness, as his companions quickly observed.  Perhaps it was the fact of being separated from the earth that was a part of his heritage, or more simply just the constant rocking of the ship on the wind and the waves.  The genasi spent much of the first tenday in his bunk, unable to disguise his discomfort with his usual implacable front.  When he could rise he spent much of his time helping the crew, putting his skills in metalworking to good use in keeping the ship in good repair through the harsh weather.  

Cal did spend some time plying his lute, singing songs and easing some of the tensions among the crew and passengers, but he still seemed rather withdrawn.  He spent a great deal of time in their cabin, examining his spellbook under the light of a shielded lantern.  It seemed that some of the effects of his brush with mortality still lingered about the gnome, and he was particularly preoccupied with the magical power that he’d lost through the experience as he continued his arcane researches. 

Benzan was… well, Benzan was, in a word, antsy.  True to his word, he did spent hours examining the magical writings that he’d acquired in Baldur’s Gate, but it was clear from his frequent exclamations of frustration that he could not yet master the mysteries of the magic.  Cal did provide him with help, as he had promised, and said that he could sense the spark of talent in the Art in his friend, but it seemed as though Benzan was not ready, not yet.  Instead he spent time gambling with the sailors, who quickly got over their unease around him, exploring every nook and corner of the ship, and drinking most of the wine they’d brought in their bag of holding.

Delem spent most of the voyage deep in his own thoughts.  He could spend hours staring at the flickering flame that burned within their lantern, lost in contemplation.  It was clear to his companions that his powers were growing quickly, and that the young man had to come to grips with those new abilities on his own.  While still solitary in his mood and manner, he was no longer alone.  He drew strength from the presence of his friends, and no longer seemed as skittish, uncertain, as he once had been.  He spent some time with Dana as well, talking about philosophy and religion, and learning more about their respective backgrounds.  

The five of them were together now on the fore deck of the ship as it cuts its rapid path through the waves, enjoying the break in the weather and the opportunity to take in some sun and fresh air, cold though it may be. 

“How much longer do you think it will take?” Dana was asking.

“Some tendays yet, I gather,” Cal replied.  “We’re approaching the narrows between the horn of Tethyr and the Nelanther Isles, Asavir’s Channel, they call it.  The captain will take us down the coast, along the passage mariners call the Race, to the coastal cities of western Calimshan, then across the Shining Sea to Chult.”

“Seems a roundabout way to go,” Delem said.  “Wouldn’t it just be faster to sail straight south, and go directly to Chult?”

“Shorter, perhaps, but not faster,” Cal answered.  “The Trackless Sea is known by that name for a reason, and most captains aren’t going to want to risk that much open ocean without cause.”

“The Amnians went all the way to Maztica,” Dana offered.

“Yes, and many of their mariners have paid the price for that bold venture,” Cal replied.  

Their discussion was interrupted as the watchman in the crow’s nest high atop the mainmast called out a sighting, drawing the attention of everyone on board to the rear of the vessel.  Benzan rushed down to the aft deck, the others close at his heels, to where the captain stood looking through a small pocket spyglass.  Ruath, whom they had barely seen during the journey, was standing beside him.

“What is it, captain?” Benzan asked.

The captain did not turn, continuing to look out toward the distant horizon.  “Looks like we have a shadow,” he finally said.  

“Who is it?” Delem asked.  

The captain handed the spyglass to the sailor beside him, and turned to face them.  “No way to be sure at this distance,” he said, “But this close to the Nelanther Isles, I can hazard a pretty good guess.”

“Pirates,” Benzan said.  

Ruath frowned in the direction of their pursuer, as if her displeasure alone could make the distant ship disappear.  “Can you outrun them?” she asked.  

The captain nodded.  “We’ll see.”

* * * * * 

The day passed slowly, the entire crew filled with a nervous tension as their pursuer drew steadily nearer.  Captain Horath kept the crew busy, working the sails to maximize every last bit of wind, or unloading heavy crossbows from the ship’s weapons lockers and readying them for use.  Still, there were many glances back at the closing vessel, even though it was still too distant for them to make out any details about the craft.  

The passengers joined in as best they could, helping the sailors and making their own preparations in case a battle was indeed approaching.  It was mid-afternoon when the companions finally gathered again on the aft deck, where the captain was again looking through his glass at their ‘shadow’.  The ship was near enough now to make out with the naked eye.  It was a sleek vessel, clearly built for speed, yet significantly smaller than the _Raindancer_.  It seemed to leap across the waves, as if the craft itself was eager to reach them.

The captain lowered the spyglass, and the expression on his face told them the news was not good.  “It’s the _Gray Raker_,” he said.  

“A pirate ship?” Delem asked.

“Indeed,” the captain replied.  “Commanded by a minotaur captain, and word is that he’s gotten a wizard, too.”

“Sail ho, starboard forward!” came a cry from the crow’s nest, drawing their attention away from their pursuer to the starboard rail.  Even without the spyglass they could see not one, but two sails in the distance, heading closer. 

“I don’t suppose those would be Tethyrian cutters, coming to our aid,” Benzan said wryly.  

“No,” the captain replied.  

Effectively flanked, the _Raindancer_ sailed on, while the pirate vessels closed swiftly on her position.


----------



## Horacio

The story begins to move again, another fight is beign announced... Pirates!

I'd have never supposed they would find a pirate ship... 
Cool! I like pirates!


----------



## Lazybones

Book II, Part 8

Once it was clear that the _Raindancer_ would not outrun her pursuers before the fall of night, Captain Horath ordered his crew to trim the sails and they prepared for the attack.  

The three pirate vessels were all well smaller than the _Raindancer_, with the _Gray Raker_ perhaps half the size of the merchantman and the other two vessels even smaller, single-masted cutters each with a single deck.  Between the three of them, though, they looked to have at least twice the number of pirates onboard as Horath’s crew, and that wasn’t even considering the impact of the minotaur captain and the wizard he was rumored to have on board.  

The three pirate vessels converged on the merchantman, the _Gray Raker_ sweeping in from the port side while its twin allies came in from starboard.  As the pirate vessels neared bow range the companions could see the pirates eagerly waiting along the rails and even in the rigging of their ships, with bows, grapples, or cutlasses at the ready.  They were of mixed race, with humans, orcs, and hobgoblins represented, but all seemed equally ready to plunder the surrounded merchantman.  

Horath’s men and women had equipped themselves for battle, setting up six crank-operated heavy crossbows in shielded mountings along the rail, and preparing the heavy ballista in the bow for use.  Several of the other crewmen had other missile weapons, light crossbows or short bows, and all carried a cutlass, mace, or club for melee.  The elf captain himself produced a massive longbow, and slung a quiver full of arrows over his shoulder.  

The companions made their final preparations as well.  Cal used his wand of mage armor on himself, Delem, and Dana, and all of them prepared their missile weapons for use.  They were all positioned on the aft deck, where the enemy fire would first be concentrated, behind the bales and barrels that the sailors had placed along the rail for cover.  

“If you see that wizard, be sure to take him out first,” Benzan reminded them.  

The heavy twang of the ballista marked the opening of the battle, the missile flying across the waves to strike one of the smaller ships just below the rail, doing no damage.  The crewmen manning the engine rapidly moved to reload it, while the pirate ships drew swiftly closer.  

And then the arrows started to fly.  

Most of the missiles struck harmlessly in the deck or into the makeshift barriers they had erected, but a scream from the lower deck behind them spoke of at least one arrow finding its mark.  The men and women of the _Raindancer_ returned fire, their missiles raking the decks of the pirate ships, scoring at least a few hits even at extreme range.  

The barrage continued, as the ships drew nearer.  And then they spotted the minotaur.  

The pirate commander, standing on the deck of the _Gray Raker_, was a monstrous creature, standing easily half-again the height of the tallest human pirate.  He hefted a massive composite longbow, and fired an arrow at the _Raindancer_.  The shot narrowly missed Captain Horath, striking the aft mast and lodging there.  

Cal saw that a steaming wisp of smoke rose from where the arrow hit, and that a greasy yellow fluid had spread over the damp wood, eating away at it.  

“Acid arrows!” he exclaimed, recognizing the weapon.

“Let him have it!” Benzan cried, targeting the massive beast.  They could see that a smaller creature, recognizable as an orc even from several hundred feet away, had moved forward, standing in front of the minotaur.  

Benzan’s arrow slashed through the air, and looked like a direct hit until the moment that it bounced off the orc’s chest, deflected by an invisible barrier. 

“I think I found the wizard,” he told the others.

Cal was already casting a spell, and as they watched a fountain of water erupted in front of the charging _Gray Raker_, the spray resolving into a massive sea serpent that reared up out of the water.  The cries of the pirates could be heard on the _Raindancer_, but the ship continued to advance.  Cal’s illusion could do little more than block the line of fire of the pirates, as the gnome continued to direct it from his position of cover.  A few fired their bows uselessly at the figment, giving them at least some respite from the withering barrage.  

But the other two vessels kept up their assault, and more hits were taken about the _Raindancer_.  A crewman went down with an arrow in his throat, and even though Ruath was there quickly, there was nothing that could be done for him.  Two others took less critical hits and fell back from the rail, arrows jutting from their torsos.  

The exchange of arrows continued as the vessels neared to within three hundred feet, then two hundred.  Cal let the concentration on his illusion lapse, and he prepared another spell.  

“Delem…”

“Just a little closer,” the sorcerer said, as he reloaded his crossbow.

Captain Horath plied his bow with deadly speed, launching missile after missile at the _Gray Raker_.  He’d scored several hits already, but then he staggered as another acid-tipped missile caught him on the shoulder.  The tall elf cried out in pain as the searing acid ate through his studded leather armor and ravaged his flesh beneath.  

“Dana, help him!” Cal cried, as he readied his sleep spell.  

As the ships closed to within a hundred feet, the spells started to fly, joining the barrage of arrows.  The orc, protected from the arrows that continued to fly around him, made a series of arcane gestures and pointed at the ship, summoning his magic.  

A storm of icy cold erupted on the raised aft deck of the _Raindancer_, tearing into the companions and the nearby crewmen.  Balls of snow and ice tore into them from the point of origin of the spell, filling them with a cold that threatened to chill them to their very bones.  Captain Horath, already seriously hurt, went down, and two of his crew nearby fell also, succumbing to the numbing power of the spell.  Dana, caught in the full force of the blast, was staggered, and the rest of them felt some of its force wash over them as well, weakening them.    

“Will somebody get that damned wizard!” Benzan growled in frustration.  He fired another arrow, but again it was deflected by the arcane magic of the orc wizard.  They realized that the orc was making an effective shield for the minotaur, too, who stood behind the wizard and continued to fire its mighty bow.  They saw their archer up in the crow’s nest crumple, a smoking arrow stuck in his chest.

Delem fought off the numbing cold and pulled himself up to the rail.  Summoning his magic, he released a pair of magic missiles that sped across the distance and struck the wizard, burning through his protections and scoring his chest.  

“Yeah, give him some more of that!” Benzan shouted in encouragement.  

Delem’s action had unfortunately drawn attention to him, and several arrows came at him from the three vessels.  The first few hit the barriers or were turned by his mage armor, but one stuck in his shoulder, knocking him back.  

“Delem’s hit!” Lok shouted.

“I’m all right!” the sorcerer cried, although it was clear that he was seriously injured.  

With a roar that erupted from all three ships, the pirates slowly slid abreast of the _Raindancer_, as the arrows and spells continued to fill the air between them.  The nearer of the two smaller ships blocked the other, so only one at first could come alongside.  Grapnels arched through the air and caught on the rail and in the rigging, pulling the smaller ship closer.  On the port side, the _Gray Raker_ was doing the same, and several of its pirates were already clambering into its rigging, preparing to board the merchantman.  

“Here they come!” Cal cried, as he launched his sleep spell into a dense cluster of pirates on board the _Raker_.  Four collapsed into magical sleep, but that still left nearly a dozen that started clambering up the side of the _Raindancer_. 

A human pirate swung across from the _Raker_ and landed on the aft deck in front of them, his cutlass bare in his hand.  He’d barely caught his balance, though, before Lok barreled into him, his axe ripping the hapless pirate nearly in two.  Several others had already boarded via the main deck from both sides of the ship, however, and the crew there was taking heavy casualties from their attacks.  The small vessel on the starboard side quickly discharged its entire crew of ten pirates, at their head a massive half-orc who was wielding a battleaxe like a scythe as it cut through the defenders.  The last ship was already maneuvering toward the front of the lagging _Raindancer_, with another half-score of pirates eager to join in before the violence and looting were finished.

On the aft deck, the companions held on, and the surviving crewmembers were retreating to that redoubt and to the raised foredeck, where the ballista crew and several additional crewmembers were still fighting.  Captain Horath rose unsteadily, his injuries partially healed by the quick intervention of Ruath, and he drew his rapier as he tried to rally the remnants of his crew to his side.  The halfling priestess called upon Tymora in a prayer to steady them and hinder their enemies, although it could not stop the deluge of pirates as they swarmed on them from all directions.  

Cal stepped to the edge of the narrow stair that ran down to the lower deck as a wave of pirates pursued several injured crewmen.  Once the crewmen had passed, he fired a color spray into the pirates, blasting the first knot of men, orcs, and hobgoblins into unconsciousness.  Others came on over their fallen companions, but Benzan was there, firing an arrow into the throat of the first and knocking him back into his companions.  

A pair of glowing bolts streaked over from the deck of the _Raker_, hitting Cal and Benzan.  Apparently the orc mage was still going strong.  

“Somebody get that mage, damn it!” Benzan repeated as he dropped his bow and drew his scimitar.  The remaining pirates seemed reluctant to rush up the narrow stair, but then the half-orc charged forward, spittle falling from its lips as it slavered in mad battle rage, knocking aside two of its own comrades as it came.   

Two more pirates swung over to the aft deck on ropes but were repulsed, as captain Horath stabbed one and Dana smacked the second in the face before he could gain his footing.  Both fell back into the narrow space between the ships, screaming as they were crushed between the vessels.  

And then the minotaur stepped forward.  The orc wizard muttered an incantation and touched the creature, infusing him with some arcane magic.  The power of the spell was immediately evident as the minotaur leapt straight up into the air, clearing the rail of the _Raindancer_ and landing with a powerful thud squarely in the midst of the embattled companions.  The bull-headed monstrosity stood over seven feet tall, dressed in a breastplate and carrying a massive double-bladed axe.  

Lok was there to greet its arrival.  The genasi did not hesitate, ripping into the towering creature with a powerful stroke to the hip that dug deeply into its muscled flesh.  

Delem’s knees shook at the appearance of the minotaur, and he knew that Lok would need help, but he also knew that the enemy wizard was still a deadly threat.  Still hurt from the effects of the snowburst and the arrow he’d taken, he staggered across the aft deck and past the deadly melee to the port rail.  He looked down on the deck of the _Gray Raker_, now virtually empty save for a few pirates that had been crippled by arrows.  

And the orc wizard, who spotted him and started moving his hands in arcane gestures.

“No you don’t!” Delem shouted, summoning his own magic.  The flames came quickly to his call, extending from his hands in a stream that slammed into the chest of the orc.  The flames washed over it, burning away even its screams as it crumpled into a burning heap on the deck of the pirate vessel.   

The half-orc barbarian led a blind charge up the stairs to the raised aft deck, his axe sweeping ahead for Benzan’s head as he came.  Benzan gave ground, letting the axe cut through the air before he countered with a slash that tore into the pirate’s lightly armored chest.  The barbarian staggered but its rage kept it coming, countering with a heavy blow that was fortunately partially absorbed by Benzan’s magical armor.  Even so, the tiefling was hurt, and it was clear that a blow-for-blow exchange would not be enough to defeat this adversary.

Into the opening forged by the half-orc came another rush of pirates, but even as the first reached the aft deck Cal fired another color spray down the stair, sending several unconscious pirates back into the arms of their fellows.  

The minotaur roared a challenge and swept its axe at Lok, the swing backed by the incredible power of its muscular frame.  The blow looked strong enough to cleave even the doughty genasi in two—had it connected.  Lok managed to dodge back, and the blade only lightly clanged off of his shield, missing wide.  

Allies came to the genasi’s aid before the minotaur could recover and attack again.  Captain Horath came up behind it and struck with his rapier, but the slender blade could not penetrate the massive pirate’s heavy armor.  And then, from the opposite flank, Dana charged in, slicing a shallow cut in its side with her kama.  

“Dana, no!” Lok shouted, realizing that the young woman was far outmatched by this adversary.  

The warning came too late, as the minotaur twisted nimbly around.  Its axe caught Dana on the shoulder, only her sudden dodge keeping it from separating her arm from her body.  Even so, the impact spun her around, a fountain of blood flying into the air as she staggered and crumpled to the slippery surface of the deck.  

The minotaur grinned in feral satisfaction as it came around again to face the more dangerous adversary, grunting as the genasi scored another hit to the beast’s torso.  The minotaur seemed possessed of an incredible fortitude, however, as it raised the deadly axe to strike again.  

Benzan, too, was finding himself hard-pressed.  The barbarian’s rage was driving it on with a violence that shrugged off the hits the tiefling got in with his scimitar.  The tiefling’s agility and magical armor gave him the edge, but even so his side burned where another blow had been only partially absorbed by the mithral links of his chainmail.  If that axe caught him solidly, he knew that the battle would be over quickly.  

And then he caught sight of Cal out of the corner of his eye, and took heart.  

The half-orc came on again in a rush designed to barrel Benzan right off the edge of the ship.  He staggered, though, as the gnome cast a spell that clouded his senses, drawing off his rage into a confused daze.  The half-orc’s strengths were physical, not mental, so he had little chance of fighting off the spell.  The barbarian could only stand there, unable to act, as Benzan grabbed onto it and used its own momentum to toss it over the side of the ship.  

The splash from below was very rewarding.  

A few short paces away, the battle with the minotaur captain raged on.  The beast ignored the feeble thrusts from Horath and focused on Lok.  It caught him with a blow that knocked his shield aside and cleaved into the shoulder underneath, but Lok returned the stroke with a counter that ripped another bloody, frost-rimmed gash in the minotaur’s side.  The two combatants traded blows like a smith hammering on a forge, but even though Lok was half the size of the minotaur, he refused to give ground.

And yet the contest was heavily weighed toward one outcome.  After Lok turned yet another stroke from the minotaur’s massive axe, but before he could counter, the beast suddenly swiveled back and jammed the hilt of the weapon into the genasi’s face.  Lok staggered back a step and fell hard, blood flowing in a fountain from his shattered nose.  Horath tried to stab at the minotaur again from the flank, but the massive creature spun, and with a speed that belied its considerable size, slammed its horned head down into the elf captain’s face.  Horath too crumpled to the deck, unconscious.  

The minotaur let out a bellow of triumph over its two fallen foes as it stepped forward, axe lifted high to put an end to Lok’s life.


----------



## Horacio

Oh, oh, oh, these pirates are really nasty...
Waiting next update!!!!


----------



## Lazybones

Book II, Part 9

The minotaur loomed over the fallen genasi, who had lost consciousness and could not see the coming stroke.  

But Lok was not alone, and his companions had witnessed his fall.  His tenacious defense had bought them precious time, time used to defeat their other foes and now could use to come to their friend’s aid.  

Cal was the first to act, unleashing a color spray that wrapped the minotaur’s face in a blinding wreath of flaring lights.  The minotaur was far too tough for the spell to take it down, but it dazzled it, causing it to shake its head as it tried to clear its overloaded senses.  

Delem was crouched over the prone form of Dana, having just stabilized her with the healing power of Kossuth’s cleansing fire.  He lifted a hand and summoned his own innate power to cast a stream of flames that swept over the minotaur’s torso, charring its matted fur and crisping the flesh underneath.  It roared out as the pain penetrated its muddled mind, and it projected all of its pain and fury onto the helpless form of Lok before it.  The axe began its downward course…

Benzan leapt over his fallen friend, shouting a cry of defiance as his magical scimitar cut a gleaming swath through the air before him.  Scimitar and axe intersected paths as the tiefling swept past the towering beast and spun into a smooth turn as he landed smoothly on the slick deck, his blade coming around in a ready flourish.  Several feet away, the axe—and the forearm that still clutched it—fell to the hard decking in a bloody mess.  

The minotaur reared up, blood erupting in a fountain from the stump where its arm used to be.  For a moment it tried to regain its focus, and its remaining hand even reached for the dagger at its hip, but then it crumpled to the deck, its lifeblood pouring onto the polished wood around it.  

Their leader had fallen, but the pirates were still far from beaten.  Even as Cal moved quickly to aid Lok, they could hear the cries of yet more raiders as the crew of the final pirate vessel, which had finally pulled alongside, clambered onto the low central deck of the _Raindancer_.  The fore and aft decks were clear of enemies, for the moment, but in addition to the ten newcomers, several of the pirates stunned by Cal’s color sprays were stirring, starting to shake off the lingering effects of the wand’s magic.  Only mere minutes had passed since the first pirate had swung onto the _Raindancer’s_ deck, yet the surface of the ship resembled the floor of a slaughterhouse, with the bodies of pirates and crewmembers scattered about.  

“Let’s finish this,” Benzan growled, recovering his bow and drawing another long arrow.  

Ruath came up beside him, and completed an invocation of the power of her goddess.  As the halfling finished her spell, a small cloud of smoke erupted in the center of the lower deck amidst a group of pirates.  The cloud dissipated to reveal a pair of celestial badgers, who immediately tore into the surprised raiders.  

“Again with the badgers,” Benzan muttered, dropping a pirate as he clambered over the ship’s rail.  

Delem joined in the defense, unleashing the power of his own wand into a knot of raiders.  A half-dozen succumbed to the magical sleep, and suddenly the odds shifted dramatically again in the favor of the defenders.  Six crewmembers of the _Raindancer_ still held the raised foredeck, firing their bows into the milling pirates below and using the heavy ballista bolts as impromptu javelins.  A quartet of pirates tried to rush up the narrow stair, but their charge faltered as Benzan sent an arrow into the back of the first to reach the summit, and the defenders pushed him back into his companions, sending them all down the steep steps to fall in a heap on the lower deck.  

And just like that, the attack turned into a retreat, and then a rout.  Several more of the dazed pirates milling around at the base of the stairs up to the aft deck fell to the missile fire from the defenders above, who included Captain Horeth, restored to consciousness again by clerical magic.  Delem’s magical bolts felled several, and Benzan’s bow hummed a song of death as arrow after arrow found their lightly armored targets.  Abandoning their blinded and sleeping comrades, several of the pirates retreated back to the small vessel that had been last to dock.  

Benzan strode to the rail and continued firing, dropping another pirate even as they cut the ropes connecting them to the _Raindancer_ and started pulling away.  Benzan seemed possessed with a fury for vengeance as he launched arrow after arrow at the pirates, who now seemed bent only on escape.  A few stragglers leapt from the _Raindancer_ and started swimming for their departing vessel, or tried to make it to one of the other ships, but none of them made it.  

Captain Horeth and the rest of his crew, backed up by the companions, swept the lower deck, subduing the few pirates who could still put up a fight and binding those still asleep from Delem’s magic.  Delem and Ruath began moving among the injured crew, using their powers where needed to stabilize the seriously injured.  

The escaping pirate ship had gained only a short distance when a dense mist rose up out of the waters, cloaking the retreating vessel in a concealing shroud.  Apparently the pirates had at least one spellcaster left among them.

“Damn!” Benzan said, firing one last arrow into the mist.  

“Let them go,” Lok said, coming to the rail and laying a restraining hand on the tiefling’s arm.  The genasi had been restored somewhat by Cal’s wand of healing, but he still looked a frightful sight, his mail and shield battered and his face bloody.  “Maybe they’ll spread the word that the merchantmen from the north aren’t easy pickings.”

Benzan lowered his bow reluctantly, as reason replaced the frenzy in his eyes.  

“Thanks,” Lok said earnestly.  The tiefling nodded, as the gaze of both warriors shifted back to the massive corpse of the dead minotaur.  

The battle was won…


----------



## Horacio

Great battle, good teamwork and nice pirate retreat! 
I feared some character would die...


----------



## Lazybones

Book II, Part 10

…but at a high cost.  Eight of the crew of the _Raindancer_ were dead, fresh-faced young men and women who would never again greet the coming of a new day.  The tally would have been higher were it not for the rapid intervention of the clerics, whose healing powers saved more than a few from passing beyond death’s door.  Many on board still bore serious wounds, and were taken below decks until the clerics recovered their powers and could treat them more fully.  Cal still had his healing wand, but he was reluctant to use up its limited magic, husbanding it so long as no immediate danger threatened.  Delem frowned, thinking the reaction different from the usual attitude he remembered from the gnome, but he said nothing about it to the others.  

The pirates had suffered a far greater toll.  They counted twenty-one dead, including the orc wizard on board the _Gray Raker_ and the minotaur captain.  Several others had fallen overboard and drowned, including apparently the half-orc barbarian that had commanded one of the smaller ships—which they discovered was named _Plunder_.  

“An inappropriate name, in the end,” Benzan had commented.  “As we were the ones that ended up with all the loot.”  Even a cursory examination reinforced the tiefling’s assertion, for they found considerable treasure among the fallen pirates—particularly the leaders.  The minotaur’s quiver still held sixteen of the magical acid arrows, and both his axe and breastplate were of masterwork quality, purchased no doubt with the pirate’s ill-gotten gains.  The common pirates carried coins and trinkets that collectively formed a small hoard, including several items of silver or gold jewelry and even a few minor magical potions.  On board the _Gray Raker_, however, they found the greatest treasure, at least from Cal’s point of view: the spellbook of the orc mage, and a slender device of polished black wood that he identified as a _wand of magic missiles_.  

They took eight prisoners, who were tightly bound and kept under close watch in one of the cargo holds.  They estimated that fewer than a half-dozen pirates had ultimately escaped on the last ship, which meant that they were no longer a threat, but Captain Horeth was still quite eager to leave this area behind lest more enemies stumble across them in their current weakened condition.  

A brief debate followed on how to proceed.  Captain Horeth wanted to chart a course back along the northern coast of Tethyr to the port city of Velen, a full day’s journey behind them.  They had bypassed that fortified outpost city on their southern journey, but under the current circumstances it was the nearest safe port.  They also had the two pirate vessels as prizes, which they could tow back with skeleton crews and sell for a tidy profit.  

Ruath took a stern stance against the captain—she wanted to sail onward, unwilling to sacrifice even a few days for the still-unidentified errand given her by the church of Tymora.  She had been stubborn in her steadfastness, but ultimately the rest of them agreed to the prudence of the captain’s judgment.  

“She’s not the typical halfing,” Benzan said to his friends, as they continued the gristly work of clearing the deck of the _Raindancer_ of the blood and bodies of the fallen combatants.  With the crew depleted by the battle and lingering injuries, and with those few still fit for action assigned to the pirate ships, they were all pitching in as they crawled back along the Tethyrian coast toward Velen.  Night was falling swiftly, and they had reduced their sails as they tacked against the northern wind, but Horath was reluctant to drop anchor so near to the site of the recent battle.  So they crept slowly onward to the east, the densely forested reaches of the wild Velen Peninsula a dark line against the southern horizon.  

“Stubborn,” Lok remarked.  The halfling woman had returned below decks, to tend to those still injured, leaving them virtually alone save for the few active sailors left aboard.  Captain Horath himself was at the wheel atop the aft deck, guiding his damaged vessel toward safety.  

“The hin are survivors, underestimated by many because of their diminutive stature,” Cal observed, as he stripped one of the dead pirates of valuables before Lok dragged him to the rail and tossed him overboard.  Their own dead they’d already granted to the sea with a little more ceremony, but in the end there was little difference in the ultimate result.  

Delem gravitated to the front deck, leaving the conversation that continued behind him.  He paused to free a trailing grapple that was dug into the rail, but his attention was on the slender figure silhouetted against the bow ahead of him.  Pulling the barbed metal prong out with a final heave, he walked up to where Dana stood facing out into the waves.

“I’m… I’m sorry I’m not helping, I just wanted to…”  Her voice was a little unsteady, and Delem suspected that she’d been crying.  

“It’s all right,” was all he could think to say.  “We’ve just about finished the cleanup, and we’ll need to get some rest, so we can help those sailors tomorrow.”

She looked up at him, and the glistening of her eyes confirmed his earlier guess.  “I guess I haven’t been much help so far,” she said.  “I suppose maybe Benzan was right about me after all.”  

“You fought as bravely as any of us,” Delem said after a moment’s pause.  “When that minotaur jumped up onto the deck, I… well, I was terrified.  Every instinct in me told me to run—or at least keep far away from its reach—but then I saw you just run up and stick your little blade into it, and I felt humbled.”

The woman smiled—a faint one, and it quickly faded, but it was a start.  “That monster almost killed me,” she said.  “If I hadn’t dodged, that axe would have cut me in half.”  She shuddered at the memory, and grasped onto the rail to steady herself.  “Look at me,” she said.  “So much for my vaunted discipline and self-control.  So much for the warrior monk of Selûne, strong and fearless.”

“Accepting your limitations doesn’t mean you aren’t strong,” Delem said.  “We’ve all had to face them, but the four of us have learned to work as a team, help each other.  Just give yourself a little time, you’ll get used to us.”

“Thanks, Delem,” she said, touching him lightly on the arm. 

“Hey, we got some slackers up here?”

Dana and Delem turned away from each other as Benzan came bounding up the stairs to the foredeck.  The tiefling frowned briefly as his gaze traveled over the two of them, but was replaced quickly with a wry grin as he said, “Oops—I hope I’m not… interrupting anything?”

“Delem was just helping me with something,” Dana said, and she walked past the tiefling back to the main deck.  As Delem trailed after her, Benzan said, quietly so that it wouldn’t carry, “Moving fast, I see—I didn’t think you had it in you, Delem.”

Delem met the tiefling’s gaze squarely.  

“Just… just shut up, Benzan.”


----------



## Horacio

Do I smell a romantic interest? 
Does a certain tiefling begins to be attracted to a certain noble girl?
Does the young fire wizard/priest feel it too?


----------



## Lazybones

Thanks for the feedback, Horacio!  I always enjoy seeing reply notices in my inbox at work when I'm sneaking some story-hour time.  (now, where did all my other posters go?  )

I've added stats for Dana and Ruath in my Rogues’ Gallery thread.

Story update later today!


----------



## Lazybones

Book II, Part 11 

The night passed swiftly for the clerics sleeping belowdecks, slowly for the rest of those working to keep the under-crewed vessels moving safely and steadily to the east.  By the time that the overcast sky began to brighten with the light of the dawn, the weary mariners were about ready to collapse from exhaustion.  Luckily, with the new day the rested clerics were able to renew their divine magics, and soon Delem, Dana, and Ruath were all working to restore their bodies and spirits.  The return of the injured crewmembers to duty allowed some of the others to take their rest, and they maneuvered the _Gray Raker_ and _Plunder_ adjacent so that they could switch out crewmembers between the captured vessels and the _Raindancer_.  Captain Horath insisted on shepherding his charges all of the way to safety and he refused to relinquish the helm, calling upon seem deep reserve of energy and determination.  

It was well into the afternoon when they caught sight of the tall sea wall of Velen.  The gray skies above had darkened with the passage of the day, promising yet more rain before long.  The _Raindancer_, its two prizes trailing close behind, swung around the promontory that warded the harbor and sailed up to the docks of the town.  

Velen was a tumultuous place, serving a dual role as a bustling fishing port and as a major naval base for the fighting ships of Tethyr.  Only one warship was present in the harbor as they entered the place, a large double-banked galleon, but there were at least a half-dozen other sea-going vessels in addition to a veritable swarm of fishing craft of varying sizes.  The day was approaching its end, so many of the latter craft were returning to the harbor, the lucky ones loaded down with the day’s catch.  

They attracted the attention of the Harbor Master’s small skiff, and were directed to an open dock near the end of the row of harbor.  Even before they had secured their moorings they had attracted the attention of a small but growing crowd; someone had recognized the identity of the pirate vessel that had pulled up to the dock opposite _Raindancer_.  

The rest of the evening passed quickly, as did the following day.  While Captain Horath supervised the repairs and resupply of the _Raindancer,_, with Ruath’s stern gaze urging speed at every turn, the companions took advantage of the respite from the voyage to stretch their legs and enjoy the benefits offered by the town.  They sold some of the more valuable items taken from the pirates and used the funds to purchase new equipment, including several bundles of masterwork arrows and bolts to replace those expended in the battle.  Benzan added the acid arrows to his arsenal, and spent some time giving pointers to Lok in the use of the massive longbow that had been used by the minotaur.  Lok was the only one of them who possessed the strength to fully draw the weapon, and they considered selling it, but were unable to find a buyer willing to offer them a fair price.  After some practice, the genasi thought the bow somewhat awkward, and he lacked Benzan’s finesse with the weapon, but he quickly found that its arrows delivered a greater impact than even his heavy crossbow, and at a much faster rate of fire.  Satisfied, the genasi unstrung the bow and slipped it into his bag of holding along with a full quiver of arrows.  

Cal spent some time poring over the spellbook of the orc wizard.  Some of the magic was beyond his capabilities, but there were other spells that he thought that he could grasp, given time to study and reflect upon their magic.  His friends were growing a little concerned that the gnome was becoming too withdrawn and isolated, so they pressed him to join them in relaxing and enjoying good food and drink.  As word of their accomplishments spread through the town, there was no shortage of individuals willing to pay for either on their behalf, and they were able to work off a lot of the stress from the long voyage and the desperate battle.  

The evening of their second day in Velen found the five companions—for they had finally welcomed Dana, blooded in battle beside them, into their circle—seated around a big table in the rear of a bustling tavern near the edge of the dock district of the town.  The place was raucous with the sounds of mariners enjoying themselves, both men and women, humans mingled with a smattering of other races, with a roaring fire in the wide hearth banishing the chill settling down over the streets outside.  Almost a dozen empty mugs were already scattered across the surface of their table, alongside a trencher that held the remains of what had been a fish of considerable size.

“Another round for the house!” Benzan cried, holding up a fist bulging with gold coins.  The occupants of the tavern roared in approval, several crying out a cheer in the tiefling’s honor.  Dana shook her head, but Cal grinned.  

“Oh, let him have his fun,” he chided, and smiled as he raised his own glass to the tiefling.  Indeed, they could afford the extravagance, as they still had over a hundred gold pieces left over after their purchases earlier in the day.  Cal remembered when he would have considered that amount a huge sum, back in his youth in Waterdeep, and the thought brought a frown briefly to his face.  It was impossible to hold it, however, as a serving girl brought another round of ales to their table.  

“I think I’ll head back to the _Raindancer_ soon,” Dana said.  She looked a little uncomfortable in this place, still a little unused to the boisterous chaos of the working-class districts.  

“Bah, the night is still young!” Benzan cried out, slamming down his empty mug and reaching for another.  “Get your hands a little dirty, princess, it won’t hurt you!”

Dana frowned at him, but Cal patted her arm to reassure her.  “We’ll go together.  It won’t be long now—trust me.”

They all turned as the door opened and a familiar figure entered the tavern.  Lok waved to drawn Captain Horeth’s attention, and the slender elf made his way through the crowded room to their table.  

“What’s the word, captain?” Cal asked.  

“The _Raindancer’s_ fit for sea,” he said.  “And not a moment too soon, with the honorable lady Talasca hovering over me like a hungry hawk eyeing a tasty mouse,” he added.  

“What about the crew?” Lok asked.

“Our fame has cut a swath to our door,” the captain said, laughing.  “I had to turn some prospects away.”

“So when do we leave?” Dana asked.

“On the tide tomorrow morning.  So enjoy your evening tonight, because it’s back to sea rations tomorrow!”

“Why don’t you join us, captain?” Cal said.  The elf smiled, but shook his head. 

“Too much remains to be done.  But I did want you to have this.  There should be ample time for you tomorrow morning to make use of it before we depart, I should think.”  He reached into a pouch and put a small scroll, wrapped in a slender silk ribbon and sealed with a bubble of wax, onto the table.  

“What’s that?” Dana asked.  

“That, my friends, is a writ from the Artask House, the largest trading concern in Tethyr.  It is good for the sum of fifteen hundred gold pieces, your share of the proceeds from the sale of our two pirate vessels.  It’s made out to your name, master gnome, but the funds are for all of you, to share as you see fit.”

They all looked at him in surprise, even Benzan’s attention quickly drawn by the announcement to the small scrap of paper.    

“That’s very generous, captain, but really…” Cal began.  Benzan looked across the table at the gnome incredulously, but the captain cut him off with a warm smile.  

“Accept it freely,” he told them.  “I have already seen that the other crew—and even the lady cleric—have received their shares, and that the families of the dead crewmembers will be compensated as well.  I can assure you that the whole crew shares this view, that none of us would be alive now, or at the very least, free and well, without your assistance.”

“So enjoy your evening, and I’ll see you on the morrow!  The trading house is located on the opposite end of the docks, adjacent the barracks.  Ask for Master Nalferias, he will be expecting you.”

With that, the elf took his leave.  

“Hard to believe that skinny scrap of paper is worth so much money,” Benzan said, his eyes fixed on the scroll as he reached for it.  Cal beat him to it, tucking the paper into an inner pocket.  

“Why don’t you let me hold onto that,” he said cheerfully.  “Tomorrow, we’ll split the money, evenly, and spend it as we each see fit.”

“Hsst—company coming,” Delem said softly, drawing their attention back out into the room.

Delem indicated a knot of eight hulking sailors, each clad in the weathered blue tunic of the Tethyrian navy, making their way from the opposite side of the room toward them.  It was impossible not to notice them—they’d only been in the tavern for little under an hour, but they’d made more noise than most groups twice their size and they left a pile of empty mugs behind them that rivaled even Benzan’s accomplished pace.  They sauntered over to the companions’ table, and people made way for them as they came.  

Their apparent spokesman was a burly figure of a man who had at least a trace of orc blood in his ancestry from the look of him.  His head was completely shorn, giving a clear view of the numerous scars that crossed his temples.  His companions, equally imposing, fanned out behind him, forming a muscled wall that muted some of the noise from the common room behind them.  

“Gentlemen,” Cal said in greeting.  “What can we do for you?”

“Me an’ my boys heard that yous was the guys who took down Gohr and the _Gray Raker_, the leader said.  “We just wanted to get a look at those who took down the min’otar, and his crew.”

“You sure it was them?” one of his mates chimed in.  “All I see is a couple of scraggly rakes and a pair o’shorties.”

“And a nice piece o’ one,” another said, sidling up closer to Dana.  “Hey honey, these scrawny guys aren’t gunna give you what you need.  Why don’t you come with me, and I’ll show you what a real man can do.”

Dana’s face darkened.  “Well, if it’s smell bad and act like a pig, thanks, I’ve already seen it,” she replied.  

“Look, I don’t know what you’ve heard, but we don’t want any trouble,” Cal began, but he was interrupted as Benzan suddenly lurched up from his chair and faced the leader.  

“Here we go,” Cal said, throwing up his hands.  

“Yeah, you gotta problem, little man?” the sailor said to Benzan, who gave up almost a foot and at least fifty pounds in comparison with the scarred man.  

“I don’t have a problem,” Benzan said, his voice quiet but with an edge like a sharpened blade.  “Like my friend said, why don’t you move along; we’re just trying to enjoy a quiet evening before another voyage.”

The sailor leaned even closer; now less than a foot separated the two men’s faces.  “There’s something strange about you, buddy, and I don’t like it.”

“I’m not the one whose mother laid down with an orc, by the looks of it.”

The room around them suddenly got really quiet.  A ripple of expectant tension passed through the sailors and the companions, interrupted by the rough voice of the tavernkeeper behind the bar.  “Take it outside,” he ordered, and as they glanced over they saw that his words were backed up by a loaded crossbow pointed in their direction.  

“Yeah, you wanna take it outside, little man?” the sailor said.  

Benzan looked at his companions.  Cal shook his head, and Benzan turned back to the sailor. 

“I think we’ll just leave.”

“Hah!  Coward!” the sailor said.  He and his comrades hurled other taunts and laughed as the five companions gathered up their possessions and started for the door.  

Lok was the last to leave, and as he walked past the row of sailors, the leader looked down at him with contempt.  

“Get out of here.  Freak.”  And with that, he spit in the genasi face.  

Benzan turned, and for a moment his hand dropped to the hilt of his scimitar.  Cal caught him, however, and anger flared in the gnome’s eyes.  Lok wiped the spittle from his wrinkled face, but he seemed otherwise unmoved by the insult.  

“You’ll never know how close all of you came to dying today,” the gnome said.  “But we’ll be happy to teach you fools some manners, outside.”


----------



## Talindra

Just wanted to let you know I'm still here, even if I have been lurking.  Anyway, great new post, although I'm surprised at Benzan showing such restraint.  And I have to say, every day at work, I check my inbox eagerly to see if you have posted, so you're not alone.


----------



## Ziggy

Lazybones said:
			
		

> *Thanks for the feedback, Horacio!  I always enjoy seeing reply notices in my inbox at work when I'm sneaking some story-hour time.  (now, where did all my other posters go?  )
> *




I'm still here, but too busy to write a long reply...

But I'm enjoying the story, so keep up the good work  

.Ziggy


----------



## Lazybones

Thanks for the posts, Talindra and Ziggy!  You know us writers... fragile egos and all .  I have to say, I've been a writer for going on ten years now, and I've always done it mainly for my own enjoyment, but with this new story I've gotten sort of addicted to the positive feedback.  Plus it's a great antidote to the form-letter rejections from agents and publishers for my other work .

Anyway, don't worry, Talindra... I'm not going to turn Benzan into a goody-two-shoes (he'll continue get the group into trouble as usual... although he is growing, I think).  

* * * * * 

Book II, Part 12

The alleyway behind the tavern became in impromptu sparring ground where the combatants gathered.  Rank smells hung over the dirty cobblestones, and rats cleared away with squeaks of protest as the two groups faced off against each other.  

“Remember, no fatalities,” Cal quietly cautioned his companions as they left the tavern.  The law in Velen was that of the wild frontier; justice was harsh and swift.  Captains of vessels were responsible for the actions of their crews while in the port, and none of them wanted to make trouble for Captain Horeth.  

There was no coordination, no planning, no discussion of ‘rules’.  Once the last sailor had come around the corner into the alley, all eight of them leapt at the companions, meaty fists raised to strike.   

They were ready.  

Benzan struck first, connecting with a solid punch to the face that sent his opponent reeling.  The sailor behind him, however, struck Benzan with a cross to the jaw.  The tiefling staggered as the world around him seemed to shift out of focus, and he felt the salty tang of blood in his mouth.  

Too late, he realized the danger.  Luckily, Cal had seen it.  

“They’re using iron knuckles!” the gnome shouted in warning, as the alley swarmed with sailors and adventurers in a confused melee.  

A pair came at Delem, dark smiles on their faces, holding up their hands to reveal the thin metal bars they wore across their fists.  Momentarily at a loss, as nearly all of his magic was designed to be lethal, he retreated swiftly until the wooden wall of another building cut him off.  His attackers came on at a full charge, but cried out in surprise as the sorcerer summoned a flare that momentarily dazzled them.  The respite was brief, however, and the two quickly came at him, fists raised to strike.   

Three of the sailors swarmed on Lok, whose heavy armor made him all but invulnerable to even their iron-enhanced punches.  Their strategy seemed to be to overwhelm and overbear him, and two tried to grab onto the genasi’s arms while the third tried to punch him in the face.  

That strategy might have worked, if Lok hadn’t been so _strong_.  

The genasi hurled the first sailor into the one trying to hit him, and both went down in a gangly pile of arms and legs.  The last tried to maintain his grip on the genasi, to trip him up, but he might as well been trying to trip a tree.  Lok slammed the sailor in the face with his stony fist, once, twice, three times, until he released his hold and slumped to the ground, unconscious.  

The last sailor came at Dana, chuckling to himself.  “I’m a lover, not a fighter,” he leered, as he reached out for her with his dirty hands.  Dana easily evaded his grasp, and brought her foot up in a high arc that snapped back down swiftly into the man’s face.  His eyes grew unfocused as he just stood there, stunned, and he didn’t even see the follow-up punch that knocked him roughly to his back on the cobbles.  

Cal, meanwhile, had assumed a fighting position, his small fists ready for battle, but he once again was ignored as the melee raged around him.  Shaking his head in disappointment, he turned and put the two men closing on Delem to sleep.  

Benzan was really the only one still having trouble, as he faced off against his two adversaries.  The one that had hit him was the leader who had challenged him in the tavern, and the tiefling barely avoided another powerful punch that swept so closely by his head that he could feel the breeze of its passage.  The second sailor, recovered from Benzan’s first strike, hit him in the side, but the blow did little against the mithral chainmail that he wore under his tunic.  

“You chose the wrong group of strangers to pick a fight with,” Benzan said as he dodged backward and prepared for another attack.  

“I don’t think so,” the leader said, his face twisting into a feral snarl.  He came at Benzan again, angling for his right side, while his companion approached from the left.  Benzan recognized the flanking maneuver, and responded with a swift attack of his own before they could press him from both sides.  His punch connected solidly, but the leader seemed to shrug off the powerful blow.  Benzan’s eyes widened in surprise—the man’s skin seemed as tough as leather, although he looked completely ordinary.  Benzan was unable to fully avoid the return punch, and the heavy impact on his shoulder spun him around into the attack of his ally, which connected with the tiefling’s already battered jaw and knocked him hard against the nearby wall.  

The two sailors came into finish him, but to their amazement, the tiefling suddenly jumped up, a wild smile on his face.  That amazement turned to horror as the tiefling’s features twisted and reformed before their eyes, revealing the horrible visage of a terrible demon!

“I didn’t sign on for this!” one of the sailors cried out, and he spun and fled down the alleyway and vanished into the night.  The leader remained, but hesitated, the fear evident in his eyes as well.  Had he been more aware he might have noticed that the slavering demon made no sound, or that the shadowy form of Benzan could still be seen behind the demon, leaning up against the wall where he had initially fallen.  

Dana, having sent her first adversary into the blissful realm of unconsciousness, came to Lok’s aid.  The genasi didn’t really need the assistance, but he knocked one of his semi-conscious adversaries her way anyway, for her to finish with a potent punch to the head.  Delem stepped gingerly over his two sleeping opponents, and moved up beside Cal to see if any of the others needed any help.  

The sailor leader belatedly realized two things.  First, that the ‘demon’ wasn’t doing anything but stand there, and secondly that he was rapidly becoming the only conscious one of his group left in the alley.  He turned to retreat, but before he could cover two steps Benzan came barreling out at him through the illusion, slamming hard into his side and driving him into the far wall.  The sailor staggered, but managed to strike back with an ineffectual blow that struck Benzan in the rear of his shoulder.  The two combatants separated but quickly came at each other again, each landing a solid punch against the other.  

Lok, finally free of adversaries, came forward to help, but Cal forestalled him.  “Let’s see if he can pull it out,” he said.  He kept his wand of healing at the ready, just in case.  

The four of them watched as Benzan and the seemingly indefatigable sailor traded blow after blow.  Benzan looked ready to go down at any moment, but somehow he remained standing after each successive punch.  His agility and armor gave him an edge, but one that was balanced by the thin iron bar that the sailor wore across his right fist.  Finally, the sailor overextended himself on a punch that went badly awry, and Benzan caught him with a solid cross to the side of his head that laid him out on the dirty cobbles, unconscious and bleeding.  

The tiefling turned and saw his companions there, watching him.  “Thanks for the help,” he said, as he staggered toward them, nearly falling.  

Delem went quickly to his aid, summoning a healing spell to restore him.

“It looks like you had the matter well in hand,” Cal said.  

“These sailors seemed to have a death wish,” Dana said, toeing one unconscious form with disgust written plain on her features.  

“Not sailors,” Benzan said, looking better as Delem’s powers eased the pain of his battered jaw and bruised body.  “Skilled toughs, thieves, posing as sailors.  I should have seen it earlier, really.  That whole set-up in the bar, they way they fought—these guys were professionals.”  

“Not professional enough,” Cal remarked.  “Let’s get back to the ship—this isn’t our town, and we’ll be on our way soon enough.”

“Just one moment,” Benzan said.  He bent over the fallen leader of the thugs and quickly searched him.  He unconsciously pocketed the small stash of coins he found on the man, but found what he was really looking for—a small amulet fashioned of woven silver threads on a throng around his neck—and quickly took it.  

“I’ll explain later,” he told his curious friends.  “Let’s get out of here.”

His companions readily agreed, and they departed swiftly, leaving seven bruised and groaning toughs in their wake.


----------



## Horacio

I knew it! I knew it wasn't a normal bar fight but an ambush. 
But who ordered it and why?
...


----------



## Croaker

Lazybones, you certainly have a gift for this stuff.  I just read the entire story thus far (a verrry slow day at work) and must agree with all the other posters, you are doing an excellent job!

Might our heroes be lucky enough to see some of the fabled thunder-lizards of Chult once they get there?

Keep up the great work!


----------



## Lazybones

Horacio: good question!  Goodness knows our heroes have made a lot of enemies in a very short time... but the fact that the word had gotten out so quickly about the demise of a very famous--and very wealthy--pirate lord probably drew the unwanted attention of the thieves of Velen.  Of course, it's always possible that deeper forces might be working behind the scenes (as always!) 

Croaker: thanks, and welcome to the story!  Your question is very timely, given the plot ideas I've sketched out for future installments (you'll see what I mean, shortly ) 


* * * * * 

Book II, Part 13

Repaired and replenished, with a new crew and renewed sense of purpose, the _Raindancer_ went swiftly on its way, eating up the miles as it sailed steadily southward.  

The weather held, with several new storms blowing past, but remaining just to the north of them.  With a steady following wind they quickly navigated Asavir’s Channel and turned east, following the southern coast of the Velen Peninsula along the route known to sailors as the Race.  The name seemed to hold true as the winds followed them along this route, allowing them to keep to their swift pace.  They passed several islands, some bare spots of rock, others miles-long clusters of hill and forest, but saw no other ships, or any living creatures save for the occasional curious dolphin.  The companions went about their normal activities, engaging themselves in work, leisure, or study as they saw fit.  

They’d cashed in their writ from Captain Horath before their departure, so the weight of several freshly minted gold trade bars snuggled comfortably in their bag of holding.  Benzan now wore the amulet he’d taken from the leader of the thugs they’d defeated; experimentation had confirmed his initial suspicion that the device bore an enchantment that toughened the skin of the person wearing it.  With that additional natural armor protecting him, he felt better prepared for the next challenge.  

As the days passed quietly, however, they began to feel that perhaps they’d left the worst dangers of the journey behind them.  On the afternoon of their sixth day out of Velen, however, the now-familiar cry of the watchman drew the companions again to the aft deck.  Captain Horath’s spyglass was out again, trained this time on a cluster of distant specks that hovered out over the surface of yet another small island several miles distant to their port side and ahead.  

“What is it, captain?” Cal asked.

“Birds, maybe…” the captain replied, uncertain.  “Big ones, looks like… coming this way.”

“Fat lot of excitement for nothing, then?” Benzan said lightly, but the others were not so ready to let down their guard.  The captain had proven his instinct for danger that threatened his vessel, so they went about their preparations and kept an eye on the distant birds.  

They did not have long to wait for the captain’s suspicions to be confirmed.  The specks drew steadily nearer, making an apparent beeline for their position as the ship drew closer to the island.  The captain took frequent looks at them through his glass, and handed it briefly to Delem when the sorcerer requested a look.  

Delem turned the glass only briefly upon the approaching flock, then directed the glass toward the island. 

“What do you see?” Dana asked him.

“There’s a wrecked ship on a reef near the island,” he said.  “And I think that there’s a tower on top of the island, along the ridgeline.”  He handed the glass back to Horath, who looked at the points Delem indicated.  

“I see the shipwreck, but I can’t make out a tower… wait… no, I don’t see it.”

“Still, not a good sign,” Cal said, as he loaded his crossbow and checked to make sure that his wands were within easy reach.  

As they drew nearer the specks resolved into eight distinct creatures, flying in a close formation.  They didn’t seem particularly large, even as they got closer, but there was something strange about them, an incongruity that they couldn’t quite place.  

“Four wings…” Captain Horath said, as he looked again through the spyglass.  “They’ve got four wings…”

The companions looked to Cal, but the gnome only shrugged.  “Beats me,” he said.  “But I’ve never heard of any Faerunian native like that…”

“Of course not,” Benzan quipped.  “It’d be too easy, if we were attacked by something that we’ve actually _heard_ of…”

The strange birds drew closer until they were almost above the _Raindancer,_ although they were far too high for even Lok’s bow to reach them.  For a moment it looked like they were merely curious, content to remain high above, but then the creatures let out a loud squawk that carried clearly down to them, and they dove.  

The _Raindancer’s_ ballista could not get enough angle to fire a shot at the diving creatures, so it was Benzan and Lok who fired first, the arrows from their mighty longbows darting straight up into the air at them.  Both shots missed, cutting through the formation harmlessly into the open air beyond.  

The birds converged on the vessel with incredible speed, and somehow all of the bolts and arrows that were launched at them managed to miss them.  As they drew nearer it became clear that in addition to their unusual four wings, the creatures were thin and wiry, with large beaks and long, slender tails that lashed out behind them as they flew.  As they neared the ship, they pulled smoothly out of their dive, flying in a roughly circular formation above their heads.  

Benzan finally scored a hit with his third arrow, the missile jutting into one bird’s body just below a wing joint.  The bird squawked loudly, but the hit did not seem to hinder it as it kept its formation with its brothers.  

And then, as the rest of the crew on the ship continued their ineffectual barrage, the birds launched their own attack.  

Two swooped out of formation and down toward the crow’s nest, where the watchman was trying to score a hit with his shortbow.  He missed with his last shot, and then, as the rest of them watched in amazement from below, both birds darted past at twenty paces distant, their tales lashing out in the direction of the archer.  A stream of blue energy arced from each bird, striking the man solidly in the chest.  His scream was cut short as he was knocked back, and tumbled out of his perch to fall toward the deck thirty feet below.  

Cal whispered a word of magic, and quickly summoned his power.  The energy of his spell caught up the hapless crewman, and just ten feet before he would have impacted the deck, his fall slowed to a gentle decline.  Even as he landed, Ruath hurried over to him, reading with a spell of healing.  

It was of no use, as the man was already dead.  

There was little respite for the rest of them, however, as the bird-creatures continued their attack.  The others dropped lower as they continued to circle the ship, and several discharged additional strands of electrical energy that slammed into the rigging of the _Raindancer._  One crossbar gave way with a direct hit, dropping half of the mainsail down onto the deck below.  

“Focus your fire on one of them!” Benzan cried, as he targeted the bird he had already wounded.  He fired one of his corrosive arrows, and the missile struck the creature again in the torso, splashing it with acid.  The arrow clearly had an impact, this time, but the smoking acid seemed to have no effect at all.

“What manner of things are these?” the tiefling asked no one in particular.

It was clear that the birds could be hurt, although their agility in the air made it very difficult to hit them.  Lok fired an arrow into the one Benzan had hurt, and with three arrows in it, the bird finally fell and splashed into the sea just off the _Raindancer’s_ hull.  Delem immediately started in on the next one, hitting it with a pair of magic missiles.  One of the crewmen scored a hit on another, but another dozen missiles either went wide or glanced off of the birds’ unnaturally tough hides.  

“This isn’t going very well!” Dana cried out as she hurriedly loaded another bolt into her crossbow.

It suddenly got worse, as the birds turned their electrical attacks upon the crew of the _Raindancer_.

Streams of energy slammed down onto the decks of the merchantman.  Captain Horeth was struck, and staggered, while the crewmember next to him was hit by another and collapsed, wisps of smoke rising from her savaged back.  Benzan dove out of the way of another bolt, while Lok took one full on, the electrical energy savaging the tough genasi.  Both of the crewmen manning the ballista were hit, and fell, while Dana barely managed to dodge out of the way of the last one as it split open a barrel of fresh water.  

“Give ‘em everything you got!” Benzan cried, firing another arrow, and then another after that without pause.  His target dodged the first, but the second pierced its breast and struck something vital, by the way that the thing stiffened suddenly and fell into the water.  “Take that!” he yelled as his victim vanished under the waves.  “Who’s next?” he shouted in challenge.

Encouraged by his example, the others continued their attacks even as allies fell around them.  Dana finally hit one, her bolt followed rapidly by two more missiles from Delem.  Lok targeted the same one but missed, but another crewmember scored a hit on it a moment later, dropping the creature.  

Ruath tended to a fallen crewmember, while Captain Horath continued a string of missed shots, the ordinarily stoic elf letting slip a few frustrated curses.  Finally, Cal cast another spell, summoning an illusion of a small dragon that he directed toward the remaining birds.  Two of the creatures screeched a challenge at the figment and lashed out at it with their electrical attacks, which of course passed harmlessly through it.  

As if in reply to Benzan’s challenge, two of the remaining creatures swept down toward him, their harsh screeches filling the air around him.  He drew another arrow, but before he could fire, the two lanced their rays into him, bracketing him with blue energy.  The tiefling stiffened and staggered backward, somehow managing to keep his feet as the creatures swept past.  As they darted up to regain altitude, Delem launched an arcing strand of flames into the first.  The flames roared over the creature’s body, but when it drew away, it appeared to be unharmed by the attack. 

“Resistant to fire, too!” the sorcerer breathed.  

They were not, however, immune to the continued hail of bolts and arrows, and more of the missiles were beginning to find their marks.  Another staggered as it was hit by an arrow from Lok’s bow, and as it tried to wheel away, Captain Horeth finally scored his first hit, impaling the creature with a long arrow.  The bird flapped awkwardly down toward the _Raindancer,_ and landed hard on the main deck.  It barely had a chance to flap its wings piteously before a cluster of crewmembers hacked the fallen creature to pieces.  

Reduced to half their number, the remaining creatures apparently decided they’d had enough, for they turned and headed back toward the island, rapidly gaining altitude as they beat their powerful wings.  Benzan hit one more with a parting arrow as they retreated, although the bird did not fall.  Soon they were once more out of range, fading again as they reached the skies over the distant island.  

“Is everyone all right?” Cal asked.  A number of them had been seriously hurt, particularly Benzan and Captain Horeth, and several of the crew were down and unconscious.  The clerics responded quickly, though, and only the crewman who’d been in the crow’s nest was beyond help.  Given the ferocity of the aerial assault, they counted their blessings and continued warily past the island.  

“I wonder who lives there,” Delem said quietly to himself.  None of the others had seen the strange tower, and none felt any particular curiosity as the ship quickly left the accursed place well behind them.  

They studied the hacked body of the creature that had fallen onto their deck, but they learned little from its mangled form.  The mystery of what the bird-creatures were, and what they were doing on that island, would have to wait for another time.   

Another day passed into night, as the _Raindancer_ continued on its journey.


----------



## Horacio

Pirates, thieves, four-winged birds...
This voyage is having its's share of hostile encounters. And they aren't even near the end...


----------



## Lazybones

Book II, Part 14

“I think I’ve got it!” Benzan exclaimed loudly, as he came up onto the main deck of the _Raindancer_.  His companions and many of the crew were out on the deck, enjoying the first thoroughly sunny day that they’d had in a while.  Cal and Delem shared a look and turned toward the tiefling—they’d heard such claims before, and they’d all come to naught, thus far.

Still, they gave their friend their attention as Benzan, taking a deep breath and putting a look of intense concentration on his face, began speaking a series of arcane syllables while his hands wove a pattern before him in the air.  

“…plaribus morix calan!” he concluded.  

For a moment it looked as though the attempt was yet another failure, but then, as they watched, thick clouds of clinging mist rose up seemingly out of the planks of the deck around Benzan.  Within moments the entire main deck was cloaked in a thick obscuring mist, which started to dissipate almost immediately in the brisk afternoon breeze.  

“Impressive,” Lok said.

“Isn’t it?” Benzan said, a wide grin on his face, as he shot a ‘told you so’ look at Delem and Cal.  

“Congratulations,” Cal said, extending a hand to his friend.  “So it was the conjuration magic that ultimately drew you, then?”

“Yes—I don’t know why, the spells of that school just seemed to call me, somehow.  I can’t really explain it.”

“Magic is a strange and wondrous thing, my friend.  You do know that the armor you wear, even the exquisite mithral chainmail, will interfere some with the gestures needed for most spells?”

“A price I’ll have to pay, for now,” the tiefling said.  “Finally casting my first real spell doesn’t mean I’m going to abandon my other talents, and there’s no way I’m going into battle as unprotected as you and Delem, even with your mage armor.”

“As your talents improve, you may be able to master the skill of casting familiar spells without the somatic component,” Cal suggested.  

“Perhaps.  Now that I have mastered this new talent, though, I have a favor to ask.  I’ve seen that you have great talent in woodcarving.  Could you carve a small token for me, a replica of an archery target?”

Cal nodded in agreement, recognizing the component for a spell designed to grant exceptional accuracy to its user in his next attack.  They continued their discussion of Benzan’s new abilities, while the others around them returned to their previous activities.

They were only one more day out of the city of Memnon, along Calimshan's northern border, by Captain Horath’s estimation.  Their journey had been smooth since their encounter with the strange lightning-birds, save for a few storms that had given them little trouble save for some light rain.  As they neared the coastline where Tethyr and Calimshan intersected they had started seeing more vessels, although none of them turned out to be hostile.  This part of Faerun was known to travelers as the ‘Lands of Intrigue,’ and there was a great commerce in goods, ideas, and secrets between the various southern nations.  

Benzan was not the only one to hone his skills over the recent period.  Lok seemed to have finally gotten his sea legs, and he now spent more time above-decks, sparring with some of the crewmembers of the _Raindancer_.  Cal was finally able to recall much of the magical lore that he’d lost through the traumatic stress of being raised from the dead, while Dana and Delem both were able to draw upon more of the power of their respective deities.  Collectively, they were growing more powerful, but each felt driven to practice more, study harder, or focus their minds, as they could not shake the feeling that even greater trials would lie ahead for them.  

They arrived at the port city of Memnon the following day without incident.  They unloaded some of their cargo there, and took on fresh supplies, but Captain Horath made it clear that they would not be staying long.  Ruath had been growing somewhat agitated as they drew nearer to their ultimate destination, but she still refused to reveal to any of them any details of her assigned mission.  Her desire to press on swiftly was a little contagious, however, and they all felt the passing of time as they disembarked into the city.  Still, even hurried as they were, none of them were going to pass up some relaxation on land before the next leg of their journey.  

Cal and Dana went off together to the temple of Anachtyr, the local name for the Just God, to see about purchasing some additional healing magic.  The others left together on an undefined errand, heading toward the city’s trade quarter.  Memnon had been founded as a military outpost, and it still bore a heavily martial atmosphere, but they had little difficulty finding many different sorts of merchants willing to take their precious metals in exchange for goods of any sort.  

They returned to the ship before nightfall.  Dana had a new wand of healing, purchased through her and Cal’s combined resources.  Delem, Benzan, and Lok were a little evasive about how they had spent the day, but they finally revealed their secret as they presented a wrapped package to Cal in their quarters.  

“What...?” the gnome exclaimed in surprise.  

“It’s a gift,” Benzan said.  

They all gathered around him as he carefully peeled back the packaging to reveal an exquisitely crafted lute, polished to a sheen that seemed to drink in the light of their lantern.  Cal lifted it wonderingly, and when he strummed a faint melody on it, the music seemed to float through the air of the cabin like a warm breeze.  

“It’s amazing!” Cal said in wonder.  

“Magical, too,” Benzan pointed out.  “Played properly, it can cast several spells a day, including that invisible armor you use, and the sleep spell.  Plus it can heal wounds, even.  The guy said that in the hands of a ‘true player’, it would automatically communicate the right notes if the user tries to listen.”

“Amazing!” Cal repeated.  “How much did this cost?”

“Ah, it wasn’t that much,” Benzan said, in such a way that it was immediately clear that he was lying.  “We all chipped in, and unloaded some of the stuff that was just taking up space in the bag of holding, like Lok’s old crossbow, and my old chain shirt.”

“Thanks, all of you,” Cal said.

“We’ve been a little worried about you,” Delem admitted.  “You’ve hardly been interested in playing, lately, and rarely sing your battle-songs any more.  We just wanted to remind you that we’re here for you, and that we miss the old Cal a little.”  Having finished his comment, Delem looked a little embarrassed, but Cal’s smile reassured him.

“You guys are great friends,” he said.  “And thanks for being patient with me.  It hasn’t been easy… after dying, music and all that bardic stuff didn’t seem to be all that worthwhile.  I have to admit, lately I’ve been called more by my magic than by the muse, but I promise you that I’ll always be willing to put this to good use.”  He patted the lute, which already seemed well-placed at his side.  

“Tomorrow we’ll be back on the high seas,” he told them with a laugh.  “Let’s go above decks, watch the waning of the day, and have some fun, eh?”

Laughing, they all joined in a shout of approval.  


* * * * * 

As you might have guessed, the group has leveled up again; I'm off to post an update to the Rogues' Gallery TttWW thread shortly.  As always, feel free to let me know what you think about the current progression of the characters.  
LB


----------



## Horacio

Well, Lazybones, that update was one of the most beautiful ways to say _'they leveled up'_ I've ever read...


----------



## Lazybones

Book II, Part 15

Early the next day, the _Raindancer_ began the final leg of its journey, the relatively quick run across the Shining Sea to the mysterious jungle land of Chult.  The first few days out of Memnon went smoothly, with a fair wind and clear skies, and soon they had left the dry coastline of Calimshan behind them for the open sea.   

A strong wind from the northwest sprung up on the fourth day, slowing their progress somewhat, and by the fall of night it was clear that a storm was quickly gathering.  Captain Horath’s crew went about their business with calm efficiency, preparing the ship to weather the storm.  The companions helped out as best they could, then retired to their quarters to wait out the coming of the day. 

The night was destined to be a miserable one, without much chance for any of them to get much sleep.  The breeze became a rough gale, stirring the waves into a violent froth over which the _Raindancer_ bobbed and lurched, belying its name.  Fat drops of rain pelted down on the ship, accompanied by the shriek of the wind.  

The companions tried to talk of lighter matters, knowing that there was nothing they could add to the battle against the storm, but their jokes fell flat and their attention kept returning to the dark porthole through which the occasional flash of lightning could be seen.  

Finally, the ship lurched suddenly, and they heard a loud crack that seemed to pass through the ship like a shudder.  Cal was on his feet in an instant, and staggered toward the door to their cabin as the deck continued to pitch under them.  

“Something’s not right,” he said, pulling open the door.

“What can we do about it?” Benzan asked, but he was already moving to join the gnome, the others close behind.  Lok seemed the most unsteady, keeping hold of his equilibrium through a sheer force of will.  

The door opened to reveal Ruath standing in the open doorway across from them, Dana just visible in the darkened cabin behind her.  “What’s happening?” the halfling asked when she saw Cal and the others.  

“I don’t know,” the gnome admitted, “but I think we’d better find out!”

“Let me go first,” Benzan said, and Cal nodded at the wisdom of the suggestion.  With his darkvision and dexterity, he was able to make his way through the darkened interior of the ship more easily and was soon standing at the stair that led up to the main deck.  Glancing back at the others clustered in the corridor behind him, worry written large on their faces, he made his way up to the door. 

The door slid open to reveal a maelstrom of wind and water, threatening to hurl him backward before he even took one step out onto the deck.  The deck was awash with water that ran in rivers back and forth with each bob of the ship, the flow that ran out over the rail replenished with the spray that ran up over the bow with every new wave.  

“Wait!” Cal shouted at Benzan as the tiefling started to head out onto the deck.  Benzan turned and saw that Lok was taking a heavy rope out of his bag of holding, and Cal quickly unwrapped it, offering one end to the tiefling.  Nodding at the sensible precaution, Benzan wrapped the rope around his torso once, tying it securely before he lurched out onto the pitching deck, going only far enough to make it to the adjacent stair that led up to the aft deck behind them.  

He was drenched even before he reached the summit of the climb, but immediately saw what had happened.  The aft mast, weakened in the battle with the pirates, had been repaired in Velen but had now given way before the fury of the storm.  The long shaft dangled awkwardly over the starboard rail of the ship, still tangled by wood and rope and sail to the ship, dragging it down lower into the water.  Benzan could see several sailors working desperately to free the dead weight of the mast from the ship, but were having a difficult time against the fury of the storm.  Behind them, Benzan could see Captain Horath, the elf standing at the wheel as he fought to steer his struggling ship through the waves.

“Lok, we need you!” Benzan cried down into the open doorway below.  Without waiting for a reply, he stumbled out onto the aft deck, and drew his magical scimitar to start cutting away at some of the tangle of ropes and sail that clung to the heavy mast.  

A huge wave crashed over the rail, dousing all of the struggling crewmembers and nearly causing Benzan to lose his footing.  He almost lost his grip on his weapon, but managed to grab hold of a stanchion with his free hand and continued his work.  At some point he became aware of Lok trudging up nearby, secured by another safety line, his axe held in both hands as he approached the cracked shaft of the mast.  The genasi, his own elemental heritage a counter to the destructive power of the storm, started hewing at that point of contact where the mast had snapped, chopping away the lingering connection that held the dead wood to the ship.  His powerful blows soon cut the mast fully free, and with the help of Benzan and the crewmembers, they managed to push the heavy weight off of the ship.  The _Raindancer_ shuddered as a large part of the starboard rail gave way along with the departing mast, and then the ship bobbed up again, relieved of the dragging burden.  

Benzan made his way carefully back from the gaping opening in the ship’s rail, and careful not to snag his line, made his way back to where the captain was trying to bring the ship back to face into the storm and the waves.  Talking was an unlikely prospect over the noise of the storm, but Benzan could clearly see the dire challenge of their situation written in the captain’s face.  

“Get below!” the elf shouted.  “There’s nothing more that can be done up here!”

The tiefling turned, but as he started back he looked around, trying to take it all in.  As he watched the pure elemental fury of the storm he saw the bright stabs of lightning that shattered the darkness all around the ship, followed mere instants later by the powerful roar of thunder.  His brow furrowed as he turned and headed back down toward the relative shelter of the door to the lower decks, where he had left the others.  Lok accompanied him.  

“We heard what happened,” Cal said as they returned, and Benzan could see that several of the crewmembers had already made it below, shuddering in cold and the excitement of what had just happened.  Ruath was moving among them, treating minor injuries suffered in battling the storm and calming their anxieties.  “What is it?” the gnome added, reading the look on Benzan’s face.  

“Something’s not right here,” he said.  “The storm… I don’t know, it just seems too… _concentrated_.”

“The sailors said that the Shining Sea is known for its sudden squalls,” Cal said, but something in face showed that he did not fully dismiss his friend’s concerns.  He turned to Dana and Delem.  “Do either of you sense anything?”

Both of them shook their heads.  Cal closed his eyes and summoned the power of a minor cantrip, a spell designed to detect magical emanations.  

“There is magic here—throughout the storm,” he said to them.

“What kind of magic?” Delem asked, but Cal forestalled him with a raised hand.

“Wait…  there’s a stronger aura, connected…” his eyes widened, and his gaze traveled downward, the others following his look until it settled on the deck plates below their feet.

“Right below us.”


----------



## Old One

*Old One pulls up a stool by the fire...*

Lazybones -

I have only gotten through the first couple of pages, but this is *EXCELLENT*!  

The writing is very good, the characters are diverse and I really like the insertion of back story through "flashbacks".  The revenge of the hobgoblin cleric was brutal!  

I look forward to getting caught up over then next day or so, but you have another faithful reader now!

~ Old One


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## Lazybones

Old One-
Thanks!  Coming from the creator of one of the most engaging home-brew campaigns I've read on this board, your praise is especially appreciated.  

Let me know what you think of the current plot line once you get caught up!

Lazybones


----------



## Lazybones

Book II, Part 16

“Below us… but, what, how…” Delem said haltingly.

“Come on!” Benzan said, stirring them to action as he started down the steps that led toward the main hold, his companions close behind.  They passed quickly into the cavernous area in the center of the ship, that central space only partially filled now with a few dozen carefully sealed crates and barrels.  The only light came from a few portholes, which flickered occasionally with the glow of the lightning that continued around the ship.  

Cal paused to cast another cantrip, placing a brightly glowing light on the tip of his hat so that he and the others could see.  With that illumination they were able to catch up to Benzan, who’d already reached the ladder that led down to the lower deck and started down.  Moving quickly, the others followed him.  

The cramped lower deck was crowded with a half-dozen crewmembers, who were busily passing up buckets of water from the ship’s bilges and dumping them into a trough that was attached to an open porthole in the ship’s side.  They were not far above the level of the waves, now, and spray occasionally blasted in through the opening, trying to undo the hard work of the sailors.  A few looked up as the companions crowded into the low space, but they did not let their appearance distract them from their work.

“How bad is it?” Benzan asked one of them.

“The loss of the mast sprang a few seals,” a young woman working the bucket line replied.  “But I think most of the leakage is just in this one section of the bilges.”

Benzan nodded and turned to Cal.  The gnome gestured back toward the rear of the ship, and Benzan led them back in that direction.  They soon left the hard-working sailors behind, and entered an area that was mostly crammed with supplies for the crew and passengers.  The sailors were crewed in the bow portion of the ship, while the captain and passengers had cabins almost directly above where they were currently standing.  

The ship continued to sway dramatically with the motion of the waves, but in the narrow confines they were better able to steady themselves against the walls and low ceiling.  

They started looking around, but could not readily identify the source of the magical aura that Cal had detected.  Cal’s spell was depleted, but the gnome prodded Delem to use his own innate powers to detect for magic again, and the sorcerer nodded, opening his senses.  

The result was immediate, as Delem gasped and staggered against a roped row of barrels.  

“What is it?” Benzan asked, as the dazed sorcerer tried to recover.  

Delem pointed toward the deck underneath them.  “Right below us!” he hissed.  “Twisted… dark magic!”

Delem’s agitation was contagious, but Benzan quickly located the hatch that led to the absolute bowels of the ship, the aft bilges.  He crouched beside the portal, and looked up at his companions as they gathered around him.  

“Ready?” he asked.

At their collective nod he drew the bolt and pulled the heavy portal open.  The space below was even more cramped, only a few feet deep, stretching back a short distance and forward a dozen paces to a heavy bulkhead.  The smell of brine wafted up, and with the light of Cal’s spell they could see at least several inches of clouded water swishing about.  

And then there was the greenish glow coming from the forward part of the compartment, which was more than a little disconcerting.  

“What in the hells…”

Benzan dropped down into the compartment, the water splashing around his ankles.  Above him, his companions crowded around the opening, trying to get a glimpse at what was causing the glow.  

“What do you see?” Cal asked, as Benzan crept slowly forward through the water, bent almost double in the narrow space.  Benzan didn’t reply at once, so Cal had Lok lower him down into the space, where he would be able to maneuver more easily than the tall tiefling.  

What he saw, as he crept abreast of where Benzan was standing, was astounding.  

The green glow was coming from a large gemstone, resembling an emerald except that it was roughly the size of a clenched fist.  It was wedged securely into the gap where two beams met, and had apparently been wrapped in some sort of cloth cover, now burned away by the strange radiance that shone from within.  Wisps of greenish energy orbited the stone like planets around a star, and they could see tenuous tendrils of pale light extending away from it like threads, vanishing through the outer hull of the ship and the deck above them.  

Cal glanced over at Benzan, who seemed mesmerized by the sight.  “I don’t like the looks of that,” the tiefling finally said.

“What is it?” Delem’s voice drifted down from above.  

Cal summed it up in a single word.  “Trouble.”

* * * * * 

They retreated back to the storeroom for a brief conclave, to decide what to do about the strange gemstone.  They quickly agreed that it was likely responsible for intensifying, if not causing, the storm threatening the ship, and that fact alone drove them toward taking action.  There were many questions left unanswered—who put it there, and why?  How long had it been aboard?  Why hadn’t they detected it before now?  But for now, the obvious course was to get it off the ship.

Benzan and Cal ducked back down into the bilges, and started toward the gemstone.  They had barely covered half the distance between it and the hatch, however, when the two of them felt a sudden wave of nausea wash over them.  Benzan stumbled and fell to one knee, the salty water washing over his garments, while Cal staggered up against a heavy vertical beam.  

“Lok, we need you!” Cal cried up toward the hatch, as he and Benzan retreated out of the radiance of the green glow.  As they fell back, the feelings of sickness faded, but the two of them still felt weakened and unsteady.  

But the genasi proved no more able to reach the gem, despite his incredible fortitude.  He got closer, within ten feet of it, the muscles of his face straining with his effort of control.  One of the wisps of smoky light struck him, passing through his body as if he wasn’t there, but as it continued past he quivered and then collapsed, falling over backward into the water with a loud splash.  Benzan and Cal had to drag him back, and it took a quick intervention of divine magic from Delem before he could move again.  

“How are we supposed to get to the damned thing!” Delem exclaimed in frustration.  

“Well, if we can’t get reach it, maybe we can destroy it,” Benzan said calmly.  The five companions shared a look, and ultimately all nodded in agreement at what might in other circumstances be considered a rash and ill-begotten plan. 

So once again they delved into the dark crawlspace, drawing as close as they could to the glowing gemstone without feeling the ill effects.  They left Dana by the hatch, as a reserve in case any of them needed assistance.  

“Let’s see what we can do,” Cal said.  “Delem?”

The sorcerer nodded, and summoned a pair of flaming bolts that streaked across the compartment and slammed into the gem.  The glowing shroud of energy pulsed and distorted momentarily, sending a jarring feeling through each of them that lasted just an instant.  After a moment, however, the aura around the gem returned to normal.  

“We’d better back up a bit,” Cal said, and they retreated until they could just see the stone.  

“Now what?” Delem asked.  

But Benzan was already preparing his answer.  He strung his bow, having to first maneuver for room to draw and aim the weapon.  They could see that he’d drawn one of the acid arrows, which he sighted on his target.  

It was an awkward shot, but Benzan took a moment to focus his thoughts and summon the power of one of his new spells.  The little wooden archery target that Cal had carved for him, and which rested in a pocket in his tunic, focused the threads of energy that the tiefling drew in with a word of command, and suddenly the gemstone seemed to fill his vision, an easy target.  

The arrow flew, and slammed hard into the stone.  The acid blazed against its surface, causing the field of energy to flicker and pulse angrily.  

“Now, Delem!” Cal urged.

Delem summoned his most powerful spell, launching a stream of fire directly into the gemstone.  The flames washed over the surrounding braces, but didn’t catch on the damp wood.  The fire lasted only a few moments, but when it faded an audible cracking noise filled the confines of the narrow compartment.  

A wave of energy washed over them, and each of them felt a sudden disorientation twist through the very core of their beings.  They staggered back toward the hatch as the world spun in circles around them, but they had barely managed a few uncertain steps when they fell and darkness claimed them.


----------



## Thorntangle

I just caught up today and you have definitely hooked another reader.  Great writing and a great story.  Good job!


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## Lazybones

Welcome aboard, Thorntangle!  I'm glad that people are enjoying the story--it's been a lot of fun to write thus far.

Part 17 tomorrow morning (PST)... surprise twist coming!


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## Ziggy

Hi Lazybones!

I like the current story-line, I'm looking forward to see how the latest happenings tie into the greater story. I also like the way you are using the boat for a series of encounters, it's an excellent way of string encounters together without railroading the PCs. And the writing is excellent as always 

.Ziggy


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## Horacio

Lazybones said:
			
		

> *Welcome aboard, Thorntangle!  I'm glad that people are enjoying the story--it's been a lot of fun to write thus far.
> 
> Part 17 tomorrow morning (PST)... surprise twist coming! *




A surprise? I love surprises!


Waiting for it,  Lazybones!


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## MasterOfHeaven

I'm looking forward to the next update.


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## Lazybones

Book II, Part 17

“Cal, wake up.  Cal.”

The voice nagged at him, refusing to let him be, so reluctantly the gnome opened his eyes to see Dana’s concerned face looking down at him.  He was on his back, and felt cold, his clothes soaked through with briny water.  Belatedly as he looked around he saw that he was back in the storage space above the bilges, the hatch yawning blackly a few feet away.  

“Where are the others?” he said, as he started to rise.  That was a mistake, as bright lights flashed alarmingly inside his head, so he leaned back down carefully, resting his aching head on the deck beneath him.  

“Lok’s getting them,” Dana said.  

“How long was I out?” Cal asked.  

“I’m not entirely sure—I lost it there for a bit as well—but just a few minutes, I think.  Hold still,” she said, and moved quickly to the hatch where Lok was lifting the still-unconscious form of Delem up to the deck.  

Cal looked around, careful not to move his still-spinning head too quickly.  He suddenly realized that the ship was no longer heaving with the storm; there was still that ever-present roll of the deck, but it was softer, not much more than on a typical windy day.  The realization brought a troubling thought, and he rose, ignoring the protests of his body as he reached for his wand of healing.  

Lok and Dana had gotten Benzan and Delem up to the security of the deck, and the genasi lifted himself up through the hatch, dripping water with every movement.  Benzan and Delem were still unconscious—the three arcane spellcasters had taken the brunt of the effect, Cal noted, still unsure what had happened.  

“Can you help them?” Cal asked.  He did not expect the troubled look that crossed Dana’s face.  “What’s wrong?” he asked.  

“I tried that, with you,” she said.  “I… couldn’t feel Selûne’s power, couldn’t summon healing.”

That news was disturbing indeed, and Cal wanted to go abovedecks and see what was happening, but he could not leave his companions in this state.  Taking his wand, he touched it to Delem’s side and called its power.  A sigh of relief escaped his lips as the blue glow of healing energy flowed into his friend, and a moment later Delem’s eyes opened.

“What… what happened?” he asked.  

“We’re still trying to figure that one out,” Cal told him.  “Dana, see if you can help Benzan with your wand.”

Sheepishly, for she had forgotten about the device, Dana did as she was bidden.  Within moments Benzan was stirring, and Cal had used his wand on himself to clear his head of the lingering cobwebs.  He offered it to Lok, but the genasi shook his head, apparently recovered.  

“What happened?” Benzan said, echoing the others.  Cal quickly brought him up to speed on what he knew—including the apparent absence of the storm—and turned to Delem.  “Dana said that she could not feel her connection to her goddess.  Can you sense Kossuth?”

Delem’s brow furrowed in concentration, but then his sudden look of surprise and dismay bespoke the results of his effort.  Still, he continued focusing his thoughts, his lips moving as he muttered the words of an invocation, and after a few more seconds the faint glow of a minor orison appeared briefly between his fingertips.  

“I did it,” he said, “but it was as though the power was coming through a heavy fog, distant, unfocused.”  Still, he looked reassured that his link to Kossuth was not entirely severed.

“We’d better get up above, and see what’s happened.” Benzan said. 

Gathering their gear, they followed him.  They retraced their steps, heading up the ladder to the hold and then the main deck above.  The sailors bailing out the main bilges were gone, apparently having already headed above-decks.  They reached the door that led out onto the main deck, and after taking a deep breath, uncertain what they would find, stepped out into the open air. 

The rest of the crew was gathered there, most of them milling about in some confusion.  The storm was gone as suddenly as it had come, leaving only a firm but not overbearing wind blowing from the north.  The sky in the east was just beginning to brighten with the first glow of the coming dawn, although as far as they could reckon it had still been in the dead of night when they had gone below to investigate the magical aura of the strange gem.  

“Captain Horath!” Cal said, hailing the captain where he stood talking with Ruath and another crewmember.  The elf looked down at them, and his own confusion indicated that he had no answers for them.  Even as they moved up to the aft deck to join him, however, they overheard one of the crewmembers say something that gave them pause.  

“The stars…” 

They looked up, at a gap in the clouds above where a few dozen twinkling flickers could be seen.  They all stared at the stars, relieved to see them after the harshness of the storm, then Benzan turned abruptly to the man who had spoken.  “What about them?” he asked, with an edge to his voice.  A number of others around them were scanning the skies as well, and worried murmurs were beginning to build.  

“They’re… they’re _different_…”

“Where are we?” Delem asked, bewilderment clouding his expression.    

The lapping of the waves held no answer, as the _Raindancer_ drifted on the open sea.


END OF BOOK II


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## Old One

*Can everyone say "Plane Shift"?*

LB -

Just got caught up through the present post...very impressive!

A couple of questions:

(1) Is the "Story Hour" from a current campaign, an old campaign or a "creative campaign"?

(2) I really enjoyed the confrontation with the Cyricist, but I am suprised that he didn't have more help.  Was he being over-confident or just stupid!

Anyway, great story hour...I am looking forward to seeing what the PCs do in their new home!

~ Old One


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## Lazybones

Thanks, Old One!
To answer your questions:
1) As I stated way way back on post #1, I started this story as a way of familiarizing myself with the Forgotten Realms.  I had just bought the campaign book, and thought that a "guided tour" with an actual party would be a good way to go about it.  Plus, this way I got to design a campaign as I created the story, and familiarize myself more with the specifics of the 3e rules.  

While the story is almost all fiction (with a few elements lifted from old campaigns), the characters were initially based on those of a group I gamed with back in the old 1e/2e days while I was in college.  Since then the characters have taken on a life of their own, and I'd say that they now only dimly resemble those archetypes I started with.  I honestly never thought that the story would go as far as it has (initially I had only sketched out the plot with the Cyricist priest and the hobgoblin fort), but now I can't stop the flow of ideas.  As long as people enjoy what I'm writing, I guess I'll keep doing it.  

2) Doh!  I was hoping no one would notice... but yes, initially I had the cleric reinforced by a summoning glyph and some lesser undead (the reason he has the _desecrate_ spell), but when I hit on the idea of the summoned demon, I realized that the encounter was getting out of the realm of what a fourth level party could handle.  Luckily, it all came together, and the death of Cal provided a hook that led the companions to the next adventure.


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## Old One

*Old One grumbles about being blind...*



			
				Lazybones said:
			
		

> *Thanks, Old One!
> To answer your questions:
> 1) As I stated way way back on post #1, I started this story as a way of familiarizing myself with the Forgotten Realms.  I had just bought the campaign book, and thought that a "guided tour" with an actual party would be a good way to go about it.  Plus, this way I got to design a campaign as I created the story, and familiarize myself more with the specifics of the 3e rules.
> 
> *




LB -

Doh!  I really should read things better - gotcha!

~ Old One


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## Lazybones

Hello, readers!

I've started a new thread for Book III of the story (and gave away where they are now located, oh well).  The new thread opens with a poll, please take a moment to participate!

http://www.enworld.org/messageboards/showthread.php?s=&threadid=4975

Hopefully the old thread won't immediately plummet to the bottom of the page, now that the new one is active... please give it a bump every now and again, so that new readers can find the story. 

Thanks again for reading, and on to book III!


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## Horacio

What a wonderful ending for book II!
I'm going right now to book III...

A question, have you got any website? Because I think such a story merits to be placed in a website, to allow everybody to read it, and not to be sunk in the later pages of this board.


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## Lazybones

A website? Hmm...

Back in 1997-98 I had a story page on Earthlink that featured one of my early novels, but I'm not sure if my current provider has website hosting.  I'll look into it, though!  

Thanks and see you at the new thread!


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## Dungannon

Lazybones said:
			
		

> *Hopefully the old thread won't immediately plummet to the bottom of the page, now that the new one is active... please give it a bump every now and again, so that new readers can find the story. *




Just finished your first two books, and I must say that this is easily one of the most entertaining story hours I've read.  The Forgotten Realms have been my favorite campaign setting since I read the Moonshae & Icewind Dale trilogies in the late 80's, early 90's and I'm always interested in another DMs take on them.

Now it's on to book III, where I'm very interested to see how you've updated the Isle of Dread for 3e.  The Isle was the first "pre-fab" module I ever played and has been a personal favorite of mine that I've played and DMed in various incarnations through 1st & 2nd edition AD&D.


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## Lazybones

Thanks, Dungannon; glad to have you aboard and I hope you enjoy the tales of the Isle.  


Lazy


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## weiknarf

This story is painfully exquisite is its addictiveness.


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## Lazybones

weiknarf said:
			
		

> *This story is painfully exquisite is its addictiveness. *




Thank you.  I hope you'll enjoy the later books as well, and I'll save you a seat in the current thread (book VII).


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