Episode 18 - From Zobeck to the Galentaur

Sword of Air

Episode XVIII

“Ye Song of Mherren the Learned”

The Dead Calm sails down the River Argent at dawn, several skeletons clambering up and down the rigging and provoking some consternation amongst passing merchant vessels, while the rest of the Skeleton Crew play backgammon and leapfrog belowdecks. Shurq Elalle steadies the tiller as Lightstrike lounges on the poop deck and whets his blade. Mherren secretively grasps his swirling onyx stone and whispers infernal prayers to Demogorgon; Haji Baba meditates cross-legged and draws druidic magic from the air around her; and Zimlok buries his beak in his spell books and mutters to himself as he tries to lodge complicated incantations into his bird-brain. Corazon de Ballena stands at the prow in his foppish folded-over knee-high leather boots and his tricorn hat, adopting a ludicrous power stance and strumming his lute, one foot set against the brig’s figurehead: a grinning skull.
The morning passes uneventfully, apart from a strange incident when a pelican flies clean through the mainsail, ripping a hole in the fabric. But the skeletons make short work of stitching it back together and the unlikely band of travellers continue downriver.
“Best make yourselves comfortable,” says the ever-perfumed Shurq as the magic-users finish their meditations. “It’s a long journey ahead of us – 140 miles to the edge of the Galentaur and another 60 at least before we’re in the vicinity of Qualimor. I must warn ya, although the Argent passes close, no one knows the exact location of the Elven city. In fact, those few I’ve known claim to ’ave visited ’ave ne’er found it again. They say it is hidden by some powerful enchantment.”
Lightstrike brashly shows off his shape-changing party trick to Corazon, before beginning to probe for more information about this odd pair of pirates. “Why are you called Whale Heart?” he asks, and Corazon, putting on his best piratical accent in spite of his lisp, launches into a tall tale of how his ship was scuppered by a behemoth of the ocean.
“Aye doyved into the maw of the beatht, slithered down its throat and ripped out its thtillbeating heart with me bare hands,” he retells histrionically. “Then I clung to the debris of me ship and ate the heart raw with a nice bottle of rum…” And he sucks his teeth as if savouring the beast’s heart. “Ff-fff-fff-ffffff.” (Could this tale perhaps be the inspiration for the now-ubiquitous Ode of the Silent Lambs? – DM.)
Shurq Elalle laughs from her place at the tiller. “If you believe that, you’ll believe anything.” she scoffs. “Percival here was just sick of people calling him Percy the Pirate! It’s true, though, that his ship was scuppered. But it was by pirates, yarr, not a giant whale. I pulled him from the sea meself. And he repayed the favour a few month’s later, when me own ship was boarded by the Lord’s Navy out of Endholme.
“They killed me crew and ran me through wi’ their lances. Corazon took me body south, to see the great necromancer known as Sharif. He brought me back to life, or something close to it, an’ me crew, too – although we couldn’t save their flesh. Boy then it ‘ad rotted good.
“They’ve had it in for me ever since, but I’m grateful to Corazon here, fool though he is, an’ we’ve sailed the high seas together ever since. Until, that is, our ship was stolen from us by some fat, horned Warlock an’ his cronies, and we traced it back to Zobeck.”
Conversation is halted, however, when there is an almighty scraping and splintering sound and the ship lurches heavily to one side. Lightstrike rushes to look over the side, and sees that a rock has gouged a large hole in the hull, and water is pouring in.
“Where did that rock appear from?” hollers Shurq. “Quick! We’re goin’ under!” And Zimlok, quick-as-a-flash, summons his mage hand and manages to pull against the mast to tilt the breach out of the water. Haji Baba directs the skeletons to bail, and the adventurers break some doors and use a barrel of pitch, some nails and any spare wood they can find to plug the hole. Mere seconds from disaster, as Zimlok’s magic wanes, they succeed, and the Dead Calm rights itself and glides graceful and proud once more.
The heroes are puzzled at this strange run of bad luck, for Shurq Elalle is surely a competent sailor, until Mherren remembers the talisman that the Red Mask, Kareb, had planted in the secret compartment in the prow to bring misfortune upon Izachar. It is still aboard!
Having retrieved the elaborately inscribed piece of turtle shell, they briefly drop anchor for Mherren to go ashore and break it to smithereens with his morning star. Just to be sure, he casts the pieces into the river, and the companions feel a weight lift from their shoulders that they had not previously known was there.
The afternoon passes without incident, and the fields and rolling valleys surrounding the Clockwork City have given way to more rugged terrain, which rises in stony bluffs and is peppered with clumps of woodland and crumples into occasional ravines that feed the river.
The riverbanks rise and the Argent itself narrows in places, though deepening, and the sun sets behind them, its red glow illuminating a dense forest that clothes the distant hills. Suddenly Lightstrike is aware of the sound of approaching hooves. “A horse!” he warns the others. And sure enough, in a few moments a beautiful white stallion trots out from the woodclad shore. It is riderless, although it is bridled and carries a saddle and saddlebags. Its eyes roll wildly, its mouth froths and chomps and four cruel gashes have raked its flank, which oozes bright red blood.
Haji Baba, not wishing this poor beast to suffer, orders Shurq Elalle to steer them closer to shore and drop the anchor. She then grabs Zimlok’s trampoline and executes a flawless double pike off the ship, only to belly-flop painfully into the water and flounder inelegantly to shore. She struggles up the steep riverbank and clambers half-exhausted, bedraggled and covered with soil and earthworms, up to where the horse is stamping and snorting in pain and fear.
Pretending not to hear the sniggers coming from the ship behind her, she approaches the horse and attempts to calm it, but the horse stamps its hooves and backs nervously away from the mud-smeared, sopping-wet Hobbit.
“Leave this to me,” says Zimlok loudly, and takes a running leap off the ship. He soars through the air, a blur of spins, and lands in a cool superhero crouch next to Haji Baba. (Wow! Inspiration to Zimlok – DM.)
The Kenku Wizard cautiously approaches the horse sideways-on, whispering in soothing tones until he can grab on to the beast’s reins. It visibly calms, and Haji Baba heals its wounds with a soft blue energy that soaks into its side from her glowing hands. Finding an Elven long sword and a vial of liquid (which you later identify as a potion of greater healing; stick it in your inventory with the Elven sword – DM) in its saddlebags, along with some dried foodstuffs and basic camping gear, Zimlok remembers seeing a similar animal in Marvin Bighorn’s stables back in Sparrowkeep. And horses as fine as this are no common sight. Could it be the same beast?
Although they don’t know it for sure, the heroes assume the horse belongs to the Elven Priest, Elovyn Sorrowsong, and this appears to be confirmed when Haji Baba pulls a white and goldtrimmed robe from beneath the bedroll tied to the saddle; it is just like the one she found in the Temple of Light! (50 XP each for taming the horse and uncovering this clue – DM.)
The companions are debating whether to follow the horse’s tracks into the scrublands or to coax it on to the ship, when an unearthly shriek meets their ears from somewhere beyond the trees from which the horse appeared. Seconds later, six winged creatures with wicked talons and the bodies of twisted, bestial women bearing cudgels fly at them from above the treeline. Lightstrike injures one with a ray of frost, but Zimlok’s attempt at casting Agannazzar’s scorcher fizzles out rather embarrassingly. Haji Baba steps forward with her eyes cast heavenwards and slams the butt of her thunder staff on the ground, causing a black cloud to coalesce and a forking bolt of lightning to streak downward and incinerate two of the vile creatures.
Another harpy rushes at Zimlok, tearing into him with its claws and swinging its club with such ferocity that it would surely have knocked his teeth out if he had any. He attempts to counter with his staff of blinding smite but, dazed from the impact of the club, his wild and frenzied swing misses its target. It attempts to charm him with its Siren-like alluring song, but Zimlok manages to shrug off the effects with a will of steel.
Mherren skewers one harpy with a crossbow bolt, as does Shurq Elalle, and Lightstrike unleashes another ray of frost, but it is Haji Baba who finally deals the mortal blow to these creatures by unleashing a volley of arrows from the skeletons. The remaining harpies plummet to the ground, dead. Just to be sure, Mherren rushes up to their arrow-peppered unmoving corpses and, taken hold of by a raging bloodlust, he pulverises them with his morning star. Zimlok kicks the one that injured him in retribution, only to stub his toe painfully on its ribs. He looks about furtively to check that no one’s seen. (300 XP each for destroying these ghastly foes – DM.)
The Fellowship continues on down the Argent, Haji Baba and Lightstrike riding along the riverbank parallel to the ship, as Zimlok guzzles a healing potion and rubs his wounds with a few pathetic whimpers, but he garners no sympathy.
Twilight sets in, and a stillness punctuated only by the occasional whinny of the horse and the clack of the skeleton bones on the rigging, as the land rises around them and they find themselves in a high-sided canyon pocked with caves. Not far ahead is the border of the Elven forest, the Galentaur, but before that they spy a rickety bridge that spans the canyon and a steep-sided island of jagged rock.
Even in the dim light Lightstrike, walking for a time next to the Elven horse, manages to spot movement amidst the boulders that litter the cliffs and beach below. And it’s a good thing he does, for he avoids a surprise attack by the dozen blind and stone-skinned Neanderthals who emerge with guttural war cries from the rocks and pelt them with slingshots! Haji Baba spurs the horse to a gallop, Lightstrike swinging up by the reins and flipping acrobatically into the saddle behind the Druid. (Inspiration for coolness, there – DM.) He sends forth another ray of frost from his palms, but it blasts harmlessly into the rocks as the horse leaps across a small gully.
An exchange of ranged weapon fire follows, as the Grimlocks surge on to the bridge and leap down upon the Dead Calm. Our heroes meet their slingshots and bone-spiked truncheons with arrow and magic, Haji Baba once more summoning the skeletons to devastating action with some carefully-worded commands.
In the melee, the friends do not notice the tattooed Duergar who has emerged from one of the caves, an abominable beast straining upon a leash in front of him. It has four canine legs that end in long-clawed leonine feet, and its body is like a giant brain. The Dark Dwarf lets it go with a guttural barked command, and the thing bounds across the rocks towards the ship where it attempts to devour Zimlok’s intellect with a psychic blast of energy. But Zimlok’s will is strong, and he shakes off the attack and scurries belowdecks with Mherren in swift pursuit. Shurq Elalle is not so lucky, for, grasping her temples and screaming in agony as the brain monster consumes her mind, she collapses to the floor and does not move. From his place of relative safety, Zimlok casts crown of madness, and a jagged iron crown materializes on the Duergar’s head as a madness glows in its blank, white eyes. The Dwarf doubles in size and bulrushes the Intellect Devourer at Zimlok’s command, but the abomination avoids the shove and leaps aboard the pirate ship.
Mherren tries to command it, but his attempt fails and it scampers through the melee of skeletons and Grimlocks to where Zimlok and Mherren are hiding. The Warlock clutches his onyx stone, which swirls darkly inside as Mherren utters eldritch words to summon a ghostly skeletal hand to assail the creature with the chill necrotic touch of the grave. But the weird beast shrugs off the phantasmal hand with a shiver of the folds of its crusted, firm, jelly-like torso, and begins to feed ravenously on the Half-Orc’s intelligence. It doesn’t take long, of course, and Mherren drops to his knees with a yowl, clutching his temples as his mind is sucked from him by this foul monstrosity. He slumps to the floorboards, unconscious.
Enraged at the sight of his comrade’s fall, Zimlok the Lightbringer puffs out his chest and moulds a ball of arcane fire between his feathered palms. Having learnt from his previous failed attempt, he sends out his scorcher with such ferocious power that it is absorbed into the very centre of the brain-like torso, and for a split second he is worried that his magic has failed him again. But then the vile thing explodes in a flash with a Wooommmmpppphhhhh!!!! that splatters sizzling brain jam all over Mherren and Zimlok and the interior walls of the ship.
Those Grimlocks left on the ship are cut down by the bloodstone skeletons, and those remaining on the bridge and cliffs can be seen howling and jumping up and down, brandishing their clubs, as the Dead Calm, pulled by those skeletons still manning the oars, floats quickly out of range. The Duergar, now returned to its normal diminutive stature, can be seen looking on with its arms folded and a malicious and vengeful look in its pale, pupilless eyes. (200 XP each – DM.)
The heroes – Lightstrike and Haji Baba too, having tethered the horse to a tree by the river – kneel around the prone bodies of Shurq and Mherren. They appear to be unharmed physically, but every attempt to rouse them to consciousness fails. It would seem their very minds have been taken by that abhorrent creature. Sheathing his bloodied cutlass, Corazon sheds a tear as he cradles Shurq’s pale head in his lap.
Then an idea strikes Haji Baba. “We have Gobchuck’s headband of intellect!” she cries. “It’s worth a try,” agrees Lightstrike, and the Druid reaches into the bag of holding and fumbles around for a second before her pudgy fingers grasp the simple copper crown.
All hold their breath as she slips the headband over his heavy-browed head, and the metal deforms with a ripple to fit the shape of his wide Orcish skull. After a few tense moments, Mherren’s head lolls and he groans and stirs. Slowly he sits up, and the friends notice a keen glint in his bleary eyes that was not there before.
Shortly he is on his feet, pacing up and down the decks of the ship and pontificating on all kinds of abstract notions and convoluted philosophies.
“So if we locked a Goblin in a box with a vial of poison…” he muses with an erudite expression that has never before crossed his features, “… how could we know if the poison had spilt and killed the Goblin? From our point of view, one could not say for sure if the Goblin were alive or dead. Thus it follows, no doubt, that the Goblin could be regarded as simultaneously existing in both states of being alive and dead…”
And so he continues to pace the deck, stroking his chin and waggling his finger, as the others exchange looks of sheer bewilderment. (And let it be recorded here that in the decades to follow, the Quantum Theory of Mherren the Learned’s Goblin would dazzle and confound wizards and philosophers all across the continent of Yore and throughout the lands beyond – DM.)
As darkness falls, the Dead Calm penetrates the mysterious gloaming of the great forest of the Qualinesti. The horse that Druid and Rogue ride looks ghostly, and treads softly and almost soundlessly on the mossy forest floor, as water laps and slaps against the hull of the skullprowed ship below.
Thousands of fireflies dart about and wolves howl in the distance as the canopy closes in and a chill wind causes the companions to wrap their cloaks tighter around their bodies. A clear tributary stream tumbles down the rocks into the relentless River Argent, and our heroes are just marvelling at the eerie beauty of this gloom-soaked fey forest when they hear a series of schwhooshes and the ship’s mast and decks are suddenly bristling with Elven arrows. A semicircle of similar arrows quivering in the ground before Haji Baba’s and Lightstrike’s steed halts them dead in their tracks.
“Daro, firi! Megili!” comes a male voice from somewhere in the verdant undergrowth. (“Halt, mortals! Your weapons!”)
Haji Baba calls into the darkness: “Nalmet Elendili!” (“We are Elf-friends!”)
And two dozen cloaked and hooded figures emerge from behind the trees. Each shadowy form holds a bow before it, undrawn but with an arrow notched in readiness. One of their number steps forward, drawing back his hood, and the companions can make out in the faint moonlight the face of a young fair-haired Elven warrior, stern of countenance and firm of jaw, who with a look of suspicion studies the two adventurers astride their white Elven horse, and then glances down at the ship in the water with its demonic Half-Orc Warlock aboard, its black-feathered sorcerous birdman, its skeletal crew and its tricorn-hatted pirate captain.
Softly he speaks, but with an unmistakable undertone of threat: “I am Beleriath Vaethrann, Captain of the King’s Rangers. Know this, travellers. The Quendi allow passage of human merchant ships upon the Laureduin. We tolerate those of peaceful intent who wish to traverse our realm and do not wander from the river’s course.
“But you are no merchants! You are pirates and scoundrels, I have no doubt! And what is more…” and it is difficult to know if he gestures at the skeletons clinging to the rigging or to the motionless form of Shurq Elalle wrapped in blankets upon the deck…
“You keep undead in your company – and, by Selune, the undead we will not abide in fair Galentaur. Give me one reason not to shoot you down right now!”
Ropes arc towards the Dead Calm and a dozen grappling hooks bite into timber and pull the brig slowly in to shore. The Elven captain fixes Haji Baba with a stare and waits for answer.

*

Is it out of the frying pan and into the fire for our hapless heroes?
How in all the planes of existence are they going to talk their way out of this one?!
And if they do, can they find someone in Qualimor who can help Shurq and Mherren recover their lost brains?
Can they find any leads to the whereabouts of the fabled Sword of Air?
Can they secure audience with the King and persuade him to accept Martha the Goat and the Lost Egg of Koschei the Deathless?
Can they discover the fate of Elovyn Sorrowsong, if indeed the horse be hers?
And what was that weird brain monster, anyway? Who controls it? And are there more…?
Find out in the next thrilling episode of…
Ye Sworde of Ayre!