Episode 19 - Descent into Qualimor

Sword of Air

Episode IXX

Audience with the Elvenking

Haji Baba meets the gaze of the Elven Ranger with a self-assured steadiness, and protests that they are not pirates and criminals as he so accuses, but rather adventurers on an important mission to deliver the trapped soul of Koschei the Deathless, currently residing inside Martha the Goat, to the Elven King himself. She herself is descended from Kagonesti royalty, she says austerely, and so the Ranger would do well to treat her with respect.
The Captain, Beleriath Vaethrann, snorts with derision and orders his men to strip the adventurers of their weapons and clamp them in shackles, but the quick-witted Druid surrenders to him her bloodstone and insists that their intentions are good. At the sight of the red stone, Beleriath visibly recoils; an item of such necromantic power has no place in the Elven Realm. He sees that the companions have little idea of stone’s value and power, and he begins to realise that they most probably employ its undead skeleton servants out of ignorance and convenience rather than through any ill intent.
Still, there is an unconscious undead woman among their number, a very obvious pirate in the form of Corazon de Ballena, and a grim Half-Orc whose scarred visage foretells dark magic to the uncanny perceptions of this noble Elf. He seems suspicious too of the Kenku Wizard, and eyes the feral-looking Tabaxi warily as he continues to converse with Haji Baba.
She relates how they rescued their Elven steed from the clutches of vicious Harpies, and how they fought off a horde of Grimlocks and were dealt grievous wounds by a vile brain-dog at the command of a Duergar. Beleriath’s curiosity is piqued, and the friends hear him mutter something about ‘Illithid’ to one of his lieutenants. When they mention Elovyn Sorrowsong, however, the name means nothing to him.
Mherren, Lightstrike and Zimlok all offer stories of their plight in the Old Margreve and their meeting with Baba Yaga, and of how the awakened forest itself has become sickened and insane, turning on its own fey inhabitants. They tell of the raid on the Astral Library of Athenaeum by alien toad-creatures, and of how they witnessed the mass migration of the Urzin on their gargantuan Horizonbacks out of the Festering Marshes, and of both Mordenkainen’s and Baba Yaga’s warnings of a sinister darkness on the horizon.
Beleriath spits at the name of the fey witch of the forest, but he becomes pensive when the companions suggest that this coming darkness will require all to put aside notions of good and evil and work together to defeat it. The idea of the Elves siding with the black witch is beyond the comprehension of this upright Ranger, but still he is intrigued by this tale and is beginning to believe that these vagrants are not the simple bandits they first appeared to be. He agrees to take them to the King, and even to retain their weapons and freedom – for now. But he keeps a suspicious watch over them as the majority of his band disappear like shadows back into the forest.
The remaining Rangers throw Shurq Elalle’s body over the back of the horse, which Mherren names Nameless, and they continue into the Galentaur with Martha the Goat happily trotting beside them and stopping for the occasional nibble. Mherren notices that some of the Rangers have remained behind on the ship and are systematically beheading the skeletons and piling their skulls beneath the mast, although for now this appears to make little difference to their bodies, which are still busily climbing rigging and hauling on ropes. The foliage-cloaked ground begins to crumple into steep ravines and rocky outcrops and the vegetation thickens as they proceed away from the River Argent, leaving the Dead Calm behind them. Night has descended truly over the forest, and fireflies flit in the darkness as wolves howl and owls hoot.
In the near distance the companions hear the sound of fighting, and shortly a Ranger runs back to Beleriath to tell him they have been engaged with by a band of Grimlocks. Vaethrann nods gravely but seems confident that his Rangers can deal with them. The Fellowship continue onward beside their Elven escort as the clangs and screams of battle carry to their ears through the undergrowth. Near the top of a steep, sparsely wooded slope, there comes another sound – an owlish screech, but far louder and deeper than any natural owl.
Lightstrike’s keen feline vision spots the shadowy form of a huge bearlike creature upon the ridge to their left. And another – just ahead! Sensing they are in peril, he quickly casts sleep, but the creatures are too hulking to be affected. Before the heroes can react, the bears, which have long, curving claws and hooked beaks upon owl-like faces, leap down from their perches and attack.
Zimlok lays a magic rope snare and lures one of the Owlbears towards him with squawks and arms flapping, as Haji Baba summons a roll of thunder with her thunder-staff and sends a wave of sonic energy through the other. The Rangers let fly a volley of arrows, but in the darkness and confusion many of them miss, and Mherren is lacerated cruelly by the first Owlbear, which rips at him with its claws and tears into his flesh with its wicked beak. Corazon distracts it with a few slashes of his rapier, as Mherren casts mirror image and three duplicate Half-Orcs surround the confused monster.
As Haji Baba shoves a stubbornly unwilling goat to safety, Lightstrike shins nimbly up the closest tree and leaps with a yell on to the back of the first Owlbear, morphing into hybrid Wereleopard form in mid-air and sinking his teeth into it for a devastating sneak attack. The Owlbear shrieks in agony as the Arcane Trickster leaps to safety, and it takes a blundering swipe at one of Mherren’s duplicates. Finding nothing but thin air, it yowls again as an Elven arrow finds its mark, but for the last time, for Mherren steps up with Pyron in hand and takes an almighty spinning swing at its thickly muscled neck, cleaving its head from its shoulders in one clean strike and stepping neatly out of the way as its huge body drops lifeless to the ground.
Meanwhile Beleriath, Haji Baba and Zimlok have taunted the second Owlbear to approach the snare. The Illusionist downs his potion of flying and unleashes a scorching gout of magical flame from between his palms as the Druid sends forth another peal of thunder. Neither halt the creature, but they distract it enough that it fails to notice the faint circle of energy pulsing on the ground, which, as it steps inside it, constricts immediately around its ankles and lifts it head over heels and flailing into the air. From his vantage point in the tree, Lightstrike narrows his yellow, slit-pupiled eyes, pulls his short-bow taut and sends an arrow right between the Owlbear’s eyes, killing it instantly. It falls to the ground in a limp heap.
After stemming the flow from Mherren’s wounds, the companions ask Beleriath if such beasts are common in the forest.
“Not common, no,” he replies. “But they have been known to follow the sounds of struggle in the hope of picking off an easy meal. They are single-minded creatures, though, and will attack with ferocity even when the odds are against them. I humbly thank you for your help. You could have taken the opportunity to escape, but you chose to remain and aid us. I will not only introduce you to King Eoneril as I have promised, but I will regale him with this tale of your skill and bravery, too.”
They continue to walk, long into the night, navigating countless ravines until they find themselves in a long snaking canyon that gradually narrows and descends lower until it dives beneath the earth entirely. Haji Baba manages to scavenge a few choice mushrooms and herbs that she intends to dry out and save for later. As they march on, Mherren caresses his onyx crystal, the focus of his Warlock sorcery, feeling uncomfortable at being in the company of the Qualinesti. He yearns for reassurance from his demonic patron, but instead all he feels is the terrifying blind rage of Demogorgon, offended by some insult.
In his mind’s eye Mherren sees a glowing red stone, which splits asunder and becomes the glowing red eye sockets of a gargantuan ram’s skull atop an obese bat-winged body with massive hoofed feet. The skull leers down at a tiny female halfling, who, screaming silently, is pulled inexorably into the earth by skeletal hands that reach up and grasp at her ankles. The goat-skull-headed demon laughs and advances upon Mherren, who emerges suddenly from the waking vision in a cold sweat, his pulse racing. Next to him, Lightstrike’s hackles rise and he emits a low snarl.
Mherren recognises the entity in his vision. It was Orcus, Demon Lord of the Undead and archenemy of Demogorgon. He remembers that Izachar was referred to by Mordenkainen as a Warlock of Orcus, and remembers seeing a ram’s skull upon his desk in the shack upon the Old Docks in Zobeck. He says nothing to the others, but he realises that they are probably right to rid themselves of the Bloodstone, for it would only bring them misfortune and corrupt the Druidic magic of Haji Baba. Perhaps it would even cause Demogorgon to sever his ties with Mherren? Had Shurq been conscious, she could have confirmed that she did indeed steal the stone from a Temple of Orcus and that is truly why Izachar was after her and her ship. Who knows – with the Bloodstone of Orcus being such a powerful artifact, perhaps he still is?...
The passage widens into a dank, dripping cave and ahead they hear the surging sound of an underground river. Indeed, up ahead this cave opens into another, larger cavern filled with crystalline rock formations and pillars formed by prehistoric stalactites and stalagmites, through which a wide subterranean water course runs swiftly and darkly. They follow it upstream and pass beneath a glowing sphere of web-like filaments that Beleriath tells them is one of the Silmbandi – silent magical guardians created by Elven abjurers to seek out and imprison any invading monster or enemy.
After what seems like interminable hours of walking, the Fellowship arrive exhausted at the base of a massive crater in the earth: a sinkhole easily two and a half miles wide and a thousand feet deep, which echoes with a watery roar behind the mesmerising sound of harmonious Elven singing and the choppy lapping of waters against a jagged, rocky coastline. Ahead of them stretches a huge lake upon which kayaks and small, elegant sailing craft bob, and in the middle are two large islands, upon one of which is a spire of rock that reaches up towards the open roof of the sinkhole.
While the right hand side of the crater is lit by moonlight and starlight and the first reddish hints of dawn, the left side is covered by a huge overhang and remains in darkness, except for a pale blue glow emanating from what look like many magical floating orbs that bathe this side in their eerie radiance. All along the western edge of the sinkhole are collections of finely crafted hewn stone houses, many of which are tall and finely spired. In front of them is an imposing tower, and the outlines of more towers and large buildings like temples can be made out on the islands in the distance, along with countless houses, mills, inns and workshops. Behind these two main islands wide twin waterfalls cascade down from near the roof of the sinkhole, their rumble a constant bass to the Elven voices that soar above, and which send up billowing plumes of steam and cloak the north wall of the cavern in a permanent mist. A few caves and tunnels can be seen leading off from the edges of the crater, and eagles circle on thermal currents above, their wingtips backlit by the brightening dawn. Even Mherren cannot help but gasp in wonder at the sheer scale of this place.
Already the streets around them are bustling. Most of the populace appears to be Elvish, a few with blonde hair and glowing complexions, but many with dark hair and duskier skin. Some are meditating upon decorative, wrought-iron balconies and soaring, elegant bridges, a few of whom appear to be hovering just above the floor, but most are setting out stalls for business or going about their daily toils, all looking serene and unhurried compared to the harassed and grumpy-looking souls down the Shimbles in Zobeck.
A few other races can be spotted – Half-Elves, Forest Gnomes, Deep Gnomes, Halflings, a few humans and even the occasional Dwarf. There are wolves curled up in doorways, and Zimlok swears he spotted a giant elk disappearing around a corner and down an alleyway. Nobody believes him when he says he saw a walking tree, too. Fey-looking diminutive humanoids with Elven features, some of whom have bark-like skin, can be glimpsed by the sharp-sighted, and here and there a group of Elves are singing tranquil melodies, or playing pipes and flutes, or strumming upon harps and lutes and lyres.
There is a small, unobtrusive presence of heavily armoured warriors, and a few armed groups of Elves in leather armour, similar to Beleriath’s company. Occasionally, priest-like figures in long robes pass by, some in woodland colours, others in deep blue, still others in black, and even one with half of her face painted black and the other half white, her robes similarly monochrome.
The Rangers lead the companions to a busy port, where they board a sailing dinghy, along with Nameless (rather nervous) and Martha (completely unbothered), and the comatose Shurq (now in a makeshift hammock). To their left are two bow-shaped islands bathed in blue light, with more isles behind and two large azure-lit settlements on the far bank. To the right is a chain of small islands in front of the larger two, and another, heavily built upon with seven pillars of stone at its southern tip. As they sail across the dark waters, another island comes into view to starboard, lit by the now-golden glow of dawn, which appears to be covered in dense forest. Beyond this is a dark maw opening in the sinkhole’s wall, in which a lone tower stands like a broken tooth.
The Elves navigate the craft to the larger of the main islands, where they disembark and make their way through the crowded streets, past an impressive edifice with flying buttresses and intricate carvings and gargoyles, steadily climbing until they reach a great palace nestled at the foot of the rocky spire: the ostentatious Palace of the Summer King. They leave Nameless and Martha with a stable hand (who looks rather surprised to be left tending a goat) in the grand courtyard, which is full of statues and ornamental trees, and give the wide-eyed Elven boy instructions to feed, water and groom both beasts.
Through impossibly tall, ornate golden double doors Beleriath leads them – the helmeted, halberd-wielding and heavily chain-mailed guards saluting him as he passes the threshold – then on up a sweeping double staircase past expensive urns, amphorae and tapestries, to another set of twin doors, which the guards swing open to reveal a long, torchlit, columned chamber, at the far end of which is a dais and throne. Upon the throne sits a glowering Elf in richly embroidered robes, a tall bejewelled crown upon his head. His long hair is fair, and his skin glows slightly golden as he inspects the glittering rings that adorn his slender fingers.
“My King,” says Beleriath, and offers a curt nod, as the dishevelled companions bow as deeply and reverently as they can.
King Eoneril Ostoroth scowls and looks down at the group of grimy, grovelling vagabonds before him. Vaethrann introduces them, and recounts their deeds not only against the Owlbears, but against the Grimlocks and Intellect Devourer, too.
“Mind Flayers,” mutters the King, almost to himself. “I thought the Duergar had gone quiet of late. Not a single raid in the last month or so. I knew it did not bode well. Still, why should I entertain these pirates in my realm, just because they’re skilled at sword and sorcery? You should take them to the oubliette and be done with them. A Half-Orc? Hah! And this?” He gestures at the form of Shurq Elalle on the floor: “An Arisen? Here in my halls? You may be my nephew, Beleriath, but I fear you have gone mad!”
Beleriath throws a sack at the King’s feet, which falls open to reveal the bloodstone. An expression of horror briefly crosses Eoneril’s features, although it swiftly returns to the stern mask it was before. “And this?”
“They bring you the Bloodstone of Orcus, my King. I recommend we send it to the Shadowmancers of Barad Quali, to send it somewhere it may never be found… And not only that. They bring also – ”
“The Soul of Koschei the Deathless,” interrupts Haji Baba. “Entrusted to us by Baba Yaga to give to you, O King, to keep safe here in Qualimor.”
“Safe from what?” the King’s eyebrows arch momentarily in surprise, which he quickly disguises.
“From some burgeoning horror that grows in the marshes and threatens all of Yore – Elf, Dwarf, Man, Orc, Goblin and Gnoll alike. Baba Yaga has foretold that we four – not the pirate – and one other, an Elf like you, are destined to destroy this horror. We believe we must seek out something called the Sword of Air. My Liege, already the Urzin have fled, the Library of Senuthius the Ageless has been attacked, and a plague of frogs is spreading through the land… the Old Margreve Forest is diseased and dying, the Hidden City sacked and the Gnomes slaughtered… Grendelf the Wizard murdered, strange happenings around a cyclopean obsidian foot at a village to the north, the Goblins of the mountain foothills in service to some dark power…”
Eoneril holds up his ringed hand. “Enough. Yes, we have seen strange, mutated amphibians hopping out from the swamps. The news you bring us is bleak, Halfling. I would dismiss your talk as tall tales if you were not vouched for by my Captain, here, and if the tidings you bring did not chime with our own observations of late. We are isolated here in Qualimor, yes, but we are not blind. The Queen has seen things. As have the Shadow Sorcerers. We know the Urzin are gone, but we have more pressing concerns here, with something fell now brewing in The Deeps.
“However, you speak of the Sword of Air. Megilvilya, it is called in Elvish. A thing of myth and fable, or so I had thought, until an Elf arrived here a fortnight ago, an Elf long-banished from Qualimor for turning her back on the Elvish Gods for some Dead God of Men. But she implored me to let her research the history of Megilvilya in the Noldothrond. She begged, saying her god’s eye was burning and there was a darkness coming that would swallow us all. At the will of the Queen, I reluctantly relented. She left only yesterday for the Dragon Coast to consult with a Wizard from the East – one of The Three.”
“She never made it,” says Haji Baba, grimly. “We found her horse, a fine Elven steed, lacerated brutally by Harpies. It was lucky to survive. Elovyn Sorrowsong was nowhere in sight. We fear the worst.” The King ponders for a what seems like an eternity. Finally he speaks: “Very well. Stay here, all of you. You will reside at my pleasure, and I will send you Druids to heal your wounds, cooks and servants to replenish your bellies, Lyrists to becalm your hearts, and mages to find some way of rejuvenating your friend, here, if that is what she is.”
“And me,” says Mherren cheerfully. “It got me, too. I’m not normally this clever.”
“Hmm… I see… Anyway, when you are rested and recovered and your magic replenished, I bid you seek out what happened to Elovyn, for the knowledge she found will surely prove invaluable to your quest. You – ” he glares at Mherren “ – I will tolerate, just, although I know you harbour a dark alliance in your heart. The pirate shall return to his vessel when his sickly-smelling companion here is revived. Aelar Caphaxath of Barad Quali may be able to help her. And I will accept the Egg of Koschei. We will indeed keep it safe here, as you request, and its containers, which include a… a goat, you say?”
He shakes his head and continues: “The Bloodstone we shall deal with also, you can rest assured. Meanwhile I will send for Varo Qualanthri, a tree-tender of Ornemithas, who might coax some clues from her steed, and perhaps I will inquire also as to with whom Elovyn was staying here in the Morgrod. Consider yourselves my guests, but know that I shall be keeping a very close eye on your doings here.”
Eoneril waves the Fellowship away with dismissive haughtiness, and they retire thankfully to their luxurious quarters, taking Shurq Elalle and Corazon with them – all, in fact, except Haji Baba, who goes to the stables to meet with Varo and glean information from his mystical horse-whisperings.
He is slight, even for an Elf, and greying, with delicate features and a ponderous manner. For a long while he gently nuzzles and speaks to the horse in low, drawn-out syllables. Nameless stamps and snorts in response, and eventually Varo turns to Haji Baba and tells her that Elovyn rode him north east for a mile or so into the forest, but pulled up unexpectedly, dismounted, tied him loosely and absent-mindedly to a tree, and wandered off as though in a daze into a heavily-overgrown hollow. She was not attacked or kidnapped, it would appear, but simply vanished into the shadows of the Galentaur of her own accord. Haji Baba thanks the old Soothsayer and returns to her companions, who spend the rest of the daylight hours recovering and questioning Eoneril’s servants about the various locations, factions and notable personalities in Qualimor – getting the lay of things, as it were, before retiring to bed.
In the early hours of the next morning there is a quiet knock at their door, and a plump Half-Elven man in a colourful, feathered outfit and a colourfully painted face slips into their chambers. He introduces himself as Gilmoras the Mummer.
“I’m an act-orr, darlings,” he preens. “I’ve been sent by the div-ine Lady Caerdonelle herself. She wishes to meet with you – tonight. She wishes to speak of your quest. And she can help your mindless friend, I’m sure. Come to Lantanost at the tenth bell. I will meet you at the foot of the Lanthir Numen – the western falls. Do not draw attention to yourselves. Qualimor is under the yoke of the Summer King until the last day of Eleint, in three weeks’ time. The Queen cannot be seen to be interfering. Already she has stepped out of line with her intervention on behalf of the Priest of Arden. The precious balance must be preserved between the Sylvan and the Fated; yes, the gods must be appeased. That way everything can be fabulous!”
And with that he whisks theatrically from the room, throwing Zimlok a meaningful but confusing wink, and leaving the comrades wondering how on earth such a flamboyant individual sneaked into the King’s Palace in the first place.