Episode 28 - Of Games & A Throne

Sword of Air Episode 28

Of Games & A Throne

1. Flower Power

Haji Baba inhales the putrid stench of the gloomflower, her stomach turning over as its bruised purple tendrils writhe sickeningly and its pustulent ebon stamen emits a silent scream, which, although beyond the range of natural hearing, nevertheless penetrates the mind with overpowering terror. Nightmarish visions grip our heroes as they hold their hands to their ears in a vain attempt to block out the psychic attack (not even your socks can save you now! Mwahahaha! – DM).
Zimlok and Haji Baba somehow steel their wills against the assault, but Mherren and Lightstrike are maddened and driven to lash out at their comrades in blind fear. There follows a few tense moments of desperate dodges and parries as the two magic-users defend themselves against the Wereleopard’s quick and lethal blade and the brutal strength of the scarred and hulking Half-Orc. A clear-minded lustre returns to Lightstrike’s feline eyes as he manages to throw off the effect, but Mherren is hailing down blow after blow upon Haji Baba. She stumbles back. An arc of steel.
“Nooooo!” cries Zimlok with histrionics that would be the envy of amateur dramatic societies across the Land of Yore, and, muttering impossible magical syllables and making a series of unnecessarily complicated arcane gesticulations, he casts hold person upon the crazed Warlock. Mherren is frozen mid-strike, the blade mere inches from the Druid’s neck. Zimlok shadow boxes around the Half-Orc in the manner of a 1920s pugilist, as Haji Baba thrusts the offending flower into her airless bag of holding.
There it shall stay, she thinks with a malevolent sneer, until it withers and dies, and I can harvest its maddening bitter oils to soak my blade and poison my enemies! So shall they perish, thrice-stricken by steel, fear and madness! (Um… Haji Baba, you worry me; I wonder if you’ve ever considered seeking counselling? – DM).
Zimlok drops the spell and Mherren snaps to his senses. For a moment he leers menacingly (that’s just his natural expression - DM) over the prancing Wizard, who squawks out an audible whimper and takes a few hasty steps backwards despite himself.
“Not so brave now, are you little bird?” growls Mherren, before dropping the blade and holding his fingers to his low brow, his head throbbing with the after-effects of the weird, psychoactive plant.
The companions pause to soak in the silence of the vast hall in which they find themselves. All around them great columns stand mute, carved with Dwarfish sigils and images of a creature that Zimlok, being the most widely travelled, eruditely claims to resemble a whale (which he preposterously pronounces “Hw-hayle”). They spend a few moments considering the queer verse upon the rotted tapestry they found: Dark-hearted One, the God Below; A solid sea doth gird his soul… before collectively shrugging their shoulders and setting about making camp.
They set a watch, and, exhausted, surrender themselves to slumber. Perhaps it is their sheer exhaustion, or perhaps this eerie subterranean realm, or maybe a lingering corrupting influence of the gloomflower, but they are each plagued by strange, disquieting dreams…

2. Strange Dreams

Mherren’s dream…
Darkness. Then, a flash of light. You are in a strange land, full of shifting shadows and half-seen entities. You look down. A young man at your feet, dead. You look up. A Demon before you, a Demon made of shadow. It holds a book. The book you seek. You reach out… another flash!
You stand before a great pyramid of smooth black stone. Within, the Sword of Air. But there is no door. Not even a crack. You go to touch the stone… another flash!
You are kneeling, surrounded by fire. Above you looms your Lord, Demogorgon.
“Remember, Mherren Halfblood, your friends mean nothing compared to me. Nothing! Remember our deal. Honour me, Mherren Halfblood, and you shall have power beyond your imagining!”
You sense that something is profoundly wrong. Regardless, you bow your head and proffer the Sword. Then you see, at your feet, your companions, stricken – the Wereleopard, the Halfling, the Kenku – all dead. Another flash!
You are falling. Falling through shadow. You awake with a sense of something cold gripping your heart.
Lightstrike’s dream…
A figure, cloaked in shadow, shadow deeper than darkness. The figure peers at you from beneath its wide-brimmed hat. You recognise its wise, feline eyes, though the face is old and weathered, and the eyes themselves dull where once they were bright.
“Lightstrike,” whispers Master Light Touch. “The Sword of Air is yours to bear. Only you have the heart to wield it and remain uncorrupted. Find it. Take it beneath the earth and release Arden from his bondage. Still his heart and make him whole again.”
You step closer. You reach out to touch him… and you grasp at shadows. He is gone, and you awake with an uneasy feeling in your heart.
Zimlok’s dream…
You stand in a thick, roiling fog. Something screeches nearby, unseen. Something huge and reptilian. Suddenly a face leers out of the mists! A gargantuan dragon’s face, snapping at you with great teeth like swords, and then withdrawing back into the swirling fog. Then another dragon face, bursting from the mists, lashing out at you and retreating. You stand frozen, rooted by fear. Another emerges. Then another. And another. This last one bellows, and closes its monstrous jaws about your puny head… and you awake in a cold sweat, your pulse racing, your breath shallow and rapid.
You look around quickly to check nobody has noticed your anxiety, but your companions are fast asleep, and Lightstrike, on watch, has his back turned. You notice him absent-mindedly fingering the hilt of the Tongue of Maagog. It certainly is a beautiful sword.
Haji Baba’s dream…
You are in a pit looking up at a starry sky. Beneath you is a cool, angular black stone that seems to throb with some strange energy.
All around you are writhing snakes, coiling about your limbs, your torso, your neck…
They seem to hiss strange words: “Za Tog Ah. Za Tog Ah. Za Tog Ah”.
You scream as one sways before your face. It seems to grin before it darts toward you, and you wake with a jolt. You see Zimlok busily preparing a breakfast of Elvenbread and cold tea, and Mherren still contentedly fast asleep close by, sucking his thumb and filling the abandoned Dwarfish halls with his unfeasibly loud snoring.
And over there, sat a short distance away, is Lightstrike, polishing his magical sword and… is he talking to it?

3. The Tongue Speaks

A voice in Lightstrike’s head. At least, none of the others seem to have been disturbed by it. Yes, it must be in my head. The voice is low, smooth and resonant, its cadences like an entrancing melody to his ears.
“You? You are my new wielder? Hah! I am a blade of kings and great mages, not the trinket of some lowly thief! Well, perhaps you are not so weak-minded as the one who wielded me last. And at least I am free of that forsaken tomb! Three millennia have I languished there! Too long! Too long! What is your name, new master? What manner of creature do I serve?”
“That’s none of your business!” hisses Lightstrike. “And I am no lowly thief! Why should I trust you? And what kind of sword speaks, anyway? I certainly don’t like the tone of your voice.”
Which is not entirely true. Lightstrike doesn’t like the words so much. They seem arrogant and loaded with menace. Except maybe for that one word, ‘master’. That has a nice ring to it. But the voice’s tone. It is to his ears as syrup to his tongue. Fascinated, he listens as his fingers trace the swirling fiery patterns upon the shining steel blade, and it grows warm to his touch.
“I was born of the Forge of Idu Maagog, the Undying Fire, the Immortal Titan, during the Age of Magic. It was He who crafted me and breathed life into my being. It was He who gave me sentience. He who gave me thirst.
“Maagog did I first serve, and then Asuran, but last was a Duerra, what you call a Khazad or Dwarf, named Duorik son of Derrik. A Dragonslayer, Master of Elemental Earth, a hero of his age. He used me to defeat the Spider Queen and drive her Dark Elven minions far below to the Cyclopean Deeps. But when the Khazad lost his mind, they buried me with him, and there have I slept in that cold tomb since the time of the Arcane Wars in the era of Old Khoria. Three thousand years…
“Well? What of it, thief? Do you think yourself worthy of bearing me? Do you like to see your foes kneel before you? To see them tremor beneath your scything blade? To see them wither to husks? Say the word! Whisper it now! “Aithindée!” Yes, our glorious flames shall consume their black and worthless souls! Come now! Let us spill the blood of ages! I long to taste again! O, master, feed my soul with your unbounded fury! Feel the strength of the immortals in your blood!”
“We’ll see,” says Lightstrike. To his light-hearted Tabaxi spirit this talking sword seems a bit heavy-going. A bit melodramatic and full of its own importance for his liking. But still. The strength it would give him. How it would aid them on their dangerous quest. Perhaps it is worth considering. “I’ll – think about it…” he says, and returns the sword to his belt.

4. You Shall Not Pass

Our heroes, having blearily roused themselves in what may or may not be the morning, for they have lost all sense of time in these gods-forsaken caverns, consume their meagre breakfast and make ready to continue on their quest. Lightstrike seems oddly pensive, it strikes Haji Baba. Mherren is too busy stuffing down Elvenbread to notice, and Zimlok is too busy fishing for compliments about his tea.
Strangely enough, in spite of their disturbed sleep, they each feel oddly invigorated and somehow more… powerful (Bienvenue, Bienvenido & Willkommen to the heroic heights of Level 5 – DM). They relate to each other their peculiar dreams, and wonder at their significance, although Lightstrike remains taciturn with regard to the Sword of Maagog.
They gather their belongings and make their way through the dark and cavernous halls. To Zimlok’s disgust, Lightstrike utters the command word, “Aithindée!”, and the Tongue of Idu Maagog bursts into white hot licking flames that coil and dance mesmerizingly around the blade and put the Wizard’s light spell to shame. Full of zest for adventure, all except for the warily circumspect Mherren, the company dances with wild abandon through the grim and silent Halls of Hvela in an entirely inappropriate conga (Are you guys sure you’re taking this saving-the-world lark seriously? – DM).
At the far end of the impossibly vast hall, they come to a large steel door. No handles. No gaps. Just an impenetrable barrier, in front of which is a large, rusted lever. Scattered around the lever are a few arrows, humanoid bones and skulls, and a darker stain upon the stone floor like old blood. Between door and lever are five low pentagonal stone pillars, each face engraved with a symbol: flames, axes, waves, mountains, and a tree. Each symbol is accompanied by an esoteric trigram of solid and broken lines – some old Dwarfish symbology, no doubt. At the base of each pillar is a notch like an arrowhead carved into the floor.
Mherren, eyeing suspicious small holes in the walls either side of the lever, cautiously approaches the door, and wipes a section clear of dust. He manages to discern a faint inscription in Old Dwarfish, which he translates as: “To follow the way you must start with a seed; through the circle of life, each destroyed (or consumed) by the next.”
“I think we need to turn these pillars and put the symbols in a certain order to open the door, or else when we pull the lever some ballistae or some such will pepper us from those holes,” muses Zimlok, stroking a non-existent beard.
“Well, duh,” say Haji Baba’s rolling eyes. Already she is straining at one of the pillars, her legs trembling and that unsightly vein popping out of her forehead again as she heaves at the pillar, but to no avail. Zimlok and Lightstrike both try also, but the heavy stone pillars are stuck fast…
They all look at their feet ruefully as Mherren idly spins each pillar into place: “The tree begins with a seed. It is chopped down by the axes, whose metal is melted by fire, which is extinguished by water, which is dammed or soaked up by the mountains. Wood, metal, fire, water, earth. Easy!” (And, as he spins across the floor in an ungainly Cossack dance and flicks the lever with an unnecessary flourish, he silently thanks Gobchuck’s band of intellect for making him appear so clever.)
With a reverberating, protesting groan, the steel door slides to one side and reveals a room behind, a room bathed in a cool, white light.

5. Check, Mate: The Chamber of Fire

Mherren sends Quasit in to investigate. The room is a good ninety feet across, with a chequered pattern of eight by eight squares in alternating black and white tiles, like a chess board. Pillars either side cast an eerie, magical light over the tiles, which are conspicuously clear of dust. There are flags at this side and at the far end, where there is a heavy wooden door. Upon the closest flags is scrawled a riddle in white chalk:

A Queen ends in flame, but the Knight wins the game.

Tentatively, the demonic familiar follows his master’s command and steps gingerly on to the traditional Knight’s square, second from the end. Immediately, a hellish apparition appears in the central white square at the opposite side: the Black King, taking the form of a massive golem whose plate armour shell glows with a primordial internal fire that glows at the seams, the joints, and in the flaming pits of its hellish eye-slits.
As the Quasit skips towards the fiery construct, taking care to follow the path of a Knight piece (two squares forward and one to the side) it lumbers forwards one square and bellows out a cone of scorching fire breath, singeing Quasit to a crisp. Quasit stands there smoking for a moment in disbelief, before vanishing off the board back to the Abyss whence he was summoned, even as the golem’s iron fist slams down on top of him.
“Let’s take care of this,” says Lightstrike with a look of grim determination, and he casts true sight to determine the nature of this monstrosity. “It’s a mindless thing,” he concludes. “And it’s bound by the rules of the game. But it’s tough, and it hits hard. Really hard. Be careful, friends.”
But Zimlok is already hopping around the board like a maniac, starting from different squares and trying different trajectories of movement, each time ending in a gout of engulfing fire as the square erupts in a ball of flame before returning magically to its former pristine polish.
Singed but still standing, he nods sagely: “Yup. Best move like a Knight, methinks.”
The heroes advance upon the golem in a pincer movement, Haji Baba with her socks in her ears for no apparent reason, Lightstrike resolutely gripping his magical sword, and Mherren hefting the great Dwarfbond warhammer. Zimlok throws down a card from his deck of illusions, fortuitously creating another golem, to which the real golem directs its attentions.
For a while, at least – just long enough for Haji Baba to unleash two tidal waves and a devastating thunder roll. The construct falls, and the Druid sloshes across the flooded board, eyes glinting with mad intent as she sets into the thing’s motionless body in a blind fury of unhinged and vengeful violence. (Erm… about that counselling idea? – DM.)
Reaching the other side, variously soaked and charred, the companions try the wooden door. It’s unlocked, but jammed. Pushing together, they burst through and find themselves in a room full of mirrors.

6. The Chamber of Glass

As they advance through the confusing maze of mirrors, they notice something odd about their reflections. They are grinning at them with twisted expressions of depravity.
“Er, guys – ” starts Lightstrike, but before he can complete his sentence, the four reflections burst from the glass and attack. As Pseudo-Lightstrike manages to touch the real Lightstrike, the Rogue feels the strength drain from his body and he staggers.
Mustering his reserves, and angered by this preposterous assault by his own twisted likeness, he draws the Sword of Maagog and exclaims: “Aithindée!”
Magical flames lick around the wickedly keen blade as a familiar voice whispers in his mind: “At last! Let us play! I am so very thirsty!” And Lightstrike plunges Flame Tongue into his foe, watches it soak up its blood and palpably restore his strength. And yet, he looks down to see he is wounded in the same place he struck his enemy!
Pseudo-Baba lands a blow on Mherren, and the Warlock returns the blow with a devastating sweep of his warhammer. But, it would seem, whenever a mirror-shadow is wounded, its counterpart suffers the same wound. As so, as Pseudo-Baba is sent reeling by Mherren, Haji Baba is momentarily stunned.
She wipes a stream of blood from beneath her nose, licks it and snarls.
Thinking fast, Zimlok summons Leomund’s tiny hut, and a dome of force surrounds the Fellowship, shielding them from their assailants. It soon becomes a battle of attrition, as our adventurers strike from within the protective field of the hut, repeatedly stabbing their indefatigable enemies with light weapons such as knives, daggers and shortbows, so as to minimise their own injuries. Eventually, after an interminable procession of strikes, they prevail.

And… the results are in.
Mherren 1, Pseudo-Lightstrike 0
Mherren 1, Pseudo-Baba 0
Mherren 1, Pseudo-Mherren 0
Zimlok 1, Pseudo-Zim 0
West Bromwich Albion 2, Accrington Stanley…

Oh, wait, that’s not right… back to it… Their foes vanquished, the heroes continue on through the spooky warren of mirrors. But there seems to be no end to them.
“Oh, I’ve had quite enough of this,” says Haji Baba stroppily, and unleashes a sonic boom from her thunderstaff that shatters the glass to smithereens.
There before them, a heavy, iron-girded door is revealed. This time, it is locked, but the mechanism is no match for the burgling skills of Lightstrike the Epic. A few deft tweaks and turns with his masterwork thieves’ tools and the door swings open.
Warily, the companions move inside…

7. The Chamber of Sand

The adjoining room is circular in shape, with a high, domed ceiling. In the centre is a column that rises nearly thirty feet, almost to the apex of the dome. It is capped with four open-mouthed gargoyles depicting bearded grotesques of Dwarfish heads. Above the column there appears to be a hollow vertical shaft that recedes to darkness beyond the ceiling. There is an open archway at the far side, and fine sand coats the floor, which is patterned with long depressions like gutters. The walls and ceiling are strung with fine silken threads like spiderwebs. All is still – not a breath disturbs these suspended gossamer filaments.
Zimlok employs his wand of secrets to detect secret doors and traps, and sees a magical aura around the gargoyles and shaft above. His eyes narrowing upon the archway ahead, he moves cautiously forwards and… exhales.
A thread is disturbed, just a fraction of an inch, and two heavy portcullis doors slam down, trapping the heroes in the room. Immediately, the jaws of the yawning gargoyles seem to dislocate above them, and gushing sand begins to pour in torrents from their gaping mouths.
Mherren casts spider climb, and he and Zimlok, who is sporting his fashionable spider climb slippers, nimbly shin up the column with their last length of rope. As sand rapidly swamps the room and begins to rise towards the ceiling, Lightstike clambers up the dangling rope with his easy feline agility. Haji Baba… not so much.
Desperately she pulls herself arm over arm up the rope, sand beginning to pack around her legs and pulling her back down. Her knuckles whitening, her eyes widening, she climbs faster, ever more desperate. She’s almost there. Her thighs go under. She reaches. Stretches for her companions’ helplessly searching arms. Fingertips brush. She heaves herself on top of the heaping tide of death as it relentlessly rises, now around her hips, her waist… she slips! The sand piles over her shoulders, her head… and finally, a single tiny hand grasps at nothing as she is buried beneath its entombing mass.
Miaow! A cat claws its way out of the sand and, ears flattened, scrabbles up the rope and clings for dear life on to Mherren’s shoulders. They shin up the chimney hole, bracing their backs against its walls, and roll into a side tunnel just as a last gout of sand gushes out of a grill at the top of the chimney and fills the room below to the brim. They’ve lost their rope, but escaped with their lives… just!

8. The Chamber of Stone

Haji Baba morphs back to her natural form and they crawl along the squeeze tunnel in which they find themselves. Eventually they wriggle to a panel that opens into a large, square room with two large pillars. Each pillar bears a carved eye, and there is a singular open arch at the far end. This arch is surrounded by bas-reliefs of stone snakes in writhing stasis. Between the pillars, where the chiselled eyes gaze, are dozens of statues of cave-creatures and humanoids – Dwarfs, Goblins, Halflings, Men, Gnolls, Elves and Grimlocks – all in various poses. Some crouch, some run, some crawl – but all are locked in expressions of fear or panic.
Zimlok throws down another card from his deck, creating an illusory Zimlok who wanders between the pillars and… nothing happens. No Medusa appears. No snake animates. No Pseudo-Zim is harmed in the making of this investigation. Nothing.
One by one, the heroes jump down through the hatch, and formulate a plan. A very cunning plan, just mad enough that it might work…

*

“I have to do what?” protests Mherren.
“Trust me,” says Zimlok. “It’s the only way.”
The Half-Orc chunters for a while, but then, reluctantly, he takes a deep breath and squeezes himself into the bag of holding. It is a strange sight as he pulls up the rim, but the body of the bag does not deform or lengthen to accommodate his form, instead appearing to consume his body as he wriggles it up to his shoulders. He pauses. “Are you sure, now?”
“Quite sure. In you go.” And Zimlok helps him pull it over his head, Mherren just managing another inhalation before he is floating into the nothingness of the astral pocket dimension.
Haji Baba picks up the bag, edges up close to the pillar, and misty steps beneath the snake-wreathed arch. Again, nothing happens, so she shuts her eyes and thinks of Mherren as she reaches into the bag and pulls the gasping Warlock out by the scruff of his neck.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” asks the Druid.
Mherren just scowls as he clambers out.
Next, Zimlok gives Lightstrike a piggy back, his knees buckling under the Wereleopard’s weight (reading the spell description, this detail was entirely unnecessary, but it seemed a shame to tell you – DM), and he thunder steps to join Mherren and Haji Baba beneath the gorgon arch. A cacophonous peal of thunder follows, causing the pillars to shake ominously and flakes of stone and dust to fall to the floor. But the ceiling holds, and no monsters come running.
Bemused, half-expecting their ploy to backfire, the heroes continue onward beneath the arch.

9. King Mherren the Wise

The passageway continues for a short way, before opening into an anteroom that leads into a grand but dusty chamber strewn with threadbare carpets that must once have been incredibly plush and vibrant. Dust-obscured paintings and motheaten tapestries hang from the walls, along with decorative sconces and various rusted halberds and glaive-guisarmes, bardiches, fauchards and billhooks, and great oaken chests and cabinets line the walls. Two elaborate, gilded doors lead off from opposite sides of the room, near to where the companions have entered. At the far end of the hall is a dais, sitting upon which is an unassuming throne cast in a dull, brownish metal.
And behind the throne, a large marble bust of a stern-looking Dwarf, which stands upon another chest, much larger than the rest, and which Lightstrike is already in the process of breaking into.
Click!
Lightstrike heaves up the lid in a cloud of dust, sending the priceless bust on to the floor with a crack. And his eyes widen as a golden glow reflects off his face. He has never seen so much gold! There are hundreds of gold coins, platinum coins, gems, jewellery, goblets, figurines…
He pulls out two large amethysts, a silver necklace inlaid with quartz, and a gold ring set with a black pearl, as three other noses join him in peering over the rim if the chest.
Mherren’s big hands reach in and pull out an unassuming-looking wooden box, which he takes to the throne to examine. Inside he finds a fine golden crown, still brilliant even in the dim illumination of his darkvision in this lightless throneroom. He examines it and finds a stylised inscription that reads:

Uden-King, Wise and Patient Sovereign of Hvel-Runor

“What have you found, Mherren?” calls Haji Baba.
“Erm… potatoes…” says Mherren. “… And chicken.”
No one believes him, but they are all too distracted by the treasures before them. Haji Baba leans in so far that she falls in head-first. As she stands up and looks around sheepishly, with gold coins falling from her hair and out of her ears and nostrils, she sees Mherren, a crown set lopsidedly upon his head, slumped in disarray and snoring contentedly in the tarnished silver throne of King Uden the Patient.

*

What lies in store for our intrepid band of heroes?
Will Mherren be able to summon Quasit back from the Abyss?
Will Lightstrike regain the strength that was drained from him?
Will he be tempted by the power of the Flaming Sword of Idu Maagog?
Will they make it out of the ruins of Hvela alive?
What other treasures lie untouched in these silent halls?
Will they find the Hlokeduin river to take them to the Duergar fortress of Nidlhammer?
And will they find Elovyn Sorrowsong captive there?
What has she discovered about the Sword of Air, and has that information already been extracted?
Find out in the next exhilarating installment of...

Ye Sworde of Ayre!