Episode 41 - Against the Cult of the Reptile God: Part 2
Sword of Air
Episode XXXXI
Against the Cult of the Reptile God Part 2
At the Ninth Bell*, on the 20th day of Eleint, the Season of Waning Summer, in the Year 2020 of the Nurian Era, known in some far-flung realms as the Year of the Snake…
*Temple Bells are traditionally rung thus throughout the civilised lands of Yore:
Hour Equinox Midwinter Midsummer Sunrise 5.00 am 7.00 am 3.00 am First Bell 6.00 am 8.00 am 4.00 am Third Bell 9.00 am 11.00 am 7.00 am Sixth Bell 12.00 pm 12.00 pm 12.00 pm Ninth Bell 3.00 pm 2.00 pm 4.00 pm Eventide 5.00 pm 4.00 pm 6.00 pm Sunset 6.00 pm (4.00 pm) 9.00 pm Completion Bell 8.00 pm 6.00 pm 10.00 pm “What have you done?” cries Zimlok. Lightstrike and Mherren exchange glances. “You were only supposed to ask a few questions! This is carnage!” “Erm…” “We left one alive,” offers Mherren cheerily, indicating the bruised and bloodied form of Constable Grover slumped behind the bar. Zimlok looks down the length of his beak at him, fighting his natural urge to look sideways out of one eye for fear of being teased by the others for being a bird. “We’ll deal with him later,” he says. “Let’s get after that goblin.” They all hustle to the kitchen, where Snigrot Dogroot had fled. “Well, he’s probably gone down these stairs,” concludes Mherren. “I think it’s definitely worth spending a good bit of time searching this room first, though,” says Zimlok, and they all start checking every floorboard, behind every picture, under the kettle, in the cutlery drawer (seems to be missing a few forks), behind the ironing board (No, I’m not sure why there’s an ironing board in the kitchen, either – DM), in the saucepan, up the tap, under the rug, in the oven… … In the oven! “Look!” shouts Lightstrike with delight. “I’ve found some giant crab claw gloves!” “Cooool!” coos Zimlok. “Let’s ’ave a go!” The giant, pink crab claws tingle with subtle magicks as he pulls them over his hands, and they seem to morph inside to fit him. “Look at me, Haji Baba! I’m a crab!” grins Zimlok, sidling around and working his claws. Haji Baba looks on, stony-faced. “I wonder what they can do…?” ponders Lightstrike. “Try this, Zimmo!” He hands the wizard a broomstick, which Zimlok promptly snaps in two with a claw. “Cooooooool!” they coo in unison. “Try this!” says Lightstrike, gesturing to the leaded window. Zimlok attempts to snap it, and does do some damage, but the claw locks on tight, and try as he might, he’s stuck fast. “Oh, good grief, this is ridiculous!” sighs Mherren, and goes over to smash the window and extract it from the locked claw. It’s a struggle, but eventually he wiggles it out. They all look around at one another in a moment of vacant inertia. “Oh, right! The goblin! Come on, Haji Baba,” says Mherren. “Let’s leave these two goons to it and hunt down that chef.” The insult sailing right over his head, Lightstrike turns to Zimlok. “Let’s get Grover to the mayor,” he says. “He’ll be so impressed with us.” “Yehhh… maybe leave out the part with all the killing and the blood…” “And the gore?” “And the gore.”*
Mherren and Haji Baba creep downstairs into the basement, where they find crates of dried foodstuffs and tapped barrels. Some of the barrels are marked with a sign like a coiled snake. They try all the taps, and Mherren samples some of the ales, sloshing the liquid around in his mouth and stroking his chin thoughtfully as he detects burnt oak, liquorice root, undertones of pressed lavender…
“What about this one, Mherren?”
“Oh, er… let me see…”
Out of the marked barrel comes a stream of bitter, dark liquid.
“This must be how they’re kidnapping everyone so easily,” muses Haji Baba, collecting samples in three of her empty vials (…which she seems to have an endless supply of – DM, casting a suspicious eye).
“Listen!” Mherren stage-whispers from the door left ajar at the end of the basement. He moves through into a back room, to find a table and chairs with a half-empty bottle of whisky and some tumblers… and a goblin in a chef’s hat scrabbling at a heavy door in the corner. Someone has removed a bar from across the door, and unfastened some chains that keep it secure.
The goblin stops scrabbling and looks warily over its shoulder… to see a scarred and musclebound half-orc and an angry-looking halfling druid staring at him with arms folded.
“You’d better start talking, imp!” says Mherren.
*
Meanwhile, Zimlok and Lightstrike secure Grover’s bindings, gag him, and rough hand him over to Mayor Ormond’s. The mayor opens the door, wearing a floppy floral nightcap and matching gown. He peers blearily at them for a moment before comprehension dawns.
“We found him at the Golden Grain with some heavies,” says Zimlok.
“He’s been conspiring with Bertram,” says Lightstrike.
“I thought there was something sour in the constabulary,” says Ormond. “You have proof, of course?”
“Ummm…”
Lightstrrike looks to Zimlok for support, but Zimlok has suddenly become very interested in his left big talon.
“He talked about the demon-lord, Ssesh (He didn’t, actually; you did – DM) … and said he was a she… and he wouldn’t say any more… said whatever we did to him, she would do far worse, whoever she is…”
“Very well. That ought to do, for now,” nods Ormond. He looks Grover up and down. The constable merely hangs his head, refusing eye contact. “Lads!”
Presently, the two half-elves, Dorian and Llywillan, appear, and escort Grover off to his own cells.
“Have you found anything else, yet?” inquires Ormond.
“Not yet,” says Zimlok. “Although we’re pretty sure the hermit you suspected is innocent. He helped us, in fact. We’re going to check out the Foaming Mug, and have a word with the priestess at the temple.”
“We’re on the case,” interrupts Lightstrike, with an inappropriate wink. Ormond isn’t sure what to make of it.
“Well, good, then – I think. Dorian and Llywillan have heard rumours of strange noises at the edge of town. They’re going to investigate tonight. Keep up your sleuthing. Together, we’ll get to the bottom of this, by Geb!”
“Ye –” And Ormond slams the door.
*
“I don’t know anything about any cultists; you can torture me all you want,” whimpers Snigrot.
“Torture you? That’s a good idea. I like that,” says Haji Baba, stepping forwards with a grin.
The goblin backs away. “Okay, okay, I’ll talk. They made me do it. They made me make the poison. They made me drug those folks…”
“Who did? Who made you?”
“The… the Road…”
“What road? What are you talking about?”
“The Road runs through Orlane.”
“Well, of course it does. Where else would it go? Talk sense, goblin!”
“No, no. The Road. It runs through every major town and city in the land. From Reme to the Dragon Coast, the Road runs through it all.”
“This is unbelievable. I don’t want travel directions, goblin! I want answers! Who owns you?” yells Haji Baba.
“The Road! The thieves’ guild! The biggest gang in all the realm! Even the Red Masks can’t touch ‘em. And you certainly won’t! You don’t know what you’re messin’ wiv!”
“Who just left you here? Was it one of them?” demands Mherren.
“It was Derek. Desleigh. He’s done a runner. But he’ll be back. He’ll gather his cronies and come after ya! Then you’re for it!”
“And this Desleigh – who does he work for.”
“The Road!”
Haji Baba rolls her eyes. “Biff him, Mherren.”
Mherren takes a step forwards, menacingly.
“No, no. Wait. He’s been staying here at the Golden Grain. Him and his men. They’re in cahoots with Bertram and Grover. They been taking folks from their rooms after they’re drugged.”
“Taking them where? Why?”
“To… to…”
And suddenly Snigrot’s eyes turn a pale yellow. His pupils change shape, becoming reptilian slits. His jaw stiffens and a strange, unworldly voice hisses out: “Ssssilence!”
And Snigrot goes limp.
“We’ll take him to the mayor,” suggests Haji Baba.
“Good idea!” says Mherren, hefting him over his shoulder.
*
They meet Zimlok and Lightstrike on their way back from Ormond’s.
“Let’s get this pathetic thing to the gaolhouse,” says the wizard. “Drench him awake, Babs, to wake him up, and the half-elves can try interrogating him.”
“Thanks,” says Mherren, now sodden.
Their prisoners dealt with, they return to the inn. It is still eerily quiet inside. Oh, and daubed with blood, too. They go down to the basement.
“It’s been locked from the inside. Can you get it open?” asks Babs.
“Can I?” scoffs Lightstrike, casually wiggling his masterwork lockpicks. Within seconds there is a satisfying click, and they push the door open.
“Have you heard of something called the Road?” asks Mherren.
“You mean the thieves’ guild?” says Lightstrike. “Yeah, of course. They’re everywhere, nearly. At least south of the Icespires, they are. They haven’t reached Kagonost, nor Zobeck, I think. But they’re rife elsewhere. Everyone’s heard of them. Why?”
“No reason,” cuts in Babs, and storms through the door.
*
A hastily excavated tunnel winds away from the basement, occasional streams of sandy soil falling from the crumbling ceiling. On reaching a fork in the passage, Babs spots a rusty fork lying on the floor and pointing down one tunnel.
“Must be that way,” she says, groundlessly. The others shrug and follow.
They press onward, Mherren having to squeeze through in places, until they reach a small, smelly chamber that contains a pile of dirty bedrolls and blankets. Finding nothing of interest, they retrace their steps and follow another fork (of the non-cutlery kind) where they find marks on the floor. In one direction, whence comes a slight breeze, are heavy drag-marks; in the other, a smooth, winding pattern.
“That first one is probably a big snake or something!” says Lightstrike.
Haji Baba crouches down to examine the tracks. “I think you’re right – there is a big snake here somewhere. But it went this way,” she points down the second fork.
“Never fear,” says Zimlok, not believing a word of it. “I shall lead the way against this terrible creature.”
And he sets off boldly down the tunnel… and then halts.
“Er, guys?”
“What is it, Zimlok?”
“A… a… a…”
“Yes?”
“Big… snake!”
And an enormous boa constrictor, its body as thick as a tree trunk, slithers towards them out of the gloom.
Zimlok gathers his courage. Arcane symbols appear in his mind’s eye, and with great pomp he incants his words of power: “Mnevyrae-shamphala-synorghast-yvoera-bhalam-nephry-sokha-dramil-jhadhyshrim-poofh!”
And as he traces geometric shapes in the air like a glow-stick wielding raver (whatever one of those is), a cube of shimmering glass encases the coiling beast. Angered, it throws itself against the glass, slamming its black-scaled body again and again into the force field. A few cracks begin to spread in zigzags.
“Look! It’s swallowed something big!” cries Lightstrike. And sure enough, there is a man-sized lump halfway down the creature’s length.
But Haji Baba, still fuming at being made to look a fool by that pesky goblin – “How am I supposed to have heard of this stupid Road? I’m royalty from the many-spired wonder of Kagonost, leagues to the north, beyond the ice-capped mountains! I have no use for some den of thieves in this lowborn kingdom of men!” goes her internal monologue – well, she fails to hear him and summons a beam of cold yet searing moonlight from within the glassy cage. The snake writhes in agony as Lightstrike bravely cowers behind a barricade of makeshift bedrolls and blankets. It grows desperate, flinging itself again and again against the glass, which trembles, and finally shatters… and the snake falls through, dead.
*
Wasting no time, Haji Baba sets about extracting a vial of venom from the snake, before taking her knife and slicing with precision along its intestinal tract. The others wince and wretch at the disgusting sight, as Haji Baba breezily sets about her gruesome incisions. The last cut made, a body falls out, covered in gastric juices. Half-digested, the individual is human, clothed in what not long ago would have been fine merchant’s attire.
“I wonder if this is the trader who went missing last night?” muses Mherren.
“But why have they fed him to this snake?” ponders Zimlok. “Is this the god they worship? It’s just a big worm!”
“No, there must be some other explanation,” says Haji Baba.
“Maybe he resisted the mind control, and this is how they get rid of those whom they can’t dominate?” suggests Lightstrike.
“Hmm… I wonder if this fellow resisted their mind control, so they fed him to this snake?” says Zimlok.
“Hey! That’s what I said!” says Lightstrike, indignant.
“What?”
“What?”
“There must be something more to this,” says Mherren. “These tunnels. They’re just an escape hole, aren’t they? They’re so crudely dug out – maybe this is just where they take their captives temporarily, before moving them on?”
“Move them on where, though? And for what?” asks Zimlok rhetorically, stroking his chin feathers, as though he is a detective in a low-budget TV drama (whatever one of those is…).
“I’m not sure,” says Haji Baba. “But I don’t think the mind-controlling happens down here. The ones they bring here, they’re just drugged, so they can get them out without any noise or fuss. Maybe the snake was merely a failsafe, there to deal with any that woke up too soon?”
“No, that can’t be right,” say Zimlok, obtusely.
Haji Baba seethes.
*
“Let’s keep looking!” says Lightstrike. He follows the subtle breeze to some makeshift ladders, which lead out through a manhole over which an empty cart has been parked. “What else is there down here?” he wonders.
They find the creature’s nest-hole, and some chests behind lock and key (swiftly dealt with by the tabaxi rogue-paladin) that contain some fine silks and jewellery, including an expensive-looking gem-encrusted bracelet and an ivory signet ring in the shape of a skull. There is also a large pouch of coins, including forty Bard’s Gate crowns, thirteen Zobeck gilder, fifty-four dracs, a Khorian neith, and a few Lankhmar thalers and Kemreseni dirhim… (Wha’? Why are you all looking at me like that? …What? … okay, okay, it’s 240 gp … sorr-eee for trying to inject a bit of cultural flavour… – DM).
“A-ha!” cries Zimlok triumphantly as they find one last room, with more coins spread over the floor (260 gp… chunter… chunter… – DM) and a large ivory statue of a snake against the far wall. On second glance, the statue has the face not of a serpent, but of a woman, lending the thing a most hideous aspect as it leers out of the gloom.
Zimlok begins eagerly searching under and behind the ghastly icon, pulling its tail and speaking to it in the vile speech of the Yuan-Ti using his necklace of tongues. But the statue remains steadfastly mute, and all he finds are crumbling tunnel walls, and the name Sseth carved crudely into its base.
“Maybe if we offer it some tribute…?” suggests Haji Baba. But nothing seems to work. “Right, that’s it, then. I’m taking the lot,” says Babs, and begins gathering up the coins. She glances back suspiciously at the statue, but it just stares mutely back, unseeing.
“Let’s get out of here,” says Mherren, the Chosen Champion of Unholy Demogorgon. “This place gives me the creeps.”
*
They go back through the tunnels and emerge in the basement of the Golden Grain.
“We should check upstairs,” suggests Lightstrike.
But there is little to find. One room has multiple beds crammed into it. There are no guests in any of the chambers – all taken, perhaps, already, by the Road… or the cult… or whoever is behind all of this. In what appears to be Bertram’s quarters they find a locked chest, which Lightstrike again makes short work of. Haji Baba lifts the latch and opens the lid… and is immediately engulfed in a cloud of sickly, yellow vapour.
“Eurrgh! I can’t breathe!” gasps Zimlok, his eyes widening in terror as the noxious gas billows around him, too. Lightstrike and Mherren retreat to a safe distance, open some windows, and wait for the vapour to dissipate.
“Look! There’s a sword in here!” says the rogue, already halfway inside the chest. Proudly, he produces a razor-sharp gladius from under a pile of woollen garments, before diving back in. “And… hey, what’s this?” Rummaging in the bottom of the chest, he finds a hidden latch, which springs open to reveal a secret compartment containing a pile of Remish marks, Tyrian bars… (What? Okay, okay, there are 450 gp in there. Happy? (grumble) – DM.)
“Wh…at…ha…ve…yooooooooh…fou…nd?” asks Babs, pointing excruciatingly slowly at the chest.
“I…t…looo…ks…ve…ry…in…ter…es…ti…ng…” says Zimlok, his voice several tones deeper than usual.
“What in Geb’s name is wrong with you two?” asks Mherren.
“Haha! They’re all slow! Haha!” Lightstrike creases up, pointing and laughing at the kenku and halfling, who turn to look at each other very slowly, and then back at Lightstrike, angry frowns gradually forming knit by knit upon their brows.
“Hey…st…op…la…ugh…ing…a…t…uh…ss!” says Babs, which only makes Lightstrike crack up even more. He rolls around on the floor, pointing and clutching his belly, tears streaming down his spotted cheeks.
As the effects of the slow spell begin to fade, our heroes make their way through the eerily quiet streets of Orlane, over a bridge and past an abandoned smithy, towards the Foaming Mug, where Mherren had sent Viper the quasit not so long ago. A few curtains twitch as they pass the few houses lit yet by firelight. Most are stone cold and empty.
“If we get closer, I can look through his eyes and see what’s inside,” says the warlock as the Eventide bell begins to toll from the silhouetted edifice of the Temple of Geb upon the hill to their left.
*
Twilight is beginning to encroach as the Fellowship ensconce themselves behind a low wall not far from the ramshackle ruin of the Foaming Mug tavern. Its oak door is cleaved almost in two, as though by an axe, and what remains is hanging forlornly from its hinges. The mantle is broken, the roof falling in. Rubble is strewn across the overgrown grass outside, pocked with charred patches and stained dark in places. Mherren closes his eyes and tunes into his familiar…
“Who does he think he is, ordering me around like some kind of lackey? Go here. Do this. Do that. Where does he get o –”
“Ahem.”
“Ah… master… your wish is my command,” backtracks Viper hastily, as he becomes aware of Mherren’s psychic link into his mind.
“Was that supposed to be an impression of me?” inquires Mherren politely, but dripping with menace.
“N… no… of course not, master. I was just… er… checking out this tavern, like you arksed me,” stammers Viper.
“Oh, and what, pray tell, have you found?”
“There’s nobody here,” Viper replies. “Just broken tables and chairs, smashed bottles, shards of glass. Something heavy has collapsed the middle of the bar. And there are rats all over the place. Nasty little critters. I caught one, look!”
Mherren, looking through the quasit’s eyes, sees what remains of a rat clutched in the diminutive demon’s talons, its head chewed off and its innards half sucked out.
“Yeuuch! … Have you looked everywhere, then?”
“Everywhere, sir. Yessir.”
“Including the basement?”
“Er… no sir, not including the basement, sir.”
“So you haven’t looked everywhere, then?”
“Um… well…”
“Never mind. Go now, then, and be quiet about it. Turn yourself into a bat, and go invisible, too, for good measure.”
The quasit follows his master’s commands, and flits back into the shadowy, ransacked tavern. The cellar is piled with beer barrels and crates full of rancid food. He flies around a partition wall and comes face to face with four snake-headed humanoids, apparently just awoken and peering round to see where the chiropteral clicks are coming from. Rising to their full height of over six feet tall, Mherren can see they are lithe and sinuous, yet heavily muscled beneath their scaly skins. Their cobra-like hoods flare out as their tongues taste the air, and they grab their longbows and quivers. One draws a curved scimitar from a scabbard at its hip.
Viper has a brilliant idea. He turns into a snake and becomes visible…
… And a scimitar arcs down upon him. He slithers out of the path of the blade just in time and burrows himself under the foul-smelling crates. The snake-men follow, tossing crates out of the way as they search for this intruder… or lunch!
“We’ve been rumbled,” whispers Mherren to the others. “What now?"
*
Will our foolhardy heroes race in to save their demonic companion?
Or will they spend until nightfall concocting some devious and convoluted plan?
What are these reptilian monsters up to in Orlane?
Whom do they serve?
What evil has this quiet, farming community in its grip?
And does any of this have anything remotely to do with the blight upon the land…
… or the elusive Sword of Air?
Find out in the next ssssizzling tale of…
Sword of Air!
*
Looks like we might be straight into a combat with the Yuan-Ti next time. I’ll explain the Mighty Deeds of Arms rule to you and we can try it out. It’s super simple and I think you’ll like it…Remove these ads. Join the Worldbuilders Guild
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