Episodes 51 - 53: Tales of the Deathless
Sword of Air: Book 2
Chapter LI
Tales of the Deathless: Part 1
A Deal with the Devil
* * *
Episode 51…
Mherren grimaces, his expression hardening. His grip tightens around the hilt of Flametongue, as he prepares to disembowel this preening devil. Only… something stops him. He pauses, just for a moment, and in that moment a spark of possibility kindles in his mind. Unlikely as it might seem, the words of this horned fiend ring true.
The Demogorgon only preyed on his feelings of isolation from his tribe, as a (comparatively) puny half-orc in a land of savage warrior-orcs. He preyed on his resentment. On his pride. On his weakness. And what did he give in return? A few spells and an uncompliant familiar, all on the proviso that he should search for some lost book that would facilitate his return to the material plane. And what then? Surely, he would seek out the Sword of Air? Perhaps ally himself to this alien Frog God whose influence seems to be spreading across the realm. Or – more likely – use the sword for his own ends. And if they had already found the sword, he would surely try to take it from them. How could they resist the Prince of Demons? They could not… unless…
Unless they had an even greater ally. Unless they could call upon the Lord of the Nine Hells! Imagine it! Lightstrike the Epic, Champion of the Lord of Light. And he, Mherren Half-Blood, Champion of the Lord of Darkness. Both allied against the Shadow! Yes! Now it becomes clear! With Haji Baba, Heir to the Elven Kingdom – the true elven kingdom of Kagonost, not the fallen elves of Qualimor – fighting for the natural order, against all that is unnatural and alien to this world. And… Zimlok! It was always a mystery what that strange little bird-man was doing. But it would seem, as Speaker of the Azath, whatever that might be, even he has his role to play. It is as though it has been ordained. As if the Elder Gods themselves hath fated it!
His mind returns to the cards that were dealt by the mysterious Ningauble of the Seven Eyes. The Journey they had set out upon together. The Responsibility laid upon them by Baba Yaga, elucidated by Queen Caerdonelle, and yet further made plain by Elovyn Sorrowsong. Their quest against the monstrous naga, Defidia – the Adder. The ongoing transformation of Lightstrike from wisecracking rogue to noble paladin of the sundered Sun God, Arden, Lord of Life. (Well, he still is a bit of a rogue, but leopard’s never change their spots…) And now this – Decision!
Mherren releases his grip. Sharpchin staggers backwards, his bulging eyeballs receding into their sockets. As he recovers his breath, clutching at his crushed throat, he forms a mudra with one hand and a parchment materialises in mid-air, an elegant cockatrice quill and inkpot floating beside it.
“You won’t regret it, Mherren. Just sign here.” His eyes narrow in anticipation. His palms clasp together.
Without stopping to consider how Sharpchin knows his name, Mherren gives the paperwork a cursory glance over, skimming the small print (boooring!), and grasps the quill. His comrades look on aghast as he casually scratches his name at the bottom.
“Very good. You won’t regret it,” Illintendo says. Some might have detected a capricious sneer in his voice, but if there is, then Mherren is oblivious to it.
“Get this man some healing,” grunts the newly-signed warlock of Asmodeus, as he unceremoniously rips the onyx amulet of Demogorgon from his neck and tosses it carelessly to the ground.
It rolls off into the mud. But it does not sink. It lodges against a rock, and its cold internal light fades. For now. (Let’s hope nobody else finds it. Wouldn’t that be just awful? – DM.)
Mherren feels his strength returning. As the curse lifts, vital spirit once more courses through his veins. And – something else. Something… darker. He looks askance at Lightstrike. The rune upon his forehead is glowing, as though in warning.
Mherren gropes and clutches at slivers of justification. Yes, this creature is plainly evil. But Demogorgon wasn’t exactly a saint, either. And allying with Sharpchin and his master might well be a very necessary evil. If we are to smite this Tsathoggua and his minions, we need all the help we can get. What was it the witch, Baba Yaga, had said, what seems like years ago now, though it has only been a few weeks? “Shun not the Dark when thou art blinded. For there are times when only the Darkness can light thy way.” Well, here is the Darkness, right here, running through his veins. And together with the Light they will destroy the Shadow!
At his side, the legendary Sword of Idu Maagog putters out. For a moment Mherren’s heart sinks, but then a fresh flame coils around the base of the blade and spirals up to the tip. A black flame. It traces up his arm, though he feels no heat. Beneath his armpit, it finds a way inside. And wraps like dark smoke around his very heart. It feels cold. But it feels good. It would seem that Sharpchin has been true to his word. And indeed, what power the Lord of Hell must wield, to be able to reignite the Elemental Sword of Fire in his own name!
“Are you still in there?” he asks warily, expecting to hear the rasping voice of the ever-thirsting sword reply. But the voice has fallen silent, at least for now. It appears to have ceded its will to a new master. To the will of Mherren the Malevolent, Warlock of Admodeus! Oh, yes. That has quite a ring to it.
A darkness in his eyes, Mherren casts his gaze back towards Sharpchin, who is looking very pleased with himself indeed. “What of Maagog?” asks the half-orc. “Will he not seek revenge?”
“Maagog is already held at my master’s pleasure. He resides in Avernus, in the dungeons of Azariel.”
“He sent a demon after us. A tiger-demon. Asuran. It sought the Sword of Fire.”
“A rakshasa. A dangerous fiend. Hmm. It would seem Maagog has found allies even in his incarceration.”
“We killed it.”
“You banished it. There is a difference. Devils can only be truly killed in their home plane. Its spirit would have returned there, to be born anew. But that takes time.”
“Your master tolerates such treachery?”
“My master is your master, now. And, no. Vengeance shall be swift. Even now a devilish army gathers at the behest of Lord Asmodeus to lay siege to the City of Brass, where Maagog reigns, in absentio, at the nexus between the Planes of Fire, Earth and Air. This heralds a great war between devils and genie-kin; one my Lord has long avoided, for the consequences would be dire. The genies are strong. They channel the very elements of existence. But now, it seems, war is inevitable. As Maagog languishes in Hell, chained and helpless, he will watch from afar as his kind is defeated, his great planar city razed to ashes.”
“His kind? Maagog is a genie?”
“Of sorts, yes. An Efreeti titan, an elemental spirit of fire, one of the first beings to be created by the Elder Gods, created to destroy the chromatic dragons of the Betrayer, Baal.”
“I thought genies were just something out of fairy tales, that lived inside lamps and granted wishes.”
“Grant wishes they can. But they are far more powerful than that. They crafted the Elemental Swords, which anchor the very fabric of the cosmos.”
“Including the Sword of Air?”
“Yes. One of the titans crafted the Sword of Air, too. They call him Ahriman. It was the last to be forged, though it binds the power of the others. One sword to rule them all.”
“But I thought Hecate created the sword?”
“The Queen of Darkness commissioned the sword to give to Aka Bakar, who used it to drive Tsathoggua back to N’Kai. But she did not forge it herself. She merely polished it, if you will, with her Night Magic. It is an alchemical blend of elemental mastery and divine sorcery.”
“And Asmodeus – he can take control of Maagog’s blade, just like that?”
“Only because Maagog is bound within the Nine Hells. Should he escape, or his minions recover it, he would soon restore it to his own name. But rest assured, its power remains true. An Elemental Blade it remains, though its fire now burns black and cold with the heart of darkness. While Maagog is bent under the will of Asmodeus, so is the sword.”
“But why doesn’t Asmodeus just kill Maagog?”
“Maagog is an immortal. His essence lies within the City of Brass. My Lord would have to defeat him there to vanquish him completely. But to let him free and retake his throne, that would be – dangerous, to say the least. Maagog is Rage itself. Set free, he could consume all in his wrath, just as Koschei the Deathless would bring unchecked Death, Famine and Pestilence to the land if he were to escape his Azath House. (Let’s hope that never happens, eh? – DM.) The genies are cunning and powerful. With Maagog returned, our victory would not be so assured. Perhaps Asmodeus will march the titan there in chains. But, great as Asmodeus is, this carries risk. Maagog is one of the First, made to take on dragons and prevail.”
“And the dragons? They were all defeated?”
“Metallic dragons still reside in Drakonia, far to the east, I believe. But there are no more chromatic dragons. They are consigned to history, now. Archaeology. (Oh, reeeaally? – DM.) Their demon-queen, Tiamat, was imprisoned long ago within the Jewel of Takhisis, defeated by the Dwarven hero, Duorik Ironside, with the aid of the Red Wizards, before he was driven mad by Maagog and burnt most of his people alive in the Underkingdom of Hvela.”
“We visited that place! We found his tomb. We might have, er, robbed it a bit. After we went to Qualimor, and after we left Zobeck burning. So much fire… We met someone there. Šati. She said she was your sister.”
Sharpchin’s eyes widen for an instant, then blacken. “Once, she was. But she betrayed Asmodeus and gave herself to Orcus, Prince of the Undead. Now she is no sister of mine.”
Haji Baba the Grand draws herself up to her full height, er, grandly. Or as grandly as possible for three foot ten. “You mentioned the Azath House. We found a scroll in the temple at Orlane: The Prophecy of the Speaker. It speaks of a key. And some kind of mason.”
“And the Fateweaver, Jo’deh – the Songline Walker. He foresaw that I, Zimlok the Lightbringer, would find the Key to the Azath,” pipes up Zimlok, self-importantly puffing out his breast-feathers. “It was I who found the prophecy, all by myself, actually. I think it’s pretty darned likely I am the Speaker who was prophesised.” He searches Sharpchin’s features for a hint of admiration, and believes he detects some. (Sooo deluded – DM.)
“This story I know well,” says Sharpchin. “Many centuries ago, my Lord Asmodeus bid the Witch Kings of Azath, sorcerers more fearsome than even the Red Wizards of the Seven Cities, to build a living prison in which to imprison Nyarlathotep, the Doomsayer, who had deceived Khors, King of Feirgotha, in order to bring demonkind into the world.
“When Khors ascended to godhood, taking Arden’s place as Lord of Light, Nyarlathotep claimed his throne as the Black Pharoah, and ruled Old Feirgotha with a cruel fist. His plotting, in conspiracy with Sarastra, Elder Goddess of Shadow, saw the retreat of the Elder Gods behind the Veil. And worse – it brought the coming of the Great Old Ones! When he was finally sealed within the Black Pyramid, the realm rejoiced.
“But, as dark Sarastra well knew, it would not last. The Aeldr, the Eternal Mason – an Earth Genie, a titan like Maagog, but of lesser power – laboured long to build the Azath Houses at the will of the Witch Kings. There many immortals were, and are still, held fast. But the Last Witch King betrayed his brothers to Asmodeus, so he alone could command the titans, and when the Black Pharoah finally escaped his obsidian cell, the last Witch King fled, taking the Aeldr with him.
“Some say the Dao titan, the Stonebreaker, still builds Azath Houses to this day, one after another, in some fiery dimension to which the Last Witch King fled, labouring in absurd and eternal futility even as the existing Houses here in Yore relent to the entropy of Time and let their fearsome captives roam free once more.
“But I have heard: one will come to restore the Azath Houses. One who could open them, and who could reseal them, too. The Aeldr will name him. He will restore the Warrens, those tunnels of magic that link hidden dimensions and pierce even the Godsveil itself! But, surely,” – here he looks Zimlok up and down with a doubtful and derisive sneer – “It can’t be you?!”
Even though Zimlok has understood next to nothing of all this, he is absolutely certain that this extremely important Azath Speaker must be him.
His rune blazing fiercely in the presence of this denizen of the Nine Hells, Lightstrike the Epic steps forwards. “You’ve secured the allegiance of our warlock. What can you offer us in return?”
Sharpchin chuckles. “I have given you much already. The sword of Maagog will strike more keenly. And you have a small host of devils to do your bidding. (See appendix 3 for details – DM.) But I understand your ire. You tabaxi are known for your impetuosity. Here!”
And a hefty, smooth stone, as big as Mherren’s big head, materialises in Lightstrike’s hands. Upon its veined surface is carved a strange rune, not dissimilar to that etched into his forehead, but more angular and simplistic in its design.
“Long ago, Asmodeus summoned skeletal dracoliches from the bones of long-dead dragons, and commanded them to strike at Zvilpoggua, a servant of the Frog God, to whom Defidia was betrothed in some vile mockery of love. Then he beguiled the Rune Giants of Xin-Shalast into helping him defeat Cassius, Herald of Tsathoggua, who had been quietly infiltrating fair Qualimor with the dark arts of Shadowmancy. Cassius disappeared, though it was never proven that he was slain, and the Shadow lingers. With this stone you can summon a rune giant, although the ritual is long and will break the stone in the process. Burn a candle and drip wax upon the rune during a lunar eclipse, while chanting the mantra: “Xia shu yi yi,” and the rune giant will obey your will for a day and a night, before returning whence it came.”
“And the dracoliches? They did not succeed? Zvilpoggua survived?” asks Lightstrike.
“Zvilpoggua fled into the Festering Marshes, or so my sources suggest, to a mysterious place known only as the Ebon Mire. His forces were depleted, but he has been gathering them anew. Bringing cultists, lizardfolk, sahuagin, bullywugs, kuo-toa, merrow, yuan-ti, and even Tsathar from the Astral Plane.”
“Tsathar?”
“Space toads. Scourges of the astral plane. Some know them as the Slaadi, chaotic horrors of Limbo. They are sworn enemies of the Gith.”
All think of Slim, a githyanki, wondering if his people are aware of what terrible slaad army* might be amassing within his homeland, the beautiful but desolate Astral Sea. (*Not “salad army”, as autocorrect would have it – DM.)
“The toad-creatures we killed in the Astral Library of Athenaeum – they were Tsathar!” exclaims Lightstrike, his keen mind making the connection.
“Most likely,” says Sharpchin.
“Undead dragons?” scoffs Zimlok, his less-than-keen mind not keeping up at all with the conversation. “I rather think not.”
And a massive femur suddenly appears in his arms. His knees buckle and he drops it immediately on to his toes, then hops around squawking like a maimed bird. The air turns blue.
“Aggh, fff%$£ sh#&% b$£?#+ f$h*&%$!!!! Whaddidya do that for??!!”
Illintendo Sharpchin barely disguises his relish. “This is a femur of dracolich-raising. Should you find the skeletal remains of a chromatic dragon, perhaps upon the Ossiph Sands where so many fell during the Wyrm Wars, you can bang thrice upon the ribcage with this femur while chanting the dread syllables: Omma-drakar-takhisi-revvillah-wuhbbwuhbb, whilst flapping your arms and arching your neck in a serpentine way. Persist from sundown to sunrise – a feat of endurance, no doubt – and you will raise the dragon from its deathsleep.
“Within the hollow of the femur, where the marrow once was, is lodged a sapphire which serves to house the spirit of the undead dragon. A phylactery, they call it. It is both the source of the lich’s power, and its weak spot also, for if the phylactery is destroyed, then so is the lich. But be warned – the dracolich retains the spirit and personality it had in life. It is not bound to serve its summoners, and must be appeased or bargained with in some way, if it is to serve you. After centuries of quiet sleep, it could be very grumpy indeed to be rudely awakened. (See Appendix 2 for all your goodies – DM.)
Satisfied, mostly by Zimlok’s humiliation in truth, and storing away this knowledge of phylacteries for another day (perhaps in the not-so-distant-future, wink-wink – DM), with great effort Lightstrike nods stiffly to Sharpchin, for, pure of heart despite his roguish ways, he still bristles at the presence of such manifest evil.
“And where will you go now?” asks Haji Baba. “Will you help us on our mission to save the people of Orlane?”
“I must away to find the Ebon Mire, so I can report back to Asmodeus on what progress Zvilpoggua makes. As for Cassius, I know neither where he hides, nor what he plots. After breaking free of the Azath House – the Black Pyramid – Nyarlathotep too went underground. But I found evidence that his influence is spreading. This amulet” – he tosses Babs a small, golden trinket depicting a face from which burst writhing black tentacles – “and other similar tokens are rife among the cults of Yore, from the Freedlands to Lankhmar, and from Remes to Tyr.
“And there have been rumours of strange, inexplicable behaviours among the Orcs of the West, too. A curious inactivity; a suspicious pause on the usual raiding of human homesteads and such. Perhaps that is the work of either he, or Cassius. Certainly, they work towards the return of the Frog God, Tsathoggua, and that cannot be allowed to happen, for his coming would herald a New Age of Shadow, the Time of the Great Old Ones, and the End of All Things.” Sharpchin shudders, and looks fearfully skywards, where even in the pale morning light the Blood Comet scores a pale, sanguine gash across the azure vault, and behind it a darkening shadow yawns, like some cosmic maw coming to devour all.
Following his gaze, each of our heroes is preoccupied by the same disturbing thought: The End of All Things? That certainly doesn’t sound like much of a hoot. Except for Zimlok, who is wondering why Babs should get the amulet and not he, as he hops around and attempts to suck his swollen toes better – no easy feat when you have a beak.
“Do you have any magic that can help us reach our destination?” The helfling druid thumbs discreetly in Zimlok’s direction, and shakes her head with a wagging wrist in the universal gesture of No Chance Here.
“I do. But I warn you, it is not wholly reliable. Teleportation carries inherent risks. There is a small chance you could be badly hurt, or end up literally anywhere on the material plane that vaguely matches your target’s description. But if it works, you will reach your destination, or somewhere close, instantaneously.”
“They sound like good odds. We’ll take it,” says Lightstrike with a grin, before anyone can consider or object.
* * *
“Oof!” Zimlok drills beak-first into the dirt, his little bird-legs waggling helplessly in the air. Lightstrike faceplants close by, and Mherren lands ignominiously, and rather painfully, on his coccyx. Dagmar and Morag both appear in the same spot in an awkward and embarrassing cuddle, from which thy swiftly extricate themselves, while Yalsk falls out of a tree, narrowly saving his lute from the impact, but sacrificing his shoulder, and Druth scampers out of his backpack with a yelp. Haji Baba alone makes a cool, three-point superhero landing. Unfortunately, no one notices. She’s absolutely fuming.
Having gathered their wits and dignity (Zimlok excepted, obviously), they scan around and see, across the tree-cloaked valley, plumes of smoke snaking up from the forest canopy. And there, to the west, a familiar tower poking through. Ramné’s tower! The teleportation had worked! They set out immediately, concerned that the smoke bodes not cooking fires and welcoming hearths, but rather arson and battle. Lightstrike transforms into leopard form, and Babs bobs along on his back. Zimlok grabs on to his tail and gets dragged along on his bottom whilst pushing his beak in his books. So absorbed is he that he doesn’t even notice when the occasional tree root goes right up his CENSORED!
* * *
Being a strictly PG-rated adventure, we’ll skip the part where the Fellowship investigates the aftermath of battle in Orlane itself, what with all the blood and gore and entrails and swarming flies, dead bodies, stricken faces, severed limbs, and all that kind of horrid thing. No, we won’t go into any of that. We won’t even mention it. Instead, let’s join our heroes as they peer through the undergrowth into the clearing where stands Ramné’s tower – and the first signs of life!
For outside the broken-down door, about which are scattered a few yuan-ti corpses, there stands an unexpected duo on sentry: Bertric’s rather rotund son, Tank, whom they had rescued from Defidia’s lair along with his brother, Brian. And a dark elf warrior, wearing similar garb to that of the Drow of Arach-Lluth, which they recognise from the Battle of Runor against the forces of K’Varn the Beholder. (And you may recall, dear readers, that there was another, even larger Beholder, floating alongside Llolth, the Spider Queen. Or you may not. Much has passed since then – DM.)
“What has happened here? Has Tank defected to the Drow?” asks Lightstrike.
“Perhaps he’s being mind-controlled,” suggests Babs.
“Interesting,” muses Zimlok, his beak still buried in his wizardly book, and paying no attention whatsoever.
“I’ll send him a message,” says Mherren, and he waves his fingers intricately and mutters beneath his breath.
“Do not fear. ‘Tis I, Mherren the Malevolent, who rescued you from the naga’s lair. Are you sound of mind? Do these dark elves mean you harm?”
They watch as Tank’s face acquires a confused expression. Imagine, if you will, a rather fat and befuddled pig, and you would be somewhere close. He looks around everywhere, even checking inside the collar of his overshirt.
Slightly exasperated, Mherren tries again: “You can reply to this message! Scratch your nose if you’re okay.” Eventually, Tank whispers something to the Drow next to him, who mutters something back with a nod… and Tank scratches his nose.
Still suspicious, for the Drow are a reputedly cruel race, and this hunting party has been pursuing our heroes (and Zimlok) ever since the Battle of Runor, and even slaughtered (fortuitously, as it happens) a gnoll warband that was stalking them on the outskirts of Orlane, Mherren breaks his cover and sidles up to the tower. His confidence grows quickly, for Tank is positively beaming at him. The dark elf makes no sign of aggression, although Lightstrike thinks he can discern watching eyes at the tower’s slit windows and betwixt the crenelations of its battlements. A feline growl rumbles instinctively in his throat.
“Welcome, Mherren!” enthuses Tank. “So happy to see you! And your companions – are they safe?”
“Aye,” says Mherren. “They are. And your people?”
The smile is replaced with a forlorn look. “Many have fallen at the hands of the yuan-ti. When we reached Orlane, battle was fierce; it looked as though it were hopeless, for though determined, the townsfolk were poorly armed and few have seen such violence. If it weren’t for these dark elves…”
“They intervened?” Mherren looks the Drow up and down, disbelieving. The elf returns his gaze with a steady stare.
“They saved us, Mherren. It’s because of them my paps is still alive. And Brian.”
“Who else survived?”
“Alas, not many. Too few, in fact. We could not count it a victory. If only you had returned sooner… still, you could not let the naga escape…” It sounded like a statement, but Mherren couldn’t help but wonder if it was more of a question, as though Tank sought reassurance that so many had not died in vain. “Ormond is still alive, but only just. He fades by the hour. He has suffered a mortal blow. There’s Ramné, but his magicks are exhausted. Gideon and Cirilli survived, as did Brian and pops, Maia, Kilian, and the innkeeper.”
Mherren waits expectantly for more names, but none is forthcoming. “That’s all?”
Tank returns a sad look, and bows his head. “That’s all. Only a few of us made it back to the tower in time, before the main wave of yuan-ti sacked the town. Thank Perun for Kilian’s foresight in preparing these defences,” he says, gesturing to the smashed, sharpened stakes and hastily dug ditches around the tower, “and for Malice and company.”
“You are Malice?” asks Mherren of the Drow. But before he can answer, a female dark elf appears silently at the broken door of the tower. She assesses Mherren with piercing, violet eyes that glower at him unnervingly, deep-set as they are in her dusky, mauve visage. Stark white undercut hair falls over one shoulder, a crossbow is slung from her leather-clad hip, and in one hand she carries a gleaming katana with deceptive casualness. Mherren thinks he can discern a bluish, dark stain along its razor edge.
“I am Malice,” she says, flatly. “And you are one of the trespassers in the Underdark. Be glad you did not venture towards Arach-Lluth, for you would surely have been slain.” (She clearly knows how to make friends and influence people – DM.)
The scarred, burly half-orc scowls at this impertinent newcomer. He ought to strike her down where she stands! But he refrains, for there is something curious here – why would these Drow assassins risk their own lives to help the good people of Orlane?
“We have been observing you ever since you so unwittingly aided us against the mind flayers. Of course, we would have smashed through their duergar minions regardless. Moradin Thane was nothing but a puppet, his mind and his people enslaved to the will of the illithids. Xar-graata himself was no threat, either. But K’Varn… K’Varn was a… complication. In dispatching the beholder and his accomplice, Varg, you did us a great service. Our Queen Lloth wished to bestow honour on you and your companions. She still wishes to thank you for your deeds.”
By now, the others have wandered up to assume a cool, heroic-looking posse at Mherren’s back. Lightstrike acquires a kung fu ready stance, Babs has her arms folded, fists under biceps to exaggerate her guns. Zimlok attempts to look mysterious and magical. His success at this is debatable. Daggers wonders if he might be constipated. Morag actually looks mysterious and magical, while Yalsk and Druth both wear expressions of aloof and withering scorn. Which is impressive, for a fox.
“Why was K’Varn such a problem when you have that massive, ugly beholder on your side?” pipes up Lightstrike.
“A beholder? On our side?” Malice scoffs. “I think not.”
“Well I saw one,” insists Lightstrike, undeterred. “And besides, isn’t Llolth a god of sorts? Why on Shenn would she be afraid of K’Varn?”
“Of sorts?! Mind your tongue, tabaxi, or I shall cut it off. The Spider Queen is not afraid of anything. But nor is she a fool. Against a beholder, psionic mind flayers, the grimlocks of Hvela, and the steel-shod armies of Nidlhammer, we would have lost many of our own kind. Your bumbling interventions worked well in our favour, and for that…”
She is interrupted by a loud, insistent ringing sound. It pulses, growing louder, and seems to be accompanied by a low, humming vibration.
Malice looks flustered for a moment, but quickly regains her composure. From beneath her leather tunic she pulls a strange looking device, shaped like a spider, but seemingly made of some kind of purplish quartz. It is this that emits the annoying sound. Brrring brrring. Brrring brrring. Brrring –
Placing it against one pointed ear, Malice speaks into the quartz-stone abdomen. “Hello?”
A tinny, nasal voice can just be discerned, apparently from inside the earpiece. It babbles away loudly, so that Malice has to hold it a little further away from her ear. “Yes, your Majesty. Yes. Yes. Aha. Mmmhmm. Yes. Yes. Okay. I’ll put them on now.”
She turns to the gathered Fellowship. “Um. It’s for you.” And she proffers the phone towards Mherren. “Oh, wait a sec. I’ll put it on speaker.” And she waggles one of the legs violently. “There you go.”
Mherren tentatively takes hold of the device, unsure what to do. He nearly jumps out of his skin when a high-pitched voice emanates from the spiderphone’s head.
“Is zis thing verking? Hallo? Hallo?”
“Erm… hello?” offers the warlock.
“Ah, hallo. Gud, gud. Zis is Lloth, calling from Arach-Lluth. Just across from Runor. In ze Vunderdark. I zink you know it, yah? Yah?”
“Er – yah. I mean, yes,” says Mherren.
“Zis is ze fier who defeated ze big eye-monster, yah?”
“Well, now we are eight. But then we were fier, I mean four, yah – I mean, yes, damn it.”
“Ve spied you on ze battlements, but you disappeared before ve had chance to talk.”
“You were barraging us with trebuchet fire.”
“Ah, vell, yah, zat is true. But in our defence, ve were targeting ze duergar. Horrid little dvorfs.” A pause. “Huh? Vot? Not now. Can’t you see ve are on a call?... Vell, vot is it?... Umm… two sugars… and a splash ov Ettercap milk… danke… Nowzen, vere voz ve? Yah, zat’s it. K’Varn voz an agent of ze Shadow. Ve are sure you are avare of zis. He sought to unite ze underpeoples und smite ze remaining bastions of elves and dvorfs, clearing a path into ze heartlands of Yore for ze evil zat is to follow. Ze evil zat brews even now in ze deep mires und ze dark corners of ze land. Ze evil zat has slept for centuries but now stirs to vakefulness.”
“Oh, yes. We know all about all of that,” says Haji Baba. “What is it you want with us? Why have you been stalking us?”
“Ve admit to underestimating you,” continues the disembodied voice. “You avoke ze wrath of Dagon, ze God Below, und you killed him. Dead. Even now his gargantuan corpse sprawls and rots over ze peaks of ze Hinterlands. His presence vos undesirable beneath our dark city. You have rid ze vorld of Defidia, too, zat decrepit snake-servant of Zvilpoggua, to whom K’Varn vos also allied. Und of course, you saved us ze effort of destroying K’Varn himself. Ze enemy of mein enemy is mein friend, und so ve hev a proposal for you: Join vith us, and ve shall build an unstoppable alliance to resist ze coming Shadow! Vot say you?”
The companions look at each other in dismay.
“Hallo? Hallo? Are you sure zis thing is svitched on? Hallo?”
“Umm, well, yes, I suppose that would probably be all right,” offers Zimlok, tentatively.
“Ah, zis is most excellent news. You know it makes sense. Malice and her company of shadowblade assassins vill aid you in votever you need. Malice! Hand zem ze map.”
The dark elf leader rummages through multiple hidden pockets.
“Ve found zis in ze ruins of Runor. It is very old, but ve zink it may be of some interest to you all.”
Producing a crumpled parchment, Malice proffers it to Mherren, who unfurls it cautiously with his stubby, orcish fingers.
“These mountains lie far to the south-west,” says Malice in her deep, breathy tones. “Khazad is an old term for dwarfs, whose cantons are spread amongst the peaks of what are now widely referred to as the Ironcrags. These lands, west of Reme, were once the gateway to the wondrous Seven Cities and the shining lands of Al-Qadim. But they were blasted by the battle magic of the Red Wizards, a powerful cabal of elementalists who once defeated Tiamat herself, and devastated these borderlands in the Seven Cities Wars to leave what is now known only as the Wasted West – a stricken and derelict place of skeletal forests, wild sandstorms, and wilder magic.
“Some associate the Red Wizards with slavers, others say they have links with demons, others say they are allied with ghouls, and still others think they have ties with genies. There are those who claim the Red Wizards are no more. Others scoff at such claims, saying they still hold sway secretly in the cities of Tyr and Lankhmar. Yet others say the few remaining Red Wizards can be found in positions of influence in the sultanates and caliphates of Zakhara, to the west of what this map labels Kymros.
“Truth is, no one really knows. But K’Varn had links with the Shadow. And the Shadow with the Black Pharoah. And the Black Pharoah with…” Here she points one slender, gloved finger at a plateau marked near the centre of the map. “… the Azath.”
Zimlok, his curiosity piqued, pokes his beak over the outstretched parchment. “We’ll give you six spider eggs for it,” he squawks.
“Erm, I think they’ve given it to us already,” says Babs.
“Umm. Quite. But as a gesture of goodwill,” adds Zimlok hastily, and prods Babs to fish the spider eggs she recovered from Runor out of their bag of holding. A little reluctantly, she hands them over to Malice.
“I accept your offering of comradeship,” purrs the Drow, as she takes all but one with a curt nod. “Keep this one. Raise it as your own. May our causes be bonded in our shared love for arachnids.” As Haji Baba considers whether or not she really has any love at all for arachnids, especially after that encounter with giant spiders and ettercaps back in the Old Margreve, where they first met Mherren, the dark elf captain rummages through her pockets once more, and eventually produces a battered-looking scroll.
With great ceremony, she hands it to Babs. “How to Train Your Spider.” She expounds: “It’s a classic Drow treatise.”
“I’m… honoured,” says Babs, and curtsies awkwardly, which really doesn’t suit her at all. “And thank you, your Majesty,” she directs at the voice of Llolth, but all she gets is a dial tone.
“It’s a bad line,” explains Malice. “We get very poor reception in the Underdark. Now please. All of you. Come. There is someone who wishes to see you.”
She beckons them to follow her inside Ramné’s Tower. One by one, they ascend into the darkening spiral.
* * *
Eight forlorn figures, and a sad weasel, crowd around a makeshift bed upon the open top of Ramné’s Tower. Supine, wrapped in crimson bandages, the rotund form of Mayor Ormond breathes shallow, uneven breaths. As the Fellowship emerge after Malice from the stairwell, he turns his head and gestures weakly for them to approach. Those gathered around make room, and Kilian, Cirilli, Bertric, Brian, Gideon, and Ramné, all nod in solemn acknowledgement, but keep their eyes down. There is a glum foreboding in the air. All know Ormond has little time left, including Ormond himself.
Without a word, Lightstrike the Epic places his hands upon the mayor’s bloodied torso, and offers a silent prayer to Arden. Nothing happens. Did I not heal my friends before? Has it all been in my imagination? Some kind of trick of the gods? How foolish, to pray to a dead god! I am but blessed by an angel, by Elovyn Sorrowsong. I channel her healing powers. There is no Elder god hearing my prayers. Whatever was I thinking?
He is about to call on Haji Baba’s crude-but-effective druidic skills, but then… a soft, warm glow seems to emanate from under his palms. It pulses, grows in intensity, and spreads slowly into Ormond’s belly, seeping into his chest, his abdomen, his throat, his hips. It spreads down his legs and arms, flushes his cheeks. The mayor closes his eyes, but his expression is not one of pain, nor is it the cold, empty mask of death. He appears blissful. Serene. His breathing recovers a regular rhythm and depth. As his eyes flicker open, all notice a lustre has returned. And all see the rune upon Lightstrike’s forehead glowing brightly.
Lightstrike bites down on his own lip, as an inner joy rises from his stomach. No! Arden is truly with him! The Elder God may be sundered, but He is not dead! Lightstrike is living proof of this. A thought occurs: What other powers has He granted me? What more will he give, if I am faithful? He forces himself to calm his racing thoughts and turn his attention outwards, for Ormond has begun to speak.
The mayor’s voice is rough and raspy. “We thought they had come to finish us all. “Us and the snake men.” He nods towards Malice and the dark elven assassins who, motionless, and hooded against the wan afternoon light, watch the surrounding forest from the battlements. “But they saved us. This was to be our last stand. The yuan-ti had all but won. But they saved us.”
“Ours is a hollow victory,” says Kilian, his face sorely bruised and crusted with dark blood. “Everyone was killed except for us. A few perhaps escaped into the woods. I hope. But they were too strong, and too many.”
“The worst of it is” – adds Bertric – “we had to turn our weapons against our own. The ones she had brainwashed and turned into fanatics. To think – that was to be our fate, too. But you rescued us. Me and my boys. I can’t thank you enough…”
“I did what I could,” says Gideon, a cruel slash still raw across his forehead and cheek. “If only you could have returned sooner. We might have stood a chance.”
Lightstrike exchanges glances with Haji Baba. They could have come sooner. Left the spoils. Let Defidia go. But then… if she had escaped to wherever she was headed, who knows what vengeance she might have sought? Sometimes you are faced with hard choices. Sometimes you have to pick the lesser of two evils, and live with the consequences. Or die by them.
“Alas, my magic is ill-suited to warfare,” laments Ramné. “And I have done what I can to heal the blight upon the land, but… it still lingers. Its hold is strong. I fear it was not the naga who befouled our homeland. This disease springs from something far older and more powerful…”
“Zvilpoggua,” mutters Mherren.
Lightstrike looks solemn. Uncharacteristically so. “Or – the Frog God himself.”
“Who – or what – do you think this Frog God is?” asks Haji Baba.
Mherren summons knowledge from the Transmission of the Ages gifted to him by Jo’deh the Fateweaver. A black cloud passes across the sun, and for a moment, though it is but the afternoon, the sky is lit an eerie, pale red by the Blood Comet that burns before the yawning presence of the looming dark planet behind. Mherren’s face is cast in shadow. His eyes seem burn yellow and glint with devilish intent. His voice seems somehow deeper and more voluminous: “In the very beginning…”
Zimlok yawns loudly and rolls his eyes.
Mherren pretends not to see and persists anyway: “… Aeons ago, the world of Shenn was a primordial chaos of elemental fury, which was finally brought to order by the harmonious balance of Mother Earth and Father Sky. But this tenuous harmony was disturbed when the Great Old Ones from beyond the stars arrived upon a black comet, brought to Shenn by some distant stellar calamity, or by some evil intent far beyond our mortal comprehension.
“With them came the Shadow, an ineffable and destructive malaise that threw the infant world into disease and madness, and portended Armageddon in the coming of Yuggoth, the Dark Planet. Torn by grief, Earth and Sky separated, and in the space between were formed the Elder Gods, spirits of vast intelligence whose creative presence tamed the maddened elemental spirits, balancing and becalming their churning, tumultuous confusion, and bathing them in the blessed, loving light of eternal peace, infinite wisdom, and profound understanding.
“These Elder Gods and Alien Gods fought, and some of the Creators were corrupted and turned to Shadow – namely Baal and Sarastra. But eventually, and at great cost, the Elder Gods prevailed and buried their enemies deep in the bowels of the earth, there binding them with divine magic.
“Down in the Cyclopean Deeps, the Alien Gods slept, incarcerated in eternity, while the weakened Elder Gods set about creating powerful, magical guardians who could maintain their bonds and repel the incursions of Shadow. These guardians were the Dragons, one of whom the Elder Gods elevated to godhood and welcomed to their own pantheon: Bahamut the Wise. So began the Age of Dragons.”
“So this Frog God, this Tsathoggua – he’s one of the Great Old Ones?” asks Babs, slightly frustrated that the half-orc didn’t give her a straight answer.
“Aye,” says Mherren.
“And these beings are comparable in power to the Elder Gods of Yore?”
“Aye. Perhaps even more so.”
“Ye gods!”
Lightstrike interjects: “But this means… it might not just be Yore that’s under threat. It might not even be the world we live and breathe upon. If these Old Ones are Astral beings, then it could be all the known planes of existence that are in peril! It could be… everything! Everywhere!” A look of horror crosses his ordinarily mischievous face – a terrible realisation: “The ichor tree! Where I went on that adventure with Ki-Shun, and we rescued the Queen of Qualimor – that was in the Feywild! And it was sickened by the very same malaise that infected the Old Margreve, and here on the Dragon Coast. We thought it was that misguided dryad, Prithvi. But no… she was as much a victim as the tree and the whole place was. She was sickened, too! And if the Feywild had succumbed to the blight… by Arden’s eyes, where else?!”
Zimlok absent-mindedly fondles the strange, skin-like hide of the tome nestled within his robes; the Psalms of the Frog he swiped from the Temple of Geb. I really ought to get around to reading that, he muses, and then immediately forgets and starts daydreaming about tasty mealworms.
“Well, if this is true, then perhaps you were right to put killing Defidia first,” says Ormond. “Surely she was an agent of the Shadow. My people are decimated. But how many more have you saved by ridding the world of her? You should not feel guilty. This is war. A strange and difficult war against an enemy largely unknown to us. But a war nonetheless. Many more will die. But you must press on. Have faith. Do not fall into dount and despair. Find the true head of this snake, and cleave it true. What is done is done. There is no time for regret.”
He seems to find a new strength in his voice. He scans the faces before him, lingering admiringly and gratefully on Mherren, Babs, and Lightstrike. On Zimlok, too, who is now busily snapping at meandering flies with his beak, but with a subtle shift from admiration to… incredulity?
The mayor gathers himself, and is wracked by a fit of coughing as he props himself up on his elbows. “Without you, all of us might by now have been under the naga’s spell. The entire Dragon Coast could have succumbed to the rot. So far as I am concerned, you are our saviours. From the depths of my soul I thank you. And, much as it surprises me to be saying it…” His eyes lock with Malice’s. “You also.”
Malice’s expression remains impassive. Ormond continues: “I shall be sending recommendation to Wolden. The sorcerer-king must hear of your exploits. Alas, our messengers carrying pleas for help did not break through the nest of conspiracy and betrayal that surrounds us. When your own people have had their minds turned, when agents of the Road are lurking in the shadows, and the countryside is rife with serpentfolk and worse, there is little hope for a man on horseback, no matter how swift his steed. I rue that relations had broken down so between Orlane and Ramné here. Perhaps, if we hadn’t been so quick to accuse him of being the source of our troubles, his magicks might have helped us reach out.”
Ramné smiles a forgiving smile. “I would gladly aid you now, mayor.”
Ormond returns the smile. “Exhort the Dragon King to spread word of our saviours across the realm! Bards should compose epics and regale the people with tales of their brave exploits! Statues should be moulded in their likenesses and erected in every market square in every town throughout the land! Marble plinths shall declare their wondrous deeds! Their names shall be spoken alongside those of the great heroes of legend!” Here Zimlok’s ear-feathers prick up and he begins imagining how very grand he would look if his likeness were cast in solid gold… twenty feet tall… nay, thirty… oh, sod it, forty feet tall! Yes! Oh, my!
Ormond has sat up in his cot, which only a few minutes ago was to have been his deathbed. The ruddy colour has returned to his cheeks. He flings out his arms with oratic passion. “They should receive great honours! Lands! Titles! Without these heroic souls we might all by now be dead. Either that, or the mutated mind-slaves of Defidia! Three cheers for the Fellowship! Hip-hip!”
“Hooray!” comes the unanimous reply.
“Hip-hip!”
“Hooray!”
“Hip-hip!”
“HOO-RAY!”
As Lightstrike, Mherren and Babs thank Ormond for his words with the appropriate amount of self-deprecation, Zimlok is lost in a self-aggrandising fantasy, a blissful, dumb smile painted across his beak. Gideon sidles up to him and disturbs his reverie.
“Well, I guess I won’t be no Traveller no more,” says Gideon. Zimlok glowers at him, annoyed at the interruption. “Here’s where I belong now, with Cirilli. I’ve been away too long. I see that now…”
“Yes, yes. Quite so,” snaps Zimlok, and shuffles off to carry on daydreaming.
But Ramné intercepts him. “I wanted to thank you, personally. For clearing the suspicion that was laid upon me. I had grown used to being an outsider. Only now do I recall how nice it is to feel a part of something. To belong…”
“Yes, yes. B’longing. Very nice indeed,” scowls Zimlok. He hoists his robes and stalks off angrily, leaving Ramné standing there, scratching his forehead, perplexed.
As the kenku settles down in a quiet corner to begin preliminary sketches off his statue, in a variety of heroic and magical poses, Lightstrike curls up in another for a well-earned nap. The dark elves keep watch, which leaves Mherren and Babs free to speak a little more with Ormond.
“Tell us more of this Dragon King,” prompts Babs. “You say he is a sorcerer?”
“Yes. He came to power only a couple of summers ago. In a coup that toppled Lazarus, the vassal-king of Yore. Lazarus was loyal to Bard’s Gate, mostly because Ovar did not interfere in his affairs, beyond insistence on a certain tribute. The Dragon Coast is remote, cut off from most of Yore by the sludgy basin of the marshes and jagged peaks of the Hinterlands. To the north are the haunted lands of Doresh. Lying as we are, beyond both the Borderlands and the Freedlands, we are something of an afterthought for the sovereign. We bring trade from the sea-ships and skyships of the Far East, but Rashan has far larger ports. In truth, the Dragon Coast is poor. Its people are impoverished and mostly uneducated. Although many would say that was made worse by our callous ruler.
“Lazarus levied the tithe from his lords and people. He himself grew filthy rich in his castle, and there was widespread discontent; a discontent that was capitalised upon by the Brotherhood of the Red Claw, a secretive cult of dragon-worshippers. Their leader, one Nibenay Athas, bid the people rise up, and in a bloody coup Lazarus was overthrown.
“Athas tore down his heraldry and installed himself as king, declaring a New Age of Dragons. The people were just happy to be rid of Lazarus and his abhorrent decadence. They were blind to Athas’s own corruption. There are rumours he indulges in foul magic. That he tortures his enemies. That he seeks the return of Tiamat. That he has come to see his own sovereignty as a god-given right. They say he is many years older than he looks. And that he murdered the families of local lairds, who had supported him in the coup, and installed members of the Claw in their place. Orlane, thankfully, is too small and remote a place. We escaped his political machinations. But they say the new Lord of Astlav is in fact his own son. I tried to send messengers there, too, to Lord Zellingar.”
“Zellingar?” exclaims Mherren, eyes wide.
“Yes. Zellingar Athas. An odd fellow, by all accounts. Goes missing from his post for months at a stretch.”
“We know him! We brought him from Runor,” Mherren explains. “He was in the imprisoned by K’Varn, along with Elovyn, who we saved, sort of – I mean, she died inside the God Below, but then she turned into an angel, and blessed Lightstrike. She’s our friend, but Zellingar… he was always, kind of distant. Kind of… weird. He helped us, but, well, I always kind of thought he might be just helping us to help himself, you know? When we got to Orlane, he disappeared without a word. Even tried to make it look like he’d been kidnapped or something.”
“I never liked him,” says Babs with a disapproving sneer. “Always said he was a wrong’un.”
“There’s just one more thing,” ventures Ormond, and a perturbed look flashes across his visage. “Something rather troubling. It might be nothing, but…”
“Go on,” prompts Babs, beginning to apply herbal salves and fresh dressings to his magically closed wounds.
“That was a close shave for me. You really did arrive in the nick of time. I could feel death approaching. Felt myself tumbling towards a portal whence there could be no return. I thought it was my time. But just as I was about to surrender, I felt something else. Another force. Greedy. Predatory. It seemed to be trying to intercept the trajectory of my soul’s passage. An intervention, of sorts, but not merciful in its intent. I had a – not so much a vision – but a sense of skeletal hands trying to pry my soul from the jaws of death. As Hood reached out to receive my spirit – Zon-Kuthon, the Father of Loss – something, someone, else was attempting to tear it from his grasp. As though someone was collecting my soul before it could pass through judgement to the Outer Planes.”
“That’s most disturbing,” says Babs as she applies the final poultice. “If someone is messing with the natural order of life and death, that really is a worrying development. Who could it be? It seems all of demonkind are too busy seeking this lost Sword of Air. Demogorgon, certainly. And Orcus. There may be more. Who would be putting their energies into stealing mortal souls, if the sword is the key? Surely this Tsathoggua is after the sword, too, if it’s the only thing that can stop him. If we are to reestablish the natural balance of things, then we must find the sword before the Frog God’s minions do. But, rest assured, we’ll keep our ears to the ground for whispers of soul stealers, too. Most perturbing indeed.”
“Hmm,” Mherren looks rather wistful. “Soul collecting. That’s a good idea. I like that one. I wonder if there are any special interest groups you can join?”
Ormond and Haji Baba both gape at him in dismay.
* * *
Gideon settles down next to Zimlok, who is still busy sketching out prototype designs for his statues, his tongue taking on a life of its own and wrapping around his beak as he concentrates. Should he go for the power stance? The one-leg-up stance? Something more dynamic? More combative? Or something more casual, like being heroic is just all par for the course?
“Say, you, er, you got a minute?” asks the Traveller.
Zimlok studiously ignores him.
“I said, say, you –”
“What is it?” Zimlok snaps. “What do you want?”
“I just wanted to express my appreciation again, for all that you and your friends have done for us. If it weren’t for you, my daughter would have been the next victim Misha sent to Defidia for… transformation.”
“Yes, yes.” Zimlok carries on scribbling, wondering how long he must suffer this idiot.
“They say it was you who dealt the final blow to the naga.”
Pencil stops.
“I can never truly repay you, but… here.” Gideon pulls his trusted pepper box pistol from its holster.
One beady bird-eye swivels to the shiny weapon.
“I want you to have this. I have others tucked away. But this one is special to me. It’s gotten me out of a few tight spots, I can tell ya. I call her Bad News.” And he proffers the gun.
Snatch!
He holds out a pouch of black powder, too.
Snatch!
“Now be careful with that. That’s some highly explosive stuff you got there. Mind how you –”
“Oh, please. I can cast fireball, you know.” And Zimlok starts inspecting his new acquisition in minute detail.
“Well….” Gideon pats his thighs, slightly flustered. He gets up. “Um. I’ll be seein’ ya, then.”
“Yes, yes,” says Zimlok, irritated, as he pushes the barrel-ends up to his eyeball.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were… oh, never mind.”
* * *
As Morag mutters quietly into her tea leaves, Lightstrike, curled up cat-like in the late afternoon shadow of the battlements, snores softly, nose twitching, eyelids a-flicker. He dreams he is underwater. And yet he can breathe perfectly. Down he dives, past shoals of shimmering fish and silent leviathans gliding slowly through the murky saltwater.
A voice. Familiar. “I am here, Lightstrike. Mael keeps me now. I have the shard. The soul of light…”
It is the voice of Light Touch. Even in his dreams, Lightstrike’s mind is keen as a blade. Is this a trick? Is this the work of Asuran? But no. Asuran is nothing but spawn in outer plane. He cannot reach my dreams. But Light Touch. The real Light Touch… perhaps… could it be?... or is it just a dream?
As he dives deeper, the ocean darkens, and transforms into the inky blackness of the night sky. Myriad stars bathe in the darkness. Yet his eyes are drawn towards a light that glows much nearer. As he approaches, he sees it is a tower, one he well recognises. Atop the tower a single eye burns with furious intensity: the eye above the Astral Library of Athenaeum! Arden? Lightstrike whispers as he dreams. Is that you?
The dream transmutes again. He looks out over a ruined city, upon a hidden plateau high in the desert mountains. He shivers in the cold air. Before him stands a huge pyramidal structure, made of blackest stone. Or is it metal? It’s hard to say. And behind it looms a new celestial body, one that fills him with dread… so very close…
A dark planet.
A cold shadow crosses his heart… and he awakes, beaded with sweat, panting and gasping for air.
He is surprised to see that night has fallen. His friends are all asleep, as the Drow sentinels look out silently over the Grove of Stately Elms.
He gets up and pads over to where Malice is keeping watch to the west.
“You’ve lowered your hood.”
“We Drow dislike the sun. It weakens us, disturbs our vision, attacks our poisons. The darkness is our friend.”
“I prefer the light,” says Lightstrike.
“Hmphff.”
They stand in silence for a while. There is a bitter breeze. The fall season is well under way. Even in darkness his impeccable vision can make out the beautiful autumnal colours of arboreal stress across the mist-strewn canopy – oranges, yellows, browns, blood reds. Winter is fast approaching.
“What was that?” he hisses.
“I hear nothing,” says Malice.
“Upon the wind. I heard something, I swear it.” A tabaxi’s ears are rarely mistaken.
They hold their breath, their eyes restlessly combing the treeline, scanning the canopy.
Laughter. Faint, but unmistakable, carried by the biting wind. A cacophony of whooping laughs that chills the very soul.
“I heard it, too,” says Malice, her hand instinctively gripping the hilt of her katana.
“There! Do you see?”
Just for a moment, a shape, blacker than the night, soars above the trees and falls out of view. A winged shape. Hard to say its size or distance.
And then, another sound.
Boom.
And again.
Boom.
Boom ba-doom.
Boom.
Boom ba-doom. Boom ba-doom.
Doom!
War drums.
“Wake the others. We’ve got company.”
The eerie laughter grows louder as the drums beat…
Doom!
* * *
The 25th Day of Eleint
All eyes strain to scan the black smudge that is the treeline beyond the tower. Bows are nocked. Spears and shields in hand. The drums reach a climax, and then… stop. A foreboding silence fills the misty air. For what seems like an eternity, the whole night seems to hold its breath.
Just as the first glimmer of dawn begins to pale the eastern sky, a lone figure steps out into the clearing. A huge gnoll, its face painted a ghostly white. It carries a double-headed axe and an enormous twin-headed flail, which it brandishes above its head with a snarl. It barks a command, and a phalanx of gnoll archers step forward to draw their bows.
“Shields!” cries Kilian.
Before he has even finished breathing the word, Lightstrike has nocked and loosed an arrow, which whistles along its deadly path straight into the eye of the gnoll commander. Even from the tower you could hear the squelchy thud of steel penetrating vitreous humor.
“Who’s laughing now?” quips Lightstrike, and even the stoic Malice breaks a grim smile at his clever hyena vocalisation / ocular biology pun. (As we all know, dark elves are suckers for a good pun – DM.)
“The Bleached Skull Gnolls,” whispers Ramné.
“A group of them were positioning for a raid on Orlane,” says Malice. “We took them out.”
“Back en masse for vengeance?” posits Yalsk.
“Technically they started it, at the troll bridge in the Hinterlands,” says Haji Baba.
“To be fair, we never stopped to ask if they were helping us against the trolls, or if they meant us ill,” points out Mherren. (Touché – DM.)
“Well, whoever started it, it’s we who are going to finish it,” says Lightstrike, nocking another arrow.
As the gnoll archers volley their reply, the huge flind plucks the arrow from his eye socket. The more squeamish amongst you might not want to think about the dripping eyeball lanced like a gruesome lollipop on the end of it, though it’s doubtful Babs will bat an eyelid.
This time it howls a furious cry of outrage, and signals the attack with a sweeping arm motion.
Only to be knocked back by another of Lightstrike’s deadly shots. This time to the belly. It drops to one knee, and looks up to the top of the tower, its remaining eye narrowing with hatred. As it glowers, its face streaked white and red, a troop of undead gnolls lurch out of the undergrowth.
“So it begins,” utters Zimlok, trying to sound cool.
Chapter LII
Tales of the Deathless: Part 2
* * *
Dog Soldiers
* * *
As the Battle of the Stately Elms rages on, far, far to the west, high amidst rugged mountain peaks, a shadowy, crowned figure sits enthroned within a silent, stone edifice.
Another approaches the throne. This one is also crowned, although its crown is plainer by far. This one does not walk; rather, it floats, leaving a trail of wispy black smoke in its wake.
In a rasping voice the apparition speaks: “Is it time, O Great One?”
The enthroned figure clenches black, skeletal knuckles about the hilt of a gigantic flint sword, seemingly hewn from a single hunk of stone.
Its reply rattles and wheezes as though emanating from a throat grown dry over countless lost centuries: “It is time.”
And it hurls the sword at the wraith, with such ease you might surmise the stone-hewn weapon were but a child’s wooden training sword. The apparition reaches out a wispy, black arm and catches the flying blade by its guard-wrappings.
“Take all my children,” continues the throned figure in its shredded tones. “The Elvenking marches upon his brethren. Ensure he meets with… success.”
Pale yellow eyes glow with relish. “Yes, Great One. We shall go at once.”
“Take Thord with you. Llang Eryn awaits you there. And two more shall soon arrive, if I read their intentions rightly. The puppets of Orcus and Graaz’zt walk right into my hands. I care nothing for the fate of Elvenkind. But bring the blades to me. I shall turn my own resources to the three that remain. One lies with the Children of Mael. The Spawn shall recover it for me. Another is with the Azath. And the Azath lies open. It shall be a simple errand for the Chain, now the king is in their lap.”
“And the Tongue of Maagog, sire?”
“A fortunate turn of events has occurred. Narsilambe tel Maagog is in the hands of mere mortals. A band of upstart meddlers, by all accounts. They know not with what they toy. Its allegiance has changed, by all reports, but that matters not. The Herald will relieve them of it soon. Then the Blade of Hecate, which the Elves call Megilvilya, shall forever remain entombed.”
“And the Toad will rise unimpeded, sire.”
“The Shadow we cast shall be long indeed, Golak. Now go!”
And the wraith evaporates from the chamber, leaving the other alone with his thoughts.
Thoughts he has been thinking for a long time.
He rises, and glides to the window that overlooks the towering fortress gates. From which spill a horde of black-armoured wraiths.
A very long time indeed…
* * *
Chapter LIII
Tales of the Deathless: Part 3
* * *
Death to the Deathless
* * *
As the bright sun tips past its zenith in a cloudless sky, and our companions take some time to recuperate – eating and drinking, sharpening notched blades, preparing magicks, and prestidigitating themselves clean – suddenly the light darkens slightly, as though a cloud has passed before the sun.
Lightstrike looks up and, squinting, sees a dark silhouette. Approaching. Fast. Has Elovyn returned? The shape seems to grow in size at an exponential rate, and in mere moments he discerns the unmistakable movement of great wings beating the air.
“Dragon!” he hollers, and all scramble for cover. But the thing is upon them so quickly, there is no time. The creature is immense, its wingspan a hundred feet or more. A dragon? An actual dragon, here in Yore? How could this be? Is this how they meet their end, after all they’ve been through, obliterated by a dragon’s breath weapon in a senseless, random attack? He braces, and…
… The great, white-scaled beast alights upon the tower. Stone cracks and crumbles as it shifts its immense weight. It lowers its great, sinuous neck and surveys the cowering humanoids closely. (Well, our heroes of course are just pretending to cower – DM.) As its great, fanged skull scoops down, a rider is revealed seated high upon its back. A dragonborn, its black-skin adorned with swirling, flame-like red tattoos, carrying a staff about which is wrapped a cat-sized pseudodragon. Both wear the same supercilious expression. The dragon just looks hungry.
“Who is in command here?” demands the dragonborn.
There is only one here foolish enough to step directly before those scimitar-like fangs. “I, Zimlok the Lightbringer, Slayer of Immortals, Ruin of Nagas, Bane of Buried Gods, stand before thee. Thou canst treat with me.”
“Why’s he talking like that?” Lightstrike whispers to Mherren.
The warlock shrugs. “He does that when he’s nervous.”
The dragonborn appears to suppress a chuckle at the wizard’s grandiose oratory, although Zimlok appears to remain oblivious. “Well met, Zilmok the Lightbringer. I am Mreksh, Envoy of the Nibenay Athas, Sorcerer-King of the Dragon Coast.”
“That’s Zim-lok, actually. Z-I-M-L–”
“Silence! The royal court has heard tidings of strange occurrences to the south. Reports have been growing of a plague of sorts that has spread through the countryside; tales of withered crops, rotted forests, and mutated wildlife. I see from my journey these accounts are not mistaken. Cult activity has exploded within the capital. The Eyes have infiltrated the Dreamers of the Black Sun, and say they preach of the Unearthing of Dagon and the Coming of an Age of Shadow. They speak of the Whisperer, and spread treasonous rumours that this Whisperer will depose the Dragon King. Grommsch and the Urzin have abandoned the swamps. The Brinestump goblins have lost their minds. Gnolls of Yeenoghu have defected to some unholy incarnation of Death…”
“The entity of which you speak is no more,” says Zimlok, coolly. “I am the slayer of Koschei the Deathless.”
“Technically, you just turned him into a caterpillar. I was the one who squished him and destroyed his phylactery,” pipes up Mherren.
Zimlok ignores him and carries on addressing this envoy from the upstart capital. “Why have you come here, Mreksh of the Dragon Court? Orlane begged Wolden for aid, but none was forthcoming. And yet, now that the danger has been dealt with, here you are. Pray tell, what should we make of your peculiar timing?”
“Insolence!” spits the dragonborn, and the pseudodragon hisses and coils tighter around his staff as the great white dragon narrows its pink-irised eyes at the diminutive wizard. “It has become apparent that messengers all across the kingdom have been intercepted and silenced by insurrectionists and saboteurs. I assure you, Zilmok, that word has only just reached Wolden, and the king immediately dispatched his most senior vizier.”
Zimlok looks blank. The pseudodragon rolls its eyes.
“Me! I have been instructed to investigate the troubles in the kingdom, and bring any insurgents to heel.”
Ormond now steps forward. “Lord Mreksh, you are mistaken. We are no insurgents. I am Ormond, Mayor of Orlane. I did indeed send out messengers requesting aid from the capital, but no such help has been forthcoming. Fortunately, these mighty heroes did intervene to save us from the evil that beset us. It was revealed to be a despicable naga, who, along with her yuan-ti entourage, was corrupting the minds of my people, enslaving them to her cause, and even mutating them into her own likeness. You can see for yourself; their broken corpses still lie in our streets. It seems this naga served some greater entity, who has spread this awful rot throughout the land. These adventurers tell me it is not limited to this region. As far west as the Old Margreve the land grows sick. Some terrible evil is afoot. Surely you have seen the red comet in the sky? A dire portent, no doubt.”
“The Dragon King claims it is in honour of his own majesty.”
“Then, with respect, he is mistaken. I beseech you, do not underestimate the threat. The Azath Houses are failing. No sooner had we defeated the yuan-ti, at great loss to our own number, than no less than Koschei the Deathless himself appeared in pursuit of his lost phylactery. ‘Tis true. It is down to these four courageous individuals that we repelled his gnoll minions and vanquished him. Can you imagine what terror he would have wreaked had he been allowed to recover his soul? The balance, already tipping, would have been broken irreparably. Death and disease would have run amok through not just the Dragon Coast, but the whole world.”
Mreksh chews over Ormond’s words. “Perhaps you are right. I am hasty in my judgement. They shall return with me to the Court, where the king shall consider and rightly pronounce their fate.”
“I implore you, Vizier,” continues Ormond. “Do not treat them as suspects to be trialled. They truly are heroes. Their names should be hailed by all. Gifts bestowed. Titles. Honours. Statues should be erected, and songs be sung.”
Zimlok uncrumples some papers and in hopeful petition holds out his sketches of prototype statues. Mreksh judiciously igores him, and replies to Ormond.
“Very well. I shall put your case before the king. But the order stands. They shall accompany me back to Wolden at once.” He scowls down superciliously at the gathered Fellowship. Puddles the pseudodragon scowls too. “Climb on board. And hold tight.”
Lightstrike, beside himself with delight at the opportunity to ride on the back of an actual dragon, a species long thought extinct in Yore, immediately scampers up to take a seat behind Mreksh on the enormous dragon-saddle. Mherren, Babs and Zimlok are not so keen. Especially Zimlok, who swore an oath of vengeance upon dragonkind after his parents were eaten by baby dragons when he was but a chick.
But his sociopathic thirst for adoration overcomes his solemn word, and he puts vengeance temporarily on hold, in light of the possibility of that gold statue of himself getting commissioned by the king.
Malice, Morag, Yalsk and Druth also climb aboard, and all bid the Orlanians a tearful goodbye. Then, with a few great beats of its expansive wings, the dragon launches from the tower and climbs high above the little town of Orlane. Northwards it soars, leaving behind the jagged peaks of the Hinterlands where Dagon’s great corpse still rots, along the line of the Silent Woods, and following the trade route of Desna’s Sorrow where tiny caravans can be seen trundling south towards the Rashan Coast. To the east is a great expanse of ocean. And there, upon the horizon, a vague smudge upon the sea. A fleet, perhaps? To the west, the mountains abut the endless green carpet of the Galentaur forest, beyond which lie the Freedlands and the Clockwork City of Zobeck. Far to the northwest, visible only to the keen eyes of Lightstrike, Malice, and Haji Baba, who has donned her eaglesight goggles, there is, faintly, a plume of dust, the sort one might associate with a great caravan. An exodus. Or an army on the march.
On flies the dragon, skirting the west side of the murky Groves of Nephthys, where Defidia had her hidey-hole, up past Astlav and the white-flecked Bay of Wyrms, along the sandy shore of the Boneway below the Howling Hills, out of which protrudes the great peak of Hvel’s Bluff where Defidia fled – and died. Finally, as the cold wind blasts their faces and wubbles their cheeks, and their eyes full of wonder scan the toy world that slips by beneath them, they spy ahead a great metropolis lodged at the edges of a dark, pine forest.
The shadows are growing long in the late afternoon, and the city of Wolden seems almost unreal in the stark contrast of light and shadow. Spires glint, and sunlit stony edifice presides upon a tor above the capital. But the city beneath appears mired in darkness; a sprawling muddle of chaotic streets and higgledy-piggledy buildings of every style and description, as though the place has been built upon over and over through the centuries, but nothing ever torn down.
The whole place is a mess of architecture spanning ages of Yore, seeing the rise of Nuria Natal; the petty kingdoms of Barcella, Lankhmar, and Arcady; the despotic rule of Slumbering Tsar; the incursions of Morgau; the retreat of the Elves; the fall of Hvel-Runor and Rappan Athuk; the ruin of Tsen and the fall of Feirgotha; Yorish imperialism, trade and plague; clashes with the Runelords; and now a new order under the Brotherhood of the Red Claw and the Sorceror-King, Nibenay Athas, whose dragon-eye pennant flies proudly above the castle that squats above the maze-like jumble of city streets.
Druth, returned to her vixen form, whispers something to Yalsk. The dwarf replies, stroking his dyed and braided beard: “Yes, I know kenku do not normally speak. They are mimics by nature. But it seems this one is a freak. Or, perhaps, very special.”
They both eye Zimlok suspiciously, who is holding on to his hat with one hand, and clinging for dear life to the saddle with the other. To quell his terror and expunge flashbacks of his death-defying fall from Dagon’s mouth, he reflects on how far he has come in the last few weeks. Long and dangerous was his trek over the northern wastes from his homeland in Kara Tur, in search of magic powerful enough to fulfil his dragon-slaying ambitions. But it feels like this past month or so, ever since he met Babs, Lightstrike and Tanuviel in the forest kingdom of Kagonost, has been filled with what seems like years of adventure.
Ah, how naïve he had been back then. So green. Little more than a conjurer. But look at me now! Devising my own spells. Stealing ancient tomes of sorcery. Casting fireball. Defeating monsters and foiling their nefarious plots. Saving the world… He’d always known he was special. The only kenku with a gift for speech. And not just a modicum of talent for magic. Now I am a wizard of great renown! I’ll probably be asked to give a talk at WizCon this year. I should probably turn it down at first, pretend I’m busy attending to more wizardly affairs. Yes, one of the most respected wizards of our age. And the Speaker of the Azath, no less, whatever that is… It sure sounded grand. But secretly he felt a little nervous about the whole thing.
“So, do you think Baba Yaga is evil?” Lightstrike is saying to Babs. “Were we right to trust her? Elovyn said it was her who stole the egg from the Azath House.”
“I am beginning to see the line between good and evil is a hazy one at best,” sighs the druid. “Perhaps she knew the Azath were losing their power? Perhaps she sought the egg so as to prevent it from falling into the hands of common tomb robbers, or worse? I’m just glad you recovered it from the Feywild, or it would still be in the hands of the Elvenking. The witch must not have known he had already fallen to the Shadow.”
“I hope Queen Caerdonelle is all right. I hope Ki-Shun got her to safety in Kagonost.”
“Me too,” agrees Babs. “Truth be told, I’m more worried about Mherren. It was bad enough when he was a warlock of Demogorgon, but now he’s signed his soul away to Asmodeus… I sure hope he knows what he’s getting into. All this soul collecting nonsense will never get him anywhere. I hope the power doesn’t go to his head. You know the saying about absolute power corrupting…”
“Nope,” says Lightstrike, cheerfully.
They look back at Mherren, who is tittering away in conversation with his imp familiar. Babs considers the horrid creature with distaste. It seems to possess an intrinsic loyalty that the quasit had lacked, but carries a distinct air of incompetence. As she stares, the imp meets her gaze with a malevolent grin.
Averting her gaze, Haji Baba addresses the dragon. “Dragon, I am Haji Baba, daughter of the consul of Kagonost. Tell me your name. I know you have one,” she says rather, er, grandly.
The reply comes telepathically: “They call me Edorax, O druid of the north. I know something of your homeland, for I hail from Trollheim, in the great spine of the northern mountains. They called me the White Terror. I was the last dragon to hunt over those icy wastes. And I am the first to exist in Yore for a very long time. Why do you think the king in Bard’s Gate has let Athas break off from the rest of the realm? Because a child of Tiamat resides in the Dragon Coast once more. He is afraid. Of me!”
“The old tales of the Elves say that, whilst metallic dragons still exist under Bahamut’s reign in the land of Drakonia far to the east, chromatic dragons like you, the children of Baal, were all but wiped out by the genies during the Wyrm Wars of the Age of Dragons. When Khors ascended, centuries later, Tiamat was one of the demons that broke through to this plane, and chromatic dragons ruled the skies again. But then she vanished, as did your kind. Legend says Asmodeus made a pact with the gods to help them rid the world of demonkind. Did he defeat your Queen of Dragons? Or was it a dwarf of Runor, as we have heard? Imagine that! Defeated by a dwarf! Does she even now lie imprisoned somewhere in an Azath House?”
The great white wyrm deflects her inquiry. “The Sorcerer-King is the expert on dragons, O druid.” Haji Baba wonders if she detects a hint of sarcasm in his tone. Resentment, even. “Put your questions to him.”
Haji Baba remains undeterred. “You defer to a human? You, a mighty dragon? How is it that one such as you has been bonded to serve?”
Edorax seems irritated. “I serve no one,” he retorts.
“And yet you do the king’s bidding. You allow yourself to become a steed. You even wear a saddle! A tame pet to carry out his orders. Hah!”
“I have my reasons,” snaps the dragon. “And they are no business of yours.”
The conversation, it would appear, has met an abrupt end. But no matter, for Edorax now begins his descent to the high walls of the citadel. Closer now, the city of Wolden is truly a sight to behold. Magnificent skyships float gracefully in from across the ocean, and dock at the bustling port. Broken statues lie scattered at the base of the curtain wall, and newly carved effigies of dragons have replaced them, their shadows stretching ominously across the walls as the red sun dips to the horizon.
Above the topmost turret of the keep, a huge gleaming bell swings, tolling the beginning of the Nightwatch, as mages hurry through the streets, magically illuminating floating lanterns that dot the main thoroughfares. “The Dragonbell,” says Mreksh, seeing his passengers gaping in wonder. “A new acquisition of the king’s. It was a… gift… from the Ironcrags.”
“Cooool,” breathes Lightstrike.
“And what’s that?” asks Yalsk, pointing to a massive, stripy marquee, surrounded by several smaller tents, in the well-tended grounds around the keep.
“Tomorrow marks the first Dragonfest,” says Mreksh. “In honour of the wise rule of our liberator and king. It will be quite a show, by all accounts.”
The dragon lands heavily upon the castle walls. Zimlok is almost thrown from his perch, and dangles squawking upside down, his foot caught fast in a stirrup. As they dismount and follow Mreksh from the wall, they discern the piercing proclamations of a city crier in the busy streets far below.
“Hear ye! Hear ye! Tickets sold out for the King’s parade tomorrow! Shows all day in the Grand Marquee!
“Hear ye! Hear ye! The Kingsguard has ousted another demonic cult from our city! Ringleaders’ hangings postponed until after the Dragonfest!
“Hear ye! Hear ye! The Chain of Acheron hold Ovar hostage in Bard’s Gate! City falls under militia rule!
“Hear ye! Hear ye! Unconfirmed reports from Endholme of dead men walking out of the Lake of Bones!
“Hear ye! Hear ye! Tidings of gargantuan demigod found dead in the Hinterlands! Drow involvement suspected!
“Hear ye! Hear ye! Blight spreads to Vorgrast! Farmsteaders of the Lonely Coast risk all by fleeing to the haunted lands of Old Doresh!
“Hear ye! Hear ye! Urzin orcs evacuate the Myre! Tortles emigrate! Brinestump goblins succumb to madness!
“Hear ye! Hear ye! Zakharan flying carpets now all the rage in Reme. Church leaders condemn trend as silly fad and arcane devilry!
“Hear ye! Hear ye! Huge fire decimates Free City of Zobeck! Four outlanders suspected of grievous arson!
“Hear ye! Hear ye! Archmage’s tower disappears from Dragon’s Claw coast! ‘Good riddance,’ say Wolden officials!
“Hear ye! Hear ye! Old Margreve forest becomes sentient and goes insane! Sparrows disappear from Sparrowkeep! Tourist board ‘troubled’!
“Hear ye! Hear ye! Ulfheimers report foreign fleet in Lether sea! Vasilea appeals to Yore for aid!
“Hear ye! Hear ye! Fist of Tyr sacrifices hundreds of citizens to appease Blood Comet! Augurs mistaken! Rest assured comet is a sign from the gods approving Athas as Dragon King!”
“Hear ye! Hear ye! Drowned woman appears in city! Citizens warned not to approach!
Zimlok shakes his head disapprovingly as they descend the walls and enter the citadel through a pair of towering oaken gates. “Blimmin’ tabloids,” he tuts. “They make it all up. What a load of codswallop!”
Mreksh leads them through endless tall corridors hung with lavish paintings and tapestries. Here and there, they notice large piles of discarded heraldry, ripped portraits, and defaced coats of arms, tossed disdainfully in corners and stuffed under pieces of furniture. After what feels like miles trekking through the echoing halls, passing stoic pikemen on guard duty in ceremonial floppy hats, shiny knee-length boots and blooming stripy trousers, thy eventually come to their quarters, a green dragonborn on sentry outside. He salutes Mreksh, who sees them all inside. It is a spacious suite with adjoining chambers, appointed with fine ornaments and lush carpets and rugs.
“Your audience with the king is on the morrow, first thing, before the festival begins,” he says. “I suggest you rest up and consider your words. He is a busy man, and he does not suffer fools. There is hot water in the tub and a pantry stocked with food and wine. Help yourself. You will be shown to the audience chamber when the Dragonbell tolls dawn. Should you require anything, a guard will be stationed outside your door.”
He nods stiffly, and as he wheels around and marches out, the pseudodragon, still wrapped around his staff, looks back at them with what could almost be a malicious grin.
They hear the door lock behind him. Are they royal guests? Or are they prisoners?
* * *
Ahriman the Djinn peers out from his window in the Sultan’s minareted palace, overlooking the Grand Plaza in the fabled and glittering City of Brass. Beneath the customary molten skies, criss-crossed with rivers of fire, and bathed in a haze of heat unbearable to mortal beings, a figure makes its way slowly along the lava-walled promenade. A figure he has not laid eyes on for a very long while. Ages have passed. Mortal kingdoms have risen and fallen. Though itself huge, the figure is still dwarfed by the scale of the great city of the Efreet. Although he walks alone, Ahriman knows he does not walk freely. Though his bonds are not visible, not physical, though he is not restrained or compelled by his captors, the figure has not come here by his own volition.
Idu Maagog enters the city in chains.
The efreeti titan has come for his own slaughter, and his arrival spells dire tidings for the beautiful, searing city at the nexus of fire, earth and air, here in the demi-plane of Molten Skies. Beyond the brazen walls, out beyond the blackened tongue of Kubri al Azim, the twenty-mile span of the Obsidian Bridge, where alchemical fires lick the burning sky and eternally boiling seas scorch the sulphurous shore, a great army gathers.
The infernal legions of the Archduke of Nessus, Asmodeus himself, await his word.
* * *
So many
Questions…
Well, well, well. With Defidia, the so-called Reptile God defeated, our indefatigable heroes find themselves staying at the pleasure of the Dragon King, where who knows what adventures might follow. But will they get any further on their bold quest to find the legendary Sword of Air?
If a so-called Immortal such as Koschei the Deathless can be dispatched with so conclusively, his dark sorcery neutralised by one of such dubious magical talents as Zimlok the Lightbringer, then perhaps there is a glimmer of hope yet for this world before it is eclipsed entirely by the impending Dark Planet and the Shadow it bringeth.
Perhaps… perhaps our misfit band of heroes might even have it in them to fulfil the prophecies, thwart the plans of gods and demons, spurn the Shadow, and defeat those who would seek the awakening of the Great Old Ones.
But there are so many questions still to be answered. Let us fill our giddy little heads with them until we are spinning… spinning… spinning…
Has Mherren the Malevolent erred gravely by aligning himself with the villain, Sharpchin, and signing his mortal soul to the possession of Asmodeus, Lord of the Nine Hells? Or has he, in his thirst for power, inadvertently gained a very powerful (if ethically suspect) ally for the Fellowship? How will this sit with the rogue and trickster, Lightstrike, who increasingly demonstrates the powers of a Paladin of Light, and whose fate seems increasingly bound to the Sundered One – the Lost Elder God, Arden?
Will this be the last we hear of Idu Maagog, and his rakshasa accomplice, Asuran? Will there now be war between devils and genies in the fabled City of Brass? What does this portend? And what of the sword-forger we heard of, the Djinn known as Ahriman?
What befalls the Elven forest-city of Kagonost, where Ki-Shun the Dragonborn monk of Bahamut has brought Queen Caerdonelle of Qualimor and the sword known as Lhang Eryn, the Brambleblade? And what intent drives King Eoneril to march his armies there, leaving his kingdom to the whim and mercy of Aelar Caphaxath and the Shadowmancers of Barad Quali?*
Who was the mysterious figure that walked ashore from the babbling wreckage of a beached ship? What fleet gathered in the ocean behind? And was that another armada, massing off the coast of Rothenia?* Who was the wraith, and to whom did he speak? And what has become of Mordenkainen?
Whatever happened to that strange mystic, Zellingar, apparent Lord of Astlav, whom our (kind of) righteous companions rescued from the bowels of Runor and the clutches of K’Varn? (Can you technically be in the “clutches” of a beholder, what with them not having any actual arms or hands or anything? – DM.)
How much of what the city crier of Wolden proclaimed was verifiable truth, and how much of it was just made up to vie for the attention of his gossip-loving audience?
Didn’t the chromatic dragons perish in the Demonwars? How is there a white dragon right here in the province of the so-called Dragon King? What befell Tiamat, and why is Edorax so cagey on the subject? Why is a proud, solitary hunter such as he in service to the Sorcerer-King?
Are Llolth and the Drow to be trusted? How is it they claim to know nothing of the great beholder our companions so clearly witnessed standing right next to her in the Underdark? And what are our companions to make of the map of Dun Emnon she gave them? Does it really bely the location of the infamous Sword of Air?
What do the Three Archmages have to do with all this – Mordenkainen, Kayden, and Sorten – who were bid to protect the mortal realms when the gods withdrew behind the Veil to keep demons out of the mortal plane? Are they truly bound to the Outer Realms, or could they find other more insidious means of returning, perhaps by the planes of Astra, or Etherea, or Shadow?
To what fate has King Ovar consigned Bard’s Gate and the Kingdom of Yore by signing the Order of the Chain?* With Ovar made little more than a puppet to a company of mercenaries, what now stands in the way of the self-proclaimed Dragon King, who has declared the independence of the east, thus marking the beginning of the fragmentation of decadent Yore?
Why have the Akrin Orcs fallen so silent of late? And why did the mighty Urzin tribe flee the Festering Marches? Is the Dragon King’s domain free of the nearby influence of the sinister Ebon Mire, where even now Illintendo Sharpchin ventures? Or is there more going on that meets the eye in the city state of Wolden?
What was the significance of Lightstrike’s dream? The underwater voice of Light Touch… the burning eye atop the Astral Library… and the plateau with the obsidian pyramid…?
Have our heroes inadvertently encouraged the proliferation of demon-cults, by laying out the Slumbering One, Dagon, upon the peaks of the Hinterlands, for all to see? The Fellowship may have saved the Dragon Coast from the plague of Defidia and the Yuan-ti, but will the authorities see things this way as the corpse of a gargantuan demon-god rots upon their borders, poisoning the surrounding lands with its foul, black blood and drawing all kinds of mad cultists to the vicinity? Will some ill-bent soul stumble upon Mherren’s discarded onyx amulet of Demogorgon?
What lies behind the Prophecy of the Speaker? Was Jo’deh the Songline Walker on to something? What significance have the Azath Houses? And whatever have they got to do with that mad bird, Zimlok?
And the Soul Shards? What of these godly fragments? The Elixir of Fire, which the Dragon King covets? The Bloodstone of Orcus (given freely to Eoneril Ostoroth by our trusting heroes)? And the remaining Elemental Blades? Are these legendary artifacts key to solving this mystery and dissolving the growing Shadow over Yore, as Elovyn said?
What, if anything, do the Red Wizards referred to by Malice have to do with this insane quest?
With the imposter, Asuran, banished to hell and apparently regressed to little more than frogspawn, will Lightstrike ever be reunited with his long-lost Master, the one known as Light Touch?
What amorphous abomination screams the name of Defidia in sorrow?*
Who is the Whisperer referred to by Mreksh, who gathers defectors in Wolden as the influence of the Dreamers of the Black Sun grows wider?
Are other realms besides the Realms of Yore at stake here? Are Slim and the Gith of the Astral Sea at risk from the Space Toads that Lightstrike realised the Fellowship had encountered at the Library of Athenaeum?
Will Zimlok remember to have a look at the strange tome he stole from the library at the Temple of Geb – the Psalms of the Frog?
Where in all the planes of existence is old Daggers, banished by Koschei the Deathless?
Is this the last we’ve seen of Snigrot Dogroot?
And what of these shadowy entities who go by the names of Zvilpoggua, Spawn of the Frog God; and Cassius, Herald of the Same; and Nyarlathotep, the Black Pharoah? And where the bleedin’ ‘eck is this blimmin’ Sword of Air everyone keeps banging on about so much?
Where next for our heroes? Will they accept their invitation to an audience with Nibenay Athas? Or will they be too busy shopping? Will they tolerate their luxurious imprisonment and speak with the Dragon King? Or will they break out and head out into the city to see what’s really going on? Who is to be hanged after the festival? Should they care?
What import hath the elixir that the Sorcerer-King covets so?
Will they venture eastward to seek counsel with the archwizard, Kayden? Or will they follow Lloth’s map to Dun Emnon and the Wasted West?
Will Haji Baba wish to rush to the aid of her people in Kagonost?
Will Lightstrike seek to repair the Sundered God? Will he find Light Touch? Or the soul shard of Arden?
Will Mherren unleash a horde of devils on some unsuspecting soul for the sheer hell of it? And when it comes to the rub, when it really counts, will he fulfil his duty to his fellows, or will he seek power for himself?
Oh, and (almost forgot)… will Zimlok stop banging on about how he defeated both Defidia and Koshchei the Deathless long enough to figure out this nonsense about the Azath?
Will this unlikely band of miscreants ever recover the long-lost Sword of Air and defeat the forces of Tsathoggua, as Aka Bakar once did all those centuries ago?
Or will the world be swallowed by the Shadow of the Frog, as Baba Yaga once forewarned far beneath the roots of the Old Margreve?
Find out in the next ensorcelling episode of…
The Sword of Air!
* * *
Naturally, there are some…
Appendices
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