DAYS OF FUTURE PAST
“Let her go. I’ll ask you this one last time, and then you die.”
Gorbag, captain of Krathanos’ gargoyle minions heard the disembodied voice coming from somewhere below him. Moments before, he had felt a gentle bump nudge the still-unconscious drow slung over his shoulder. Unbeknownst to him, Havok hovered beneath, invisible, and had used a healing scroll to bring the sorceress back from death’s door. Thanks to Darl Quethos’ Blasphemy, however, she still remained paralyzed and helpless.
“Whoever you are,” Gorbag growled, “if you could do anything to stop me, you would’ve done so by now. This little lass is mine, and I intend to keep her.” With a burst of speed, the gargoyle flapped onward, though his pace was still sluggish due to the effects of the protective shield of Law Grubber had woven about himself before the creature had attacked him.
“Why do they always have to do things the hard way?” Havok sighed, and then sighting down one extended finger, he released a spear of acidic, eldritch energy, specially attuned to the blood of mortals. The gargoyle shrieked as the beam struck him, and reflexively loosened his grip on Storm. The drow plummeted towards the ground, fifty-feet below, while Gorbag flew on as fast as he could, desperate to escape his unseen foe. Havok let him go. Streaking down, he landed at Storm’s side. Though battered from the fall, the sorceress was in no imminent danger of death. The warlock lifted her gently into his arms and started back towards the Keep of the Shackled Conqueror.
Grubber walked slowly towards Pavel. The dwarf sat on a stone, away from the others, his head bowed.
“Here,” the goliath said in a low voice as he approached. “I’m sorry I could not do more.” Pavel looked up, and for a moment his eyes went wide, for the priest held in his hands both of the dwarf’s waraxes, whole once more. However, as he looked more closely, he could tell that Grubber had only managed to mend the physical damage. The powerful enchantments originally borne by the weapons were forever gone.
“Thank ye lad,” the mercenary mumbled, taking the axes and slipping them into their loops at his side. Then he turned his eyes to the ground once more. He couldn’t face his comrades just now. In fact, he thought that he might never be able to look any of them in the eye again. Once they were shed of this gods-damned island, he planned on returning to Longsaddle and resigning from the service of Malchor Harpell. Surely the archmage could find someone better suited to this task. Grubber waited a moment longer and then walked away. The others still needed healing before they set out again. With all three tasks completed, there was nothing left but to return to the Portal of Storms.
After four days of uneventful travel back through the Doomshroud, the League finally reached the obsidian disc, right where they’d left it weeks before. No sooner had they spotted it, than the four wild watchers emerged from the shadows of the trees.
“You have done well,” said Tylanthros as he approached. Beskawahn and Thadimar nodded in agreement. “No one has ever succeeded in all of the Trials before. You have proven yourselves worthy.”
“You have proved nothing!” Sayren-Lei suddenly interrupted, stepping forward and shouldering past his brethren. “Slaughtering beasts and Velsharoon-worshipping dogs! Worse, you allowed the Roc King to perish! The trial asked specifically for his living feather, yet he was nonetheless killed!” The other three watchers stared at their brother in shock. The League members were equally taken aback by the unexpected outburst.
“We were not responsible for the roc’s death,” Hawk said in a calm, placating voice. “It was Darl Quethos and his followers. In fact, we returned the bird to life when we found him thus.”
“Yes, and then you left him helpless as a hatchling after assaulting his mind!” The wild watcher spat. “You are no heroes and I declare that none of you shall taste the waters of the Fountain of Dreams. I contest your doubtful accomplishments, and demand trial by blood! Only if you pathetic mortals can defeat me shall I consider you worthy of the final secrets of the Order of the Storm.”
“What is the meaning of this?” Giovanni said, turning to the other three watchers. “You gave your word to us, and now you go back on it?”
“Sayren-Lei has the right,” Tylanthros sighed. “We may not interfere.” Then, bowing, he, Beskawahn and Thadimar retreated some hundred paces away to watch.
In an instant, Sayren-Lei vanished from sight, though Storm and Havok could see that he had only rendered himself invisible. A heartbeat later a column of fire roared from the sky, engulfing the warlock, Faust and Grubber. Havok dove to one side, though not quickly enough to avoid all of the scorching flames. Rolling to his feet, he fired a powerful blast at the wild watcher. Sayren-Lei staggered back a half-step, but his expression remained grim. As Grubber struggled to suppress the pain from the fire, he quickly wove a spell of his own. Suddenly, the wild watcher reappeared as the effects of his invisibility were purged.
Hawk began advancing on the druid, but as he drew close, the cloud of insects that circled Sayren-Lei’s head darted towards him, enveloping him in a stinging, biting swarm. Pavel closed as well, trying to ignore the buzzing cloud as he swung both axes at the fey. The blades did little more than chip the druid’s glossy armor, but then the thorny cloak Sayren-Lei wore whipped out as if it had a life of its own and plucked one of the axes from the dwarf’s hand.
“So you have a few parlor tricks, do you?” Faust said as he concentrated on the druid. “Well, so do I.” Suddenly, Sayren-Lei found himself seized by an unseen force which held his arms to his sides, locking him in place.
“I’ve got him!” Faust cried. “Strike now!” Before any of his allies could obey, however, the wild watcher furrowed his brow, and the telekinetic grip was abruptly dispelled. Turning his gaze on the psion, he hissed, “Now I shall turn you into the snake your soul already mirrors!” Faust felt a wave of power wash over him, and for a moment, his limbs felt like jelly, and his vision blurred, but then it passed, his powerful will pushing the enchantment away.
As Sayren-Lei retaliated against Faust, Havok struck again, his blast once more rocking the druid back a pace or two, but not slowing him in the least. Hawk lunged forward as the eldritch blast faded, but as he did so, the druid stuck his spear in between the civilar’s feet, tumbling him to the ground. Rolling onto his back, Hawk swung at the wild watcher’s legs, but once more Sayren-Lei’s cloak snapped out, ripping Quaero from the paladin’s grip. The druid raised his spear high, preparing to plunge it into Hawk’s chest, but then he abruptly loosed his grip on the weapon, which vanished as soon as it left his hands. Clutching at his head, eyes wide, he gasped, “No…not like this…it wasn’t supposed to end…like this…” He fell to the ground next to the bewildered paladin, his heart stilled as the memories of his own death, drawn from his mind by Faust, overwhelmed him.
Tylanthros and his two remaining brothers seemed disappointed, but returned silently to the group. Tylanthros then gestured to the Portal of Storms, and the obsidian platform shimmered and transformed into a remarkable fountain, its waters cool and sparkling with a rainbow of scintillating light. Each member of the League abruptly experienced a nearly overwhelming rush of nostalgia for things they had cherished in their childhood and a strange, gnawing fear of long-forgotten nightmares. As they gazed at the fountain, Tylanthros spoke once more, “And so you have earned the right to return the lore of the Order of the Storm to the world. The Age of Worms is upon us, and what the powers of old began so long ago now falls to you to complete. Drink deep and remember. Dream the dreams of the ages.” One by one the heroes stepped forward, cupping their hands and drinking from the fountain. As they did, all of them became overwhelmed by the sudden rush of alien, yet strangely familiar memories. The world around them swirled away into a vortex of lightning and wind, fire and rain, ending in the utter darkness of nothingness. They floated adrift in this silence, feeling the cold perpetuity of the infinite weighing down upon them…
After several moments which seemed like an eternity, the companions found themselves standing on a windy bluff overlooking an immense canyon. Trees grew right up to the canyon’s rim, and far to the south could be seen the faint, looming specter of a solitary mountain, a plume of white-smoke drifting from its peak. Then, the din of distant battle found their ears and, as if rising from the ground on ledges and mesas both near and far, armies of creatures faded into view. In the distance, cities smoked in ruin, and the sky was cast with a dark pallor. The cacophonous moans of the undead rode the wind. The armies consisted of huge numbers of humanoids fighting against what seemed like an endless wave of undead. Some of these were familiar…spawn of Kyuss of all shapes and sizes, Wormcallers, mohrgs, eviscerator beetles, overworms and ulgurstastas. Yet there were other, stranger creatures as well, such as enormous worm-dripping centipedes that caused the ground they walked on to boil, immense black scorpions whose mere presence seemed to turn the living on their allies, and horrific worm-like dragons that breathed out swaths of writhing green Kyuss worm swarms. Wheeling in the distant skies above, attended by numerous smaller dragons, was a horrifying beast…a skeletal red dragon of great size…Dragotha! For all of the humanoid’s numbers, it was obvious that they fought a losing battle.
At this point, each member of the League noted that all of their wounds had been healed, and all of their magic restored. Still, something was different. When Giovanni looked at Hawk, the civilar’s face was familiar in its features, but obviously not the same. Also, the armor that he wore was archaic in its design. Likewise, the man who wore the warlock’s robes was not the Giovanni Vito that his companions knew so well. The dark hair and aquiline nose were similar, but only in the sense of a family resemblance. Last, the élan that was Faust, though most looked alike to outsiders, was not the same that had journeyed with the League these past months. Only Grubber, Pavel and Storm seemed unchanged.
“You have arrived,” a voice said suddenly from behind them. Turning, the League found themselves facing a group of several men. The four in the front were known to them, for they were none other than Tylanthros, Beskawahn, Thadimar, and Sayren-Lei, the wild watchers, though they appeared completely human now. “The heroes of prophecy,” Tylanthros continued. “Your timing is perfect. We can hold them no longer, but we have been successful in our task.” He indicated the druids who stood behind him. They clustered around a large package, a strange container with its sides carved in the shapes of leering demonic and draconic faces. “Dragotha’s phylactery is ours,” Tylanthros said, “yet at a great price. His minions even now come for us to reclaim it, and soon he himself shall learn of its theft. We must hide it forever from his reach, for I fear its destruction at this juncture would only drive him to an unstoppable frenzy. But if we can take it from this land, he will sense its loss. He will abandon the army of Kyuss and they will be lost, without leadership. You must hold off the spawn that even now scramble at the edges of the cliffs around us. Our trusted ally will stall his aerial forces while you must hold off the rest of his spawn long enough for us to transport the phylactery.”
As the druid mentioned an ally, a familiar figure stepped forward, a young and vivacious woman dressed in ornate silver armor who could be none-other-than Lashonna, her eyes bright and burning with determination. She spoke, but there was no sign of recognition in her eyes. “I shall engage Dragotha and his children myself, but I cannot defend against his Swords. They come too, scrambling up to our location even now, along with…something else. Something most unnatural…an abomination. You must hold them off, for all is lost if you fail…especially you, son of Kyuss.” She nodded at Giovanni, and the warlock’s eyes went wide with shock. With that final pronouncement, she spread wide her arms and transformed into a magnificent silver dragon. With a single, tremendous beat of her wings, she launched into the air and soared off towards the distant dracolich. As she winged away, Tylanthros spoke again. “We go now, to hide the phylactery within its cradle in Kongen-Thulnir. Save us from the Swords of Kyuss, or the Age of Worms shall doom us all!”
“What did she mean…son of Kyuss?” Hawk asked, turning towards the warlock as the druids lifted their burden and began retreating across the plateau.
“I…I have no idea,” Giovanni stammered, though even as the words left his mouth, the images of the worm-like tentacles, and the emerald hue of his manifestations flashed into his mind. Silently, he communed with the intelligent armor gifted him by Malchor. ‘Who am I?’
‘Master,’ the armor replied, puzzled, ‘have you hit your head? I sense no injury in you. You are whom you have always been, Vincente Vito, adopted heir of Tomasina Vito.” Stunned, Giovanni looked up at Hawk.
“Ask Quaero,” he said, “Ask him your name.” Hawk looked confused, but aloud he spoke to his blade, “Name me Quaero.”
The sword’s voice spoke for all to hear, “You are Throm, First Son of House Veritas.” All of the League members were bewildered…all except for the élan, who thought he finally had a grasp on what had happened. Alas, he had no time to explain to his companions, as suddenly, at the far side of the mesa, ten Swords of Kyuss scuttled over the rim, howling in triumph.
Half of the undead warriors charged forward, rapidly closing the distance across the open rock. As they came, the remainder of their number each raised their verdigris blades into the air and shouted as one, “Kyuss!” Crackling black energy gathered about their swords, and then surged outward, erupting into five massive explosions centered upon the League. Instantaneously Havok’s and Hawk’s armor shone with light as bright as the sun, as the enchantments woven into the metal fought to stave off the negative energy. Their companions had no such protections. As the aftershocks passed, Faust lay motionless on the ground, not a mark on him, but his skin as pale as death. Storm lay beside him. Pavel reeled, barely able to stand, wracked with pain and weakness from the onslaught. For the briefest of moments Grubber had felt himself succumbing to the attack, but at the last instant he had been healed of his injuries by the contingent prayer that he had placed upon himself to ward him in such an eventuality. It had saved him this time, but its protection was spent.
Hawk spared a quick glance towards Faust and Storm, but he was a soldier first. Companions fell in battle. That was a fact. The only thing he could do at this point was prevent further loss of life. Remembering their last encounter with the Swords of Kyuss, the civilar drew a vial filled with a silvery liquid from his haversack and quickly poured it onto his blade.
Havok also mourned the loss of Faust and Storm, but more for reasons of self-preservation. With both of them down, he was the only arcanists left. It would be up to him to stem the tide of the undead before the others were completely surrounded. Acting quickly, he raised a nest of worm-tentacles around two of the Swords, stopping them in their tracks. An instant later, he sent a sizzling chain of eldritch energy leaping among four more.
Grubber was horrified. Two of his friends were down, and Pavel was mortally wounded. He would not be able to help them all before the Swords unleashed another onslaught of their dark power. That was his first priority. Chanting quickly, but precisely, he wove a warding spell about himself and Pavel, protecting them from any further such attacks. As he did so, Pavel set about tending his own wounds, quaffing a healing elixir pulled from his belt pouch.
At that point, three of the charging Swords ran head-long into the group. Hawk was struck a glancing blow as he struggled to raise his shield. Simultaneously, the remaining five unleashed their invocation a second time. Though all of the League members were now protected, the dark magic had the unexpected effect of healing the damage dealt to the three attacking Swords by Havok’s eldritch chain. Snarling in frustration, Hawk lunged at the nearest Sword, slashing at it again and again, calling upon Helm to smite his enemy. Havok stepped back from the clashing warriors, and summoned another chain of power, instantly destroying the warrior engaging Hawk, and searing one of his brethren.
Grubber quickly knelt beside Faust and murmured a prayer, this time calling upon Kelemvor’s name as well as Grumbar’s, for it would be the God of the Dead who would grant this favor. Faust’s eyes opened, but there was no rise and fall of respiration to his chest. He existed half-way between life and death…a revenant. At that moment, however, the Swords invoked the name of the Worm a third time, and once more, Faust’s life was snuffed out.
Pavel fought like a dwarf possessed. Though still gravely injured, and deprived of the powerful magic of his axes, he whirled and danced like a master, striking one of the Swords five blows, and taking only one in turn. However, without their enchantments, his weapons were of little consequence. Only minor chips appeared in the undead’s skeletal form. Just then, Pavel felt a hand on his shoulder, but as he whirled to confront this new threat, he felt warmth and health flow into him as Hawk called upon his divine grace to heal his wounds. Then the civilar dropped his pack to the ground, before moving away to draw the Swords after him.
“In the pack!” He called over his shoulder. “There is Silversheen and healing droughts!”
Grubber cursed at the undead, shaking his fist. Then, tears in his eyes, he turned back to Faust again, this time using a revivification prayer. Now the psion was truly alive, but unconscious. Before the goliath could begin to heal his friend, however, the Swords struck again, this time the ones trapped by Havok’s tentacle-worms. Though immobilized, they could still bring their dark powers to bear, healing their comrades, and for the last time, ending Faust’s life.
Havok was too busy to watch the drama unfold with the priest. The second half of the Swords was preparing to advance. As they began to move, he loosed back-to-back vitriolic chains among them, utterly destroying one in the process. The others came on. Worse, ten more climbed over the edge of the mesa behind them. Now the odds were eighteen against four. Havok quickly raised a second nest of worm-tentacles, adjacent to the first. Two more Swords were trapped within, but more importantly, the others would have to go around the nests to reach him and his companions, buying them a few more precious seconds.
Diving for Hawk’s pack, Pavel dumped the entire contents, seizing one of the silvery vials as is it fell, and quickly applying it to one of his axes. Regaining his feet, he awaited the next wave. The next few minutes were a living nightmare for the members of the League. On the Swords came, some wading right into the midst of the worm-tentacles, heedless of the grasping tendrils, using their dark invocations to heal their brothers-in-arms. Havok placed a third forest of the appendages, yet still some of the undead warriors managed to break through. These, Hawk and Pavel engaged with a vengeance, Grubber lending what aid he could by casting healing spells upon the undead, which opened great wounds in their already-dead flesh. Two more of the Swords fell, one to Hawk’s blade, and the second to Havok’s eldritch blasts, but the undead warriors were relentless. Grubber was forced to encase his body in living iron to fend off the blows of the Swords that had gotten through. His companions needed his healing power. Without him, he feared, all would be lost.
Suddenly, the Swords literally stopped in their tracks. Weapons still poised to attack, they turned in unison towards the far edge of the mesa. There, rising above the rim, was a huge, serpentine creature whose form was composed of interlocking bones, its head the skull of some unnamed and long-dead beast. It was a boneyard, an undead abomination made entirely from the bones of other creatures. As it heaved itself onto the plateau, four sections of its body began to writhe and move of their own accord, forming themselves into draconic skeletons which struggled to free themselves from their host.
In desperation, Havok placed a fourth tentacle nest across the mesa, which now was completely bisected by the writhing, worm-like appendages. Behind him, Grubber spoke the words to a prayer, and a whirling, slashing wall of blades appeared in the middle of the tentacle wall. Several more swords were caught by the worm-tentacles, and a small group of them was trapped within the blade barrier as well. The League’s efforts were in vain. By some unseen means, the boneyard lurched into the air, taking flight and easily soaring over both the grasping tentacles and the deadly blades.
Pavel and Grubber were still besieged on all sides by Swords. Though they fought like tigers, the odds were against them. Grubber’s priorities were again divided. The boneyard was closing fast, but his friends were in more immediate danger. Quickly, the priest summoned a storm of shards, engulfing every Sword of Kyuss on the field, as well as the boneyard. Though none of their enemies fell, all were sorely damaged by the assault…until they began chanting their invocations, healing themselves and the boneyard.
‘Crunch time,’ Havok thought to himself as he took to the air to gain some distance and a momentary reprieve from the battle. Seizing two scrolls from his belt, he quickly read each in succession. The first bestowed spirit-like incorporeality upon him, a defense which would make his enemies’ attacks pass through him like mist. The second spell would allow him to change his shape at will…into virtually any form he could imagine.
The boneyard landed with a sickening crack of marrow. Grubber was too close. He tried to back away, but his ironclad form slowed his movement considerably. The boneyard snapped its jaws around him, lifting his massive form bodily into the air. As Grubber screamed, Hawk and Pavel tore themselves away from their undead attackers, suffering wicked strikes from the blades of the undead as they passed. Now the pair focused all of their efforts upon the behemoth before them, desperate to save the goliath. Suddenly, a thin, green beam of light struck the boneyard from above. Instantly, hundreds of the bones that comprised its body simply disintegrated into dust. Looking up, both warriors were stunned to see the creature which floated above them. Its body was spherical, ten-feet in diameter, with a tooth-filled maw and a single, closed eye. Atop its head sprouted several stalks, each bearing a smaller eye. It was a beholder! And it was on their side! Now a second, larger green beam came from the mouth of the eye tyrant, lashing into the boneyard with an acidic hiss before arcing to three of the Swords the were approaching Hawk and Pavel from the rear. It was then that Hawk realized what had happened. It was Havok. He had changed himself into a beholder! The civilar whooped a battle-cry, raising his sword and pumping his fist. His joy was short-lived, however, as the mass of Swords trapped within the tentacles began manifesting their invocation once more, removing every mark of damage that the warlock had just inflicted upon the boneyard.
The battle raged on. Hawk and Pavel were forced to divide their attacks between the boneyard in front of them, and the Swords behind them. Havok continued to use his new powers to great effect, simultaneously making some of the Swords sluggish with a purple-hued eye-beam, hurling others into the tentacles and the blade barrier with a telekinetic yellow one, and disintegrating more of the boneyard’s body with the green. The Swords were not about to allow their champion to be overcome so easily. For every blow the League struck, the Swords would heal, and all the while Grubber struggled to free himself from the boneyard’s maw. Suddenly, the boneyard raised its head high into the air, and then slammed it back down, pinning Grubber to the ground. As his friends looked on in helpless horror, the undead abomination literally tore every bone from the goliath’s body. Lifting its dripping jaws from the priest’s body, it then snapped Pavel up, the dwarf too stunned to react. The boneyard’s teeth bit down, sending a fountain of blood from the warrior’s mouth as it shook him like a rag doll, and then threw him carelessly to the side.
Only Hawk and Havok remained. All was lost, yet the heroes would not submit. The druids of the Order of the Storm were almost out of sight. They just had to buy them a few more minutes. With grief and rage driving them, the warlock and the paladin resumed their assault. Four more Swords fell to Hawk’s blade and Havok’s magic. Havok kept up his relentless barrage of disintegration beams against the boneyard, knowing that the remaining Swords could only use their power to heal the monstrosity a finite number of times. Yet it seemed that Fate itself had turned against the League, for at that moment, the four skeletal dragons finally tore themselves from the boneyard’s body and rushed into the melee. Hawk spoke a word, and small wings appeared on the side of his boots, lifting him into the air. Quickly, he flew out over the tentacles, hoping to lure the dragons after him. His plan worked too well. The lumbering undead charged straight into the mass of worm-tentacles, their great size and strength preventing the appendages from holding them in place. They began to bite and tear at Hawk, slapping at him with their boney tails and skinless wings.
Havok knew Hawk needed his help, but something about the boneyard had caught his attention. The last wave of invocations cast by the Swords had failed to heal all of the creature’s wounds as the previous ones had. It was weakening. The Swords were running out of power. Now was his chance! One last time, his disintegration ray lanced into the boneyard, followed by a vitriolic chain of eldritch power. With a roar that ended abruptly, the boneyard collapsed into powder. The ghostly, beholder-warlock then turned its attention to the draconic skeletons, lashing out at them, one after another with a combination of disintegration rays and eldritch blasts. In a matter of moments, they too had returned to the dust from which they had been spawned.
From that point, the outcome of the battle was a foregone conclusion. The remainder of the Swords were still trapped within the tentacles, while Hawk and Havok hovered safely above them. One-by-one Havok dispatched them. As the last one succumbed, however, his eyes were drawn to the sky. There he saw Dragotha and Lashonna locked in mortal combat. Suddenly, the gut-wrenching sensation of reality and time being warped again seized him, but just before darkness overtook him, he witnessed the dracolich deliver a killing blow to the silver dragon, and she fell from the sky into the canyon below.
Perception returned slowly. Indistinct colors gradually resolved themselves into shapes, and Hawk and Giovanni found themselves returned to Tilagos. The island was not as they remembered it. The storms that had surrounded it were gone, and the barren rocks were covered with grass and a few copses of trees. The Portal of Storms was weathered and ruined, as if it had lain inert for centuries.
“What happened?” The pair turned in surprise at the voice behind them. There stood Pavel, Grubber, Storm and Faust, whole and unscathed. They were alive. All of them.
“It was a vision,” Faust said, answering Grubber’s question. “To reveal to us where Dragotha’s phylactery is hidden…Kongen-Thulnir. I realized this just before the Swords of Kyuss attacked, but by then it was too late.”
“So none of it was real?” Havok asked, stunned by the revelation.
“I didn’t say that,” the psion replied. “In some way, we each played a part in that battle fifteen-hundred years ago. For some of us, it was our ancestors…Faust I in my case, Lord Throm Veritas in Hawk’s. And you…” he pointed at Giovanni, “who would have thought it? You are literally the Spawn of Kyuss!”
