JollyDoc
Explorer
THE SWORD IN THE STONE
Once again, the nine companions stood outside the doors of Mithrodar’s lair. They knew the chained spirit was waiting for them, but they could only hope that what Malatrothe had told them was true…he would be weaker, and perhaps vulnerable, without his spirit anchors. Their whole plan hinged upon it.
All stood poised and ready as Ratbone threw open the doors. Even knowing what they would see, they were still caught off guard by the sight of Mithrodar and his specters hovering directly on the other side of the portals. O’Reginald quickly pulled energy into his hands, and then hurled an orb of pure force at the spirit. Mithrodar recoiled momentarily, but then he and his minions surged forward, the specters passing easily through the walls to insinuate themselves among the allies.
“Now!” Katarina snapped at Michael.
The priest nodded hastily, and began to pray. A wave of energy flowed from his holy symbol, encompassing all of the combatants. In a flash of blinding light, it vanished, but its effects were readily apparent to all. Mithrodar and all of his spectral servants had been rendered corporeal. They were solid flesh once more! Michael followed up immediately by channeling his holy power into the undead, searing their flesh with Iomedae’s wrath. The specters shrieked in horror as they looked down at their all-too-mortal wounds. Then the Brotherhood of Bones was upon them. The priests and the kyton laid about them with their spiked chains like Osirion dervishes. The spirits could not defend themselves. So certain were they in their minds that their incorporeal nature would protect them, they could not conceive of any way to stave off the withering assault of the Zon-Kuthonites. Mithrodar, on the other hand, was all too aware of what Michael’s spell had done. Kazavon’s former seneschal had not risen to that position by being a fool. He turned away from the battle and began to run, but before he had gone five steps, a great weight struck him from behind as Ratbone bowled him over and bullrushed past him, cutting off any chance of escape. Mithrodar snarled as he pushed himself back to his feet, and snapped one of his chains forward, wrapping it around the druid’s ankle. As he prepared to pull Ratbone from his feet, however, five shrieking arrows thudded into his back. His mouth open in shock, the chained spirit turned slowly around, only to have the edge of Herc’s shield slam into his neck.
An inhuman shriek issued from Mithrodar as his body twisted and spiraled as if caught in a vortex. A heartbeat later, he was gone. Within moments, the walls of the castle began to shimmer and brighten as the shadows that had clung to every inch of the cursed structure faded. The sound of countless sighs whispered in the ears of the companions, and the oppressive sense of menace overlaying the structure vanished. The remaining specters simply winked out of existence. At the same time, Katarina felt a familiar presence envelope her. Zellara was free. Her spirit reentered the harrow deck as if returning home. Suddenly, a small luminescence formed in front of the allies. It rapidly brightened until a figure manifested. It was a confused-looking human man in early adulthood. He wore finely cut, if long out of style clothing, and clearly was a nobleman of some sort. As he looked around and noticed the companions, his ghostly flesh began to strip away, revealing raw muscle and bone below as if he were being flayed by invisible knives. After being reduced in such a horrible fashion, however, his skin reappeared a moment later, only to start the process all over again. To his credit, the ghost seemed to hardly notice his continuing mutilation, with only the occasional flinch as a particularly tender bit of skin was tugged away. He began to speak, his accent heavy and archaic, yet his words were clear, manifesting as sounds as much as thoughts.
“You. You have done a great thing today. You have accomplished the conclusion of a legend. What has festered here in Scarwall is no more, and in saving us all, you have returned honor to Tamrivena after these long years of shame…a shame I created, and a shame I was unable to lift. I sent Kazavon into Belkzen, so many ages ago. Eventually, when even my coward’s soul could no longer bear to hear tell of his cruelties, I came here to Scarwall to attempt to undo what I had done in asking for the Midnight Lord’s aid in defending Tamrivena. Yet again, I failed…my general, Kazavon, had me skinned alive and ate the strips raw before my dying gaze. And when I did die, my soul remained, trapped here as surely as any prisoner.
There came a time soon thereafter when Kazavon was finally slain, laid low, as with many of his cruel minions, by a powerful blade borne by a hero named Mandraivus. His blade Serithtial brought an end to Kazavon’s rule, yet could not quench his spirit, for Kazavon was one of the Midnight Lord’s chosen. Mandraivus wisely ordered the dragon’s relics taken away, and remained behind to watch over the castle. The presence of his faith, his strength of will, and most of all, his blade Serithtial kept the spirits of the dead quiet, yet these did nothing to protect him from a baser threat. The orcs came down and murdered him. As he fell, his soul became trapped in these cursed walls. Without his presence, the light of Serithtial went dark, and the spirits of Kazavon’s legacy took hold. This is the blasphemy you have righted today, and now, Scarwall will be left to crumble to dust as the ages march on.
Yet I sense in you that your quest is only partially done. I have dwelt in Kazavon’s echo for too long not to feel his strength, his influence, take seed in your queen, so far away. Strange names that I do not know are in my head. Korvosa. Ileosa. Your own. Kazavon quickens in your home, and you must recover Serithtial if you are to cast him down as surely as you have cast down his presence here. Yet the agents of the Midnight Lord know of the threat Serithtial poses to his child. While they cannot destroy the sacred blade, nor even take it far from this place without invoking the wrath of Iomedae…they can hide it.
I can still feel a presence in this place, a power linked to the Midnight Lord. It remains in the Star Tower, once Kazavon’s inner sanctum. I see that here, in the deepest heart of Scarwall, your goal lies hidden. A fragment of Scarwall’s curse lingers there, lodged and stubborn. When the curse held sway, this way was blocked to you. Now, seek it out, and it shall lead you to your goal. An now, with my time here at an end, your time shall at last begin…”
The end of his speech coincided with the completion of one of his ghostly mutilations, except that his form did not rejuvenate. Instead, it crumpled and slowly faded from view. The House of Tamrivena was at last no more…
________________________________________________________
“A Star Tower!” Laori exclaimed, awe in her voice. “Who would I’ve thought I’d ever live to see one?”
The companions stood on the roof of the eight-pointed structure that abutted the donjon. A single, stone building with no obvious entrance sat atop the tower. The marble of both the building and the surrounding tower showed no seams and were polished to a sheen, almost as if the entire structure were carved from a single immense shaft of stone. Only on the southeastern wall of the small, stone building was the smooth polish marred. There, a carving of a ten-foot-wide skull with spiked chains dangling from its eye sockets looked out over the castle below.
O’Reginald shrugged. “So? What’s the big deal?”
“It’s ancient!” Laori said, turning. “It was old even before the birth of Thassilon! Its base reaches down to the Darklands, miles below us! It’s also one of many. They are remnants of an ancient war between the gods of Golarion and the Rough Beast, Rovagug. According to legend, Sarenrae and Asmodeus were the two gods most directly associated with Rovagug’s imprisonment…Sarenrae cut open the world to fashion an oubliette, and then drove Rovagug into it, while Asmodeus used a special key to lock him within. What is not as well known, however, is Zon-Kuthon’s role in the capture of the Rough Beast. It was he who reinforced the stitching shut of the world, with Star Towers along key nexus points above the oubliette. They were meant to block Rovagug’s faithful from contacting him. This is one such tower!”
“Yes, thank you for the history listen,” Sial said in a bored tone, “but perhaps we should turn our attention to more practical matters, such as how we get inside.”
The Shadowcount reached out and touched the carved skull. Nothing happened.
“There, you see?” he asked. “Practical.”
Without another word he simply stepped through the wall of the structure and vanished. Asyra did the same a moment later. The K.I.A. turned questioningly to Laori.
“A phase door,” she said, her mouth tight-lipped. “It activated when he touched the skull. Only Zon-Kuthon’s faithful can see it, but it’s there, trust me. Just follow me.”
The inside of the chamber was completely empty, save for a five-foot-wide flight of stairs that wound down into darkness. The companions descended in single file, emerging at the bottom into a large chamber. The walls and floor had a strange organic texture, appearing almost like black, decaying flesh streaked with glistening swaths of blood. Four pillars carved to look like coils of entwined arteries and spinal cords supported the ceiling…nails and surgical tools were embedded in those pillars at key and painful-looking positions. At the base of the stairs was a ten-foot-wide open shaft filled with thick, bluish mist. No sooner had the last of the group stepped into the room, than a disembodied, sibilant voice echoed throughout it.
“Greetings, and welcome to the Star Tower,” the voice said. “Which of you wishes to take on the honor and glory of becoming its new Curate?”
A hush fell over the group as they cast their eyes about the chamber for the unseen speaker.
“Curate?” O’Reginald asked innocently.
“The Curate is the living soul of this Star Tower,” the voice replied. “The Curate lives until the End Times, or until violence necessitates a replacement, and watches over the Star Tower. The Curate is the Star Tower. It is an honor to even be considered for the role, and to be selected and reject it is to spit in the Midnight Lord’s eye.”
“And so the time has come,” Sial spat as he whirled towards Laori. “I have watched you with these heretics as you have drifted further and further from the teachings of our Lord. Taking on the role of Curate is the only way you could hope to atone for your sins!”
For a moment Laori stood agape, and then her eyes flashed with anger.
“It is you who has constantly obstructed our goal of seeing Kazavon’s fangs returned to Nidal!” she shouted. “Perhaps it is you who should become Curate!”
“How dare you address me with some impertinence?” Sial roared, and Asyra moved to his side, her chains gripped in her hands. Sial raised his hands, black energy crackling about them. Laori raised her own weapon, hatred etched upon her beautiful face. Suddenly, a deafening roar filled the room as Ratbone reared up behind the kyton, and lifted her bodily from the ground in a ferocious bear hug. Her spine audibly snapped and she went limp in his arms. He dropped her bonelessly to the floor. Sial turned, focusing his magic on the druid, but before he could strike, Herc leveled him with a hammer-blow from the edge of his shield.
“I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time,” the big merc grinned.
“I see the choice has been made,” the disembodied voice intoned, a trace of amusement evident. “Priestess,” it said, obviously addressing Laori, “I invite you to accompany me as I escort your compatriot to the Midnight Lord’s palace. There you may testify in person to the Shadowcount’s traitorous acts, if you so desire.”
Laori’s mouth fell open. “I…I would be honored!” she stammered.
“As for the rest of you,” the voice continued, “I know that you are here to reclaim Serithtial, and that you hope to use it to drive Kazavon’s spirit from Queen Ileosa. I assure you that you have no more to fear from Zon-Kuthon. He desires that Kazavon’s spirit be removed from the petty young queen as much as anyone. Such a fate does not befit even a fragment of one of His mightiest warlords. The blade has been taken, but it is not far from here. It is in the clutches of the Children of Rovagug, deep below the Star Tower. You need merely to step into yonder shaft, and you shall be transported to the deeps where Serithtial has languished for so many years.”
At that moment a massive shadow detached itself from the ceiling of the chamber as a massive creature drifted downward. It looked like a great bat formed from pure darkness.
“The time has come,” the nightwing said to Laori as if lifted Sial from the floor.
Laori nodded, but turned to the six companions first. “Know that I only ever meant to aid you, for your goals and mine were much the same. I never intended to betray you. You may call me ‘evil,’ but I am not without honor. May the Midnight Lord guide you upon the rest of your journey, and perhaps our paths will cross again one day.”
With that, the nightwing engulfed both she and Sial and vanished into blackness.
________________________________________________________
As each of the companions stepped into the blue light of the pit, they experienced a sudden plummet of vertiginous length, seeming to stretch on for miles and miles. A moment later, however, they found themselves standing in an empty chamber, the air cold and still. The jagged walls of the tower were broken to the northeast by a single stone door, and the floor was polished to a reflective sheen. Thirty-feet above, the ceiling was completely obscured by a roiling bank of glowing blue mist.
The door gave on to a cave tunnel, the walls of which looked moist, yet were strangely dry to the touch, covered with a sheen of glittering mineral deposits. The tunnel wound for some distance before ending in an immense chamber. The rank odor of decay, filth, and wet fur clung to the air with a palpable tenacity. The cavern faded into the dark away to the north. A wide, rocky shelf sat in the southern portion of the cave, and upon this shelf were four crude, domed hovels, each nearly twenty feet in height, and built from crude stone blocks mortared together with a nasty mix of mud, hair, and other assorted debris. Each stone igloo had a large arched opening into its darkened interior. To the north, a silent lake of black waters stretched into the distance. Very few ripples disturbed its surface, giving it the appearance at times of a massive sheet of polished obsidian. Far out in the water to the northwest, a single point of light glowed just above the surface, a bright star whose radiance illuminated a few stony islands about seventy feet out in the lake, though the source of the light was not discernible from shore.
Suddenly, several hulking shapes began to emerge from the darkness of the igloos. Shaggy, black fur matted with filth and debris covered the deformed giants. Their arms split into two forearms at both elbows, each ending in a massive four-fingered claw. Their heads were a travesty of nature, with vertical, fang-filled maws splitting them from what would be crown to chin on any normal creature. Bony protuberances jutted from the sides of their heads, each sheltering a baleful eye, pink and bloodshot. Their horrid appearance was matched only by their stench, a rancid combination of wet fur and decay. With an inhuman shriek, the creatures lumbered forward, their talons snapping viciously. Herc and Ratbone met them halfway. The big merc swung his shield in a short arc as he spun, hammering its edge into the back of the foremost monstrosity. Its spine snapped, and it crumpled screaming to the ground. As Ratbone stepped past it, he bent quickly and tore out its throat. A moment later, an explosion of fire and electricity erupted in the center of the beach, engulfing the arachnid-like horrors. They squealed in agony, but continued charging forward, only to run straight into a whirling wall of blades that Michael conjured out of thin air. One fell, slashed to ribbons, while Raelak opened fire on the others. One managed to free itself, burned and ripped flesh hanging from it in ribbons. It struck the ranger back-hand, sending him sprawling to the ground. As it moved in for the kill, however, Herc was there, disemboweling it with one blow. The remaining three, still writhing within the blade barrier, were instantly immolated as O’Reginald unleashed a second energy ball.
__________________________________________________________
“Can you hear that?” Herc asked as the companions stood on the shore of the lake.
“What?” Michael asked. “I don’t hear anything.”
“Singing…,” Herc said absently. “It’s calling me. Serithtial is calling me.”
“You’re saying that’s the sword out there?” O’Reginald asked. “That light?”
“That’s her,” Herc nodded.
“Then what are we waiting for?” the sorcerer asked. “We’re home free!”
While Ratbone transformed into his avian form, O’Reginald enabled the others to fly. They rose into the air and flew across the dark water, making for the distant island and the glowing blade embedded in the stone there. It was Ratbone who first saw the behemoth rising from the water beneath them. It was a horrible amalgam of man and worm, its flesh split and filled with maggots. The creature was all that remained of Kleestad, once Kazavon’s chamberlain. He had betrayed the warlord by giving Mandraivus the information he needed to strike at Scarwall when its defenses were lowest, and directed the cabal to a secret entrance to the castle. For his treachery, Kazavon intended to reward him with a slow and painful death, yet the warlord only managed to break Kleestad’s ankles before Mandraivus and his companions entered the throne room. Kleestad managed to crawl to safety during the ferocious battle that followed, and remained in hiding throughout Mandraivus’s short reign. When the curse of Scarwall fell, he emerged, half-mad, to find the castle empty of all save the dead. He found Mandraivus’s body and claimed Serithtial for his own, calling upon Zon-Kuthon to witness his victory. Yet the Midnight Lord was not pleased, and transformed the chamberlain into a monster, hurling him into the lightless vault deep below Scarwall, Serithtial still clutched in his hand. Almost a millennium later, the last thrall of Kazavon lived on in his underground prison, in a final twist of fate becoming the guardian of the very blade that laid his master low.
Now Kleestad erupted in rage as he sensed the trespassers in his domain. He roared his challenge, and it was answered by the battle cries of Herc and Ratbone. The two warriors charged the leviathan, tearing into it with steel and claw. O’Reginald hurled fire and lightning, scorching Kleestad’s flank. Then, Kleestad unhinged his jaw, opening it hugely and vomited forth a great gout of black, acidic blood. It burned all whom it touched, and caused their stomachs to seize and clench. Raelak fought the nausea that gripped him and loosed his arrows into Kleestad’s bloated flesh. Finally, a rippling lance of pure sound spiraled from Katarina’s hand and tore through the goliath’s skull. Slowly, Kleestad sank back into the depths, his soul at last free to face Zon-Kuthon’s judgment.
________________________________________________________
Herc knelt before Serithtial, her voice echoing in his mind.
‘Do you know me?’ she asked.
“I do not,” the warrior replied, “but I wish to learn.”
‘Before you may know me, noble one,’ Serithtial replied, ‘you must learn the ways of my mistress. Will you pledge yourself to Iomedae?’
“I will,” Herc nodded. He turned to Michael, and the priest instinctively knew what the mercenary asked of him.
“I bless and consecrate you in Iomedae’s name,” he said as he laid his hands upon Herc’s shoulders.
Herc then reached out and grasped Serithtial.
‘Now pledge yourself to me,’ the sword said. ‘Do you swear to spend your remaining days dedicated to the defeat of Zon-Kuthon, and all those who serve him?’
“This I swear!” Herc said. Then he rose, and drew the sword from the stone, holding it high above his head like a beacon of Heaven itself.
Once again, the nine companions stood outside the doors of Mithrodar’s lair. They knew the chained spirit was waiting for them, but they could only hope that what Malatrothe had told them was true…he would be weaker, and perhaps vulnerable, without his spirit anchors. Their whole plan hinged upon it.
All stood poised and ready as Ratbone threw open the doors. Even knowing what they would see, they were still caught off guard by the sight of Mithrodar and his specters hovering directly on the other side of the portals. O’Reginald quickly pulled energy into his hands, and then hurled an orb of pure force at the spirit. Mithrodar recoiled momentarily, but then he and his minions surged forward, the specters passing easily through the walls to insinuate themselves among the allies.
“Now!” Katarina snapped at Michael.
The priest nodded hastily, and began to pray. A wave of energy flowed from his holy symbol, encompassing all of the combatants. In a flash of blinding light, it vanished, but its effects were readily apparent to all. Mithrodar and all of his spectral servants had been rendered corporeal. They were solid flesh once more! Michael followed up immediately by channeling his holy power into the undead, searing their flesh with Iomedae’s wrath. The specters shrieked in horror as they looked down at their all-too-mortal wounds. Then the Brotherhood of Bones was upon them. The priests and the kyton laid about them with their spiked chains like Osirion dervishes. The spirits could not defend themselves. So certain were they in their minds that their incorporeal nature would protect them, they could not conceive of any way to stave off the withering assault of the Zon-Kuthonites. Mithrodar, on the other hand, was all too aware of what Michael’s spell had done. Kazavon’s former seneschal had not risen to that position by being a fool. He turned away from the battle and began to run, but before he had gone five steps, a great weight struck him from behind as Ratbone bowled him over and bullrushed past him, cutting off any chance of escape. Mithrodar snarled as he pushed himself back to his feet, and snapped one of his chains forward, wrapping it around the druid’s ankle. As he prepared to pull Ratbone from his feet, however, five shrieking arrows thudded into his back. His mouth open in shock, the chained spirit turned slowly around, only to have the edge of Herc’s shield slam into his neck.
An inhuman shriek issued from Mithrodar as his body twisted and spiraled as if caught in a vortex. A heartbeat later, he was gone. Within moments, the walls of the castle began to shimmer and brighten as the shadows that had clung to every inch of the cursed structure faded. The sound of countless sighs whispered in the ears of the companions, and the oppressive sense of menace overlaying the structure vanished. The remaining specters simply winked out of existence. At the same time, Katarina felt a familiar presence envelope her. Zellara was free. Her spirit reentered the harrow deck as if returning home. Suddenly, a small luminescence formed in front of the allies. It rapidly brightened until a figure manifested. It was a confused-looking human man in early adulthood. He wore finely cut, if long out of style clothing, and clearly was a nobleman of some sort. As he looked around and noticed the companions, his ghostly flesh began to strip away, revealing raw muscle and bone below as if he were being flayed by invisible knives. After being reduced in such a horrible fashion, however, his skin reappeared a moment later, only to start the process all over again. To his credit, the ghost seemed to hardly notice his continuing mutilation, with only the occasional flinch as a particularly tender bit of skin was tugged away. He began to speak, his accent heavy and archaic, yet his words were clear, manifesting as sounds as much as thoughts.
“You. You have done a great thing today. You have accomplished the conclusion of a legend. What has festered here in Scarwall is no more, and in saving us all, you have returned honor to Tamrivena after these long years of shame…a shame I created, and a shame I was unable to lift. I sent Kazavon into Belkzen, so many ages ago. Eventually, when even my coward’s soul could no longer bear to hear tell of his cruelties, I came here to Scarwall to attempt to undo what I had done in asking for the Midnight Lord’s aid in defending Tamrivena. Yet again, I failed…my general, Kazavon, had me skinned alive and ate the strips raw before my dying gaze. And when I did die, my soul remained, trapped here as surely as any prisoner.
There came a time soon thereafter when Kazavon was finally slain, laid low, as with many of his cruel minions, by a powerful blade borne by a hero named Mandraivus. His blade Serithtial brought an end to Kazavon’s rule, yet could not quench his spirit, for Kazavon was one of the Midnight Lord’s chosen. Mandraivus wisely ordered the dragon’s relics taken away, and remained behind to watch over the castle. The presence of his faith, his strength of will, and most of all, his blade Serithtial kept the spirits of the dead quiet, yet these did nothing to protect him from a baser threat. The orcs came down and murdered him. As he fell, his soul became trapped in these cursed walls. Without his presence, the light of Serithtial went dark, and the spirits of Kazavon’s legacy took hold. This is the blasphemy you have righted today, and now, Scarwall will be left to crumble to dust as the ages march on.
Yet I sense in you that your quest is only partially done. I have dwelt in Kazavon’s echo for too long not to feel his strength, his influence, take seed in your queen, so far away. Strange names that I do not know are in my head. Korvosa. Ileosa. Your own. Kazavon quickens in your home, and you must recover Serithtial if you are to cast him down as surely as you have cast down his presence here. Yet the agents of the Midnight Lord know of the threat Serithtial poses to his child. While they cannot destroy the sacred blade, nor even take it far from this place without invoking the wrath of Iomedae…they can hide it.
I can still feel a presence in this place, a power linked to the Midnight Lord. It remains in the Star Tower, once Kazavon’s inner sanctum. I see that here, in the deepest heart of Scarwall, your goal lies hidden. A fragment of Scarwall’s curse lingers there, lodged and stubborn. When the curse held sway, this way was blocked to you. Now, seek it out, and it shall lead you to your goal. An now, with my time here at an end, your time shall at last begin…”
The end of his speech coincided with the completion of one of his ghostly mutilations, except that his form did not rejuvenate. Instead, it crumpled and slowly faded from view. The House of Tamrivena was at last no more…
________________________________________________________
“A Star Tower!” Laori exclaimed, awe in her voice. “Who would I’ve thought I’d ever live to see one?”
The companions stood on the roof of the eight-pointed structure that abutted the donjon. A single, stone building with no obvious entrance sat atop the tower. The marble of both the building and the surrounding tower showed no seams and were polished to a sheen, almost as if the entire structure were carved from a single immense shaft of stone. Only on the southeastern wall of the small, stone building was the smooth polish marred. There, a carving of a ten-foot-wide skull with spiked chains dangling from its eye sockets looked out over the castle below.
O’Reginald shrugged. “So? What’s the big deal?”
“It’s ancient!” Laori said, turning. “It was old even before the birth of Thassilon! Its base reaches down to the Darklands, miles below us! It’s also one of many. They are remnants of an ancient war between the gods of Golarion and the Rough Beast, Rovagug. According to legend, Sarenrae and Asmodeus were the two gods most directly associated with Rovagug’s imprisonment…Sarenrae cut open the world to fashion an oubliette, and then drove Rovagug into it, while Asmodeus used a special key to lock him within. What is not as well known, however, is Zon-Kuthon’s role in the capture of the Rough Beast. It was he who reinforced the stitching shut of the world, with Star Towers along key nexus points above the oubliette. They were meant to block Rovagug’s faithful from contacting him. This is one such tower!”
“Yes, thank you for the history listen,” Sial said in a bored tone, “but perhaps we should turn our attention to more practical matters, such as how we get inside.”
The Shadowcount reached out and touched the carved skull. Nothing happened.
“There, you see?” he asked. “Practical.”
Without another word he simply stepped through the wall of the structure and vanished. Asyra did the same a moment later. The K.I.A. turned questioningly to Laori.
“A phase door,” she said, her mouth tight-lipped. “It activated when he touched the skull. Only Zon-Kuthon’s faithful can see it, but it’s there, trust me. Just follow me.”
The inside of the chamber was completely empty, save for a five-foot-wide flight of stairs that wound down into darkness. The companions descended in single file, emerging at the bottom into a large chamber. The walls and floor had a strange organic texture, appearing almost like black, decaying flesh streaked with glistening swaths of blood. Four pillars carved to look like coils of entwined arteries and spinal cords supported the ceiling…nails and surgical tools were embedded in those pillars at key and painful-looking positions. At the base of the stairs was a ten-foot-wide open shaft filled with thick, bluish mist. No sooner had the last of the group stepped into the room, than a disembodied, sibilant voice echoed throughout it.
“Greetings, and welcome to the Star Tower,” the voice said. “Which of you wishes to take on the honor and glory of becoming its new Curate?”
A hush fell over the group as they cast their eyes about the chamber for the unseen speaker.
“Curate?” O’Reginald asked innocently.
“The Curate is the living soul of this Star Tower,” the voice replied. “The Curate lives until the End Times, or until violence necessitates a replacement, and watches over the Star Tower. The Curate is the Star Tower. It is an honor to even be considered for the role, and to be selected and reject it is to spit in the Midnight Lord’s eye.”
“And so the time has come,” Sial spat as he whirled towards Laori. “I have watched you with these heretics as you have drifted further and further from the teachings of our Lord. Taking on the role of Curate is the only way you could hope to atone for your sins!”
For a moment Laori stood agape, and then her eyes flashed with anger.
“It is you who has constantly obstructed our goal of seeing Kazavon’s fangs returned to Nidal!” she shouted. “Perhaps it is you who should become Curate!”
“How dare you address me with some impertinence?” Sial roared, and Asyra moved to his side, her chains gripped in her hands. Sial raised his hands, black energy crackling about them. Laori raised her own weapon, hatred etched upon her beautiful face. Suddenly, a deafening roar filled the room as Ratbone reared up behind the kyton, and lifted her bodily from the ground in a ferocious bear hug. Her spine audibly snapped and she went limp in his arms. He dropped her bonelessly to the floor. Sial turned, focusing his magic on the druid, but before he could strike, Herc leveled him with a hammer-blow from the edge of his shield.
“I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time,” the big merc grinned.
“I see the choice has been made,” the disembodied voice intoned, a trace of amusement evident. “Priestess,” it said, obviously addressing Laori, “I invite you to accompany me as I escort your compatriot to the Midnight Lord’s palace. There you may testify in person to the Shadowcount’s traitorous acts, if you so desire.”
Laori’s mouth fell open. “I…I would be honored!” she stammered.
“As for the rest of you,” the voice continued, “I know that you are here to reclaim Serithtial, and that you hope to use it to drive Kazavon’s spirit from Queen Ileosa. I assure you that you have no more to fear from Zon-Kuthon. He desires that Kazavon’s spirit be removed from the petty young queen as much as anyone. Such a fate does not befit even a fragment of one of His mightiest warlords. The blade has been taken, but it is not far from here. It is in the clutches of the Children of Rovagug, deep below the Star Tower. You need merely to step into yonder shaft, and you shall be transported to the deeps where Serithtial has languished for so many years.”
At that moment a massive shadow detached itself from the ceiling of the chamber as a massive creature drifted downward. It looked like a great bat formed from pure darkness.
“The time has come,” the nightwing said to Laori as if lifted Sial from the floor.
Laori nodded, but turned to the six companions first. “Know that I only ever meant to aid you, for your goals and mine were much the same. I never intended to betray you. You may call me ‘evil,’ but I am not without honor. May the Midnight Lord guide you upon the rest of your journey, and perhaps our paths will cross again one day.”
With that, the nightwing engulfed both she and Sial and vanished into blackness.
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As each of the companions stepped into the blue light of the pit, they experienced a sudden plummet of vertiginous length, seeming to stretch on for miles and miles. A moment later, however, they found themselves standing in an empty chamber, the air cold and still. The jagged walls of the tower were broken to the northeast by a single stone door, and the floor was polished to a reflective sheen. Thirty-feet above, the ceiling was completely obscured by a roiling bank of glowing blue mist.
The door gave on to a cave tunnel, the walls of which looked moist, yet were strangely dry to the touch, covered with a sheen of glittering mineral deposits. The tunnel wound for some distance before ending in an immense chamber. The rank odor of decay, filth, and wet fur clung to the air with a palpable tenacity. The cavern faded into the dark away to the north. A wide, rocky shelf sat in the southern portion of the cave, and upon this shelf were four crude, domed hovels, each nearly twenty feet in height, and built from crude stone blocks mortared together with a nasty mix of mud, hair, and other assorted debris. Each stone igloo had a large arched opening into its darkened interior. To the north, a silent lake of black waters stretched into the distance. Very few ripples disturbed its surface, giving it the appearance at times of a massive sheet of polished obsidian. Far out in the water to the northwest, a single point of light glowed just above the surface, a bright star whose radiance illuminated a few stony islands about seventy feet out in the lake, though the source of the light was not discernible from shore.
Suddenly, several hulking shapes began to emerge from the darkness of the igloos. Shaggy, black fur matted with filth and debris covered the deformed giants. Their arms split into two forearms at both elbows, each ending in a massive four-fingered claw. Their heads were a travesty of nature, with vertical, fang-filled maws splitting them from what would be crown to chin on any normal creature. Bony protuberances jutted from the sides of their heads, each sheltering a baleful eye, pink and bloodshot. Their horrid appearance was matched only by their stench, a rancid combination of wet fur and decay. With an inhuman shriek, the creatures lumbered forward, their talons snapping viciously. Herc and Ratbone met them halfway. The big merc swung his shield in a short arc as he spun, hammering its edge into the back of the foremost monstrosity. Its spine snapped, and it crumpled screaming to the ground. As Ratbone stepped past it, he bent quickly and tore out its throat. A moment later, an explosion of fire and electricity erupted in the center of the beach, engulfing the arachnid-like horrors. They squealed in agony, but continued charging forward, only to run straight into a whirling wall of blades that Michael conjured out of thin air. One fell, slashed to ribbons, while Raelak opened fire on the others. One managed to free itself, burned and ripped flesh hanging from it in ribbons. It struck the ranger back-hand, sending him sprawling to the ground. As it moved in for the kill, however, Herc was there, disemboweling it with one blow. The remaining three, still writhing within the blade barrier, were instantly immolated as O’Reginald unleashed a second energy ball.
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“Can you hear that?” Herc asked as the companions stood on the shore of the lake.
“What?” Michael asked. “I don’t hear anything.”
“Singing…,” Herc said absently. “It’s calling me. Serithtial is calling me.”
“You’re saying that’s the sword out there?” O’Reginald asked. “That light?”
“That’s her,” Herc nodded.
“Then what are we waiting for?” the sorcerer asked. “We’re home free!”
While Ratbone transformed into his avian form, O’Reginald enabled the others to fly. They rose into the air and flew across the dark water, making for the distant island and the glowing blade embedded in the stone there. It was Ratbone who first saw the behemoth rising from the water beneath them. It was a horrible amalgam of man and worm, its flesh split and filled with maggots. The creature was all that remained of Kleestad, once Kazavon’s chamberlain. He had betrayed the warlord by giving Mandraivus the information he needed to strike at Scarwall when its defenses were lowest, and directed the cabal to a secret entrance to the castle. For his treachery, Kazavon intended to reward him with a slow and painful death, yet the warlord only managed to break Kleestad’s ankles before Mandraivus and his companions entered the throne room. Kleestad managed to crawl to safety during the ferocious battle that followed, and remained in hiding throughout Mandraivus’s short reign. When the curse of Scarwall fell, he emerged, half-mad, to find the castle empty of all save the dead. He found Mandraivus’s body and claimed Serithtial for his own, calling upon Zon-Kuthon to witness his victory. Yet the Midnight Lord was not pleased, and transformed the chamberlain into a monster, hurling him into the lightless vault deep below Scarwall, Serithtial still clutched in his hand. Almost a millennium later, the last thrall of Kazavon lived on in his underground prison, in a final twist of fate becoming the guardian of the very blade that laid his master low.
Now Kleestad erupted in rage as he sensed the trespassers in his domain. He roared his challenge, and it was answered by the battle cries of Herc and Ratbone. The two warriors charged the leviathan, tearing into it with steel and claw. O’Reginald hurled fire and lightning, scorching Kleestad’s flank. Then, Kleestad unhinged his jaw, opening it hugely and vomited forth a great gout of black, acidic blood. It burned all whom it touched, and caused their stomachs to seize and clench. Raelak fought the nausea that gripped him and loosed his arrows into Kleestad’s bloated flesh. Finally, a rippling lance of pure sound spiraled from Katarina’s hand and tore through the goliath’s skull. Slowly, Kleestad sank back into the depths, his soul at last free to face Zon-Kuthon’s judgment.
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Herc knelt before Serithtial, her voice echoing in his mind.
‘Do you know me?’ she asked.
“I do not,” the warrior replied, “but I wish to learn.”
‘Before you may know me, noble one,’ Serithtial replied, ‘you must learn the ways of my mistress. Will you pledge yourself to Iomedae?’
“I will,” Herc nodded. He turned to Michael, and the priest instinctively knew what the mercenary asked of him.
“I bless and consecrate you in Iomedae’s name,” he said as he laid his hands upon Herc’s shoulders.
Herc then reached out and grasped Serithtial.
‘Now pledge yourself to me,’ the sword said. ‘Do you swear to spend your remaining days dedicated to the defeat of Zon-Kuthon, and all those who serve him?’
“This I swear!” Herc said. Then he rose, and drew the sword from the stone, holding it high above his head like a beacon of Heaven itself.
