Shackled City Epic: "Vengeance" (story concluded)

[Lazybones]

Chapter 487

“You bastard!” Eldren yelled, attacking the lich in an all-out assault. The baelnorn barely seemed to acknowledge him, even as the elf-forged blade tore into his ragged garments and the withered flesh and ancient bones beneath. The ranger’s blows lifted small puffs of dust from the creature’s body that swirled around it from the force of the impacts, but otherwise it was like hacking at one of the marble pillars they’d encountered in the ruin outside.

An arrow caught the lich in the chest, sticking into a bone. Aymie’s hands shook as she reached for another missile. Ellene drew her swords and came at the lich from the side opposite Eldren, using tactics designed against living foes, trying to flank it. The lich did not even turn as her blades caromed uselessly against its torso. Despite its apparent frailty, the lich was insanely durable.

Dannel saw his companions attacking the lich, knew he should be joining them, however futile the assault was. But his gaze was drawn to Jannae, lying broken at his feet. The priestess was still conscious, somehow, and her gaze fixed the arcane archer, drew him to her.

“Take… Weave… only… hope…” she managed to gasp, as he knelt at her side. Her face was a deathly white, and Dannel could see the blue scars where the lich’s fingers had grasped her. Her eyes drifted down, and Dannel followed them to the open pouch she’d dropped when it had struck her down.

He reached for it, but then Jannae screamed, her body contorting as a fountain of bright red blood erupted from her mouth, splattering Dannel’s chest and face with scarlet droplets. Dannel felt to his knees as he felt like something was exploding inside of him, and as he looked up, he saw that the others had been hit equally hard. Eldren staggered back, blood oozing from his nostrils and the corners of his eyes, clutching his gut with his off hand. Aymie had fallen, her hands spasming as she clawed at the stone, her body arched. And Ellene had dropped to one knee, her face clenched as the injuries she’d suffered in the desperate battle against the mohrgs violently reopened, the healing spells undone by the lich’s mass inflict critical wounds spell. Maximized by the mythal, the spell had been devastating.

With a roar, Eldren hurled himself at the lich once more. This time he held his sword reversed, his gloved hands wrapped around the blade, and he drove the heavy pommel down into the center of the lich’s skull. There was a flare of silver light and the lich shifted—slightly, but something ugly burned in the red glow of its eyes as it turned to face the ranger.

Dannel reached out and grabbed the pouch. Jannae was dead… that much was instantly obvious, but they would all join her within moments if he did not act. He drew out the Weave, the device the priestess had spoken of. It felt as light as air, sparkling softly in his hand, like a web of shimmering lace. The entirety of it was small enough to conceal in both of his hands.

Staggering back as the pain shrieked mercilessly through his body, he rushed toward the mythal.

Eldren, his face a gory red mask, lifted his sword to strike again. Ellene had resumed her attacks from the opposite side, hacking at its body. The lich opened its mouth and whispered something, a deadly benediction. The mythal flared, the black tendrils squirmed eagerly, and the two warriors were hurled back as a new wave of agony exploded out from the undead lord, strengthening it even as it stole life from the invaders of its sanctum.

Dannel felt the new surge and nearly crumpled. This one wasn’t as strong as the first, but in his weakened state it was still almost enough to finish him. He wouldn’t survive one more mass inflict, he knew. He heard metal clattering on stone and knew that he was now alone against the lich. But did not turn, leaping forward, letting the Weave come open in his hands as he rushed at the mythal.

“NO!” came a voice, sepulchral, filling his mind. But he defied it, and swept the diaphanous blanket over the surface of the artifact.

Something hard slammed into him from behind. He was blasted roughly across the room, his flight interrupted by the sudden arrival of the far wall. He hit hard, and slumped down, only partially conscious. Later, he would not be able to clearly distinguish what had been real, and what had been an illusion of his battered mind.

The light from the mythal had brightened, but filtered by the Weave, it was now a soft golden glow that filled the vault with warmth. The lich was still there, standing like a grim harbinger of death over the motionless bodies of his friends.

But they were no longer alone.

The golden light shone on the translucent forms of at least a dozen elves, standing close along the walls of the chamber, the ancient reliefs showing through their insubstantial bodies. They were of varied gender, all showing the signs of age that for an elf meant they were truly venerable. They wore elaborate robes that drifted around their bodies, as though a faint wind stirred in whatever reality they existed.

The lich looked upon them, something flashing in its burning eyes—grief? Regret? Anger? Dannel could not tell, the baelnorn’s emotions unreadable in the alien nature of its eternal existence.

“I have failed,” it said, its voice scratching through its desiccated throat.

The ghostly elves spoke, their voices sounding in Dannel’s mind. He could not tell which of them was speaking at any given moment, but the voices sounded slightly different, though all of the words resonated with power and ancient wisdom.

Yes, Aladir Ardan.

But not through a lack of dedication to your task.

You have been led astray, corrupted by the faltering of the power you warded.

But your line has remained true.

Your error has been redeemed by sacrifice.

Now is the time for your long service to come to an end. Your rest has been well-earned.

Two of the elven spirits detached from the wall and approached the lich. The undead creature did not react to them, but as their ephemeral fingers brushed its face, the unholy glow of its eyes softened, replaced by a soft gray light that felt like the sadness of a rainy day. Dannel felt a pang as the lich’s head turned slowly to face him.

“I am sorry,” it said. “I…”

Dannel managed to shake his head. Tears streamed down his cheeks. What could he say? He thought of the death he’d seen since returning to the Wealdath, of his companions, torn to pieces. All for—a mistake?

The lich nodded, as if sensing the elf’s feelings, knowing that forgiveness could not be granted, accepting what could not be changed.

The spirits drew back, and the baelnorn’s body began to grow insubstantial. “Wait!” Dannel said. “Jannae… the others…”

Your kinsmen and the other warriors yet live, and shall go on.

The priestess has been accepted to the bosom of the goddess.

Dannel had known the truth of Jannae’s fate, but he still could not stifle a sob that clenched at his chest at the spirit’s words.

We are not the gods, child. We can only shape what is, what not was, or will be.

Dannel lowered his head, overcome, his battered body fighting him as he struggled to remain above the crest of the black wave that threatened to overcome his awareness.

What now, then? he thought.

You will go on, the voice said in his mind, gently, he thought.

A loud crack surprised him, drew him back to full awareness, and his head shot up.

The vault was again quiet, dark. The spirits, and the baelnorn, were gone, and he could just make out the shadowy outlines of his prone companions—and the body of Jannae—in the near darkness. But his attention was drawn to the middle of the room. He knew what he would see there even as his eyes adjusted to the dark sufficiently to make out the altered outline of the mythal, now lying broken between the two pedestals, the remains of the elven weave still draped over it.

Grimacing at the pain that shot through his body at the movement, he started to crawl toward his fallen companions.

 

[HugeOgre]

Once again with the killing of the clerics...

Im kidding of course. Im so addicted to your storyhour, I find myself checking the forums several times per day to see if youve posted yet, even though I know you are on the west coast and dont post until "late" in the day.

 

[Neverwinter Knight]

Nice touch, Lazybones. And for bringing the mythal to an end, I think the sacrifice was worth it.
And, once again, the clerics take the brute of the attack...and bite the dust.

 

[Solarious]

Well, what do you expect? In Lazybone's SH, it's like wearing a holy symbol is akin to wearing a a red shirt in Star Trek. Somone needs to take the fall.

Waiting for whomever is going to have a happy misadventure. But first! A Demon Interlude!

 

[Richard Rawen]

Ahhhh

all caught up.
Such a mixed feeling that brings:
I'm happy to be caught up... enjoyed the story thus far immensely, truly relishing the character development for the members outside the group.
but
I'm depressed because I cannot simply scroll on to the next installment at my leisure...
such a fickle creature we the reader

Thanks again for sharing your talents LB
Blessings
Richard
M < > <

 

[Lazybones]

Thanks for the kind words, everyone.

Waiting for whomever is going to have a happy misadventure. But first! A Demon Interlude!

One more post to cap off the Dannel plot thread; Demon Interlude tomorrow.

I'm going away for the holiday weekend, so I'll start the next plot thread on Monday. Not to give too much away, but it involves certain dwarves of our acquaintance.

* * * * *

Chapter 488

The soft whisper of the arrows in flight knifed through the forest clearing, each followed by the more substantial “THWACK!” as the missiles buried themselves into the makeshift target in the cleft bole of the dead tree. The arrows, slender practice shafts with weighted nubs for heads, all lay within a tight cluster, close enough so that one could have encircled them all within the ring of a thumb and forefinger.

Sixty yards away, Dannel lowered his bow, letting the song fade away, welcoming the brief pang of regret that always accompanied its withdrawal. The bow felt… right in his hand, although it had a less than elegant look to it, and it certainly could not be judged a masterwork weapon. It had a strong pull to it, enough to test the arcane archer’s strength. It was the first bow he had made from scratch. He’d been studying the bowyer’s craft for some time, and had even begun a few test weapons, but with the frantic pace of events that he’d been caught up in over the last few months, there had not been an opportunity to complete his work. Upon returning from Bryth’an Torgul he’d thrown himself into the manufacture of the bow he now held, embracing the distraction from memory and still-fresh wounds that he’d brought back from that journey into the deep wood.

“A fine effort,” a voice said behind him. He’d been so distracted that he started slightly, even though Eldren had not been actively trying to sneak up on him.

“I am sorry if I am intruding upon your quiet,” the ranger said.

“No, please,” Dannel said, gesturing to the space beside him. He started to unstring the bow, but Eldren forestalled him. “May I?”

Dannel handed him the bow, which the ranger examined with an expert eye. Eldren, he knew, was a master bowyer. “Not bad,” he said, finally, after running his hands along the shaft and testing the pull.

“You are too generous.”

Eldren peered at the distant target, where the knot of arrows was dimly visible in the shadows of the broken trunk. “Even the best craftsman cannot work well with an inferior tool,” he said, handing the bow back. “If you like, I could show you a few tricks. You’ve picked up some talents out there in the wider world, but we elves of the Wealdath still have a few particular talents that are our own.”

“I would enjoy that opportunity.”

For a moment, the two elves stood there in silence. Dannel unstrung and checked the bow before laying it against the trunk of a nearby tree. There was a fallen log nearby, and he leaned against it, wrapping his arms across his body. After a moment, his cousin joined him.

“You’ll be leaving soon,” Eldren finally said.

“I have… obligations,” Dannel said. “An oath made to friends.”

“Friendship is important,” the ranger replied.

“And family as well.”

Eldren nodded. “I know that Ellene would be pleased, if you should decide to return.”

Dannel looked up at the long shafts of the trees rising up around him. “Since I’ve been back… I’ve come to realize how much of this place is still with me, has always been a part of me.”

“Jannae said that the forest and its life were in the blood of our people, and that our hearts beat in tune to its pattern.”

Dannel looked over at his cousin. “I miss her, too.” He squashed a feeling of regret that came over him. They had spoken, once, about raising the priestess, but Eldren had dismissed the idea. Dannel knew the customs of his people, who saw death as a natural transition to another stage of life. But more than that, Jannae had made her own wishes clear on the subject, and whatever he felt about her, Dannel had to respect that.

But he knew his cousin well enough to know that despite all that, the wound caused by Jannae’s death would not heal swiftly for his cousin.

“So, the magic you command is fairly impressive,” Eldren said, after another long silence. Toying with the shaft of his own longbow—a masterwork weapon also crafted by his own hands—he continued, “I wonder how your skills are without it?”

Dannel managed a soft smile. “Three flights of four?”

The ranger stood, and extended a full quiver of arrows. “Let us see, then,” he said, drawing out a handful of shafts.

 

[jonnytheshirt]

Back to the future!!

As I'm two years behind I thought I'd jump in my delorian and say word up!

From Shrine pf the Eth Barat, one of my first nwc games, through participating in more and DMing a whole host of LB's mods I came across TTTWW and it rocked, trad P&P LB chars that really came alive. AND i find this!

Thanks for introducing me back into the world of AD&D, this is great stuff man. Reminds me alot on Dragonlance another of my favs up there.

Keep on Keep'in on
Lives a Garden man. Dig it!

 

[jonnytheshirt]

Back to the future!!

As I'm two years behind I thought I'd jump in my delorian and say word up!

From Shrine pf the Eth Barat, one of my first nwc games, through participating in more and DMing a whole host of LB's mods I came across TTTWW and it rocked, trad P&P LB chars that really came alive. AND i find this!

Thanks for introducing me back into the world of AD&D, this is great stuff man. Reminds me alot on Dragonlance another of my favs up there.

I'm away back to 2003 and chpt 63 or summit......( reads feverently! )

Keep on Keep'in on
Lives a Garden man. Dig it!

 

[Lazybones]

From Shrine pf the Eth Barat, one of my first nwc games, through participating in more and DMing a whole host of LB's mods I came across TTTWW and it rocked, trad P&P LB chars that really came alive. AND i find this!

Thanks for introducing me back into the world of AD&D, this is great stuff man. Reminds me alot on Dragonlance another of my favs up there.

Thanks jonny, glad to hear from you. I've been sitting on an outline for Shrine of the Eth'barat 2 for quite a while now; it's my goal to have that be my first module in NWN2 when the new game comes out. June 2006, I hope...

Since I'm heading out for a mini-vacation right after work, I'll post the next Interlude now. Enjoy, and see everyone on Monday!

LB

* * * * *


INTERLUDE

Chapter 489

Benzan ran through a tortured iron landscape, his breath searing his lungs, his heart pounding angrily in his chest. Above him stretched a wild gray sky, occasionally populated by distant blockish objects that were just slightly too misshapen to be moons or planets, but were too indistinct to clearly identify. Around him the ground was the same dull metallic gray of old swords and battered shields, a comparison reinforced by the actual presence of old broken weapons found in ugly heaps with more than casual frequency. Occasionally a bone could be seen to accompany the discards, but for the most part it was as if the landscape were the dumping ground of some mad blacksmith who produced enough excess for a hundred armies.

The ground was uneven, and frequently erupted in jagged openings rimmed by razor-sharp projections of rough raw iron. There were forests, too, leaning shafts of metal rising up out of the plain before sprouting into dozens of branches that likewise often culminated in a dangerously sharp point that seemed poised to impale the unwary traveler.

In all, it was a landscape of peril and threat, devoid of color and life.

The tiefling came to a halt before a wall of the uneven iron trees, blocking his path. As he fought for regain his breath he glanced back over his shoulder. He was fleeing… what? He felt disoriented. He knew that something was chasing him, had been pursuing him, and if it caught him, he would be dead. He had to keep running…

Yet he hesitated, for a moment.

He glanced down, lifted his arms to examine the familiar bracers, the heavy leather gloves, the shimmering links of his mithral armor. He felt a familiar presence at his hip, and ran the fingers of his left hand along the hilt of his sword, the old familiar weapon, its bronze blade crafted in an archaic style on another world, but empowered with a magic that had saved his life more than once…

Benzan frowned. Something… wasn’t right. The sword was familiar, but there was something… missing. He tried to remember what it was, tried to concentrate, but the effort only created a buzzing in his head that quickly threatened to explode into a full-out headache.

In any case, the effort was interrupted by a familiar sound behind him. Instinct overcame his confusion, and he hurled himself aside just as the familiar rush of noise and heat from a fireball blossomed near the point where he had been standing.

Danger overcame prudence, and he rushed forward, into the thicket of iron trees. Deadly spikes passed inches from his body as he negotiated the initial boundary at a speed that was purely reckless, but the risk proved valuable as a second blast sounded behind him among the trees. This one erupted not in orange flame, but a thunderous pulse of sonic energy that tore through the trees mercilessly, filling the air with fragments that formed deadly projectiles. One stabbed deep into his shoulder, and the tiefling bit back a cry of pain as he staggered and nearly fell into a thicket of needle-like spikes that rose up into his path as if it had been waiting for him to falter. He leapt over the obstacle, and kept running, his head ringing from the vibrations of the blast.

He plunged recklessly forward, and saw that the forest began to thin out ahead. He emerged from the thicket and stopped, his breath rasping in his chest, the pain in his shoulder stabbing deeper with each gasp of precious air.

Ahead of him the ground dropped off abruptly, a cliff that formed a precise line exactly perpendicular to his direction of travel. Warily he came forward, until he could see that the drop was a sheer one descending as far as he could see, until a flash of vertigo drew him back. It was as if the world had suddenly just… ended, here.

A preternatural whisper of danger drew his attention around, to the threat that would have him ended, as well.

He saw the figure approaching, flying over the forest of iron trees. He started to rush for cover, but his hunter already had his arms extended, and as Benzan ran he unleashed a blast of focused sonic energy that impacted Benzan high upon his right shoulder. The tiefling screamed at the pulsing wave tore pounded through his body, ripping and tearing at the tissues beneath the flesh as it passed. Nearly blinded by the intensity of the pain, he staggered forward back into the thicket of iron spikes and twisted forms, disappearing from view.

Malad dropped easily down to the ground, the shifting black aura of death armor enfolding his body, augmented by the translucent field of a shield spell. As his bare feet touched upon the rough iron, he conjured a thunderlance that shone in his hand like a wedge of white flame. He held the magical weapon with easy familiarity, born of over a decade of constant struggle against demons, devils, and other unholy monstrosities in the gore-filled trenches of the Blood War. The light flickered dully on the hard iron shells that surrounded him, casting menacing shadows through the area. As he finished his casting, the skirt of shimmering metallic scales drawn around his hips swelled and grew across his torso, spreading out across his upper arms until he was clad in a form-fitting hauberk that moved with his easy motions, like a second skin or a dragon’s scaly hide.

The corrupted sorcerer moved forward, the burning lance probing ahead. As he moved into the outer edges of the forest, however, darkness seemed to gather around him, as though the iron trees themselves were calling forth night in this place without sun, moons, or stars.

“Darkness will not conceal you from me, Benzan,” Malad said, his senses fully alert to the hunt. “You are my final test, and I will not be denied the power that is rightfully mine.”

He saw the shadows shift slightly ahead and to his left, and drew upon his magic. But Synesyx sensed the trap before he did, caught the faint scrape of leather upon the ground that betrayed his quarry. Malad spun, but before he could hurl another sonically-substituted fireball a sharp pain tore into his right side. Glancing down, the sorcerer saw the jagged edge of an old, broken blade jutting from his torso.

And then his prey was upon him, his bronze longsword catching the light from his thunderlance. Malad darted back, twisting away from the path of the cutting blade. The edge of the sword caught on the scales protecting his body, but Synesyx easily turned the attack, and Malad felt only a slight sting through the excellent protection provided by his magical armor. Sneering, the sorcerer lifted his thunderlance, driving it with his magically-enhanced strength deep into his foe’s shoulder—the same one he’d blasted with his sonic ray. The mithral links of Benzan’s armor parted before the driving power of the energy-lance, and a jet of blood erupted from the vicious wound. The agonized cry torn from his enemy was quite rewarding.

Malad smiled as the two foes broke apart, warily facing each other. Malad had the advantage of reach with his long weapon, and his adversary was more seriously injured. But the demonspawn sorcerer seemed to be in little rush, now that he’d brought his enemy to bay. The wound in his side continued to ooze blood, but Synesyx rippled against the uneven length of the improvised weapon, forcing it out of the wound as the magical armor closed again over Malad’s torso. The bloody shaft clattered against the ground, splattering droplets of bright red blood around the sorcerer’s feet.

“Why are you doing this?” Benzan said, his sword up in a defensive position. The effort involved in that was instantly obvious in his face. “Are you another of Graz’zt’s pawns?”

“’Thrall’ is the word you are looking for,” Malad replied with a broad smile. “And I am one of the greatest in His service.”

“A slave with special titles and privileges is still a slave,” Benzan spat.

“You know nothing, little man,” the sorcerer began, but he was cut off as Benzan suddenly lunged forward, his sword sweeping around in a wide sweep toward Malad’s throat. Synesyx flared, the metal scales of the sentient suit rising up to protect its master, but Malad reacted faster, his thunderlance flicking almost casually into Benzan’s forehead as the tiefling entered his reach. Benzan went down, dropping his sword as he clutched at the gaping wound that spurted blood into his eyes, blinding him. For a long moment Malad merely watched the suffering man, something dark shining in his eyes.

“Go ahead, finish it,” Benzan finally said, kneeling, his face a bloody mask as he looked up. “None of this is real… or if it is, then you have the power to destroy me anyway. Either way, I am tired of playing Graz’zt’s game.”

Malad dipped the end of the thunderlance under Benzan’s chin, forcing the tiefling up with enough pressure to sear the flesh of his jaw, filling the tiny clearing with a sick stench.

“Does that feel real?” he asked, chuckling as his foe’s body stiffened. “Reality is itself an illusion, Benzan. This place, Acheron, it is real enough, in that it responds to our presence. These iron trees, if we are careless, they can cut our flesh. My weapon burns you, my spells can inflict damage and pain. Yet in the ultimate calculation, this power is but fleeting.”

“The torture’s bad enough without the lecture,” Benzan said, spitting a fat gob of blood to the side.

Malad smiled. “You would learn this lesson soon enough, but I will share it with you anyway.” He came closer, the length of the thunderlance shortening so that its point remained focused upon the tiefling’s throat. Leaning close, he hissed, “What we perceive is the real reality, Benzan. And power, real power, is the ability to shape the perceptions of others. You can force someone to do your will—that is easy enough, especially when you are surrounded by demons your entire life. Likewise, you can employ magic to cloud an enemy’s mind, bend their will to yours. That is the track that Athux uses; but that, too, is ultimately just a crude bludgeon.”

“No, what power is, that is real control. Not the simple tools of emotion—fear, lust, greed. No, the truth of what Graz’zt represents—what all of the great Powers represent—is shaping reality by controlling the very perceptions of us all.”

“Have you ever thought about religion, Benzan? No, I don’t suppose you have, much; you have known clerics, but never really comprehended their dedication to their causes, to their gods. The truly dedicated, they are the ones who prove the point of my argument. You and I are much alike, in that we have both been outsiders in our respective societies.”

“Your ramblings are getting a trifle hard to follow,” Benzan sneered. The tip of the thunderlance flickered, slightly, opening a new runnel of red down the tiefling’s throat, but then the iron control returned. Abruptly, the magical weapon vanished, and Malad kicked Benzan solidly in the chest. The tiefling fell back, dimly aware of pain in his back as sharp spines of the iron bushes behind him pierced the links of his mail and penetrated his flesh. He couldn’t move, could only lie there, a red haze settling over his vision.

“I can see why the Prince is so aggravated by you,” the sorcerer said. “But I am still glad that we met.”

“Not… mutual…”

“I understand that you any my father had your differences, as well.”

Benzan said nothing, but Malad could see that he’d gotten his attention.

“Oh, you cannot say you hadn’t wondered,” Malad continued. “One will produce a scion, that will prove the bane of nations…”

“How… do you know… how could you know…”

“My father shared everything he knew, in his time with us.” Malad’s lips twisted in an evil smile. “Shared rather more than that, indeed.” He leaned forward so that all Benzan could see was the upper body of the other tiefling, the stark iron branches of the surrounding trees forming a hazy backdrop behind him, out of focus for his fading eyes. “I know a great deal about you, Benzan. Know what you desire, what you fear… and what you love.”

Benzan lashed out, but the spines piercing his back held him, and he could only manage a feeble grab that ended with his fingers inches from his enemy’s throat.

“You are strong in your passions. That’s too bad… for you.”

He turned away. All Benzan could see now was the vague outlines of the branches, a gray web that resembled the bars of a prison. But his other senses could still feel the sorcerer, nearby… and others, now, dark shadows creeping closer.

“And now, we begin.”

Benzan began to slip away, but the last thing he heard was Malad’s chuckle, and a spoken command.

“Bring him.”

 

[Solarious]

You know... One is curious what Malad is doing with Benzan. All these prophecies and weird sayings is starting to get confusing.