The Age of Blood returns! (updated: 5/19/04)

[Helfdan]

Hello! After a couple of months' hiatus (this real-life business can really get in the way) here is the next installment in the tales of Njorgard's Age of Blood campaign, from the point of view of Kalten Hawkshand, knight of the distant Archbarony of the Falcon. Here is the link to the previous thread: http://enworld.cyberstreet.com/showthread.php?s=&threadid=43340

I hope you all enjoy this, the next chapter should be ready soon.
Helfdan
__________________________________________________

Part 6: New Friends


My father: I hope this letter finds you in good health. In my last letter (if by the grace of Armax you received it) I wrote you about the horrors we found in the sewers beneath Tabat, and in the dungeons below the Lord Constable’s keep. Thanks to the gods of light, and my friends’ courage, we were able to defeat the fiendish doppelganger Naranath, the undead Tobias, and Simarul’s priestess. Though Tabat now seems free of this accursed cult (and Solemund’s spirit knows justice), what we have learned leads us to believe we should seek a grain merchant named Saragorn, in the city of Cir.
In the four days it took for our wounds to mend, and for the wizard Morbazzan to learn some new eldritch formulas he had acquired in our harrowing journey, we sought to meet with some of the leaders in Tabat’s ruling council. Sen Beldazar arranged meetings with Lendram, Chief Magistrate, and Selecius, Steward of Leriond’s Interests (which we soon found means master of the traders’ guild).
We met Lendram at the Barristers’ guild, a stone and mortar building near the constable’s keep. The elderly judge thanked us for our intervention in Lord Eltross’s situation, and gave us some very useful information. He was quite concerned to hear of Saragorn’s involvement, as he is one of the most influential merchants in Cir—though oddly, he is reputed to meddle in occult lore. We also learned that Cir was originally a waypoint for merchants, but soon became the major center for trade in Southern Hintai (and home to ten thousand people). Merchants from across the world can be found there, as well as thieves and scoundrels of all kinds. Its regent (appointed by the emperor) is Lord Martemus, whom Lendram described as a decadent man, of many vices. The city seems to be a reflection of its ruler, as slavery, gambling, and worse are lawful there. Truly a mockery of Tilsman’s teachings.
The chief magistrate also shed light on a few other issues. I asked regarding the names we found repeated among Tobias’s documents. “Leven” appears to be a terrorist or assassin from Cir, though Lendram was not sure. “Woreth” reminded him of an ancient name given to the Oress hills, near Cir. “Irwillinor” was a putative concubine of Lord Martemus, years ago. We also asked of news regarding the battle at the fork of the Antarius, but he had no news, as Tabat’s couriers had yet to return.
We then met Selecius at the Merchants’ Council, a large, gaudily appointed building full of wealthy men clad in silk and jewelry. The master was a balding, overfed fellow with a pompous manner that made conversation all but unpalatable. He scoffed at the possibility that Saragorn could be involved in any wrongdoing, but did tell us that the Cirian merchant was the one shipping all the corn into Tabat. He also said Saragorn does all his business with the owners of a huge maize south of the town of Phames (west of Cir).
On the evening of the fourth day after the rescue of Lord Eltross, we met in the temple of Tilsman to discuss our next step. Morbazzan, who had been studying the cursed corn, thought the curse had to be a combination of a ritual performed on the corn, as well as special qualities of the soil where it was grown. Thus, he felt our answers would be best sought at the maize itself. However, he AGAIN warned caution, as we did not know what we would find in Cir or the cornfields. He questioned the wisdom of seeking Saragorn, believing there was folly in approaching him as either friend or foe. Sensing my growing irritation, Sen Beldazar advised that we should attempt to learn more about the situation before speaking to the regents or the emperor.
As we finally decided to head for Cir (the wizard grudgingly volunteered to come with us, as he felt we would need his lore), Lorem asked to see us. He brought a gift- Lord Eltross’s own suit of banded mail armor. As the lord constable was unlikely to recover enough from his injuries to ever wear harness again, he wished his rescuers to have it. It is magnificent, father. A gift from the dwarves of Belakduum (given after Eltross’s assistance fighting the Kundrians at the great wall of Hagan), it was exquisitely crafted of mithral, and much lighter than any I’ve previously worn. My comrades allowed me to use it, as my heavy Feremordian plate was not well suited for travel in these scorching lands.
The next morning was overcast, as we readied our mounts for our journey. We had decided to retrace our steps to Medore, and then ride northwest to Cir, as this was the shortest route around the Calemd forest. Sen Beldazar gave us his blessing. He also had a final gift for me: a silvery horseshoe. He stated this was a holy relic of Tilsman’s faith, for it had belonged to the saint Galanan (who also once bore Renmemnion, Girion’s new blade). He told me I would know when to use it.
It started raining heavily as soon as we left Tabat, thus we traveled no more that 20 miles before nightfall. We set up camp and tried to keep the mud from doing much damage to our gear. I took first watch, and was quite tired by the time I woke Landotharan for his turn. It seemed to me I had just fallen asleep when the half-elf’s cries of pain and anger woke me. Taking up my kite shield and Aerbrand, I ran out of the tent to see a monstruous spider, larger than a horse, savaging Lando!
As the half-elf hacked with his greatsword, Baruk and Morbazzan flung balls of eldritch energy into the beast. Segnarus and I attacked, and Aerbrand bit deep into its side, drawing a foul ichor. The battle was short but fierce. By the time our spells and steel brought it down, the thief-catcher, half-elf, and I had all been bitten. I tended our wounds, but despite the anti-toxin we now carried, the poison had done its damage—all three of us were quite weak (Thank you, Eltross, for your gift—my previous armor would have proven unbearable in this situation) – but with Barlam’s graces we would recover with a few days of rest, once we reached Medore.
The rest of the night was uneventful, and the next day dawned with clear skies, praise Savitas. Baruk and Morbazzan were in particularly good humor, wasting no time in poking fun at the three weakened swordsmen. Warriors’ humor is the same, no matter where the battlefield lays, father. We made great time despite the still-muddy roads, and reached Medore by sunset.
The city seemed silent without its garrison. As we passed the massive gates we were greeted by many friends and acquaintances. Though the term of our conscription had expired, the militia courteously offered us lodging in our old barracks. However, after only three weeks eating at inns and palaces, we found the rations somewhat unpalatable, and decided to dine at one of our old haunts, the Flask and Flail tavern.
Mid-way through our meal, two identical men approached us. They were young, of medium height and build, with dark hair and green eyes. They wore banded armor and had spiked maces at their belts. The white gloves on their right hands and the black glove on their left marked them as priests of Terferos, god of the Afterlife. They introduced themselves as Jerikas and Nikolas Ran. They had heard of our deeds in Tabat, and had been sent from Cir by their Sen, Sarazan, to seek us. As they ordered a round of wine, Morbazzan and Segnarus, simultaneously, rudely asked what they wanted with us.
Their tale was dire: Several weeks past, their Sen had a vision, wherein a great horde of undead horrors overran Medore. The only hope for the nearly-disarmed city (as most of the soldiers were with Erecos at the Antarius River) was a relic known as the Goathian Bell. The twins explained that this large bell, one of their faith’s most precious items, has the power to destroy undead where’er its peals are heard. They briefly related its origin: Ages ago, when the Lich Lord Tirias Tolem conquered the lands of Tenebria (now part of Belakduum), eight Sens congregated in the city of Goathia to pray for deliverance. This gift from Terferos was their answer.
Sen Sarazan saw that his only option was to send the precious bell to Medore, lest his vision come true. But the caravan was attacked by humanoid raiders, led by an ogre named Koron (a despicable creature, formerly a warlord in the Kundrian horde, now reduced to banditry). The brothers Ran were the only survivors. A Medorian patrol saw the brigands heading south on the old road to Roedran – Girion’s long defunct homeland. The twins stated that they had discovered evidence of Simarul’s cult in Cir, for they had found desecrated graves and an abandoned lair under their cemetery. As Sen Sarazan felt that the impending undead invasion was related to the cult, he had also told them to seek our help. Thus the priests now needed it doubly, for the bell had to be recovered post-haste.
As I was about to agree, the thief-catcher and the wizard again questioned the priests’ motives, even as Lando insisted I should look for evil in their souls. Morbazzan questioned how they knew anything about Simarul, disbelieving their earlier explanation. Segnarus tried to find fault with the tale of their battle with the raiders, and was suspicious that they had survived, where others had died. My father, I do not know if they were doing this to be argumentative, or if somehow they felt threatened by these priests who had been nothing but courteous. I will never understand how these men call themselves ‘civilized’ and dismiss our chivalry as quaint. Even when one of them restored Segnarus’s strength with a prayer, the thief-catcher refused to trust them.
Eventually the brothers, tired of answering hostile questions, asked roughly, for the third and last time, if we would help. I traded looks with Baruk, Girion, and Landotharan, who had remained quiet for most of the conversation, and came to a decision: I pledged to help them on my honor as a knight. Segnarus was incensed that I made that oath (knowing I could not break it), for he felt all our decisions needed to be unanimous (civilization again: decisions are made by the loud minority). But the half-elf, the dwarf, and the ranger quietly backed me up, and the argument was over. The brothers graciously healed us, before parting for the night. We agreed to meet at noon the next day, for we needed to purchase supplies in the morning.
We met the twins at the agreed-upon time. Lando now rode a proper warhorse, a powerful chestnut gelding I helped him choose. The Brothers Ran led us to the ambush site. Once there, Girion quickly found the bandits’ spoor. The ranger grimly confirmed that they were heading south, towards his former homeland, and sank into a contemplative silence. We rode south, across the apparently never-ending savannah. After somewhat over six months, these lands are still strange to me… they do not resemble our forested mountain home, nor the dry, central flatlands of the Archbarony, nor the sandy deserts where I first fought for my life against the Black Nomads.
I was shaken from my reverie when Segnarus called a halt, as he spied riders approaching from our western flank. We spread out in a skirmish line to meet them, and saw that they were not horsemen, but tiny, flat-faced, orange-skinned humanoids riding enormous wolves! As the six raiders approached, Landotharan leapt from his chestnut, drawing his huge sword. As I readied my lance and shield, Morbazzan spoke eldritch words and touched me with a bit of bear fur, greatly increasing my strength. Then he made some mystic passes, and banished from sight.
We held our line as the wolf-riders closed, and Baruk punished them with magical missiles while Girion plied his mighty bow. When they were within forty yards, I charged. My bay stallion carried me unerringly to the foe, and my lance sank deeply into a wolf’s flank. The beast growled fearsomely, and as Stepper reared and flailed with his mighty hooves, it leapt, sinking its teeth into the mail at my shoulder and dragging me from the saddle! Another of the goblins veered to finish me, whilst the other four continued towards my friends.
As I struggled to my feet, drawing Aerbrand, the goblins and wolves assailed me with spiked clubs and slavering fangs. But to my surprise, I heard Morbazzan’s words in the distance, and a yard-high gout of flame, shaped vaguely like a man, appeared behind one of the wolves, lighting it (and its rider) on fire! The wizard truly saved my life, for using this opening, I struck, beheading the burning wolf, and promptly turned to run Aerbrand’s blade into the throat of the other, lance-wounded beast. It was then the work of moments for Stepper, the fire creature, and myself to dispatch the two goblins. As I leapt back in the saddle, the living flame raced back to my friends, quickly immolating another wolf.
When I reached the melee only one wolf and four goblins remained alive. My friends were holding their own, but as I was the only one mounted, I charged the wolf. Stepper punished it with hooves and teeth, as Morbazzan (who was floating calmly fifty feet off the ground!) directed his fiery minion to attack the goblin, ripping it from the saddle. As the wolf tried to escape its equine foe, it could not avoid the yard of Falconian steel which ended its life. I turned in the saddle, as Stepper put paid to the burning goblin, to see that the fight was over.
Praise Iolanthes, our injuries were minor, and in a matter of minutes the Brothers Ran had healed us. Great is the power of Terferos. Girion again checked the trail, and we continued our hunt. We encountered no further opposition until dusk, at which time we set up camp a short distance from the road.
I once again drew first watch, but Kabor favored me with a quiet shift. I woke Lando, and retired to my tent. Doffing my armor, I donned a light mail shirt I had obtained in Tabat (it does not do to sleep unarmored in these lands, father), and gratefully wrapped myself in my blankets. Sleep came easily, and though restful, was interrupted by a dream. In it, I saw these self-same plains, with a leaden sky which threatened a mighty storm. Across the plains I spied a swiftly moving beast, but because of the low light, I could not be sure what it was. Suddenly a mighty storm erupted, drenching the savannah in rain, and lightning flared in the sky. In the flashes, I thought I saw a mighty steed rearing… But then Lando woke me.
Apparently the half-elf had seen some shadowy movements around the campsite. Taking up sword and shield, I followed him in a quick patrol, but could find no sign of foes. After a few minutes of waiting I went back to sleep, but the rest of my slumber was dreamless.
The next day was also sunny, but began dreadfully for us. For as we were packing our gear to continue on our journey, two shadows appeared over us. Looking up, we saw two large beasts that simply could not exist. They had the bodies of lions, dreadfully ugly yet humanoid faces, enormous bat-wings, and long tails ending in clusters of spikes! We reached for our weapons as Morbazzan cried “Manticoras!” – And then grunted with pain as a barrage of needle-sharp spikes flew from their tails, one of them sinking into his shoulder. The wizard used his spells to vanish from sight as the beasts circled overhead, raining sharp death upon us. The thief-catcher and the brothers Ran used crossbows, while Girion and Baruk plied their bows. I hurled iron-tipped javelins as far as I could, for I did not wish to waste time stringing my horse-bow. As the creatures flew closer, Baruk dropped his bow and Morbazzan reappeared, both of them flinging magical missiles at the beasts.
Apparently the manticoras had a limit as to the spikes they could hurl, for they pounced: one on Lando, the other on Segnarus, both of them sorely wounding their targets with wickedly sharp fangs. The brothers Ran and I hurried to help Lando, as his foe was unhurt. The dwarf and the wizard rushed to help the thief-catcher. The manticora moved incredibly fast, flailing with claws and fangs. It continued to savage Landotharan as we pressed it with swords and morningstars. But soon we heard the other beast’s dying roar, and as the half-elf made a fearsome cut on the horrible face, Morbazzan spoke more eldritch words, and put paid to our foe with his magical missiles.
As Jerikas and Nikolas tended to Lando and Segnarus (who bore the worst wounds), Morbazzan gathered some of the spikes, all the while muttering the words “spell components.” Before I could ask what he meant with those curious words, the ascetic wizard made an announcement: “I am leaving.” He explained that he had never wanted to quest for this bell, intimating he did not quite trust the twin priests. As the trip was proving so dangerous, he decided to return to Medore, where he would meet us again “should we survive this little detour.” Obviously he did not wish to explain himself further, for he then mounted his horse, and then disappeared into thin air (though we could hear the hoof beats as he rode to the north).
Thus we continued our journey into fallen Roedran, all the while praying we could retrieve the bell in time to save Medore. We were sad to lose Morbazzan’s company, as he had proved to be a staunch ally (though his conversations with a tiny jade frog he called ‘Batroc’ were somewhat unnerving…) But at the time we did not know that the worst was yet to come. Mayhap Morbazzan was prudent, but by the Judge of Judges, how could I ignore this call to duty? But elated as I was when I began this letter, I am at present o’erwhelmed with sorrow. If I am able, I shall write again to tell you what happened in Roedran. Until then, keep me in your prayers, father, as I keep you in mine.

 

[Kestrel]

Woohoo! The brothers Ran appear

Great writing Helfdan!

(so says the player of Jerikas when Njorgard ran in Atlanta)

 

[Helfdan]

Chapter 7

Part 7: Girion’s Homecoming


My father: I again find a brief respite to write you of our fateful journey into Roedran. I do not know whether these missives reach you, and I oft think it would be better that they did not, given their grim content. But I continue to write, and imagine how you would react to my questions and concerns. I hope that if you ever read them, you are not disappointed in your son.
I last wrote of how, at our return to Medore, we met Jerikas and Nikolas Ran, twin brothers and priests of Terferos, Caretaker of Souls. They requested our help on a noble quest: to retrieve from orcish bandits the legendary Goathian Bell, Medore’s only hope against an impending invasion by the undead hordes of the demon-god Simarul. The bandits took the bell south into fallen Roedran, the homeland of my friend Girion Aleis.
We knew well the tale of Roedran’s fall. This southern province was once the hunting grounds of the native Samusian nobles, before the arrival of the Hintaneese. It was a fertile land, where woodland and game abounded. The descendants of those Hintaneese conquerors quickly grew to love this land, and learned much of the Samusian wood lore. The scouts and woodsmen from Roedran were thus considered the finest in the empire (I have no reason to doubt this if Girion’s skills are typical). But the Kundrians invaded in a dramatic surprise attack (and rumors still circulate of some form of betrayal), and burned the city itself to the ground. Many of its inhabitants, unable to escape, were butchered or taken as slaves. It fell to our former commander, Erecos, to deal with this invasion. But instead of liberating the area, the ever pragmatic – and ruthless – general isolated it, and pounded the cities and enemy camps with siege engines, until the barony was devastated. Now the only inhabitants were the remnants of the Kundrian forces, who lived by brigandry. Rumor had it that these brigands were still led by Koron, the commander of the Kundrian invasion. His name was still spoken with hatred and fear by the victorious Hintaneese, for this mighty ogre was known to cleave men in twain with his enormous war-axe. Ant the brothers’ Ran tale gave credence to these rumors.
As the wizard Morbazzan had returned to Medore, our company now numbered seven: Girion, Landotharan, Baruk, Segnarus, Jerikas, Nikolas, and myself. The ranger led us unerringly, if somewhat slowly, as dense vegetation overgrowth had accumulated on the untended southern road. As we rode, Girion told us that manticores were not the only beasts to be feared in these lands. Legend had it that Nuthon, Lord of Savagery and Madness, once fathered a great beast, named Mantaros. This fell monster ravaged the lands until it was slain by a group of unremembered heroes. But its evil was never fully extinguished, for wherever its blood touched the soil, all manner of aberrant beasts and monsters were spawned.
It was mid-morning when we came within sight of a large stone arch in the distance. Girion surmised this was the Northeastern Gate, one of the ancient gatehouses guarding the roads into the barony. Though we were almost one-half mile away, the ranger’s keen eyes spied a figure standing motionlessly on the arch. Girion and Segnarus dismounted, and stealthily moved through the brush to scout ahead.
After a few tense minutes, our comrades appeared at the foot of the arch and beckoned to us. As we approached, I could see the gatehouse was at least fifty feet high. It straddled the road, and once had a large iron gate, which now lies as a rusted ruin. Its battlements and walls were severely battered and scorched. We arrived to see Girion conversing with a slight figure robed in gray. She proved to be a woman, and a beauteous one at that: alabaster skin, short-cropped brown hair, and predatory blue eyes that could have belonged to a hawk. The ranger introduced her as Denora, one of the Mestorien. This mysterious group worships nature itself, following an ancient Samusian tradition.
As I introduced myself to the damsel, she looked at me strangely. Then, reaching into her pack, produced a mithral horseshoe identical to the one Sen Beldazar had given me! She stated that she could help me find “what I seek” if only we would perform a simple quest, one “of no consequence” to us. As you would expect, father, I replied that if she needed my help it needed not be requited.
She promptly explained that there were several different bands of goblinoids in this land, as Koron’s army soon disintegrated under Erecos’s punishing tactics. One of these apparently posed a threat to the Mestoriens’ plans (which she would not elaborate on). It was led by an arcanist of considerable skill, named Berooz. He had control of the old city of Roedran, and the Mestorien had been unable to drive him out despite their best efforts. Her request was simple: “dispose of him by any means, as this will restore the balance to these lands.”
I was reminded of my previous oath when the brothers Ran expressed concern regarding any delays on our quest for the Goathian Bell. Denora pleaded her case, stating that the goblinoids were many and would pose a danger to us as well. As a sign of her good will, she told us where to find Koron: at the baronial demesne itself. After a brief discussion, we agreed to her request (although Nikolas was sent against it, his brother persuaded him it would be a worthy deed, and he relented).
As we readied to set forth, Denora approached, and gave me the horseshoe. I could not help but asking her what she meant, about my “seeking” something. She smiled, somehow alluringly and aloofly at once, and answered, “You will know what you seek once you find it…”
It was noon by the time we rode southwest towards the ruined city. Girion pulled his steed back alongside mine, smiling mirthlessly. “Do not be too taken with her, my friend,” he said. “I have met her before, years ago.”
“As children?” I asked, for she looked younger than us all.
“No, Kalten. When I was a child, she was fully grown – already a mestorien. I always thought she was my father’s leman, though he was discreet in such matters.”
The conversation predictably died quickly after that. This situation grew increasingly complicated, father. But we soon turned our minds to tactical matters. As the city was surrounded by open savannah, it was useless to attempt a stealthy approach. It took less than an hour to reach the outskirts of the city. The dirt road became an ill-kept cobblestoned street. The city was completely ruined: a desolate landscape, with few buildings left standing, and the stench of death weighing heavily. We came to full alert when the ranger announced he heard some sort of whistled signal.
Eventually we came to an ideal ambush site: a dilapidated building on our left, and thick shrubbery on our right. And we were not disappointed, when several hobgoblins armed with long swords raced at us, three from the left and four from the right. Lando reacted first, riding to the right as he freed his greatsword. But learning from previous experience, the half-elf reined in before reaching them, and dismounted to face their charge. As I heard Baruk gruffly chanting a spell, I spurred Stepper to the left, and sorely wounded one of the hobgobs with my lance. Girion charged beside me, assailing another foe with the Blessed Sword of Tears. The brothers Ran waved morningstars as they followed Landotharan into combat.
As the spear-wounded foe slashed at Steppers flank, four more foes appeared on the building’s roof, hurling vials of a tar-like substance, splashing both Girion and me. I could see one of them light a torch, but could not ignore my immediate foes. Stepper reared, and crushed his assailant with hooves and gnashing teeth. I drew Aerbrand, calling on Morcandor’s might for this battle. Even in the heat of combat, father, It seemed to me that water was beading on its silvery blade, as if it were ice cold! That had never before happened, but I could pay it no heed at the time.
Beside me Girion fought bravely, killing another foe with Renmemnion. Baruk hurled balls of eldritch light at the torchbearer on the roof, but though wounded, the humanoid managed to light its comrades’ arrows. The archers laughed as they released, and wherever an arrow hit the tar-like substance, it burned fiercely. My bay stallion reared and snorted in fear and fury as one arrow struck a puddle next to us, and another grazed my shoulder, lighting me on fire! The pain was indescribable, but at that moment another hobgob, larger than the rest, ran out of the building, its wickedly-curved sword poised to smite at Jerikas’s back as the priest fought another humanoid.
Ignoring the pain, I charged at the monster. It heard my charge and turned just in time for Aerbrand to smash into its face, cleaving and freezing at once! The foes on the ground were all accounted for, and I could see Lando and Girion rolling on the ground to extinguish the flames. The brothers Ran readied crossbows to fire at the rooftop assailants, as Baruk hurled more magical missiles. This time the torch-bearer toppled from the roof, dead.
But the four archers continued to punish us with their shafts. As my allies readied their bows, I leapt from Stepper’s back (and thank Tilsman, the flames burned out by then), and raced into the building, but not before two more arrows hit me – one in the left thigh, another glancing from my shoulder guard. The ground floor was empty, but a ladder led to a trap door on the roof. I climbed as fast as I could (again I appreciate the wondrous qualities of my new armor!) and emerged to face the archers. Two of them dropped their bows and assailed me with longswords. Iolanthes must have been with me, for I met their charge, and with two quick, overhand strokes, dispatched both foes. I leapt at the last two, cutting one down while it reached for its sword. As the last one scrambled away, an arrow and a quarrel slammed simultaneously into its back. I looked down to see Girion and Segnarus smile as they lowered their weapons.
It was a simple matter for the twin priests of Terferos to heal our wounds, and soon we were riding deeper into the ruined city. Most of the group were silently discussing the fact that we had never fought a mage before. Morbazzan’s help would have been useful, but Baruk briefly dispensed some advice in his gruff dwarven accent, recommending we spread out thinly to avoid something he referred to as ‘area effects.’ I must admit I was more concerned with Aerbrand. Though the hilt felt normal to me, it had definitely been cold enough to harm my foes. I begin to see there is more than one reason why it is known as “The Winter’s Blessing.” I thank you for this gift, father.
Soon we came to the town center, where two large stone buildings remained – the town hall on our left, and a tall tower on our right. As we reined in our horses, a scrawny goblin walked out onto the road. He spoke authoritatively: “Halt, warriors! Do not advance. The master does not wish to struggle with you, as he bears you no ill will.” Amazed at such loqaciousness from a goblin, I asked that his master come out to parley. “Very well,” he replied, and stepped back into the town hall. Soon he returned accompanied by two massive, hairy goblinoids (known as ‘bugbears’ in these parts) and a spindly, white-bearded goblin clad in ragged robes.
The bearded goblin – presumably Berooz – asked what we wanted. I was still hopeful to avoid further bloodshed, and stated that should he leave Roedran forever, no further hostilities would be necessary. He laughed, and stated he knew we had slain both his wolf-riders and his ambushers. The goblin said it wished to kill us, but he was willing to “show mercy” and let us live – if we brought him Koron’s head as tribute! Girion could not stomach this, and shouted: “We WILL bring you his head, to set it on a pike beside your own!" The goblin growled, and answered, “Then perhaps our might will prevail when words did not.” At this, several hobgoblins approached us from the ruined side streets to our right.
The swarthy thief-catcher fired his crossbow, planting a bolt in Berooz’s shoulder. To our shock, the warlock pulled the shaft out, and laughed as it licked the blood off, and threw it to the ground! Landotharan spurred his chestnut past me in a desperate charge. He was pummeled by two thrown vials, but to our horror, their contents exploded into flames as soon as the containers shattered. Screaming with pain, the half-elf managed to wound the warlock’s goblin herald with his blade. As Jerikas and Nikolas prayed for Terferos to aid us in this battle, Girion called upon Syllisia of the forests, and the weeds, grasses and vines in a large area around the ruined tower came alive, entangling our erstwhile ambushers. He then spurred his horse beside me as I rode to join Landotharan.
Before we could reach him, Berooz spoke arcane words, and asked Lando to protect it from us… “to the end.” Girion reached the bugbears first on his faster steed. One of the beasts assailed him with a large spiked club, drawing sparks from the ranger’s enchanted mailshirt. The herald nimbly tumbled under Girion’s horse, attempting to flank him. I then reached the ranger’s side, wounding one of the bugbears with my lance. To my surprise, Lando then proved to be ensorceled by Berooz, for he dismounted, and tried to wrest the lance from me! I released the lance, and drew Aerbrand as Girion wielded Renmemnion fiercely, finishing both the wounded bugbear and the scrawny herald in seconds. As the ranger engaged the second bugbear, I rode at Berooz. Lando actually attacked me with his sword as I rode past, the impact of his heavy sword reaching me through shield and armor. Stepper flailed at the warlock with his hooves, looking confused. When I brought Aerbrand to bear, its keen edge met no resistance – and I realized it was naught but a sorcerous illusion!
I turned to warn my friends, only to see Lando had now assailed Girion, using his greatsword to smash the Blessed Sword of Tears from the ranger’s grasp. As I rode back to help, Girion freed a quarterstaff from his saddle strap, and skillfully used it, even from horseback, to keep both bugbear and half-elf at bay. As I reached them, I heard Berooz’s voice over the melee, and a vast, sticky web appeared from thin air, attempting to entangle us all. Lando was instantly immobilized (thanks be to Tilsman, as we did not wish to hurt him). Stepper forced his way close to the bugbear. As it was reeling from a brace of the dwarf’s magical missiles, I brought Aerbrand down on its skull, finishing it.
But I would be of no further use in that battle, father, for Stepper and I soon became as entangled as Lando. It was all I could do to try and turn my neck, to see how my companions fared. Seeing that Girion, leaping from the saddle, had escaped the eldritch web and was circling its edge to the south, I turned to my right, to witness tragedy. I saw Berooz standing on the tower, raining spells down on us. Segnarusand the brothers Ran were fighting three hobgobs that had broken free of Girion’s grasping vegetation. Suddenly, Nikolas stopped moving, paralyzed by the goblin’s spells. Before Segnarus could aid him, the closest hobgoblin wasted no time in slitting his throat ear-to-ear. I screamed in rage, but could do nothing but struggle against the eldritch cords that held me. Jerikas sobbed as he forced his way out of the magical web.
One of the escaping hobgoblins then fell to Baruk’s eldritch missiles. But again the goblin chanted, and this time it was the wiry thief-catcher who could no longer move. The closest hobgoblin grinned, and dealt brave Segnarus the same death it had given to Nikolas. As Baruk shouted furiously, Berooz laughed, asking us to surrender. The dwarf growled, “Here’s my answer, dog!” and sent an arrow of eldritch acid to smash into the goblin’s chest. It threw itself to the ground just in time to avoid a grey-goose shaft from Girion’s bow.
Seeing that only two of its minions remained, the goblin shouted, “Do not think you have seen the last of me!” and to our amazement, soared into the sky like a bird, rapidly retreating. The bearded ranger plied his mighty bow, scoring him twice with arrows, but the goblin whistood the wounds and disappeared into the horizon.
The rest of the battle was swift. Jerikas grabbed one of the hobgoblins by the throat, and literally drew its black soul out through its mouth, sending it to Terferos. The final foe (and it turns out, the one who killed both our friends when they were helpless) surrendered. Once the eldritch web disappeared, we quickly interrogated it. It told us that though we had slain most of their group, we should not doubt his master would return with reinforcements. Landotharan then swiftly executed the prisoner, and for once I could not bring myself to argue, father.
My shame was great. I had advocated this course of action, which cost the lives of our good friend, Segnarus. But somehow worse is the fact that Nikolas, who clearly opposed this delay, fell. And the goblin warlock had escaped. Jerikas was understandably furious, and silent, as we slowly rode back to Denora with the news.
The beauteous Mestorien was not disappointed, to our surprise. She felt that by destroying the warlock’s forces we had crippled its ambitions, and “the balance” could now be restored. She offered sympathy for our losses, but also gave us hope: as apparently it is within her power to bring back the dead! Her only warning was that our friends would not return exactly as we knew them. I was unsure as to what she meant, until Jerikas interrupted angrily.
“You will NOT perform such a ritual for my brother! His soul rests with Terferos now. His troubles are over.” Tears again welled in the priest’s eyes, but he quickly regained his composure. “And I must further warn you, friends. She intends to bring Segnarus’s spirit back from the Caretaker’s hands, and but it in the body of some woodland creature. Be wary! Would Segnarus want this? And even if he should, know that if he returns thus, my prayers will not be able to help him in any way.”
He then went to pray over his brother. We quietly decided we would not set out for the baronial demesne until the next morning, so that we could recover from the day’s grim events. As I tended to my horse, arms, and armor, I again prayed for brave Nikolas’s soul, and lamented my part in his death. There was but one course of action left to me. I silently swore, father, before Tilsman, Judge of Judges, to recover the Goathian Bell, or die in the attempt. Little did I know what further sorrow this quest would bring. Oh, how much I miss your advice. My only comfort is that I know I have your blessing.

 

[Alejandro]

Doh! Nikolas succumbed to a Hold Person, as did the brave thief-catcher! Write on, Sir Kalten, and peace to the departed!

(so says the player of Nikolas when Jorge ran this in Atlanta)

 

[Helfdan]

Chapter 8

Withou further ado, here's Chapter 8. I think a better title may have been :"The Age of Blood lives up to its name". Enjoy!

**************************************************

Part 8: More Death in Roedran

My father: It seems that evil Draugord continues to keep his eye on us as we travel through fallen Roedran. I cannot tell you how exhausted I am at present, both from toils and grief. I can only write you of what has happened, and hope that you approve of my choices and actions.
I last wrote of how we met a lovely yet mysterious woman named Denora on our arrival to Roedran. As one of the nature-worshipping Mestorien, she claimed she wished “balance” to return to the land. She begged us to dispose of a goblin warlock named Berooz who held sway over the fallen city. Of course we were concerned that this would delay our mission: to retrieve the stolen Goathian Bell (a sacred relic of Terferos, and Medore’s only hope against an impending invasion by un-living horrors) from Koron, a former Kundrian warlord turned bandit. But the slim beauty freely told us where we could find Koron, and assured us the task would be “of no consequence.”
But as you now know, father, this was not the case. The goblin’s magical powers were awesome, and his hobgoblin and bugbear cohorts were fierce. The battle in the ruins of Roedran was terrible, and costly: when it ended, both Segnarus Mank, thief-catcher, and Nikolas Ran, priest of Terferos, were slain. We decimated the opposition, but Berooz itself escaped, using sorcerous powers to fly. Denora was satisfied with our accomplishment, and announced she could restore our comrades. But Jerikas, twin brother to Nikolas, and also a priest of the Caretaker of Souls, refused such a deed for his brother, deeming it unholy. The Mestorien admitted that Segnarus would come back “different than we knew him”, and that the ritual would take some time. I felt at the time that something was very wrong with this situation, but in my fatigue and grief I ignored this, which proved to be a costly mistake.
That night I again dreamed of storm-drenched plains, and a mighty destrier running across them. In the darkness, I could not see its coat, but by its tread it was a magnificent beast. I awoke with the feeling that someone was watching me, and opened my eyes to see Denora. Her alabaster skin seemed to glow in the moonlight, and her predatory blue eyes seemed more primal than ever. When she saw I was awake, she smiled briefly, and walked away.
The next morning dawned clear and hot. We were all silent as we prepared for our assault on the baronial demesne, now Koron’s stronghold. We would leave our packhorses behind, as our goal was less than two miles distant. I first made sure Stepper’s cinches were tight, and that his leather barding was in place. Then I donned my wondrously light banded armor, the gift from a grateful Lord Eltross, and girt your sword Aerbrand at my left hip. Taking up shield and lance, I was ready. By this time Girion, Landotharan, Baruk, and Jerikas were also ready for battle.
As we rode the ranger described our goal: a series of stone buildings surrounded by a wooden palisade, set on a lonely hilltop, roughly one-half mile north of the fallen city. There was only open plain around it, making a stealthy approach difficult (the folk of Roedran were skilled at defense, which gives credence to the rumors that betrayal played a role in the Kundrian invasion). From one mile away, we could see chimney smoke wafting from the demesne… our prey was at home.
We paused about five hundred yards from the hill. Landotharan’s keen elven eyes quickly identified several sentries patrolling on parapets around the palisade. We discussed our options. As we had probably been seen, I suggested that a frontal assault might be called for. Lando, however, stated that the palisade seemed ill kept, and that there could be spaces between warped timbers wide enough to sneak through. Girion volunteered to scout ahead and search for an entrance.
The wait was tense. Our confidence in the ranger’s skills led us to believe he would return soon, and with good news, but our experience here had been so ghastly… And soon our fears were realized, as we saw the sentries lean over the palisade crossbows in hand, and one of them roared in pain- no doubt wounded by a grey-goose shaft. As we spurred our horses forth to assist our comrade, the great wooden gates opened and four riders galloped out to search for the hidden archer. I could hear the hatred in the keen-eyed half-elf’s voice as he pronounced them to be orcs.
I knew we were far enough that it was unlikely we could reach Girion in time, as he had too many foes to deal with at once. I urged Stepper to greater speed, until his dark coat was lathered and I feared his great heart would burst, pulling far ahead of my comrades. Ahead I could see the green-cloaked ranger had cast his entanglement spell, but only one of the orcish riders was caught. He then slid a few feet down the slope of the hill, where horses could not follow, and traded arrows with his opponents, two on the wall and three on the ground. The display of archery was incredible, father. Girion plied his mighty longbow with speed and accuracy that I had seldom seen.
As I approached, I saw him slay two of the riders, and one of the figures on the wall – though only his wondrous mailshirt protected him from the orcish crossbow-bolts. But to shoot the second orc on the palisade, he had to climb up to the edge of the slope – just as the fourth rider broke free of the entangling vegetation. The two riders set upon him, and the ranger staggered back with a cut across his left arm. But by then I was upon them, as mighty Stepper charged into the fray. I had dropped my lance in my search for speed, and maneuvered Stepper in front of Girion, orcish swords battering my armor and shield. As I reached for Aerbrand, Girion fell to one knee and shot under Stepper’s neck, his shaft jutting from the orc’s left temple. The last rider hesitated, trying to decide whether to fight or flee, long enough for Landotharan to thunder in on his powerful chestnut gelding, and behead him with his two-handed sword.
As Jerikas tended to Girion’s wounds, and I retrieved my lance, Baruk and Lando searched the bodies. They were wearing clever full-faced helms, which the dwarf assumed were meant to protect them from the sun, in which these subterranean creatures were usually uncomfortable. We remounted and entered the keep, wary of ambuscades. Already we knew these orcs were canny fighters, well equipped and strong.
The open gate led to a wide courtyard, with several ill-kept buildings. As we looked around, two helmeted orcs stepped out of the largest building, calling out to us.
“Halt your attack,” it cried in crude Hintaneese. “Our master seeks parley.”
“Give us the Goathian Bell!” was my only answer.
“Perhaps we can reach some compromise,” said the orc, likely stalling for time. But the time for words was past.
“There can be NO compromise with evil. Give us the bell or die!” Hasty words perhaps, father, but also heart-felt.
At that, the orcs exchanged some words in their black tongue. Girion obviously understood them, for he charged, and sorely wounded the one on the left with Renmemnion’s golden blade. As they moved to flank the ranger, I charged, skewering the other with my lance, killing it instantly. Girion finished the one he had wounded, and turned to the great hall. It was pitch dark beyond the open doors. As I dropped lance and drew sword, Jerikas spoke holy words, and the head of his spiked mace shone as bright as a torch.
Girion and I rode into the hall, while our comrades followed on foot. Once inside, we saw that the Blessed Sword of Tears shone with a golden light of its own, giving the ranger a light source. We came into a bare antechamber, from were five broad steps led up to an archway, and from there into the pitch-black baronial hall itself. It was eerily quiet. Landotharan, impatient as usual, and confident that his keen elven eyes would help him in the gloom, darted ahead—and was simultaneously stabbed by sword-orcs hiding on either side of the entrance.
Screaming in pain, he backed out of the hall, as I rode past him, Stepper’s hooves echoing in the dark. I bore on the orc on the right, and Aerbrand shattered its collarbone and froze the wound at once. The creature staggered and fell, to be brained by an iron-shod hoof. The other villain disappeared into the darkness, as two throwing axes flew out to batter my armored chest. As Girion joined me, his sword’s golden light illuminated the entrance. But a deep, crude voice resonated from the darkness ahead.
“So you refuse to talk to me… Regardless, the witch did her work well, for she led you straight to me.” His laughter sounded like the surf on a rocky cliff-side. “You have already been of service to me, though you know it not. I am still willing to be merciful and allow you to join me.”
Girion was speechless with fury, and all I could answer was “NEVER!!” We could hear Baruk’s growls of agreement and fury in the back. We rode forth, and Renmemnion’s light showed five large orcs, armored in iron-studded leather and wielding fine axes and straight swords – the spoils of fallen Roedran. Two spheres of eldritch red light flew out of the darkness, to pummel me through my armor, a sure sign that they had sorcerous help. But what followed was enough to chill the marrow, for we finally met Koron.
Out of the darkness strode a hulking brute, at least nine feet tall. Its thick, warty hide was covered by a crudely crafted suit of mail-and plate. Its feral face was hideous beyond description. And it lightly carried an enormous double-bladed war-axe, stained with the blood of its many victims. As the six creatures closed with us, I could not help but think of the oft-spoken words of your favorite court bard, and friend, Francis Kevedor – “there is naught left to us but battle!”
Jerikas spoke holy words to keep us from our evil foes, as Baruk sent a brace of his own eldritch missiles to slam against the ogre. Girion, Lando, and myself charged at Koron, instinctively knowing that if we did not bring it down quickly, it could slaughter us all single-handed. The battle in the gloom was as furious as I have seen. Aerbrand, Renmemnion, and Lando’s heavy sword battered the huge bandit, as its axe flailed at us, driven with enormous strength. Soon the stone floor was slick with blood. Glowing eldritch missiles flew in both directions, though Baruk concentrated his spells on the ogre.
The orcs were a serious threat, as they constantly attempted to flank us, and attack our undefended backs. One such slipped by me, but Stepper staggered him with a mule-kick, and I swiftly brained it. I turned back to Koron, to see it cut Girion from the saddle. And to my horror, with the back swing it smashed its axe into Lando’s breastplate, sending the half-elf to crash against the wall. Jerikas charged to my side, his glowing mace drawing sparks from Koron’s armor, but was staggered by the ogre’s riposte. One of the orcs took this opening to stab him in the back, and the brave Terferian priest fell.
Baruk screamed in rage, hurling two more missiles into the ogre, who laughed and moved to finish me. And then I realized that except for Baruk in the rearguard, I was the only one left standing, facing Koron and four orcish sworders. But it was not courage, nor loyalty to my friends that kept me from withdrawing. It was my oath, freely given, to recover the Bell or die in the attempt. For Keldorn Hawkshand’s son could not do otherwise.
I could hear the orcs closing in on me as Koron laughed, and raised its bloody axe. But as my death appeared imminent, I KNEW I was not alone, and could never BE alone. Maddened by the scent of blood, Stepper snorted in fury and reared, his hooves pummeling the ogre’s cuirass. I stood in my stirrups, shouting “TILSMAN, JUDGE US ALL!” Aerbrand seemed to glow momentarily with a holy light, as I plunged it to the hilt into the monster’s throat. Koron gurgled as blood and steam poured from the ghastly wound, and in its death throes, pulled me from the saddle.
I could hear Baruk cheer as he sent his missiles to slay the closest orc, allowing me to roll to my feet. A second foe racing at my back was intercepted by Stepper, and sent to whatever hell awaited it by massive, iron-shod hooves and gnashing teeth. “By the Keeper!” I shouted, leaping to meet the last two foes. The Winter’s Blessing shattered the first one’s helmet and thick skull in one fell stroke, whereupon the last foe dropped sword and surrendered. It took great effort, father, to restrain my righteous anger, as I told it to not to move as it valued its life.
Forgetting the as yet unseen enemy sorcerer for the moment, I ran to my fallen friends, hoping my prayers could save them. Jerikas was still breathing, though bleeding freely. I prayed over him, laying hands on his chest, and the bleeding stopped. Next to him, Girion was still alive, no doubt thanks to his enchated mithral mailshirt (a gift from his father, as I understand). The ogre’s prodigious strength had shattered his ribs, and punctured a lung, from the way he was gasping. But by Tilsman’s grace his breathing normalized at my fervent prayers. I reached Lando’s side to see Baruk covering him with a cloak.
“Kalten, there may still be foes around…” I guess the dwarf was trying to spare me. But I pulled the cloak back. Landotharan’s enchanted breastplate, which had been both useful, and the object of some fun, had been sundered by Koron’s massive axe. The half-elf was beyond healing. As I stood, numb, Baruk whispered: “May you find in death the peace that eluded you in life. Rest well, my friend.”
Blinking back the tears, I took up Aerbrand in my right hand, and Renmemnion in my left, to light my way into the hall. Baruk followed me, his hands starting to move in mystic passes. But all we found was the corpse of an orcish female, clad in robes, and seemingly torn apart by magical energy. I looked at Baruk, who quickly shook his head – he had not been able to target her in the melee. Looking around, I saw that heavy drapes had been drawn over a window in the back wall (these creatures hate the sunlight). I drew them back, letting the late morning light into the large hall. It seemed to me I could see a familiar small, robe-clad figure soaring through the air. Might it have been Berooz?
We then restrained and interrogated our prisoner. The orc confirmed what Koron had alluded to – the bandits were allied to Denora, and the Goathian Bell was in her keeping. The ogre had planned to use the Bell to conquer the southern Hintaneese cities once they were overrun by undead. It had asked the Mestorien witch to hide the relic, and to eliminate Berooz, its main obstacle for supremacy in Roedran.
The unspoken end to this sordid tale was obvious to Baruk and I: We were sent to slay the ogre, leaving the Mestorien to control all of Roedran, or worse, to claim the southern cities once they had been savaged by undead horrors. As we turned to care for our wounded friends, and mourn for our fallen one, we pondered the biggest question of all. For we knew of the impending invasion due to Sen Sarazan’s vision. But how did the Mestorien and the ogre know of Simarul’s plans? Did they somehow play a part in the mysterious cult’s schemes?
But these were questions for another time. We had entrusted Segnarus Mank’s body to the villainess who orchestrated this façade. And my oath is not yet fulfilled, the lives of ten thousand Medorians hanging in the balance. May the Keeper of the Covenant bless you, father. For it is unlikely that I will be able to write again until we have faced the Mestorien, whom I am sure will be ready for us.

 

[Kestrel]

Bravo!

May Terferos judge the fallen well.

 

[Helfdan]

I want to welcome our brothers-in-arms from Atlanta, and thank you for your kind remarks. I'm glad you've liked these journals. As you may know, we are veteran players in Njorgard's campaigns-- This is my second, and is the third for some of the others. My past role, as you've no doubt guessed, was that of Helfdan the Half-Troll, nordian warrior and pirate. Like this one, that campaign was quite bloody but with excellent plots and a rich background. It was VERY gritty, with a kind of Robert E. Howard vibe.
This one is turning out to be more like "grim high fantasy"... or maybe its just the fact that we're seeing it through a paladin's eyes ;-)

Anyways, it would be interesting to hear any 'war stories' from your gaming in Atlanta-- just please don't tell us about Cir until we reach it (Njorgard has already assured us it's a "hell-hole")

--Helfdan
BTW, if when you guys met Helfdan, he used referred to asgardian dieties in graphically obscene ways, they were probably direct quotes... just one of the barbarian swordsman's charming traits

 

[Helfdan]

Chapter 9

I know its been a while, but here's the next chapter in the Age of Blood. As the wise EGG would say: Come, gentle reader, and learn of the Fate of the Mestorien....

*********************************************************

Part 9: Fate of the Mestorien


My father:

As you shall see it is only by the grace of holy Tilsman, Judge of Judges, that I am able to write once more. In the past few days I have seen enough battle and death to daunt the bravest knight, which alas, I am not…
I last wrote of our encounter with the ogre warlord Koron – yes, father, it was a true ogre, straight out of a child’s horror tale. After a great melee, he was slain, but at great cost: for brave, tortured Landotharan Silvermoon fell, his chest crushed by the monster’s giant war-ax.
It was mid-morning when Baruk and I set about burying the fallen half-elf in the now-abandoned courtyard of Roedran’s demesne. His heavy sword was left as a marker over the crude but efficient cairn the dwarf quickly assembled. I did use his blade one last time, to reap the ogre’s head, for Segnarus had told us we should take it to claim a reward…
This was also painful, as Segnarus had fallen fighting the goblin warlock known as Berooz. Oh, how foolish we had been! Before the battle was joined, Koron had told us that he was allied with Denora, the mestorien priestess who sent us on these errands. Thus we were doubly betrayed, as she had the holy relic we sought – the Goathian Bell – and we had left the body of Segnarus Mank in her care, believing her claim that somehow, she could restore him. As I pondered on our foolishness, our losses, and my oath before Tilsman and Terferos to retrieve the Bell or die in the attempt, Baruk approached me, trying to hide a smile behind his short-cropped beard.
“The others are sleeping, Kalten. Your magic did well.” I of course refrained from repeating that I know nothing of magic, for this only seems to amuse the small sorcerer. “I found something you may be interested in, though.” And with these words the dwarf produced a silvery, rune-engraved horseshoe, identical to the other two I had collected.
“The third of Galanan’s horseshoes!” I exclaimed. “By my troth, this is a blessing! Where did you find it?” The dwarf was by then grinning in undisguised satisfaction.
“The ogre’s pouch, of course! We need to collect the spoils of war if we are to survive, sir knight, quest or no!” Then he turned serious. “I cannot help but think you are destined to have these… but at what cost?” At that we were both silent, for the answer to that question would most likely be grim…
By dusk, the ranger and the priest had recovered from most of their wounds. We had decided to wait out the night atop the barbican, for safety. As we were preparing for sleep, Girion’s keen eyes spotted a small figure approaching the keep. We all thought immediately of Berooz, who we were sure wanted revenge. But the ranger was sure the creature did not move like a goblin. After a brief discussion, the ranger hailed it… and its answer was entirely unexpected: “Girion, I found you!!! It’s me, Segnarus!” However, the high-pitched voice sounded nothing like the ruthless thief catcher (who we had seen die in the ruins of the old city of Roedran).
As he approached into our torchlight, we saw a small figure, little more than half my height. It was slight, with brown skin and hair, bright green eyes, and an enormous nose—yes, father, it was a gnome! Truly a land of oddities, this Roedran was. We let him into the tower, for despite Jerikas’s warnings of treachery, I could see no evil taint in the creature.
The gnome spoke quickly, insisting that Denora had ensorceled him, placing his soul in a gnome’s body, and of his harrowing escape from entangling vines and a giant snake. He promptly showed that he seemed to know details about our travels that only Segnarus would know. Matters were quickly settled when Girion affirmed that in his childhood, he had heard that the mestorien were indeed capable of reincarnation. Thus we welcomed our unexpected friend warmly.
Jerikas was still grim, however. For his prayers revealed that the thief-catcher had indeed been brought back from the dead, but in the process, his spirit had been bound to the land itself. This was not only a sin against Terferos, Caretaker of Souls, but the very Covenant of the Skies makes Terferos’s healing magic ineffective for the gnome. It was obvious that the Terferian priest would never get accustomed to this turn of events, but Segnarus was plainly happy to be alive.
That night proved uneventful, at least for my friends. I was kept awake for one reason: our battle with Koron. As I told you in my last letter, we had essentially been defeated. Jerikas, Girion, and Landotharan were down. Baruk was in the rearguard, bravely hurling both spells and curses, and I was in the vanguard, alone, facing the huge ogre and 4 orc warriors. But I still live, father. Furthermore, I live because in that moment, I called for Holy Tilsman to judge us all… and I believe he answered. For even though my skill with the sword, and the strength of my arm, are greater than when we parted ways all those years ago, it is definitely not enough to prevail against such odds. I thank the Keeper for his blessings, but I cannot help but wonder: why me? Why would a simple, exiled warrior, a mercenary in all but name, be so trusted? How I miss your wisdom, father…
When sleep finally found me, it was not restful, either. Again I saw the magnificent steed running though the storm-laden southern plains, as if looking for something, or someone.
Next morning we awoke to yet another surprise… there was a stranger in our camp. He was another half-elf, slight of build, with long blonde hair and pale complexion, with an uncanny similarity to our fallen friend Landotharan. But Roedran is not a land of miracles, and Segnarus’s difficult and costly return was not to be duplicated. We soon found this was Eithnelle Silvermoon, who was seeking his long-lost brother. And it was our grim duty to inform him he had arrived less than twelve hours after his death.
Eithnelle was quiet at first, and asked to see the grave. He took only Whispering Wind, Landotharan’s silvery circlet, to better remember his brother. The half-elf composed himself, and asked our names. Apparently Landotharan had written home about us, and he wanted to assign names to faces. (Oh father, I hope you get to read these, and that I still make you proud). He informed us that Landotharan had written about Simarul’s cult, and that their father (a powerful sorcerer) had sent him to gather information. Eithnelle asked to take his brother’s place, offering his services as a battle-wizard (a term I’d never before heard, for since when are wizards interested in battle? But I would soon learn of his prowess).
We resolved to trace Segnarus’s trail back to his place of captivity, as this was likely the best place from which to track down the treacherous Denora. As we rode to Roedran town (where the gnome stated he had fought some goblins on his way to join us), Girion asked Jerikas a very important question: whether there was a way to atone for our sin against Terferos.
“This is very difficult,” the priest answered. “Firstly, Segnarus’s soul must return to Terferos.” The gnome squeaked at this, but the priest continued, uncompromising. “We allowed this to happen. The only way to atone would be to accomplish a quest for our church. I believe that if we recover the Bell and save Medore, it may suffice.” We all fell silent at this.
On reaching the abandoned city, Girion quickly picked up the gnome’s trail. He led us deep into the south of the province, where all signs of human habitation had vanished. Eventually we came to a broken tower, about 50 feet high, covered in vines and surrounded by heavy foilage. The door was not visible through the vegetation. The ranger referred to is as “The Old Post,” a watchtower ancient even in his childhood, before Roedran’s fall.
We soon determined it would take too long to cut our way through the thicket and into the door, and thus decided to climb. Segnarus was concerned about the snake, but Eithnelle offered a simple solution: eldritch flight. He spoke a charm, and suddenly, I could fly! I carried Jerikas in his heavy banded armor, while our less encumbered companions climbed the vines. The tower had no ceiling, and as I descended, I could see it had no floors save the ground. It was a wide, circular chamber with a single large doorway (covered in thick vines) and broken stairs. Other than thankfully unrecognizable refuse, the room only held a 5’ tall pedestal, around which was coiled an enormous snake, at least 15 feet in length.
No sooner we landed, the monster slithered at us fast as lightning, its fangs seeking to rip though my mail. I drew Aerbrand, and smote it as I called on Barlam for strength. As my friends reached the top of the tower, the monstrosity started wrapping me in its coils. Its strength was awesome, and I felt all the air leave my lungs. As I fought to stay on my feet, I heard Girion plying his mighty bow from the wall, and his arrows thunking into the beast. I heard Baruk and Eithnelle chanting spells, and the smell of ozone filled the air as an arcane bolt of lightning fried the snake, but it was still alive, and crushing me, while its fangs rent the mail over my left shoulder.
At such close quarters your sword was useless, so I dropped it. I reached for my silvered poniard, and fiercely stabbed until my right arm was freed. As dark spots danced before my eyes, from lack of air, I thrust the knife one last time, into the creature’s head. I fell to my knees, still fighting, before I realized the monster was finally dead. Jerikas helped unentangle me, as I gasped for air, and asked Segnarus whether this was the snake he had mentioned. We all laughed when Girion interrupted with a heartfelt “gods, I hope so.” But our mirth was short-lived.
The witch was nowhere to be found. But as the thief taker collected the gear he had left behind in his escape, Girion spoke dire words from his place on top of the tower wall: several lions, large as warhorses, were approaching, led by Denora herself. The ranger began plying his bow, almost faster than the eye could follow, and we could hear monstrous roaring. And then by the mestorien’s will, the seemingly ancient vines at the doorway parted.
An enormous lioness was first in the door, pouncing straight at me, rending with claw and fang. Only my cunningly wrought banded armor saved me in that initial onslaught. Again Eithnelle chanted, and my hair stood on end as a lightning bolt slammed into the great cat. Calling on Morcandor’s might, I raised your Aerbrand and cleft her skull. I pulled the sword from the steaming wound and saw that Jerikas was holding his own against a second lioness, but a monstrous male had followed, and was clamping its jaws into Baruk’s shoulder, and pulling the dwarf from his feet. I charged, and smashed its skull to icy bits with two savage blows.
I ran out the door to see Denora calling lightning from the skies to smash into Girion. As she was rocked back by magical missiles form both Eithnelle and Baruk, I flew at her, calling on Tilsman, and sorely wounded the witch. But a third lioness leapt at me in her defense, clawing and biting. Jerikas prayed to Terferos, and a ray of holy light slammed into the mestorien, burning her. This was followed by arrows and bolts from Girion and Segnarus, whereupon she staggered to the nearest tree, touched it, and by the gods, disappeared into it!
As I fought the angry lioness, a small figure appeared at my side, none other than the goblin sorcerer Berooz. “The foul wench should not get away! Run after her!” With this it pushed me aside, and hurled a bolt of lightning square into the chest of the last lioness, pushing her back. Before she could recover, Baruk and Eithnelle finished her with magical missiles. Only then we noticed that as the beasts died, they had returned to their normal size.
The goblin turned to us as we caught our breaths. “Do not mistake me for your friend. We have a common enemy. She should be in the ruins of the Mestorien. Beware, for her guardians will be near.” Girion was the first of us to speak.
“Are other mestorien in league with her?”
“She probably is the last of her kind.” With this, the goblin again vanished into thin air.
The ranger informed us it would be an hour’s ride, as Jerikas prayed for Terferos to heal our wounds (thankfully Segnarus was unscathed). We then set out to recover the Goathian Bell.
The ride through the sweltering plains was uneventful, and quiet, for we were all deep in thought. I knew this would be a special trial for me – my oath was to recover the Bell or die in the attempt, to find justice for Nikolas and safety for Medore. Eventually we reached a thick forest, and the ranger told us the last mile or so would be on foot. I left Stepper saddled but unhobbled, so that the bay stallion could survive if I did not return.
Girion led us quickly and unerringly. After about half an hour, we came to a wide clearing, occupied by a large, domed structure. It was built of stone, but was partially in ruins. Vines covered its walls, and plants peeked out from many holes in the stone. Through the open doorway we could see rays of the afternoon sun illuminating the inside through rents in the ceiling, but all we could spy was a stone platform surrounded by a small moat filled with murky water.
We each made preparations to enter. I prayed for holy Tilsman to ward me from evil, and to bless your sword Aerbrand in the coming conflict. As we made for the entrance, Berooz once more appeared, but only stayed long enough to say: “Remember what I told you about the guardian.”
As Segnarus climbed to the roof with his crossbow, to work as a sniper, Girion and I led the way into the temple. Denora was not alone. Girion obviously shared my reaction to her companion, as I heard him whisper “Tilsman have mercy…”
It was an immense, monstrous feline, almost my height at the shoulder. It had a long body with bold stripes, and paws the size of bucklers. Horned ridges were plain down its back, but most impressive were the twin curved fangs, large as sabers, that adorned its slavering maw. Yet even more terrifying were the intelligence in its eyes, and the fact that it could TALK…
“I will give you one chance to leave unharmed – otherwise you die.” Denora smiled at me seductively, and added “or you can join us…”
I could barely contain my wrath. “We will give you a chance to live, if you give us the Bell.”
“The Bell’s purpose will not be achieved in your hands,” she answered. “Nature will rule.”
“Then we shall have to battle,” I answered quietly.
Girion leapt forth, plying his bow with blinding speed, and twice wounded the beauteous witch. But she gave as good as she got, for lightning once more slammed into the ranger from one of the rents in the dome. The great tiger leapt forth, mauling both the ranger and I, as we hacked desperately with Renmemnion and Aerbrand. Jerikas joined us, as Baruk and Eithnelle hurled magical missiles into the fray.
The battle was intense, for the monster was incredibly powerful, and I could feel my ribs crack every time the claws or fangs smote my cuirass. Also, the ranger and I were frequent targets of the witch’s unholy lightning. Girion called on Tilsman, and the blessed sword of tears twice scored the beast along the flank. For a moment the monster ignored me, and pounced on the ranger. I took this opening calling on Tilsman and Iolanthes, to repeatedly drive your freeezing sword into the beast. I managed to drive it back, bleeding and stumbling, but Girion was unmoving. As the massive tiger growled, and prepared to pounce on me, it was hit by a volley of glowing orbs from Baruk and Eithnelle, which put paid to it at long last.
But we were far from safe, for Denora still stood. Little beauty was left to her; she was now wholly a killer. She screamed unholy words, and a column of fire rained on the dwarf and the half-elf. Jerikas and I charged, but she adroitly parried our attacks with a scimitar, and called more lightning down upon us. But alone, she could not stand against five. Our mages sent bolts of acid into her, driving her back. As Jerikas batted her sword aside, I put a hands breadth of Aerbrand into her shoulder, demanding her surrender. Her insane scream was an obvious refusal, but Baruk put an end to the matter with a final brace of fiery globes to her chest.
We quickly checked on Girion, who thankfully was still alive. As Jerikas healed him, our eyes were drawn to the back of the temple. There it was: The Goathian Bell. It is 6’ tall and 5’ wide, made of a beautiful, unearthly golden metal. It hangs within a wheeled wooden structure, which according to Jerikas was crafted from the roots of Naend, the tree used to hang the souls of the newly dead. Legend says that if the bell ever touches the floor, no mortal can lift it.
Thus we finally recovered the Bell. More than happy, we were relieved at this point, and still stunned over all the meaningless death we had both witnessed and delivered. We had little time to rest, for the lives of 10,000 Medorians depended on our prompt return, with the Goathian Bell in tow.
Curiously, the mestorien witch had a parting gift for me. For on her corpse we found the fourth of Galanan’s horseshoes. I know not their usefulness yet, but somehow I think it is tied into my recent dreams… I hope, as always, that this letter finds you well, father. As always, know that my prayers are with you. Pray for me, father. Pray for us all.

 

[njorgard]

The Fall of Roedran - a historical footnote

I thought it proper to add this little narrative about Roedran's history to give some context to the events in the last few parts of this story hour...

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Fall of Roedran

The origins of the Barony of Roedran can be traced back 250 years to the appointment of Count Penrith of Karolem as regent of the southern city of Medore. Pernith, in turn, appointed his brother Ferragus as surveyor and steward of the frontier lands to the south.

Ferragus was an audacious character. Having participated in many expeditions to uncharted territories, the task of taming this wild frontier suited him well. In less than 15 years he had explored and charted most of the borderlands to the southeast. His explorations took him deep within jungles and forests that were previously known only to Samusian primitives. In one of Ferragus’s most notorious expeditions, he crossed the Antarius into Kundrian territory, making it all the way to the savage lands of Radazar. It was here where he encountered the Urdian Horde – a band of bloodthirsty mercenaries led by the Kundrian warlord Ur. Ferragus was badly injured in this encounter and was forced to retreat back into Hintaneese territory.

As the war between Kundria and Hintai escalated, the warlord Ur retraced Ferragus’s steps several years later trying to find new access points into Hintai. By this time, Penrith of Karolem had already commissioned several outposts to watch over the frontier. He had also given Ferragus a military field rank and sufficient troops to repel Ur’s incursion. As steward of the southeastern frontier, Ferragus settled in these lands with his troops. Together with Samusian natives, Ferragus created several large communities. Thus, the Barony of Roedran was born.

At first, these communities were highly dependent on hunting and foraging. They blended ancient Samusian wilderness lore with more modern Hintaneese military techniques to form effective hunter-gatherer units. Noblemen from all parts of Hintai became interested in learning Roedran techniques for hunting game. This expedited the creation of large hunting preserves, which in turn accelerated the expansion of the territory of Roedran.

Ancient Samusian customs rubbed off on Hintaneese settlers as evidenced by the appearance of the Mestorien. These were strange self-proclaimed protectors of the natural balance endowed with arcane abilities and a supernatural control of the environment. Together with the border guard, the Mestorien successfully repelled Kundrian attacks for the next 150 years. But Ferragus’s successors became increasingly complacent and careless about Roedran’s resources. This situation angered the Mestorien who after repeated attempts to restore the balance between Roedran and the forest withdrew deep into the forest never to be heard from again.

After the withdrawal of the Mestorien, Kundrian assaults on Roedran became more frequent and intense. Finally, in the year 892, the warlord Koron used spies and misinformation to divide the border guards and fight his way through Hintaneese soil. He reached Roedran and burned most of it to the ground. Unwilling to sacrifice troops to retake a difficult position to defend, Lord Erecos of Medore cut the supply lines between Kundria and Koron’s forces, poisoned the water supplies, and starved most of Koron’s troops. Roedran would now remain a buffer territory between Kundria and Hintai.

 

[Helfdan]

Chapter 10

Part 10: A Kindred Spirit


Father: As always, I hope this letter finds you in good health. If you received my last letter, you know that we were successful in recovering the Goathian Bell, the holy relic required to save the city of Medore from an impending attack by hordes of undead horrors. However, the cost was great, for both Landotharan Silvermoon, the half-elven sworder, and Nikolas Ran, priest of Terferos, had fallen in combat. Only through the intervention of the ultimately treacherous, and now destroyed, mestorien druidess Denora, had Segnarus Mank been brought back from death, though in the body of a gnome. And our ranks were strengthened by the powerful mage Eithnelle, brother to departed Landotharan.
Yes, father. Even as I write, I see how implausible this all sounds, yet as you know your son, you know every word is true. I still grapple with the events of the past week, and my role in them, but let me get back to my tale…
The morning after our battle with Denora, Jerikas Ran quietly healed our wounds, and soundly suggested that we make haste, as the longer we tarried, the more people would die in Medore. I had risen early, and after my prayers, hitched the Bell’s enchanted, wheeled frame to the horses we recovered from the vanquished warlord Koron. As I completed my task, Girion returned from visiting the ruins of his family’s home. He was followed by a massive grey timberwolf with a fierce mien, which made our horses exceedingly nervous. I calmed the beasts as well as you’ve taught me, as the ranger chuckled. He then simply stated: “His name is Grimfang. He, too, has lost his family,” and joined the others in their preparations for our return.
It was still early morning, and not too hot, when we set out to the northeast, back to Medore. I cannot say that any of us were sad to leave Roedran behind, though Girion had understandably mixed feelings about his now fallen homeland. Several hours passed as we rode, and I almost dozed in the saddle. I slept poorly the previous night, for again the mysterious steed in the storm-drenched and lightning-lit plains galloped throughout my slumber.
I thought I was dreaming again, for suddenly, the earth itself seemed to tremble – but my friends noticed it as well. All I could see was a cloud of dust approaching from the north, but the ranger’s keen eyes detected a herd of stampeding horses! “This is no natural stampede,” he said. They seem to be fleeing from something… They move oddly.”
As they approached, I was dumbstruck. They were MAGNIFICENT, father. Enormous beasts, seemingly bred for war, but running gracefully as racing palfreys. The Terferian priest started, and exclaimed in awe: “The ranger is right, these beasts are not natural… they are celestial!” Celestial, father. He later explained that these horses were natural to one of the heavens… Truly, these southlands are filled with horrors, but occasionally wonders also appear.
As I admired the stampeding animals, I saw something odd: there was no lead stallion! When I brought this to my friends’ attention, Girion felt this was the likely reason for their fear. I suddenly knew, with no uncertainty, that I was destined to solve this mystery. As I turned to my friends, I saw there was no need to ask for their help. They smiled, and asked me to lead on. There would likely be great danger, however, for the foe who could scare such mighty creatures was surely quite fearsome. To my surprise, Eithnelle suddenly displayed some of the rashness that had characterized his late brother: he spoke his charm of flight, and soared ahead of us to scout, unbidden, accompanied only by the black crow he kept as a pet of sorts.
After a few minutes, the slight half-elf returned. He told us that he had sent the bird ahead, and that it reported seeing a campfire, several large humanoids, and several horses! Yes, father, it seems he can somehow communicate with the bird. I would think this impossible, but… later. At any rate, I again offered to ride in alone, but my friends again refused. We quickly discussed strategy, and decided to simply ride in, for these rolling plains held little in the way of cover, and it was barely past mid-day.
A mile later, we came to a huge campfire, flanked by two enormous mangy hide tents. There were four huge, hulking brutes clothed in filthy animal hides, which we quickly recognized as ogres. Two celestial horses were tied to a crude hitching post, and the carcass of a third was roasting in the fire! I held my anger at this travesty, as I meant to attempt to negotiate with the vile creatures. As we approached, my stomach turned on hearing bestial grunts from one of the tents.
The ogres seemed to smell our approach, and lifted huge clubs and spears as they roared in defiance. It was too late for words as Eithnelle, floating beside me, began to cast a spell. Stepper reared as I braced my lance, and charged at the closest monster. The lance seemed to shine with white light as I called on the Judge of Judges for his holy justice before slamming into the beast. The ogre screamed in pain as it was skewered, almost as the same time that two monsters to my left were caught in Eithnelle’s eldritch lightning. My foe slammed his great club against my shield, but I managed to stay in the saddle. I blocked the ogre’s attacks as well as I could, while drawing your sword Aerbrand. In the heat of combat, its silvery blade was colder than ice, and wisps of vapor wreathed it, as I plunged it deep into the ogre’s face. The creature screamed one last time, as it’s eyes froze before it died.
Two of the creatures charged my friends, hurling huge spears as they went (one of them staggered by a mule-kick from Stepper). The third started for me, but Eithnelle again intoned an eldritch formula, and the monster was reduced to cinders by a massive, fiery explosion, which barely missed my bay stallion and me. The occupied tent had also been affected by the magical fire, and two angry, nude, and singed monsters rushed out, weapons in hand. One of them rushed me, and I barely ducked under its powerful swing. Suddenly I heard a growl, and saw Grimfang savaging my foe. Taking this opening, I called on Barlam for strength and plunged your sword into its midriff, putting paid to the monster. By this time only one of the beasts was left, and eldritch missiles from both Baruk and Eithnelle punished it. It tried to run, but the half elf finished it with another impressive fiery explosion. His expression as he finished the beast reminded me very much of his bloodthirsty brother… I hope he does not share Lando’s fate.
I dismounted and ran to free the captive beasts. The smaller of the two (at sixteen hands, almost as big as Stepper) was a beautiful black mare. She shied away slightly as I untied her. The larger of the two, however, was wholly unafraid. He is a dapple-grey stallion, with white mane and tail. His mottled coat shone as if freshly brushed. Amazingly, he stands a full eighteen hands, father! As I untied him, I clearly sensed gratitude for his rescue… and I knew that his name was Stormshadow. This was the beast I had dreamt about since my arrival in Roedran.
I turned to my friends, to attempt and explain. They all seemed doubtful, save Girion, who merely smiled and stated: “Perhaps it recognizes a kindred spirit.” And he was right. For I instantly knew Stormshadow would not be merely my warhorse: he is as a brother to me.
I sadly turned to unsaddle Stepper. The mighty bay stallion appeared sad as well, as if sensing that he was being replaced. I freely admit to you, father, that a tear came to my eye. If you have received my letters, you know how faithful and brave Stepper has been in these trying times. But somehow, Stormshadow reassured me. And to our great surprise, the black mare nuzzled Stepper’s ear. She then reared, and thundered off to rejoin their herd. Stepper looked at me briefly, and after I rubbed his ear one last time, he followed the celestial mare. There can be happy endings in Roedran after all, it seems.
As I thanked my friends for their help, Girion pointed out that a large thunderhead had suddenly appeared to the north… a grim omen. Segnarus had happily looted the ogres’ camp, finding a goodly amount of coin, as well as a well-worked leather quiver sewn with copper wire (claimed by Girion, of course). His mood was quickly dampened by the arrival of an enormous crow (at least 10 feet wingspan) which flew down to perch on one of the large hide tents.
To me, this unnatural creature was instantly loathsome, and reeked with evil taint. Before I could speak, however, Baruk sent a barrage of sorcerous globes into it, killing the bird. “Nicely done, my friend,” was Girion’s answer. “It may have been a messenger or spy.” After the day’s events I would not doubt it, but Baruk gruffly added: “The bird was unnatural, it was sorcerously altered.” With that, we had enough of ill omens – and the smell of roasted ogre- so we quickly resumed our trip to Medore.
The ranger led us at as fast a pace as he felt was safe for our steeds. But he need not have worried about Stormshadow. Despite my weight, and that of my arms, armor, and gear, the giant dapple-gray trod lightly as ever, with a uniquely dignified gait that even Stepper could not have matched. I barely had to direct him, as he seemed to intuit my instructions. Truly a magnificent horse.
But Armax seemed to favor us, for we encountered no more danger during that day. We set up camp in the open plain, which is always worrisome in these dangerous lands. Before turning in I prayed briefly, thanking Tilsman and Morcandor for such a blessing. I hoped to sleep promptly, for I had drawn second shift.
The night sky was overcast, without moon or stars to see by, when Baruk awoke me. I quickly donned my wondrously light banded armor (a gift from a grateful Lord Eltross, as you may remember) and took up my shield and your Aerbrand as I took my station by our campfire. After about an hour, it seemed to me I saw some figures moving in the dark, near our tents. As I went to investigate, I was surprised by two skeletal, clawed hands, which grasped my neck from behind, meaning to strangle me! The stench of death was overwhelming… by the firelight I recognized the sallow, skeletal features and glowing red eyes of the vile coffer-corpses of Symarul.
Only my mithral gorget saved my life. I grasped my hand-carved sword-and-scales symbol, and shouted: “By the power of Tilsman, BEGONE, vile things.” And by his power, the creatures could not bear to touch me, and released me. My shouts awoke my friends, and I could hear movement from within the tents. But several figures moved in the darkness. Three more of them charged me. One was intercepted by Stormshadow, who charged furiously into the fray, smashing one to bits with his unshod hooves.
I sidestepped the other two, and calling on Barlam for strength, cut an arm from one with Aerbrand. As more of them appeared, Girion ran to my side, and soon we fought back to back against a horde of the dead things, with Grimfang and Stormshadow guarding our flanks. The battle was fierce. Renmemnion and Aerbrand seemed to shine, one gold, and one silver, as they hacked into the unholy bone and sinew. In the background, we could hear incantations, and see flashes of eldritch light, as Baruk and Eithnelle hurled their magic into the fray. Soon they were all destroyed, or fleeing from Jerikas’s prayers.
Jerikas and I prayed over the wounded, and thankfully, the rest of the night was uneventful. The next day was again overcast, but without rain. We awoke to see two of the gigantic crows pecking at the remains of the undead. Simultaneously, Girion flawlessly sent 3 arrows into one, killing it, as Eithnelle sent his balls of magical energy into the other. The wounded bird tried to flee, but a fourth grey-goose shaft spelled its doom. There was little doubt in our minds, now: these enchanted, bold crows were spies for Symarul’s vile cult.
We rode out anxiously, for we knew we were less than a day’s ride from Medore, and the end of our quest. Shortly after noon, we saw two figures approaching from the north, bearing a third. As we closed with them, we saw they were two badly injured soldiers, carrying the corpse of a third one. Quickly we hailed them and offered our help.
They quickly asked if we were part of a relief force for the city! Grim news indeed, father. The soldiers claimed they were part of a recoinissance force. They had been set upon by undead horrors in the night, and decimated. The dead man had been sent to warn the city, but they had found him thus, and did not know if he had completed his mission.
I felt we needed to hurry, but Jerikas counseled patience, for by the power of Terferos, he could obtain useful information. He piously placed the dead soldier on the ground, and prayed to Terferos to allow his soul to return, if briefly, to answer his questions. To my surprise, the overcast day seemed to darken, a chill wind ruffled our cloaks, and the corpse opened its eyes…
Jerikas politely but firmly questioned it, and then turned to us. “We are late, but by the grace of Terferos, maybe not too much so. This brave, departed soul reached the city. The undead have attacked, and Medore is beseiged. It had not yet fallen as of last night. Apparently the creatures do not fight during the day, giving the defenders time to shore up their walls.”
We quickly reviewed our options. We knew Medore well, from our days in Lord Erecos’s company. Ahead of us lay the mighty Antarius River, which formed the southern border of the city. The only two ways to cross it were by boat or ferry – it would prove difficult to transport the Goathian Bell with its frame and team of horses that way – and the great Bridge of Erias, the main road into the city. The bridge would likely be blockaded by undead, but if we reached the city in daylight, the way should be open.
Thus, Jerikas, Girion, and I healed the soldiers as well as we could, and then set out with all possible haste towards the beseiged city. The hours passed, and our anxiety grew. As dusk approached, we knew we were within minutes of the city. And then disaster struck. For in the distance, we saw a large cloud, moving towards us against the wind. The ranger’s keen eyes gave early warning: “It’s a flock of those accursed giant crows!” Symarul was striking at us in plain daylight.
As we rode forth, Eithnelle hurled mighty magicks into the flock. Somehow they were protected, for after two fiery conflagrations and a bolt of eldritch lightning, only half-a-dozen of the birds lay dead. Girion plied his mighty longbow, and I plied my stout horsebow, and two more of the birds fell, but then they were upon us.
Father, it was like being in a maelstrom of buffeting wings and ripping beaks and talons. I lost all sight of my friends, though I could hear Jerikas’s prayers, Girion’s battle cries, and Eithnelle and Baruk’s invocations during the battle. I held on to the bow with my left, and guiding Stormshadow with my knees, lay into them with Aerbrand, calling for Tilsman’s justice. Up close, I could feel the birds’ abyssal taint, and see their beady eyes glowing with an evil intelligence. I hacked, and hacked, until I thought my good right arm would give out. It seemed their numbers were legion. I eventually cut my way to Eithnelle’s side, and sliced one from his back, as the half-elf grimly finished another with his dagger. Their numbers were finally thinning. One flew at my face, talons poised to rip flesh, but was intercepted by Grimfang, who leapt and caught it by the throat, quickly destroying it. Only two of them survived the melee, and attempted to flee. But my bow was still in my hand. Armsmaster Turin may have thought me an indifferent archer, father, but he would have been proud. For dropping sword, I sent two arrows in quick succession, and the two birds died within 30 feet of us.
Somewhat the worse for the wear, we recovered our weapons and rode forth grimly. For though we had survived, the crows had won. They delayed us long enough that the sun was setting over Medore when we reached the Bridge of Erias.
From our viewpoint, we could see that the earth around the city walls was scorched, with signs of battle. Vultures flew over the city. Trenches around the city were full of burning pitch, to keep the vile creatures out. The walls were covered with tar, to make climbing difficult, and countless archers and torchbearers were getting ready for another night of desperate fighting.
But we might as well have been miles from the city. For halfway across its ninety foot length, the Bridge of Erias was sundered. And beyond the gap… fate. A dark horseman awaited, holding a standard with Symarul’s 3-eyed crow symbol. He was guarded by three shambling swordsmen (undead), and two hulking brutes, at least ten feet tall, the flesh rotting off their mighty carcasses. As we approached the gap, we saw that the horse was black, with glowing red eyes. The horseman wore a suit of bloodstained plate and mail, apparently made of mithral. And though he was hooded to protect himself from the waning sun, the device on his tattered surcoat was unmistakable: a golden Hintanese Lion. There could be no doubt, it was Erecos, the Lion of Medore, war hero and our former commander, leading these vile undead against his own city. There was naught left to us but battle. Pray for me, father. Pray for us all.