The Doomed Bastards: Reckoning (story complete)

[Lazybones]

This is one of two stories set in the Camar/Rappan Athuk universe that I've been working on. The second one exists only in outline form and I don't know if I'll actually write it; it depends on how 4e turns out, I suppose, as I have ideas for a story in that setting as well.

I thought about starting a new thread, but this story, at least, continues some of the threads I left hanging in The "Doomed Bastards" in the Dungeon of Graves. The story is more than just an epilogue, however, so I'll revise the thread title to reflect that.

The setting is Camar, about twelve years after the end of TDB. The story is entitled Reckoning.

* * * * *

The Doomed Bastards: Reckoning


PROLOGUE


In an underground complex far under the arid plains of Drusia, a battle raged.

Cries of battle and pain echoed through the dark halls, through chambers that had been old when the first Drusian emperors had walked the world above in fire and blood. The combatants on both sides were men, Drusians for the most part, but otherwise wholly dissimilar. Lean monks in flowing tunics and armed with simple staves and clubs battled hard men in black robes that covered armor of layered leather and mail, fighting with ugly spiked maces and long curved blades. Magic coursed through these encounters, and dark things were dragged up from the nether pits in service to the men in black. But the monks did not falter in the face of such monstrosities, and as the battle continued they drove their foes back, into the deepest chambers of the complex.

The noises of battle sounded distantly behind them as a small party made its way down an ancient tunnel. There were five of them, led by a wizened old man wearing a simple brown robe, leaning heavily on a crooked staff of old ash wood. The old man’s companions were mere boys, in their early teens by their faces. Two of them bore torches, which they thrust into the small annexes that they passed, pushing back the darkness. They looked around nervously, and jumped as loud cries reached them through the twists of the tunnels.

The old man sighed. “In staring at the storm on the horizon, the foolish man often stumbles on the root at his feet.”

The youths, abashed, drew their attention forward. They rounded a turn in the tunnel to reveal a larger chamber up ahead, lit by a faint red light. One of the boys opened his mouth to ask a question, but the old man raised a hand to silence him. They moved forward, to the edge of the chamber. The place had a recessed floor, and two steps led down from the threshold into the center of the place. The light they had seen came from a tall iron brazier set under a mural along one wall, filling the place with a faint but lurid illumination.

They were not the first to arrive. Bodies lay sprawled upon the floor. The light from the torches revealed their identity; three monks, their blood still oozing from terrible puncture wounds. A fourth man lay nearby, clad in a black robe, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle.

There was one other figure in the room, a well-built man whose robe could not conceal the bulk of the armor he wore. He was bent over the dead man in black as the monks entered, but as the light of their torches spilled into the room he rose to face them. His cowl was drawn back, revealing a rough face marked with both scars and the swirling lines of tattoos that ran down his face from his right eye to his jaw. He bore a morningstar that dripped red blood down onto the floor. The corners of his mouth twisted into a wry smile as he regarded the five that faced him.

“Are the Vigilant Fists out of men, that they now send boys and old men to face me?” the tattooed man said. His voice hissed in his throat, as though he’d suffered some wound to his throat in the past.

The five youths had assumed the Pliant Willow, the standard defensive stance, but the old man calmly stepped forward, forcing them aside. “Go and notify Selaht at once of our finding,” he said, his staff tapping the floor as he navigated the steps.

The boys hesitated. “But Master...” one of them ventured.

He spared them a quick glance. “Do as I say, young Surucipe.” His level tone had not changed, but there was a hint of command in his voice that transcended his advanced years.

The youths bowed and obeyed, darting back the way they had come.

The tattooed man stood waiting as the old man turned back to face him. He used the delay to cast a spell, touching the inlaid sigil of a seven-pronged claw etched onto his breastplate to infuse himself with divine power. He smiled as he finally recognized his opponent. “So. Setarcos himself stirs from his lair to face me. I will enjoy this, old man.”

Setarcos did not return the jibe, he simply waited, leaning on his staff, as the evil cleric strode forward to meet him. He did not move until the priest lunged, and then he twisted to the side, bringing up his staff to deflect the course of the heavier weapon. The force of the impact—the priest was far stronger—drove the monk roughly aside, but he spun with remarkable dexterity on the ball of one foot, falling back into a ready stance in the center of the room.

The cleric snarled and attacked, and again the monk gave way. The priest had obvious skill at arms in addition to his divinely-augmented strength, and on the third attack Setarcos dodged just a hair too slow, and the head of the morningstar ripped through his robe, the long spines grazing the flesh of his torso. The old monk grimaced but recovered quickly; his staff shot out and drove into the cleric’s armpit, widening the separation between them before the priest could follow up with a backswing.

“My weapon is still thirsty,” the cleric cackled. The wound he’d inflicted had been minor, but the morningstar seemed to be infused with some dark power of its own, and he had been noticeably weakened by the hit.

“Even if you strike me down, you will not leave this place alive. The power of your foul cult is broken, servant of darkness.”

The cleric laughed and feinted another attack; for a moment the two negotiated for position in the center of the room, the cleric pushing the monk slowly back toward the corner. “Hah, your brains are in your fists, monk. You are already too late.”

With the last word he leapt into another attack. Setarcos parried the blow with his staff, but the old wood had taken too much abuse, and it snapped in two. The monk did not hesitate, snapping the longer segment into the cleric’s wrist. The morningstar went flying across the room, landing in a clatter near the far wall. The cleric hissed a curse and seized the monk by the shoulder, unleashing an inflict wounds spell into him. The old man staggered as bloody rents materialized in his flesh, and he nearly fell as he retreated back into the center of the room.

“I do not need a weapon to finish you off, old man!” He did not give the old monk any respite, charging after him into the middle of the room. He drew upon his magic once more, and thrust his hand forward to seize his throat and end it.

Except that the monk was no longer there. Setarcos pivoted and ducked under the cleric’s powerful but cumbersome lunge, coming up at his left flank. The monk’s foot shot out, smashing into the cleric’s left knee from behind. Caught off-balance by his own momentum, the priest fell into a kneel. He twisted his body and tried to deliver his touch attack, but Setarcos had already moved behind him. Forming his hand into a knife’s edge, he drove the tips of his fingers into his right armpit, bypassing his armor and pulverizing the nerve joint there. The cleric cried out and tried to stagger to his feet, but Setarcos was on him before he could rise, latching one arm around his throat. The cleric seized the arm, blasting the monk with more negative energy, but Setarcos withstood the devastating surge, and refused to loosen his grip. Keeping the cleric off-balance, and unable to stand, he leaned his shoulder against the cleric’s head, and with his free hand got a solid grip under the man’s helmet, and pressed his weight into the hold. The leverage was inexorable, and after a moment a loud snap indicated the breaking of the cleric’s neck.

Setarcos held his foe for another few moments, until the cleric’s struggles stopped completely. Then he dropped the man to the floor, breathing heavily. Limping away, he spared a rueful glance at his broken staff.

A few seconds later, several monks burst into the room, accompanied by the four boys that Setarcos had sent away. They took in the scene at a moment’s glance, and one of them offered his staff to the old monk, nodding in respect.

The sounds of conflict in the background had faded. Setarcos looked a question at one of the monks, who said, “Selaht has found something that you should see, Master.”

Setarcos directed two of the monks to check the fallen, and see if anything could be learned from the dead priests. Moving once more like an old man, leaning on his new staff for support, he and the boys followed the last monk deeper into the complex. They passed a number of monks in the main corridors, most of whom bore fresh wounds that showed signs of recent magical healing. They all made way for Setarcos and his retinue.

Their guide led them through a twisting maze of passages that ultimately converged on a chamber of considerable size. Massive stone pillars buttressed a vaulted ceiling some thirty feet high at its apex. The place was clearly a gathering hall of some sort, and the accountrements of unholy ritual were scattered about, from silvered summoning circles etched deeply into the floor to racks of unnatural components pressed into niches along the walls. A half-dozen continual flames flickering in open bronze tubs filled the room with a relatively bright level of illumination. It looked as though the cult members had made their last stand here; the bodies of at least a dozen priests lay strewn about the place, along with several monks, the latter covered with squares of cloth. Another dozen monks were collected here, along with a young priest of Eos, who was tending to their injuries using a healing-rod. One of the monks stood out from the others; his fists were surrounded by a nimbus of bright orange flame, which licked around his flesh without causing him apparent harm. He looked up as the new group entered, and immediately walked across the room to welcome them.

Setarcos barely noticed him; his attention was drawn to the massive mural that decorated the far wall of the chamber. The work was obviously of recent creation, the garish colors starkly bright in the magical light. The thing depicted there filled almost the entirety of the wall, up to where it met the ceiling high above.

The monk with the burning hands came up to him. As he bowed, he unclenched his fists, causing the magical flames to flicker and die, but the expression on his face was no less serious. “We found no trace of the High Priest, Master.”

Setarcos nodded, though he did not shift his gaze from the huge mural. “I battled his Second in one of the side-chambers. Before he died, he indicated that we were too late.”

The tall monk glanced up at the mural. “What does it mean, Master?”

Setarcos did not respond for a long moment. The massive figure of a six-legged beast, its skin the color of blood, stretched across the wall. Its jaws were open wide, and people screamed as they were cast into its fanged jaws, into its gullet. Around it, depicted in surprising detail in the background, they could see scenes of destruction. People dead or dying, towns and villages in ruins. Flames. Blood. Despair. The monk’s gaze was finally drawn to a subtle depiction in the foreground, in the shadow of the monstrous thing. A shadow, at first glance, but staring at it the old monk could see more, much more. With an economy of tiles, the mural depicted a vast pit opening in the ground, with a squat green building standing nearby.

The others waited in silence. Finally, the old man turned away, and looked up at the tall man standing beside him.

“What it means, Selaht, is that we must go to Camar, at once.”

 

[Mahtave]

Hurrah! More Camar Goodness! Look forward to the continuation LB. Excellent start!

 

[Lazybones]

Thanks, Mahtave!

Regarding the earlier question about PDFing the story; I was going to prep a compilation of the original story, but of late I've been leaning toward waiting until the current section is complete, then publishing it once it is all done.


* * * * *

Chapter 1

A MAN AND HIS CART


A dense, moist fog hung low over the hilly plains of southern Camar, clinging to the earth even as the morning deepened. It was still far enough from spring for the morning chill to fog the breath and suck the warmth out of a traveler’s bones, but the worst of the winter storms were already past. This far south, snow never landed on the lowlands, or at least it hadn’t since that terrible winter twelve years back. People still talked about that grim year, when the world itself seemed to be coming apart around them, and the unending winter was just one of a series of crises that plagued the people of Camar.

A wagon pulled by a team of two drays clattered and clacked down one of the weathered roads that wound through the south. The fog muted the sounds made by the wagon, but the road was in poor enough shape that the noise of its wheels jumping in and out of the ruts was almost constant. A boy barely in his teens sat on the board of the wagon, directing the team, while a man walked alongside the horses, wary of the deeper canyons in the ill-kept road that might jeopardize a wheel, or even one of the axles of the wagon.

The man was clad in the plain and serviceable raiment of a farmer, but there was something in the way he carried himself that spoke to something more. He was well into his middle years, in his forties by the look of him, but his warm coat and fur-lined breeches could not fully conceal his considerable muscles, even if the slightest hint of a paunch bulged out above the thick leather belt wrapped twice around his torso. He was armed with a long dirk that rode on his left hip.

“Are we quite nearly there?” the boy asked, tending the reins carefully for all that the horses seemed to know the route, and the man in front was doing most of the work guiding the team.

“The road’s the same length coming back as it was heading out,” the farmer replied. But then his expression softened, and he glanced back, adding, “Still a good two leagues to go, Cael. We’ll be home just after noon, and if we’re lucky there will be some stew left in the pot for us.”

“Will you tell me another of your stories? About the wars, I mean.”

The farmer had turned his gaze back to the road ahead. “Stories are fine for around the hearth. But this here’s still the frontier, and you’d be well-served keeping your mind on the road, and the team.”

“Aw, I’ve ridden this road a dozen times.” But the boy’s protest was weak, and he seemed chastised as the pair resumed their passage in silence. At least for a few minutes.

“So, do you think—”

The boy did not get a chance to finish his thought, as the farmer suddenly stopped the team, pulling both horses to a stop with a tug on their harness and a soft click on his tongue.

“What is it?” the boy asked, staring into the fog.

“Cael, get back into the wagon, and get down behind the barrels.”

“But—”

“Do it, boy.”

The farmer hadn’t turned around, but his voice held a note of command that could not be challenged, so the boy did as he was bid. But he took shelter in a position that allowed him a clear view fo the road between two of the large barrels of beer that rode in the center of the wagon, so he could see what happened next.

They materialized out of the fog like ghosts, but Cael could see that they were men, a rough lot of them, clad in the rugged garments of the frontier. There were seven, all but one afoot, the last riding in the saddle of a ragged palfrey that Cael could see even through the fog had seen better days. A long-handled axe hung from his saddle. One of the men had a crossbow, and the others were armed with a variety of other weapons, long knives and hatchets for the most part, although one had a short Legion spear slung over his shoulder.

The man on the horse pulled back his reins; his companions came to stop around him, blocking the road. “Ah, I thought we had the road to ourselves, this morning,” the rider said. “You’re the first hint of civilization we’ve seen yet this day.”

“You’ll make Alderford by early afternoon, if you keep a good pace.”

“Good to know.” He jerked his thumb back down the road behind him. “Nothing but damned tiny villages for leagues and leagues back thataways, no fun to be had in such places. Bound for Highbluff?”

“One of those damned tiny villages, rather.”

“Ah, I see. Thought you might be selling.” He scanned the wagon. “Looks like a fairly prosperous trip.”

Watching from his point of vigil, Cael saw the farmer standing stone-still, his back to him. The ruffians had spread out, forming a half-circle in front of the team, with the rider in the center.

There was a tense moment of silence, then the farmer finally spoke. “One of the things I’ve learned about the frontier; you often don’t know what in the hells you’re going to get from one day to the next. I’ve got a few more leagues ahead, so if you don’t mind, I’d like to be on my way.”

For a moment, Cael thought that was going to be that, but then the next words from the rider’s mouth caused his gut to clench.

“Well. You’re clearly ex-Legion, mate, and I appreciate the warning, but fact is, times is tough all around, and me and my boys have a long trek ahead of us as well. So we’ll take the wagon, and your horses, but you’re free to go on your way. You can even keep that dirk and your boots, as one veteran to another.”

The farmer did not move. “You are making a serious mistake. I don’t usually offer two warnings, but...”

He was interrupted as the crossbowman lifted his weapon to his shoulder and fired.

Cael must have cried out, for several of the men turned to look at him in his hiding place. But his eyes were fixed on the farmer. The range was so close, there was no way he could have missed... and yet, somehow the farmer had shifted to the side, and the bolt merely grazed his arm, glancing off to the side as it clipped his coat. The crossbowman cursed and lowered his weapon, snagging the string with his beltclaw to reset the mechanism.

He never got a chance to finish, as the farmer drew his dagger and threw it in a single smooth motion. The long blade sank to its crossbar in the man’s throat. He stood there a moment, a surprised look on his face, and then sank to the dirty ground, gurgling as blood welled out from the deadly wound.

The rider looked impressed. “A damned fine toss, friend, but you’re a fool to disarm yourself.” He gestured to his remaining men. “Kill him.”

The five men came forward quickly, blades or cudgels appearing in their hands. The farmer stepped forward to meet them. The horses, at his back, shinnied nervously at the smell of blood, but they did not break.

The bandits acted like men who knew how to use their weapons, but most of them did not have the cohesion of men trained to war. The first lunged at the farmer with his long knife, but his target sidestepped the thrust easily, and the blade did not even come close to connecting. He grabbed the bandit’s arm and spun, using the attacker’s own momentum as a weapon as he hurled him into his onrushing companions. The collision sent three of them to the ground in a tumble of arms and legs.

The man with the spear was more adept. His weapon was a short pilum, balanced for throwing, but he used it as a thrusting spear, keeping well out of the other man’s reach. The head of the weapon caught the farmer in the shoulder, drawing blood through his heavy coat, and might have done serious damage if he’d had a chance to drive it deeper into his body. But the farmer moved fast, too fast, seizing the haft just above the iron point, yanking it out of the wound. The spearman grunted and tried to pull his weapon out of the farmer’s grip; he had leverage, but the spear would not budge. The farmer was distracted as the last bandit leapt at him, a hatchet in each hand; but before either could connect he drove his left fist into the man’s face. The bandit crumpled in the dirt, unconscious.

The farmer twisted and pulled hard on the spear, forcing the spearman to either let go or come to close grips. The bandit chose to let go, but the decision did not avail him much as the farmer jabbed the end of the haft into his chest. The spearman cried out and fell, spitting blood.

The rider had unlimbered his axe and had started to urge his mount forward to ride the farmer down, but on seeing the rapid dismemberment of his little cadre he apparently changed his mind. Pulling hard on his reins, he charged around the wagon, almost riding down one of his men as he staggered to his feet. He got almost around the back of the wagon before the head of the pilum exploded out from his gut, having penetrated through his back. His horse’s charge carried him forward a good forty yards before he toppled off from the saddle, landing in a bloody heap in the dirt of the road.

One of the surviving bandits foolishly pressed the attack, coming at the farmer with an axe. The farmer merely stepped into the swing, seizing the haft of the weapon and tearing it from his grasp. The bandit snarled and tried to tackle him, but quickly learned that the farmer’s strength was far greater than his. A twist and a crack of bone announced the breaking of his arm, and then a short upward course of the axe brought a more decisive end.

The last two bandits had clearly seen the lay of the land, for as they got to their feet they started running full-tilt back down the road. The farmer watched them run, and calmly lifted the bloody axe, weighing its heft. He lifted the awkward weapon, clearly intending to throw it...

Then he glanced over and saw Cael watching him, his eyes wide.

He lowered the axe, and let the pair escape.

“Damn it,” he said. “Your mother is going to flay me alive when she finds out about this.”

“You... you...”

“Close your mouth, you look like a fish. Go get that horse... stay clear of the rider, he may have some life left in him. Well, go on, boy!”

As the boy clambered down out of the wagon, the farmer checked the bandits. The crossbowman and the one he’d hit with the axe were dead, as was the rider. He dragged both bodies off the road, but paid no more heed to them. The spearman and the one he’d punched were still alive. The spearman, unable to rise, paled as the farmer came up to him, still holding the bloody axe.

“Please... please, don’t kill me...”

The farmer’s eyes were like cold steel. “Seems you weren’t all that intent on the concept of mercy, a few minutes back.” He looked consideringly at the axe, then shrugged. “Damned if you haven’t gotten me into a fix. I’m not going to drag your sorry carcass all the way back to Highbluff for a trial.”

“I... I served... Second Legion...” The injured man tried to say something else, but it was swallowed in a fit of bloody coughing. The blow he’d taken had crushed a rib or two, and had probably ripped a lung. He was having difficulty breathing. The farmer sank to one knee next to him, the axe propped up next to him.

“Yeah, don’t bother, I’ve heard it before. Freaking sob-story, times are tough, blah, blah, blah. You’re not the only former soldier who was scrubbed out for one reason or another, and hit hard times. Well, you’re a fool, and I doubt you’d have spared a thought for your victim if you hadn’t been the stupidest, gods-cursed bandit in the freaking world, and drawn me.”

The injured man’s eyes suddenly grew wide. “You... you’re... general... Dar...”

The farmer held his gaze for a long moment. “Yeah, that’s me, or at least it was.“

If anything, the man’s panic intensified. He tried to get up, but he could not manage it. Dar regarded him for a moment, then looked up over his shoulder. Cael was there, holding the reins of the horse, his eyes wide. It was immediately clear that he’d heard everything.

Dar bit off a curse. “All right, legionary, I guess you and your freaking brawler friend are coming back with me. Your career as a bandit is over. I strongly recommend that you shut the hell up and don’t cause me any more trouble. You understand?”

The man nodded. The farmer lifted the injured man with hardly any effort, drawing a groan of pain, and deposited him in the back of the wagon. After a moment, he did the same with the unconscious hatchet-man. Cael followed mutely, and at a direction from Dar tied the captured horse’s reins to the back of the wagon.

“Bind this one’s hands,” he said, indicating the unconscious man.

“Yes, sir.” The boy’s earlier startlement had faded somewhat, and now he rushed off to obey the orders, recovering some leather straps from the front of the wagon that he used to tie the unconscious man up.

The injured man’s groans were growing weaker, but he was still conscious. “I’m dying,” he managed to say.

“Gods, I’ve taken hurts worse than that and still beat the crap out of a freaking demon,” Dar said. “When you’ve had your freaking arm ripped off by a six-armed snake-woman from Hell, then you can bitch.” He glanced again at the boy, who was watching the scene with an almost dazed expression, fumbling with the leather straps as he tied them around the limp man’s wrists.

“Damn it, boy, you make those too tight, that bastard’ll lose his hands. Not that he doesn’t deserve it, mind you, but it will make more trouble for the both of us when we get back.”

The boy jumped and focused anew on his work. But he kept glancing over at the man dying on the bed of the wagon a few feet away.

Dar looked up at the sky. The fog was finally starting to clear. “Damn it all to hell,” he said finally. He drew out a small glass vial from a pocket in his coat, and bent over the injured man, uncorking the container and forcing its contents down his throat. The results were almost immediate; the man’s breathing eased at once, and he lay there, blinking in surprise, instantly restored to full health.

“Better tie this one up as well,” Dar said to Cael. Dar shot a warning look at the spearman, but there was no fight left in him, and he submitted without challenge. Muttering to himself, Dar walked around the wagon, picking up discarded weapons and tossing them into the space behind the seat. No sense in leaving them lying around for some other would-be bandit to find.

He recovered his dagger, wiping the blade on the dead crossbowman’s jacket. There was blood all over the weapon, soaked into the leather wrap that protected the hilt. There was blood on his hands, and he’d seen it on Cael’s, too; he was going to catch hell for that too, no doubt.

He returned to the wagon and calmed the horses; they were still skittish around so much sudden death, but they had held their ground. Cael had thought to hit the wagon brake, a point in his favor.

Dar looked down at the bloody axe he was still carrying in his hand. With a sudden growl, he hurled it away. The weapon flew end-over-end across the road, burying itself deep into the bole of a tree some fifteen feet away, twelve feet off the ground.

“I am getting too old for this crap,” Dar muttered, as he pulled himself onto the wagon’s seat, and took up the reins. “Keep an eye on those two,” he said to Cael. “Anyone of them give you a squeak, you let me know.”

But there were no squeaks, as the wagon lurched into motion, continuing past the scene of carnage along the quiet frontier road.

 

[Nightbreeze]

“When you’ve had your freaking arm ripped off by a six-armed snake-woman from Hell, then you can bitch.”

I think this should go in wikiquote

So, Lazybones, a nice little life for general dar? I admit that I find it hard to believe that Allera, being the greatest healer of Camar, didn't keep a more important position...but, I'll wait and look for the "flaying"

 

[Ed Gentry]

You're assuming the boy's mother is Allera!

 

[wolff96]

If the mother ISN'T Allera, it's going to be a real surprise. Dar cared enough for her to shatter the blade that changed his entire personality. If that isn't love, I don't know what is.

Anyway, it's good to see more writing on this one, LB. Nice to see that Dar, at least, has a chance to enjoy at least some of his retirement.

 

[Ed Gentry]

Ahh, but what if she's died?

Even besides that, the story does not tell us for certain that the boy is Dar's son, only that Dar is responsible for his care and safety for the moment.

 

[Lazybones]

Chapter 2

HOPE


The village of Hope still looked new, and by the standards of most towns it was, the first buildings having been built there only twelve years past. The place was off the beaten path, a good hour off the main road that connected Highbluff with the scattered settlements to the south, but it was otherwise well situated. A stream wound around the western edge of the town, and there were several forests nearby for food and fuel. The village itself sat upon a small rise, adjoining a low ridge of exposed limestone that acted as sort of a shield wall to the north. A lookout tower sat atop that ridge, along with the foundations of what might someday become a small keep.

Despite its isolation, the village itself had grown steadily in the decade since its founding, until now almost three hundred people called it their home. The wall that extended in a half-circle out from the trailing edges of the ridge had been extended outward twice, and already a number of structures had been constructed outside of that shelter, including a sawmill and grain mill along the stream.

Perhaps the single greatest reason for the steady growth of Hope was its largest structure, a sprawling three-story stone building, roofed in expensive red tiles, situated on the original commons within the center of the old wall in the shadow of the ridge. This building was of sound construction and looked older than it was, even with the recent construction of two new wings that had added maybe a dozen additional rooms to the structure. The building’s white-painted walls caught the light of the sun that had finally burned through the persistent morning fog. Despite the martial precautions evident in Hope’s walls, and the tower above, this structure was a place that had clearly not been built for defense, with huge windows, most of which had real glass set into their casements, and several skylights cut into the sloping roof to boot. A balcony ran along part of the second story in the main wing, connecting several patios with comfortable chairs and overhanging eaves to protect against the rain. Several people of varying ages and colorations were seated there, wrapped in blankets against the lingering chill. They were attended by men and women garbed in white, and several others in similar raiment were visible about the grounds, attending to various private tasks.

Allera Hialar Dar was just coming out of the herb-drying shed when a loud whistle from the tower above drew her attention. She looked up reflexively, and then turned toward the road that emerged from the forest to the south. The sloping rise on which the village was perched gave her a vantage over the long stone wall that joined with the ridge to form a protective ring around the settlement, so she could just see the wagon that was emerging from the woods into the light of the day.

Others had seen it as well, and by the time that the wagon had reached the outer gate, a small group of men, women, and children had gathered. Allera trailed along behind the company, and a smile came to her face unbidden as she saw her husband on the wagon’s raised seat.

The smile evaporated a moment later as she noticed that something was wrong.

There was a bit of hubbub as Dar said something to the men, and number of them gathered around the back of the wagon. Allera came forward, deliberately not hastening, although her heart had elected to speed up somewhat despite her attempts to present a calm face. She knew from experience that village people could be excitable, especially those who chose to make a living out here on the frontier, where the threats were real and ever-present.

Dar wasn’t helping matters. Allera could read the thundercloud in his expression. And the blood on his coat...

A woman pushed past her, rushing toward the wagon. “Cael! CAEL!”

Allera followed in the woman’s wake, as she shouldered through the small crowd to the wagon. The boy, standing atop the stacked cargo at the back of the wagon, looked over as she surged up, and Allera could see that there were traces of blood on his clothes as well. He did not seem to be injured, but Allera knew that Illyeni’s wrath was not likely to be abated by that.

Dar had gotten down off the wagon, and was directing the men as they lifted two bound figures from the back of the wagon. He turned as Illyeni reached him. “The boy’s fine, Yeni...”

He didn’t get a chance to finish, as the woman—who had to crane her neck to look into his eyes, slammed a fist into his shoulder. Dar grunted, and a look of pain flashed on his face. “Don’t you dare give me your bull, Corath Dar! I told you that something was going to happen on that road... Damn me for a fool, to listen to your stupid promises!”

Cael jumped down from the wagon’s bed, and started to protest, but only managed a few words before his mother enfolded him in a tight embrace. Allera used that distraction to approach Dar. Her voice held low so as to not carry beyond him, she said, “You know she’s been protective of Cael ever since her husband died.”

Dar muttered, “The boy’s got to learn the ways of the world, eventually.” He reached over to pick up his cloak off the adjacent wagon board, and grimaced.

Allera saw it at once, and touched his shoulder with her fingers, frowning. She pulled open the collar of his shirt, revealing the hasty bandage he’d wadded under the coarse fabric. Now she saw why Illyeni’s punch had scored such a reaction. “You’re hurt.” Her look was almost accusatory.

“Somebody tried to stick a spear in me.”

“Looks like they succeeded.” She pressed a hand against his shoulder, and unleashed a healing spell into him. He took a deep breath and let it out as the magic flowed through him. “Thanks, angel.”

“I seem to remember giving you a healing potion, before you left.”

“I didn’t want the boy to see a prisoner die in front of him.”

Allera nodded in understanding. Her hand lingered on his chest. “Those men, bandits?”

“Yeah, on the south road. Amateurs, really.” He looked back at the two prisoners, who were being handled none-too-gently toward the nearby inn by a dozen men. “We’d better make sure that the sentencing of those two doesn’t precede the trial.”

“They’re likely to hang anyway,” Allera said, as they made their way toward the inn.

“Yeah, well, they made their choice.”

They were interrupted as another whistle from the tower atop the ridge drew their attention back to the road. A single rider, pressing a destrier at a full gallop, emerged from the forest. The two men on guard duty at the gate had lowered their spears into ready positions before they recognized the rider’s colors, and the sigil etched onto his breastplate.

Dar and Allera recognized it as well, and they were there to greet the man as he rode through the gate into the open space near Dar’s wagon.

“Kiron!” Dar hailed. “What news from Camar?”

The young man, clad in the armor of a Dragon Knight, saluted them as he reined in his winded stallion. “Ill news, unfortunately, general. The First Citizen is dead, and I am bid to bring you to Camar at once.”

Dar and Allera shared a look, and the healer pressed herself under the crook of his arm, wrapping her arms around him. “I’m sorry,” she said.

 

[Lazybones]

Chapter 3

A GATHERING IN DARKNESS


A brisk wind blew in off the ocean one night, whipping the tops of white-capped waves that forged a constant drumming against the rocky coastline. The wind blew inland, stirring the dry brush and blowing up sheets of dust from the rough hillsides beyond the coastal cliffs before eventually dying out further inland. The occasional lonely seabird rose up on those currents of wind, but their presence only added a sense of grim isolation to this desolate shore. The moon was just a sliver in the clear night sky, but the light of a thousand stars cast the faintest glow over the landscape.

The only signs of man’s habitation of this region were the wreckage of long-past days. Bits and pieces of timber that had once been ships could occasionally be seen strewn across the gray sand beaches that infrequently broke the line of cliffs, and in places there were piles of stone visible atop the cliffs that might have once been part of deliberate constructions, rather than accidents of wind and sea and time. It was difficult to say for sure, even when standing among those crumbling sentinels.

But on an island situated a few miles off that long and lonely coast stood a ruin that was obviously a former habitation of man. The remnants of stone walls upon the island were truly ancient, forming the outlines of what have been a citadel. There were faint hints of more recent settlement, but the resurgent jungle had reclaimed clearings and grown through what might have been campsites among the ruins. The island boasted a lagoon sheltered by reefs on the leeward side, a natural harbor. The wreckage of two large ships lay smashed against the rocks on the windward side of the island, blackened hulks reduced to little more than skeletons of broken beams and jagged spars, their crews long since consumed by the deep.

A dark figure materialized out of the night sky, high above the island. It was too large to be another seabird, but the darkness muted its black form. It descended upon huge wings that caught the air and steered it toward the center of the ruins. It landed in the shadow of a long, crumbling wall. The big black wings folded into its back and disappeared, leaving only a slight form that crept soundlessly forward. The darkness covered it like a cloak, and for several long minutes it was as if it had disappeared entirely.

But the black figure reappeared on the edge of a depression in the center of the ruin, a hollow lined with stone. Stone steps descended from the rim into the hollow. The intruder paused to examine the steps. The omnipresent growth was not evident here; the steps were covered in black char, and the stone itself was slick, fluid, the steps uneven as though the stone itself had started to melt.

There was something else; a smell rising from below. It was a familiar stink, the odor of death, old enough so that the edge was gone, but not old enough to have lost that sharp smell of decay.

After a few seconds the figure rose again and descended.

The hollow turned out to be a huge chamber. Once, perhaps, it had been the cellar of a huge fortress that had dominated the island. Now it was just an empty cavern, open to the sky above.

Something crunched softly under the intruder’s feet as it reached the base of the stairs. It was a shard of bone, one of many scattered about. There was more char here, black streaks that marred the surrounding stone. Part of the place was collapsed, and much of the rest looked like it was about to.

The dark figure walked silently through the rubble to the far side of the place, where a massive stone archway in a sheer stone face accessed another chamber that was fully underground. The intruder paused for only a moment on the threshold between the soft half-light that filtered down from above, and the total darkness within. Then he headed inside.

A light suddenly appeared, on the far side of the room, as a curtain was drawn back from a narrow opening in a deep alcove. It revealed that the room was cluttered with rubble, and showed the dark figure to be a man, clad in dark leathers and a long black cloak. It also well as something else: the source of the smell of death that hung over the place.

The man in the black cloak glanced over at it. There was not much left save for bones and skin, but that was more than enough to identify what it had been in life.

A dark-skinned giant of a man stood in the open doorway, holding back the curtain. He said nothing, just stood there waiting. The man in the cloak walked over to him.

“Ah, Jasek, good. You are the last to arrive,” came a voice from the room beyond the curtain.

The large black man stepped back, giving Jasek room to move past him through the narrow doorway. The curtain, a heavy segment of dense gray cloth, had been affixed to spikes driven into the ceiling, and it slid back into place behind him as he entered.

The chamber was small and mostly intact, save for a gouge in the far wall surrounded by a bit of rubble. The features of the place had worn away through time, leaving no clue as to its original purpose. It now served as a council chamber. A stone slab served as a table in the center of the place; there was no hint as to how it had gotten in here, as it was far too large to have fit through the doorway. The light came from a small lamp at the center of the slab, that produced a too-bright flame that was almost certainly magical. The stone table was surrounded by four folding camp chairs, the sort that soldiers used on campaign.

Three of the chairs were occupied. The man who had greeted him sat at the far end of the table. He was a short but broad-shouldered Drusian, with languid features that belied a considerable sharpness in his dark brown eyes. He wore an unusual suit of armor fashioned of metal scales that covered his entire torso and upper arms.

The man seated to the Drusian’s right was obviously a magic-user. He wore a comfortable suit of well-made clothes in violet and black, rather than a robe, but Jasek could almost taste the shifting magical auras radiating off of him. His eyes were those of a hawk as they slanted over the newcomer.

The man to the Drusian’s left, however, sent a chill down Jasek’s spine as soon as he turned his gaze. It was a man, or at least it looked like one; it was swathed in faded, almost tattered robes that covered its body, including a cowl that shielded its face from the light of the lamp. But as Jasek felt the man’s gaze seize his, a cold pit gaped open inside him, and he froze, shaking. His mind screamed warnings, but he could not move.

“It will pass,” the Drusian said, lifting an open hand in what might have been reassurance. “It is not an attack, but rather a property of our... companion. Wait a few moments, and you will regain full use of your faculties.”

“It takes some longer than others,” the mage said, his lips twisting in a faint approximation of a sneer. But Jasek could tell that he too was ill at ease with the man in the cowl. If it was a man.

He mastered himself in what he thought was a reasonable interval, and stepped forward. He avoided looking at the cowled man again, but noticed that there was another person in the room, who he’d overlooked in his momentary paralysis. That figure, another Drusian, was clad in simple, almost peasant, clothes. His head was shaved, and he was attending to something on a folding table in the back corner. That mystery was answered a moment later as the man came forward bearing a small tray, which held a cup of steaming liquid.

“You have had a rigorous flight, no doubt, and must be weary,” the armored Drusian said. “I hope I was not presumptuous in my selection of beverage.”

The servant offered the cup, which Jasek accepted. He did not hesitate for more than a fraction of a second before drinking; if any of these others had wanted him dead, it was unlikely that they would have arranged for him to come all the way here. His eyes widened slightly in surprise as he sampled the draught; the caff was Razhuri, prepared in the thick, almost syrupy style favored by the aristocrats of that nation. He could almost feel the stimulant taking effect, a tiny surge of energy seeping through his veins. He nodded incrementally at the seated Drusian, and took the cup with him to the last seat at the table. The black man, he noticed, remained near the curtain, a guard to keep watch while the four held their conclave.

“The dragon outside, an adult red?” Jasek asked as he sat down.

The armored Drusian nodded. “We attempted to convince Aragnak to join our cause, but were unsuccessful.”

“Not a trivial feat,” Jasek said, taking another sip from the tiny mug before putting it down on the slab in front of him.

The Drusian nodded. “As you are the last, Jasek, we may now begin.”

“The last, Ghazaran?” the mage asked. “Then I take it that your embassy to the Nightlord was unsuccessful?”

Ghazaran shrugged slightly, taking a second cup of caff as the servant brought it to him. The mage waved him off when he looked at him; he did not bother to inquire of the cowled man. No one seemed concerned by the presence of the servant or the guard within their meeting, so Jasek did not raise the issue.

“My emissary did not return, which is response enough,” Ghazaran said. “The chance was extremely slight, in any estimation.”

“A pity,” the mage said. “He and his consort have more power than the rest of this gathering combined.” Jasek saw the cowled figure shift slightly, but it said nothing. Jasek could detect a faint smell now that seemed to be coming from the other’s direction. The odor was not unlike the faint hint of decay he’d smelled before, or the stronger smell that had accompanied the carcass of the dragon.

Ghazaran’s reply was a subtle smile. “Perhaps you underestimate us, ser.” He rose from the chair, and placed his hands palm-down upon the edge of the slab. “Gentlemen. I have spoken with all of you at length prior to this day, but each of you may not know the others. If you will permit me, I will make the introductions, and then get to the key purpose of this meeting.”

The others did not dissent. He turned to the mage. “The Seer has provided invaluable arcane aid to our cause. In particular, your divination abilities have been vital to advancing our plan. We will rely heavily upon your knowledge of our destination, as well.”

The Seer raised an eyebrow slightly, but did not otherwise respond.

“What does he get in exchange?” Jasek asked.

“Knowledge,” the Seer said. “Of ancient secrets lost to the awareness of man.”

“Our agreement,” Ghazaran explained to Jasek, “was that all arcana, spells, tomes and treatises, those spell-items only of use to a wizard, and all materials of a historic or eldritch significance that are found within the vault are his to claim.”

“So long as it does not conflict with my claims, I have no difficulty with that.”

The Drusian nodded. “Indeed, Jasek Haddar. Your talents will be vital to the securing of the third device necessary to access the vault. Your skills, and the properties of the weapon you bear, that is. You have already received the first installment of your reward, and your claim upon the mineral and magical treasures of the vault is agreed upon, insofar as those items do not fall within the specific remit of the Seer. And, of course, you will have payment for the wrongs that the Camarians wrought upon you.”

“Fine,” Jasek said. “That’s fine. And him?” he added, with a nod at the cowled figure.

The cowl shifted, and once again Jasek felt the cold weight of that unholy stare. Ghazaran laughed, but Jasek knew that it had to be cover; no one could be so easily calm in the presence of such a thing.

“Zafir Navev’s role in our little scheme is vital in more ways than one. And he has more reason to hate Camar than any here.”

Navev’s hand moved, and for a moment Jasek caught a glimpse of a withered stump of a hand, wrapped in withered, crusted strips of parchment or leather. He recognized the two blades that clattered onto the table, even before the light caught the gemstones embedded in their hilts, one blue, one red.

“My associates are Falah Naj, at the door there, and Parzad, providing our refreshment,” Ghazaran was saying, although everyone was still looking at the daggers. “All you need to know about them, for now, is that their loyalty to me is unquestionable, and they will play vital roles in our plan.”

Jasek looked up at that, not bothering to hide the doubt in his expression. “And what of you, priest? You are the leader of this merry little band, but your motivation in this plan is not entirely clear to me.”

Ghazaran’s benign expression did not change, but a sudden sharpness appeared in his eyes, until Jasek felt as though cold daggers were being thrust against him by that stare. “Like each of you, I have an interest in Camar’s suffering. For ten years, I have worked toward this day we now face. When we unleash the Ravager, you will see.”

 

[Dungannon]

I can't tell you how happy I am to see this story continuing.