Menu
News
All News
Dungeons & Dragons
Level Up: Advanced 5th Edition
Pathfinder
Starfinder
Warhammer
2d20 System
Year Zero Engine
Industry News
Reviews
Dragon Reflections
Columns
Weekly Digests
Weekly News Digest
Freebies, Sales & Bundles
RPG Print News
RPG Crowdfunding News
Game Content
ENterplanetary DimENsions
Mythological Figures
Opinion
Worlds of Design
Peregrine's Next
RPG Evolution
Other Columns
From the Freelancing Frontline
Monster ENcyclopedia
WotC/TSR Alumni Look Back
4 Hours w/RSD (Ryan Dancey)
The Road to 3E (Jonathan Tweet)
Greenwood's Realms (Ed Greenwood)
Drawmij's TSR (Jim Ward)
Community
Forums & Topics
Forum List
Latest Posts
Forum list
*Dungeons & Dragons
Level Up: Advanced 5th Edition
D&D Older Editions
*TTRPGs General
*Pathfinder & Starfinder
EN Publishing
*Geek Talk & Media
Search forums
Chat/Discord
Resources
Wiki
Pages
Latest activity
Media
New media
New comments
Search media
Downloads
Latest reviews
Search resources
EN Publishing
Store
EN5ider
Adventures in ZEITGEIST
Awfully Cheerful Engine
What's OLD is NEW
Judge Dredd & The Worlds Of 2000AD
War of the Burning Sky
Level Up: Advanced 5E
Events & Releases
Upcoming Events
Private Events
Featured Events
Socials!
Twitch
YouTube
Facebook (EN Publishing)
Facebook (EN World)
Twitter
Instagram
TikTok
Podcast
Features
Top 5 RPGs Compiled Charts 2004-Present
Adventure Game Industry Market Research Summary (RPGs) V1.0
Ryan Dancey: Acquiring TSR
Q&A With Gary Gygax
D&D Rules FAQs
TSR, WotC, & Paizo: A Comparative History
D&D Pronunciation Guide
Million Dollar TTRPG Kickstarters
Tabletop RPG Podcast Hall of Fame
Eric Noah's Unofficial D&D 3rd Edition News
D&D in the Mainstream
D&D & RPG History
About Morrus
Log in
Register
What's new
Search
Search
Search titles only
By:
Forums & Topics
Forum List
Latest Posts
Forum list
*Dungeons & Dragons
Level Up: Advanced 5th Edition
D&D Older Editions
*TTRPGs General
*Pathfinder & Starfinder
EN Publishing
*Geek Talk & Media
Search forums
Chat/Discord
Menu
Log in
Register
Install the app
Install
Community
Playing the Game
Story Hour
The Doomed Bastards: Reckoning (story complete)
JavaScript is disabled. For a better experience, please enable JavaScript in your browser before proceeding.
You are using an out of date browser. It may not display this or other websites correctly.
You should upgrade or use an
alternative browser
.
Reply to thread
Message
<blockquote data-quote="Lazybones" data-source="post: 3030049" data-attributes="member: 143"><p>Chapter 1</p><p></p><p>ROLL CALL</p><p></p><p></p><p>The column emerged from the low hills like a line of ants. The sounds of boots tromping on the dry earth and the swirl of dust in the air above them announced their arrival. There were well over two hundred men in the column, all clad in the colors of the Grand Duke of Camar. The omnipresent dust and the stale afternoon light made the orange and gold of their uniforms blend together into a dull brown. </p><p></p><p>Riders surrounded the column, lightly armored scouts mounted upon fast destriers. At the head of the column a half-dozen men clad in finery and mail rode, followed by long lines of armored foot that snaked back into the hills behind them. At the center of the column the formation bulged outward, the soldiers gathered around something not quite visible within the mass of men. Behind that knot came a large iron wagon that creaked loudly on overloaded axles, drawn by four massive Eremite plowhorses that each stood almost as tall as a man from hoof to shoulder. The end of the column was marked by another three wagons, these of a more mundane sort, and about two dozen packhorses attended by wary handlers. </p><p></p><p>As the soldiers emerged from the obstructing hills, the leaders in the vanguard broke away, and rode forward. The territory beyond the hills grew flatter as it extended to the east, although one could not quite call it a plain. Hidden from view, beyond the gentle undulations of the region, lay the sea, a mere four leagues distant. </p><p></p><p>The six riders rode ahead until they reached the edge of a depression that lay across the company’s line of march. The dell was not large enough to present a real obstacle, perhaps a thousand feet from one end to the other. Its low point was a mere fifty or sixty feet below the rim. But the six men stared down into the hollow for quite some time in silence, before turning to watch the arrival of their men. </p><p></p><p>The column split as the leading elements reached them, the men spreading out into positions indicated by their sergeants until the vast majority of them had been organized into rough lines facing the six riders. The knot of men at the center of the formation remained a bit back, and behind them the hard lines of the lead wagon were visible. </p><p></p><p>The soldiers had been wary coming out of the hills, but now they all bore expressions that were part caution, part terror. From their formations they couldn’t quite see into the dell, but even so most of them did not look in that direction, even when one of the six leaders, a man clad in the decorative insignia of a full Camarian colonel, turned toward them and spoke. </p><p></p><p>“Bring forth the prisoners.”</p><p></p><p>The large cluster of men in the center of the company came forward. Behind them, the iron wagon creaked as it too began to move. </p><p></p><p>The circle of soldiers emerged from the ranks and opened, forming a semicircle facing the officer. These men carried crossbows, the heavy Camarian arbalests with crossbars of quality steel. The barbed steel heads of their quarrels were pointed at the four men now visible in the center of the circle. While these four were a diverse lot, they had something in common; all were burdened with heavy manacles linked with lengths of sturdy chain. Some of the four met the gaze of the colonel with resentment, or anger, while others glanced away, whether in shame or at fear of what was to come. </p><p></p><p>The colonel took out a scroll bound in gold ribbon from a pouch at his waist. He unrolled it and opened his mouth to speak, but another of the riders interrupted him. If the colonel wore a look of military splendor, this man—a full decade younger than the soldier—was clearly a noble lord. His clothes were not merely expensive, they were ornate, and the slender rapier at his belt bore numerous precious gems embedded in its hilt. </p><p></p><p>“Bring out the others as well. I want them all to hear this.”</p><p></p><p>“I do not think that is a good idea, m’lord,” the colonel began in a quiet voice, but the other silenced him with a shake of his head. Nodding, the colonel made a gesture to his soldiers. The wagon creaked forward again, until the four prisoners had to shuffle aside or be trampled by the massive horses. Its handlers turned it until the back of the wagon faced the six riders. As it turned it became obvious that the wagon had two solid iron doors, one on each side. </p><p></p><p>The colonel made another gesture, and the ring of crossbowmen partitioned off the four prisoners while another line of troops came forward to surround the wagon. The nobleman’s face took on a look of anticipation mingled with amusement, but the worry of the soldiers did not ease as they took up their positions. </p><p></p><p>“The sylvan, first, I think,” the noble said. </p><p></p><p>The colonel nodded. Two burly men armed with iron-shod clubs and rings of keys came forward, and worked the locks on one of the doors. There were three locks and a chain fastening the portal, so it took about a minute to finish the task. One of the guards took up a ready position, as the second tugged the reluctant door open with a loud creak. </p><p></p><p>A stir rose up through the soldiers. The noble leaned forward in his saddle to see what the others had; the cell was empty, except for a set of iron manacles lying on the wagon floor. </p><p></p><p>“How in the hells...” the colonel began. </p><p></p><p>“You imbecile, it’s a trick,” the noble said. “Look out!” </p><p></p><p>Even as he shouted the warning, a lithe body darted out from the narrow space above the door in the wagon. The guards, completely surprised, futilely tried to grab the streaking form, which landed in a crouch between them and shot forward into a twisting somersault. More soldiers rushed in, spears lowered to pin in the figure, but it shot past them, leaping into a surprised soldier and kicking off his chest, knocking him down as it catapulted away. </p><p></p><p>More soldiers rushed forward to grab the fast-moving figure, but before the situation could develop further, another one of the riders intervened. He’d prodded his horse forward during the brief fracas, spreading his arms wide. He was clad in a half-robe of gray cloth that failed to conceal the fine suit of silvery mail links underneath. In one hand he held a silver sigil shaped into a miniature of a burning torch. The symbol dangled from a short length of chain, jingling slightly as he moved. In the other hand, he carried a light mace with four wide steel flanges. </p><p></p><p>“<em>Invotatus!</em>” he yelled, pointing the head of the mace at the tumbling figure. Instantly, in mid-leap, the escaping captive’s muscles froze, and he fell hard to the ground. A half-dozen soldiers were on him in a flash, restraining him. </p><p></p><p>“Nice work, Valus,” the noble said, with a grin. “I knew there was a reason we brought a priest along with us. Colonel, if you please, continue.”</p><p></p><p>“As you say, Lord Sobol.” The colonel wiped his brow with a patch of kerchief before gesturing for his men to take up positions on the far side of the wagon. They repeated the earlier process, and the two guards tensed as they opened the door this time, wary of a trick. </p><p></p><p>This time, they were disappointed. The figure that emerged from the cell did not appear threatening at all. He was a mature man, perhaps in his fifties if not older, the effects of long captivity showing clearly on his bony frame. There was a collective titter in the surrounding soldiers, a slight rise of voices that sounded of surprise, dismay, and anger. </p><p></p><p>“Order!” the colonel said, his loud voice cutting through the background noise. The soldiers fell silent as the prisoner blinked against the sun, lifting one hand slowly to shade his eyes as he looked around the scene. His gaze fell upon the nobleman and colonel, and hesitated there for a moment before he lowered his eyes and walked forward, joining the other prisoners as they were chivvied forward. </p><p></p><p>“Proceed, colonel,” the lord said. </p><p></p><p>The colonel used his legs to boost himself in the saddle, as he again lifted the scroll. Unrolling the tight length of parchment, he began to read in a loud, dignified voice. There was still the creak of harness, the slight shuffle of armored men shifting about, but otherwise it had suddenly grown very quiet. </p><p></p><p>“Prisoners of the Grand Duke,” he began, “You all stand here having been fairly tried and found guilty of capital offenses against the citizens and the laws of Camar. Your lives are forfeit for your crimes, but in his benevolent mercy, the Duke had decided to allow you to earn remission of your deserved punishments through service to the ducal throne.”</p><p></p><p>“Right nice of His Grace,” one of the prisoners interrupted. He was a hard-edged man who did not look all that different from the soldiers surrounding him. Even in a ragged tunic of old wool he wore the look of a veteran warrior, and the smirk on his face did not disguise the hard edge in his penetrating green eyes. His hair and beard had been recently cut in a hasty and irregular fashion, giving him a savage look, but that impression was belied by the calm poise with which he carried himself.</p><p></p><p>“Perhaps it is only fitting that we begin with you, Corath Dar,” the colonel said. “You might have had a promising future in the Duke’s legions, had you not been discharged with disgrace for repeated instances of insubordination. Your record as a mercenary was... impressive, but it is doubtful that anyone would have been interested in retaining your services after you’d murdered the four men that took out your last contract.”</p><p></p><p>“I did the job. I didn’t get paid,” he said, spitting loudly. One of the soldiers laid the butt of his spear across the fighter’s back. Dar staggered forward but quickly straightened, and shot a malevolent glance back over his shoulder before turning back to the colonel and his mounted companions. </p><p></p><p>The colonel gestured, and two soldiers drove the second captive forward. This one was a half-orc, clad only in a soiled loincloth. His frame bulged with muscles, taut beneath a yellowish hide that was slick with sweat and caked dirt. His bare skull was covered with an elaborate tattoo, one that superimposed the features of a snarling bear over his face. The decoration was cleverly done, making it seem as though the man’s protruding, yellowed tusks were the teeth of the bear. He bore twice again as many chains as the other captives, and in his case, it still looked like it wasn’t enough. </p><p></p><p>“Ukas Half-Orc,” the colonel said. “You are a newcomer to Camar, and yet in just a few days within our borders, you amassed quite a list of offenses. A drover’s leg broken in an altercation on the street, which according to witnesses was unprovoked. Less than an hour later, eleven men critically injured in a brawl at the Dancing Dragon, two of whom would have died from their injuries had not a priest been present in the room. Immediately thereafter: two guardsmen killed, four others injured, during your apprehension. One of your fellow prisoners strangled in lockup, and a baliff’s neck broken in the courtroom where your sentence was pronounced.”</p><p></p><p>The half-orc said nothing, crossing his massive arms across his chest. His chains jingled alarmingly, and the armed men around him shifted their weapons warily. </p><p></p><p>“You seem to be a violent man, Ukas,” Lord Sobol added. “I think you will find adequate opportunity to express your... feelings... in this place.” He chuckled, as the colonel moved on to the next man in the line. This prisoner was still youthful, likely only a few years beyond twenty, with a pointed black beard, olive skin, and narrow features that bespoke an ancestry other than the fair Camarians.</p><p></p><p>“Zafir Navev,” the colonel went on. “You stand convicted of trafficking in the Black Arts.”</p><p></p><p>“I violated no law,” the reedy man responded. He spoke the common language with a slight accent. His arms were bound tightly behind his back, drawn tight through iron rings set into the metal band around his waist, the arrangement not even leaving him enough slack to shrug. “My powers are innate, and do not come from any compact with forces from the lower planes.”</p><p></p><p>“The elders of the Guild of Sorcery held a different view. You have been convicted of diabolism, and of conjurations of Entities most foul.”</p><p></p><p>“The fool masters of your Guild will regret their actions,” the warlock said, but he did not resist as the soldiers seized his arms and drew him roughly back into the line. </p><p></p><p>“Licinius Varo,” the colonel said, indicating the next man in the row of prisoners. This one was a plain-looking man of middling years, who if cleaned up might have been mistaken for a merchant or common tradesman. He apparently had not been a prisoner long enough to fully erase the pads of flesh at his cheeks and jowls, although his bindings had mercilessly chafed at his wrists and ankles. “You were a man of faith, respected by your peers and the common folk alike. Yet you threw it away for the chance to offer loyalty to the foul cult of Dagos. Not only did you flout the Duke’s law that proscribed the worship of the Dark Creeper, but you were apprehended in the midst of an unholy rite, covered with the blood of innocents. Just the description of the scene in your indictment is enough to sicken me, and raise the gorge in my throat.”</p><p></p><p>“Know that I would have rather seen your entrails cut from your body as you hung upon the Wall of Regret,” the mounted cleric said. </p><p></p><p>“Tut, tut, Valus,” Varo said. “Were we not taught that the precepts of the Shining Father were founded upon forgiveness, and understanding?” </p><p></p><p>“You are not worthy to speak His name,” the cleric said with disgust. “May the screams of your victims follow your soul down into the pits of Hell, Varo.” </p><p></p><p>The next prisoner was the captive from the wagon that had tried to escape, only to be foiled by Valus’s <em>hold person</em> spell. The darting figure that had so confounded the guardsmen was revealed to be an elf, but one so dirty and disheveled that the creature seemed more animal than sentient. He had braided his hair into a tangle of convoluted knots that formed no apparent pattern, and hundreds of tiny cuts, some still covered with fresh scabs, covered his naked body. The elf had tried to escape the moment the cleric’s spell had worn off, and had been bludgeoned by the soldiers holding him. He now hung from the firm grasp of two soldiers, his head lolling, only half-conscious. </p><p></p><p>“Elf,” the colonel said. “You stand convicted of the destruction of property, arson, and murder, specifically of a family of settlers from the outpost at Greathold. Your people may not all be appreciative of the terms of the treaty between your race and the citizens of the Duchy, but that is no excuse for the slaughter of innocent people, especially the two children whose hacked bodies you left behind. You have not yielded your name, even under duress, but the soldiers have named you ‘the Mad Elf’, and that appellation seems as appropriate as anything else.”</p><p></p><p>The elf’s only response was a faint groan. </p><p></p><p>The colonel shifted his attention to the last captive, the old man that had disembarked from the prison wagon. He straightened, summoning up some reserve of dignity that transcended his poor condition and ragged, soiled garments. </p><p></p><p>“Velan Tiros. Former Marshal of the Western Reaches, commander of the 3rd legion, victor at Ravenford and Greenrise, holder of the Bronze Cluster, Silver Cluster, and the Golden Starburst for Valor. You stand convicted of the crime of High Treason against the Grand Duke, and the lawful government of the people of Camar. It saddens me to say it, sir. You were at one time one of the greatest among us. Your example...”</p><p></p><p>“Yes, yes,” Lord Sobol interrupted. “You made your choice, Tiros, and your bid for power failed. I hope you can sleep with the souls of the men you betrayed on your conscience.”</p><p></p><p>“I regret nothing except that I was unsuccessful,” Tiros said. For a moment it looked as though he wanted to say more, but finally he lowered his head in silence. </p><p></p><p>The lord reined in his horse, turning the animal around until he stood silhouetted against the lip of the dell, the last rays of the fading sun shining resplendent upon his brightly colored clothes and their bejeweled decorations. “You men are already dead,” he said to them. “But the Duke is giving you the chance to earn your lives, and your freedom. Perhaps even wealth, coin enough to depart Camar forever, and buy your own kingdoms abroad.” He fixed his eyes upon Tiros, although he continued to speak to all of them. “I am sure there are places far enough away that even the storied tales of woe of such a lot as you rogues are unknown.”</p><p></p><p>He gestured to the colonel, who ordered his soldiers forward. They came reluctantly, driving the prisoners forward ahead of them until they stood almost on the very edge of the rocky slope leading down into the hollow below. The prisoners looked for the first time upon their destination.</p><p></p><p>The depression was a graveyard. Ancient slabs of bleached granite gathered in clusters across the landscape, marking hundreds if not thousands of old graves. Three mausoleums of weathered stone that bore a greenish tinge in the late afternoon light were located in the hollow, each huddling apart from the others. A thick, musty odor hung in the faint hint of breeze that wafted up from below. </p><p></p><p>“There is your mission for the Duke, and your chance to escape the fate that your actions have chosen for you. The task demanded by the Duke is simple: loot Rappan Athuk, the Dungeon of Graves.”</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Lazybones, post: 3030049, member: 143"] Chapter 1 ROLL CALL The column emerged from the low hills like a line of ants. The sounds of boots tromping on the dry earth and the swirl of dust in the air above them announced their arrival. There were well over two hundred men in the column, all clad in the colors of the Grand Duke of Camar. The omnipresent dust and the stale afternoon light made the orange and gold of their uniforms blend together into a dull brown. Riders surrounded the column, lightly armored scouts mounted upon fast destriers. At the head of the column a half-dozen men clad in finery and mail rode, followed by long lines of armored foot that snaked back into the hills behind them. At the center of the column the formation bulged outward, the soldiers gathered around something not quite visible within the mass of men. Behind that knot came a large iron wagon that creaked loudly on overloaded axles, drawn by four massive Eremite plowhorses that each stood almost as tall as a man from hoof to shoulder. The end of the column was marked by another three wagons, these of a more mundane sort, and about two dozen packhorses attended by wary handlers. As the soldiers emerged from the obstructing hills, the leaders in the vanguard broke away, and rode forward. The territory beyond the hills grew flatter as it extended to the east, although one could not quite call it a plain. Hidden from view, beyond the gentle undulations of the region, lay the sea, a mere four leagues distant. The six riders rode ahead until they reached the edge of a depression that lay across the company’s line of march. The dell was not large enough to present a real obstacle, perhaps a thousand feet from one end to the other. Its low point was a mere fifty or sixty feet below the rim. But the six men stared down into the hollow for quite some time in silence, before turning to watch the arrival of their men. The column split as the leading elements reached them, the men spreading out into positions indicated by their sergeants until the vast majority of them had been organized into rough lines facing the six riders. The knot of men at the center of the formation remained a bit back, and behind them the hard lines of the lead wagon were visible. The soldiers had been wary coming out of the hills, but now they all bore expressions that were part caution, part terror. From their formations they couldn’t quite see into the dell, but even so most of them did not look in that direction, even when one of the six leaders, a man clad in the decorative insignia of a full Camarian colonel, turned toward them and spoke. “Bring forth the prisoners.” The large cluster of men in the center of the company came forward. Behind them, the iron wagon creaked as it too began to move. The circle of soldiers emerged from the ranks and opened, forming a semicircle facing the officer. These men carried crossbows, the heavy Camarian arbalests with crossbars of quality steel. The barbed steel heads of their quarrels were pointed at the four men now visible in the center of the circle. While these four were a diverse lot, they had something in common; all were burdened with heavy manacles linked with lengths of sturdy chain. Some of the four met the gaze of the colonel with resentment, or anger, while others glanced away, whether in shame or at fear of what was to come. The colonel took out a scroll bound in gold ribbon from a pouch at his waist. He unrolled it and opened his mouth to speak, but another of the riders interrupted him. If the colonel wore a look of military splendor, this man—a full decade younger than the soldier—was clearly a noble lord. His clothes were not merely expensive, they were ornate, and the slender rapier at his belt bore numerous precious gems embedded in its hilt. “Bring out the others as well. I want them all to hear this.” “I do not think that is a good idea, m’lord,” the colonel began in a quiet voice, but the other silenced him with a shake of his head. Nodding, the colonel made a gesture to his soldiers. The wagon creaked forward again, until the four prisoners had to shuffle aside or be trampled by the massive horses. Its handlers turned it until the back of the wagon faced the six riders. As it turned it became obvious that the wagon had two solid iron doors, one on each side. The colonel made another gesture, and the ring of crossbowmen partitioned off the four prisoners while another line of troops came forward to surround the wagon. The nobleman’s face took on a look of anticipation mingled with amusement, but the worry of the soldiers did not ease as they took up their positions. “The sylvan, first, I think,” the noble said. The colonel nodded. Two burly men armed with iron-shod clubs and rings of keys came forward, and worked the locks on one of the doors. There were three locks and a chain fastening the portal, so it took about a minute to finish the task. One of the guards took up a ready position, as the second tugged the reluctant door open with a loud creak. A stir rose up through the soldiers. The noble leaned forward in his saddle to see what the others had; the cell was empty, except for a set of iron manacles lying on the wagon floor. “How in the hells...” the colonel began. “You imbecile, it’s a trick,” the noble said. “Look out!” Even as he shouted the warning, a lithe body darted out from the narrow space above the door in the wagon. The guards, completely surprised, futilely tried to grab the streaking form, which landed in a crouch between them and shot forward into a twisting somersault. More soldiers rushed in, spears lowered to pin in the figure, but it shot past them, leaping into a surprised soldier and kicking off his chest, knocking him down as it catapulted away. More soldiers rushed forward to grab the fast-moving figure, but before the situation could develop further, another one of the riders intervened. He’d prodded his horse forward during the brief fracas, spreading his arms wide. He was clad in a half-robe of gray cloth that failed to conceal the fine suit of silvery mail links underneath. In one hand he held a silver sigil shaped into a miniature of a burning torch. The symbol dangled from a short length of chain, jingling slightly as he moved. In the other hand, he carried a light mace with four wide steel flanges. “[i]Invotatus![/i]” he yelled, pointing the head of the mace at the tumbling figure. Instantly, in mid-leap, the escaping captive’s muscles froze, and he fell hard to the ground. A half-dozen soldiers were on him in a flash, restraining him. “Nice work, Valus,” the noble said, with a grin. “I knew there was a reason we brought a priest along with us. Colonel, if you please, continue.” “As you say, Lord Sobol.” The colonel wiped his brow with a patch of kerchief before gesturing for his men to take up positions on the far side of the wagon. They repeated the earlier process, and the two guards tensed as they opened the door this time, wary of a trick. This time, they were disappointed. The figure that emerged from the cell did not appear threatening at all. He was a mature man, perhaps in his fifties if not older, the effects of long captivity showing clearly on his bony frame. There was a collective titter in the surrounding soldiers, a slight rise of voices that sounded of surprise, dismay, and anger. “Order!” the colonel said, his loud voice cutting through the background noise. The soldiers fell silent as the prisoner blinked against the sun, lifting one hand slowly to shade his eyes as he looked around the scene. His gaze fell upon the nobleman and colonel, and hesitated there for a moment before he lowered his eyes and walked forward, joining the other prisoners as they were chivvied forward. “Proceed, colonel,” the lord said. The colonel used his legs to boost himself in the saddle, as he again lifted the scroll. Unrolling the tight length of parchment, he began to read in a loud, dignified voice. There was still the creak of harness, the slight shuffle of armored men shifting about, but otherwise it had suddenly grown very quiet. “Prisoners of the Grand Duke,” he began, “You all stand here having been fairly tried and found guilty of capital offenses against the citizens and the laws of Camar. Your lives are forfeit for your crimes, but in his benevolent mercy, the Duke had decided to allow you to earn remission of your deserved punishments through service to the ducal throne.” “Right nice of His Grace,” one of the prisoners interrupted. He was a hard-edged man who did not look all that different from the soldiers surrounding him. Even in a ragged tunic of old wool he wore the look of a veteran warrior, and the smirk on his face did not disguise the hard edge in his penetrating green eyes. His hair and beard had been recently cut in a hasty and irregular fashion, giving him a savage look, but that impression was belied by the calm poise with which he carried himself. “Perhaps it is only fitting that we begin with you, Corath Dar,” the colonel said. “You might have had a promising future in the Duke’s legions, had you not been discharged with disgrace for repeated instances of insubordination. Your record as a mercenary was... impressive, but it is doubtful that anyone would have been interested in retaining your services after you’d murdered the four men that took out your last contract.” “I did the job. I didn’t get paid,” he said, spitting loudly. One of the soldiers laid the butt of his spear across the fighter’s back. Dar staggered forward but quickly straightened, and shot a malevolent glance back over his shoulder before turning back to the colonel and his mounted companions. The colonel gestured, and two soldiers drove the second captive forward. This one was a half-orc, clad only in a soiled loincloth. His frame bulged with muscles, taut beneath a yellowish hide that was slick with sweat and caked dirt. His bare skull was covered with an elaborate tattoo, one that superimposed the features of a snarling bear over his face. The decoration was cleverly done, making it seem as though the man’s protruding, yellowed tusks were the teeth of the bear. He bore twice again as many chains as the other captives, and in his case, it still looked like it wasn’t enough. “Ukas Half-Orc,” the colonel said. “You are a newcomer to Camar, and yet in just a few days within our borders, you amassed quite a list of offenses. A drover’s leg broken in an altercation on the street, which according to witnesses was unprovoked. Less than an hour later, eleven men critically injured in a brawl at the Dancing Dragon, two of whom would have died from their injuries had not a priest been present in the room. Immediately thereafter: two guardsmen killed, four others injured, during your apprehension. One of your fellow prisoners strangled in lockup, and a baliff’s neck broken in the courtroom where your sentence was pronounced.” The half-orc said nothing, crossing his massive arms across his chest. His chains jingled alarmingly, and the armed men around him shifted their weapons warily. “You seem to be a violent man, Ukas,” Lord Sobol added. “I think you will find adequate opportunity to express your... feelings... in this place.” He chuckled, as the colonel moved on to the next man in the line. This prisoner was still youthful, likely only a few years beyond twenty, with a pointed black beard, olive skin, and narrow features that bespoke an ancestry other than the fair Camarians. “Zafir Navev,” the colonel went on. “You stand convicted of trafficking in the Black Arts.” “I violated no law,” the reedy man responded. He spoke the common language with a slight accent. His arms were bound tightly behind his back, drawn tight through iron rings set into the metal band around his waist, the arrangement not even leaving him enough slack to shrug. “My powers are innate, and do not come from any compact with forces from the lower planes.” “The elders of the Guild of Sorcery held a different view. You have been convicted of diabolism, and of conjurations of Entities most foul.” “The fool masters of your Guild will regret their actions,” the warlock said, but he did not resist as the soldiers seized his arms and drew him roughly back into the line. “Licinius Varo,” the colonel said, indicating the next man in the row of prisoners. This one was a plain-looking man of middling years, who if cleaned up might have been mistaken for a merchant or common tradesman. He apparently had not been a prisoner long enough to fully erase the pads of flesh at his cheeks and jowls, although his bindings had mercilessly chafed at his wrists and ankles. “You were a man of faith, respected by your peers and the common folk alike. Yet you threw it away for the chance to offer loyalty to the foul cult of Dagos. Not only did you flout the Duke’s law that proscribed the worship of the Dark Creeper, but you were apprehended in the midst of an unholy rite, covered with the blood of innocents. Just the description of the scene in your indictment is enough to sicken me, and raise the gorge in my throat.” “Know that I would have rather seen your entrails cut from your body as you hung upon the Wall of Regret,” the mounted cleric said. “Tut, tut, Valus,” Varo said. “Were we not taught that the precepts of the Shining Father were founded upon forgiveness, and understanding?” “You are not worthy to speak His name,” the cleric said with disgust. “May the screams of your victims follow your soul down into the pits of Hell, Varo.” The next prisoner was the captive from the wagon that had tried to escape, only to be foiled by Valus’s [i]hold person[/i] spell. The darting figure that had so confounded the guardsmen was revealed to be an elf, but one so dirty and disheveled that the creature seemed more animal than sentient. He had braided his hair into a tangle of convoluted knots that formed no apparent pattern, and hundreds of tiny cuts, some still covered with fresh scabs, covered his naked body. The elf had tried to escape the moment the cleric’s spell had worn off, and had been bludgeoned by the soldiers holding him. He now hung from the firm grasp of two soldiers, his head lolling, only half-conscious. “Elf,” the colonel said. “You stand convicted of the destruction of property, arson, and murder, specifically of a family of settlers from the outpost at Greathold. Your people may not all be appreciative of the terms of the treaty between your race and the citizens of the Duchy, but that is no excuse for the slaughter of innocent people, especially the two children whose hacked bodies you left behind. You have not yielded your name, even under duress, but the soldiers have named you ‘the Mad Elf’, and that appellation seems as appropriate as anything else.” The elf’s only response was a faint groan. The colonel shifted his attention to the last captive, the old man that had disembarked from the prison wagon. He straightened, summoning up some reserve of dignity that transcended his poor condition and ragged, soiled garments. “Velan Tiros. Former Marshal of the Western Reaches, commander of the 3rd legion, victor at Ravenford and Greenrise, holder of the Bronze Cluster, Silver Cluster, and the Golden Starburst for Valor. You stand convicted of the crime of High Treason against the Grand Duke, and the lawful government of the people of Camar. It saddens me to say it, sir. You were at one time one of the greatest among us. Your example...” “Yes, yes,” Lord Sobol interrupted. “You made your choice, Tiros, and your bid for power failed. I hope you can sleep with the souls of the men you betrayed on your conscience.” “I regret nothing except that I was unsuccessful,” Tiros said. For a moment it looked as though he wanted to say more, but finally he lowered his head in silence. The lord reined in his horse, turning the animal around until he stood silhouetted against the lip of the dell, the last rays of the fading sun shining resplendent upon his brightly colored clothes and their bejeweled decorations. “You men are already dead,” he said to them. “But the Duke is giving you the chance to earn your lives, and your freedom. Perhaps even wealth, coin enough to depart Camar forever, and buy your own kingdoms abroad.” He fixed his eyes upon Tiros, although he continued to speak to all of them. “I am sure there are places far enough away that even the storied tales of woe of such a lot as you rogues are unknown.” He gestured to the colonel, who ordered his soldiers forward. They came reluctantly, driving the prisoners forward ahead of them until they stood almost on the very edge of the rocky slope leading down into the hollow below. The prisoners looked for the first time upon their destination. The depression was a graveyard. Ancient slabs of bleached granite gathered in clusters across the landscape, marking hundreds if not thousands of old graves. Three mausoleums of weathered stone that bore a greenish tinge in the late afternoon light were located in the hollow, each huddling apart from the others. A thick, musty odor hung in the faint hint of breeze that wafted up from below. “There is your mission for the Duke, and your chance to escape the fate that your actions have chosen for you. The task demanded by the Duke is simple: loot Rappan Athuk, the Dungeon of Graves.” [/QUOTE]
Insert quotes…
Verification
Post reply
Community
Playing the Game
Story Hour
The Doomed Bastards: Reckoning (story complete)
Top