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The Doomed Bastards: Reckoning (story complete)
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<blockquote data-quote="Lazybones" data-source="post: 3038322" data-attributes="member: 143"><p>Thanks, jfaller.</p><p></p><p>I've posted a Rogues' Gallery thread for this story: <a href="http://www.enworld.org/showthread.php?t=173268" target="_blank">http://www.enworld.org/showthread.php?t=173268</a>. The character stats contain a slight spoiler for an upcoming chapter. </p><p></p><p>This will be the last post for a week, but I'll pick it up again when I return from my vacation. </p><p></p><p>* * * * * </p><p></p><p>Chapter 3</p><p></p><p>INTO THE PIT</p><p></p><p></p><p>As the nobleman’s shout echoed over the dell, Dar glanced over his shoulder. “When I get out of this, I’m going to show that prick who the real bastard is.”</p><p></p><p>“Where are we going, anyway?” Navev asked, as they moved past the first cluster of gravestones. The rough-carved granite blocks were cracked with age, and if there had been any writing on the slabs, it had been worn away by the elements and the passage of time. </p><p></p><p>“The entrance is in the south mausoleum,” Varo said. </p><p></p><p>“How do you know that?” the warlock asked. </p><p></p><p>“Rappan Athuk is the most famous dungeon in Camar, and perhaps in the world,” the cleric said. “There is a fair body of knowledge extant about the place. And in any case, my order tries to pay attention to knowledge regarding our rival sects.”</p><p></p><p>“What do you me—“ Navev said, only to be cut off as a loud crash made all of them jump. The source of the noise was Ukas, who had smashed one of the headstones with his chain as they’d walked past. The half-orc offered a toothy grin as they all looked at him for a moment, before they continued their careful descent into the hollow. </p><p></p><p>“Bet all those damned soldiers jumped as high as we did,” Dar said with a slight grin. He looked at the elf, who had been roughly paralleling their line of march, but in a haphazard way, skittering around in a ring that was centered approximately twenty feet from Velan Tiros. “Damned bugger’s making me nervous,” he said. </p><p></p><p>“As I was saying, Rappan Athuk is a place of legend, rumors, and tales of wild invention,” Varo went on. “By all accounts the complex is incredibly extensive. But what lies below... in truth, you likely know as much as I, wizard.”</p><p></p><p>“I am not a wizard,” Navev muttered, but he’d already turned away from the conversation. </p><p></p><p>“We should share whatever information we have,” Tiros said. The old commander was having difficulty, and his breath was coming in harsh rasps. He was already slowing them down, but as none of them were yet in the mood for haste, no one offered a complaint. “Even a scrap of useful intelligence, an obscure detail, may help us survive in this place.”</p><p></p><p>“Who or what are we likely to find in there, cleric?” Dar asked.</p><p></p><p>“If the rumors are even half true, terrible, terrible things, warrior. The place was once the lair of a foul cult of the demon lord Orcus; they once ruled over much of this region, and were finally driven to ground at this place. There was a fantastic battle, after which the army of Good followed the cult’s survivors into the dungeon, to finish the job. Most were never heard of again. A good many lie here still, no doubt,” he added, gesturing to the graves that were now thick about them.</p><p></p><p>“Any other ways in?” Tiros asked. </p><p></p><p>“I believe that there is a well on the far side of the depression, that provides access to part of the complex,” Varo said. “But the rumors I have heard suggest that the well is not the best route.”</p><p></p><p>“Even I have heard that, in the taverns,” Dar said. “Don’t go down the well!”</p><p></p><p>“We may heed that advice for now,” Tiros said, as they passed near to one of the smaller mausoleums, still a considerable structure of massive granite blocks tinged a faint green. “But it is a good idea to know all our options.”</p><p></p><p>“Taking command, marshal?” Dar asked. “Because you should know I’ve got a slight problem with authority.”</p><p></p><p>“I do not want to command anyone,” Tiros said. “But if we don’t work together, we’re not going to be anything more than another mark on this place’s long tally of slain heroes and brave fools.”</p><p></p><p>“Well, I’m neither, so I think we’re okay for now,” Dar returned. “Damn it, elf, stop that skittering around!” he yelled, angrily pushing forward, forcing the others to hasten to keep up. He only went a short way, to a nearby cluster of graves that rose up before them, before he came to an abrupt stop. The others came up to find him staring at a particular grave. </p><p></p><p>The earth here had been freshly disturbed, the shallow grave lying open and waiting. But it was the granite marker that the fighter was looking at. The stone was in as poor a condition as the others surrounding it, but an inscription had been freshly chiseled in the mineral, precise marks that formed words in the common tongue. </p><p></p><p>MARSHAL VELAN TIROS</p><p>1311-1365</p><p></p><p>“Well now, that’s interesting,” Varo said, as they gathered around the grave.</p><p></p><p>“But... how...” Navev said. Ukas walked by, and shouldered Tiros, knocking him off-balance. The old marshal staggered forward into the shallow grave, only narrowly avoiding catching himself before he pitched forward head-first into the headstone. The half-orc guffawed as he continued past. As he moved out of the way they could see the mad elf watching them from behind another headstone, the creature’s wild eyes shining brightly in the late afternoon light. </p><p></p><p>“Quite the wit, that one,” Varo said after the departing half-orc.</p><p></p><p>“Don’t worry about it,” Dar said, as he helped Tiros out of the grave with a proffered hand. “I wouldn’t put it past that twice-damned Sobol to have sent a soldier ahead to mark that stone.” None of them others looked like they bought that explanation. </p><p></p><p>“I need a moment,” Tiros said, leaning against the tall headstone. </p><p></p><p>“I have some minor curatives available to me,” Varo said, pausing. Dar and Navev had already moved to follow Ukas, and the elf had disappeared once again. </p><p></p><p>“I will be fine. Just a moment,” the marshal said, shrugging out of his pack. </p><p></p><p>The cleric nodded and followed the others. </p><p></p><p>Tiros knelt, grimacing as his battered knees protested. He unlaced the top of the pack, and quickly surveyed the contents. It did not take him long to find what had been added, under the greasy wrappings that contained preserved military-issue trail rations. </p><p></p><p>It didn’t look like much. A tattered scrap of old linen, wrapped around a small bulge. As he carefully opened the wrap, Tiros saw that it was in fact a soiled linen glove that had seen better days. It had protected a tiny vial of thick glass that contained a scant quantity of deep blue liquid. </p><p></p><p>“Thank you, my friends,” he said, clutching his prize in his fist, tight against his chest. </p><p></p><p>The marshal looked up to see that the others had gathered in front of the primary mausoleum. Varo glanced back at him, and he managed to wave—while concealing the glove and the vial in his other hand. </p><p></p><p>He quickly resecured the pack and rose. As he got back to his feet, using his body to block the view of his companions, he opened the vial and downed the contents in a single gulp. Then he slid the glove on over his right hand, and moved to rejoin the group. </p><p></p><p>The huge mausoleum rose up ahead of them. As Tiros approached, he saw that this one was considerably larger than the other two, but it was sunk into a hollow deeper than the rest of the dell, masking its true scale until they had gotten close. Weathered stone steps led down to a set of tall iron doors in the front of the structure; there were no other exits that they could see from this vantage. The entire building was carved with sinister scenes, culminating in a line of malevolent-looking gargoyles of dark green stone that were irregularly spaced around the perimeter of the mausoleum’s roof. The company watched those decorations carefully, but none of them so much as quivered as they approached. </p><p></p><p>“Are you all right?” Varo asked. </p><p></p><p>“I am fine,” Tiros said. The cleric raised an eyebrow; the old man did in fact look much improved, as if the effects of his imprisonment had been washed off of his frame. The others, their attentions drawn to the mausoleum, did not appear to notice. </p><p></p><p>“I trust this not,” Dar said. He bent down and picked up a piece of rock that had come off a crumbling gravestone. His hand snapped out, and the rock caromed off the face of one of the gargoyles. </p><p></p><p>“What are you...” Navev began, but Tiros cut him off with a raised hand. The six of them stared up at the gargoyles, waiting. </p><p></p><p>And then the one that Dar had struck slowly turned its head. </p><p></p><p>“Damn it, I hate it when I’m right,” Dar said, as he whipped his sword out of its scabbard. Eight of the gargoyles rose out of their perches, wings spreading out wide behind them.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Lazybones, post: 3038322, member: 143"] Thanks, jfaller. I've posted a Rogues' Gallery thread for this story: [url]http://www.enworld.org/showthread.php?t=173268[/url]. The character stats contain a slight spoiler for an upcoming chapter. This will be the last post for a week, but I'll pick it up again when I return from my vacation. * * * * * Chapter 3 INTO THE PIT As the nobleman’s shout echoed over the dell, Dar glanced over his shoulder. “When I get out of this, I’m going to show that prick who the real bastard is.” “Where are we going, anyway?” Navev asked, as they moved past the first cluster of gravestones. The rough-carved granite blocks were cracked with age, and if there had been any writing on the slabs, it had been worn away by the elements and the passage of time. “The entrance is in the south mausoleum,” Varo said. “How do you know that?” the warlock asked. “Rappan Athuk is the most famous dungeon in Camar, and perhaps in the world,” the cleric said. “There is a fair body of knowledge extant about the place. And in any case, my order tries to pay attention to knowledge regarding our rival sects.” “What do you me—“ Navev said, only to be cut off as a loud crash made all of them jump. The source of the noise was Ukas, who had smashed one of the headstones with his chain as they’d walked past. The half-orc offered a toothy grin as they all looked at him for a moment, before they continued their careful descent into the hollow. “Bet all those damned soldiers jumped as high as we did,” Dar said with a slight grin. He looked at the elf, who had been roughly paralleling their line of march, but in a haphazard way, skittering around in a ring that was centered approximately twenty feet from Velan Tiros. “Damned bugger’s making me nervous,” he said. “As I was saying, Rappan Athuk is a place of legend, rumors, and tales of wild invention,” Varo went on. “By all accounts the complex is incredibly extensive. But what lies below... in truth, you likely know as much as I, wizard.” “I am not a wizard,” Navev muttered, but he’d already turned away from the conversation. “We should share whatever information we have,” Tiros said. The old commander was having difficulty, and his breath was coming in harsh rasps. He was already slowing them down, but as none of them were yet in the mood for haste, no one offered a complaint. “Even a scrap of useful intelligence, an obscure detail, may help us survive in this place.” “Who or what are we likely to find in there, cleric?” Dar asked. “If the rumors are even half true, terrible, terrible things, warrior. The place was once the lair of a foul cult of the demon lord Orcus; they once ruled over much of this region, and were finally driven to ground at this place. There was a fantastic battle, after which the army of Good followed the cult’s survivors into the dungeon, to finish the job. Most were never heard of again. A good many lie here still, no doubt,” he added, gesturing to the graves that were now thick about them. “Any other ways in?” Tiros asked. “I believe that there is a well on the far side of the depression, that provides access to part of the complex,” Varo said. “But the rumors I have heard suggest that the well is not the best route.” “Even I have heard that, in the taverns,” Dar said. “Don’t go down the well!” “We may heed that advice for now,” Tiros said, as they passed near to one of the smaller mausoleums, still a considerable structure of massive granite blocks tinged a faint green. “But it is a good idea to know all our options.” “Taking command, marshal?” Dar asked. “Because you should know I’ve got a slight problem with authority.” “I do not want to command anyone,” Tiros said. “But if we don’t work together, we’re not going to be anything more than another mark on this place’s long tally of slain heroes and brave fools.” “Well, I’m neither, so I think we’re okay for now,” Dar returned. “Damn it, elf, stop that skittering around!” he yelled, angrily pushing forward, forcing the others to hasten to keep up. He only went a short way, to a nearby cluster of graves that rose up before them, before he came to an abrupt stop. The others came up to find him staring at a particular grave. The earth here had been freshly disturbed, the shallow grave lying open and waiting. But it was the granite marker that the fighter was looking at. The stone was in as poor a condition as the others surrounding it, but an inscription had been freshly chiseled in the mineral, precise marks that formed words in the common tongue. MARSHAL VELAN TIROS 1311-1365 “Well now, that’s interesting,” Varo said, as they gathered around the grave. “But... how...” Navev said. Ukas walked by, and shouldered Tiros, knocking him off-balance. The old marshal staggered forward into the shallow grave, only narrowly avoiding catching himself before he pitched forward head-first into the headstone. The half-orc guffawed as he continued past. As he moved out of the way they could see the mad elf watching them from behind another headstone, the creature’s wild eyes shining brightly in the late afternoon light. “Quite the wit, that one,” Varo said after the departing half-orc. “Don’t worry about it,” Dar said, as he helped Tiros out of the grave with a proffered hand. “I wouldn’t put it past that twice-damned Sobol to have sent a soldier ahead to mark that stone.” None of them others looked like they bought that explanation. “I need a moment,” Tiros said, leaning against the tall headstone. “I have some minor curatives available to me,” Varo said, pausing. Dar and Navev had already moved to follow Ukas, and the elf had disappeared once again. “I will be fine. Just a moment,” the marshal said, shrugging out of his pack. The cleric nodded and followed the others. Tiros knelt, grimacing as his battered knees protested. He unlaced the top of the pack, and quickly surveyed the contents. It did not take him long to find what had been added, under the greasy wrappings that contained preserved military-issue trail rations. It didn’t look like much. A tattered scrap of old linen, wrapped around a small bulge. As he carefully opened the wrap, Tiros saw that it was in fact a soiled linen glove that had seen better days. It had protected a tiny vial of thick glass that contained a scant quantity of deep blue liquid. “Thank you, my friends,” he said, clutching his prize in his fist, tight against his chest. The marshal looked up to see that the others had gathered in front of the primary mausoleum. Varo glanced back at him, and he managed to wave—while concealing the glove and the vial in his other hand. He quickly resecured the pack and rose. As he got back to his feet, using his body to block the view of his companions, he opened the vial and downed the contents in a single gulp. Then he slid the glove on over his right hand, and moved to rejoin the group. The huge mausoleum rose up ahead of them. As Tiros approached, he saw that this one was considerably larger than the other two, but it was sunk into a hollow deeper than the rest of the dell, masking its true scale until they had gotten close. Weathered stone steps led down to a set of tall iron doors in the front of the structure; there were no other exits that they could see from this vantage. The entire building was carved with sinister scenes, culminating in a line of malevolent-looking gargoyles of dark green stone that were irregularly spaced around the perimeter of the mausoleum’s roof. The company watched those decorations carefully, but none of them so much as quivered as they approached. “Are you all right?” Varo asked. “I am fine,” Tiros said. The cleric raised an eyebrow; the old man did in fact look much improved, as if the effects of his imprisonment had been washed off of his frame. The others, their attentions drawn to the mausoleum, did not appear to notice. “I trust this not,” Dar said. He bent down and picked up a piece of rock that had come off a crumbling gravestone. His hand snapped out, and the rock caromed off the face of one of the gargoyles. “What are you...” Navev began, but Tiros cut him off with a raised hand. The six of them stared up at the gargoyles, waiting. And then the one that Dar had struck slowly turned its head. “Damn it, I hate it when I’m right,” Dar said, as he whipped his sword out of its scabbard. Eight of the gargoyles rose out of their perches, wings spreading out wide behind them. [/QUOTE]
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