Travels through the Wild West: a Forgotten Realms Story

[Lazybones]

Part 16

With a powerful heave against the gate, Telwarden burst into the interior courtyard of the hobgoblin fort, the others close on his heels. His attention was drawn immediately to the swirling mess of fur and limbs and teeth that was ravaging Benzan, just inside the open gates. Telwarden immediately leapt into the fray to aid the tiefling, thrusting his sword deep into the back of one of the raging mutts. The creature crumpled, crippled by the blow. The other was already injured, Benzan’s dagger sunk to the hilt in its shoulder, but it refused to relax its grip on the tiefling’s leg as it tore back and forth, trying to rip him apart by sheer force of will. Blood belonging both to the warrior and the animals was everywhere, staining the mud a dark crimson.

Lok appeared in the entryway, and instantly divined the danger. Without hesitation he brought his axe down in a precise arc that half-severed the dog’s head from its body. Delem and Cal were right behind him, and both crouched over the fallen tiefling, who was not moving.

“He lives,” Cal reported, “but not for long, unless we can do something.”

“We have no more healing potions,” Lok said, frustration cracking his ordinarily neutral tone to reveal the emotion underneath. Cal was already fumbling with bandages, but it looked like it was already too late for the dying tiefling.

“Let me,” Delem said. As the gnome drew back in surprise Delem leaned over the dying form of his friend, one of the few people whom he’d been able to grant that title since he’d started running away from the legacy of his birth as a youth. He’d always felt a strange kinship with the tiefling in that regard, for all that they were so different otherwise. It was the acceptance that he’d found in the company of these diverse outcasts like himself that gave him the ability to accept his own birthright, and call upon the power of the fire that burned deep within him to bridge the gap to another sort of power that Delem was just beginning to comprehend.

They watched with amazement as the soft blue glow of positive energy flowed from Delem’s hands into the savaged warrior. The bleeding stopped, and the pale aura of death that marked his flesh turned into the faint yet unmistakable flush of life. Still unconscious, but now stable, Benzan rested. Delem slumped forward, feeling suddenly drained of energy, but there was a smile of fulfillment upon his face.

“Stay with them,” Telwarden said. “I’m going to find that cleric.”

“I will accompany you,” Lok said.

“We’d better get them inside one of the buildings first,” Cal said, his concern for his companions overriding Telwarden’s urgency. “Those sleep spells will wear off in a few seconds.”

Telwarden’s face betrayed his frustration, but he helped Lok and Cal get Benzan and Delem into the cover of the nearest structure, a cramped but thankfully empty barracks. While Cal and Delem kept watch there over the unconscious Benzan, Lok and Telwarden crossed the courtyard to the fort’s largest structure, a tall, wide building fashioned out of the same massive hewn logs that made up the stockade walls. Telwarden kicked open the door, and headed inside.

The area beyond was a small antechamber, dimly lit by the light that filtered through the securely shuttered windows high up along the walls. There were two exits, both shrouded by heavy curtains. The decision of how to proceed was made for them, as they heard a muffled sound coming from the doorway to their right. The sheriff darted heedlessly through the curtain, the genasi only a step behind.

The room beyond was much larger, perhaps twenty feet on a side. It contained a variety of furnishings, including a desk and a comfortable-looking bed, but their attention was immediately drawn to the room’s occupants.

The cleric was there, his red-chased mail appearing particularly garish in the room’s half-light. He was holding a bound and gagged young woman that could only be Dana Ilgarten in his arms, a gleaming and slightly curved dagger pressed close against her exposed throat.

“I waited for you,” the hobgoblin hissed at them. “I wanted to see the looks on your faces, when I bathe my blade in her blood.”

“No!”

Telwarden launched himself forward at the cleric, for all that it was clearly too late for him to do anything, as a good fifteen feet separated him from the cleric and his prisoner. Even as he started to move, the gleaming dagger sliced…

And then, to the surprise of everyone, including most of all the cleric, the blade cut only empty air. The woman twisted her head back under the arm that was wrapped around her torso, at the same time that her bound-together legs snapped up at an improbable angle to connect with the wrist-joint of the cleric. The hobgoblin’s hands and arms were protected by gauntlets, but the impact of the woman’s bare foot still managed to dislodge the knife from its grasp.

Roaring in fury, the cleric grabbed the woman bodily and hurled into the back corner of the room, where she slammed hard into the wall and fell in a painful heap. He just had time to draw a curved sword from its scabbard at his hip before Telwarden launched his first attack.

The room filled with the ring of metal on metal as the two combatants locked swords and sought an advantage. Lok was already moving to Telwarden’s aid when a side curtain parted and two hobgoblin warriors charged into the room, their swords clanging on Lok’s armor as he turned to face this new threat. He swung with the full power of his magical axe and his incredible strength, but misjudged the blow and ended up gouging a deep gash in the nearby desk.

Telwarden and the hobgoblin cleric sparred, each fighting with deadly intensity. They did not exchange barbs or dire threats, letting their blades speak for them. The sheriff caught the cleric a glancing blow that drew a line of red through the gap in his shoulder-plates, and the hobgoblin in turn responded with a slash that raised blue sparks as it cut through the links of his chainmail and scored the flesh underneath. Despite the pain of the cut from the magically keen weapon, the sheriff fought on, driven inexorably on by the heavy hand of duty.

Lok hurled himself at his two opponents, knowing that Telwarden would need his aid. One stabbed him with a forceful blow that drove through a gap in his armor, cutting deep into his side. Ignoring the sudden pain, Lok responded with a powerful stroke that crushed armor, leather, and the bone underneath. The hobgoblin staggered back, the hole in its chest ringed by icy frost, and collapsed through the curtain into the next room.

Telwarden took another hit as the deadly exchange between him and the cleric grew more intense. The blow left him favoring his left side as a current of crimson ran out from under his armor and down his leg.

Sensing that his opponent was weakening, the cleric smiled grimly. “I will make you feel pain, human. I will make you suffer, and then I will make her suffer, for your sake.”

“Shut up and fight!” Telwarden hissed between clenched teeth, lunging forward with a speed that caught the cleric off guard. Their blades met in another series of exchanges, leaving the cleric without another wound, a slight cut along the back its weapon-hand.

Clearly, though, Telwarden was taking the worse of these tradeoffs, while the cleric, though wounded, was still hale and ready.

“When you meet your god, tell it that it was Zorak who crushed your skull and feasted on your weak flesh,” the cleric said, as it swept in with a vicious overhead stroke intended to cleave Telwarden’s head apart.

The sheriff ducked in under the blow and charged, ignoring the stinging pain across his back as he thrust hard with his own blade, backed by the full momentum of his weight. The blade crunched through plate, chain, and leather, sliding a full foot of its length into the gut of the evil cleric. Zorak grunted in sudden and unrelenting pain, the madness in his eyes allowing him somehow to fight through the agony as he reared back, the sword unleashing a flood of blood as it came out of the wound and the cleric fell back against the edge of the bed.

Lok joined Telwarden as they faced off against the crippled priest, the genasi’s two foes lying defeated behind him. “Sorry for the delay,” the genasi said in an aside to Telwarden, his own wounds nothing in the face of their ultimate enemy.

“Let’s finish this,” Telwarden said, his face as grim as death as they came in at the cleric.

Zorak rose up to meet their charge, and as the two warriors launched their attacks he made no effort to defend himself. Even as sword and axe struck home, though, he dropped his scimitar and reached forward, placing his hand down lightly atop Telwarden’s head.

“By the power of the Master,” Zorak croaked through bloody lips, and he smiled as he died.

Telwarden stiffened, his body shaking as the cleric’s last spell wrought its evil through his already ravaged body. His eyes grew clouded as blood drained from his mouth, nostrils, and ears, and even as the dread cleric fell, breaking the momentary contact between them, Telwarden staggered a step back and fell hard to the ground.

Lok was there in an instant, but there was nothing to be done.

Kevrik Telwarden, sheriff of Dunderion, was dead.

 

[Horacio]

Wow!
What a bitter victory...

Have you posted the character's stats in the Rogues Gallery? I would love to see them...

 

[Maldur]

Very Nice!!

You know how to keep us lurckers happy

 

[Lazybones]

Ask, and you shall receive, Horacio!

Actually, I created the characters even before I began the story, and my intent all along was to start a Rogues' Gallery thread once the story got going. I was holding off because I didn't want to give away any upcoming plot developments by posting all of the character info too soon. But now that the story's moving right along, and people want to see stats, I've gone ahead and started a new thread over there.

As for the story, it's already started moving in a new direction. Stay tuned for some interesting (I hope!) happenings once our four heroes make it back to civilization, and find that fame and renown isn't all it's cracked up to be...

Lazybones

 

[Broccli_Head]

I'm still on part 14 but I wanted to reply since I had this thought. This story would make a good 'module'. Have you conceived of stats for the badguys? The NPCs (like Cullan and Telwarden)?

Well, hopefully will catch up soon.

 

[Horacio]

Thanks for the stats!!!

And yes, I agree, this story looks great as a module for almost any campaign

 

[Lazybones]

Part 17

When Lok emerged from the building shortly thereafter, with the freed Lady Ilgarten walking beside him, one look at his face was enough to reveal to his companions what had transpired. A knot of dead hobgoblins—the guards from the towers, who had finally woken from the magical sleep of Delem’s wand—lay dead in front of the door to the barracks, their burned corpses revealing their cause of their demise. No other enemies stirred within the confines of the fortress, giving the heroes a chance to catch their breath and recover from their wounds. They were uncertain how many of the hobgoblins had escaped, but they knew that at least one had; they never did find the youth that had released the dogs upon Benzan.

“He’d better hope that we never come across him again,” Benzan said, as he lay recovering in a cot in the hobgoblin barracks, converted into a temporary hospital.

They gathered all of the freed prisoners at the fort, where they found more than sufficient provisions to sustain them. They brought the horses in as well, glad that their two surviving mounts had not befallen ill while their owners were fighting the hobgoblins.

Once they had rested, Cal used his bardic magic to work some minor healing, and Delem explored his own newly awakened powers as well. Still not completely sure what was happening to him, or the origin of his new abilities, he vowed to seek out more information when they finally made it to Elturel.

They buried Telwarden out in the forest, not willing to leave him at the site of the evil fortress. Cullan seemed hard hit by the loss, but all of them felt the sadness at the loss of a man who had been curt and officious at times, but whose keenly felt sense of duty had been the driving force in their pursuit, and the success of their mission.

They also took the opportunity to speak to the Lady Ilgarten, whose capture had brought them all the way out there in the first place. Dana, as she insisted on being addressed, was a plain spoken and clearly intelligent young woman, and even after the harsh experience of her capture and imprisonment was still able to warmly express her thanks to her rescuers and her sympathy at their loss. When asked by the companions, she explained what had happened to her. She had been traveling from Iriaebor to Baldur’s Gate to represent some of her father’s trading interests there when the bandits had set upon them. The caravan, so near to Dunderion, had been relaxed, and they were caught be surprise. Most of the guards were overcome by the sleep wand wielded by the hobgoblin adept or slaughtered by the first volley of crossbow bolts, and although the others tried to fight back, they were quickly overwhelmed by Steel Jack’s veterans. Her voice cracked some when she recalled the murder of Gonvolio, a long-time friend of her family, and she was saddened to hear of the death of Aric, who had tried to come to her aid during the ambush but had been knocked unconscious by a hobgoblin warrior.

To their surprise she quickly joined in with the treatment of the sick and injured, and they were even more surprised when they saw the telltale blue glow of positive healing energy being channeled. She explained that her father had sent her to a monastery for her education at a very young age, and that she had been initiated into the mysteries of the priesthood of Selune while there. She had kept that fact hidden from her captors, rightly afraid of how the evil cleric Zorak would respond.

“Apparently they also initiated her into the mysteries of ass-kicking,” Benzan commented, as he talked with his friends later. Lok had let them all in on what he had seen in Zorak’s lair, and how the woman, who had acquitted herself admirably when captured, had also managed to somehow avoid being slain while in the power of the evil cleric. When questioned about it, Dana demurred, saying only that the monastery she had been fostered at had been affiliated with a sect called the Sun Soul, and that they had taught her the basics of self-defense there.

Most of their discussions, however, focused on Zorak, and the operation he had been running out here in the wilderness.

“Did you find out what god he worshipped?” Cal had asked Dana as they spent the day after the battle resting. They had found no holy symbol or other identifying mark on his body, and it was unclear what he had used as a divine focus.

“No,” Dana replied. “He only referred to him—it—as ‘the master’. I’m sure he was working with others, though.”

That guess was born out by what they had discovered when they searched the large structure where Zorak had finally been defeated. In a locked inner chamber without windows, they found a huge wooden chest, reinforced with iron bands and bolted to the floor, and large enough for Cal to stand within it with the lid closed without having to bend down. Once opened with Zorak’s key the chest was found to contain only a half-dozen silver trade bars, each five pounds in weight. The rear part of the fort behind the barracks was found to contain a crude but fully operational forge, with molds to cast refined ore into bars.

Benzan had almost come to tears when they related the discovery of the nearly empty chest. “Ah, if only we’d gotten here sooner!” he lamented, closing his eyes to thoughts of what might have been, had they found the chest when it was full.

There were other clues that the fort and its mining operation had been part of a larger operation, but no concrete information about whom those unnamed others might be, or where they might be located.

“We shall have to report to Lord Dhelt about this,” Cal said, but there was nothing else they could do at the moment.

Still, as they prepared to move out on the morning of the second day after the battle, they could feel proud of what they had accomplished. The prisoners had already begun to show signs of recovery after being well fed and rested, although the dark shadows in their eyes would take much longer to heal. They considered burning the fort behind them, but ultimately decided to leave that decision to Lord Dhelt’s men, as such a strong outpost here on the edge of the wood might prove to be useful.

Despite the empty treasure chest, they did not return empty handed, either. Both Zorak’s armor and his deadly scimitar detected as magical. Benzan took the weapon, and since none of them desired to wear the armor, they packed it up and put it with their other gear on one of their horses. Cal suggested that they trade in the armor for recharges for their magic wands once they reached Elturel, a suggestion that met with immediate approval even from Lok and Benzan. The six trade bars were not inconsiderable treasure either, even though Benzan could not look upon one without muttering a string of profanities. There was other treasure too, useful equipment, coins in the pockets of the dead guards, the odd piece of jewelry, and other valuables. Most of those items eventually found their way into the hands of the former slaves, and even Benzan was caught slipping a few silver pieces into the pocket of one of the poor wretches who’d had everything taken from them.

So, victorious for the moment, the company set out once again for Dunderion.

 

[Broccli_Head]

Hey Lb, caught up! Bittersweet victory makes for the best storytelling...
Thanks for the posts. Hope the tale continues after this first adventure.

 

[Horacio]

Well, a bittersweet ending, as you said. But a victory that takes a great loss is a greater victory...

What are they doing now?

 

[Lazybones]

Hello, readers!
I just wanted to give you all a quick heads-up on the plans that I have for the Travels through the Wild West story hour. I’ve posted more stats over in the Rogues’ Gallery, and if any DM would like to adapt the story to use as an adventure in their ongoing campaign, please feel free to do so (I’d be happy to give suggestions or feedback on running any of the encounters described in the story). I will try to post stat blocks for more “generic” enemies as well as the major heroes and villains depicted in the thread.

With the defeat of the hobgoblins, I’m taking the story hour urban, and the upcoming plotline includes a mystery element as the characters must sift through a web of intrigue in Elturel. For those of you more interested in the action scenes, fear not! There will be battles aplenty coming up, I assure you. As for after that, I’m not 100% sure, but I’ve already got an idea for sending the four adventurers someplace in the Realms that could really be considered the “wild west”…

I hope that the characters are becoming fleshed out for you as you read. The only one I feel I’ve neglected thus far is Lok, but I intend to get to him eventually…

Anyway, thanks for all the great feedback, and now, without further ado, the story continues…

* * * * *

Part 18


They city of Elturel and its more than twenty thousand inhabitants occupied a bluff along the winding course of the River Chionthar. To the inhabitants of the Heartlands, or the urban conglomerates of the once-empires of the east, Elturel was just another provincial bordertown of the far west, an outpost on a distant and dangerous frontier. But to those who lived in the Western Heartlands, or who traveled through it on missions of trade, the city was an important waystation on the route between the Sword Coast and the inland regions around the Sea of Fallen Stars. Its reputation was enhanced by the benign rule of the powerful Lord Dhelt, a paladin of considerable renown. From his fortress keep of Riverwatch, Dhelt’s elite force of two hundred mixed cavalry, the Hellriders, maintained a potent ward against the evils that lurked in the hills and forests of the region.

Elturel still bore the mark of its origins as a frontier town, both in its military veneer and in the individualism of its inhabitants. Its important location on the major western trade routes also showed in the presence of numerous powerful merchant houses and its wide variety of skilled crafts, both fantastic and mundane. The representatives of the city’s elite class that sat on the town council reflected all of these traditions, and many of the aristocrats, soldiers, and master merchants that sat on that body could trace their ancestry back to the initial pioneers that had blazed this region from the wild centuries ago.

Cal commented on what he knew of the city’s history and lore as he and Delem walked down one of the city’s crowded thoroughfares. Although the city only had a little over twenty-two thousand inhabitants (making it seem small indeed in comparison with metropolises like Waterdeep or Athkatla), the city’s need for defense meant that the layout of the city was compressed into a relatively small area within the outer walls. Some neighborhoods had begun to expand outward along the river cliffs, but there was always a tentative air about them, as if the inhabitants there were keeping ready to scuttle back into the city should danger rear its ugly head.

“I’m a little nervous,” Delem admitted, as they made their way through the afternoon crowd. The sorcerer looked a little uncomfortable in his new—and fairly expensive—clothes, which included a fur-trimmed cloak and a double-stitched tunic over wool breeches.

“It’ll be fine,” Cal said, dressed in similarly improved fashion. The gnome noted to himself the changes that had come over his young human companion in just the short time since they had met. While he could still be hesitant at times, Delem had learned to be comfortable with the power that he wielded, and be more confident as an equal member of their little company. Perhaps it had something to do with the symbol he now wore around his neck, tucked inside the front of his tunic under his coat. He’d made it himself, with some assistance from Lok. The symbol was a stylized depiction of a flame fashioned from slender slips of iron, and was the icon of the followers of the elemental god Kossuth.

Cal knew that Delem was still trying to come to grips with his new calling as a cleric. There was no denying the power that he had channeled during their final encounters in the Wood of Sharp Teeth, however, power that had ultimately saved the lives of both Cal and Benzan. What Delem had learned since arriving in Elturel was limited, for devotees of the Firelord were apparently quite uncommon in the West, but the sage that they had questioned had mentioned that many of the Red Wizards were known to follow Kossuth, a linkage of dubious appeal to say the least.

“There’s Benzan and Lok,” Delem said, rousing the gnome from his ruminations.

They rejoined their companions, who were dressed in similarly elaborate clothing, in front of a corner bakery that fronted an intersection of two city streets. Lok wore his armor, which had been attentively polished, and Benzan wore a colorful silken surcoat over his chain shirt that seemed to be in imminent danger from the globs of honey dripping from the sticky bun that the tiefling was gobbling down as the others approached.

“You know, they will have food at this thing,” Cal chided him.

“I wouldn’t be so certain,” Benzan replied as he sucked honey from his fingers. “We’re going to be there to be oohed and aahed over, and poked and prodded by a bunch of inbred aristocrats. I won’t be surprised if they don’t let us get a word—or a bite—in edgewise.”

“An invitation from Lord Dhelt himself is a considerable honor,” Lok said.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m honored, I’m honored,” Benzan protested. “I was even more honored by the reward that the Merchant’s Circle gave us, for all that one of those silver bars we found at the hobgoblin fort was worth more.” Cal cringed momentarily, awaiting the seemingly obligatory profanity, but apparently Benzan had gotten over the debacle of the nearly empty treasure chest, for he merely scowled and turned up the street.

“Your song was very popular at the gathering,” Delem said to Cal, changing the topic as they headed out again as a group. “Are you going to perform it again tonight for the nobles?”

“A good artist always tailors his work for the audience,” Cal said, but he wouldn’t elaborate more.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” Benzan asked as they rounded a bend in the street and saw their destination ahead. Riverwatch looked impressive, perched on the edge of the bluff, the light of the setting sun catching majestically on the ramparts of Dhelt’s stronghold, but all of them were had traveled through enough lands to put the appearance of the fortress into context.

“The priests of Oghma were very helpful,” Cal said, patting his pocket where his new wand of healing resided. “We got a good rate of exchange for Zorak’s armor; I also have some vials of healing elixir back at the inn for each of you when we return.”

“Let’s hope we don’t need them tonight,” Benzan muttered.

“Now, the bark of aristocrats is far worse than their bite,” Cal chided him. “Just try not to let any words come out of your mouth, and you’ll do fine.”

“I feel like I just want to sleep for a week,” Delem added.

It had been a busy week for all of them, Cal reflected, and tonight’s audience with the leaders of the city was only the capstone of all that had happened since they had left the empty hobgoblin fort behind them. The road back to Dunderion, and from there to Elturel, had been much easier than the journey out, as the winds had elected to keep the northern storms at bay for the moment. They had barely exited the forest when they had encountered a full platoon of Hellriders, under the leadership of a Lieutenant Gryphon. After an extensive questioning, during which Cal reported all that had transpired since leaving Dunderion, they were escorted back to the village, where they delivered the news of Telwarden’s death.

They had expected to accompany the Lady Ilgarten back to Elturel, on her way back to Iriaebor and her father, but to their surprise she had insisted on continuing directly on to Baldur’s Gate. Unable to convince her otherwise, they left her in the company of another merchant company heading west, and continued on to Elturel.

On arriving in Elturel, things had become only more bustling for the four companions. They’d been quickly ushered into an audience with a full captain of the Hellriders, representing Lord Dhelt, and the powerful Secretary of the City Council, a reedy middle-aged official named Gergan Podranus. Apparently news of what had happened had preceded them, for everywhere they went over the next few days there were people wanting to talk to them, from lower-level officials and guard officers to representatives of the merchant companies who traveled the western routes. They were even approached in their inn by a traveling bard wanting to pen a song about their adventures, an encounter that caused Cal considerable amusement.

“Ha! If anyone’s going to write a song about our travels, it’ll be the bard that was actually there!” he had declared loudly.

It wasn’t until today, their third day in the city, that they could actually start to attend to important business. Their equipment was generally in need of upkeep and repair, and their clothes showed the hard wear of their recent days in the wilderness. Benzan and Lok found places where they could convert their various treasures into ready cash, including the extra equipment they had salvaged from the bandits and the jewelry they had taken from the corpse of the undead ogre. In addition to trading Zorak’s armor for a new healing wand, they also bought new ammunition for their bows, stocked up on wilderness gear, and even checked out the local alchemist’s shop for some relatively inexpensive magical potions. Cal purchased the arcane supplies needed to add a few spells to his spellbook, and Benzan practiced with his new scimitar. That weapon proved to be quite a boon, for although he was reluctant to part with his heavier longsword at first, he quickly discovered that the scimitar’s magically keen blade could cut finer and deeper than even the masterwork blade that he wielded.

They had discovered something else on their journeys, as well. The four of them, so very different in so many ways, had forged a bond between them, a friendship that was able to transcend those differences. Cal thought often about what strange circumstance had drawn the four of them together on that lonely road just a week past, and the wanderer in him could not help but look ahead and guess what roads lay in their future.

For now, anyway, the road led to a big party.