FLOOD SEASON
Summer passed and autumn followed in Cauldron. The air began to have a definite chill, and a foretelling of winter to come. The sky was slate gray as often as it was blue, and the threat of rain was always on the horizon.
Life had returned to normal in the town, and fame was fleeting, as the former companions discovered. Less and less often were their tales now recounted, and fewer drinks were bought in their honor. Pez saw very little of his adventure mates, his duties at the temple and the orphanage keeping him fully occupied. Tilly and Maple were becoming quite domesticated, but still managed to find the time to practice their own form of free trade from time to time.
Rusty had moved down to the Malachite Fortress with “King” Gardrid, but was still not fully recovered. He busied himself sanctifying the stronghold and researching what documents he could find intact, hoping to find some clue as to the whereabouts of the missing clan. The king himself still had his night job, and became a fixture at the Tipped Tankard. Occasionally, he made brief forays down the passage leading from the fortress to the Underdark, but he never found anything, and these journeys became fewer and fewer. His only other ‘subjects’, besides Rusty (who certainly did not consider himself a subject), were Sondor and Deakon (when Gretchyn would allow him to visit), but Gardrid posted notices all around that the Malachite Fortress was seeking homesteaders…all dwarves welcome to help found a new dynasty.
Wathros was barely seen in the town, though it was known that he was occupying a small cave near the base of the volcano, and had taken up with a company of wolves. He never made it common knowledge as to his purpose in remaining in the area, but he didn’t seem in any hurry to leave either. There was a rumor around the taverns that he might be investigating the recent sightings of the dragon known as Hooknose. The locals were hoping that was not the case, as the dragon had not been heard from for years, and they didn’t want anything to stir it into activity again.
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Pez, as was his usual routine, was up before dawn. He made it a practice to meditate for an hour or so before the rest of the Temple was about. He offered prayers to Tyr in hopes that the Even Handed One would continue to favor him, though at times he wondered. It had been almost three months since his trumpet had been returned to him, and yet it was still weak, containing only a fraction of its full power. Had he done something wrong in the interim? Or was he failing to complete some unfinished task? Alas, these things were beyond him. All he could do was to continue as he had, day in and day out, until some new door opened.
Just then, there was a perfunctory knock on his chamber door, and then it opened without preamble. Jenya stood there, which was unusual in itself. The high priestess never came to him directly. She always summoned him if he was needed. Her appearance was even more disturbing. She looked as if she had not slept, her robes were disheveled and her hair lank. Her eyes were red-rimmed and appeared swollen.
“My lady…” Pez began, stepping towards her, his hand moving automatically to his sword hilt. Jenya held out a hand to forestall him, “You must gather your friends, Pez…all of them. Bring them here quickly. Go to the druid as well. He is in the foothills below the caldera. Tell him that I have need of his wisdom. Go now!”
Pez had never seen her in such a state. He moved past her without a word, and stepped out into the chill morning air. Spreading his wings, he leaped into the air, soaring briskly above the rooftops until he spied the familiar sight of Keygan’s below. Of course, it wasn’t the locksmith’s any longer, just a private dwelling now, but Pez still thought of it as Keygan’s, and he took a perverse pleasure in goading the gnome about it whenever he saw him out on a work detail.
Not bothering with the front door, Pez landed on the roof, then opened one of the upstairs windows and slipped inside. He found himself in Tilly and Maple’s bedroom, and needless to say, the halflings were quite unprepared for the image of an armed and armored winged archon in their midst at the crack of dawn.
Maple shrieked, pulling the bedclothes up around her. “Pez!” Tilly shouted, “Haven’t you heard of knocking?”
“Get dressed,” Pez replied, tossing the rogue his clothes, “You’re needed at the temple. Don’t delay. I’m going to find the ‘king.’”
He left the room as abruptly as he’d entered, leaving Tilly stammering behind him, doing his best to soothe Maple’s indignation.
Pez made his way down to Jzadirune, and to the elevator platform leading to the Malachite Fortress itself. The platform was not at the top of the shaft, so he knew that Gardrid had already returned from his shift at the Tankard. Pez dove into the shaft, not wanting to waste more time waiting for the platform to come back up. When he reached the bottom, he continued his flight through the fortress, heading for Gardrid’s private chambers…formerly Kazmojen’s.
Gardrid hadn’t done much with the décor in the slaver’s room. In fact, he rather liked it. All the trophies suited him, and he planned on adding many more in the near future. He was seated on Kazmojen’s ‘throne’, relaxing after another long night, when his door suddenly burst open. “Who dares?” he roared, surging to his feet, and hefting his axe.
“Your pardon, your highness,” Pez said smugly, stepping into the room, “but I have pressing business and could not schedule an audience. Jenya requests your presence…yours and Rusty’s as well. It is important, and dire I fear.”
“Oh she does, does she?” Gardrid said, affecting an aloof air, “Well, I suppose I could fit’er in to me royal schedule.”
“This is no time for games,” Pez scowled, “Come…now. I’ll meet both of you there.” He turned on his heel and left again.
“Hmph,” Gardrid sighed, “now what’dya suppose that’s all about. Well, if I’m bein’ summoned on official business, I’d best be dressed fer it.” He moved to the wall, examining the assortment of skins and pelts there, “Yes…I’m feelin’ a bit sassy today. Think I’ll wear the medusa…”
Pez winged his way high over the city walls, and then began descending the side of the volcano, towards the wooded foothills below. He knew approximately where the druid was living, having made it his business to keep tabs on the strange recluse. He landed outside a well-hidden cave in the hillside, and parted a curtain of vines and tendrils in front of it. Before he had taken two steps inside though, he heard a low, vicious snarling behind him. From out of the shadows stepped a large wolf, black with white forepaws.
“Easy Twosocks,” came a voice from deeper in the cave, and Wathros came forward, as if expecting his visitor. “He doesn’t care for uninvited guests,” he smiled, “but allowances can be made. To what do I owe the honor?”
“Jenya requests your presence on a matter of great urgency. I can say no more than this, other than she has asked for you personally.”
“Well then, how can I refuse?” the druid shrugged, “Tell her I shall not keep her waiting.”
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Jenya paced back and forth in her office, absently wringing her hands around a scrap of parchment that she clutched. “As I have told you all in the past,” she began, “I am only the acting high priestess of this temple. The true high priest is Sarcem Delasharn, and he has been away on church business these past months. I had not heard from him since he left…until this morning. He contacted me through a divine sending and…” for a moment her voice broke, and she choked back a sob. Covering her eyes, she quickly handed the scrap of paper to Pez. Unfolding it, he read aloud: At Lucky Monkey. Have eight wands. Tavern’s been attacked. Bandits led by barbaric apeman. Mortally wounded. Retreated to basement. They know we’re here. Send assistance!
“I replied to him,” Jenya said softly, “I told him to save his strength and have faith. I told him that I would send aid, and for him to contact me again when he could. I have not received another message.”
“What is the Lucky Monkey?” Tilly asked.
“It is an inn on the northwest road, about a day’s ride from here. Many travelers frequent it on their way to and from the capitol.”
“What wands did the high priest speak of?” Pez asked, concern etched on his face.
“Sarcem purchased eight wands of controlling water on his trip to the capitol,” Jenya explained, “They were to be used to help control the waters of the central lake during the rainy season to come. In the past, priests from our temple, the temple of Tempus, the temple of Kelemvor, and the temple of Lathander have joined together to create the wands, but over the past several years the flood seasons have been minor, and the other churches have lost interest in providing the time and effort to make them. Sarcem predicted a severe season this year, but when he approached the other high priests, they refused to help. So he made this journey to procure the wands before the rains begin.”
“But who would attack him, and why?” Wathros asked.
“I do not know,” Jenya shook her head, “There are bandits in the area, to be sure, but they have never attacked an inn before. It makes no sense. Please, I appeal to you in the name of service you have provided to us in the past. I beg you to go to Sarcem’s aid…before it is too late. I regret that I may not accompany you, but my duties here cannot be shirked.”
“There is no question as to my duty, my lady.” Pez bowed.
“I s’pose recuin’ a priest isn’t too menial a task fer a king,” Gardrid chimed in, “but I ain’t takin’ him” he hooked a thumb at Rusty. The priest’s face turned umber, and he opened his mouth to protest, “No, my friend, he is right,” Jenya said, laying a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder, “You have still not fully regained your strength, and this task may not be an easy one. You would be a liability I think.”
“But ye need a priest,” Rusty chided, “What’re ye gonna do if ye find Sarcem wounded?”
“I will send Ruphus,” Jenya answered, “Though he is not battle hardened, he is devout and his healing skills are second only to my own among the clergy here.”
Rusty folded his arms and grunted noncommittally.
“I can’t go.” Everyone turned to look at Tilly. “I…I promised Maple. No more adventures. We…we plan to marry. Please…understand.” Unable to bear the stares directed at him, Tilly opened the door, and swiftly departed.
“Don’t that just figure,” Gardrid muttered, “Let a durned woman inta the picture, and yer whole life’s rurn’t…er…present comp’ny excepted,” he bowed to Jenya.
“Do not fault him,” she said, “he has his own obligations to tend. Wathros,” she turned to the druid, “I asked you here to give your opinion on this matter, but now I ask you to consider accompanying the group. Your experience in the wilderness would prove an asset to them.”
Wathros looked pensive for a moment, “Though this matter does not concern me, and though it would probably serve the people of this cesspool town right to drown in their own excrement, I will undertake this journey out of a gesture of respect to you, and to honor the memory of Oso, who counted these men among his friends.”
“Gee…thanks,” Gardrid sneered, “I’m all choked up…”
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The company set out immediately, borrowing riding horses from the temple’s stable. They left the city via the western gate, and immediately struck out upon the northwest road, a route well traveled by merchant caravans in the area. The road led them out of the mountains, and down into the foothills, which quickly gave way to rolling savannahs.
Pez did not ride, but flew above the troupe, scouting the area ahead for potential dangers. Ruphus and Wathros rode singly, while Gardrid struggled along behind on a stout pony. The wolf that Wathros called Twosocks loped along in the tall grass beside the road.
The grasslands teamed with wildlife, but very few travelers did they meet. The only thing remotely out of the ordinary were the periodic large bands of baboons that watched in silence as they passed, their black eyes bearing an illusion of sinister intelligence.
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At first sight, the Lucky Monkey didn’t look all that unusual. It sat to the east of the road, partially surrounded by dense jungle. The building was old, and well used…the chimneys stained with soot, the roof sagging, the wood siding weathered and stained from last year’s mildew. A small stable stood to one side, in similar condition. The façade of the building sported numerous carved, wooden monkeys, many of which were engaged in risky, death-defying stunts. In one, a wooden monkey balanced on a narrow tree branch to get a banana hanging over a sleeping tiger. In another, a monkey sat on a boulder, completely unaware that a hunter sneaking up behind it was suddenly attacked and eaten by an ankheg.
As the group approached closer, they began to see signs that something terrible had recently occurred here. There were several broken windows, blood sprays on the walls, crushed plants and churned up earth in the space between the façade and the road.
The party dismounted near the stable, and led the horses inside. The stalls looked able to hold some two dozen animals, but all were empty. They quickly secured the mounts, and then cautiously made their way towards the front of the inn. The building was a two-story structure, and many windows pierced the façade, but all of them were shuttered securely from the inside.
Gardrid stepped up on the bloodstained porch, and approached the main doors. He placed his ear to the wood, and faintly on the other side, he caught the sounds of raucous laughter. He reached down and tried the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. Snarling, he backed up several steps, put his head and shoulder down, and charged. His momentum carried him completely through the locked doors, and sent him stumbling into the common room beyond.
Six pairs of eyes stared blearily at him as he regained his balance. The common room was a wreck. Overturned tables, bloodstains, torn up floorboards and other refuse dominated the once cozy tavern. Seated at the few remaining tables were three men, and three women. Two of the men, and one of the women were dressed in chainmail, with heavy steel shields slung over their backs and long swords at their sides. The other man and woman wore leathers studded with metal, and carried rapiers and short bows. All of them wore scarlet sashes around their waists. They all looked as if they had been sampling the bar’s wares.
“Well, well, what have we here?” one of the men said as he climbed unsteadily to his feet.
At that moment, Pez entered the room, “We are looking for a priest named Sarcem Delasharn. What happened here? Who are you people?”
“You’re treshpashin’” the man replied, “This’s private prop’ty.”
“I think you have that reversed,” Pez said coldly, “Tell us where the priest is, and we may let you walk out of here on your own power.”
At this, the motley group bellowed laughter, “Yeah,” the thug who had originally spoken said between chuckles, “we seen the priest. We took care of’im real good. Same’s we gonna take care of you.”
At that, all of the ruffians stood, and drew their weapons.
“You had your chance,” Pez replied grimly. He then held out one gloved hand and barked out a short, guttural word. Instantly, an explosive concussion of white noise detonated in the center of the room. Several of the brigands grabbed their heads in pain, and reeled drunkenly across the floor.
Gardrid seized the moment. He roared into the middle of the bandits, coming to a halt between two who had been most affected by the sound burst. “I hate to hit a lady,” he said apologetically, and then he swung at the chainmail-armored woman to his right, catching her heavily in the midsection and felling her with one blow. He pulled his axe free and reversed his swing, slamming the leather-clad woman on his left, killing her as well. As he looked around for new enemies, the second armored woman stepped in behind him, slashing him blind-side with her sword, and opening a deep gash across his cheek.
One of the armored males, the one who had been speaking, began closing in on Pez. Before he could reach the winged warrior though, a furry blur, all snarling teeth, leaped at him. Twosocks barreled into the man, knocking him flat on his back. As he struggled to get the animal off of him, Wathros stepped in, a gleaming scimitar twirling expertly in his hands, and cut across the ruffian’s wrist, causing him to drop his sword.
Pez, seeing that Gardrid was in trouble, instantly willed his greatsword into its trumpet form. He stepped up behind the woman assaulting the dwarf, and blew a blast directly into her ear. Her sword fell from her nerveless fingers and she went rigid. Gardrid quickly sidestepped the helpless brigand, swinging his axe as he went, neatly severing her head. He then rolled the axe up and above his head, before bringing it down on the fallen man that Twosocks was still savaging, ending his struggles as well.
“What the Hell’s going on here?” a man shouted, emerging from a curtained, private booth on the far side of the tavern. He wore a chain shirt, but he was in the process of trying to button up his breeches and buckle his belt. Following behind him was a woman in leathers, though they were half unlaced, exposing more than they covered. Seeing the melee, they quickly got hold of themselves, and leaped into the fray. The male drew his sword, and charged towards Gardrid, managing to get under the dwarf’s guard and land a solid blow across his shoulder. His companion did a quick run, and then somersaulted agilely past Wathros, but the druid was quicker. His whirling blade sliced the woman across her ample bosom. She cried out, but deftly landed on her feet, rapier in hand, and then drove its point deep into the elf’s side.
Pez had no doubt that he and his companions would be able to defeat this drunken gang, but he wanted to insure that at least one of them lived. He needed one alive for questioning…to try and find out exactly what had happened to Sarcem, and to the wands. Another of the armored male warriors was charging him, but he never made it. Pez once again winded his horn, stopping the man dead in his tracks. He then transformed the trumpet into a greatsword once more, and brought the flat of the blade squarely against the bandit’s temple, who crumpled, unconscious.
The male dressed in leather saw that the situation was getting serious. He vaulted over the bar, drew his bow, and began firing randomly into the melee. Pez, seeing this, took to the air, leaping easily to the top of the bar. The rogue’s eyes went wide as he saw the tall warrior poised above him, greatsword held aloft in two hands. That was the last thing he ever saw as the blade cleaved through the center of his forehead.
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Corene had been sleeping soundly on the band stage at the far end of the tavern. The ale had finally gotten to her, and she had fallen into a drunken stupor. It had been rudely interrupted by the sound of the escalating battle going on in the barroom. She had thought all the fighting finished long ago. After all, hadn’t they killed all the inn’s guests and employees? She staggered to her feet, and then concealed herself in the shadows of the stage’s wings, watching in growing horror at the carnage unfolding.
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Wathros was momentarily off-balanced by the woman’s deadly strike. He was trying to bring his scimitar up defensively to ward off her next attack, when Twosocks rushed past him. The wolf’s jaws clamped down on the rogue’s sword arm. She punched at him, trying to free herself, and then attempted to cartwheel over the animal and gain some distance. However, as she began her flip, Wathros came up beneath her, burying his sword in her chest, killing her instantly.
Gardrid turned with snarl on the half-dressed warrior who had charged him. The battlerager’s eyes glazed over, and drool began to run down his fiery beard. He wound himself up one hundred and eighty degrees, and with a primal roar, hurled himself at his opponent. The man never had a chance. He tried to backpedal, but his still unbuckled pants slipped to his knees and he stumbled to the floor. Gardrid’s axe pinned him there as it went completely through his body and into the planks beneath.
Corene knew that it was now or never. She had to warn Tongueater. She bolted from her hiding place, running full out for one of the doors on the far side of the bar. Pez spotted her, and leaped into the air, coming down in front of the door, and blocking her way. She swung her sword wildly at him, but he managed to parry it easily, before returning the attack, and causing her to retreat several steps. Her eyes went suddenly round, and her mouth dropped open, a trickle of blood escaping her lips. Her knees buckled, and she slipped soundlessly to the floor. Gardrid stood behind her, his axe a gory mess, his face a rictus of rage.
