SECRETS REVEALED
The beleaguered and battered members of the Bright Axes made their way glumly back to the surface from the ruins of Karran-Kural. While it was true that they had defeated the Cagewright, Fetor Abradius, and had bested the vile draco-lich Vittriss Bale, they had also lost a new friend and valuable ally in Kylon. When Rusty had attempted to contact the soul of the warrior, offering to return him to life, Kylon had replied that his rightful place was now beside Kelemvor. He requested only that his holy blade be returned to his home church, so that it might be taken up again in the eternal struggle. The companions immediately sought out Jenya to relay to her their findings, and to present her with the strange, rambling notes they had found in Fetor’s chambers. Perhaps she would be able to make sense of them, and find out what the reclusive sorcerer was hoping to accomplish by researching the ancient spellweaver artifacts.
The individual members of the company then dispersed to return to their homes for a well-deserved respite, and so it was that Rusty and Tilly arrived at Keygan’s Locks, now the gatehouse for the Malachite Fortress, and found a strange dwarf waiting for them on the stoop. Before they had a chance to ask any questions, the door flew open and Maple rushed out, leaping into Tilly’s arms, and covering his face with kisses. Just as abruptly, she stopped, standing back and glaring at the rogue and the priest. “And just where have you been off to this time?” the halfling woman demanded. “Do you know how frantic with worry I’ve been? I’ve had just about enough of this traipsing off and gallivanting around with those hoodlum friends of yours! If that weren’t enough, I have to deal with vagrants showing up at my door, demanding an audience with the ‘Lord of the Malachite Fortress’ no less!” She flapped her hand towards the strange dwarf, who sheepishly lowered his eyes to the ground. “Now, now Maple,” Tilly consoled, guiding his lady back into the shop so that Rusty could speak privately with his guest.
“Well,” the priest huffed, exhausted and having little patience for nonsense. “Who be ye? What do yer want with me?”
The dwarf still refused to make eye contact with Rusty, but he spoke in a voice that was oddly refined for a dwarf, “Begging your pardon, my lord, but my name is Gunther Graven, and I come here on a quest. Word of your deeds has spread far, and many have taken heart from your endeavors to restore the former glory of the Malachite Fortress. Your rescue and redemption of Zenith Splintershield has also brought great joy to the Clans. I had the great honor to personally meet one of your associates. His name was Gardrid Craghammer, and he spoke very highly of you, regaling tavern patrons for hours with tales of your exploits. Like you, I am a holy man, but also a practitioner of the Weave. I have been inspired by your faith and dedication, and I have made this long journey to offer you my services. It would humble me to be able to learn from you and aid you in your destiny to bring glory and dignity to the dwarf Clans.”
Rusty was speechless, not something that happened very often. Leave it to that loud mouth Gardrid to go stirring up trouble. Now he had dwarves making pilgrimages to him, like he was some messiah. One more headache he didn’t want to deal with. “Look me in the eye when yer speak to me, boy!” the priest barked, and Gunther obediently complied. “I ain’t got no need fer snivelin’ boot kissers followin’ me around. If ye want to help with the excavation and rebuildin’ of the Fortress, yer welcome to, but hear me loud and clear! Don’t ye be bowin’ and scrapin’ anywhere near me! I don’t tolerate suck-ups!” Gunther enthusiastically grasped Rusty’s hand, pumping it vigorously and smiling from ear to ear. “As you say, my lord! A thousand thank yous!” Rusty sighed heavily at the hero-worship written plainly across the younger dwarf’s face.
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Several days later, Jenya sent word to the Bright Axes that she had managed to decipher Fetor’s notes, and had information that she thought might be useful. “The columns that you described to me are called Soul Pillars,” the high priestess began once the company had been assembled in her chambers. “They seem to be great repositories of knowledge created by the spellweavers by trapping the souls of the dead within them. Apparently, the Cagewrights were drawing upon that knowledge to invoke some sort of powerful ritual, using soulcages, much like the one you found in the temple of Kelemvor. This ritual also requires the presence of individuals known as the Shackleborn, individuals born with a special, invisible birthmark.” She pointed to a drawing on one of the pages. It appeared to be an eye pierced by an arrow. “Your pardon, my lady,” Gunter interrupted. The young dwarf had asked to accompany Rusty to the meeting, stating that he had some knowledge of arcane lore, and could perhaps be of some help. “I am familiar with that symbol,” he continued. “It is the sign of Carceri, the Prison Plane.”
“I’ve seen it before as well,” Rusty growled. “When we first me Zenith, I had a spell on me that let me see invisible things. I was suspectin’ an ambush. Zenith had that symbol on his face.”
“But wasn’t Zenith returned to your home by his father?” Jenya asked. Rusty turned questioningly to Gunther. “No, my lord,” he replied, “I had actually hoped to be able to meet him here.” Rusty cursed, then his eyes opened wide. “Tilly,” he said, “do ye remember the boy we rescued from the slaver? Terrym was his name, wasn’t it?”
“Of course I remember,” Tilly replied. “What about him?”
“That beholder took him right out from under our noses, and he had some sort of sorceress with him. Do ye think he might have been one of these Shackleborn?”
Tilly shrugged, “It’s possible. Easy enough to find out. Grimm here can see all sorts of invisible things, or so he says. We can take him to the orphanage and have him take a look at the kid.”
“I’m afraid you can’t,” Jenya interjected. “Terrym was adopted recently…by Lord Mayor Vhalantru.”
The assembled members of the Bright Axes looked meaningfully at each other. “There is one more thing you should know,” Jenya continued, “While you were away, I was able to commune with Tyr. Ike Iverson and his followers were indeed not worshipers of Kelemvor. They worshiped the undead god Velsharoon.”
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Later that evening, the company was gathered around their customary table at the Tipped Tankard, discussing the implications of their newfound information. Engrossed in their conversation, they did not notice the cloaked figure approaching until she threw back her hood, revealing the olive-skinned face of Shensen Tesseril. “Hello my friends,” the druid said. “I heard that you had returned, and I’m afraid I must interrupt your leisure time by requesting your assistance once again.” The Bright Axes looked up, some in expectation, some in confusion. The newer members of the company had not met the half-drow, though their companions had mentioned her when the fane of the Black Egg had destroyed the Lucky Monkey. Shensen seated herself at the table, looked around for eavesdroppers, then leaned forward and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper, “I am afraid I have misled you, my friends. I have not been totally honest with you. I am not just some local agent of the Emerald Enclave, as you were led to believe. No, I am an agent of an organization known as the Harpers. We are dedicated to the eradication of evil in Faerun, and we work by means of covert infiltration into the machinations of organizations dedicated to evil pursuits. Our cell has been working in Cauldron for quite some time, investigating the strange goings on around here. You have met some of the others…Fario Ellegoth and Fellian Shard. Our leader is called Meerthan Eliothlorn, and it on his command that I come to you now. He requests a meeting with you in his room at the Drunken Morkoth. I beg your forgiveness at my deceit, but I also beg you to trust me now. We need you, and the fate of Cauldron may depend on it.”
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Meerthan’s room was cozy and well appointed, with a desk, a small bed and walls hung with mounted hunting trophies. Meerthan himself was a dwarf wearing a rich vest and a golden circlet on his brow. As soon as all of the Bright Axes were in the room, he motioned for Shensen to leave. When she was gone, the dwarf lifted the circlet from his head, and to the astonishment of the adventurers, his form changed before their eyes. He now appeared to be a middle-aged half-elf with hazel eyes and a small, crescent moon tattoo under his right eye. “You will forgive the subterfuge,” Meerthan said, “but it is necessary that I maintain my disguise as a harmless merchant while in town, so as not to attract undue attention to myself or my agents. This brings me to the reason I have summoned you. One of my agents, a half-elf named Skiriol, was captured while spying on the house of Lady Thifirane Rhiavadi. He is being detained and interrogated in a Last Laugh safe house. Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem. I keep a Bracelet of Friends, a magic item I can use to teleport my agents out of harm’s way in an instant. However, Skiriol gets into more than his fair share of troubles, and, well, I can’t use the bracelet on him a second time. Members of the Last Laugh are interrogating Skiriol as we speak. He has resisted their torture so far, but he can’t hold out much longer. With the help of a spell called Telepathic Bond, I’ve managed to remain in contact with him. The Last Laugh doesn’t know this. Please forgive my presumption, but I’ve already told him that help is on the way. When you return, we can discuss what Skiriol has learned from his reconnaissance. They are holding him at the Brass Trumpet, an abandoned inn on Ash Avenue.”
“Ye’re right,” Rusty said, shaking his head at the gall of the man. “Ye do presume a lot. Why don’t ye fill us in a bit on what exactly this agent of yours was doin’ at House Rhiavadi in the first place?”
“There’s no time for that now,” Meerthan said dismissively. “Every minute wasted here is another minute of torture Skiriol has to endure. I will explain everything to you when you return.”
Rusty grumbled, and then turned to his companions, “Well?” he asked. “Do we hang our fat over the fire to save someone else’s bacon one more time?”
“Why not?” Grimm growled, “It’s been a few days since I’ve bashed some skulls. Vacation’s over.”
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“Sure looks abandoned to me,” Grimm muttered, as the Bright Axes stood in a concealed alleyway across the street from the Brass Trumpet. The old inn had walls of mortared volcanic rock on the bottom, and timber on the upper level, and all of the ground floor windows were bricked over. The second floor windows had solid, wooden frames and panes of opaque, smoked glass. An iron sign set with a brass trumpet hung askew above the door.
“Not if you know what you’re looking for,” Tilly replied quietly. “See the front door? It’s newer that the rest of the building. Someone’s been here recently. The rest of you wait here. I’m going for a closer look.”
The little rogue darted through the shadows until he crouched before the heavy wooden door, and then immediately set to work on the lock. However, it seemed the members of the Last Laugh were more skilled at locksmithing than he had given them credit for. He cursed roundly as his pick broke off in the keyhole, and wished for the thousandth time that they had been able to coax Keygan’s master keys from him before he went to prison. Just then, Tilly heard heavy footsteps behind him. He whirled around, blades in hand just as the hulking form of Grimm loomed over him. “Time’s up,” the half-ogre said, and then with one mighty swing of his chain, he smashed the door to flinders. Tilly gaped as the big warrior strode into the safe house, then shook his head in resignation and followed with the rest of his companions.
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The entry hall contained no furnishings. Instead, arrow slits perforated the walls on both sides. No sooner had the Bright Axes set foot in the room, than the twang of bowstrings sounded, and arrows began whistling through the air around them. So much for a surprise assault. Tilly ducked and rolled against the nearest wall, coming up just beneath an arrow slit. Peering over the edge, he saw a harlequin-masked figure standing on the other side. The rogue jabbed his sword through the opening, and was rewarded by a wet gurgle as the blade pierced the thug’s lung.
On the opposite side of the hallway, Kiko stood flat against the wall, next to another arrow slit. He waited until he heard the bow loose on the other side, then he stepped directly in front of the slit, his hands a blur of motion as he punched three times through it. The man on the other side never knew what hit him, as he collapsed bonelessly to the floor.
Dalthon stood near the doorway, trying to seek cover from the deadly barrage of arrows. The thugs doing the shooting, however, could find no such cover from the sorcerer’s own assault of magical missiles. Five of them streaked unerringly thru one of the slits, silencing another bow-wielding assassin.
Grimm’s methods were far cruder, but just as effective. In rapid succession, he flailed his chain at the walls, knocking large chunks of stone free, and leaving gaping holes behind, along with startled thugs. Just as quickly, he wiped the stunned looks off their faces with three lethal strikes.
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Kiko stepped up to the inner door, and quickly pulled it open, hoping to surprise any would-be ambushers on the other side. Instead, it was he who was surprised by the sight of five heavy crossbows mounted on tripods in the center of the room beyond. He knew he’d made a mistake in not letting Tilly check the door for traps first when the crossbows all fired simultaneously. With reflexes honed by years of training, his hands went into action, swatting the deadly bolts from the air as they approached. Still, even his super-human speed was not enough, and two of the projectiles struck him glancing blows. Ignoring the pain, he motioned his companions forward, as he moved across the room to a curtained archway on the opposite side. Carefully pulling aside the curtain, he peered into what was once the inn’s common room. A few tables and chairs still remained, but the room’s central fireplace had long ago been dismantled and removed. Curtained alcoves lined one wall, while a rickety wooden stairway lead up to the upper level. The monk’s sharp eyes darted around the dim room, and in an instant, he picked out four masked members of the Last Laugh concealed in the shadows behind the curtains, and beneath the stairs. “It’s a trap!” he shouted, and then he was roughly shouldered aside by Grimm. The thugs leaped from their hiding places, but the half-ogre was ready for them. The first one barely made it three feet from his alcove before the spiked chain nearly decapitated him. Grimm carried through with the swing, caving in the chest of the second rogue. As a third moved in behind the big warrior, Tilly intercepted him, and with two quick thrusts, ended any further threat from that quarter. Kiko made quick work of the last thug with a double knife-handed chop to the man’s neck.
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The urban assault team made no further efforts of stealth as they bounded up the stairs to the second floor. They knew that every second counted. If the Last Laugh members had time, they might kill Skiriol outright. Tilly was first up the stairs, arriving in what appeared to be a barracks room. Fifteen wooden cots were spread out across the floor. The room was dim, and once again, the darkness concealed would-be assassins. Tilly’s eyes were just as sharp as Kiko’s, and the little rogue picked out four more thugs. However, there were two other figures present: two men who appeared to be twins, with shaved heads and painted faces, dressed only in loose-fitting black clothing. Rather than immediately warn his friends, Tilly took the opportunity to strike first. Darting towards the nearest thug, he effortlessly slit the man’s throat. A second guildsman met the same fate as he came in low, hoping to tackle the halfling. As Tilly rolled from beneath the dead man, he cried out in pain as a razor-sharp shuriken embedded itself in his shoulder. When he looked up, he saw the twins somersaulting across the room towards him. With unnatural agility, they landed on opposite sides of him, empty-handed, but still looking decidedly deadly.
At that moment, Rusty thundered to the top of the stairs, just as a third thug was moving to block the landing. The priest swung his axe low, chopping the man’s legs out from under him, and then cleared a path for Grimm.
The half-ogre quickly assessed the situation, then grinned broadly at the twin assassins flanking Tilly. “Not your lucky day boys!” he growled. The monks were instantly in motion, but it was an instant too late. Their lifeless bodies struck opposite walls as Grimm’s lethal weapon did its work. The last thug made a break for a far door, but Tilly was on him in a flash, burying his swords in the man’s back.
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A quick search behind the four doors leading out of the barracks, revealed only empty bedchambers. There was no other exit from the room, yet from the layout of the building, there had to be more space on this level than there appeared. “I’m gonna take me a little look around,” Rusty said, and then he began chanting a prayer of travel to his goddess. Slowly, the dwarf’s form faded from view as he passed into the ethereal plane, the shadowy dimension directly adjacent to the material world. Though technically on another plane, the priest could still see into his own. Better yet, he could literally walk thru walls, just like a ghost. Stepping thru the north wall, he found himself in a short hallway that seemed to have no entrance and no exit. He reasoned that the doors must be hidden, but that was no barrier for him. He stepped thru a second wall, entering what appeared to be another bedchamber. This one, however, was not unoccupied. A male half-elf lay face down on a wooden torture rack in the middle of the windowless room. The man’s hands and feet were bound with iron manacles, and his bare back was striped with crimson lacerations. Standing next to the rack was a young woman in black garb, with half her face painted black, and the other half white. She held a dripping blade near the half-elf’s throat with one gloved hand, and a silvery whip in the other. She was looking expectantly towards a blank wall.
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“He’s traveling in the border dimension,” Gunther patiently explained to his bewildered companions. “He can scout undetected that way. Perhaps in the meantime, I can lend some assistance.” He fished around in his robes, and pulled out a slender wand. Muttering a strange word, he began turning slowly in a circle, holding the wand in front of him like a divining rod. “There,” he said finally, pointing towards a bare wall. “There is a door concealed there.” Tilly moved to the wall, and began running his hands over it carefully. In short order, he found a well-hidden button, and when he pressed it, the wall slid aside, revealing a short hall on the other side, ending in another blank wall. The rogue performed the same search of that barrier, and found a similar switch. However, as he pressed it, in addition to the wall opening, a loud, shrill alarm began to sound. Tilly ignored the signal, and crept cautiously ahead. The chamber beyond was hung with thick red curtains, which divided it into a maze of five-foot wide passages. As the little halfling got his bearings, a guttural shout sounded from above him, and a beam of energy struck him in the back. For a moment, the rogue felt his entire body stiffen, unmoving, but then just as quickly, the feeling passed. Looking up, Tilly saw another halfling clinging spider-like to the rafters. His face was unpainted, but a red, four-pointed star-shaped tattoo circled his left eye, and he was draped in a gaudy red and gold cape. A wand was clutched in his outstretched hand.
Suddenly, one of the curtains directly in front of Tilly was ripped aside, and a masked Last Laugh guildsman lunged through. Tilly tumbled into a forward roll, ducking beneath the man’s slicing blade, and coming up behind the thug. Before the rogue could regain his balance, Tilly plunged his short blade into the back of his neck.
Meanwhile, Grimm barreled into the room, and spotting the wizard on the ceiling, whipped his chain out to its full extension, impaling its point thru the halfling’s abdomen.
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Rusty knew he had to act fast. Calling again upon Mystra’s magic, he charged his empty hand with a deadly, life-draining spell. Willing himself out of the ethereal, he appeared directly in front of the female assassin. With a hiss of surprise, the woman drew her blade across Skiriol’s throat at the same moment that Rusty laid his hand upon her. Screaming in agony, she stepped back, and vanished in a blinding flash of light, but it was too late for Skiriol. He was already dead.
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“So we did all this for nothing,” Tilly said in disgust as he stared at Skiriol’s body.
“You insult me,” Rusty chided. “I find your lack of faith disturbing.” The dwarven priest drew out his holy symbol, and gently laid it upon Skiriol’s breast. He began chanting, praying for Mystra to return the departed soul of the Harper, imploring her that it was not yet this man’s time. With a great whooping gasp, Skiriol’s eyes snapped open, and he looked around in disbelief. “Easy boy,” Rusty said. “Yer boss man sent us here to fetch ye, and we arrived a might too late. But yer back now, and all’s well that ends well, so now ye can be tellin’ us what yer doin’ here in the first place.”
Skiriol knew the Bright Axes could be trusted. Not only had Meerthan imparted this to him telepathically, but when Rusty’s miracle had called him back from death, he could read the dwarf’s soul, and knew it to be honorable. “I was caught outside House Rhiavadi,” he began, “as I was following up on information we had obtained about Lady Thifirane. It seems that members of the town guard, including half-orc mercenaries hired by Lord Vhalantru, have been seen entering and leaving the manor at all hours of the day and night. Some of the half-orcs then head straight to House Vhalantru, and vice versa. Lady Rhiavadi herself has not been seen entering or leaving the house in weeks, although members of her household staff come and go during the day. She must have a dozen or more halflings in her employ. Recently, she has had several shady characters as guests. A comely, yet pale half-elf clad in scant, tight-fitting black garments arrived last night by horse-drawn carriage. She wore a cloak of black shadow that fluttered about her, even though the night air was still. Her coach had blackened windows and it sped off into the night after dropping her off. Also, a band of well-armed humans arrived two days ago. One of them carried a black mace capped with an iron skull, and he bore a heavy shield emblazoned with the symbol of Cyric. Lastly, a contingent of five well-armed dwarves arrived three days ago. One of them was white-haired and white-bearded, and wore a black leather half mask that covered his right eye. The mask had a black gem set into the eye socket.”
“Hmmm,” Rusty said, glancing at his companions, “it seems we’ve got a party to crash at House Rhiavadi.”
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![:]](http://www.enworld.org/forum/images/smilies/devious.png "Devious :]")
By Dalthon. But he Believed what Kylon told him so he will be watching that sorcerer. 
