"An Icy Grave" : A Tale of Two Brothers

[Jon Potter]

Part 8: Dear God, It's Me...

"Hmm, me chalak," Karak groaned. "I nae like tha looks o' this."
Malak plucked the sheet of oil-soaked parchment from his brother's axe and looked at it. Moisture and time had totally obliterated the lines of text written there. The cleric grunted and tossed the sheet aside. The oil had turned waxy in the cold, but it thawed quickly in the heat from his hand. He wiped his fingers dry on his leg of his trousers.
"What was this monk, 'ere, about ta do?" Karak asked and Malak shrugged.
"I dunno," the Battleguard confessed.
"It's seemin' ta me 'e was ready ta torch this place," Karak said.
"Aye," Malak agreed. "That much seems clear."
"But for what?" the warrior asked, stroking his blonde beard with one hand. "What was he lookin' ta protect?"
"Or destroy?" Malak suggested and started to step around his brother. Karak stopped the smaller dwarf with one hand.
"Before we fully investigate, let's 'ave ye stick yer pin pricker in that snow bank there," the warrior offered. "I dinna want a snow crab ta launch itself at me 'ead. Aye?"
Malak nodded once and thrust his scimitar into the snow ahead of them. There were obstacles buried in the snow - overturned benches and ruined volumes - but nothing alive to challenge them. Snow blew in from the unshuttered windows.
"Let's look for a book or scroll what catches yer eye," Karak suggested. "After that I say we check tha rest o' tha monastery, put these dead souls ta rest and wait out tha storm. What say ye?"
Malak flipped absently through a leather-bound book made fat by moisture and shook his head. He dropped the volume back into the snow.
"There be nothin' 'ere ta find," the Battleguard said with a sigh. "Anythin' worth catchin' me eye's already succumbed ta tha weather."
Karak peered at the monk, frozen with his unlit torch held before him. At a distance, he'd thought the man had died without a mark on him. Upon closer inspection, he found that was not the case. He could now clearly see the imprint of a bony hand frozen across the monk's face in ice crystals.
"Come on, me chalak," Karak muttered. "I want ta finish our sweep o' tha monastery. An' tha sooner, tha better."

They exited the library via the only other door that didn't lead out onto the storm-wrapped balcony. As with the other door, they could hear the wind whistling around it. As before, they found no traps on the door and neither was it locked.
The room beyond was half the size of the library with a single door set directly opposite the one by which they had entered. Shelves lined the walls and a small table sat in the corner to their right. A robed figure was slouched across the table, dried garlic strewn around the table in a semicircle.
Karak raised his axe defensively as the figure began to stir.
It lurched stiffly from behind the table, knocking a bottle of dried ink, a pen, and a scrap of parchment to the floor. Its fist struck only air near Karak's thigh, but the dwarf's efforts to avoid the undead blow made his retaliatory strike go wide of the mark.
Malak maneuvered to get himself into position, giving his brother the time for another swing. It was a well-placed strike; and would have cleaved the thing in half if the dwarf had his full attention on attack. He was so eager to avoid being hit, however, that the huge blade missed the unliving monk's abdomen entirely.
The walking corpse was making no attempt to avoid the dwarves' attacks, but somehow Malak's scimitar missed the thing's ice-choked head. Fortunately for both Malak and Karak, the monk was having no more luck hitting them.
Malak swung his sword, the crescent tore away a scrap of frozen meat from one undead bicep and the creature shuddered from the impact. Karak stepped forward and delivered a killing blow that split open the thing's chest; it fell to the ground in two large pieces.
"How many o' these things must we face?" Malak wondered aloud as he wiped his blade clean on the monk's robe.
"I ken nae, me chalak," Karak admitted. "Perhaps one o' these books or scrolls will tell us somethin'."
Malak picked up a few of the books and cast each aside, one after the other. Like the books in the library, they were hopelessly ruined by exposure to moisture. Only the single scrap of parchment that had been shielded beneath the monk's body was legible. It contained a prayer hastily written in Common:

"Oh lord Merrika, thou who watches over the lands of men with thy golden countenance. Look in mercy upon our accursed monastery in this our hour of need! For we are beset by a nameless evil against which there seems no defense. It comes at the stroke of midnight and kills without discrimination. Only four of us remain now. Brother Cook and brother Apothecary have retreated to the meditation room and seem resigned to death. Only brother [and here, the word 'brother' was scratched out] abbot Zeal still works feverishly on a solution. I, lord Merrika, put my fate in your hands and repent my sins in the name of Orin who was lifted up to bear your shield across the heavens. I wren -

- He comes!"

 

[Jon Potter]

Part 9: It's Not Lonely at the Top

Malak rubbed his beard as he looked back toward the library door. "There be nothin' here what answers a single question, me chalak. In fact, quite tha contrary, it be seemin' more and more like everywhere we turn we find more questions."
"Better ta find it than wait for it ta find us, whate'er it be, chalak," Karak replied. "I like nae what tha signs o' this 'ere struggle indicate."
"Aye," Malak agreed, his eyes moving from one piece of the twice-dead monk to the other. "There be nothin' here what looks good at all."
"It be seemin' t' me that tha sutmagmornder likes ta come out an' play aroun' near tha midden night hour," the warrior said, flexing his hands on the haft of his axe.
"Ye be thinkin' 'tis tha undead we face 'ere abouts?" Malak asked. "Aside from tha unfortunate monks, I mean."
"I do," Karak said and then he shrugged. "Now, I be nae Cleric as ye. And apparently I was nae graced with tha brains ta figure stuff out like ye. But I figure this. I nae want ta be unprepared when tha sutmagmornder 'ere comes."
Malak looked again at the hastily written prayer to Merrika.
"Aye, chalak," he said at last. "But a moment o' prayer before Shaharizod might be in order before we go wanderin' too much further."

They exited the room via the opposite door and stepped out into the hallway. To their right was a door that obviously led out onto the snow-covered balcony that seemed to circle the second floor of the monastery; they could feel the wind pressing in around the doorframe. A single closed door was set across the hallway - the only door off it that they hadn't yet opened. Malak eyed it and angled his head questioningly in that direction.
"Nae," Karak grumbled. "We're wastin' time with all these doors while tha midden night hour draws nearer. I say we brace for battle and take tha upper stairwell, ta see what these 'ere monks be fortifyin' against."
They proceeded back to the landing that looked down onto the entryway. There, Karak indicated the dark staircase that led to the third floor. He examined the splintered wooden boards that had at one time been nailed over the portal.
"Now I must say, if'n it was nae shabby 'uman fortification, it might 'ave 'ere held," the warrior said, shaking his head in disgust. A dwarf not a decade past the Mother's Rite could have produced a better barricade. "As ye well know, a dwarven one wou' 'ave held against a corporal beast."
At the sound of Karak's voice, the goat tethered to the banister downstairs let out a loud bleat.
"Come on," Malak urged. "Let's say a few words before tha Silver Queen."
Karak nodded and the brothers turned and started down the wide staircase, heading back to the shrine room and the statue of the goddess there. They walked in silence, both on edge, and both with a hand very close to their weapons.
The pack goat turned toward them eagerly as they came down the stairs. They each patted the beast reassuringly as they passed it.
As they entered the statue room, Malak again fished into his bag and retrieved a coin and dropped it into the clay bowl where it clinked against the other he had left. Even the sound of the coin, which had fallen from his own hand, hitting the bowl caused him to start a bit.
Karak harrumphed and looked around cautiously.
The Battleguard knelt and looked up at the wooden statue. Even though it was badly damaged by water and cold, a sense of calm swept over him at the sight of it. He knew that the goddess would protect him as best she could, and he even wondered if this might be a test that had been prepared for him. He had followed his brother into adventure with little knowledge about what lay ahead, questioning his own readiness. But Arngrim had come with the King's message and Shaharizod seemed to be telling him to go. So maybe this was a test, something to steel his will to continue, something to assess his readiness and allow him to prove to himself that he was ready. The King's message...
"Karak, where be tha message from tha King?" Malak asked. "Still on that infernal, smellin' goat?"
"I nae have it," his brother replied. "Unless ye took it, there it be."
"Then tha next thin' we ought ta do is go find it an' put it in a secure place, which nae doubt means in me pack," Malak jabbed as he got to his feet. "From there I put me trust in ye ta lead tha way. Ye be tha fighter... I nae b..."
Malak stopped himself there. If this was a test, he was not going to doubt his abilities. That wouldn't be what Shaharizod wanted.

With the heavy scroll tube secured safely in Malak's pack, they once more climbed the stairs to the landing. They crossed it to the narrow doorway. There was another closed door to the right, but they ignored it in favor of the stairs. They climbed into darkness with Karak in the lead.
The stairs led to what was undoubtedly the top floor. They arrived in a large, mostly-barren room with the open stairwell emerging in the center, surrounded by a protective banister. The roof of the room was steeply sloped. Near the right and left walls the roof was so low that Malak would likely have scraped his head, and in the center, where they emerged, an ogre could not have reached the ceiling beams. There were no windows that they could see, but their darkvision revealed all they needed to know. To the right and left of the stairs were two stone statues in the shape of stern men in monks' habits. Two doors were set behind them on either side of the stairs. There was no immediate sign of any undead.
Karak indicated the door on the left and they crept toward it as quietly as they could. Given their armor, that wasn't very quiet at all. Malak went about the business of checking the door for any obvious traps and listening for any sounds of movement behind it. He found and heard nothing. He tried the handle and found it locked.
As he turned to indicate as much to Karak, he heard a scraping sound and saw movement over his brother's shoulder. Karak whirled and the pair saw the danger as one.
The two stone statues had walked stiffly off their pedestals. Their fists were raised and their faces - which had been simply stern before - now were fixed in exaggerated expressions of rage.
They approached the dwarves haltingly.

 

[drnuncheon]

Ahh, the walking statues. I can't even remember how my players got past them (if they even did. They did a lot of running away, as I recall.)

Very nice. And I see you're picking up the bad habit of cliffhangers...

J

 

[Jon Potter]

Eh?

And I see you're picking up the bad habit of cliffhangers...

BAD Habit? Whatever do you mean?

 

[Jon Potter]

Part 10: Rockin' Role

"Malak, mayhap these be protectors o' this 'ere monastery and confuse us as robbers; ken ye talk ta them?" Karak asked.
The two statues were advancing slowly but inexorably.
"I nae speak Terran or statue or whate'er these 'ere things speak," the cleric grumbled, readying his scimitar.
Karak harrumphed and cleared his throat.
"Stop, Golems," he said in loud, clear Common. "We are missionaries come 'ere for respite."
The statues gave no indication that they understood and Karak nudged his brother.
"Head for tha stairs," he whispered in Dwarfish and Malak started to edge in that direction.
"This 'ere be a Cleric o' Shaharizod and me a simple Guardian on a mission o' peace an' great import," Karak said as the two dwarves moved sideways toward the stairs. "We have given tha proper offerin' down below what allows us 'ere ta pass. We dinna mean ta disturb yer master where'er he may be. We will go now, back down tha stairs."
The two had maneuvered themselves around the slow-moving statues and arrived at the top of the stairs. Their animated opponents, however, were close enough that there was no way they could both make it down without suffering attack from one or the other of them.
"Get down!" Karak commanded, pushing Malak in the chest nearly hard enough to send the cleric tumbling down the stairs.
The nearer of the two statues swung its large fist at Karak's head, but the dwarf raised his axe and drove the blow away with the handle of the great weapon. Another fist came in and he deflected the blow from his chest with the haft of the axe.
Then he was out of the statues' reach and he chugged down the narrow stairs as fast as his short legs and heavy armor would allow.
The statues followed.
"What now, chalak?" the Battleguard asked and Karak narrowed his eyes.
"I will take tha one ta tha right, ye tha left," he said as the stone creatures stepped out onto the landing.
"I suggest ye use, 'Sand over Stone'," the warrior added. "I will use 'Hammer with Pole'."
Malak came at his target fast and on the left. The creature had barely turned its head to regard him before his scimitar struck. The blade clattered ineffectually against the thing's abdomen.
It swung its fist in retaliation, but the Battleguard was easily able to avoid the blow.
Karak waited until his own statue had taken its swing and then he thrust the head if his axe outward and up, striking the statue in the throat. The attack seemed to have no effect.
Malak ducked under his opponent's flailing fists and slashed out with his scimitar. This time, his strike chipped away a small amount of stone from the thing's left thigh.
Karak and his own statue danced around each other's attacks, neither able to get passed the other's defenses until he heard his brother cry out, "Oy!"
Malak realized that the blow was going to go bad as soon as he swung, but he didn't realize how bad until the blade shattered against his opponent's right forearm. A tremor from the impact traveled up his arm making his teeth chatter for an instant before the statue struck him in the chest.
"Chalak!" Karak bellowed as he dodged beneath his statue's attack.
He swung the huge axe in a massive sideswipe, landing a solid blow with the flat of the blade. Cracks formed across the surface of the stone arm and rock dust fell to the floor. He was able to disengage from his opponent and move toward his brother.
Malak held his chest. He didn't think anything was broken, but internal bleeding wasn't entirely out of the question. He let the useless handle of his scimitar fall to the floor and reached over his shoulder to where he strapped his claymore.
The statue advanced, its fist drawn back to strike...
...and stopped.
The one that had been fighting with Karak did the same; it stood frozen in mid-step.
Their faces had returned to the stern expressions they had both worn before.

 

[Jon Potter]

Part 11: Skeletons in the Closet

"Malak," Karak began, helping to steady his brother. "Aye, finally all that prayin' seems ta've worked as ye were able ta stop tha golem's 'ere."
The two dwarves eyed the unmoving statues suspiciously, each expecting the constructs to reanimate at any moment.
"Twasn't me, chalak," the Battleguard admitted. He could taste blood in the back of his throat. "Though mayhap tha Silver Queen had her hand in it."
Karak said nothing to this, but looked intently at the sharp blade of his axe. His gaze shifted between the weapon and the stone creatures while his brother got out his healing kit.
"I say we take a quick look see at tha rest of tha monastery what we have nae searched," the blonde dwarf said.
Malak swallowed back the coppery taste of his own blood and scowled up at his brother. Karak was leaning on his war axe, his eyes still warily studying the two statues for any signs of movement and Malak nodded.
"I'll be ready in a moment," the Battleguard replied and got about the business of patching himself up.
Malak could call on his Goddess to heal his brother if need be. And were there another Battleguard present the two clerics could heal each other with impunity. But the strictures of his faith prohibited Malak from using Shaharizod's healing graces on himself. Such tenants had long ago produced a strong tradition of mundane healing amongst initiate Battleguards, and few left the training hall without a healing kit and the knowledge of how best to use it. Malak was no exception.
He produced a vial of henbane paste and smeared a dollop on a strip of mutton jerky from his rations. He put the jerky in his mouth and began to chew, letting the bitter-tasting anesthetic trickle down his throat. He could feel the numbing affects almost at once and the taste of the medicine - while not pleasant - masked the metallic taste of blood. The medicine would only last a few hours, but he could take a tincture of adder's tongue when he bedded down for the night that would speed the healing process further.
He put away his supplies, picked up Arngrim's lantern and got to his feet.
"I be ready," he told Karak and his brother nodded.
"From now onward, ye'll check tha door as ye 'ave been, then I go in, an' ye watch behind," the warrior said hauling his axe up into a defensive position.

They went first to the only door they hadn't yet opened along the length of the hallway. It was situated at the far end of the hall in the left-hand wall, opposite the door by which they had exited the library. Beside it, set into the very end of the hall was a door that opened onto the balcony; wind howled around the jam, and the door itself rattled with the force of the storm outside.
Malak performed his check on the door they had chosen then stepped back, holding their light source high. Karak opened the door, and braced himself, but nothing sprang from the darkness. He saw some loose sheets of parchment fluttering in the breeze from the door leading out. There was a loose stack of them on a small table between the door and the narrow bed. One by one, they went tumbling on the wind, but other than that movement, the room was still.
The place had clearly once been the room of someone important in the monastery. Although it lacked any ornamentation, the furniture of the room was obviously of good quality, and the cold floor - which was bare everywhere else in the monastery - was covered with woven carpets to keep out the chill.
Karak took a few steps into the room and grabbed at the sheets of fluttering parchment. They were covered with horizontal lines of human runes, but the oil lamp on the tabletop had cracked from the cold and leaked oil onto the stack. Only one sheet remained legible and the warrior handed it to his brother while he continued his search of the place.
The parchment seemed to Malak to be a page from a diary written in a forceful hand using a stick of charcoal.
He cleared his throat and read the note aloud:

"Starday, the 18th of Fireseek, 1268 AE
I know him for who he is... Merikka have mercy on my soul, for it is I who have brought this curse upon our house. Thus it is up to me to save us... those who are still alive... whether it is the light or the heat of it he fears I ken nae, but my trap shall give him plenty of both tonight."

Malak did some quick translations of dates from human to dwarvish and grimaced.
"Almost a year ago ta tha day, me chalak," he told Karak. "What do ye make o' it?"
The larger dwarf harrumphed.
"Nae time ta worry on that jus' now," he added, rattling the small locked drawer in the table. "Me thinks it ta be near midnight an' I propose we open tha top door 'fore then. We'll think on tha clues once we've searched tha place from helm ta boots."

"That'll nae hold back an angry kobold," Malak chuckled at the flimsy barricade that Karak had erected in front of the doorway at the bottom of the narrow flight of stairs to the third floor. A goodly portion of his improvised obstruction consisted of the very door that had been wrenched off its hinges in the first place.
Karak scowled at his brother and placed the last piece of wood on the barricade.
"'Tis nae meant ta hold back anythin' at all," he told the Battleguard. "I only build it so that if'n somethin' comes down we'll know 'bout it by them havin' ta crash through tha door."
The Battleguard had to admit that it made a fair bit of sense.
"Now let's hurry on," the warrior added. "We've one more door ta go through 'fore we tackle tha room upstairs."

As usual, Malak found no traps on the door. Karak opened it and his brother shown the lantern light into the chamber beyond.
The room looked like it was a workshop of sorts. A large loom stood in the left rear corner still threaded with coarse fibers of the sort used in the making of monk's habits. A workbench and several wood working tools filled the other part of the room. A half-finished chair of the sort they had seen elsewhere in the monastery lay atop the workbench amidst a drift of wood shavings. Four bony figures were sprawled on the floor. Three of them seemed to have gone down fighting while the last skeleton lay crumpled in a corner grinning merrily at its dead friends.
Karak had time to see this much before the piles of bones rose up into menacing skeletal assailants.
"Watch me back," he growled to Malak and the skeletons were upon him.
Standing as he was in the doorway, he presented a target to only three of the skeletons. The fourth hung back behind the others, waving its arms madly above its head. The other three slashed and clawed at Karak with their fingers curled into bony hooks. The sound of bone clattering against metal filled the dwarves' ears as the warrior's platemail deflected the skeletons' attacks. Only two blows found their marks - one on his right shin and the other on his left shoulder.
They were too close for Karak to swing the war axe effectively. He brought the butt end of the weapon down against the knee of the skeleton on his left and was pleased to see the lower half of its leg fall away. Its kneecap pinged off the doorframe and the skeleton fell over backward, shattering into several hundred pieces.
Of course, this victory allowed the fourth skeleton an opportunity to move in for the attack. As it did so, the dwarf spun his axe around and brought it upward. The weapon cleaved through the skeleton's pelvis. Its right leg fell to the side, but for a moment, the skeleton hopped about on its left leg before it toppled and broke apart on the floor.
He allowed the upward momentum from his attack to bring the haft of the axe upward. He meant to strike the jaw of the skeleton on his right, but the axe blade struck the lintel above his head and he missed his target entirely.
His other two opponents wasted no time mourning the loss of their compatriot; they slashed at Karak with unabated fury. His mail saved him from the worst of it, but the bony fingers managed to somehow find their way beneath the armor on his left thigh and right bicep.
As he struggled to free his embedded weapon, the skeleton he'd been aiming for raked its claws across his abdomen.
He bellowed in pain and pulled the axe free with a mighty tug. The wide blade of the weapon shattered the skeleton's right thighbone, causing the undead thing to collapse into a pile on the floor.
Unperturbed, the last skeleton struck outward at his opponent. Its fingers clawed open a wound on Karak's right shoulder; the dwarf could feel blood flowing hotly beneath his armor.
He swung his axe upward, cleaving through the skeleton's left shoulder. Its left arm fell to the floor, but it slashed at Karak with its right. His downswing finished the undead thing by separating its head neatly from its body. It collapsed atop him in a shower of loose bones.
Breathing heavily, Karak backed onto the landing.
"Are ye alright, chalak?" he asked the Battleguard between pants.
"Are ye?" Malak asked in turn and Karak grunted.
"'Tis nothin' a dwarf kinna handle," he said with a sardonic smile.
In truth, while none of the blows had been particularly damaging, the cumulative affect had taken a toll. He was bleeding from a half-dozen scratches

 

[Jon Potter]

Part 12: If I Had a Hammer...

"We'll need ta get ye outen that armor so's I can tend ta yer wounds," Malak said as he began to fumble with his medicine kit. There was more than a hint of concern in the Battleguard's voice.
Karak harrumphed.
"Chalak, I have nae time for a full inspection," he growled. "So let's salve up what we can 'fore tha invisible sprites seep in ta prevent healin'."
Malak smiled to himself. Invisible sprites, indeed! What rubbish. If Karak had made it further in his training, he would know what every Battleguard knew: it was an imbalance of elemental humors, not faerie creatures that caused the problem. As he worked on his brother's wounds, he checked each for telltale signs of trouble. There was neither the excessive heat of a fire imbalance nor the excessive sweating of a water imbalance; the wounds weren't hard and swollen such as they would have been if Karak was leaning too far toward earth and his breathing was fine so air was not a problem either.
None of Karak's injuries required stitches. Malak applied bound poultices of garlic and sphagnum moss to the worst of them and a light smear of St. Lendor's wort ointment to the others.
"How do ye feel?" he asked as he put away his supplies.
"Me thinks it be about time ta head upstairs," Karak replied, flexing his muscles experimentally.
"Aye, tha rumblin' in me belly says that it be well past supper time," Malak said. "But I'd guess we've a few hours 'fore midnight. What say we check tha downstairs?"
Karak considered this and then nodded.
"Before we go, I want ta dispatch tha Golems," he said. "I dinna want ta face this thing what killed tha monks while stone Golems be smashin' our backs."
He handed his war axe to Malak and unslung the heavy warhammer from his pack. It felt light compared to his weapon of choice, but he clutched the haft of it with both hands as he approached the nearer of the two statues. It took two solid blows from the steel hammerhead to reduce it to a broken pile of rubble. The second statue required three before it too succumbed to the inevitable and fell apart into several chunks.
"There," Karak said as he secured the warhammer to his back again. "I be feelin' better already."
Malak approached and handed the war axe back to his brother. As he did so, he noticed a scrap of parchment amongst the broken pieces of statue. He picked it up and frowned at it. On one side were a series of glyphs written in the Vebar tongue - an ancient theological script used in the performance of certain complicated religious ceremonies. Malak had not yet learned to decipher them, but he could recognize them well enough. On the other side were written a few words in the human tongue: "To my little brother - May these stalwart companions guard yer sleep now that I cannot".

The goat began bleating at them as soon as they came into view on the steps.
"He's probably as hungry as we be," Malak said and began rummaging amidst their gear for the animal's feed.
"Aye," Karak agreed. He unslung his pack, pulled out a strip of mutton jerky, and began chewing on it furiously. He handed a strip to Malak who chewed it as he placed some feed in the goat's bag and secured it over the animal's muzzle.
"While we're 'ere fumblin' about in Arngrim's packs, let's take a look-see if'n there be any torches amongst 'em," Karak said around a mouthful of leather-tough meat. "I've been thinkin' on that note we found. It seems ta say that whate'er did all this killin' is afraid o' fire or light. I'm thinkin' it'd be right smart ta light up a torch or two 'fore we 'eads up."
"It kinna hurt," Malak agreed.
He found a bundle of twelve torches, a spare tinderbox, and a skin of lamp oil inside one of the bundles.

From the entryway, they retraced their steps through the hall of idols to the kitchen with its two sets of stairs.
"Up or down?" Malak asked, holding the lantern high enough to illuminate both sets of stairs.
"We've nae seen any matchin' staircases on tha floor above, so this must lead directly ta tha creature's lair at tha top o' tha place," Karak surmised, indicating the stairs up with his axe. "Let's save that for last."
Malak nodded and they descended the stairs into the basement.
The staircase opened into a narrow room - little wider than the hallways above -that trailed away to the right. The ceiling was low, and a human would have needed to stoop his head to avoid striking the rafters. They could just see a door at its far end. Bundles of javelins and other more exotic-looking weaponry lined the left-hand wall. Three suits of studded leather armor were mounted on pegs set into the wall itself.
The armor was sized for humans, and although dwarves rarely worked their protection from leather, it was obviously of a very high quality. Most of the weapons were of a type neither brother had ever seen. Some consisted of chains and wooden clubs, others were of oddly curved and weighted blades, while still others looked like normal pole arms until one noticed that the shafts of the weapons were far too flexible to stop a charge. A vast array of what looked like polished steel snowflakes were mounted to the wall around and between the other weapons.
They checked the door at the far end and, finding nothing, proceeded on to the next room where large barrels and sacks of supplies were stacked to the ceiling, dividing it into narrow corridors between the aisles. It took them a few moments of searching to notice the door in the opposite wall. A musty smell was very prevalent in amidst the containers, and Karak found out why when he cut open a sack. The grain that had been stored within had been exposed to moisture and was covered with a bluish mold. The barrels of salted meats and fish had kept well in the cold, however.
They found nothing to further threaten them in the room and after a less-than-thorough search, they proceeded to the next door.
The room beyond was the largest of the basement rooms, but it felt cramped. A great stone furnace dominated the area and numerous bronze pipes led upwards from it, disappearing into the ceiling. The doors of the furnace stood open but no fire burned within. Drifts of coal filled the corners of the room, and a filthy shovel was propped against the far wall.
Both dwarves had seen such devices before, of course; the furnace was a dwarven design after all. They were used to warm the drafty upper halls of the largest delves, powered sometimes by a carefully routed lava vent or a creature of elemental fire. Sometimes - as was obviously the case here - they were fueled by coal.
"It seems what these monks 'ave had more than a bit of dealin' with tha dwarven folk," Malak said, taking a step nearer to the furnace. "This be o' our design, ta be-"
The clatter of coal falling off the pile as a broken, ash-covered corpse pushed its way to the surface cut off his words.
Malak had time only to move away from the thing and put down the lantern. He reached for the handle of his claymore.
Karak reacted at once, however, and swung his axe, being careful to avoid hitting the ceiling. He had spent more of his youth running from the tunnel wardens than he did training with them, so he never learned the finer points of close-quarters fighting. The swing was clumsy and missed by a wide margin.
The undead creature had it worse than both of them. Its broken limbs and long burial had taken their toll on its coordination. It slipped on the coal, tripped over its own feet and fell face first to the floor. Its head made a wet thwacking sound against the stone.
It was a simple matter then for Karak to split open its skull and stop its movements.
"How many monks did Arngrim say were here?" Karak asked, wiping frozen brain off his axe blade.
"I dinna think he-" Malak began and then stopped, his head cocked.
A sighing sound was coming from upstairs, drifting down through the bronze pipes to their ears. The sighing grew louder, like the rush of wind, and along with it came the sound of smashing wood.
"I fear it may be midnight," Malak said as the goat above began to bleat with fear.

 

[Jon Potter]

Part 13: The Lord of the Manor

"What, by Grungi's beard, is that?!" Karak growled. He gripped his war axe tightly, wringing his hands nervously around the handle. "I nae be likin' tha sound o' that, chalak."
"Whate'er it be is about ta make itself known," Malak said with a note of apprehension.
"If'n we stay here an' let it come ta us," Karak planned, "then at least we know tha battleground we be fightin' on. 'Cept this infernal ceilin' be so low it be impossible for a dwarf ta swing an axe o'er 'is head."
"Which is it, chalak?" the Battleguard asked. "Stay or advance?"
The goat's wailing was a horrible sound. They could hear the animal's hooves stamping against the stone floor of the foyer. It sounded near panic.
"What say you, we advance slowly - I ta tha fore ye ta tha rear? But 'ave yer claymore at tha ready," Karak suggested, and turned to catch his brother's acknowledgement. Malak was bowed in prayer and for a moment, Karak thought about chiding him. He quickly caught himself, however; this was a time for prayer if ever there was one.
Malak had been concerned about his brother's condition for a while now, Karak had taken a number of minor blows, none too serious unto themselves, but their cumulative effect was getting more serious than Karak would let him see. Now, with this 'unknown' letting itself free, he thought it to be the best time to go about asking Shaharizod for a healing hand -
"O' Queen of Silver, 'tis I yer humble servant, beggin' for yer hand in repairin' Karak's injuries." the Battleguard prayed. "His wounds 'ave grown more serious with each foe's lashin' weapon, and many a blow 'e has taken ta shield me from 'arm. We face an uncertain moment ahead and would be greatly humbled by yer greatness ta see 'im enter this time free o' his wounds."
Malak felt the tiniest spark of Shaharizod's power fill him and he stood. Karak saw the moonlight spilling from his brother's eyes, saw glittering silver drip from his brother's hands and for a moment, he could do nothing but stare. Malak laid his hands upon Karak's chest and the warrior felt a tingling warmth travel through his body to each of his injuries. It passed quickly, but left an invigorating strength in its wake.
Karak was somewhat ashamed of the pang of jealousy he felt at his brother's connection to the divine.
The Silver Queen's power left Malak and the light drained from his eyes. He looked at his brother and nodded.
"Me chalak, ye lead and I will follow," he said. "But best ye remember: I have a weapon and I can handle it. Ye needn't take all tha blows ta protect me."
He pulled a torch and a tindertwig from his pack and struck the twig against the tunnel wall. It hissed and burst into a very bright white flame. He touched it to the torch and the brand caught, flooding the furnace room with a warm glow.
"If'n fire and light be o' any use in protectin' us, we best take every measure possible," Malak said, handing the lit torch to Karak and repeating the process.
Karak fumbled his shield and warhammer from his back, replacing them with his war axe. He could carry the torch in his shield hand and swing the hammer with the other. The war axe was a two-handed weapon, so he'd have no place to carry a torch if he wielded it in combat.
"Aye, ye may be on ta somethin' here, chalak," Karak agreed with a smile. "I will lead ta tha front, ye ta tha rear and advance slowly out o' this room and upstairs."
Malak, who carried his own torch in his shield hand and their lantern in his other, nodded. Like Karak his own weapon of choice (at least now that his scimitar had been destroyed) was two-handed. He planned to set down the lantern at the first sign of the thing that had spooked Arngrim's goat so badly, possibly hurl his torch and drop his shield before drawing the claymore and going toe-to-toe beside his brother.

They made it to the kitchen before the goat's terrified bleats ended in a wet grunt. The sighing sound they had heard earlier had grown to a roar. The sound was all the more horrible now that the goat's cries of fear had stopped.
It took them only a few moments to race from the kitchen into the entryway, and they arrived in time to see the goat's broken body go sailing across the room, slam into the wall beside the front door and fall to the floor in a boneless heap.
Then their eyes were drawn to the thing beside the stairs. It looked like a tall, emaciated man dressed in the rags of a monk's habit. But no living man ever looked the way it did. Its withered flesh was the color of snow and black veins were clearly visible through its translucent skin. Its fingers ended in razor sharp claws that glittered like icicles. Fanglike teeth fill its snarling mouth and its eyes were empty sockets as black as the pit of Anvil's Echo in the lost delve Azul-Varn. Two pinpricks of malevolent light the color of witchfire flickered coldly within those black sockets.
A swirling mass of wind and ice crystals whipped around its body, holding it a half-foot of the ground. It made no sound other than the sound of the winds that surrounded it, as it started moving toward them.
Karak had been cold since they left the warmth of Dwurheim, but the cold that he could feel coming off this thing was glacial. He began to shiver as soon as it moved within weapon's reach.
He didn't let the opportunity to strike go by, however, and he swung the warhammer at the thing. The steel hammerhead thudded into the creature's left bicep and it howled. Or rather its mouth opened in the action of howling but no sound other than the swirling wind reached their ears.
Malak put down the lantern and switched the torch to his right hand.
The ice-cold creature reached out to Karak, its arms spread, and before the dwarf could do anything, it had him in its grip. One hand clamped down on his right bicep, the other locked onto his left, and he couldn't feel anything but a numbing cold sinking into his bones.
Malak came at the thing's back and swung his torch like a club. The firebrand struck one of the creature's pale, withered legs and it let go of Karak immediately, whirling on the Battleguard with unnatural speed. It swiped at the dwarf with bony hands, trying to grapple him as it had done to his brother, but Malak was able to thwart the attacks with his shield.
Karak could feel nothing. His arms were nerveless and threatened to drop his hammer, torch and shield. An unthinkable coldness has sunk into his very bones. The chattering of his own teeth was maddening. It was the sort of attack that would have likely paralyzed one of the lesser races, but Karak was a dwarf, by Clangeddin's axe!
He staggered forward and swung his warhammer, but the chill made the blow clumsy and he missed entirely. He recovered quickly, however and brought the weapon around again, delivering a solid blow to the thing's leg in virtually the same spot that Malak had burned it with his torch. The creature swayed in the air and turned on the source of its pain.
As soon as it spun, the Battleguard struck it across the back of the head with his torch.
Only Karak was in a position to see the look of pain and rage that twisted the thing's features, but it made the dwarf feel heartened that they were causing it injury. It took one more half-hearted swing at the warrior before it turned and glided across the foyer, its feet never once touching the floor. As it approached, the front door swung open of its own accord and the thing fled out into the savage storm that still held the monastery in its grip.

 

[Jon Potter]

Part 14: Fire!

The brothers stood and stared at each other in awe for just a moment. Whatever had just fled the monastery was now outside in the storm, but for some reason neither of them took much comfort in that fact. Malak rushed to the front door and threw himself against it. It slammed closed, holding back the storm's fury for the time being.
"Ch-chalak, th-that was a c-c-close one 'ere," Karak stammered, his armor rattling and clinking as he shivered. "Me arms are like c-cold st-t-teel after a l-long day a 'hammerin' at tha f-forge."
Malak removed the healing kit from his pack once again.
"Are ye' needin' any o' this me chalak?" he asked, holding up the satchel.
Karak shook his head. He looked down at his numbed arms and could clearly see the creature's bony handprints etched in frost on both his upper vambraces. It reminded him of the mark he'd seen tattooed into the face of the corpse in the library.
"S-seems ye had tha right idea with tha f-fire," Karak added. "I guess me little ch-chalak can handle himself in a f-fight, eh? I guess all that p-prayin's nae made ye t-t-too soft."
"As I was sayin' before, chalak, I-" Malak started to say when the warhammer slipped from his brother's nerveless fingers and clanged against the stone floor.
"Are ye sure ye need nae healin'?" the Battleguard asked as he stooped to pick up the fallen weapon.
"N-nae," the warrior said again. "An' n-next t-time ye lay yer hands o' m-moonbeams on me, m-might ye give me a warnin'! I ab-bout j-jumped out o' m-me armor."
"We need fire, Karak. And nae just ta warm yer bones," Malak asserted. "That's tha best chance we got against this thing."
"Ag-g-greed," Karak chattered.
"If'n it means burnin' this forsaken place ta tha ground, well then, I say we've done it a favor. Ain't nothin' 'ere but evil and death," the cleric continued. "What say we pile up whate'er wood we can find - doors, chairs, tables, everythin' what burns - right 'ere in tha middle o' this floor and set it ta blaze? When daylight comes I dinna think we'd ought ta stay 'ere a moment longer."
Malak turned to scan the room for wooden objects that could be carried to the center of the room and Karak just sputtered, "Let's s-see what comes with th-tha day."

There was nothing worth burning in the foyer, and Malak hauled the broken furniture from the dining room and piled it in the center of the room. Using the woven straw mats from the idol chamber as kindling he was able to set the jumbled pile ablaze. Once it was burning well enough, the Battleguard left his brother huddled beside it and went to offer a prayer of thanks to Shaharizod for her healing.
The Silver Queen offered no further guidance to her disciple however, and when the cleric returned to the entrychamber, he found Karak staring forlornly at the bloody remains of their pack goat. It lay heaped against the wall like a discarded fur-covered rag.
"Tha poor goat," the warrior intoned solemnly.
"Aye," Malak agreed. He went to the remains and stripped off what gear seemed recoverable - tents and bedrolls, the last of their firewood, and some other miscellaneous gear. As he dragged the supplies to the fireside, he found Karak stripping off his armor.
"What are ye supposin' it be?" the warrior asked and Malak knew what he meant.
"I dunno," the Battleguard confessed. Certain types of undead were easy to distinguish. Others - like this thing - were not so easily categorized.
"I ken this," Karak said, "that thing was nae a mortal creature."
"Aye," Malak agreed. "That much seems plain."
"Did ye see it float though? That was might impressive." Karak seemed genuinely impressed with the creature from a purely martial standpoint. He had stripped down to his undertunic and as he rubbed his arms to get the blood flowing, he seemed to be going over and over the battle in his mind. "It had a rudimentary way to fight, but it was sure effective."
"I wonder what it be doin' now out in tha snow," he added after a pause.
"Neodig knows," Malak breathed, casting his eye at the front door and shuddering.
"Say, chalak, do ye think that was what met our unfortunate guide out there?" Karak suggested. "It be seemin' that tha cold dinna effect it."
"Aye," the Battleguard agreed. "'Tis heat what does tha trick."
"Me thinks, like cold metal what meets tha fires o' tha forge too quickly, if'n we douse tha thing in heat, me thinks it'll crack," Karak said, shaking his clenched fist for emphasis. "What say ye we look for more oil as we saw in tha library, chalak?"
"If'n it burns, we can use it." Malak replied.
"I have but one flask o' oil in me gear," the warrior said, tossing the metal flask to his brother. "I wou' like ta find some rags, dip them in oil, wrap it round me hammer, light it and have a flamin' hammer head. Then, when ere we strike it shall affect it doubly."
"Aye," Malak agreed, nodding his head approvingly. "That might be a useful plan indeed - if'n we find more oil."
Karak flexed his arms. Feeling had returned to them completely thanks to the warmth of the fire, and there seemed to be no lasting damage. He grinned and began donning his mail shirt.
"Let's look about for some more oil, 'fore this thing returns," he said. "And then I fear I'll be needin' some sleep."

They searched until they were too tired to search any more. In one of the cupboards under the stairs in the kitchen they found eight sealed earthenware jugs containing cooking oil. There was perhaps a quart of oil in each jug. On its own, the oil didn't burn well, but it flared to life when they poured a tiny bit on the existing fire in the entryhall.
Malak's henbane paste analgesic had worn off by this time, and a dull ache had begun to spread through his chest from the golem's blow. He took a swig of adder's tongue tincture to aid the healing process and a single dose of Quilarri for the pain and stared at Karak.
It would likely be sunup in a few hours at which point the two of them would have been without sleep for a full day. It was unclear which would admit the greater need for sleep: Karak had suffered more injuries, but Malak would be unable to seek divine aid without his mind properly rested.

 

[Jon Potter]

Part 15: Nobody's home

"Ye shou' rest, chalak," the Battleguard advised. "Yer injuries are worse than mine."
Karak harrumphed and shook his head.
"Me thinks ye shou' give me a draught o' some elixir," the warrior replied. "I need a little more spring in me step."
"What ails ye?" Malak asked as he began rummaging through his medicine kit.
"I still feel tha chill," Karak told him, stretching his tired limbs. "And I feel slowed."
Malak eyed his brother and closed his bag.
"It's lack o' sleep, chalak," the cleric explained. "There's naught in me bag what a few hours' rest won't cure. Lay down an' I'll take first watch."
"Nae," Karak countered. "I say we up ta tha top and dispatch o' this 'ere thing. Then we can get some rest."
The cleric looked at his brother and the expression on Karak's face told him that there was little point in arguing.
"Let's prepare tha weapons as ye suggested," Malak said, drawing his claymore from the sheath on his back. "I'll start soakin' rags in oil."
"Ye read me mind, chalak," the warrior smiled. "Ye read me mind."

They prepared their weapons with care, but also with haste. The howling wind outside kept sounding to them like the return of their opponent, and neither wished to be caught unprepared. They were, however, able to successfully wrap unmolested the business ends of their weapons in rags soaked with the oil Karak had brought with him in his pack. Carrying their weapons in one hand and a lit torch in the other, they climbed the stair to the landing and then up to the top of the monastery.
The room at the top was as they had last seen it except for the fact that where the two statues had once stood guard now stood only empty pedestals. There was little else to see and they turned their attention to the two doors. Again, they approached the door on the left and Malak performed his usual checks while Karak stood vigilant, his warhammer at the ready. Finding no traps, the Battleguard opened the door. There was no light in the room beyond other than the orangey flicker of the dwarves' torches. Nothing sprang at them immediately from the darkness, and Karak walked hesitantly inside until his torchlight picked out the shadowy details of the place.
It was in utter disarray.
Like the antechamber, the large room had a sloped roof, higher in the center and lower to the left and right walls and it comprised the remainder of the monastery's third floor. The opposite wall of the room was occupied with an uncomfortable-looking bed carved from a rich, dark wood neither of them had ever seen before. Overturned tables, half-buried beneath piles of shredded and crumpled paper were strewn about the room. A fireplace on the right, which like the others they had seen was likely vented directly to the coal-burning furnace in the basement, was choked with ice. A drift of snow covered the floor around the hearth and a deathly cold filled the room.
Their breath puffed out in silvery clouds like furtive ghosts that slowly faded into the chill blackness pressing around them.
There were no windows in the place, but outside, the full strength of the storm seemed to have turned its attention on the monastery. The roof and walls creaked and groaned with the roaring wind. There was an air about the room that they didn't belong - a sensation that they were trespassers in the place. As dwarves, neither brother had ever been bothered by tight places, but there was something about the room that made even them feel claustrophobic.
Karak swallowed thickly and when he spoke, his voice sounded very small and hollow. "There be nae sign o' tha beastie, hereabouts," he said. "But I likes this place, nae at all, me chalak."
"Aye," Malak nodded. "On that point we agree."
The cleric raised his torch higher in an effort to dispel the shadows but succeeded only in causing them to slide across the wall and pool up in the corner. At last, he leaned his rag-cloaked claymore against the wall between the two doors and looked meaningfully at his brother.
"Stand ready, chalak," the Battleguard instructed. "I'll see if'n there's nae somethin' here what can explain what's happened."
Karak nodded and Malak began rummaging through the paper and debris. The sheets of parchment were covered with nearly illegible human characters. What little Malak could read seemed to deal with the day-to-day running of the monastery. There was nothing dated more recently than a year ago.
In one corner, he found a bundle of 40 dusty crossbow bolts. Above the fireplace hung a finely wrought light crossbow, and on the mantelpiece lay a leather quiver with another 10 bolts. The crossbow was carved with dwarven runes that spelled out the message: "To Alluzin, the most steadfast of dwarf-friends. From Vithar of Niddlein. I am in debt to you and your progeny."
Niddlein, Malak knew, was a dwarven delve many leagues to the northwest. Who Vithar was, he couldn't say.
Beneath another mound of papers, Malak found a stout ironbound chest. It was latched but not locked and held several hundred gold pieces worth of mixed coinage. He spied a few square bronze karns and karn'as and a silver dikarn or two amongst the human coins.
Two other chests contained clothes, all of them sized for a male human. One chest contained a fine black monk's habit with carved wooden slippers. The other contained more mundane clothing: short breeches, hose, two doublets, a heavy woolen overtunic, and a light gray cloak embroidered along the hem with a repeating leaf pattern.
There was nothing there to explain the presence of the bizarre creature they had fought, nor any sign when it might return.