Anka Seth - The Rise of the Hydra (New Update April 19, 2007)

[Fiasco]

Indistinct shapes began to appear beneath the suddenly choppy waters. As they broke the surface, the water blurred images coalesced into humanoid shapes astride sea horses of fantastic size. The riders were clearly recognisable as tritons, for instead of skin they possessed a delicate covering of iridescent scales, a silvery fleshy pink in colour. Sea green hair cut to shoulder length was swept back from their high foreheads. Their eyes sparkled either green, blue or grey with little warmth in their depths. Their ears were large and ridged like shells, reaching down almost to their chins and tilted back in dramatic fashion. Their lips were thin and pressed close together. Orange gills heaved on the sides of necks which tapered down to broad shoulders and a narrow waist.

Each carried a delicately whorled spear, who’s tip was made of a long spiralled shellfish, very much alive and a deep venomous blue in colour. The tritons wore a net draped over one shoulder and a simple harness tied at the hip. Eight of them surrounded the boat and it was clear they were not pleased.

“What iss your purposss in our watersss?” spoke one of them sibilantly. Though the accent was strange, Gerard recognised the speech as Arcanum, the language of magic. The speaker appeared much like the others though perhaps a little finer featured. From his neck hung a necklace of fabulously coloured shells and a pearl earring dangled from the base of the left ear.

“We seek passage to Warlock Harbour, no more,” Gerard replied in the same language. “We certainly did not seek to offend your good… fishy selves… he faltered, his eloquence failing him for once. And we bring you gifts as well!”, he hastily improvised.

The triton showed no response, leaving an uncomfortable silence. Gerard slapped Morgan on the arm and indicated for him to fetch the shells that Maron had given them. An uncomfortable minute passed before Morgan found the sack passed it to Gerard.

The nobleman offered up the shells to the leader. Gravely, the triton took the bag and examined the contents, his features impassive throughout. One of his fellows, peeking over his shoulder, was less circumspect, and chattered excitedly to his companions in his watery native tongue. The leader gestured sharply at two of his troops, who obediently leaned far over their mounts and began to inspect the contents of the craft. Feeling vulnerable and outnumbered on the open sea, the Hydra did nothing to hinder them. The search was cursory and soon completed. Both glanced at their leader and gave a shrug. The triton relaxed perceptibly.

“You have shshown uss courtessy and appear to not mean ill. We will let you passs, but realisse that you are lucky to do sso. Our treassured prince wass taken from uss by you accurssed land crawlerss and we may not be sso kind next time. Be ssure to tell that to thosse twisterss of nature in the port”.

“We thank you for your kindness”, responded Gerard. “We will convey your sentiments to the harbour authorities and furthermore, if we hear anything of your missing prince we will do our best to bring word to you.”

The triton merely hoicked a watery cough in response. No translation was needed to understand the scepticism in the response. With an exaggerated motion, he lifted his clenched fist into the air and plunged it into the water. No sooner had he done so than the entire escort plunged beneath the cryptic waters with surprising speed. Moments later, the water was undisturbed, the oars floated free and the companions were all alone on the sea once more.

“Well bugger me if tha dinst talk just like that fish!”, said Argonne, his tone half teasing and half admiring. The mood broken, he stirred them to action. “Back to tha oars, ye lummoxes, and tha too yer lordship”. Gerard bit back a reply, knowing it would be futile. Reluctantly he joined his companions in rowing towards the Port of Warlock, which was clearly visible now they were free of the mists.

Twenty minutes of brisk rowing saw through the bay and safely alongside a pier. Before they even had the chance to set foot on land or secure their boat three excise men walked up to them. In a gruff voice one of them explained that there was a mooring fee of one sickle a day and a common each for those wishing to come to land.

Reluctantly, the companions paid up. For most of them the taxes represented a significant portion of their coin but they had no choice but to comply. The next order of business was a search of the boat for smuggled goods. They stepped ashore as instructed and watched one of the excise men slowly go through the boat. As the methodical search progressed Moxadder became visibly uneasy. Despite there being nothing concealed, his many years as a beggar had ill equipped him to bear up well to official scrutiny. Argonne noticed his friend’s unease but misinterpreted its cause. Seeing the chance to do the Fastendian a good turn he asked the customs men where the best devil weed could be bought.

The attitude of the officials changed instantly. Expressions of routine boredom hardened to tight faced squints. Tersely their leader explained that all narcotics were considered highly dangerous on an island where a significant number of potent spell binders dwelt. Unconvinced by the Hydra’s protestations that they carried no such intoxicants, he instigated a physical search of the companions.

Guided by instinct, they began with Moxadder, seizing him before he could move. Well practised fingers soon found the Fastendian’s stack, throwing him into a panic. Eyes rolling wildly he broke their grip and snatched back his precious weed. As the port deputies raised their weapons in preparation for ending Moxadder’s resistance, Stravarius surprised everyone by seizing the initiative in dramatic fashion. Grabbing the hood of his cloak he grasped them with gloved fingers tensed as claws and pulled it back. There was a shocked silence for a second and then a collective gasp from inspectors and Hydra alike. Morgan stumbled backwards in shock and fumbled wildly for his blade.

Revealed before them stood a creature with fine Elven features and a shock of absolutely white hair, tightly curled and cropped close to the scalp. Demonic red eyes burned on either side of a finely chiselled nose. The skin was jet black and flawless, purple black lips were drawn back to reveal immaculate pointy white teeth.

“Cease this scuffle” the newly revealed Black Elf commanded imperiously. “I had heard that Sorcerer’s Isle was a place used to dealing with matters outside the ordinary. It seems your reputation is sadly exaggerated.”

The excise men’s truculent attitude changed markedly. What stood before them was a nightmare product of the dominion. Though almost unheard of in Guerney, such creatures were occasionally seen on Sorcerer’s Isle. The inhabitants greed for obscure arcana made them overlook the unpleasant truths that such creature represented. Once they had recovered from their shock, the agents tightened their grip on their weapons. Black Elf or no, it was their reluctant duty to enforce the law.

“Come now, is all this necessarily?” Gerard extemporized as he fumbled at his money pouch. “Bizarre though this fellow is, he has not done any wrong. As for this person”, he gestured distastefully at Moxadder, “he’s an ignorant fool and did not knowingly break the laws of this fair isle. Let him cast his small quantity of devil weed into the ocean and we will gladly pay a fine as punishment. He pressed several silver sickles into the sweating palm of the low official and glared at his troublesome companion. With a disgusted flick of his wrist, Moxadder appeared to reluctantly cast a small parcel into the scummy water of the dock, though in reality he palmed it skilfully. Deceived, the excise men were relieved to accept this compromise.

“You be sure to keep out of trouble” their leader said once he had gained a safe distance. Pride somewhat salvaged, he hurried to catch up with his companions, who had wasted no time in getting clear of the vicinity.

Gerard sighed in relief, amazed that the conflict had been resolved so successfully before belatedly realising that the crisis was far from over. Morgan had regained his wits and stood before Stravarius, a rapier pointing straight at his heart!

 

[Fiasco]

“A filthy barrow spawn!” the Fastendian cursed bitterly, “a dirty, evil, Geduld loving piece of scum!”. His voice cracked over the last curse and Gerard intervened before he could utter further imprecations. Fortunately, Stravarius had taken no action except for pulling the hood back over his face. He merely stood on the pier, one hand defensively placed on his sword and the other held placatingly before him. The others were still too surprised to take any action save for Moxadder who backed away from the Black Elf.

“Morgan! This is not the place to air our differences, remember our mission!” Gerard implored. The nobleman’s words registered on Morgan’s face and he nodded tersely in agreement. He stepped back and sheathed his sword though he remained tensed for action. The Fastendian glared from Stravarius back to Gerard.

“Fine. We go into town, get a room and find out precisely how it is we got saddled with this abomination”. The others were quick to accept this plan and wasted no time in putting it into action. They walked down a broad main fare peopled with townsfolk dressed a little more eccentrically than they had seen elsewhere in Guerney. The architecture was also quite distinct though it eluded their notice, distracted as they were by recent events. They had barely travelled a hundred paces before they found a suitable lodgings. The Hat and Staff provided for their needs exactly and a price for a room was swiftly negotiated. The door to their accommodation had barely been slammed shut before Morgan renewed his invective.

“One month, one Geduld cursed month we’ve been with this black hearted bastard and he never utters so much as a peep as to what he is. It’s a miracle any of us are still alive…I never did trust him, and now we have the proof!” Morgan’s blade slid out of its scabbard again to add emphases to his next words. “You people have no idea, NO IDEA of the evils performed by these twisted animals. Unless this bastard hell spawn removes himself form our company and out presence, this Hydra is about to lose a head!”

Stunned silence greeted the outburst. The only people to appear unperturbed by the intensity of Morgan’s behaviour were Kuruul, who snored peacefully in the corner and Stravarius, who stood arms folded in the centre of the room.

“Very well” said the Black Elf as he deliberately pulled back his hood once more. His hellish gaze fixed on each member of the Hydra in turn. “I’ll explain myself and prove you have nothing to fear from me, though my enemies might”, he said with a bitter smile that was a little too menacing to be reassuring. Without further preamble, he launched into his tale.

“I can’t blame you for reviling me for what I am. I know all too well how I must appear to you. Nightmare eyes, teeth like some animal, black as Geduld’s eternal night. It was not always so. Terrible things have been done to me the like of which would have robbed you of your sanity, if not your life. For you see, I was not always like this. I began life as an elf somewhere in Guerney.” Stravarius waved an arm vaguely, as though greater detail was lost to him.

“That was a long time ago, before you were born, for we do not age like you humans. One day I was out hunting with some of my friends when we were waylaid by creatures of the Dominion. They had no business being in our woods, so far removed from their own lands, but there they were. We were taken completely by surprise and were easily captured.” A look of pain distorted his face as he remembered his suffering anew.

“The following weeks passed in a haze of fear and pain as we were marched ever onwards towards their defiled lands. Ultimately we were taken below ground into a place that I can only think of as hell. We were separated, my friends and I, and I never saw them again. I can only pray that they died, though I doubt they had it that easy.”

He swallowed heavily and continued in a voice half choked with the effort to repress the force of his memories. “What they did to me then I cannot speak about in detail. I have forgotten large parts of it, and what little I remember causes me great pain and anguish.” With visible effort, Stravarius straightened himself from the half crouch he had unconsciously adopted. “The dreadful purpose of that terrible place, that barrow, is to take life and twist and torture it until it becomes a tool of the Dominion. I saw men warped into hobgoblins, and my kin degraded into beings like me. Other creatures were turned into things even more horrendous. I was burnt, beaten, rent and violated. And when they had finished with my exterior, they went to work on my mind but here I was lucky.” A harsh laugh escaped Stravarius at this point. None of the Hydra interrupted, acutely discomfited they were by the pain of their companion’s recollections.

“I say lucky, but in truth I sometimes wonder if I would be happier amongst the gleeful cruelty of my dark brothers. My demented transformation was a slow, slow process, I could not tell the time precisely, but years passed in that wretched place. One day a massive quake struck the barrow and in the confusion I managed to escape. Physically, I was utterly their creature but my mind was still largely my own. I had achieved my liberty before they succeeded in recasting my thoughts to their liking, though most memories of my former life were erased.

I fled the lands of the dominion. It was relatively easy, for I looked like one of them and they were not as well organised back then. Like a fool, I went searching for my shattered past, hiding from those who should have given me succour. I discovered that more time had passed than I had imagined. Despite our longevity two hundred years brings considerable change.”

The Black Elf’s lips began to tremble and his voice dropped to a whisper. “I never found my kin or my home. My ruined memory and the upheavals my people suffered conspired to hide them from me. Those elves I did meet would have nothing to do with me. I can’t blame them. I may not have served the dominion but my thinking had become foreign to the more civilised ways of my former people. I took to disguising myself, wandering from place to place with no thought for the future. Eventually I realised that I could either die or make the best of my miserable fate. I decided to hone my skills and plot for the day when I might strike back at those who broke me and pay them back for a small fraction of what they did to me.”

Stravarius looked at his companions with a mixture of challenge and despair. “So here I am, a member of the Hydra. Like you. I am here to serve the Baron, to improve my skill at arms and hopefully compete in the games. Just like you”, he reiterated.

He looked pointedly at Morgan. “All I ask is that you treat me the same as before. I’m the same person who fought with you against the lepers at the docks. I travelled with you every step of the way to Yorathton. When we investigated the terrible happenings of Ravenswood I was staunch. When we defeated the Blood Sails I played my part. Trust me”, he implored them. “I haven’t given you any reason to do otherwise.”

Stravarius concluded his speech by pulling his hood back over his head and resignedly awaiting their response. He felt utterly spent. Sharing his nightmare with others had not lessened its pain. The fear of rejection and the thought of an eternity spent lurking at the fringes of society unmanned him. And they might well do more than cast him out. They might kill. He considered what he would do if they turned on him. An image of a hate filled Morgan running him through set a pulse beating in his temple. With surprise he felt the fires rekindle deep within him. If they tried to kill him he would fight. He would cut, rend, scream, batter, maim, mutilate and destroy until oblivion overtook him. It was all he was good for, was all he had left.

Staring at the Black Elf, Morgan felt at a loss. All his life he had been reared on hatred of the Dominion and he had seen enough to confirm every prejudice that was his birthright as a Fastendian. Yet this abomination, so visibly, clearly, obviously evil in appearance claimed to only have benign intentions towards them. He wished with all his might that his father or brothers were here. The others were mostly Guerneyans, they could not comprehend the nature of the evil that Stravarius represented, indeed it looked as if they had been swayed by the Black Elf’s speech! He looked to Moxadder but saw only a native of Irudesh city, a sink of decadence and inactivity that easily put Halfast to shame. The man was lost entirely to the lures of devil weed and would be no help with what needed to be done.

With a start, Morgan sensed that Stravarius was tensed for action. His resolve firmed. If the others believed the word of this black tongued creature then so be it. It was time that he Morgan Martigan did what was needed on his own. He tightened his grip on his sword and was about to drawing it forth and attack the black skinned fiend when an unfamiliar voice spoke from behind him.

“That is the first interesting thing I have heard in months”.

 

[Fiasco]

The voice managed to sound rough, cultured and bored all at the same time and it caused the entire party to jump. Collectively they turned to face it and saw a creature that stood where Kuruul had been sleeping only moments before. It was humanoid in shape, but of even more bizarre appearance than the tritons they had encountered earlier. It, or rather he was of a stature was comparable to Mortec’s yet somehow his otherworldly presence made him fill the room. His hands were a dark tan in colour and where visible, the rest of him was covered with a light fur of similar shade. As the hair climbed higher up his body it darkened to a heavy brown for his beard and further to midnight black on his head.

He was immaculately groomed, with only a single thick forelock hanging loose over his dark green eyes, clearly for effect. His teeth were jet black and cruelly pointed, though immaculately straight. He wore a tightly fitted jacket of deep burgundy with finely sown pockets arranged in two rows on the left breast. Silken pants of dark blue were tucked in to calf high boots made of black scales.

A small sword, curved somewhat like a scimitar hung on his left hip and a small leather satchel was slung casually over his back. A bandoleer of soft leather pouches was draped across his chest. The style of clothing affected by the new comer seemed completely outlandish to the Hydra though they could not deny he wore it with panache. The stranger continued speaking, ignoring the sensation his appearance had caused. He addressed his remarks to Stravarius, whose story had piqued his interest.

“Someone who has survived the work of Rawloqu the Transmuter with his soul intact! This is truly a singular occurrence!” He made a brief but complex gesture. “Yes, yes, so it is. He speaks truly, he is not one of them. This is most salutary!” the creature beamed at Stravarius, much as a parent might at a child’s first attempt to burble a word.

“W w w what are you?” Gerard spluttered, the first of the Hydra to regain his wits. Kuruul looked back at his witless companions of the last two months. He had found their antics remarkably boring until now, but there was no denying their looks of bemused startlement were amusing. The normally eloquent Gerard was stuttering like an idiot, Morgan seemed to be trying to rip himself in two, so divided was he in who to strike at first, Mortec’s jaw was still hanging half way to the ground (not so difficult for one so short), Argonne looked little better and Stravarius looked utterly deflated, his thunder completely stolen. Moxadder’s scarred face gave little away but his hand shook violently as he took a deep drag of his Devil Weed. With a wicked grin that showed off far too many teeth, Kuruul decided to slake the Hydra’s curiosity.

He claimed to be a Bharghest, a strange race who’s very blood flowed with the arcane mastery that was their heritage. They had regarded the other humanoid races as barely sentient, paying them scant regard as they pursued their own obscure lore. Not even the Convocation at the height of its power had intruded greatly on their awareness. Thus they whiled away the millennia, confident that their guile and their intelligence and their sorcerous art would preserve them from all harm. The advent of the Dominion came as a supreme shock to a people who had never known adversity. Being amoral at best, they had thought that they could simply ally with the northern hoards and continue as before. By the time they comprehended the rapacious ambition that drove the Dominion, it was too late.

Their erstwhile allies struck when they were unready and most of their race perished at one stroke. Not a numerous people to begin with, the survivors were too few to make an effective counter blow despite the powers they still commanded. They were picked off one at a time, at the Dominion’s will, almost as an afterthought to their ongoing subjugation of Anka Seth. For Kuruul, one of the last survivors, this was what hurt the most. That his race, by far the greatest of this world had become little more than a footnote due to their fatal naivety.

Still, as the Bharghests used to say, life is long, and retribution can outwait even death. Kuruul had a lot of time to plot his revenge, and he bent his mighty intellect upon this single task. He boasted to the Hydra that he was the greatest wizard and swordsman of his race. Depressingly, the diminishment of his race stole the grandeur from the claim. Mortec had questioned him as to why he travelled with them, and especially why he did so in the form of a hound.

The Bharghest’s explanation deflated the little fellow quite considerably. The simple truth was that humanity and its related races bored him. Only one such creature in tens of thousands showed any originality of thought. Baron Yorath had been one such man, and so Kuruul had agreed to accompany the Hydra in their adventures. Accompany them, but not submit himself to the tedium of their daily affairs. Thus, he found it more convenient to travel as a dog. Functioning as a hound occupied only the tiniest fraction of his mind, he explained, leaving the rest of it to grapple with the metaphysical complexities of trying to bring down a world spanning empire down single handed. The problem, he conceded was a thorny one, so he would appreciate it if they didn’t wake him from his canine slumber unless something truly interesting was afoot.

As the Bharghest completed his tale, he casually opened a shuttered window, allowing a large bat ingress to the room. The beast squeaked irritatingly as it circled the room, before settling itself to dangle up side down in the rafters. Before the startled eyes of the Hydra, Kuruul was one moment a strange dark and toothy creature, and the next the hound that had been so familiar to them. The beast, turned three times on the spot, the same as any mongrel from the street. Only a very human wink of an eye betrayed Kuruul’s disguise as he settled down to sleep.

The following hour hummed with chatter as the companions tried to encompass the avalanche of revelations they’d been buried under. By tacit agreement, Stravarius was accepted as one of them, though Morgan privately held to his reservations. Ultimately, they decided to accept Kuruul as well, though they were no closer to understanding what he intended or how he hoped to accomplish his desires. What swayed them was their trust in the Baron. Yorath had dealt very generously with them and was not a man who did anything unless it served a purpose (or two or three). It was he that had decreed that Kuruul be part of their company and so it would be.

Outside, the sun had advanced across the sky with no regard for their debate and they had seen almost nothing of the town. The Hydra decided to swiftly repair this deficiency by using the last of the daylight hours to explore the streets of Port Warlock. Kuruul remained behind, the canine part of his mind already asleep while the fierce intellect that sheltered behind it contemplated the genesis of the Black Elves and sought to find ways of exploiting this knowledge to the detriment of the Dominion.

*****​

 

[Fiasco]

Chapter 4​

The companions stepped forth into the cryptic tangle of Port Warlock’s streets. They had paid scant attention to the architecture when they had arrived, preoccupied as they were by Stravarius’ sensational revelation. On their second encounter with the streets, they were more receptive to the remarkable nature of the town.

Sorcerer’s Isle, as its name suggested, was famous for its numerous spell workers. What had drawn the wise to the island over the centuries was Novorod’s Tower. This eldritch monument was said to have been constructed by its namesake to shelter the arcane arts from the storm of the Convocation’s hatred. The arch mage Novorod had crafted well, indeed his tower had now outlasted the Gerechian’s empire by quite some time. Throughout its long existence, those gifted with the spark of magic had sought safety and the nurture of their talent within its walls.

Long after Novorod had passed into legend, his successors had by and large kept faith with his legacy, resulting in a large community of mages making their home on the isle. Those who commanded magical power, even on a small scale, were notoriously wilful. Firm and wise governance from the keepers of the tower was required to keep magic duels to a minimum. Perhaps as a consequence, the architecture of the town had been allowed to bloom with no restraints on its design. Rivals sought to out do each other with the splendour of their creations, often incorporating outlandish themes as well as their magic into the buildings.

It was into this kaleidoscope of bizarre shapes and unlikely colours that the companions stepped into with their imaginations already given free play by the startling disclosures made earlier that day. Overcome by the unique surroundings, they lost track of each other and fragmented into small groups, each pursuing its own agenda.

Mortec’s first thought was of the Tower of Novorod, unquestioned bastion of magical knowledge for all of Anka Seth. As a priest of the divinity which venerated magic, he felt compelled to visit this edifice and learn what he could. Stravarius and Morgan also showed interest in the tower. For the Black Elf this was not surprising, for his very blood sang with eldritch power, corrupted though it might be. Morgan’s reasons were far more prosaic. He still didn’t trust Stravarius and didn’t intend on letting him out of his sight. Also, he had head of the legendary tower and wanted to see it for himself. It would be a fine story to share with comrades on some dreary graveyard watch once he returned to Avinal. There was no need for them to ask for directions for the tower was plainly visible from almost any point in the town. Indeed, a prominent road led from the heart of the community to the base of the structure.

Despite being slowed by the gnome’s abbreviated stride, the trio reached their destination in a comfortable half hour’s walk. The journey gave them plenty of time to admire the unique nature of the tower. Constructed of a black, glossy material that was not quite stone, nor yet metal, but something sharing characteristics of both. The structure was imposing, its fearful symmetry ascending one hundred feet into the sky. Despite the polish of its walls, it reflected no light, seeming to drink the sun’s radiance deep into its ebon being. Strange sigils drifted across its face at seemingly random intervals. Though Mortec managed to decipher a lone character here or there, their greater meaning was quite beyond him.

A simple doorway, outlined in silver at the tower’s base was the only other discernable feature. Despite the lack of apertures, the gnome had the uncomfortable sensation that their approach was being watched. As they closed the final hundred yards to their destination, other sensations began to manifest. Both Mortec and Stravarius felt a tingle at the base of their necks, their follicles sensitive to the puissance of the tower’s enchantments. Though sheathed, the Black Elf’s sword was emitting such a powerful aura that the leather scabbard glowed first orange, then green and finally blue as it fed on and reflected back the mystic radiance. Trailing a little behind, Morgan strained his neck as he looked the tower all over, blissfully ignorant of what his companions were sensing.

They arrived at the door and spent a good five minutes nerving themselves to take the next step. Looking up, the obsidian tower loomed far above them, and through some trick of the eyes, or possibly magic, the longer they looked up, the more the tower seemed to lean over them, to the point where it appeared that the entire sky was filled with the looming dark of its substance. The only way to end this uncomfortable sensation was to close one’s eyes or look away. Within its silver frame the door was made of the same material as the walls. It lacked any obvious means of opening it. The gnome and Black Elf exchanged glances, clearly it was up to one of them to make their presence known.

Reluctantly, Mortec stretched his small hand upwards and brought the flat of his palm towards the portal. Before contact was made, the colour and texture of the door changed to rough granite. Four feet above the ground, three sets of depressions appeared, prompting Mortec to snatch his hand back. Each was a circle which encompassed the shape of a hand. Two of them were rendered in perfect detail, the impressions in the rock exactly matching the contours of a hand. The third circle contained merely an outline traced finely onto the door’s surface.

On viewing the surfaces, Mortec immediately surmised their significance. In an awed whisper, he explained to Morgan that since the day Novorod himself handed the tower over to his followers, access to the wealth of knowledge inside had been successively controlled by three people. Whenever a vacancy appeared amongst the trio, magically gifted beings from across the breadth of the world came to Novorod’s Tower. Each nurtured the burning hope that they were the one destined to take up the vacated wardship and therefore have influence over the magic wielders of the world.

Even in his distant homeland, the gnome had heard that only two of the three positions were filled. Gorgonath the wizard and Kvaeth the bard ruled, but without a third member, their access to the tower’s secrets was heavily curtailed. The gnome, felt a thrill of excitement pass through him. Was he fated to become the third? He reached a trembling hand towards the circle with the plain outline of the hand. Without warning, a spectral creature emerged from the enchanted material of the door itself! Mortec emitted an undignified squeal and snatched his hand back before it contacted the creature.

The apparition was a partially translucent figure of a man dressed in tattered grey robes. Through his body, the impressions in the door were clearly visible. A face that was heavily lined with age regarded the companions glumly. With a sepulchre groan, it uttered its message. “You have come to speak to the masters. Return at midday tomorrow”. It melded back into the door and out of sight before any of them could think to ask a question. Gnome, human and Black Elf regarded each other for a long moment, then turned and began the walk back to the Port of Warlock. Mistrusting and fearful of the eldritch display he had just witnessed, Morgan vowed not to return to the tower even if all the Dominions hoards were at his heels.

*****​

 

[Fiasco]

On leaving the inn, Moxadder wasted no time in slipping away from his companions and striking out for the less reputable areas. Though Port Warlock was quite small and open, his nose for squalor and quiet desperation led him unerringly in the right direction. He found an area where the fantastic buildings gave way to cruder constructions. Slipshod and slapdash were the predominant themes, and nary a smidgeon of care lavished on either style. In such places hope was still born and poverty starved much of the goodness out of ordinary people.

He reached a dirty, rutted street where young toughs lounged purposelessly in doorways while dissolute sailors and what passed for the local lowlifes skulked its twisting length. Although Moxadder didn’t expect to find an organised guild, he was certain there would be people with links to whatever unpleasantness lurked beneath the veneer of any civilised area. Pirates who looted the entire Cursed Sea with impunity would invariably come into contact with those who were interested in reselling booty and slaves.

As he wandered down the half derelict street, he spotted a battered tavern called the Ravished Mermaid. It was a place no different to the many of its like he had frequented in Halfast. Instincts honed by ten years of survival in the blackest pits of that debauched city gave him confidence that he would spot any potential danger long before they became a threat. The fact his belly was full of good food, a fine collection of knives were concealed on his person and he wore a vest of leather stout enough to turn blows, made him all the more capable of enjoying this feeling of security.

He stepped into the tavern’s gloomy interior and ordered a cheap ale at the bar; in reality little more than a bench set at one end of the room. He selected a neglected table against the wall, near the entrance and settled himself into the atmosphere of the place. It was nice to be home.

Gerard felt far from home. The people of Port Warlock shared neither the sophistication of cities like Thessingcourt or Halfast nor the pleasing subservience of more bucolic surrounds. Instead, the populace had a penchant for giving cryptic answers to even the most simple questions, as though each were some ancient greybeard who had the wisdom of the ages at their command. Argonne’s irritating presence did not help matters. Limpet like, the woodsman had attached himself to the noble scion. Relatively small as the town was, Argonne had not felt like losing himself in it entirely, and as he’d somehow lost sight of Moxadder, he’d made do with the fop.

Doggedly, the nobleman stuck to his task as best he could. The pirates had used sorcerer’s coins that transformed the user’s appearance. As his companions had abandoned him in pursuit of their own interests, it fell to him to find those wizards who were known to sell such items. It might be that one of the spell merchants would lead them to the Blood Sails. Frustratingly, he had to be mindful of the Baron’s requirement that he not be implicated in the Hydra’s investigation.

Gerard pondered his options. He needed a pretext for seeking similar coins himself, something plausible yet unconnected with his true purpose. Argonne strayed into his line of vision, gawping at a particularly unlikely home constructed of what appeared to be blown glass. As usual, the woodsman had pulled his broad brimmed hat low over his face. Alas, the exaggeratedly broad chin and gaping mouth were still there for all to see. Gerard smiled wickedly. Perhaps he had a use for the lummox after all. “Come Argonne”, he said imperiously. “Stop impersonating a guppy and follow me. We have some sorcerer’s to visit”.

With much difficulty, he wrested information on the services offered by various practitioners of the arcane arts from the local populace. It was almost as though the ordinary townsfolk compensated for their complete lack of magical ability by accumulating vast stores of obscure phrases with which to season their conversation. Eventually, after much cudgelling of both his patience and wit, Gerard learned three names that bore further scrutiny: Misomorph, a human with a reputation for being an artist as well as a wizard; Quickling, an elf who openly sold expensive transmutations; and Grisha, a dwarf who peddled cheap quackery in the markets. Massaging his temples, Gerard set about trying to cajole directions to these wizards from the obtuse natives.

The transmuter Misomorph lived in a grand villa on the hill overlooking Port Warlock. As he sat in his comfortable, well lit work room, he looked out of the broad window and admired the view. The afternoon sun gave warmth to the town, smoothing out some of its flaws and giving a unifying theme to the wilfully individualistic buildings. In the background, the Cursed Sea belied its name, gently sliding curls of water against the island’s chiselled shores. He allowed the focus of his eyes to slowly retrace the path back to his rooms, touching here, on the interesting profile of a cliff face, there on a intriguingly shadowed building. He lingered longest on his carefully ordered rock garden, with it’s tidy raked paths and subtly nuanced features. Inspired anew, Misomorph returned his attention to the modelling board. With a snap of his fingers, the square of clay in front of him became animate, the crude stuff surging and retreating as chaotic impulses rippled through its substance.

Concentrating deeply, the wizard began to impose his will on the clay, shaping it with the force of his thoughts. Just as he was about to give form to the vision he had conceived in last night’s dreams, a loud knocking broke his concentration. Muttering in frustration, Misomorph left the work table to attend to the callers.

As he strode impatiently through the long corridors of his manse, he railed at the parlous state of his finances which compelled him to truckle to the whims of the public. Muttering curses he flung open his door and glared irritably at his visitors. Sadly, his foreboding mien failed to make an impression. Of the two men who stood before him, one had his back partially turned and was leering at his gardens while chortling some mindless nonsense about ‘growing stones’. The other, an elegantly attired young man, genteelly stifled a yawn with the back of his hand before enquiring, “Do I have the pleasure of addressing Misomorph the Transmuter?”

“Yes you do”, replied the mage testily, “Please state your business quickly, I have urgent work to attend to. Also, if your man finds my rock garden too stimulating for his delicate sensibilities, I suggest you send him to wait by the road. No doubt the dust and gravel will provide him much amusement”.

The young fop seemed unperturbed by the mage’s bruskness and smoothly came to the point. “It is on behalf of this rude fellow that I have come to you. My enquiries have led me to believe that you are a wizard skilled in transformations of the body”, he flattered Misomorph with a honeyed voice. “Since all know your skill is paramount, I was wondering if you could do something for this!”. As he concluded his request the dandy propelled his brutish companion towards Misomorph with a small shove while simultaneously sweeping off its hat.

The artist gasped. Now bare headed, the lumpish features of the second man were dishearteningly revealed. The aesthetically sensitive wizard was aghast. It appeared that nature had cursed the simple yokel with every imperfection that could disfigure the human face. With horrid fascination, his attention wandered from the exaggerated chin, bent nose and disconcertingly wide set eyes (one of them cocked), to the bulging forehead and crooked, discoloured teeth. The man’s complexion was rough and a ragged beard did little to hide the strange lumps that distended the surface. A great mono-brow trailed across the forehead, thick and untamed like a long neglected hedge. Not even a blind mother could love such a face, indeed the peasant looked as if his face had been shaped by a palsied sculptor who was not only blind, but had only a vague description of a man to go on. Eventually, Misomorph managed to wrest his attention away from the cretin and turn to its companion, who had maintained an expectant silence throughout the inspection. The gentleman suavely for the bumpkin to replace his hat.

“You can see that our need is great”, said the dandy. “Do you have anything that could set to rights this cruel trick played by nature. Some magic or glamour, that might make him presentable?”

Misomorph shook his head, “Though its hard to believe, I use my gift for… projects of a larger scope. I deal with epic landscapes, flights of fantasy that can transform a villa to a place of wonder not…” his voice trailed off as he contemplated just what might be required to set the yokel right. He felt a stab of pity for the man; to be so ugly, what a terrible fate! Enlightened as he was with artistic vision, the thought of such disfigurement was nigh intolerable. Already he could feel the inspiration that had seethed through him that morning begin to evaporate before the malformed visage of the caller. He hardened his heart and gestured that the interview was over.

“I am sorry but I do not perform, cosmetic magics”, he said, struggling to find the correct terminology. To Misomorph’s surprise, the gentleman did not seem too disturbed by the refusal while the deformed man seemed by and large bemused by the entire conversation. No doubt he was addled in mind as well as body, the mage thought as he firmly shut the door and hurried back to his studio. Mercifully, the entire visit was soon forgotten as he set anew to the task of cajoling reality to shape itself into the bravura visions in his mind.

Gerard left the villa well satisfied with their terminated interview. As he had hoped, Argonne was the perfect foil to his inquiries. The woodsman’s ugliness was so profound that their motive for seeking transformative coins was not even questioned. Confident that his method of pursuing information was sound, he sauntered back into town and made for Quickling’s abode. Despite the upheavals and frustrations of the day, he felt quite pleased with himself. He felt in command of the situation and the normally troublesome Argonne was dancing to his tune. Up until now, he had not enjoyed such pre-eminence. At the formation of the Hydra he had naturally assumed that he would be given command. This was only to be expected given his superior social standing. Indeed he had believed implicitly in his role for several days before it slowly dawned on him that the others considered him merely ‘one of the lads’.

Oh contemptible sentiment! He had fought back by giving imperious commands and treating any overly familiar behaviour with haughty contempt. Alas, this approach met with curt rebuffs at best and he was surprised at how he missed their simple camaraderie once it was withdrawn. By the time of their arrival on Sorcerer’s Isle he had rethought his strategy. Perhaps it was his fate to become a man of the people, to work closely with them and show himself as an ideal to which they could strive. If they would not recognise that leadership was his birth right, then he would use more subtle ways to bend them to his will. He could only hope that his father would not hear of this compromise of the noble Mowbray name. He turned to make sure that Argonne still trailed docilely behind him. No matter, for the moment Argonne was doing as he was told and things were definitely looking up.

*****​

 

[Fiasco]

That evening the Hydra assembled once more in the Hat and Staff. Gerard wasted no time in appraising his companions of what he had discovered. Of the three people he had investigated, Misomorph could be dismissed from consideration. Quickling, a cold, calculating elf seemed a potential supplier of sorcerers coins, albeit an expensive and discreet one.

The third spell merchant of interest was Grisha, a surly dwarf who set his stall in the market square every afternoon. This worthy had already left for the day when Gerard had made his inquiries in the town square. Undaunted, Gerard had quizzed nearby stall holders and been given to understand the dwarf was generally considered an unpleasant and unscrupulous fellow. Gerard had been able to get good directions for finding Grisha’s house, which was situated in a somewhat isolated area an hour’s walk along the coast.

The companions fiercely debated their options. Since they could hardly ask either Grisha or Quickling outright if they supplied the Blood Sails, at least not with any realistic expectation of an honest answer, they would have to be more circumspect in how they carried out their mission. Eventually, they took the decision to visit Grisha’s house the next day, timing their arrival for when he was occupied in the market. Hopefully they could unearth something of interest without arousing any suspicion. They agreed to meet at two hours after midday as Mortec and Stravarius claimed to have some business to attend to at noon. With that, the gathering came to an end. Each went their own way to arrange for meals and rooms.

The following morning, the companions explored the many curiosities that a town devoted to wizards had to offer. Though many of the wares on display tempted them, most lacked the coin to indulge their desires. Gerard, fresh from his morning toilet, found himself well disposed enough to regard even the vexing locals with a tolerant eye. The temperature was moderately warm and the breeze coming in from the ocean carried a pleasant scent, uncoloured with the noisome refuse that normally floated in the waters near human habitation. Whatever else they were, the nobleman had to acknowledge that the inhabitants of Sorcerer’s Isle kept the cleanest town he had ever seen.

Somewhat before noon, Stravarius and Mortec retraced their steps of the previous day and returned to Novorod's Tower. Though both strove to appear calm they were taut with anxiety. The Black Elf had not had a moment’s rest the previous night. His proximity to such a heavy concentration of magical power had made his nightmares even more intense. Even now he felt the unpleasant tingle of sweat beading high on his scalp. Despite their trepidation, they persisted with their march. To each, the potential gains from an interview with the mighty inhabitants of the tower far outweighed their fear of the unknown.

All too soon, they stood before the entrance. Once more they were overwhelmed by the brooding entropic finish of the tower. Stravarius glanced at the gnome and then stepped forward and placed his gloved hand against the door. He was absurdly pleased that his arm was completely steady as he did so. Silently a section of the wall slid away, or perhaps it just disappeared. A poorly illuminated passageway was revealed. Seizing the initiative, Mortec dodged around his larger companion and entered the tower. With an annoyed grimace, the Black Elf followed and then there was no longer an entrance behind them. They were gone.

*****​

In a half derelict tavern named the Broken Crow, Moxadder was deep in conversation with a man called Ramain and quietly beginning to panic. This was the second establishment he had visited this morning, a continuation of his trawling journey through the town’s scum pits which had begun with the Ravished Mermaid the day before. His cautious inquiries had born little fruit thus far, but that was to be expected. He had been careful not to reveal his motives or purpose when asking questions and this had greatly complicated matters.

After spending an hour observing the truculent denizens of the Broken Crow, he had decided there was nothing more he could learn there and had tried to leave. Halfway to the door he was accosted by a paunchy man who smoothly ushered him to a table and offered to help him with his ‘questions’.

The following half hour saw an exchange of veiled references, outright bluff and a species of double talk that left Moxadder emotionally and intellectually bewildered. Initially, he had planned on tricking the stranger of all his secrets but within five minutes he found himself desperately trying to hold is own in a conversation he understood less and less of the longer it went. After five minutes more he was reduced to desperately clinging to his new goal of not revealing the purpose of his visit to the island. He felt completely disoriented and could no longer even remember what he had last said.

Ramain professed to be an ‘information broker’ and offered to sell what he knew to Moxadder. Alas, the Irudeshian realised that to ask specific questions would inevitably give the man a strong insight into what he was after. Baron Yorath had made it clear he didn’t wish to be implicated in the investigation of the Blood Sails and this left Moxadder at something of an impasse. Sensing his reluctance, Ramain launched into a long winded analogy of their situation, which the Irudeshian completely misinterpreted.

“Are you saying that the Blood Sails are part of a splinter faction of the Church of Laster who are believing their leader is the horny re-incarnation of their God?”, he hazarded hopelessly.

“No, I’m not!” Ramain shook his head in disgust. “It appears that I have to speak a little more clearly. The Blood Sails are working for someone, which is all I’m willing to say at this point. In doing so, they have angered a lot of very important people and I think it’s safe to say that given the power of the people being annoyed, the Blood Sails won’t be around for too much longer.

Stung by the contempt in Ramain’s voice, Moxadder floundered into another line of questioning. “What do you know about people selling sorcerer’s coins on the quiet?” The question provoked an evil smile from the man opposite him.

“Sorcerer’s coins eh? I can’t tell you anything. What can YOU tell me?”

Moxadder fought to keep the surprise off his face. “nnnothing, nothing at all”, he stammered, not even convincing himself. “Okay, see, what I’m really after is the low down on the Blood Sails” he mumbled, forgetting that Ramain had already plucked this information from him and expanded upon it.

Ramain relaxed and didn’t even bother to hide that he had the drug confused wretch where he wanted him. “That information I can give you, but it will cost you a sickle”. Moxadder’s spirits sank even further. He had spent the last of his money in nursing drinks in the sinks of Sorcerer’s Isle.

“I don’t have the scratch with me”, he began, “but I can get it to you within the hour. Or better yet, I can give you some Devil Weed! Tricky stuff to come by in these parts!” Ramain looked pityingly at the desperate creature in front of him. Clearly he had wasted his time trying to finesse money from a penniless fool. Far better to make him his willing slave.

“I’ll tell you what”, he said, flashing a smile that didn’t betray even a hair of human feeling. “I’ll give YOU some Devil Weed, as well as what you want to know, and in a few days time, you will tell me everything you have learnt about the Blood Sails”. Moxadder sat very still, intimidated by the man’s complete control of the conversation and the chilling lifelessness of his eyes. Ramain leaned forward and the Irudeshian’s attention was momentarily caught by curious pendant he wore around his neck. A silver disc worked with the motif of a many horned demonic skull seemed to stare at him with its ruby eyes. A faint foreboding at the back of his mind told him he had seen such a symbol before. With a start, he snapped his attention back to his inquisitor’s face and swallowed nervously before nodding submissively. He was painfully aware of his fear, and also that he couldn’t hide it from the menacing information dealer.

“Excellent”, purred the rogue. “I can see that we understand each other. Now listen carefully, the Blood Sails are lead by a man named Rumscully Jack…”

*****​

 

[Fiasco]

In the early afternoon the companions slowly congregated in the common room of the Hat and Staff. They were an unsettled group. It was apparent to all that Moxadder had partaken heavily of the Devil Weed again. His dilated eyes and panicked starts at sudden noises did not ease matters. Their patience was further tried by the late arrival of Mortec and Stravarius. When the pair finally did appear, they were quiet and withdrawn, thoughts turned inward and oblivious to the hostile glares of their companions.

“Let us be off” said Gerard, his voice squeaking nervously. Wordlessly they rose. Argonne carelessly kicked Kuruul awake as they shuffled out. The large canine’s eye’s flashed dangerously for a second, then the beast followed desultorily.

No-one spoke during journey to the Dwarf’s house. The weather had warmed unpleasantly and the humidity of the sea air compounded their discomfort. Under his all covering apparel, Stravarius sweated prodigiously. A steady pressure was building in his mind, wrought by a thousand questions and postulations that swarmed through his consciousness like a frenzied swarm of mean tempered wasps. His hands clenched and unclenched spasmodically as he strove to rebuild those long held paradigms that had been shattered by what he had learnt in the tower. His eyes strayed in the direction Mortec. Soon they would have to make a choice and commit themselves irrevocably to either a path of knowledge or ignorance.

Despite their slow pace, the Hydra found the modest abode sooner than expected. The building was situated near the top of a long, gently sloped hill which was sliced down one side by an escarpment overlooking the sea. Though rugged and quite exposed to the elements, the location afforded a truly inspiring view of the town. As the companions paused for a rest before closing the final few hundred feet to the house, Gerard was surprised that a mean spirited curmudgeon like Grisha would have the greatness of soul to appreciate such a view. He wondered briefly whether they had the right dwelling, but there could be no mistaking the directions he had been given.

The ease with which they had found the house did not improve the Hydra’s mood. Something about the quiet of the place was unsettling, and the knowledge that it belonged to a wizard only made matters worse. The simple house was built of wood, well weathered and with a thatched roof that had seen better days. A sturdy door barred entry to the house, though Argonne noticed a small rectangular opening had been cut into the bottom of it. The other side obliquely visible to the companions showed a plain wall, its only feature a heavily shuttered window.

Stravarius shifted his feet impatiently. Would none of his companions take some initiative and give the house a closer inspection? he groused to himself. It was at this point that a black cat emerged coolly from the hole in the base of the door and sauntered a couple of paces into the yard before lazily beginning to wash. Stravarius felt a cold fury stiffen his spine. In his disconcerted condition, there was something about the smug insouciance of the creature that stung him to the quick. Without conscious thought he raised the massive crossbow he carried and aimed carefully along its length. With a powerful snap, the arms of the weapon leapt forward, hurling the shaft with great velocity at the feline. The animal had just enough time to whip its head around at the sudden noise before it was snatched away by the deadly length of wood and feather. A shocked silence followed the loosing of the bolt.

“What in Geduld’s stinking hell are you doing?” screamed Gerard in frustration. The other companions also appeared far from impressed. Argonne eyed the Black Elf with contempt and Morgan had the look of a man for whom every prejudice had just been confirmed and who longed to tell his more tolerant friends ‘I told you so!’

“Are you mad?” Gerard continued, voicing the concerns of the entire group. “We are TRYING to reconnoitre a dangerous wizard’s abode, and you decide to practice your archery on his cat! You piffle. What are you playing at, man?”

Stravarius stood shaking, his crossbow clutched forgotten in both hands. He too was shocked at what he had done. A dreadful fear shrivelled his guts. Had he no control? Was he doomed to become the thing of corruption that was the fate of all who fell under Rawloqu? Seeing the open distrust in most of his companion’s eyes, he wondered if he should try to explain, that his mind was a jangle with unsettling new thoughts that floated atop the darker currents of his endless nightmares. The look of hatred on Morgan’s face discouraged him. “I hate cats”, he offered simply before walking towards the hut. Curiously, he felt better for his explanation. It was, after all, true. By some unlucky happenstance, the feline species had eyes that were nearly identical with those of the Transmuter.

Standing some distance away, Moxadder contemplated his companions. If the slaying of the cat had not alerted anyone in the house, the noisy outburst by Gerard certainly had. He crossed to where Argonne stood with hands on hips and gave him a nudge. “Lets leave them too it and have a squiz around. I reckon maybe we can find some sign of customers who don’t come by the ordinary way if you know what I mean.”

Pleased to have something positive to do, the woodsman nodded his acquiescence. He began to circle the wizard’s dwelling at some distance, head bent close to the ground as he scrutinised the bare rock for signs of tracks. Moxadder followed closely at his heels. Argonne’s abilities to find a trail in even the most unforgiving terrain was quite impressive. The Irudeshian wistfully remembered evenings spent hiding in the blood warm safety of the marshes surrounding Irudesh City. Old Nagresh, the half mad old serpent warrior had sometimes taught him a scrap or two of his swamp lore. Despite the snakes, crocodiles and other hazards, he had rarely felt safer during his childhood.

Meanwhile the others had nerved themselves to close the distance to the dwelling before coming to a hesitant stop before the door. As Gerard prepared to knock and announce the Hydra, Mortec tried to divert him from his intent. “This is a house belonging to a wizard, he may have left magical defences”, the gnome advised. Gerard regarded the house critically. It seemed too poorly built for anyone who had a great deal worth protecting.

“I don’t believe such a rude hovel could have any defences”, the arrogant swordsman rejoined before lightly rapping on the door. Glancing back at his companions, Gerard noticed that Mortec had scuttled back a good fifteen feet while Morgan stood poised for action, hand on sword and expecting the worst. The Black Elf stood further away, a dark brooding figure against the skyline.

There was no response to the knock and after pounding it a few more times to no avail Gerard was a little nonplussed. Investigation, questioning and even fighting he was comfortable with, but he was not at all certain how he felt about breaking into people’s homes. Particularly when there was a good chance they had nothing to do with their frustrating mission. Fortunately for Gerard, his dilemma was reprieved by a cry from Argonne.

The woodsman had found a concealed trail leading away from both the residence and Port Warlock and did not hesitate in calling on the others to join him. Back at the house, Gerard exhaled in relief and was about to give the command to join the woodsman when he realised the others were already on their way. Wearing a glum expression he moved to join them, nearly tripping over the prostrate form of Kuruul who had been dozing at his feet. Seeing no-one around, Gerard indulged himself in a string of vulgar curses such as he’d heard Argonne utter on frequent occasion. Somehow feeling the better for it, he hastened to catch up to the others.

 

[Fiasco]

Argonne felt mildly excited as he scanned the ground for tracks. He had broken free of the strange confusion of intrigue and architecture that Port Warlock had woven around him. Now he was amongst familiar elements that followed a logic he intuitively understood. He had always taken pleasure in reconstructing the tiny stories left by those who trod the earth. Viewed from within the thrall of his Wodensense, each bent blade of grass, overturned stone with its dirty side facing upwards, or discarded refuse or scat spoke volumes to those with the skill and imagination to read the sign.

This day, the sign indicated a little used trail with the tracks of small groups of men leading in both directions. The path meandered along the cliffs overlooking the ocean, weaving around the more difficult outcrops and scraggy bushes that clung stubbornly to the unnurturing rocks. Enthused by his find, Argonne motioned for the others to follow as he confidently began to follow the spoor.

Alone at the rear of the party Morgan felt somewhat out of sorts. Marching in the wilderness on an island full of strange wizards while on a fools errand to find sorcerer’s coins seemed pointless. Even more frustrating was that although they sought the coins, it had been explained to him that they couldn’t let anyone know they were looking for them. This seemed patently ridiculous. How were people to help them if they couldn’t tell them what they wanted? Somehow he felt that they’d missed the point of the mission. Surely they should be killing pirates, not following rabbit tracks in the wilderness.

A familiar sense of guilt fell over him. Like most Fastendians when away their homeland, he felt oppressed by the feeling he was letting his people down. A stretch of wall protecting Avinal stood bare because of his decision to leave. Yet, by long standing tradition, fighting in the Halfast Games and showing the world the prowess of the Fastness’ warriors was considered a worthy occupation. When engaged in such a task, feelings of guilt for leaving the country were assuaged. A good showing at the Games showed the nation’s steadfastness in adversity, bringing attention to its desperate battle with the Dominion.

Morgan had left Avinal with the honourable intention of competing in the gladiatorial contest. Instead, he found himself lagging around an island with a group of strange and disorganised foreigners. “A wall stands bare”, he muttered to himself. It was the ancient mantra of the warrior away from home. Feeling no better, he kicked a small stone aside in a fit of peevishness and offered a fervent prayer to Thuus that this vexatious mission might soon be ended.

“Look Out!” Gerard exclaimed from his position near the head of the group. He grabbed desperately at Argonne’s pack to keep the woodsman from falling to his death. The sound of scrabbling feet and a stifled curse indicated that Moxadder had also found the edge of the precipice. The pair had been so intent on tracking that they had only seen the sharp lip of the crevasse an instant before plunging over it. The immediate danger averted, they took in the unusual feature that faced them. Through some freak action of wind and water, a thirty foot diameter sink hole had been worn through the cliff top down to sea level some eighty feet below.

Carefully leaning over, they could see right to the bottom of the hollow, where sunlight revealed the sparkle of water. A narrow fissure in the side of the cliff had been chafed into a ten foot wide channel by the action of a millennia of waves. This had led to the formation of a natural cove almost completely sheltered from both observation and the sea. To the Hydra’s wonderment, the edges of the harbour in miniature were ringed by wooden decking, allowing easy access to the water from all sides. A long boat was secured to one of the many mooring posts around the perimeter of the cove. They could see no sign of people below, but the call of human voices and sound of movement on the cliff top near their position alerted them to the fact they had betrayed their presence.

Moxadder reacted quickly, backing into the concealment of nearby shrubs while rapidly darting his eyes back and forth in an attempt to spot the enemy. Without knowing precisely why, Gerard followed suit, though it cost him dear for he tore the arm of his fine tunic on a thorn.

Despite Gerard’s strident warning and the sounds of other people nearby, Mortec felt compelled to approach the sink hole. Sneaking forward he reached the lip and peered cautiously within. His short stature made it difficult to see the bottom but he nevertheless sensed movement down below. A sense of someone approaching from behind distracted him and he turned and to see Stravarius move up beside him. The Black Elf began to laboriously crank his massive crossbow, clearly the demented cat killer was expecting trouble. Following suit, the gnome began to arm his weapon as well. Some way further back, Morgan cursed, then unshouldered his bow and began to hustle towards where he thought his companions were. It was just his luck, he thought, that when action did come he was stuck at the rear of the party.

While his companions hid or tried to spot the noise makers, Argonne pressed keenly towards where he had heard the newcomers. Moving to his right, he skirted the hole while freeing his massive axe from the straps that secured it to his back.

Suddenly, arrows hissed through some bushes to his left, but sufficiently wide of the mark for him to be confident he had not been the target. Ironically, the attack was a source of relief to him. That these strangers were willing to loose arrows on sight significantly reduced the likelihood they were people going about legitimate business. For the woodsman, the negotiations he carried out with axe or staff came far more naturally than those with words.

As Argonne probed towards the hidden enemies, Morgan reached Mortec and Stravarius. The whine of arrows passing through the air made the trio duck reflexively, but none were harmed. Guessing they had originated from his left, Morgan gestured for the other two to follow and began to cautiously pick a path around the left side of the hollow. They had not taken more than a dozen paces when Mortec caught sight of their assailants through a gap in the bushes. Carefully, he stepped around an obstacle and then loosed a bolt at one of the figures. He felt the familiar kick against his shoulder, then waited the customary half second as the deadly length of wood closed the distance towards its quarry. He felt a dark joy surge through him as the victim suddenly clapped hands to its ribs and then keeled over motionless.

Both sides could now see each other, albeit indistinctly amongst the concealing shrubs. The mighty twang of Stravarius’ weapon sang out almost simultaneously with those of the enemy. The Black Elf flinched as the flinders of a shattered bolt danced around his feet, leaving him miraculously unharmed. The Hydra’s reprieve was momentary for the next instant an arrow suddenly manifested high in Morgan’s side. The Fastendian collapsed bonelessly to the ground, too surprised to even make a noise. Mortec, seeing the depth to which the shaft had sunk and the chalk white pallor of the warrior’s face, moved urgently to give assistance.

To the other side of the crevasse, Gerard blustered and ducked his way through thick undergrowth while beginning to question the sense of his action. He had already lost sight of Moxadder and seemed no closer to sighting the enemy. Taking a risk, he stopped moving and stood up straight to get a view unobscured by the wretched growth he was forging through. In a sweeping glance, he saw some bowmen aiming in his direction and ducked back down. Thinking quickly, he cupped his hand over his mouth in a specific way and muttered a quick message intended for Argonne. With a snap of the wrist he hurled the ‘contents’ of his palm in the direction he believed Argonne to be. It had been a simple trick that Zmrat had taught him, but he could see the use of it now.

Through carefully manoeuvring, the woodsman had brought himself quite close to a pair of aggressors. Each was dressed simply in a plain shirt belted at the waist and dark leggings. They walked barefoot through the sharp rocks without any concern and evinced the rolling gait common to all who spent the majority of their lives at sea. Both were armed with bows, arrows loosely knocked in anticipation of finding a target.

As he watched, he saw one nudge the other and then draw back and take careful aim. Argonne leapt without hesitation amidst the two archers. Inexplicably, Gerard’s voice whispered “Argonne, where are you?” in his ear, causing him to start in surprise and spoiling the first mighty swing of his axe. He looked about wildly, but saw no sign of his companion. Fortunately the surprise of his attack compelled the men to abandon their bows and ready weapons more suited for close combat. As they warily tried to circle the woodsman, Argonne called out for Gerard to come to his aid, hoping to even the odds against the men he faced.

 

[Fiasco]

While Stravarius stood guard, Mortec tended to the downed Fastendian. The head of the arrow had passed completely through and it was an easy matter to break it off and withdraw the shaft. Then, calling on the might of his dark mistress, the gnome incanted a short prayer of healing. The harsh intonations of the petition sounded incongruous with their intent. He had spoken correctly, however, and in doing so became a vessel for a tiny spark of his Goddess’ holy essence. Mortec felt the divine power gather in his chest and tried to channel as much of it as he could into his hands. He only managed to maintain contact with the divine for a moment, but it was enough to infuse himself with healing energy. Reaching forward, he grasped hold of the wound and allowed the accumulated potential to wash through it. Severe though the injury had been, Mortec had proved to be a worthy enough channel to heal it almost completely. From above and behind he heard Stravarius speak words that caused even him to blanch. A man screamed in response.

Argonne’s call had given Gerard and Moxadder a direction to work towards. Throwing caution aside, the nobleman surged free of the strangling vegetation and darted into the open towards the outcry. He quickly spotted Argonne’s opponents; two men who pressed the woodsman with cutlass and rapier respectively. Readying his own weapon, Gerard leapt boldly to the attack the man on the left.

His opening lunge failed to find the warrior’s flesh but distracted him sufficiently to miss Moxadder’s approach from behind. The Irudeshian straightened from his furtive crouch as he manoeuvred into position, killing intent etched deep into harsh features. He darted forward to plunge his dagger deep into his victim’s back but fell instead to his knees, brought down by a root snagged treacherously around his ankle. With surprising dexterity he managed to get back to his feet but by then the opening was lost.

Gerard was shaking his head in disgust at the cowardly and futile attack when his foe lunged unexpectedly and stuck a good two inches of steel into his thigh. The pain of the blow served as a cruel tonic to his battle field moralising on chivalry in combat.

A distance away from Gerard and his lesson in ethics, Morgan became aware of sharp rocks digging into his back. With a start, he realised that he must have fallen though he had no recollection of it. Just as he started to remember the blinding agony of the bolt reaving through his side, it dawned on him that the pain was no longer there. He looked up and saw the gnome crouched over him, his hands giving off a strange radiance that faded even as he watched.

The expression on Mortec’s face was a queer one. Part awe, part gratitude and shades of relief battled against the overlying mask of clinical detachment. The gnome sensed Morgan’s scrutiny and their gazes locked. An uncomfortable moment passed between them. What exactly did a gnome think? The Fastendian wondered. Was there concern there? Had he empathised with his companion’s hurt or was he just acting out of shrewdness, doing what was needed in order to better his own chance of survival? Man and gnome averted their eyes at the same time. Somewhat embarrassed, Morgan retrieved his bow from where it had fallen to the ground. For his part, Mortec seemed relieved to return his attention to the aggressors.

Gerard’s timely intervention had allowed Argonne to focus his efforts on one opponent. Tendons straining in effort, the woodsman arrested the flight of his axe and brought it down on the base of an incoming cutlass. The blade shattered, leaving his surprised adversary with a numbed arm and a shocked expression. Acting from instinct, Argonne leapt forwards and crashed his shoulder into the man’s chest, hurling him backwards towards the edge of the chasm. For a long moment, the warrior teetered on the brink of the crevasse before falling backwards into the void. A long second later a heavy thunk heralded his demise.

Argonne’s move had exposed his back to the remaining warrior and he would have suffered for it had Gerard not lunged desperately to divert the retributive attack. He succeeded but received a painful nick to his forearm by way of a skilful riposte from the stymied attacker. The move also saved the swordsman from Moxadder's follow up strike, leaving him unharmed but outnumbered. Defiantly, the man caught Gerard’s eye, his intentions clear as he circled to his right, further away from Moxadder. The nobleman gulped nervously. His forearm burned with pain and blood had flowed down to his hand, making his grip uncertain. Gerard lips compressed into a thin line of concentration as he focussed tightly on swordsman’s face, hoping to read the direction of the next thrust.

Without warning there was a blur of motion, a sickening noise and then his opponent was a bloody heap on the ground. Standing above it was Argonne, eyes ablaze with the thrill of the kill. There was a moment of silence as the three of them surveyed the results of the death blow and then the noise of the conflict on the other side of the chasm reasserted itself. With a bloodthirsty grin, the woodsman began to lope in that direction, eager to continue the fight. With a resigned shrug, Moxadder followed, though with a good deal more circumspection. Considerably slowed by his wounds, Gerard limped to the rear. Realising it would take him too long to reach the fray, he readied his crossbow with the aim of picking off any reinforcements that might appear.

Three enemies were visible to the Hydra on the other side of the crevasse. They were working their way forwards through light cover, loosing missiles as they advanced. Morgan and Mortec’s bows twanged close together, but neither found its mark.

Stravarius achieved a better outcome. Ignoring his crossbow, he summoned the dark energies wrapped tight around his soul. A guttural word, a violent thrust of a gloved forefinger and a viridian dart leapt into the chest of a heavily bearded attacker. The man cried out in fear and pain but didn’t fall. The Black Elf growled in annoyance. It was becoming easier to draw on his corrupted essence but the effects were not universally deadly. He stepped back behind Morgan and Mortec, the better to give himself time to arm his fearsome bow.

The trio’s foes pursued their own strategy. A grizzled man in his forties hung back and began to crank his crossbow while the other two pressed forwards. The bearded man struck by Stravarius’ sorcery hoped to take the easy option by swinging his axe at the gnome. His target’s reduced stature foiled the attack, however, with the blade passing harmlessly above its head.

Mortec narrowed his eyes in anger and then beseeched his goddess once more. Morgan, could not decipher his words but felt the menace contained within them. The gnome’s hands grew dark and a spitting line of black energy snaked down his arm and into his open palm. There it curled up into an eldritch ball which emitted a high pitched crackle which contrasted sharply with muted rush of the surf and the laboured breathing of the combatants. Almost casually, the gnome stepped forwards and grasped the man’s out thrust knee. The result was spectacular.

The blackness jumped from Mortec’s hand to the victims knee, whereupon it elongated and raced up the length of the man’s body before diving deep into his chest. His skin shrivelled as all the vitality and moisture was stripped from his body. He flung his head back in agony, mouth opened in a scream rendered silent by the necromantic assault. With a resigned whisper, the empty shell of humanity collapsed at the gnome’s feet like a sack of dust.

Morgan, who was battling a tangle haired swordswoman, mastered his shock and struck her in the shoulder with his rapier. More because of the horrid demise of her companion than the pain of her wound, she fled, narrowly avoiding Morgan’s follow up thrust at her unprotected back. The bowman who had hung back loosed a panicked bolt at Mortec that missed wildly, before dropping his weapon and joining his companion in flight. They managed to run some hundred feet before the man was caught high in the neck by a dart sped from the other side of the chasm. The woman managed to run a dozen steps further before Stravarius sprawled her dead to the ground with an oversized bolt sunk deep into her back.

It took a long moment for Morgan to realise that that pounding he heard was not merely his heart, but the sound of Argonne’s approaching footsteps. Still aghast at what Mortec had done, he glanced vaguely past the woodsman’s shoulder and saw Gerard posed theatrically in the distance, crossbow still braced against his shoulder. He looked back at the gnome and saw he was staring at him, defying him to make comment on the manner of the bearded man’s demise. Knowing that Stravarius would offer him no support, he shrugged resignedly. With deep unease despite the relief of victory, he waited for the others to join them.

The Hydra took several minutes to regroup and search the bodies of their foes. They had killed five in all, and a hasty accounting of each other’s actions suggested that none had escaped to raise an alarm. Not entirely reassured by this, they turned their attention once more to the hidden cove. No movement was apparent, though the ruined body of Argonne’s first opponent leaked blood onto the wooden dock. Nearby, the long boat sat nearly motionless in its sheltered mooring. A closer look showed the familiar red canvas of the Blood Sails furled tight to its mast. Exhilaration gripped the company. Finding the secret lair of the Blood Sails was success far beyond their expectations. Surmising that their opponents had come up from the hideout, they began to search the surrounding area for some means of making the descent.

They spread out and moved towards the far side of the sink hole, their boots crunching through stubborn tangles of salt stained bushes. Mortec, still vitalised with the strength drawn from his desiccated victim, was the first to notice an entrance concealed by a screen of brush. Stravarius moved quickly and threw the obscuring shield aside. A sturdy reinforced door was revealed, set at an acute angle in the rock of the cliff. Impulsively, the Black Elf grabbed at the large latch securing entry. With a vicious snicker, a length of steel swept down at his wrist. Stravarius snatched back his hand just in time to avoid the trap.

“Watch out for the trap”, said Moxadder snidely, “damn near took your hand off”.

Stravarius merely glared by way of response. Despite the trap being harmlessly sprung, he gingerly worked the latch with his dagger and shouldered the door open. They all crowded forwards, effectively blocking all light into the passage. The Black Elf’s eyes burned through the darkness with ease, however, and he saw steep, narrow steps carved into the damp limestone. The stair led down in a tight spiral, allowing him to see only a little way down.

The stone in the passage way was moist and the cool dampness of the air was pleasant after his exertions in the sun. Looking behind him, Stravarius saw the determination in the faces of his companions. Without need for words, they began their descent into the heart of the Blood Sails lair.

 

[Fiasco]

Chapter 5​

Stravarius descended the steps with his sword held tensely in front of him, ready to parry any sudden attack. Behind him came Argonne, large axe held one handed near its head while the other hand trailed along the limestone wall. The others followed; Morgan, then Gerard, then Mortec, Moxadder, and finally Kuruul. They moved silently, by and large, but the occasional scuffle or clink of unguarded metal was enough to fray nerves. The darkness herded them close together, those with keen night vision guiding their less perceptive comrades through the winding dark.

After progressing two turns round the stairs Stravarius saw a flickering light which washed colour through the interminable blacks and greys his night vision was limited to. Slowing his pace even further, he edged round the curved wall until he saw the torch burning silently in its sconce. He stopped, then held out an arm behind him, halting Argonne with his palm. Stravarius held his breath and listened. He heard the distant murmur of the sea, the click of Kuruul’s paw as it ticked a step, the scrape of a pack against a wall and the thrum of the blood pounding in his ears. Nothing hinted at the presence of more pirates.

The Black Elf was not reassured. Sensing the line behind him beginning to compress, he forced himself to keep moving. The Hydra coiled round three more loops of the stairway before they reached the bottom. A four way intersection confronted them, its passageways carved from the soft rock of the cliff. Another torch burned against the wall on their left.

With the stairs at their backs and ten feet short of the intersection, they could see the way ahead led to what looked like a storage room. Several crates were stacked haphazardly within sight and various objects littered the ground. Stravarius walked forward, glancing left and right down the intersection but seeing only unadorned corridors to either side. He waved for the others to join him and stepped into the store room. The only light came from the torch behind them but it was enough to confirm the chamber’s purpose and to reassure themselves they were alone. With Argonne keeping watch, the rest of the Hydra squatted in a rough semi circle and conferred.

“This definitely looks like the Blood Sail’s lair”, whispered Mortec, gesturing at clutter of supplies about them. The smell of oil, brine and leather settled upon the group. “Should we leave before being discovered and report to the Baron?”

“No. We should explore this place thoroughly”, Gerard opinioned. Stravarius was noncommittal, content with the strenuous work of arming his crossbow.

“I agree”, said Morgan. “We only saw one boat in the harbour, there can’t be many more of them left.”

Argonne turned his attention away from the doorway and joined the conversation. “Ah think that we hav’na killed enough o’ the bastards yet. Tha knaws what they done in t’Ravenswood”. Indeed, all of them did remember the day they’d walked out of the morning mists and into tragedy. The woodsman’s words were enough to decide them.

Stravarius led the party out of the room and down the passageway to their right. The way broadened, and the companions walked in loose pairs, weapons readied for any outcome. The corridor wound alternatively left and right until they reached a longer section with the far end continuing past the range of even the Black Elf’s vision. An opening on the left provided subdued light for the nearer section of the passage. Cautiously, they approached the opening, Argonne and Morgan pressing close to Stravarius’ back to get a better look.

Their eyes contracted painfully as they gazed at the outside world. Sunlight dazzled upon the gently rippling waters of the cove. The stone of the passageway abutted the wooden deck that surrounded the water. Squinting, they looked about, hoping to catch sight of any pirates that might inhabit the complex. Almost directly opposite them a narrow channel lead East to the Cursed Sea, the longboat they had seen from above bobbed gently near its entrance. Around the Northern side of the harbour another passage led into the pirates lair while to the West, two such passageways could be seen. There was no sign of anyone, and only the muted lap of water against the boat and the distant crash of waves disturbed the silence. Disliking the exposure of walking around the decking, they turned back the way they came and continued to explore the main corridor to the West.

The way continued for over one hundred paces before light once again alerted them to an approaching opening. The Black Elf breasted the turn to the East and entered a large hall. Immediately, a crossbow bolt flashed at his chest, driving great sparks off his breastplate and knocking him back half a stride. Stravarius saw two openings to the cove on his left and a makeshift barricade cutting South-East across the room. Four heads were visible behind the fortifications and his instinctive response drove a feathered shaft through one of them. The Black Elf shouted his defiance at the three remaining Blood Sails manning the barricade.