JollyDoc
Explorer
WANTON OF NATURE’S PAGAN FORMS
Taking the stairs running, the Sandpoint Seven bolted after the fleeing Skinsaw Men. When they came out on the landing at the very top of the lumber mill, they found themselves in a large, open workshop. A thick layer of sawdust covered the floor, mounded nearly a foot deep in places. Workbenches sat here and there in the room, their surfaces cluttered with saws, hand drills, planers and other woodworking tools. A door to a small office stood open on the far side of the shop. Positioned around the room were seven assassins, all wearing the horrid, one-eyed Skinsaw masks, as well as robes the color of old blood. Each of them held a wicked looking war razor at the ready.
The deputies advanced. The time for diplomacy or parley, if there had ever been such a time, was long past. Only one side would leave the chamber alive. The killers moved as well, zigzagging across the floor in an effort to place themselves in front of and behind their opponents. One of them slashed his blade across Dexter’s knee as the rogue tried to dance out of reach, but as a second came at Dex’s flank, the canny thief shoved his dagger into the assassin’s heart. Randall caught another in the midsection with the head of his hammer, doubling the man over in agony. Adso ended his suffering with an uppercut with the heel of his palm to the nose. Yet another fell beneath Skud’s savage, hacking blade. The four remaining Skinsaw Men began a slow retreat.
Wesh was preparing to let his arcane bolts pursue their foes when he heard a muffled chanting coming from somewhere near the open office door. Aborting his spell, he quickly chose another, and as he finished the incantation, a silvery aura fell over his vision, and he saw another figure standing at the back of the room. He was cloaked in invisibility. To all appearances, he was dressed and armed as the other assassins, yet the mask that he wore was unique. It appeared to be made of a single long strip of pliant human skin, stitched into a widening spiral by black thread. Gaps between the stitching apparently allowed the wearer to see and breathe through the unsettling thing. As Wesh watched, the man turned towards Skud, the spirals of the mask seeming to swirl. Slowly, he materialized for all to see, and when Skud looked in his direction, he paused, his jaw growing slack, his eyes wide as he watched the spiral pattern. A moment later, however, Luther was at the half-orc’s side. The mere presence of the priest, the aura of calmed assurance that he radiated, snapped the barbarian immediately back to reality.
“Him!” Wesh gestured to the leader of the assassins. “He’s the one we need! Stop him!”
His comrades did not need further prodding. They pushed forward with a roaring battle cry. Randall crushed the skull of one of the intervening cultists, and then caved in the chest of a second. Meanwhile, Dexter darted past the last two and came face-to-face with their boss. Snarling, the rogue slashed across the man’s belly with his rapier. The cultist stepped backwards, and then stumbled into the wall as a barrage of bolts from Wesh swarmed about him like stinging hornets. Skud hacked his way past another cultist, and then he too stood before the leader. Images of murder and rage filled his mind from the mask that he wore…images of Aldern Foxglove and the vengeance he was denied. The man before him commanded Aldern, controlled him. His death would serve the same purpose. With a deafening roar, Skud raised his sword high above his head and brought it down like a sledgehammer. The Skinsaw Man never knew what hit him.
The final cultist looked around at his fallen comrades and leader, and his blade dropped to his side. From the far side of the room, Wesh knew what was coming. The killer was about to surrender. Thanks to Luther, they already had two prisoners tied up in the rooms below. To Wesh’s way of thinking, that was two too many. Before the last assassin could speak, the wizard released another volley of mystic energy, and the man fell dead before a word could pass his lips.
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Luther reached down to remove the mask from the leader of the Skinsaw Men, but when he did so, he drew back as if scalded, his breath drawing in with a sharp hiss.
“What?” Wesh asked. When he looked down, he saw that the man beneath the mask was an elf. Somewhat surprising, he thought, as the high folk didn’t usually sully their hands with such human sins as murder, but certainly not deserving of the shock he saw on the young priest’s face.
“I…I know him,” Luther said. “His name is Ironbriar. He’s a judge on Magnimar’s Justice Council!”
“What?” Wesh asked again, this time incredulousness creeping into his own voice. “A member of the city government? What have we gotten ourselves into?”
“Search the office!” Luther commanded. “Quickly!”
A few moments later, Dexter returned, a leather-bound journal in his hand. Luther snatched it from him and began leafing rapidly through the pages. The information that it held would have been more than enough to have sent Ironbriar to the gallows. It told how the elf, along with six other merchants, among them, Vorel Foxglove, had established the secret Brothers of the Seven as a cover for a cult of Norgorber, the god of murder, secrets, greed and poison. They referred to their patron as Father Skinsaw, and they killed, not for wealth, but for the sick joy of it. They held that all of their murders served a greater cause, their leaders receiving visions of victims which they believed to be divine messages. With each murder, society was shaped…deeds the victim might have accomplished went unrealized and the lives of those who knew the dead shifted and changed in subtle ways. Over the course of years, or even centuries, murders could shape nations and write the future’s history. Then, when the Final Blooding occurred, Father Skinsaw would reveal to his flock the purpose of that shaping of society by death. Ironbriar had taken over the Magnimar cult when Vorel Foxglove disappeared. His subsequent appointment to the Justice Council only strengthened the cult’s security. In the more recent journal entries, Ironbriar spoke of someone who had ‘stolen his heart,’ someone he referred to as the ‘Wanton of Nature’s Pagan Forms.’ It seemed that whomever she was, Ironbriar had begun answering to her, and he saw her as some sort of divine prophet of Father Skinsaw, guiding his hand in the most recent series of murders. The only other thing mentioned about her was that Ironbriar had visited her frequently at a place he called the Shadow Clock.
“I know of it,” Dexter said. “It’s in Underbridge. It’s an old, abandoned clock tower. Barkeeps for years have been taking bets on when it’s going to fall, and how many people it’ll crush when it does.”
“We still have a situation here,” Wesh pointed out. “We’ve got a mill full of dead men, a city judge among them. I’m not sure the local authorities are just going to take our word for what was going on.”
“But we have the journal,” Luther said. “We can prove it!”
“And then they’ll head right to this Shadow Clock, and we’ll be locked out of any further investigation,” Wesh pointed out.
“Not to mention what’ll happen if the Hell Knights get involved,” Dexter added.
“We don’t go to the authorities,” Adso said.
“You have a better idea?” Luther shot back.
“In fact, I do,” the monk replied. “You know me. I’m as much a stickler for abiding by the law of the land as anyone, yet I agree with Wesh. If the local authorities go to Underbridge, there will only be more deaths. We have to handle this. I say we leave the prisoners here, with the dead, and then we send an anonymous tip to the watch. Leave the journal here, but take the pages that mention the Shadow Clock. I think the scene, and the evidence will speak for itself.”
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Hidden beneath the grimy, blackened goliath that was the Irespan, the lesser works of men huddled like weeds at the foot of the great trees that were the ruined bridge’s stone supports. Near one of these leaned a decrepit and sagging clock tower, a dying structure of weathered stone, wood, and rusted metal supports that teetered to an unlikely height of nearly two-hundred feet. High above, near the tower’s roof and barely fifty feet from the Irespan’s stony belly, a tangle of scaffolding sat near a section of the structure that had fallen away. The tower’s clock face was frozen in time, defiantly (and falsely) proclaiming it to be three o’clock, while above, a stone statue of an angel, her wings crumbling, leaned precariously, almost as if she were preparing a final leap from her decaying perch.
The streets of Underbridge were far from deserted, but it was not the sort of neighborhood were passers-by took much note of the business of others. Such intrusiveness could be dangerous and deadly, and so it was that no one paid much heed to the seven cloaked figures as they made their way through the shadows that wreathed the base of the tower, and quickly entered through its only door. The air inside was dusty and dry. Swaths of rubble and mounds of plaster lay in heaps on the stone floor. A single wagon sat to one side, and six partially collapsed offices lined the northern and eastern walls, their doors hanging askew and their ceilings caved in. A wooden staircase wound up into the cavernous space above. Well over two-hundred feet overhead, four immense bronze bells hung from sturdy crossbeams. The stairway itself was supported by an intricate network of wooden beams, but lacked, at many stretches, a handrail or other enclosure. In certain places, two or even three stairs at a time were partially missing or gone altogether.
“Well, someone’s been here,” Rico said as he crouched in the dust examining several sets of footprints. Most were those of man-sized, booted feet, but one set looked to have been made by something enormous and misshapen, that defied classification.
“Not a surprise,” Wesh said. “Spread out, and let’s have a look around. Everyone stay within sight of one another, though.”
The seven companions paced and looked cautiously around the area, but nothing save ruin and rubble drew their attention. Finally, they gathered before the stair, resigned to the fact that their prey was not going to be found so easily, and that they would have to go to her. Skud led, followed by Dexter, but no sooner had the pair set foot on the risers, than the whole affair began to sway alarmingly. Quickly, they stepped back.
“Let me try it alone,” Dex said. “Skud, you follow behind me a dozen paces or so.”
The rogue stepped up again, and that time, though the wood groaned and creaked, it remained stable, and he began to mount the staircase. Skud followed, and then one-by-one the others fell in line, spacing themselves safely apart. Rico brought up the rear.
The druid had only taken the first step, when a shuffling sound drew his attention to a darkened corner of the lower chamber. Something huge and monstrous shambled out of the shadows before his widened eyes. It was a thing of horror, straight from a child’s nightmares. A jumbled mass of body parts incorporating as much cow and horse as man, its considerable girth was topped by an idiot head that leered and drooled like a grotesque baby. Its face was cruelly stitched, the lips sewn together. It was dressed in straw and dung-covered rags which gave off the sickly sweet smell of decay. A trio of what appeared to be carved pumpkins hung from cords on its belt, but a second glance revealed them to be horribly bloated human heads with a sick, yellow tinge. It gripped a massive, wickedly curved scythe in its mitten-like hands. Rico barely had time to cry out as the deadly blade cleaved towards him. Purely on instinct, the druid ducked, and the scythe passed millimeters above his head, tearing loose a great chunk of wood from the stair rail.
“Help!” he yelped.
Randall was closest and he turned and rushed back down the stairs, ignoring the dangerous popping sounds the risers made beneath his boots. As he drew near the bottom, however, the murderous scarecrow spun towards him, whirling its scythe as if it were threshing wheat. The massive blade peeled the big soldier’s armor as if it were paper and nearly disemboweled him in the process. Yet somehow, clutching his innards to keep them from spilling onto the floor, Randall managed to counter with his maul, the blow causing the monstrosity to take a half-step back. Meanwhile, higher up the stairs, Skud grabbed the handrail and vaulted over the side, hitting the floor twenty-feet below in a crouch. A moment later, Dex joined him, the rogue rolling nimbly with the impact and coming to his feet. The scarecrow gripped its scythe and began moving warily towards them. As its attention was diverted, Rico’s body shifted into an ephemeral whirlwind, drawing on power from the elemental planes themselves, and he spun quickly away to safety.
Wesh, still high above on the stair, summoned his magic and hurled transparent bolts at the hulking brute below. To his utter dismay, the missiles bounced harmlessly off the creature, ricocheting into the darkness.
“I think it’s some sort of construct!” he shouted. “A golem! My spells won’t affect it!”
“Then you’d better pray that steel does!” Luther snapped. “In the mean time, we’ve got to make sure they survive long enough to put their weapons to use!”
The priest then leaped from the stairs himself, using techniques Adso had taught him to slow his fall by repeatedly touching the wall on the way down. As he landed, he drew his holy amulet from his tunic and held it aloft, channeling divine power into his allies, healing their wounds as best he could. A moment later, however, much of his work was undone as the scarecrow reaved Randall twice more. Skud launched himself at the golem, his blade ripping through its clothing and deep into the amalgam of flesh beneath. At the same time, Dexter flicked his silvery dagger at the giant, but it couldn’t penetrate the monster’s thick hide, and merely clanged to the floor at its feet. Again, Luther channeled his power, drawing Randall back from death’s door. Then, to the priest’s horror, the golem turned its eyes upon him, a sinister intelligence gleaming in the black orbs. Methodically, it lumbered towards him, the scythe blade gleaming in the moonlight. Abruptly, however, it stopped in its tracks, tilting its head in confusion. Luther understood immediately what had happened. The holy aura which surrounded him had somehow penetrated the creature’s dim, rotten brain, at least long enough to give it pause. That was all the time Skud and Randall needed. The two warriors struck like twin battering rams, and beneath the force of their blows, the scarecrow exploded into a viscous mass.
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Once again, the deputies resumed their climb, their eyes constantly scanning the darkness for more unseen dangers. Higher and higher they went, the winding stair seeming to go on forever. They were almost one-hundred feet above the floor when they heard the sudden sounds of ropes snapping and timbers splintering above them. As they all looked up reflexively, they saw one of the immense, bronze bells tumbling towards them, its clapper sounding for the first time in years. It tumbled and smashed along the walls before it smashed through the section of stairs right in the middle of the company. Dexter, Skud, Adso and Wesh were thrown into the air amidst shards of lumber and masonry. Dexter leaped, grabbing the stair riser on the far side of the gap, while Skud tumbled several feet back down the near stairs. Adso jumped nimbly away, landing deftly above Dexter and then pulling the rogue to safety. Alas, Wesh was not so fortunate. He scrabbled and grabbed at the falling timbers, but his hands could not gain purchase. Wide-eyed and open-mouthed, he tumbled away into the darkness, and struck the floor one-hundred feet below. His companions could only stare down in horror at his unmoving form below them. Without thinking, Luther leaped after him, once more attempting to use his skills to slow his descent. Unfortunately, the distance was much greater that time, and though the fall did not kill him, the priest felt something in his leg snap. He paid it no heed, instead summoning his faith for a third time, praying desperately that he wasn’t too late. He felt his own injury knit immediately, then watched breathless to see if Wesh would move. Slowly, the wizard’s eyes flickered open, and Luther released a huge sigh.
“I…don’t feel so good,” Wesh muttered.
Luther tended the rest of his friend’s wounds, then helped him back up the stairs to their companions. Once there, Wesh placed a hand on Adso’s shoulder and muttered an incantation. To the monk’s amazement, his feet lifted off the stairs as he took flight.
“I’m done walking,” Wesh snapped. “We’re taking the express route the rest of the way.”
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Almost two-hundred feet above the tower floor, three of the immense, brass bells still hung from the timbers, affixed by rusting lengths of chain and thick ropes. Above the bells were immense gears and clockworks, although they seemed rusted and scavenged, as if many of the smaller components were missing entirely. The rickety wooden stairs wound up and around them, but didn’t quite reach the ceiling above, coming to an end at an opening in the wall. There, the stairs continued up the exterior of the tower to a room that must have lain just beyond the ceiling directly above the bells. As the companions made their way past the bells, walking on the stairs again after Adso had ferried them up, they could see where the fourth bell had hung. Its bindings looked to have been deliberately cut. As if to confirm that fact, six figures stepped from the shadows of the stairs above them. As they came into the moonlight, there could be no doubt that they were the same sort of beings that had attacked them at Aldern’s townhouse…faceless stalkers.
Adso, bringing up the rear of the group, was in motion as soon as he saw the first assailant appear. Still bearing Wesh’s flight charm, the monk leaped into the air and crossed the gulf between him and one of the stalkers on the far stairs. Before the creature could raise its weapon in defense, Adso wrapped his arms around it in a bear-hug. The stalker writhed and twisted, as if its malleable skin was made of jelly, yet it could not escape the monk’s embrace. Face straining and biceps bulging, Adso lifted the thing into the air and then stepped off the stair with it into the abyss. As soon as they were airborne, the half-orc released his foe, and watched it plummet to its death two-hundred feet below.
What followed was a circus high wire equivalent of a frenzied melee. The stalkers, with their long, rubbery arms, lashed out with their blades at the deputies below them, but the Sandpoint Seven, though they were forced to be single-file on the precipitous stair, still managed to acquit themselves admirably. Rico and Wesh, combining their magic, pelted the stalkers with flaming balls and arcane bolts. Skud, at the head of his band, rushed headlong up the stairs, heedless of the whirling steel around him. As an opponent fell before him, the barbarian heaved its corpse aside and pressed on. Once again, Adso performed his grappling trick, hurling another stalker to join its brother on the stones below. Dexter’s dagger joined the missile attack of Rico and Wesh, the magic blade reappearing in his hand after every throw. The stalkers gave ground, but not far enough, nor fast enough. By the time the last one fell, the deputies had reached the breach in the tower’s outer wall. Far below, the lights of Underbridge glimmered, while above, the hulking mass of the Irespan pressed down on them like a tangible weight.
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The stair wound around the outer tower, past another breech in the wall, which seemed to hold only an empty rookery, before it reached the peeked roof of the Shadow Clock. The smoky, filthy rooftops of the Shadow sprawled below the dizzying perch. The conical roof supported an onyx statue of an angel. Towering like a god, her weathered features were caked with grime, making her seem almost demonic in countenance. At the far end of the hollow space under the roof, in the angel’s shadow, was a nest of cushions, silk sheets, and other incongruously fine bits of décor. It was Dexter who first noticed it as he stepped around the last corner of the tower to peer into the space. He couldn’t hear the wind any longer. In fact, he couldn’t hear anything, not even the creak of his own armor. The air around them had gone unnaturally silent. Suddenly, something moved within the shadows beneath the eaves. Before Dexter’s disbelieving eyes, a creature unlike anything he’d ever beheld or heard of slithered into the starlight. From the waist up, she had the sculpted body of a harem queen, her torso clad in a skintight, snakeskin tunic, and the unmistakable shape of a Sihedron medallion hung from her neck. Her wavy, black hair billowed in the night air, but her face was hidden behind an intricate mask of gold-plated iron. The eyes were two, dark lenses of crystal, while surrounding these were the writhing tails of snakes radiating up from the mask itself, almost as if they were hair. Below her waist, however, all hint of woman vanished, morphing into the powerful, deadly sleekness and iridescent black scales of a coiled asp. In her hands she held a spear-like weapon whose shaft was made of darkwood, while its head was a thorn-like, wide-bladed barb. This was Xanesha, Wanton of Nature’s Pagan Forms.
As Dexter’s mouth hung open, the crystals of her mask flared with emerald light. For a brief moment, the rogue felt his limbs and joints stiffen up, immovable, but the sensation passed as quickly as it came, and Dex felt certain he’d just avoided a truly horrible fate. A moment later, he was elbowed aside as Skud charged past him, mouth open and spittle spraying. Dexter was certain his friend was bellowing his war cry, though he could still hear nothing. The effect was unsettling. More disturbing, however, was the way the snake woman caught Skud’s slashing blade on the end of her spear, and turned it easily aside. Almost quicker then Dexter’s eye could follow, she brought the tip back around and jammed it three times in rapid succession into the half-orc’s belly. Skud’s back arched for a split second before he doubled over in agony, bile heaving from his throat as he retched violently again and again. Staggering back, the barbarian’s sword blade dropped to the floor, his numb fingers barely holding onto the grip. Dex was stunned. Never in the time he had known Skud had he seen his friend so…neutered.
Wesh came round the corner next, realizing immediately that the silence was magical in nature, meant to prevent spellcasters like himself, from uttering the words to their enchantments. Without his spells, he was powerless, and when he saw what it was they faced, and what she’d apparently done to Skud in less than thirty seconds, the mage knew instinctively that they were in way over their heads. They’d become so confident with their many successes, that they had never stopped to think that somewhere out there, watching them, waiting for them, the mastermind behind the murders might just be the greatest monster of them all. Desperately, Wesh turned towards Rico behind him and frantically motioned for the druid to go back and take the others with him. Misunderstanding, Rico instead transformed his body once more into its elemental form and took flight beyond the platform so that he could see their foe. He noted when he was a few dozen feet away, he could hear the sounds of the city below him again. He thought that this was what Wesh had meant, that he should get clear of the silenced area so that he could bring his own magic to bear. He was gravely mistaken.
When Rico moved, Randall closed the gap, quickly rushing past Wesh, despite the wizard’s frantic gesticulations. The soldier saw Skud dragging himself slowly towards the platform, still holding his bleeding torso, still vomiting uncontrollably. Worse, the monstrosity that had done that to him was following after. Quickly, Randall moved to put himself between the barbarian and the snake woman, but as he did so, Xanesha slashed her spear horizontally, laying open the man’s flesh in a ragged, bleeding wound. At the moment the blade struck, Randall felt a pain like a thousand hot needles driving into his brain. His thoughts became momentarily muddled, and he couldn’t think straight. He couldn’t even think to raise his weapon and defend himself as Xanesha came for him. Again she struck, and again a vice gripped Randall’s head. Blinded by the pain, he stumbled incoherently for the platform, throwing himself around the relative safety of the building’s corner. Xanesha followed.
Wesh panicked, and who could blame him? Two of the toughest men he’d ever met had just been beaten nearly senseless before his eyes, and now the perpetrator of that beating was coming for him. In utter desperation, he stepped off the platform and tumbled out into the night air above Underbridge, praying his hunch had been correct. Within seconds, sound returned to him, and seconds later, he screamed out the words to a spell. As the magic took him, his fall slowed then stopped, the flight charm holding him aloft. He quickly descended, all the way to the base of the tower, where he crouched in the darkness and gazed upward towards the battle that still raged.
Randall, still nearly insensate, shoved Dexter before him as he staggered onto the stairwell, but before he could make for the opening back inside the tower, Xanesha’s blade drove deep into his back, taking him to his knees. She raised the spear to impale him a final time, but then the air around her flared and shimmered. A barrage of blue fire had come from the ground at the base of the tower, but the bolts impacted harmlessly on the invisible shield she had woven about her. Glancing over the edge, she saw the craven wizard who’d thought to escape her, far below. An instant later, a blazing bolt of electricity arced up at her, and struck her fully in the chest. With a cry, she was hurled back against the stone of the tower. Though her skin burned, the damage had been minimal, and what she felt most was pure, unadulterated rage.
Adso and Luther witnessed all of this, and in a split-second, the monk knew what he had to do. His charge from his superiors was clear…protect the priest at all costs. Ignoring Luther’s struggles of protest, Adso wrapped his arms around the man’s waist and leaped off the stair, taking flight into the dark night and disappearing into the deeper shadows of the neighborhood below. Wesh saw them flee, and a moment later, he did the same as he saw Xanesha hurl herself from the platform, streaking towards him, her weapon raised above her like a spike.
Dexter, Skud and Randall ducked quickly back inside the clock tower and began making their way as quickly as possible down the long descent towards the floor below. Dexter hoped and prayed that his comrades had managed to lead the horror away and that he would have time to help his two wounded friends make their own escape. His hopes where shattered a moment later when he heard and saw the doors of the tower blow open. To his utter dismay, the snake woman slithered into view below, and then looked up directly towards them.
“Run!” he hissed at Skud and Randall. “I’ll be fine!”
He slid Skud’s arm from around his shoulder and then, like a shadow, he melted into the darkness. Skud and Randall saw Xanesha begin ascending towards them, whirling and circling around the perimeter of the tower like a bat in a belfry. Though still nauseated and weak, Skud raised his sword and brought it down with all the strength he could muster upon the bindings holding one of the bells. Randall saw his friend’s tactic, and added his own muscle, slamming the head of his maul onto the timbers as well. With a crack and a snap, the ropes gave way, and the bell tumbled free, crashing into the walls on the way down. It never came close to Xanesha. Moving with an uncanny speed that mimicked her form,she deftly avoided the projectile and continued her frenzied charge towards her prey.
Rico didn’t know how things had gone so wrong so fast. Everyone had scattered, and he didn’t know the status of any of his friends. He wanted to go back and look for them, but at the same time, a fear he’d never experienced gripped him at the prospect of meeting that…thing face-to-face. Speaking the words to a spell, he transformed back into his own form, while at the same time, metamorphosing his arms into wings of pure flame. Like a phoenix, he flapped back towards the tower platform. Once there, he saw no sign of either friends nor foe, and indecision seized him. Finally, looking into the enclosure where the snake-woman had come from, he had an idea. If she was, in fact, directing the Skinsaw Men, then perhaps there was something in her lair that would reveal why. Flying into the chamber, the druid set about ransacking the place, setting the silk cushions ablaze with his wings. Then, he saw it…a long, narrow, metallic scroll tube. He leaned down and took the case in his mouth, dropping it into his shoulder bag as he took flight once more.
‘They’re not coming out,’ Wesh thought to himself. He stood in a darkened alley across the street from the clock tower. Guilt at abandoning his friends had dragged him back, though every instinct told him to flee. ‘They’re all dead,’ he thought, ‘and I just left them.’ Then, something made of steel that he had not known he possessed, gripped the wizard’s heart. It that was true, and his friends had perished, then he would make their killer pay, and pay dearly. He began chanting, and as he did so, fire swirled around his hands.
Skud looked at Randall as the snake-woman closed on them. Randall met his gaze levelly, and the barbarian saw no sign of fear there.
“Go,” the soldier said quietly. “I’ll hold her here for as long as I can. Get clear. Find the others. Get word back to Sandpoint and Hemlock. Tell him what happened here, and you tell him one more thing for me. Tell him that now we’re even.”
Skud nodded and reached out a hand to grip the warrior’s. A shadow fell over them, and Xanesha rose out of the darkness behind them like a great bird of prey. As Skud turned, Randall was already moving. The ex-soldier raised his hammer and leaped. A moment later, Skud did the same, except that he let himself go into a free fall and plummet towards the floor below. When he hit, the impact was so great that he was momentarily knocked unconscious. It was miraculous, and a testament to his vast strength, that he wasn’t killed outright. He never saw Randall’s fate. He never saw Xanesha catch the leaping warrior on the end of her spear, skewering him cleanly through, and then pitching his body aside like a rag doll. He landed and slid down the wall mere feet from where Dex stood quietly shaking in the deep shadows. Xanesha looked about one last time, then turned her head towards the roof, where smoke was starting to drift through the beams and the crackle of flames could be heard. Hissing, she vanished through the hole in the wall.
As Wesh’s spell coalesced, he saw a figure hobbling out of the shattered door of the tower. To his disbelief, it was Skud, one arm hanging crooked, blood streaking his face like a grisly mask.
“Move!” the wizard shouted.
Skud raised his head and saw the roaring ball of flame headed towards him. He threw himself quickly aside as it passed over him and into the tower, where it detonated with a deafening thunder. The entire tower rocked, and several windows in the surrounding buildings were blown out. Skud hauled himself to his feet and limped quickly towards Wesh.
“Is anyone else in there?” the wizard asked.
“Not alive,” the half-orc answered.
From his vantage above the tower, Rico saw Xanesha emerge once more. A moment later, an explosion rocked the base of the tower, and the snake-woman grabbed a wall to steady herself. Rico knew he’d never have a better chance. Shouting his plea to the heavens, he summoned the pure fury of nature herself. Clouds rolled in the sky above, and thunder boomed in the distance. The druid raised his flame-shrouded arms above him, and at his command, lightning bolts stabbed down from the thunderheads, each one striking the top of the Shadow Clock unerringly. The roof shattered beneath the onslaught, and Rico saw Xanesha leap clear… just before the entire structure began to collapse. With a roar that echoed throughout Magnimar, the huge clock tower folded in on itself, raining debris and ash for several blocks around. People poured into the street, panic-stricken, many of them rudely awakened from their sleep. Most stood gawking at the destruction, the immense, burning pile of rubble. One, however, staggered drunkenly into the darkness. Dexter didn’t know if he was incredibly lucky to have escaped the collapse at the last minute, or cursed, and at that moment, he found he didn’t care. He needed a drink…several in fact, to try and erase the horror he’d just witnessed. From another darkened niche, a second figure detached itself from the shadows as he passed, falling into pace unseen behind the rogue.
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Xanesha cursed and spat to herself as she soared high above Magnimar. She still could not believe how utterly, terribly wrong things had gone so quickly. She had been indolent and lazy, enjoying her role as leader of the Skinsaw Men so much that she had neglected her original duty, and now it had cost her dearly. Mokmurian would never forgive her. She had to find some way to redeem herself in her master’s eyes. Perhaps it was time to pay Lucrecia a visit…
Taking the stairs running, the Sandpoint Seven bolted after the fleeing Skinsaw Men. When they came out on the landing at the very top of the lumber mill, they found themselves in a large, open workshop. A thick layer of sawdust covered the floor, mounded nearly a foot deep in places. Workbenches sat here and there in the room, their surfaces cluttered with saws, hand drills, planers and other woodworking tools. A door to a small office stood open on the far side of the shop. Positioned around the room were seven assassins, all wearing the horrid, one-eyed Skinsaw masks, as well as robes the color of old blood. Each of them held a wicked looking war razor at the ready.
The deputies advanced. The time for diplomacy or parley, if there had ever been such a time, was long past. Only one side would leave the chamber alive. The killers moved as well, zigzagging across the floor in an effort to place themselves in front of and behind their opponents. One of them slashed his blade across Dexter’s knee as the rogue tried to dance out of reach, but as a second came at Dex’s flank, the canny thief shoved his dagger into the assassin’s heart. Randall caught another in the midsection with the head of his hammer, doubling the man over in agony. Adso ended his suffering with an uppercut with the heel of his palm to the nose. Yet another fell beneath Skud’s savage, hacking blade. The four remaining Skinsaw Men began a slow retreat.
Wesh was preparing to let his arcane bolts pursue their foes when he heard a muffled chanting coming from somewhere near the open office door. Aborting his spell, he quickly chose another, and as he finished the incantation, a silvery aura fell over his vision, and he saw another figure standing at the back of the room. He was cloaked in invisibility. To all appearances, he was dressed and armed as the other assassins, yet the mask that he wore was unique. It appeared to be made of a single long strip of pliant human skin, stitched into a widening spiral by black thread. Gaps between the stitching apparently allowed the wearer to see and breathe through the unsettling thing. As Wesh watched, the man turned towards Skud, the spirals of the mask seeming to swirl. Slowly, he materialized for all to see, and when Skud looked in his direction, he paused, his jaw growing slack, his eyes wide as he watched the spiral pattern. A moment later, however, Luther was at the half-orc’s side. The mere presence of the priest, the aura of calmed assurance that he radiated, snapped the barbarian immediately back to reality.
“Him!” Wesh gestured to the leader of the assassins. “He’s the one we need! Stop him!”
His comrades did not need further prodding. They pushed forward with a roaring battle cry. Randall crushed the skull of one of the intervening cultists, and then caved in the chest of a second. Meanwhile, Dexter darted past the last two and came face-to-face with their boss. Snarling, the rogue slashed across the man’s belly with his rapier. The cultist stepped backwards, and then stumbled into the wall as a barrage of bolts from Wesh swarmed about him like stinging hornets. Skud hacked his way past another cultist, and then he too stood before the leader. Images of murder and rage filled his mind from the mask that he wore…images of Aldern Foxglove and the vengeance he was denied. The man before him commanded Aldern, controlled him. His death would serve the same purpose. With a deafening roar, Skud raised his sword high above his head and brought it down like a sledgehammer. The Skinsaw Man never knew what hit him.
The final cultist looked around at his fallen comrades and leader, and his blade dropped to his side. From the far side of the room, Wesh knew what was coming. The killer was about to surrender. Thanks to Luther, they already had two prisoners tied up in the rooms below. To Wesh’s way of thinking, that was two too many. Before the last assassin could speak, the wizard released another volley of mystic energy, and the man fell dead before a word could pass his lips.
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Luther reached down to remove the mask from the leader of the Skinsaw Men, but when he did so, he drew back as if scalded, his breath drawing in with a sharp hiss.
“What?” Wesh asked. When he looked down, he saw that the man beneath the mask was an elf. Somewhat surprising, he thought, as the high folk didn’t usually sully their hands with such human sins as murder, but certainly not deserving of the shock he saw on the young priest’s face.
“I…I know him,” Luther said. “His name is Ironbriar. He’s a judge on Magnimar’s Justice Council!”
“What?” Wesh asked again, this time incredulousness creeping into his own voice. “A member of the city government? What have we gotten ourselves into?”
“Search the office!” Luther commanded. “Quickly!”
A few moments later, Dexter returned, a leather-bound journal in his hand. Luther snatched it from him and began leafing rapidly through the pages. The information that it held would have been more than enough to have sent Ironbriar to the gallows. It told how the elf, along with six other merchants, among them, Vorel Foxglove, had established the secret Brothers of the Seven as a cover for a cult of Norgorber, the god of murder, secrets, greed and poison. They referred to their patron as Father Skinsaw, and they killed, not for wealth, but for the sick joy of it. They held that all of their murders served a greater cause, their leaders receiving visions of victims which they believed to be divine messages. With each murder, society was shaped…deeds the victim might have accomplished went unrealized and the lives of those who knew the dead shifted and changed in subtle ways. Over the course of years, or even centuries, murders could shape nations and write the future’s history. Then, when the Final Blooding occurred, Father Skinsaw would reveal to his flock the purpose of that shaping of society by death. Ironbriar had taken over the Magnimar cult when Vorel Foxglove disappeared. His subsequent appointment to the Justice Council only strengthened the cult’s security. In the more recent journal entries, Ironbriar spoke of someone who had ‘stolen his heart,’ someone he referred to as the ‘Wanton of Nature’s Pagan Forms.’ It seemed that whomever she was, Ironbriar had begun answering to her, and he saw her as some sort of divine prophet of Father Skinsaw, guiding his hand in the most recent series of murders. The only other thing mentioned about her was that Ironbriar had visited her frequently at a place he called the Shadow Clock.
“I know of it,” Dexter said. “It’s in Underbridge. It’s an old, abandoned clock tower. Barkeeps for years have been taking bets on when it’s going to fall, and how many people it’ll crush when it does.”
“We still have a situation here,” Wesh pointed out. “We’ve got a mill full of dead men, a city judge among them. I’m not sure the local authorities are just going to take our word for what was going on.”
“But we have the journal,” Luther said. “We can prove it!”
“And then they’ll head right to this Shadow Clock, and we’ll be locked out of any further investigation,” Wesh pointed out.
“Not to mention what’ll happen if the Hell Knights get involved,” Dexter added.
“We don’t go to the authorities,” Adso said.
“You have a better idea?” Luther shot back.
“In fact, I do,” the monk replied. “You know me. I’m as much a stickler for abiding by the law of the land as anyone, yet I agree with Wesh. If the local authorities go to Underbridge, there will only be more deaths. We have to handle this. I say we leave the prisoners here, with the dead, and then we send an anonymous tip to the watch. Leave the journal here, but take the pages that mention the Shadow Clock. I think the scene, and the evidence will speak for itself.”
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Hidden beneath the grimy, blackened goliath that was the Irespan, the lesser works of men huddled like weeds at the foot of the great trees that were the ruined bridge’s stone supports. Near one of these leaned a decrepit and sagging clock tower, a dying structure of weathered stone, wood, and rusted metal supports that teetered to an unlikely height of nearly two-hundred feet. High above, near the tower’s roof and barely fifty feet from the Irespan’s stony belly, a tangle of scaffolding sat near a section of the structure that had fallen away. The tower’s clock face was frozen in time, defiantly (and falsely) proclaiming it to be three o’clock, while above, a stone statue of an angel, her wings crumbling, leaned precariously, almost as if she were preparing a final leap from her decaying perch.
The streets of Underbridge were far from deserted, but it was not the sort of neighborhood were passers-by took much note of the business of others. Such intrusiveness could be dangerous and deadly, and so it was that no one paid much heed to the seven cloaked figures as they made their way through the shadows that wreathed the base of the tower, and quickly entered through its only door. The air inside was dusty and dry. Swaths of rubble and mounds of plaster lay in heaps on the stone floor. A single wagon sat to one side, and six partially collapsed offices lined the northern and eastern walls, their doors hanging askew and their ceilings caved in. A wooden staircase wound up into the cavernous space above. Well over two-hundred feet overhead, four immense bronze bells hung from sturdy crossbeams. The stairway itself was supported by an intricate network of wooden beams, but lacked, at many stretches, a handrail or other enclosure. In certain places, two or even three stairs at a time were partially missing or gone altogether.
“Well, someone’s been here,” Rico said as he crouched in the dust examining several sets of footprints. Most were those of man-sized, booted feet, but one set looked to have been made by something enormous and misshapen, that defied classification.
“Not a surprise,” Wesh said. “Spread out, and let’s have a look around. Everyone stay within sight of one another, though.”
The seven companions paced and looked cautiously around the area, but nothing save ruin and rubble drew their attention. Finally, they gathered before the stair, resigned to the fact that their prey was not going to be found so easily, and that they would have to go to her. Skud led, followed by Dexter, but no sooner had the pair set foot on the risers, than the whole affair began to sway alarmingly. Quickly, they stepped back.
“Let me try it alone,” Dex said. “Skud, you follow behind me a dozen paces or so.”
The rogue stepped up again, and that time, though the wood groaned and creaked, it remained stable, and he began to mount the staircase. Skud followed, and then one-by-one the others fell in line, spacing themselves safely apart. Rico brought up the rear.
The druid had only taken the first step, when a shuffling sound drew his attention to a darkened corner of the lower chamber. Something huge and monstrous shambled out of the shadows before his widened eyes. It was a thing of horror, straight from a child’s nightmares. A jumbled mass of body parts incorporating as much cow and horse as man, its considerable girth was topped by an idiot head that leered and drooled like a grotesque baby. Its face was cruelly stitched, the lips sewn together. It was dressed in straw and dung-covered rags which gave off the sickly sweet smell of decay. A trio of what appeared to be carved pumpkins hung from cords on its belt, but a second glance revealed them to be horribly bloated human heads with a sick, yellow tinge. It gripped a massive, wickedly curved scythe in its mitten-like hands. Rico barely had time to cry out as the deadly blade cleaved towards him. Purely on instinct, the druid ducked, and the scythe passed millimeters above his head, tearing loose a great chunk of wood from the stair rail.
“Help!” he yelped.
Randall was closest and he turned and rushed back down the stairs, ignoring the dangerous popping sounds the risers made beneath his boots. As he drew near the bottom, however, the murderous scarecrow spun towards him, whirling its scythe as if it were threshing wheat. The massive blade peeled the big soldier’s armor as if it were paper and nearly disemboweled him in the process. Yet somehow, clutching his innards to keep them from spilling onto the floor, Randall managed to counter with his maul, the blow causing the monstrosity to take a half-step back. Meanwhile, higher up the stairs, Skud grabbed the handrail and vaulted over the side, hitting the floor twenty-feet below in a crouch. A moment later, Dex joined him, the rogue rolling nimbly with the impact and coming to his feet. The scarecrow gripped its scythe and began moving warily towards them. As its attention was diverted, Rico’s body shifted into an ephemeral whirlwind, drawing on power from the elemental planes themselves, and he spun quickly away to safety.
Wesh, still high above on the stair, summoned his magic and hurled transparent bolts at the hulking brute below. To his utter dismay, the missiles bounced harmlessly off the creature, ricocheting into the darkness.
“I think it’s some sort of construct!” he shouted. “A golem! My spells won’t affect it!”
“Then you’d better pray that steel does!” Luther snapped. “In the mean time, we’ve got to make sure they survive long enough to put their weapons to use!”
The priest then leaped from the stairs himself, using techniques Adso had taught him to slow his fall by repeatedly touching the wall on the way down. As he landed, he drew his holy amulet from his tunic and held it aloft, channeling divine power into his allies, healing their wounds as best he could. A moment later, however, much of his work was undone as the scarecrow reaved Randall twice more. Skud launched himself at the golem, his blade ripping through its clothing and deep into the amalgam of flesh beneath. At the same time, Dexter flicked his silvery dagger at the giant, but it couldn’t penetrate the monster’s thick hide, and merely clanged to the floor at its feet. Again, Luther channeled his power, drawing Randall back from death’s door. Then, to the priest’s horror, the golem turned its eyes upon him, a sinister intelligence gleaming in the black orbs. Methodically, it lumbered towards him, the scythe blade gleaming in the moonlight. Abruptly, however, it stopped in its tracks, tilting its head in confusion. Luther understood immediately what had happened. The holy aura which surrounded him had somehow penetrated the creature’s dim, rotten brain, at least long enough to give it pause. That was all the time Skud and Randall needed. The two warriors struck like twin battering rams, and beneath the force of their blows, the scarecrow exploded into a viscous mass.
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Once again, the deputies resumed their climb, their eyes constantly scanning the darkness for more unseen dangers. Higher and higher they went, the winding stair seeming to go on forever. They were almost one-hundred feet above the floor when they heard the sudden sounds of ropes snapping and timbers splintering above them. As they all looked up reflexively, they saw one of the immense, bronze bells tumbling towards them, its clapper sounding for the first time in years. It tumbled and smashed along the walls before it smashed through the section of stairs right in the middle of the company. Dexter, Skud, Adso and Wesh were thrown into the air amidst shards of lumber and masonry. Dexter leaped, grabbing the stair riser on the far side of the gap, while Skud tumbled several feet back down the near stairs. Adso jumped nimbly away, landing deftly above Dexter and then pulling the rogue to safety. Alas, Wesh was not so fortunate. He scrabbled and grabbed at the falling timbers, but his hands could not gain purchase. Wide-eyed and open-mouthed, he tumbled away into the darkness, and struck the floor one-hundred feet below. His companions could only stare down in horror at his unmoving form below them. Without thinking, Luther leaped after him, once more attempting to use his skills to slow his descent. Unfortunately, the distance was much greater that time, and though the fall did not kill him, the priest felt something in his leg snap. He paid it no heed, instead summoning his faith for a third time, praying desperately that he wasn’t too late. He felt his own injury knit immediately, then watched breathless to see if Wesh would move. Slowly, the wizard’s eyes flickered open, and Luther released a huge sigh.
“I…don’t feel so good,” Wesh muttered.
Luther tended the rest of his friend’s wounds, then helped him back up the stairs to their companions. Once there, Wesh placed a hand on Adso’s shoulder and muttered an incantation. To the monk’s amazement, his feet lifted off the stairs as he took flight.
“I’m done walking,” Wesh snapped. “We’re taking the express route the rest of the way.”
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Almost two-hundred feet above the tower floor, three of the immense, brass bells still hung from the timbers, affixed by rusting lengths of chain and thick ropes. Above the bells were immense gears and clockworks, although they seemed rusted and scavenged, as if many of the smaller components were missing entirely. The rickety wooden stairs wound up and around them, but didn’t quite reach the ceiling above, coming to an end at an opening in the wall. There, the stairs continued up the exterior of the tower to a room that must have lain just beyond the ceiling directly above the bells. As the companions made their way past the bells, walking on the stairs again after Adso had ferried them up, they could see where the fourth bell had hung. Its bindings looked to have been deliberately cut. As if to confirm that fact, six figures stepped from the shadows of the stairs above them. As they came into the moonlight, there could be no doubt that they were the same sort of beings that had attacked them at Aldern’s townhouse…faceless stalkers.
Adso, bringing up the rear of the group, was in motion as soon as he saw the first assailant appear. Still bearing Wesh’s flight charm, the monk leaped into the air and crossed the gulf between him and one of the stalkers on the far stairs. Before the creature could raise its weapon in defense, Adso wrapped his arms around it in a bear-hug. The stalker writhed and twisted, as if its malleable skin was made of jelly, yet it could not escape the monk’s embrace. Face straining and biceps bulging, Adso lifted the thing into the air and then stepped off the stair with it into the abyss. As soon as they were airborne, the half-orc released his foe, and watched it plummet to its death two-hundred feet below.
What followed was a circus high wire equivalent of a frenzied melee. The stalkers, with their long, rubbery arms, lashed out with their blades at the deputies below them, but the Sandpoint Seven, though they were forced to be single-file on the precipitous stair, still managed to acquit themselves admirably. Rico and Wesh, combining their magic, pelted the stalkers with flaming balls and arcane bolts. Skud, at the head of his band, rushed headlong up the stairs, heedless of the whirling steel around him. As an opponent fell before him, the barbarian heaved its corpse aside and pressed on. Once again, Adso performed his grappling trick, hurling another stalker to join its brother on the stones below. Dexter’s dagger joined the missile attack of Rico and Wesh, the magic blade reappearing in his hand after every throw. The stalkers gave ground, but not far enough, nor fast enough. By the time the last one fell, the deputies had reached the breach in the tower’s outer wall. Far below, the lights of Underbridge glimmered, while above, the hulking mass of the Irespan pressed down on them like a tangible weight.
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The stair wound around the outer tower, past another breech in the wall, which seemed to hold only an empty rookery, before it reached the peeked roof of the Shadow Clock. The smoky, filthy rooftops of the Shadow sprawled below the dizzying perch. The conical roof supported an onyx statue of an angel. Towering like a god, her weathered features were caked with grime, making her seem almost demonic in countenance. At the far end of the hollow space under the roof, in the angel’s shadow, was a nest of cushions, silk sheets, and other incongruously fine bits of décor. It was Dexter who first noticed it as he stepped around the last corner of the tower to peer into the space. He couldn’t hear the wind any longer. In fact, he couldn’t hear anything, not even the creak of his own armor. The air around them had gone unnaturally silent. Suddenly, something moved within the shadows beneath the eaves. Before Dexter’s disbelieving eyes, a creature unlike anything he’d ever beheld or heard of slithered into the starlight. From the waist up, she had the sculpted body of a harem queen, her torso clad in a skintight, snakeskin tunic, and the unmistakable shape of a Sihedron medallion hung from her neck. Her wavy, black hair billowed in the night air, but her face was hidden behind an intricate mask of gold-plated iron. The eyes were two, dark lenses of crystal, while surrounding these were the writhing tails of snakes radiating up from the mask itself, almost as if they were hair. Below her waist, however, all hint of woman vanished, morphing into the powerful, deadly sleekness and iridescent black scales of a coiled asp. In her hands she held a spear-like weapon whose shaft was made of darkwood, while its head was a thorn-like, wide-bladed barb. This was Xanesha, Wanton of Nature’s Pagan Forms.
As Dexter’s mouth hung open, the crystals of her mask flared with emerald light. For a brief moment, the rogue felt his limbs and joints stiffen up, immovable, but the sensation passed as quickly as it came, and Dex felt certain he’d just avoided a truly horrible fate. A moment later, he was elbowed aside as Skud charged past him, mouth open and spittle spraying. Dexter was certain his friend was bellowing his war cry, though he could still hear nothing. The effect was unsettling. More disturbing, however, was the way the snake woman caught Skud’s slashing blade on the end of her spear, and turned it easily aside. Almost quicker then Dexter’s eye could follow, she brought the tip back around and jammed it three times in rapid succession into the half-orc’s belly. Skud’s back arched for a split second before he doubled over in agony, bile heaving from his throat as he retched violently again and again. Staggering back, the barbarian’s sword blade dropped to the floor, his numb fingers barely holding onto the grip. Dex was stunned. Never in the time he had known Skud had he seen his friend so…neutered.
Wesh came round the corner next, realizing immediately that the silence was magical in nature, meant to prevent spellcasters like himself, from uttering the words to their enchantments. Without his spells, he was powerless, and when he saw what it was they faced, and what she’d apparently done to Skud in less than thirty seconds, the mage knew instinctively that they were in way over their heads. They’d become so confident with their many successes, that they had never stopped to think that somewhere out there, watching them, waiting for them, the mastermind behind the murders might just be the greatest monster of them all. Desperately, Wesh turned towards Rico behind him and frantically motioned for the druid to go back and take the others with him. Misunderstanding, Rico instead transformed his body once more into its elemental form and took flight beyond the platform so that he could see their foe. He noted when he was a few dozen feet away, he could hear the sounds of the city below him again. He thought that this was what Wesh had meant, that he should get clear of the silenced area so that he could bring his own magic to bear. He was gravely mistaken.
When Rico moved, Randall closed the gap, quickly rushing past Wesh, despite the wizard’s frantic gesticulations. The soldier saw Skud dragging himself slowly towards the platform, still holding his bleeding torso, still vomiting uncontrollably. Worse, the monstrosity that had done that to him was following after. Quickly, Randall moved to put himself between the barbarian and the snake woman, but as he did so, Xanesha slashed her spear horizontally, laying open the man’s flesh in a ragged, bleeding wound. At the moment the blade struck, Randall felt a pain like a thousand hot needles driving into his brain. His thoughts became momentarily muddled, and he couldn’t think straight. He couldn’t even think to raise his weapon and defend himself as Xanesha came for him. Again she struck, and again a vice gripped Randall’s head. Blinded by the pain, he stumbled incoherently for the platform, throwing himself around the relative safety of the building’s corner. Xanesha followed.
Wesh panicked, and who could blame him? Two of the toughest men he’d ever met had just been beaten nearly senseless before his eyes, and now the perpetrator of that beating was coming for him. In utter desperation, he stepped off the platform and tumbled out into the night air above Underbridge, praying his hunch had been correct. Within seconds, sound returned to him, and seconds later, he screamed out the words to a spell. As the magic took him, his fall slowed then stopped, the flight charm holding him aloft. He quickly descended, all the way to the base of the tower, where he crouched in the darkness and gazed upward towards the battle that still raged.
Randall, still nearly insensate, shoved Dexter before him as he staggered onto the stairwell, but before he could make for the opening back inside the tower, Xanesha’s blade drove deep into his back, taking him to his knees. She raised the spear to impale him a final time, but then the air around her flared and shimmered. A barrage of blue fire had come from the ground at the base of the tower, but the bolts impacted harmlessly on the invisible shield she had woven about her. Glancing over the edge, she saw the craven wizard who’d thought to escape her, far below. An instant later, a blazing bolt of electricity arced up at her, and struck her fully in the chest. With a cry, she was hurled back against the stone of the tower. Though her skin burned, the damage had been minimal, and what she felt most was pure, unadulterated rage.
Adso and Luther witnessed all of this, and in a split-second, the monk knew what he had to do. His charge from his superiors was clear…protect the priest at all costs. Ignoring Luther’s struggles of protest, Adso wrapped his arms around the man’s waist and leaped off the stair, taking flight into the dark night and disappearing into the deeper shadows of the neighborhood below. Wesh saw them flee, and a moment later, he did the same as he saw Xanesha hurl herself from the platform, streaking towards him, her weapon raised above her like a spike.
Dexter, Skud and Randall ducked quickly back inside the clock tower and began making their way as quickly as possible down the long descent towards the floor below. Dexter hoped and prayed that his comrades had managed to lead the horror away and that he would have time to help his two wounded friends make their own escape. His hopes where shattered a moment later when he heard and saw the doors of the tower blow open. To his utter dismay, the snake woman slithered into view below, and then looked up directly towards them.
“Run!” he hissed at Skud and Randall. “I’ll be fine!”
He slid Skud’s arm from around his shoulder and then, like a shadow, he melted into the darkness. Skud and Randall saw Xanesha begin ascending towards them, whirling and circling around the perimeter of the tower like a bat in a belfry. Though still nauseated and weak, Skud raised his sword and brought it down with all the strength he could muster upon the bindings holding one of the bells. Randall saw his friend’s tactic, and added his own muscle, slamming the head of his maul onto the timbers as well. With a crack and a snap, the ropes gave way, and the bell tumbled free, crashing into the walls on the way down. It never came close to Xanesha. Moving with an uncanny speed that mimicked her form,she deftly avoided the projectile and continued her frenzied charge towards her prey.
Rico didn’t know how things had gone so wrong so fast. Everyone had scattered, and he didn’t know the status of any of his friends. He wanted to go back and look for them, but at the same time, a fear he’d never experienced gripped him at the prospect of meeting that…thing face-to-face. Speaking the words to a spell, he transformed back into his own form, while at the same time, metamorphosing his arms into wings of pure flame. Like a phoenix, he flapped back towards the tower platform. Once there, he saw no sign of either friends nor foe, and indecision seized him. Finally, looking into the enclosure where the snake-woman had come from, he had an idea. If she was, in fact, directing the Skinsaw Men, then perhaps there was something in her lair that would reveal why. Flying into the chamber, the druid set about ransacking the place, setting the silk cushions ablaze with his wings. Then, he saw it…a long, narrow, metallic scroll tube. He leaned down and took the case in his mouth, dropping it into his shoulder bag as he took flight once more.
‘They’re not coming out,’ Wesh thought to himself. He stood in a darkened alley across the street from the clock tower. Guilt at abandoning his friends had dragged him back, though every instinct told him to flee. ‘They’re all dead,’ he thought, ‘and I just left them.’ Then, something made of steel that he had not known he possessed, gripped the wizard’s heart. It that was true, and his friends had perished, then he would make their killer pay, and pay dearly. He began chanting, and as he did so, fire swirled around his hands.
Skud looked at Randall as the snake-woman closed on them. Randall met his gaze levelly, and the barbarian saw no sign of fear there.
“Go,” the soldier said quietly. “I’ll hold her here for as long as I can. Get clear. Find the others. Get word back to Sandpoint and Hemlock. Tell him what happened here, and you tell him one more thing for me. Tell him that now we’re even.”
Skud nodded and reached out a hand to grip the warrior’s. A shadow fell over them, and Xanesha rose out of the darkness behind them like a great bird of prey. As Skud turned, Randall was already moving. The ex-soldier raised his hammer and leaped. A moment later, Skud did the same, except that he let himself go into a free fall and plummet towards the floor below. When he hit, the impact was so great that he was momentarily knocked unconscious. It was miraculous, and a testament to his vast strength, that he wasn’t killed outright. He never saw Randall’s fate. He never saw Xanesha catch the leaping warrior on the end of her spear, skewering him cleanly through, and then pitching his body aside like a rag doll. He landed and slid down the wall mere feet from where Dex stood quietly shaking in the deep shadows. Xanesha looked about one last time, then turned her head towards the roof, where smoke was starting to drift through the beams and the crackle of flames could be heard. Hissing, she vanished through the hole in the wall.
As Wesh’s spell coalesced, he saw a figure hobbling out of the shattered door of the tower. To his disbelief, it was Skud, one arm hanging crooked, blood streaking his face like a grisly mask.
“Move!” the wizard shouted.
Skud raised his head and saw the roaring ball of flame headed towards him. He threw himself quickly aside as it passed over him and into the tower, where it detonated with a deafening thunder. The entire tower rocked, and several windows in the surrounding buildings were blown out. Skud hauled himself to his feet and limped quickly towards Wesh.
“Is anyone else in there?” the wizard asked.
“Not alive,” the half-orc answered.
From his vantage above the tower, Rico saw Xanesha emerge once more. A moment later, an explosion rocked the base of the tower, and the snake-woman grabbed a wall to steady herself. Rico knew he’d never have a better chance. Shouting his plea to the heavens, he summoned the pure fury of nature herself. Clouds rolled in the sky above, and thunder boomed in the distance. The druid raised his flame-shrouded arms above him, and at his command, lightning bolts stabbed down from the thunderheads, each one striking the top of the Shadow Clock unerringly. The roof shattered beneath the onslaught, and Rico saw Xanesha leap clear… just before the entire structure began to collapse. With a roar that echoed throughout Magnimar, the huge clock tower folded in on itself, raining debris and ash for several blocks around. People poured into the street, panic-stricken, many of them rudely awakened from their sleep. Most stood gawking at the destruction, the immense, burning pile of rubble. One, however, staggered drunkenly into the darkness. Dexter didn’t know if he was incredibly lucky to have escaped the collapse at the last minute, or cursed, and at that moment, he found he didn’t care. He needed a drink…several in fact, to try and erase the horror he’d just witnessed. From another darkened niche, a second figure detached itself from the shadows as he passed, falling into pace unseen behind the rogue.
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Xanesha cursed and spat to herself as she soared high above Magnimar. She still could not believe how utterly, terribly wrong things had gone so quickly. She had been indolent and lazy, enjoying her role as leader of the Skinsaw Men so much that she had neglected her original duty, and now it had cost her dearly. Mokmurian would never forgive her. She had to find some way to redeem herself in her master’s eyes. Perhaps it was time to pay Lucrecia a visit…
