LET THERE BE LIGHT!
“Wha…what happened?” Shalelu cried when she saw the ragged trio enter the cave, the bodies of their companions over their shoulders.
“Ri…Rico…?” the ranger sobbed.
Dexter, Adso and Reaper gently laid the bodies on the floor. Jakardros stepped forward and placed a comforting arm around his step-daughter’s shoulders. He knew all-to-well what had happened. He’d seen it all before with his own men.
“We have destroyed most of the ogre commanders,” Adso explained stoically, “but the cost was…high.”
“You’re godsdamned right it was!” Dexter snarled. “And your buddy Kaven lied to us!”
“What’re you talkin’ about?” Vale snapped.
“We found Lucrecia,” Reaper answered. “She wasn’t killed in that fire that sank the Paradise, and she wasn’t a simple gambling hall madam. She was a lamia, just like her sister…Xanesha.”
“What??” Jakardros exclaimed.
“She mentioned her master, someone named Mokmurian,” the necromancer explained. “Does that name mean anything to you?”
“No,” Jakardros replied. “It doesn’t sound like an ogre name.”
“Creatures like Lucrecia don’t work for ogres,” Reaper grimaced. “Ogres work for them, and so, apparently, does the occasional ranger.”
Jakardros shook his head. “It just doesn’t seem possible. Kaven would never betray us.”
“You’ll be able to ask him yourself when I haul him to you in chains!” Dexter spat.
Reaper stepped between the two men. “We have larger problems at the moment. Namely, there are only the three of us now, and there are still some two dozen ogres in the courtyard of the keep.”
“Six of us,” Jakardros said. “There are six of us.”
“No offense,” Reaper said placatingly, “but you are barely recovered from your own ordeal, and inadequately equipped for such a fight. We need help, and the closest place is Turtleback Ferry, but I don’t want to leave the fort unattended, in case the ogres call for reinforcements.”
“I’ll go,” Vale said.
“Alone?” Adso asked.
“I know this country better than anyone,” the ranger replied. “I’ll make better time alone. Besides, I’ve got a few questions for Kaven myself…”
___________________________________________________
“Ah, another beautiful morning, wouldn’t you agree Brother Duerten?” Draton beamed, his white teeth sparkling.
“Hmph,” the dwarf grunted. “T’aint seen th’sun since we left Magnimar.”
“Yes, but we know that it still shines above, even on such an overcast day as this!” the priest shouted. “Such is the glory of Sarenrae!”
“I’d still like just one day without me boots full of mud,” Duerten grumped.
“Ah, little Brother,” Draton laughed, slapping the dwarf on the shoulder, “you must find solace in the spiritual if it is denied to you in the physical. Just think of all the souls we’ve reached during our time here in Turtleback Ferry. The tent’s been full almost daily! And now, ah now…just look at the opportunity we’ve been given!”
“Hmph!” Duerten snorted again. “Some opportunity! Goin’ t’rescue a bunch’a half-pagan rangers from the Lady-knows-how-many heathenous ogres!”
“All deserve a chance at salvation,” Draton chided, “even if that salvation must come in the hereafter. Now, run along and fetch Cruemann. He should be up by now.”
“Hah!” the dwarf laughed. “That layabout? He’s probably still in his bedroll, and not alone I’ll wager.”
“Now, now,” Draton waggled a finger, “that’s no way to talk about a new convert. Though he is new to the Faith, his soul is pure, even is his body is not. We shall work on that. Hurry back!”
As the dwarf slogged grumpily down the mud-sodden street, Draton turned and headed towards the Turtle’s Parlor, Turtleback Ferry’s only inn. He’d heard the rumor just that morning that one of the Black Arrow rangers who’d left with the representatives from Magnimar a few days earlier had returned the previous night with a bitter tale. Most of their company had been slain by ogres that had overrun Fort Rannick. The word was that he was recruiting volunteers to return with him and help route the blackguards. Draton saw it as his Holy duty to do so. Sarenrae’s Word must be carried into even the darkest corners of the world, not just to the civilized. The blonde-haired, deeply tanned man fairly glowed with the conviction of his faith, and wherever he went to deliver his message, people would gather raptly to listen, so powerful was his presence.
The Parlor was full when the priest entered, but the excited buzz of conversation died immediately when the crowd saw him. They parted to let him pass, many bowing deferentially, murmuring, ‘Father’ as he passed. At the center of throng sat the ranger, a tall, dark-skinned man named Vale Temros.
“I have heard of your plight,” Draton announced, “and I am here to offer my services, and those of my associates.”
Vale looked appraisingly at the handsome preacher.
“I appreciate the offer, Father,” the ranger said, “but I’m not proposing going to a revival. These ogres are vicious butchers, and I don’t think they’ll be much for sermonizing.”
Draton’s infectious smile broadened. “Do not mistake my optimism for weakness, brother. Sarenrae is my ally, and there is no place that Her light cannot shine. I strive to spread her teachings through example, but sometimes that example must be set by the Sword as well as the Word.”
Vale chuckled. “Father, I think you just might be what I’m looking for after all.”
______________________________________________________
“Get up, ye lout!”
Cruemann groaned as the dwarf kicked him squarely in the slats. The merc had been up late the previous night…make that early this morning…at the Turtle’s Parlor. His intentions had been honorable…spreading the Word to the common man…but as the night wore on and the ale began to flow, his ministry had become a bit…muddled. The young guardsman had signed on with the pilgrimage in Magnimar. It sounded like easy money…ride herd on a bunch of holy-rollers while they traipsed around backwaters like Turtleback Ferry, but when he’d first started listening to the sermons out of boredom, he’d gradually begun to actually hear the words being spoken. Father Draton was truly inspired, Cruemann had come to believe, and over the weeks he’d begun to reexamine his life and his purpose. He now considered it his destiny to watch over and protect Father Draton, and his surly deacon Duerten to, he supposed, so that when he finally passed on to the Afterlife, he might have something to show Sarenrae that would prove his worth. Meanwhile, he was really trying his damndest to practice what Father preached, but there were just too many distractions…tests, he supposed, set to task his resolve. Sighing, he realized he still had much to learn.
“I’m up, I’m up, you hairy little gnome!” he grumbled.
“Yeah, I can see that,” Duerten snorted. “Father needs ye, though fer what reason I can’t imagine, so git yer sorry hide dressed’n lookin’ proper, and head down t’the Parlor. I’m sure ye can find yer way.”
Cruemann dressed as rapidly as his pounding head and bleary eyes would allow and stepped out into the endless rain. Usually when Father called, it was for some mundane task, like setting up the tent, or putting out more chairs. Not that he minded such work, but sometimes Cruemann wished for something a little more exciting…
__________________________________________________
Cruemann’s face blanched as he saw the bodies hanging impaled from the trees in the woods surrounding Fort Rannick. He thought he’d been around, seen something of the world, but now he realized there was a whole other side that he wasn’t even aware of…a very dark, evil side.
“Something’s not right,” Vale said, drawing them to a halt still well within the tree line. The ranger had kept them at a grueling pace throughout the cold, rain-swept day, urging their horses to the point of exhaustion. The sun was setting, though the only way to tell it was by a gradual darkening of the gloom.
“The front gates weren’t open when I left,” Vale continued, “and I don’t see any movement on the battlements. Wait here.”
The ranger slipped into the shadows and melded with them, disappearing from view completely after he’d only gone a few feet. Cruemann looked from Draton to Duerten. The priest looked serene, though his usual casual grin was gone, replaced by a deep furrow in his brow as he surveyed the carnage around the fort. As for the dwarven deacon, he looked positively murderous, his fist tightening around the haft of his axe. After several long minutes, Vale reappeared.
“It’s ok,” he said, a strange expression on his face, “though I’m afraid I may have brought you all this way for nothing.”
To Cruemann’s surprise, the ranger stepped out into the open and headed straight for the front gates. Gradually, the mercenary began to relax when he realized a horde of ogres was not going to rush out and tear them limb-from-limb. When they entered the courtyard, it was in incredible disarray, but only occupied by five individuals. Two of them were dressed in forester’s garb like Vale. One of them was an older human man, while the other was a stern-faced elven woman. Standing nearby was a bald man with a goatee, dressed all in black. Next to him was a younger man clad in leathers, casually flipping a silver dagger in his hand. Last was a large fellow, obviously with some orc-blood in his past. He wore only a simple tunic and leggings and carried no weapons that Cruemann could see.
“Here they are,” Vale said to the five, indicating Cruemann and the priests, “the ones I told you about.”
Surprisingly, it was not the older ranger who stepped forward, but the black-clad man instead.
“I’m Reaper,” he said in way of introduction.
“Reaper?” Father Draton asked, quirking an eyebrow. “Is that the name your mother gave you?”
“No,” the man replied. “Think of it as a title. These are my associates, Dexter St. Jacques” he indicated the dagger-man, “and Brother Adso of Windsong Abbey,” the half-orc.
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Draton replied, extending his hand. “Though I wish it were under better circumstances. I’m Father Draton, of Sarenrae. This is my deacon, Brother Duerten, and this gentleman is an aspirant to the Faith, Cruemann Jones. We are originally from Magnimar.”
“Magnimar?” Reaper asked. “I’m sure you are aware that were sent here by the Lord Mayor. In fact, his nephew accompanied us. Unfortunately, he did not survive.”
“You must have some clout then,” Draton said. “You move in very powerful circles.”
“We saved the mayor’s life,” Dexter interjected. “You might have heard about it. He was targeted for assassination by a group of serial killers called the Skinsaw Men.”
“The Shadow Clock affair?” the priest asked, incredulous. “I was always suspicious of that place, and I wondered what had happened there.”
“It’s a long story,” Dex replied. “I’ll have to tell you about it someday.”
“You’ll pardon my directness,” Draton said, “but I was under the impression that you gentlemen…and lady….were in some sort of peril from ogres.”
“We were,” Reaper replied, “but after Vale left, we ventured out to scout the situation only to find that the remaining ogres had just…left. I suppose without their leadership they reverted to their wild ways and headed for the hills.”
“So is that it then?” the priest sounded disappointed. “Do you know which direction they went?”
“Oh I’m sure they headed back to their lair on the Hook,” the older ranger, Jakardros answered. “Trouble is, we can’t track them in all this rain, and the Hook’s not the sort of place you want to go wandering around on blind with winter coming on.”
“Fortunately, we have another lead to follow,” Reaper added. “Perhaps you’ve heard of the Paradise, a floating gambling hall in Turtleback Ferry.”
“Yes,” a look of distaste crossed Draton’s face. “I heard it burned. Good riddance.”
“Yes, well, be that as it may,” Reaper continued, “its former proprietress, Lucrecia, did not die in that fire as was rumored. It turns out she was a lamia, a half-snake creature whose sister was behind the Skinsaw murders in Magnimar. We met, and killed Lucrecia here in Fort Rannick, but we found out that she was marking patrons of the Paradise with a tattoo known as the Sihedron rune. My companions have come across this symbol quite often of late…in the Sandpoint goblin raid, on the victims of the Skinsaw Men, and now here in Turtleback Ferry. Quite the coincidence.”
“Speaking of,” Dex interrupted, and turned to Vale, “where’s Kaven?”
“Gone,” the big ranger rumbled. “He’d left town a day before I got there.”
“Hate to say I told you so,” the rogue sneered.
“Who’s Kaven?” Draton asked.
“Another of the Black Arrows,” Reaper replied, “except we found Lucrecia’s mark on him, and became suspicious. We believe he might have been involved with the ogre attack. In any event, since we can’t follow the ogres, our only choice is to head back to Turtleback Ferry and see if we can find any others similarly marked. Perhaps then we can see where else this road leads.”
“And we’ll stay here,” Jakardros said. “We have a lot to rebuild here, and we can keep watch in case the ogre’s return. If so, we’ll escape into the wilderness and warn you.”
_________________________________________________
As Winter’s cold breath prepared to descend upon the lands below Hook Mountain, the skies began to darken like blood-muddied water, and ominous clouds writhed on the horizon, bringing the near-constant rain to new heights of torrential downpours. The storms went on for days without the sun so much as peeking from behind her cloudy veil. Pure misery reigned as cold and wet became the order of every day, and mud seemed to befoul every square foot of the region.
As the company from Fort Rannick made their way along the swollen banks of the Skull River, they spotted a rider galloping towards them out of the downpour. When he reined up and threw back his hood, they saw it was Bran Fered, a local hunter from Turtleback Ferry.
“They are drowning, my lords!” he shouted in a panicked voice. “The Skull surges along its banks! Even the waters of Claybottom invade the shore and spill across the land! Turtleback Ferry will be gone by morning! The people are doing their best to evacuate, but many are trapped in their attics watching the floodwaters rise! Father Shreed is holed up in the cathedral with the sick, and they can’t be moved easily, and what’s worse, that old church could collapse any minute! You must help us!”
Draton turned grimly to Reaper.
“It would seem our investigation will have to wait, brother. Sarenrae calls to us. Her light has been absent from the sky for many days, and now we know why. It was a warning of this moment. Fear not for your mission. I am able to Send a message over long distance to my superiors in Magnimar. I will ask them to inform the Lord Mayor of what transpired at Fort Rannick, and request that he send aid as soon as possible, but for now our duty is clear. Let us ride!”
__________________________________________________
The village of Turtleback Ferry was indeed drowning. The muddy, surging waters of the Skull River tore through the center of the community to fill Claybottom Lake with a terrible fury. Many of the buildings that once sat comfortably on the river’s banks were already flooding and in danger of collapsing from the rushing water. A group of children and a woman huddled aboard one of the old turtle shell ferryboats, the tiny, flood-bashed vessel lodged up against the general store and threatening to capsize at any moment. Beyond, the town’s church stood solid, its foundations three-feet deep in floodwaters. Frantic movement was visible in the upstairs windows as townsfolk trapped inside rushed about in a desperate attempt to save scriptures, comfort the sick, and pray for deliverance.
The six companions reined up alongside the main street, which had become a raging stream.
“Cruemann!” Draton shouted over the storm. “Rope! We have to help those children!”
As the guardsman rushed to obey, Dexter suddenly gasped and shouted.
“Look there!”
To their utter horror, and huge shape had lifted itself out of the water right beside the ferryboat. It was a monstrously big nightbelly boa constrictor, one of the more dangerous predators that plied the Skull River. No doubt it had been dislodged by the flood waters and been carried by the current all the way to the village. Now it was simply enraged and ravenous. The children began to scream in terror, as did their school marm, Tillia Henkenson. She struggled desperately to put herself between the snake and the children, but she was off balance by the rocking of the boat. The boa struck, grabbing little Tabitha Kramm in its mouth, pigtails, freckles and all. In the space of a heartbeat, the serpent swallowed the child whole.
“No!” Draton screamed.
Dexter was already in motion, snapping his bowstring back to his ear. Next to him, Cruemann had also unslung a bow, a massive thing nearly as tall as the guardsman himself. Both archers loosed, their arrows striking true, yet the giant snake didn’t relent. It drew back and prepared to strike again. Suddenly, Adso was there. To the amazement of all the onlookers, the monk leaped fully twenty feet to land in the middle of the boat. When the boa struck, the half-orc caught its jaws with his bare hands. Muscles bulging, he heaved, and snapped the snake’s mandible from its skull. Then, with a huge effort, he shoved the dead behemoth into the river.
Ignoring the cheers of the bystanders, the monk grabbed two children, one in each arm, and leaped back to the shore. Back and forth he went, his companions only staring in stunned silence as he ferried the children and their teacher to safety. When the last ones were ashore, he turned to Draton.
“What about the church?” he asked.
Draton shook himself out of his disbelief and nodded.
“Yes, brother, you are exactly right. We must get those people out of there.”
“Yeah, and we’d better make it quick!” Dexter added. “When it rains it pours!”
The others turned to follow his gaze and saw what appeared to be a huge, black tree being swept downriver on a collision course with the church. Moments before it hit, however, it submerged. A few moments later, the floodwaters surged violently, and with a thunderous roar, a thing out of pure nightmare rose from the flood. It was a monstrous, undulating tangle of barbed tentacles. Its form spurned definable anatomy, a horror of prehistory atop a writhing mass of rubbery tentacles, some crowned with glaring, infernal eyes. Its only recognizable feature was the black, reptilian head that rose above the morass of tentacles, a maw of flesh-sheering teeth that gaped wide before two piercing eyes that smoldered with alien intelligence.
As the townsfolk ran screaming in terror, the nightmare creature opened wide its jaws and spewed forth a noxious cloud of black mist that washed over the would-be heroes on the stream bank. As the fog rolled over them, each man’s mind grew dim and unhinged as chaotic visions and maddening whispers filled their heads. Dexter, bow still in hand, mechanically knocked an arrow to the string and then fired it directly into his own foot. Draton, Reaper and Cruemann began gibbering and babbling incoherently, struggling to give voice to the terrifying confusion that consumed their psyches. Duerten, feeling as if his flesh were crawling with insects, began to carve at it with the blade of his axe. Meanwhile, Adso stood mute, staring blankly up at the behemoth towering above him. He watched it swim towards the bank with malevolent purpose, but felt no emotion. Even when it attacked, tree-trunk sized tentacles flailing and teeth gnashing, it barely registered. As his flesh was torn and his body mangled, he slipped into blissful darkness and oblivion.
As quickly as the madness had fallen over him, Draton’s mind abruptly cleared. He looked about blinking rapidly, and then gaped in horror at what he saw. Adso lay bloody and broken on the ground, the monstrous creature hovering over him. Dexter knocked an arrow to his bow, oblivious of the one protruding from his foot, and as Draton stared, the rogue calmly turned and fired the bow into Cruemann’s back. The guardsman shrieked incoherently and then whirled, knocking his own enormous bow and firing point-blank into Dexter’s chest. As the rogue spun completely around from the impact, Cruemann reloaded and fired again. Duerten stood nearby, his arms bleeding from strips of skin that hung raggedly down. He stared at nothing, mouthing nonsense words that seemed a pidgin dialect of dwarven. Reaper also babbled, reciting what might have been arcane rituals, or simply insane nursery rhymes, and above them all, the beast was poised, preparing to strike again. Draton had no idea how to stop the creature, but he knew that if he didn’t do something, his friends were dead, either by their own hands, or by the behemoth’s. His faith never wavering, he called to Sarenrae, beseeching Her aid that he might continue Her work. The sun symbol he wore around his neck flared with holy light. As it washed over his companions, their wounds began to heal. To his intense gratitude, Adso’s eyes flickered open. The monk was not dead, but as he sat up, Draton knew that his mind was still not his own. The half-orc turned his head to watch Dexter put another arrow into Cruemann’s thigh, and the guardsman in turn put two more into the rogue’s shoulder. Faster than Draton would have thought possible, the monk flipped to his feet and then kicked Cruemann’s from beneath him, sending the warrior crashing to the ground. Suddenly, a shadow fell over the priest, and when he looked up, he saw the creature bending towards Duerten. The deacon never made a move to defend himself, not even when he was lifted bodily from the ground by the beast’s terrible blows and flung a dozen feet into a nearby building. He lay slumped there, unmoving. In desperation, Draton channeled Sarenrae’s power again, healing his companions a second time, and blessedly snatching Duerten back from the jaws of death.
“My Lady!” the priest cried as his companions continued to inflict harm upon themselves and each other. “Hear your servant! These men are your instruments! Do not take them before their time! They will serve you, I will see to it! The innocents of this town have done no wrong! Deliver them from this Evil, and I will see your Will and your Light spread from one corner of this world to the other! Hear me!”
At that precise moment, each of his companions ceased their maddened attacks and stood, rubbing their temples and shaking their heads. The behemoth, as suddenly as it had arrived, sank beneath the water and vanished once more. Furthermore, as Draton looked around, he saw that the rain had stopped and the flood waters were already receding. Slowly, the villagers came out of their hiding places. As they beheld the six companions still alive on the river bank, a great cheer went up from the crowd, and throngs of the grateful folk closed in around them, many of them with Sarenrae’s name on their lips. After several moments, the town mayor, Maelin Shreed, managed to push his way through the crowd.
“On behalf of Turtleback Ferry,” he shouted to be heard over the cacophony, “I proclaim you heroes of the town, and I further proclaim this a holy day dedicated to the Lady of the Sun!”
The crowd erupted again, and that time it took much longer to quiet them down.
“In addition,” the mayor announced, “as you were all instrumental in routing the Kreeg ogres from Fort Rannick, by the authority vested in me by the state of Magnimar, I decree stewardship of the fort to you, if you will accept it!”
Again the crowd roared, many hands thumping the heroes heartily on their backs.
“And now, my people,” the mayor said when the din had subsided, “please allow our saviors to take their rest. They have fought and bled for us, and we owe them our every hospitality.”
Reluctantly, the crowd dispersed. There were still many sick and injured to tend to, and damage assessments to be done. Maelin led the heroes through the town to his office, where he ushered them in and closed the door behind them. Motioning for them to be seated, he brought out a bottle of wine and several glasses, filling each of them and passing them around himself.
“Now, gentlemen,” he began as he took his own chair, “with the formalities over, allow me to say that you do indeed have my sincere gratitude. I don’t know what exactly it was that you did out there, but it worked.”
“I’m afraid…,” Draton began, but the mayor forestalled him.
“No need to explain,” he said. “What’s done is done, but this whole turn of events concerns me deeply. Though the rains have been intense these past weeks, that alone does not explain this disastrous flood. Always in the past, when the waters have risen, the floodgates of Skull’s Crossing have automatically opened to release the pressure in a controlled flow.”
“Skull’s Crossing?” Reaper asked.
“It’s a dam north of here, at the mouth of the Skull River where it arises from Storval Deep. No one knows who built it, or how long ago. It’s just always been there, and it’s always prevented the town from flooding before…until now. Then there’s Black Magga.”
At the questioning looks from the group, he explained:
“The monster you fought. She was always more of a legend than anything, but most legends have some basis in fact. Black Magga has always been thought to live in the darkest depths of Storval Deep. If she was brought here by the flood waters, then something must have happened to breach Skull’s Crossing. It can’t have failed completely, or the whole town’d be washed away by now. All this points to something very wrong at that dam. I was wondering if you fellows might do us one more favor and head up there to take a look.”
“That would seem the logical choice,” Draton replied.
“However,” Reaper interjected, “there’s still the matter of the town’s safety. The floods may have passed, but if the dam fails completely before we get there, the results would still be catastrophic. Furthermore, we have reason to believe that Lucrecia, the ‘woman’ who owned the Paradise, was up to something much more nefarious.”
“What do you mean?” the mayor asked, concern in his voice.
“It’s difficult to explain, but I suggest that you begin evacuating the townsfolk to Fort Rannick. There’s not much room there, but it will be safer than here, at least temporarily. Also, I would advise you to keep an eye out for people bearing a tattoo in the shape of a seven-pointed star.”
“This is all very cryptic,” Maelin said, “but I have to trust you at this point. I’ll do what you ask. Does this mean you’ll be accepting my offer of stewardship?”
“That is something we will have to consider,” Reaper replied. “There’s still the matter of the Kreegs, and we await word from Magnimar. We can discuss it further when we return.”
Maelin nodded. “Oh…I almost forgot. The reason we don’t know much about Skull’s Crossing, is because there’s a tribe of trolls living there called the Skull Takers…”
__________________________________________________
“So,” Dex asked casually as he rode along at Cruemann’s side on the road to Skull’s Crossing, “do you really buy all that ‘miracle’ stuff that your bossman’s been spouting?”
The young guardsman smiled as he glanced askance at the rogue.
“What do you think?” he asked. “You saw what happened as well as I did.”
“Technically,” Dex said, raising an eyebrow, “mostly what I saw was you making a pincushion out of me. I also saw us all getting our asses handed to us by some…thing that just decided we weren’t worth it’s time for some reason.”
“ ‘Some reason,’” Cruemann nodded, pursing his lips. “Riiiight.”
Dexter rolled his eyes.
“There’s no greater zealot than a convert,” he muttered, reining his horse aside.
It was getting towards evening by the time the company reached the gorge that held the dam. Spanning the great breadth of the gorge was Skull’s Crossing itself. The massive wall of stone held back the waters of the Storval Deep…but only just. Thousands of skulls had been carved into the dam’s face, while five larger ones decorated the middle length. The easternmost of those immense skulls was all but hidden by a steady flow of cascading water that poured through what appeared to be a recent break in the dam. For the moment, the ancient dam seemed to be holding its own against the Deep, but unless the rains, which had started again, though not as forcefully, ended soon, the recent flood looked to be but a minor precursor to a fantastic disaster. The eastern slopes of the gorge were sheer and slick with rain, but to the west, a narrow, stone stairway, its edges decorated with hundreds of poles bearing the skulls of as many different creatures, wound up to a cave mouth near the western rim of the dam itself.
The seven-foot wide , winding stairway of stone climbed the cliff face before reaching a height of nearly two-hundred feet before it ended at a cave mouth above. Hundreds of stakes lined the edges of the stairway, many of them decorated with skulls…some animal, some humanoid, all marked with a strange skull-shaped rune on the brow that none of the companions recognized. Within the cave itself was a short passageway that ended at a fifteen-foot high ledge, which provided access to another cave beyond. The air in that forty-foot high cavern was thankfully fresh as a brisk breeze whistled through from the north, yet still, the dozens of mostly eaten firepelt cougars, deer, and even a few humans heaped along the walls fill the room with a stomach-churning stink. Dexter was the first onto the ledge, and so consequently was the first to see the two-headed giant that stood on the floor below looking up at him.
“Gorger!” one of the heads screamed. “You see what I see?”
The second head whipped around, brow furrowed.
“I see, Chaw!” it screeched. “You no bribe us! We smash you for Skulltakers!”
The ettin then raised its twin spiked clubs and ran towards the ledge. Dexter wasted no time, and leaped the fifteen-feet to the floor. When he landed, he rolled nimbly between the giant’s legs, slashing at the brute’s Achilles’ as he vaulted to his feet. The ettin howled, and spun around to find the wily rogue, but as it did so, Adso vaulted from the ledge and landed a solid kick to the giant’s back before landing deftly on the floor. Again Gorger and Chaw roared, swinging wildly about. One of the clubs struck Adso a glancing blow, but that was the last act the ettin would ever perform. Adso kicked out and shattered one of its knee caps, and as it collapsed, Dexter lunged, plunging his blades into the necks of both Gorger and Chaw. The giant died, choking on its own blood.
“I’d heard that trolls sometimes allied themselves with giants,” Reaper said to Draton as they looked down on the carnage. “I guess this proves the theory. What do you suppose it meant by bribe, though?”
The priest shrugged. “Who knows what madness possesses the minds of such evil creatures? We can only pray they find salvation in the hereafter.”
Reaper turned his head slightly to avoid the cleric seeing him roll his eyes.
The ettin’s cave lead to another tunnel which gave onto the upper walk of Skull’s Crossing itself. The wide walk was relatively clear of rubble, though a three-inch layer of water had pooled across much of its surface. In places, sections of the dam’s surface had crumbled away, although that damage appeared relatively old. A tower of skull-shaped domes sat at the center of the dam’s walk. To the north surged the choppy waters of the Storval Deep, while to the south, the slope of the dam’s face dropped away to a muddy lake nearly three-hundred feet below. Some three-hundred feet away on the walk, a crew of at least two-dozen ogres hacked and hewed at the stone of the dam with massive, iron hooks. Their intentions were obvious…they were attempting to create a second breach.
“Well, well,” Reaper said. “What have we here? Some of those boys look familiar. I think a few might be some of our runaways from Fort Rannick. Cruemann, you look pretty handy with that bow. What say you and Dexter get their attention?”
The guardsman nodded, smiling, and then he and Dex unlimbered their bows, knelt, took careful aim and loosed. As their shafts fell among the ogres, taking two in the leg and buttocks, three burly giants who appeared to be leading the work crew, mostly by barking orders, turned and saw the humans. They began howling and raging, beating the workers around them and urging them forward. Gradually, the bulk of the crew realized they were under attack and got themselves in motion. As they moved en masse, however, pushing and jostling each other, three of them lost their footing on the slick stones, and toppled over the side into the Deep, where they bobbed and thrashed in the churning waves. Two more slipped off the opposite side of the walk, and fell screaming to their deaths hundreds of feet below. After that, the others closed ranks, staying well away from the sides. Still, the distance was great, and so was the combined accuracy of Dex and Cruemann. They put three arrows into the lead crew boss, dropping him like a charging musk ox. The second brute fell under their volley as well, aided by a swarm of magic missiles courtesy of Reaper.
Finally, the lead rank drew within charging distance, but at the last moment, Draton stepped forward and held forth his medallion. It flared brilliantly, and as it did so, a curtain of pure radiance sprung up across the walk. The ogres couldn’t stop their momentum, and all of them ran straight thru. When they emerged on the other side, they rubbed and pawed at their eyes, vainly trying to dash the dazzling motes from their vision. All throughout the ogres’ approach, Adso had been calmly wrapping his hands in clean, white bindings.
“What are ye doin’?” Duerten demanded. “We’ve got a bit o’a situation here!”
“Your goddess is not the only one who grants power to her devoted,” the monk answered calmly. “Behold the blessings of Irori.”
The half-orc leaped forward while the last of the ogre leaders still scrubbed at his eyes. In a flurry of motion too quick to follow, Adso delivered a devastating combination of punches and kicks to the brute, and as each blow struck, a pulse of white-hot energy surged from the bindings he wore. The ogre wailed in agony as each strike left a deep festering burn. By the time he fell twitching to the stones, his skin smoldered in half-a-dozen places.
“Not bad, boy!” the dwarf grinned, “but Sarenrae ain’t all about sweetness and light! The Bright Lady can lead by th’ sword…or th’axe…is She needs ta!”
With that, the priest roared his own battle cry and waded in among the ogres, his axe hewing and cleaving all about him. Simultaneously, Cruemann kept up his devastating barrage of arrows, constantly stepping back and reloading as the ogres drew nearer. His shots were deadly accurate, taking one ogre through the eye, and another through the throat. Meanwhile, Dexter abandoned his own bow, instead dodging and tumbling around the ogres, hacking and slashing at knees and ankles as he went. Reaper and Draton added their own kind of support, with the necromancer summoning swarms of rabid rats to harry and distract the giants, while the priest hurled bolts of white fire among them. One-by-one the ogres fell, none of them delivering a telling blow. With their leaders dead, and the exhaustion of their labor having already taken its toll, their hearts were simply not in the fight, though none of them gave ground or even thought of surrender. To a man, they died, leaving twenty corpses lying on the cold, wet walk of Skull’s Crossing.
As the last one fell, Reaper walked calmly to the lake edge of the dam and looked over at the three ogres still floundering there. Calmly, coldly, he reached out his hand and sent a spectral image of it floating towards each of them. As it gently caressed each in turn, the ogre’s face shriveled and blackened and it sank beneath the waves, until the surface was empty once more.
“Brother Reaper!” Draton shouted as he strode up behind the necromancer. “I do not approve of your methods! Those creatures were helpless! They could have been saved!”
Reaper shrugged. “They were. I saved them from drowning. And I’m not your brother.”
