Shackled City Epic: "Vengeance" (story concluded)

[Black Bard]

Damn it!!! First Delem, then Zenna!!!
It seems that my favorite characters are always captured by fiends!!!!
I hope that she fares better than the poor sorcerer...
Anyway, great writing as always, Lazy!!!!

 

[Elemental]

Well, I'm not "simulating players," though that might have been interesting, to have a meta plot running parallel to the story with fictional players running the characters behind the scenes.

If you're in a surreal mood, you could have a writeup where the characters in the story try roleplaying characters in the modern world.

 

[Lazybones]

If you're in a surreal mood, you could have a writeup where the characters in the story try roleplaying characters in the modern world.

Heh, I've considered a few times having the characters respond directly to your questions (Mole would be great for that), but thus far I've been able to control the impulse.

Thanks for the positive comments... now let's wrap up book VII:

* * * * *

Chapter 319


Pain.

At first, it was just a sea of pain that poured into the black nothingness, but then, as consciousness slowly poured back with it, other things emerged that coalesced into a hazy reality. Light, bright and red, stabbing through closed lids like needles. Noise, a deep rumble that seemed to shake her very bones, a sick mewling that sounded like a tormented animal. A creak, close, metal protesting.

The pain washed her about, threatened to drag her back down into the black, a journey that she would have welcomed, if only for the release. What was it that kept her here? Voices... something, something she should know, recognize... voices at the edge of her awareness.

Slowly, fighting the pain as the brilliant red stabbed through her mind, she opened her eyes. As the world slowly swam into focus, she looked out onto a nightmare.

Her first thought was that somehow, she’d been cast back into Occipitus. The red glow, the heat, it was all evocative of the Abyss. But then reality returned enough for her to see that she was in an extensive cavern, a massive bubble of jagged, uneven stone. The red glow came from a great rent in the cavern wall, a cleft that disgorged a stream of lava that ran across the floor in a slow but constant current.

Black bars ran across her vision. As she pulled herself up, the pain still fighting her with every movement, the outside world swayed slightly. Confused, that pathetic mewling noise still distracting her from somewhere nearby, she looked around, trying to gain her bearings.

She was in a cage, one of many, she saw, all affixed to the branches of a great tree. Tree... no, that was the proper word for it, but the metallic monstrosity that dominated the center of the cavern resembled no living thing that she had ever seen before. She could feel the power rolling off it in waves, and even more trapped within, buried within the twisted depths of its massive bole, waiting to be tapped.

She was naked, with even the dignity of her robe stripped from her. A sharper pain twisted through the general haze. She reached up to her face. It was numb; she could not feel her fingers probing, but flakes of dried blood came away at her touch.

It was then that she realized that the tormented sound she’d heard was coming from her own throat.

“I see you’ve awaken,” came a familiar voice.

She looked down and saw Esbar Tolerathkas—or whatever his name truly was—walking toward her, along the cavern floor fifteen feet below the bottom of her cage. He was now clad in a robe of dark cloth, and he wore a sigil as an amulet at his throat; a metallic arrow with a circle—an eye, perhaps?—set in the center. The blue gem in his forehead seemed to pulse oddly, as if trying to echo the pounding of her heart.

She tried to speak, but only crude noises fluttered from her throat.

“I am sorry that we had to remove your tongue,” he said, as calmly as if he was commenting on the weather. “But we could not rely on anti-magic in this place to keep your gift in check. Your suffering will be brief; at least that much I can promise you. We are nearly prepared to begin the final ritual, and soon it will all be over.”

She tried to scream; the sound was so horrible that she stopped after a few moments. She looked around, desperate. All of the other cages were occupied. With a sickening realization she recognized the orphan boy, Terrem, looking at her with an expression that was... dead. And in another, Zenith Splintershield, his head bent beneath the weight of an impossible depression.

“You will be a participant in something truly great,” Esbar went on. “Again, I wish that things could be otherwise, but in the end, we all have to confront our destinies.”

She tried to shake her cage, but managed only to knock herself prone, the pain eagerly rushing back up into her damaged body. Looking at the bars, she saw that some of her flesh clung to them where she’d grabbed them; her hands were slick with bright red blood.

“You cannot destroy yourself,” Esbar said. “The pain will drive you into unconsciousness before you could have a hope of success. I’m afraid we’ve thought of everything.”

A heavy, measured tread drew her attention up, toward the far side of the room. Someone was coming.

“Ah, now you can meet one of the leaders of our little band,” Esbar said. Turning from her to the newcomer, he said, “Dyr’ryd, you may gather the others, we are ready.”

The hulking figure stepped from the shadows into the ruddy red glow of the lava plume. As she saw what he was, and as his gaze met hers, Zenna screamed.

She screamed until the blackness drew her back, back into the merciful embrace of oblivion.

THE END OF “LORDS OF OBLIVION”

COMING SOON: “FOUNDATION OF FLAME”

 

[SolidSnake]

She tried to speak, but only crude noises fluttered from her throat.

“I am sorry that we had to remove your tongue,” he said, as calmly as if he was commenting on the weather. “But we could not rely on anti-magic in this place to keep your gift in check. Your suffering will be brief; at least that much I can promise you. We are nearly prepared to begin the final ritual, and soon it will all be over.”

She tried to scream; the sound was so horrible that she stopped after a few moments.

Wow, that was so...WRONG. I'm very impressed!

 

[Krafus]

“Again, I wish that things could be otherwise, but in the end, we all have to confront our destinies.”

Ugh. This reminds me of so many "have to sacrifice for the greater good" speeches. Of course, the speaker is rarely the one who is being sacrificed...

Great writing, Lazybones.

 

[wolff96]

Wow.

I've been reading since the beginning of Travels... and I think that was your greatest plot twist (and update) ever.

That was AWESOME, LB.

 

[AnAverageDM]

Wow, just....wow. i've been reading your story hour since the begining. i'm running the AP right now and i use your wonderful writing as insperation to make my game better. this though is just beond what i could ever expect. you have truly advanced this story to a new level. please keep up the great work and know i'll be waiting every day to read the next update.

 

[Broccli_Head]

ack!

If these were real players....

I don't know how you would have pulled this off. Cutting out the tongue is brilliant. Will have to remember that one.

 

[Padril]

Another voice for the choir Great ending to the story.

Your writing seems to have become a lot darker as this book has progressed, I like it Now the pressure is on you to keep up this quality.

I suppose I should really get on with the PDF I was making of this.

 

[Lazybones]

Thanks for the comments, everyone.

* * * * *

The Shackled City, Book VIII: “Foundation of Flame”


Chapter 320

The Vault was one of the more obscure hidey-holes in the city of Cauldron—or more precisely, under it. In an odd correlation of ironies, the underground chambers were situated approximately sixty feet directly underneath the office of the Teerson Skellerang, the Captain of the Watch. Crafted two centuries ago by a particularly paranoid member of the city’s ruling elite, only a handful of people today knew of its existence. Four of those were gathered in the central chamber of the Vault, immersed in a vigorous argument. The room they were in looked smaller than its actual size, in part because of the partial walls that subdivided the back of the room into smaller cubicles used for storage and other miscellaneous purposes.

“Your recklessness in your choice of allies has threatened the very existence of the guild!” The speaker was a middle-aged human male, who looked as though he’d never been young and handsome. His name was Pratcher Olann, and he was a veteran criminal, peddler of obscenities, and dealer in illicit substances. He was also one of the highest ranked thieves, called Jesters, in Cauldron’s premier guild of iniquity, the Last Laugh. Unlike the others, he did not bother with painting his face in the harlequin decoration that was the primary identifier of members of that organization.

Velior Thazo seethed. Not so much because Olann’s charge was accurate; it ran counter to his nature to admit his own error. No, the half-fiend was angry because his grand ambitions, which had soared so high before that damned meeting at Rhiavati’s manor, now were crashing down around him in a blazing ruin. Thazo’s hands itched; he wanted to kill something.

“Those damned clerics have Jil, and it won’t be long before they ferret out this place,” another of the Jesters, a rail-thin elf named Karakates, added. “Adrick’s mint has already been uncovered and destroyed, and nearly two-thirds of our membership has been incarcerated... or killed.”

“Damned heroes,” the last Jester, a pudgy human woman named Wayrel Talinn, broke in. Thazo’s scowl deepened, though inwardly he agreed with the curse; if Talinn felt bold enough to actually speak up in a meeting of the Last Laugh leadership, then his once-lofty position had descended far indeed. She was a master poisoner, there was no doubt about that; but Thazo always thought of her as the two-bit whore she’d been when he’d first met her, a little over a decade ago.

“You will have to get out of town,” Olann went on. “You are the only one they saw, and you were the one Jil answered to.” And the one she hated most, Olann didn’t have to add.

Punks, he thought, glaring at his peers within the guild. His anger pounded in his veins like the blood of his fiendish ancestor, and all three of the others fidgeted slightly as his rage became obvious. None of the three other leaders of the guild were his equal; all were at best petty crooks, veterans of the softer side of organized crime. They all bore weapons—like most guilds of thieves, the Last Laugh did not tolerate weakness of any sort—but Thazo knew that he could take all three of them together in a fight, if it came to that.

Almost reflexively, his hand had stolen to the haft of his morningstar. But even as his fingers touched the familiar steel shaft, a shadow shifted beside him, and a familiar chill of danger settled over Velior Thazo.

Forcing himself to relax, letting his hand fall as he chuckled grimly, Thazo deliberately did not turn to look at the hulking figure that remained cloaked in shadow beside him.

“You are all panicking, acting more like marks than master rogues. The... defeat... we suffered was significant, but we are far from undone. Jil is dead, executed at the hand of that dwarven bitch in the name of “justice”, now unable to harm us further. And our adversaries have bigger fish to fry than the Last Laugh. We may have to lay low for a while, but we will continue to thrive, in the shadows.”

“They took out a whole safehouse, and went through some of our best talent like forged steel through beaten copper,” Olann said, his confidence obviously bolstered by the arrival of the shadowy newcomer. “We all agree, that you’ve made too many mistakes, Thazo. It’s time to cut our losses.”

Thazo managed a sinister, confident grin in return. With his inhumanly large jaws and protruding fangs, the effect was garish, and the half-fiend was completely cognizant of its effect. “You never complained about me when you needed someone removed for the improvement of your various little schemes, Olann,” he said. “I’ve been a Jester for seven years, and now you think you can just run me out, drive me from the guild that I painstakingly built into what it is today? Talos is still with me, always with me, never forget that!” He turned to the shadowy figure now, stared into the darkness of its hooded face with penetrating eyes. The massive figure stood there impassively. “You stand with these mice now, Trusk?” he asked. “You agree that the guild will survive without my strength?”

The only response was a glimmer of white within the black cowl as the bugbear shadowdancer showed his teeth, a deep rumble of a growl originating from deep within his body.

“We cannot afford this petty squabbling, not now,” Thazo went on, turning back to the other Jesters. “You think it would just be that simple, send me on my way, hope that your problems are solved? You could force me out, perhaps, but I’d take half of the remaining members of the guild with me. And if you think that pushing me out will stop the ‘Heroes of Cauldron’ from tracking the lot of you down, you’re as naïve as you are foolish.” Thazo knew that he was taking a risk; with his threat laid down, the best option for the Jesters was to simply kill him. And if Thusk sided with them, they might even be able to succeed in that aspiration.

“A moment ago, you said they weren’t interested in us,” Talinn pointed out, but the little conviction she’d been able to muster earlier had faded, and she quickly retreated into the shadows of the other two men beside her.

“We will not be the ones to sunder the guild,” Pratcher Olann said. “But if you wish to remain a force within the Last Laugh, it will not be as a Jester.”

Thazo kept his smile from his face; he had won. Titles were unimportant, he knew; the end of it all was in the simple reality of power. And none of these fools—save for the enigmatic and deadly Thusk—had enough of it to seriously threaten his agenda. And Thusk, while a canny and vicious adversary, was not equipped for the subtle battles of politics, alliances, and backstabbing where Velior Thazo shone.

“Very well, I will serve the guild as a warrior in the trenches,” Thazo said. “But we will have to...”

“Aw, you mean you’re not going to fight?” came a small voice from the far side of the room. “Man, I was hoping for a little show—my money was on the big shadowy guy.”

They turned as one, sinking into ready crouches, weapons hissing from their sheaths. Thusk faded back into the shadows, disappearing from view. The other Jesters contributed useless exclamations—“Who are you?” “How did you get past the wards?” Thazo focused on more practical concerns; he stepped back to the wall, pressing a subtle protrusion there. Immediately a heavy door of reinforced steel slid down from above within the dark archway of the chamber’s exit, falling into place with a loud clang of metal on stone. The half-fiend also called upon the power of Talos, invoking the Storm God to fill the chamber with an invisibility purge. No hidden foes appeared, and it was only then that the evil rogue-priest allowed himself to relax—only slightly—as he looked up on the stranger who had intruded upon their conclave.

That intruder was an unassuming gnome woman, only a bit over three feet in height. She wore dark garments and carried weapons, but did not appear threatening; in fact, she seemed to have an amused look to her as she regarded the deadly leaders of the Last Laugh.

“Mole Calloran,” Thazo said.

“Velior Thazo,” the gnome returned. “Gosh, you’re uglier than I remembered.”

The half-fiend stepped forward, the bat-wings that were one of the gifts of his demonic heritage spreading behind him. His eyes were points of orange flame, and his morningstar seemed to pulse in his hand, as if eager to participate in violence.

“If they’ve found this place, we must flee,” Talinn urged. But Thazo did not move, fixing the intruder with a dark stare that the gnome returned with equanimity.

“You made a mistake coming here alone,” Thazo said. “You will pay, for that, and for the rest...”

The gnome shrugged. Ignoring Thazo, she turned to the other Jesters. “I’ve come here to give you one last chance. You’ve done a lot of ill to Cauldron and its people, but right now there’s a bigger danger, one that threatens the entire city and all within it. I have nothing against thieves’ guilds per se, but we cannot tolerate distractions. Get out of town, today, right now, and don’t come back... or face justice.”

“Your threats seem... small.” Thazo chuckled.

She turned a scathing look upon the half-fiend. “Oh, I wasn’t talking to you, Thazo. No, you don’t get this offer... your life is already forfeit, and you’re coming with me.”

A shadow shifted behind the gnome, slowly taking on substance as it loomed between her and the blocked exit.

“Your brazenness is almost... refreshing. Were these different times, I would almost welcome you among the Jesters,” Thazo said.

“You guys are a bit too sociopathic for my tastes.” She glanced at Olann and the others, who’d faded into the background behind Thazo. “Did demon-breath here even tell you what he was in on? That he and his friends were planning on making Cauldron over into ‘Fiend Central’? Can’t think that would be good for business...”

“Prattle on, little one,” Thazo said. “I know you have some little plot in play, for your friends to pop in here and rescue you from the lion’s mouth. But there’s something you should know. This place... this Vault, is more than just a chamber under the city. No, there’s a reason why we use this place. Its entire structure is surrounded by magically-treated lead plating; no scrying magic will penetrate it, nor does any magical teleportation function in or out of this place. In fact, when that door closed, all contact with the outside world was severed.”

“So you see, my little one, you are very, very much alone. And I am quite afraid that you are about to find our company to be most... unpleasant.”

And with that, he took a step toward her, his eyes burning like molten pools.