Sir Gerard d'Montfort - In his own words (a tale of Anka Seth)- Updated Nov 11th

[Haraash Saan]

Once again the soft voice rasped, “There is no one elsse here but you and I Ssir Gerard. And ass I ssaid, you have nothing to fear.”

It was the viper that had spoken! Turning slowly and somewhat incredulously I said, “Forgive me my scaly friend. You startled me.”

I should have guessed. Several other animals I had encountered on Anka Seth seemed blessed with speech, in fact my magical education had revealed that all manner of things had the gift of tongues, but no matter how many times I heard animals speak I could not quite get used to it.

“My friend serpent, how is it that I may help you? I believe you are a gift from King Thuurland the second?” I continued, quickly regaining my composure.

“Indeed I am Ssir Gerard. I am called Ninfuss Nex and am only one ssmall part of the gift that the King hass granted you.” Replied Ninfus Nex, his emerald green eyes seemed to twinkle as he spoke. “I offer my sservicess, ass I have to many before you in the Order of the Wyrm. I come to insstruct ass well ass to sserve.”

The King had indeed singled me out for a very special gift. The Order of the Wyrm was a most prestigious group. Essentially, as Ninfus explained, “The lawss of the Order are ssimple: Protect the Kingdom, Protect the Faith and aid your brotherss in need.”

There were only twenty four members of the Order at anytime, I only knew of one other that Ninfus Nex had mentioned, Sir Aeron de Ellesmere, one of Baron Mendus’s other knights.

“There are many wayss I can sserve you my Lord, but to be mosst effective I need to be closse to you.” As he said this he glanced at the aggressive stance I still held, “Perhapss if I wrap mysself around your ssword it would be mosst appropriate?”

“Um, yes, certainly, if you think it best.” I stammered, overcome by the enormity of the Kings gift.

As Ninfus Nex slithered around the guard of Eldritch Light, curling himself around it as he went he told me of some of the services he could provide.

“On your order I will sspit my venom upon your sswordss’ blade sso that any opponent sstruck will feel ass if they had been bitten by me. But be wary, I tire eassily and can only produsse a limited amount of poisson each day.”

He continued, “Ssecond when you presss your ssword point againsst the throat of your foe I will be able to tell you the truth of their wordss. And finally I will be able to offer you my knowledge and thoughtss if they can be of any help.”

“You must make haste to Guerney City to be officially welcomed to the Order! I will be here when you need me.” said Ninfus Nex, and with that he wound himself once more around my hilt before appearing to become one with it. His pale green scales were now the colour of the steel of my sword, only his emerald eyes sparkled as if they were gems. Ninfus Nex was now a most unusual ornament for my sword hilt.

There was one other object in the box, a green brooch of a snake that was intertwined around a silver staff that acted as the brooch’s pin. I carefully secured it to my doublet, and proceeded to the Drunk Duck. If ever there was a time that I needed Astrid’s delightful brew it was now.

I spent several hours contemplating all that I had just learnt, before Moxadder approached with an expectant expression etched on his face.

“Gerard,” he began, once again ignoring my title, “you can read lots of languages can’t you?”

I sighed, wishing he would leave me be.

“What’s this say?” he said as he thrust a dagger toward me.

Recoiling a little from the close proximity of the blade, I took it by the point and inspected it. It was no ordinary dagger, that I could see and I was no weapon smith. It was beautifully crafted, interlocking leaves of steel formed the guard and it was very well weighted. No doubt it could be thrown a distance accurately but also had enough weight to deliver a murderous stab.

Most curious, for I was curious now, was the writing that was on its blade.

“On the Third day Geirr, the steadfast one, killed two thousand men, and had his tower reduced to rubble around him but still he fought. His foes then tried to woo him with offers of wealth and peace and maidens if he would surrender and tell to where his people fled. Geirr was not tempted and slew himself at the setting of the sun of the third day.”

It was inscribed in the old formal tongue, used during the Convocation, Old Gerechian. Not a common language and usually only used in formal procedures or in the names of the children of old families. Tasmar Maron Devlis, the loner from Ravenswood with the dolphin Elwing that guided us to Sorcerer’s Isle, was one whose name was in the old language.

“Really?” said Moxadder, wide eyed by the translation. He then somewhat sheepishly added, “So who’s this Geirr anyway?”

It was not as foolish a question as the Irudeshian had thought. I had knew only that Geirr was a saint of the Thuusian faith.

The next day, even as I prepared to travel North West to Treville to call upon my sister and her new found friends, a familiar gentle voice purred into my mind.

“Gerard?” called Isabella.

“Isabella!” I cried out loudly in my excitement, and then realising my mistake I repeated her name with my thoughts.

“Dear brother I have found my scarf, one of my friends, whilst returning me home, saw it snagged on a branch and fetched it for me.” She said.

“That is excellent news! Even as we speak I am packing to come and visit. It has been too long since I have seen you Isabella.” I said.

We discussed a great many things. I painted her a picture of my most recent exploits and the great battle for Montfort, and she in turn told me that the giants that she had befriended had found a rocky valley deep in the forest of Treville which they now called home. I was alarmed by this news, but she soothed my anxiousness by explaining that she and they had an understanding and that in effect the giants were our allies, providing we did nothing to harm them, they would do nothing to harm us.

In fact, I reasoned, they would be most advantageous if the Dominion was indeed marching South through the mountains and into Guerney.

I told her of Saeff, the bastard son of Sir Gwan of Stowmarket, she told me that regardless of Lady Gyda’s disinterest it would be remiss of me if I did not visit by Stowmarket and deliver the news of her husbands son’s death.

When I mentioned to her that I was to welcomed into the Order of the Wyrm Isabella became quite excited. “Gerard, you will have to postpone your visit to see me! You must make all haste to see the King and receive this most prestigious honour!”

She continued to say what I myself had thought, that perhaps my visit to the spinster Lady Gyda could be more formal and that I should commence courting her. It made sense. Lady Gyda controlled a powerful trading town and it was adjacent to my own lands. It would be an ideal situation to marry her so as to gain a significant land holding in the Barony of Mendus. I hoped I liked her.

So it was settled, whilst it pained me to do so, I did not visit Isabella. Instead, at her insistence, the Hydra and I set off, once more travellers of Anka Seth.

 

[Haraash Saan]

After travelling down the river for most of the next day, spending the previous day provisioning for our journey to Guerney City, we arrived at the walled river town of Stowmarket.

At least twice the size of Montfort the river port was well situated, having been built at the fork of two prominent rivers. On its southern bank the river flowed east to a the smaller town of Tilsborough were the it met the road to Guerney City. On Stowmarket’s western bank flowed the Tarnus that came all the way from the icy caps of the mountains that the barbarians and giants and recently called home. Both rivers carried significant trade traffic and therefore Stowmarket became a merchant’s haven. It was an unusual locale though. In the heart of the forest, and with very little land to grow crops it survived on the very trade that passed through it. There were only two roads leading from the town, a rough track not fit for a wagon that led to Montfort, and a slightly larger one that led to Tilsborough.

The few times I had travelled to Stowmarket in the past it had been a bustling river port with several markets that were brimming with all manner of common and exotic produce and goods. However that seemed a reflection of better times. It was obvious that the threat of barbarians and bandits had severely impacted the majority of the trade that passed through.

Lady Gyda, upon hearing of my arrival, met me formally and offered my companions and I lodging for the evening at the small keep in the centre of town.

She was a handsome woman, although she did not have the soft look of a lady of the courts, there was a hard edge to her. Perhaps it was her proud bearing or her aloof demeanour, or maybe it was that her skin had not been protected by all manner herbal treatments like so many ladies that I had known in Thessingcourt.

Her raven black hair was worn in a single plait that ran almost to her waist. Crowning her head was a thin circlet of silver with a single small ruby in its centre.

I must admit that I felt an unusual attraction to her. She was a woman different to most of those I had met. In fact she reminded me a great deal of Timandra, Baron Yorath’s aide. They were both desirable, perhaps it was because they seemed unattainable. Timandra, because she, like Lady Gyda, mourned her husband, and Gyda because she also had a reputation of turning away all suitors.

That evening I managed a brief audience with Lady Gyda, as she too was preparing to travel to Guerney City after receiving a summons from the King.

I told her of the fate of the bandits and Saeff’s involvement with them and his most unfortunate demise. She took the news well, in fact there was barely a flicker of acknowledgement in her eyes.

“That boy was always going to cause trouble. It seems he finally got what he deserved.” She said coldly.

The information of the barbarians was of much more interest to her than the death of her late husbands bastard. She was keen to hear the details of the battle and nodded her approval for the most part, but now and again she would mutter and shake her head, disagreeing with the approach I had taken. Nevertheless she was most pleased that the barbarian menace was no longer an immediate threat, “Who knows how long it will be before more succumb and move south?”

The rest of our conversation was made quite brief when she excused herself so as to be prepared for her journey.

“Of course My Lady you are most welcome to travel with myself and the Hydra, as we are also going to Guerney City.” I offered.

It was an invitation I was most pleased that she accepted, although her teenage son Havold was none to pleased at the prospect of his mother travelling with someone he saw as a potential suitor. Apparently he was very much against his mother remarrying, and worse still, handing over control of the lands of Stowmarket.

There was no doubting that Lady Gyda was capable. The morning saw her dressed prepared for any encounter. She wore a chain mail shirt atop a sturdy leather jerkin, under which was a quality silk shirt. This warrior woman also chose not to wear the more conventional dress and instead wore leather riding pants and boots. Strapped to her side was a broad sword and on her back was an unstrung longbow and quiver.

She really was a woman different to any I had known!

With her was a male squire, a strong and likely sort, that carried her round shield and other belongings and six mounted guardsman in the livery of Stowmarket.

After two days of river travel we arrived and Tilsborough on the eaves of the forest and there mounted horses and rode east for almost three weeks before arriving at the capital of Guerney, Guerney City.

Larger than both Halfast and Thessingcourt, Guerney City, that I had only visited once before, was a hive of chaos. The noise, after spending so long in the wilderness or in Montfort, was extraordinary, and the smell, well it required me to keep my kerchief close at hand.

Thankfully it was not one of the winter months and at least it was dry so the streets were not churned with mud. Only when we arrived in the inner part of the city did the horse hooves finally strike cobbles.

The castle sat upon a small hill, the hub of a city that continued to expand well beyond its defences. It was there that he made for and soon we were being shown to our lodgings. I was shown to a spacious and quite luxurious room and my companions, much to their annoyance, and my pleasure (it really was about time that they stopping believing they were above their station), through to some much smaller rooms in the bowels of the great fortress.

A tall but plump man with a shock of silver hair called Hrast introduced himself as my butler for the duration of my stay. There was no doubt that Hrast knew his position well, the man was a true gem! I had never been so efficiently served in all of my life. Upon complimenting the man he only bowed low and said somewhat cockily, “The King only hires the best milord.”

I had two days to recover from the long journey before once again facing the King.

Other than the time I spent with Gyda I tried to discover who it was that had come to the King’s summons. All manner of nobility had come, including Sir Aeron de Ellesmere, also of the Order of the Wyrm and his wife Lady Kiera de Ellesmere and most significantly was young Prince Brand and his advisors. Upon learning this news I left no stone unturned in attempting to discover his advisors identities.

Eventually I learned that his party comprised of; Hugh Phargus, a warrior of some repute, Pomerial of the Birch, an elf with mystical powers, Larran Susspuruss and Trovi Negatus. There were also three strange folk that were rumoured to have the blood of demons running through their veins; Voltaire, another mage and Tobey and Tallbott both accomplished scouts and warriors. Finally was Daregushi, the very same man that had been implicated in the poisoning attempt on the King in Halfast, and the man that Moxadder was mortally afraid of.

If Brand and his cronies were in the city then we had little doubt that there was some sort of plot afoot. From the moment I met him all those months ago in Halfast I did not like him. We would have to be watchful.

More distressing than Brand being in Guerney City was the news that some two months ago, when we had been travelling to Montfort from Halfast, Prince Jeremy, the King’s firstborn, had fallen in a riding accident and been killed. This was terrible news! Although Jeremy had shown no inclination to pay heed to the threat from the Dominion, he had been a wise and intelligent man who one day would have become a good King, now Brand was one step closer to the crown. Only the King’s poor health and his elder sister Princess Isabella stood in his way.

 

[Haraash Saan]

Before me sat King Thurlland II. He coughed violently, his clenched teeth muting the rasping gurgle. Thurlland’s wizened face looked to have aged years since I first knelt before him in Halfast not two months ago. His cough abated and he gazed down upon me with his sunken bloodshot eyes. There was no doubt that his illness was causing his health to rapidly deteriorate.



The High Priest Prelate Gosforth and the Abbot Masbank continued their long and tedious incantations. The ceremony itself had long lost my interest. At first my chest had swelled with pride, but after awhile and with no end in sight, even I got bored at an occasion that was essentially held in my honour. I had been kneeling on a splendid lush red carpet for more than an hour and still Gosforth had not reached his climax.

Beside me knelt a horrid looking woman. My first glance at her had been enough to convince me not to look upon her again. Buckteeth rested beneath a thin top lip. A large a bulbous nose, that caused a frightful snorting sound each time she inhaled matched her frog like bulging eyes. Her name was Irviel and she was a silk merchant and magistrate from a small town near Riverglenn. She was being inducting into the Order due to her extreme diligence at upholding the law and her swift and harsh justice.

Queen Helena sat beside the King in a matching throne of polished dark timber and gold with red velvet cushions. A polite smile was etched onto her face as she blatantly ignored the tedium and stared off into the distance.

My parents and a few other notables had gathered to witness the event, even the Hydra had come along, although I know not why as they had shown very little interest or appreciation for all that I had done. Not everyone helps to save the King’s life or orchestrates the successful defense of a virtually indefensible town.

Finally, after another hour the agony was over. Prelate Gosforth stepped aside, head bowed and King Thurlland struggled to his feet. A boy carrying a green cushion on which rested a gnarled stick about two feet long, knelt before the King, presenting him with the wooden branch.

Thurlland took it up in his right hand as he tried to suppress another cough that raked his body with pain. After a couple of deep breaths to settle himself he looked at me fondly and smiled, “Sir Gerard d’Montfort, present your left wrist.”

I was puzzled by his request, but acceded and pulled my sleeve up and expose my wrist.

“Serpentus!“ commanded the King in a deep baritone that in no way suited his feeble disposition.

I could sense the power in his voice. He had called forth a great magic in the ancient tongue!

Suddenly the branch in his hand started to writhe and wriggle. As it became more flexible, the hard and gnarled wood slowly change into shiny green scales. As I stared at the transformation I realised what it was that was happening. The branch had transformed into a snake.

Its’ head bobbed this way and that, as if sizing me up and deciding whether I was worthy. Its’ forked tongue flicked in and out of its thin, cruel and almost mocking mouth and in the next instant it launched itself at me. It took all my courage to stop myself from turning away from the inevitable.

I felt the serpents fangs sink deep into my wrist. A wave of nausea struck me as the poison flowed in my veins. Then the pain started. It began as a numb ache very quickly became agony. I vaguely heard the same address to Irviel as I concentrated on not collapsing face first into the plush carpet beneath me.

Just as I felt I could no longer cope with the pain without screaming, my brooch, the second of the King’s gifts which I had worn deliberately to the ceremony, radiated a soothing heat to my heart over which it sat. Instantaneously the pain subsided until I could feel it no more.

“Rise Sir Gerard d’Montfort, and welcome to the Order of the Wyrm.” Said the King.

I stood, somewhat shakily, took the King’s hand and kissed it. “Thank you my lord.” I whispered.

He repeated similar words to Irviel and the ceremony was finally complete.

After the ritualistic formality of the induction into the Order of the Wyrm there was a much more informal celebration. Those gathered thronged about talking in small clumped groups while servants provided refreshments on platters. I tried to maneuver to myself to a position in which I could speak to the King but Irviel had managed to corner him and was in earnest conversation.

Instead I made polite conversation with Queen Helena and just as she had finished telling me that Princess Isabella was currently in Morannin in the Fastness learning the ways of the foreign court, that Argonne’s voice burst across the room. “Assassins! The King is hurt!” came his cry.

I sprinted to his side and found him kneeling over the King and reciting a Foeldian incantation. The King was ashen! He lay behind a desk, on his back, in a small antechamber that adjoined the throne room in which we had all been milling. His crown had toppled from his head and rolled to a rest in a corner of the room.

“Mortec!” I yelled, hoping that Todesmagie, in his great wisdom, could save the King.

I knelt beside Thurlland and clutched his hand to my mouth praying softly to Laster. He felt my presence for he clasped my hand strongly and lifted himself up to me until he was no more than a few inches from my face. His eyes widened and he hissed desperately, “Avenge me!” before collapsing back to the floor.

 

[Haraash Saan]

His command stirred me into action. I raced into the throne room with Eldritch Light clutched in my palm. I saw a flash of cloth disappear around the entrance to the great hall and I tore off in pursuit.

I burst into the waiting chamber, a massive room with large tapestries that captured moments of Guerney’s glory hanging from the walls. Across the other side of the room I saw the Zhontell flailing his fists at Irveil, and Morgan was fast approaching.

Irveil broke free of Zhontell’s fierce assault and ran from the room. The Elf and Morgan were close on her heels. I sensed Moxadder only steps behind me, and together we followed as fast as we could.

We whipped down a long corridor and through another doorway before finally arriving at the scene of a ferocious battle. Zhontell was once more pounding the hapless magistrate, and as we rounded the corner Morgan launched himself into a flying tackle. Sensing the danger Irveil twisted aside from Morgan’s attack, sending him sprawling to the ground.

However, the failed maneuver bought precious seconds, allowing Moxadder and I to arrive and confront Irveil.

“Yeild!” I commanded, pausing momentarily to await her reply. When one was not forthcoming I drove my rapier deep into her side.

Moxadder also struck her with a dagger, but she was resilient and would not fall.

Our blows seemed only trifling to her and with contempt in her eye and a cruel smile upon her lips she barked a magical command. How a magistrate had skills of magic was beyond me.

She wore an expression of smug confidence. Appearing suddenly, two massive walls of fire blocked both our exits; from whence we had come and from the doorway at the far end of the corridor. They were so tall that the flames almost licked the ceiling, close enough to blacken the panels with their heat. We were trapped. I had thought that outnumbering her four to one gave us the advantage, I was no longer so certain. Irveil’s words did nothing to comfort me, “Welcome to hell in Dominus.” She said.

She brushed aside our next feeble assaults with ease. As she sidestepped my clumsy attempt to pierce her I saw a tapestry begin to burn. Previously it had been well out of range of the fire, but now the flames seemed to be advancing toward us! As she stepped away from my blade she pulled a small glass sphere from her skirts and threw it to the ground.

It burst open and out of it rose a frameless mirror of liquid that was the height of a man. The strange black stuff rippled as it reflected the flames that surrounded us.

Following the motion of her throw she spun and darted towards the mirror seeking to run through it. Morgan, however, had other plans. He dove straight into her with such force that both he and she were knocked to the ground.

The force of the tackle drew an inhuman wail from Irveil’s lips. Her very cry felt like it cut through to my soul, instantly weakening me. I was so disoriented that my next swipe caused me to stumble. The room had begun to swirl before my eyes, the creeping flames spinning into one orange and yellow blur.

With unexpected strength the magistrate threw Morgan off her and then let loose another command. I shook my head trying to clear my vision, and whilst I succeeded, I continued to feel dreadful and I liked not what I saw.

Several of the King’s guards had rushed bravely through the flames looking rather singed and frightened. Whilst this instantaneously brought me a feeling of relief, the moment was just as quickly lost, for three unearthly beasts stepped from the flames that now almost surrounded us. They looked like strange lizards, though they walking upright and wielding weapons like men. I could not see a thread of clothing on them for they were bathed in flames that danced about them as if they were fire in humanoid form.

The largest of them, at least a few feet taller than I, thrust its mighty spear at the recently arrived guardsmen. The effect was gruesome. Two guards were impaled so that they now resembled some horrid kebab from Irudesh City.

Another of the lizards took a swipe at me with its vicious curved sword. Irveil forgotten, I in turn thrust at him. My rapier clipped his flank drawing sizzling blood. What manner of hells spawn did we fight?

Zhontell, meanwhile, had finally managed to land a series of blows on Irveil. The elf pummeled her repeatedly, until finally he rocked back onto one leg and smashed the heel of his other foot under Irveil’s jaw. Her head jerked back with a violent snap and she was flung backwards where she landed in a crumpled pile.

From the woman that had been Irveil there rose a ghostly apparition. First it’s transparent head and then its shoulders and arms. Its hands somehow pressed upon the corpse that housed it and pushed upwards, as if in a struggle to release itself from its mortal shackles.

Moxadder, none too phased, or perhaps too panicked to react rationally (which was always difficult for him in any case), slashed at it with a dagger. The blade passed harmlessly through where its jugular would have been. Ignoring the attack from Moxadder it continued its struggle until it seemed to leap out of Irveil’s body.

Before us hovered a ghost! The shade let loose with a cry, a low moan that seemed to echo throughout our flaming prison. It was the most terrible noise I had ever heard. My left hand clawed at my chest, for my heart went cold and still. I could feel my limbs shivering and my fingers go numb. I was filled with the utmost dread.

Moxadder must have been similarly affected, for he ran passed me and straight at the wall. Just before I expected to see him crash headlong into it he leapt forward with feet and hands splayed before him and seemed to stick to the wall! The leap slowed his momentum not one bit, for before I could blink he has somehow climbed the wall and crouched, upside down, on the ceiling, quietly rocking back and forth.

I could not gaze upon the apparition, and I have no shame in admitting it. I was petrified of it. The battle continued around me but, I was too distraught to know it.

The thing that brought me out of my hopelessness was the unusually calm and strong voice of Morgan. I looked upon him and gazed in wonder. He radiated pure white light. In his right hand he held the scepter of Artyom Seth. “Gerard. Moxadder. Come back to us.” He said softly. And then in a deep and rumbling command, “COME BACK NOW!”

His last word snapped me from the darkness that engulfed my heart. Before me stood the man-lizard. Beyond him was Morgan, no longer bathed in white, but still wielding the scepter against the evil shade. Zhontell stood beside him, fists ready to strike at thin air. The guards all lay dead, strewn about as if a child had thrown his toys.

Even as I saw the scene before me, Mortec stepped from the flames that were so close now that I could feel their burning heat. Smoke seemed to come from every pore on his body. His face was blistered and his clothing charred, but still the brave Gnome had come to the aid of his comrades.

Such was the power in Morgan’s call that I paid no heed no my assailant until it was too late. Steel flashed down at my skull, I ducked and instinctively threw my left arm above my face in an attempt to block the killing blow.

I screamed in agony as the blade passed through my wrist, severing my hand completely. Blood spurted from the wound, covering the man-lizard.

Morgan’s voice yelled above my screams, “TO ME!”, and at once the man-lizard and its friends stopped attacking my companions and I and instead began raining blows upon the ghost. All bar the ghost seemed to answer Morgan’s call.

I felt myself tumble to the ground. Once again my vision blurred, but not before I witnessed Moxadder launch himself from the ceiling. The dagger of Geirr held with both hands above his head as he fell.

With a scream of vicious hatred he swung his arms forward in mid-descent just as he reached the shade. Somehow the point of the knife struck true, and with one final scream the ghost was sucked into the blade of Geirr, as if it had sucked an oyster from its shell, even as Moxadder landed with an uncontrolled thump into the stone floor. He cried out in pain, but was quickly to his feet looking for another foe. There were none evident. With the demise of the apparition the man-lizards had also disappeared.

So shocked I was that I ceased my cries of pain. My wound still spurted blood with each beat of my now freed heart, but the pain had become so much that I could no longer feel anything in my arm. My blood loss was almost too great. I could feel myself slipping in and out of consciousness.

The searing heat I had felt, suddenly disappeared and I saw the tall figure of Argonne lurching down the corridor, walking through what was left of the inferno that Irveil had created. Small flames still burnt in patches, but for the most part the fire had been quenched.

I blacked out once more. When I came to, it must have only been a few seconds later, I rolled and saw Zhontell peering at the mirror, whilst Morgan and Argonne moved toward Mortec, who was looking very uneasy on his feet. They too must have seen Zhontell’s interest in the liquid, for as one they cried, “No!”

It was too late. Zhontell leaned forward and stuck her head into the mirror.

As his head struck the mirrors’ shimmering surface the liquid rippled violently before emitting a deafening roar. I sat bolt upright and covered my ears with both hand and bloody stump. Morgan, Moxadder and Argonne were knocked off their feet, but Mortec fared worse.

The Gnomes mouth dropped in a soundless scream and his eyes widened, and then in a bizarre implosion, his skull caved in on itself as blood burst from both his ears. He fell to his knees before slumping, lifeless to the flagstones.

That horrifying vision was the last thing I saw before darkness took me.

 

[Haraash Saan]

A drum beat, slowly, repeatedly. I heard a harp join the beat and some pipes add an entrancing melody. My eyes flickered open and I winced in the bright sunlight. I stood on a hill that sloped gently away in front of me. At the base of the hill was a glorious palace, it was from here that I heard the enchanting music.

I ambled forward through the long wavy grass. It rustled soothingly as my legs brushed against it. A cool breeze blew across my face taking some of the sun’s heat from it. A bird swooped in the near distance. I hear the familiar buzz of bees collecting nectar from the wildflowers. I felt light, and at peace.

Soon the cobbled floor of the palace echoed as my bare feet slapped against the stone. Columns surrounded me going so high that I lost sight of them in the darkness of the ceiling.

It seemed as though I had walked for an age through the great columns, but I kept moving toward the lovely music.

As I walked the illumination provided by the torches slowly began to dim. The music, which was at first crisp and clear, was now dull and muted. I began to run.

The stone carved columns flashed past me as I ran. And soon the torchlight ceased and I was running in darkness, trying to reach the music. Then all was silent. I was left in the noiseless dark. I tried to turn around, thinking to return from whence I had come, but found that my feet no longer felt the cobbles beneath them.

Then I heard Laster’s powerful and beautiful voice, “Gerard d’Montfort. Now is not your time. I still need you.”

It was early evening when I woke. “’bout time.” Grumbled Argonne. “Obviously Foeld didn’t think that you needed to be hurried, but I’ve been sitting on my arse waiting for you to wake for hours.”

Once again I owed my life to my friends. It was Morgan’s quick action that stifled the bleeding from my stump, and Foeld’s blessing given to me by Argonne that sealed the wound. Without them I would have stayed in Pandemonium, but Laster had obviously still not finished with me.

Mortec had not been the only casualty of Zhontell’s ill thought out action, Zwingly, Argonne’s skunk had suffered the same fate. However Argonne was unperturbed. “Foeld will return Zwingly to me, perhaps in a more useful form.” He said somewhat casually.

Argonne also revealed that Morgan had discovered that Prince Brand had already taken swift action, most likely to seize the throne for himself. He had dispatched five of his cronies to gather up his armies and march them to the capital. Not the action of someone that was happy to rule as regent until his sister returned.

The woodsman explained that Moxadder had been able to identify the ghost that was trapped in his dagger. For indeed it had been sucked into the blade as I had thought, not destroyed. Somehow it resided within the magical steel of the dagger of Geir.

The ghost was one General Narblec, an important minion of Arcanus, one of the Dominions barrow lords.

That was most disturbing news. We had just captured one of the Dominions favourite tools. If that was discovered we could only expect swift and painful retribution.

However, the news did point to one thing, that the Dominion was involved in the assassination of King Thurrland II.

Soon after Argonne had completed telling me the latest developments, the others began to trickle into my room. Moxadder brought with him the possessions of Irveil that he had managed to ‘borrow’ from the corpse but it was Zhontell that brought the most surprising and wonderful thing, Mortec!

Immediately after falling, the little Gnome had been scooped up by Zhontell, no doubt feeling guilt at causing his death (and nearly mine), and rushed with all speed to the High Priest of Laster, Prelate Gosforth. A donation of an amazing sum of sickles to the church ensured that Mortec’s spirit was brought back from it’s journey to The Outlands, the heaven in which Todesmagie resides. Why a Lasterian priest would spend so much effort (for I have been told that such favors from the gods cause considerable physical distress to the priest) reviving the follower of another faith is beyond me. Well perhaps not. Afterall a large donation is always appreciated by the church. Mortec had obviously not finished his unwitting work for Laster either.

Mortec looked quite pale and a little bewildered, not surprisingly considering he had been dead. It would be several days before he recovered his strength enough to join us once more but after seeing my own situation and wanting to keep busy, he offered to construct me a prosthetic hand.

It was the first time since I had woken that I realized that my hand had been severed. There was no pain, perhaps I was still in shock. However as I gazed upon the thick bandage that hid my stump I started to panic. How would I survive without my hand? How can one do the simple things in life? More importantly, how would I be perceived, with sympathy? As a helpless cripple?

No! At that moment I refused to let my misfortune affect me. It was something I would cope with. After all I was Sir Gerard d’Montfort, not some mere peasant that would be crippled by my injury.

With those thoughts racing though my mind I realized that Mortec’s offer was one I could not refuse. “My dear friend that would be wonderful. I will be forever in your debt.”

The possessions of Irveil yielded little information. There was nothing out of the ordinary except for a small ceremonial hammer that Morgan pointed out was similar to those used by devout Thuusians in the Fastness, and a leather satchel with a stylized clasp of six women stretching out a white cloth between them. This I recognized to be Thuusian symbol of healing.

Why would a Lasterian who had been inducted into the Order of the Wyrm be carrying Thuusian religious items? It was first question on all of our lips.

Moxadder had also managed to fetch the brooch of the Order of the Wyrm from the piled possessions, this I took for safe keeping, as well as the strange orb that Irveil had thrown down to create the liquid mirror. Apparently after the ear splitting boom that had Zhontell had caused when he stuck his head into the mirror, it had transformed once again into the sphere.

When asked, Moxadder revealed that he had not had a chance to search the body, so we had no idea if there were any significant marks on it. For example, the demonic symbol of Orsa Terminus. My noble upbringing and recent indoctrination into the Order meant and I was best suited to convince the guards to let me examine the corpse to search for any such tattoos.

Argonne had managed to nullify the pain from my stump, and in actual fact I felt rather sprightly all things considered. I eased myself from my bed and set off for the small chapel that Moxadder informed me housed the body of Irveil.

 

[Haraash Saan]

There were only two guards, both whom I recognized through reputation. The first challenged my approach. He was Saint Incyneryte, a priest of Laster, and patron Saint of shellfish. A curious eccentricity of the Lasterian faith is that we believe that Saints should be hailed in their life, when they can appreciate their canonization. And there are an awful lot of Saints. If you were holy enough and could do something better than anyone else, it usually led to Sainthood. In Incyneryte’s case, he loved devouring shellfish, so to a Lasterian it seemed perfectly sensible to recognize this with Sainthood.

Saint Incyneryte was quite a large man, tall and wide. He wore a breastplate emblazoned with a wine cup spilling over two dice and a shellfish. Another trait of the Lasterian faith is to identify a worshipers significant vice and include it with Laster’s own symbol. A sparse, wiry and unkempt beard partially covered his ruddy cheeks. I had heard the he had not shaved since his canonization so that the juice of the sea creatures he so delighted in would be trapped in his facial growth allowing him to later suck upon it and once again experience the taste of the shellfish. I need not mention that he reeked of a stench one found when near a fishing fleet with a full catch. It was not dissimilar to the unpleasant odor I had smelt near the fish sheds of Ravenswood.

The second was Sir Calladan, Guardian of the East, and holy knight of Laster. He was a small but powerfully built man. A long dagger was sheathed by his side and a mighty sword on his back, with its’ impressive pommel fashioned into a dice, sticking out over his right shoulder. Underneath Sir Calladan’s surcoat, that bore the device of Laster, was a fine suit of linked mail armour.

“Name yourself.” Commanded Saint Incyneryte in a nasal whine.

I was taken aback at his voice, it most definitely did not fit his significant size.

“Er, Sir Gerard d’Montfort, Order of the Wyrm.” I replied recovering from my shock. “I wish to examine the corpse. I am hopeful that it may reveal some clue as to who she answered to.”

“Ah, of course, Sir Gerard. I can see no problem with you taking a look, afterall the word is that you were one of those that stopped the assassin.” Saint Incyneryte said.

“My thanks good sir.” I replied as I made my way past him and began to study Irveil.

I fully expected to discover the now familiar tattoo of Orsa Terminus, but, I was very surprised to find no trace of it, nor any other distinguishing mark on her body.

The other thing that I had expected to find was her serpent. Just as I had been given Ninfus Nex she no doubt was given a similar snake, a fact that Ninfus Nex confirmed to me earlier.

“Yess, milord. All that sserve the Order ressieve one of my kind ass giftss.” He had hissed.

Yet, I could find no trace of it on her body, nor was it with the possessions that Moxadder had pilfered.

I hunched close to my rapiers hilt, feigning a close inspection of Irveil’s leg, and very quietly asked Ninfus Nex if he could sense another of his kind near by.

“Yess.” Was his simple reply.

I muttered a simple incantation under my breath and waved my hand across my chest whilst waggling my fingers in front of me. The corpse suddenly began to glow a strong white, but its left arm radiated a deep red colour. Thankfully the magic I had called upon was visible only to myself, so both of Irveil’s keepers saw nothing extraordinary.

Unfortunately I could not tell what each coloured glow represented, but I did know that Irveil’s corpse had at least two different magical effects upon it.

“Saint Incyneryte.” I beckoned the man over to me. “To your knowledge has anyone blessed or probed this body with magics?”

“Why yes.” He said, his voice betrayed his curiosity.

“Because I can sense that it radiates two different magical auras and I was wondering what they might be?” I asked.

“Two? That is most unusual.” He paused, lifting his hand to stroke his spartan beard in thought. “There is no doubt of one, for I myself called upon Laster to bless the corpse. With rumours of ghosts walking the halls I thought it prudent to ensure that she’ll”, he indicated to Irveil, “not be giving us any unnatural trouble.”

“But two? Let me have a look.” He said before he himself began a short chant.

“Yes I see what you mean.” Said Saint Incyneryte a moment later. “Best we be rid of these magical things of which we know naught.”

“Um, before you do,” I interrupted, I had had a thought that if somehow Irveil had disguised her marks that she might actually be one of Geduld’s assassins, a burning monk. If so, just like those that we had killed in Halfast, this one was liable to explode if the magics were removed.

I explained my concern to Saint Incyneryte, who merely laughed. “Surely you jest! I’ll wager ten gromits to your one that the corpse will not explode.”

Being a Lasterian I had little choice but to accept the bet, in any case I am always partial to trying my luck.

Saint Incyneryte intoned a quick prayer to Laster to release the body of its magics. As he finished beseeching our god, the body shimmered as if it were a mirage in the hot desert sun and revealed not Irveil but someone else entirely. Instead another woman was in her place. She too was quite dead.

She was also completely bald and wore a loose red robe, just as the burning monks had. I turned, expecting the body to destroy itself and scorch the three of us, but nothing happened.

“See!” cried Saint Incyneryte triumphantly as he extended his hand, “No exploding monk!” Begrudgingly I handed over the coin that was his prize.

The body was unremarkable except that it was covered in tattoos. They depicted bloodied brass knuckles or a green and gibbering ghastly face. I was not familiar with the symbols, but later after telling the others of my discoveries Morgan and Moxadder agreed that they were the devices of two rival gangs from Irudesh City, Moxadder’s reputed birthplace.

All of her body was covered in those designs, except for her chest and left forearm. Across her breasts and down to her belly was a pentagon, the symbol of the Fastness.

Whilst her painted body provided interesting information, it was her left arm that provided what I had initially been searching for. She wore a stylized armband of two snakes entwined just above her bicep and a tattoo of a serpent on her inner forearm. I removed the armband and then called forth Ninfux Nex.

He unwound himself from my swords’ hilt, and in doing so returned to his natural bright green colour and raised himself up to face me. Sir Calladan and Saint Incyneryte, both recoiled in surprise.

Ignoring them I pointed to the snake of the corpses arm and asked, “Ninfus Nex, can you tell me if that tattoo is one like yourself?”

“Yess it iss milord.” he answered.

“Can you call it forth? I do not know how to summon another or the Order’s serpents.” I said.

“Of coursse milord.” He hissed.

Ninfus Nex slithered from my sword and across my arm, then onto the painted belly of the woman. Then he raised his green diamond shaped head an inch above it and started swaying. Whilst his head swayed back and forth he hissed, changing his tone ever so slightly with each sway.

The tattoo, responded. Beginning to move, as if it were a live snake that was under the skin of the Fastendian’s forearm. It’s head pushed and prodded for a moment before breaking through the skin, and then slithering out from within her. It was a most unusual sight, more so because there had been no blood.

“Who sso sssumonss me from my hosst?” it hissed.

“I, Sir Gerard d’Montfort.” I said.

It turned its copper head toward me. Its forked tongue flicked out of its mouth as it hissed, “Ah, my lord of the Wyrm, thank you for freeing me. I have been trapped within thiss imposster trying ass hard ass I could to bite and poisson it. But alass I had no effect.”

“The imposter is now dead.” I replied.

My unusual conversation continued for a short time, whilst Sir Calladan and Saint Incyneryte looked confused and bewildered. Thankfully they did not interrupt.

Ssaruss Ssni, as the copper coloured snake was called, told me that it was only about six hours before that the woman called Irveil had placed him on her forearm and commanded him to become a tattoo.

The timing placed the event immediately prior to the ceremony in which Irveil and I were sworn into the Order of the Wyrm. From the moment he and finished his transformation he had sensed that his host was not who she was supposed to be. He had been biting her from that point onwards.

The plot had begun to reveal itself a little more. I suspected that the woman’s motives were to cause war between the Fastness and Guerney. However I had no idea as to why. Perhaps the power hungry and war mongering Prince Brand was behind the assassination. With his father dead he could usurp the throne and satisfy his lust for violence.

The Fastendian, obviously a passionate one as most would not tattoo the pentagon of the Fastness on their bodies, had magically disguised herself so as to infiltrate the palace to carry out her mission.

Another point that was unclear was whether the ghost of General Narblec had tried to escape, or whether it had intended to kill its host and therefore shift blame for the assassination onto the Fastness, thus causing war between it and Guerney.

I thought this plausible as we had already learned that the Dominion was attempting to destabilize Guerney. The pirates and their raids for information along the coast of the Bay of Misfortune, the poisoning attempt on the King in Halfast and even Korb and his cronies in the forest of Montfort causing the cessation of trade along the river. It all pointed to a cunning Dominion plot.

I was certain of one thing. I did not want Prince Brand to discover the truth behind Irveil. A bribe took care of that.

“This flesh need not be of the world. It’s spirit needs to be freed to travel to wherever it is going.” Winked Saint Incyneryte as he magically cremated the Fastendian woman.

Excited by my discoveries, I headed for my room, where the others still waited. After I had explained what I had found they all agreed that we needed to determine what the orb actually did, as it appeared that the General and his Fastendian host had attempted to escape through the mirror it had created. We decided that in order to experiment with orb and not draw attention to ourselves we would set off on the morrow to a secluding clearing in the forest nearby. I knew just the spot.

 

[Quartz]

Saint Incyneryte

Groan.

 

[Haraash Saan]

Groan.

Don't blame me! It was the DMs name

 

[Haraash Saan]

The following morning I had just finished my breakfast when Hrast rapped on my door, “Sir Gerard, there is a Lady Gyda who wishes to see you.” He said.

Standing, I brushed my clothes down with my right hand, recalling how awkward it had been getting dressed with only one hand. Thankfully, due to the restorative powers of Foeld, through his tool Argonne, there was no pain whatsoever in my stump. In fact, so accelerated was my healing that my stump had sealed over during the night so it was no longer a bloodied mess exposed muscle and bone.

I opened the door, “My Lady Gyda, what a pleasure it is to see you again. Do please come in.” I said happily. I dismissed Hrast with a look and welcomed Gyda into my rooms.

Her face was stretched with concern, “Gerard, how are you?” she began as she stared wide-eyed at my stump. “I heard the news only this morning and came straight to see you.”

“Dear Gyda, thank you so much for your concern, but I am as well as a man can be under the circumstances.” I said nonchalantly.

I went on to tell her all of what had happened, finishing with, “So I believe that it is my duty, as a member of the Order, to seek out Princess Isabella and bring her back to Guerney City so that she can claim rightfully claim the throne before Brand usurps it.”

“But, that will mean that you will leave the city,“ said Gyda sadly, “and me.”

“I wish it were not so. I have truly enjoyed our recent time together. I can think of nothing more desirable than being with you. I dearly wish that we could spend more time together, but my duty must come before my personal desires. I must act to uphold what is the best for the Kingdom.” I said loftily.

For a while we did not speak, we merely enjoyed each others company in silence.

Eventually Gyda broke the quiet of our introspective thoughts. “Well, no doubt you must prepare for you journey.” She began. “And I must too depart to prepare Stowmarket’s and Montfort’s fortifications for any further incursions from the north. I will organize Hrast to get the appropriate papers drawn up so that, as we agreed, I will administer Montfort until your return.”

“Yes, yes.” I replied absently, my thoughts suddenly a more pressing notion. “Do what you must to ensure the safety of Montfort and Stowmarket.”

“My dear Gyda,” I continued nervously “I know this is extremely hasty, and very forward, but,” at this point I knelt, “would you consider taking my hand in marriage.”

I had not planned to ask for her hand in this way, but circumstances had changed since I first thought about marrying a woman I had not met. Originally I had sought an alliance to strengthen my lands and my standing in court, but in the few weeks of travel that we had had together I must admit I developed an affection for Gyda that I had not expected. With my imminent departure and several suitors waiting in the wings who had tried to court her officially I decided that I did not want to lose her.

I offered my right hand to her, expecting her to at best postpone an engagement until we had had more time together. She gazed upon me for what seemed an eternity. What a fool I was to blurt out such a request! Melodramatically she looked away from my pleading face for a moment before turning once more to face me. Looking straight into my eyes she clasped my hand between both of hers and said, “Gerard, it is with a joyful heart that I accept your proposal.”

Typical of our whirlwind romance we only managed a few more moments alone to bask in our joint happiness before Morgan pounded on the door. “Gerard are you coming?” he called.

“Yes!“ I paused as I fumbled from Gyda’s grasp, “Yes indeed.”

The pair of us quickly achieved an appropriate level of presentation and I opened the door to show Gyda out. “Thank you Lady Gyda for your concerns. Your thoughts are much appreciated.” I said, although my eyes and hers lingered before she turned away and walked off in the direction of her lodgings.

A few hours later we stood in the very same clearing where Gyda and I had lunched on pheasant, bread and cheese. The silver orb lay in the center and the liquid mirror hovered above it, rippling in the breeze that gusted through the trees.

The others were arguing about how we should best proceed, as I absently watched a leaf twist and turn on the wind. It struck the mirror, and passed straight through the other side where it fell to the ground. I mentioned this to Moxadder, who happen to be close by and also ignoring the heated discussion.

He picked up a small stone and threw it through the mirror. The stone did as the leaf before it, and passed straight through.

We interrupted the others to share our finding, and then they, taking the new information on board, continued to bicker.

Moxadder, fed up, wandered off. Minutes later he returned holding a wriggling rabbit by its long feet. He walked purposefully toward the mirror. Immediately realizing his intent I made haste to take shelter behind a tree outside of the clearing. The others, seeing my movement and then Moxadder, reasoned as I had and followed suit. Argonne’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped, horrified as he realized his friends’ intent, but he said nothing as he too ran to hide.

The Irudeshian stopped several feet away from the artifact and set himself to throw the hapless bunny into it. He was not of course entirely fool hardy. I saw that his stance was more to the advantage of dodging any ill effect of his action than succeeding in his throw.

Swinging his right arm slowly back and forward, once, twice, on the third time his arm rocketed forward and he released the rabbit.

It flew through the air, squirming to get its feet beneath itself in preparation for a landing it did not know was never to come.

As the little creature hit the mirror, there was a massive boom so powerful that the grass in the clearing some twenty or more feet was flattened. The rabbit, was not so lucky. On contact it exploded. Small red and fluffy chunks of the unwitting animal showered the clearing.

Moxadder seemed unaffected by the result of his experiment. His throw had been much more than just that. He had used it as leverage to complete a standing somersault, in which he had twisted so that he landed with his back to the mirror. His feet had struck the ground even as the rabbit touched the liquid surface.

As he landed he launched into a diving tumbled that managed to take him just outside of the blasts effect. It was definitely the most remarkable maneuver that I had seen him perform, other than his inexplicable climb to the ceiling when we had fought the ghost.

He had proved a point, much to Argonne’s anguish. Living things seemed to trigger the blast.

Once again we began to argue as to the importance of this, and slowly the argument changed to thoughtful discussion Kuruul broke with tradition and proved to be surprisingly helpful. He had transformed from his normal vicious dog like appearance and into his other form; that of a horrible deformed goblin.

“May I have one of your magical elixir’s?” he asked of Morgan. During our travels we had picked up a great many potions and droughts along with more noteworthy items like my sword.

Morgan dug into his pack and fished one out. Checking the label to ensure that it was not one of his more valuable vials, he threw it to Kuruul.

Kuruul caught it, quickly wrapped it in a strip of cloth, then took two steps before launching it into the reflective liquid. Like the inanimate leaf and stone before it fell through the other side and fell on the grass.

He collected it and unwrapped the cloth that had protected it from breakage and said to me, “Gerard, perhaps you could tell us whether the elixir still has mystic properties?”

I shrugged, muttered the same incantation that I had used over the corpse of Irviel and said, “No, it has none that I can detect.”

“As I thought.” Said Kuruul smugly. And with that he transformed once again into a hound and ambled off to a nearby tree, cocked his hind leg and relieved himself.

Instantly annoyed at the self satisfied mongrel, I curbed my frustrations and concentrated on what his experiment had proved.

We now had two pieces of vital information. The first was that living creatures could not pass through the mirror without it being affected by the deadly sonic burst. The second was that things with magical properties were stripped of their powers when they tried to pass through it.

Argonne and I came to the same conclusion at once. We spoke over each in earnest to explain what it meant.

The Fastendian woman disguised as Irviel had merely been a pawn. She had been provided the magics to mask herself and commit her foul deed by the very foe that all Fastendians fought against, the Dominion. The poor girl had never been meant to escape. Their wicked plan was to have her assassinate the King and, in the course of her escape, use the mirror to flee. There was no doubt that she had been told that the mirror was a magical means of transporting herself to another place. Her masters had intended that she step into the mirror and in doing so her sorcererous disguise would be stripped from her and the resulting eruption of sound would kill her.

The result would be that a dead Fastendian woman would be found and all would assume that the Fastness had assassinated the King. This would no doubt bring war between the two allies, and allow the Dominion to watch while each weakened the other.

It was a cunning and masterful stratagem. What they did not count on was the desperate tackle of Morgan and the swift vengeance of the Hydra.

 

[Haraash Saan]

Our departure from Guerney City to Morannin in the Fastness, where Princess Isabella currently resided, was delayed by two days. An opportunity I took to spend with my darling Gyda.

There were two reasons for the delay. My personal reason for the wait was to give Mortec more time to complete work on my replacement hand. He was quite the craftsman and demanded more time to complete what he called his ‘masterpiece’. The other reason was that Moxadder had investigated the map to the Rolling Lady Inn that we had found amongst the bandit leader Korb’s possessions. The seductress Polema had claimed that Korb met regularly with someone from Orsa Terminus at the inn.

What he had done, through bluster, bluff and luck, was to pretend to be Korb and arrange a meeting with ‘the Master’. This was our chance to finally learn something of the mysterious Orsa Terminus.

Moxadder’s plan was simple and violent. “Gi’me two minutes and then come in and kill everything!”

Looking back it did not seem an impassioned speech, but somehow he roused us into a bloodlust and we agreed that violence was the most appropriate solution.

The night of the infiltration was cool and crisp. As I walked to the Rolling Lady, my comrades beside me, I felt the chill of the anticipated bloodshed, and a wave of guilt at the murders I was to commit.

The inn was busy. Raucous, drunken men and women were crammed into the place. Smoke curled its way up the chimney above the fire pit in the center of the large tavern.

A young man, barely standing, such was his intoxication, clumsily groped a pretty barmaid. Unfortunately for him the barkeep, a bald and burly man, saw his fondling and, quick as a whip, a cosh was in his hand. His blow was delivered with such force that the man crumpled instantly, blood trickling from his temple.

A few old folk that nursed their drinks clucked to each other at the silliness of youth. “In mah day I’s only a tried dat when ‘e wasna lookin’.” One muttered with the certainty only an elder has.

We found a seat and waited until a man approached the barkeep. This was not in itself unusual, what was unusual however was that the man was the identical to the dead man, Korb!

Thankfully Moxadder had told us that he would be disguised, for we would have assailed him if we had not known, so convincing was his disguise.

Moxadder and the barkeep chatted a moment before the barkeep gestured to Moxadder to follow him through a curtain behind the bar.

After the prescribed two minutes neither had returned so I stood and walked up purposefully to the bar, beckoning to Morgan, Argonne and Zhontell to follow.

A stout serving man ambled over to me, “What’ll it be?” he said gruffly through a large drooping moustache.

“We are Korb’s men. He told us to meet him through there.” I said bluntly as I inclined my head to the curtain.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He replied, only his eyes betraying his suspicion.

“Do not mess me about.” I hissed with feigned anger. “Show me to Korb now or you will have to answer to his master!”

His attitude changed immediately. “Er, yeah, right. Can’t have that now can we.” He said nervously.

“Go through.” He added as he jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

A storeroom awaited us beyond the curtain. Although there were no apparent exits, Argonne’s keen eye saw that behind a beer keg was a concealed door. We stepped through it and entered a pitch-black corridor.

I summoned forth my magical light and we entered the unknown.

We must have walked for half an hour before we saw a light bobbing toward us. Shortly after we spotted it approaching, the torch stopped. “Who’s that then?” bellowed out a voice.

“We are trying to find Korb.” I called out. “We work for him and he was supposed to wait for us before going to the meeting.”

“There aint no Korb down here mate.” came the reply. “You had best push off back from where you came.”

“No need to be rude. Just take us to Korb and his Master will not be displeased with you.” I said trying my gambit once more.

It was to no avail. “Mate, you push off now or the Master is going to have your balls for breakfast.” said the voice.

Morgan and Zhontell could see that my ruse had been unsuccessful and they both charged off into the darkness, intent on ending the stalemate.

Hearing their approach the man ahead of us turned and fled, his light bobbing erratically as he went. There was nothing for it so I ran off in pursuit of the others, leaving Argonne to guard our rear.

In moments I passed a heavily breathing Morgan, who was slowed by his weighty breastplate. Ahead of me I could hear Zhontell and the man both cursing as their blows failed to find their target. Zhontell’s foot speed was tremendous, he had already managed to engage our adversary.

Minutes passed as the frantic chase continued, the flat slap of boots on the earth and strained breathing the only thing that could be heard.

Finally a crunching noise and a cry of triumph from Zhontell! When I arrived shortly afterward, the barkeep who was holding his cosh looking for an opening to strike a weaving Zhontell, who himself sought an opening. Blood ran freely from the barkeeps mouth, staining his chin. His mouth displayed the gaps of several newly missing teeth.

“Come now.” I said trying to calm the situation for fear that he might yell out and alert others that may be lurking further down the corridor.

“Enough of this! Zhontell, stand down, and you, put down your sap.” I said to the barkeep.

Zhontell shot me a glare, but stepped away, still wary of his opponent. The barkeep took the opportunity to turn and flee down the corridor.

There was another glower at me from Zhontell before once again he sprinted off in pursuit. I sighed with resignation and took up the chase once more.

There was another light in the distance. It looked like a room for the light was stable and did not bounce to and fro like the barkeeps torch.

Zhontell and the barkeep were within the room, once again facing on another. It was a huge hall, sconces providing ample illumination. At the far end was a door and it was to this that the barkeep was slowly progressing.

Once again I tried to reason with them, this time Zhontell paid me no heed, and in fact used my distraction to his advantage. The barkeep glanced in my direction as I spoke and this provided Zhontell the opening he desired. One sudden upward thrust of his palm smashed the underside of the barkeeps nose, driving the cartilage into the poor mans brain. He collapsed, dead.

Once again I sighed. The barkeep would give us no information now. Morgan and Argonne arrived soon after his demise.

“Right, Zhontell, stay here with the body. We may not want to be too hasty.” I said.

Even as I spoke, Argonne opened the door at the end of the hall and strode through, axe in hand. Morgan and I rushed to follow him.