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

[Haraash Saan]

Chapter 8 – Deeper into the Dark

Laughter was the first sound I heard, quickly followed my music. My eyelids flicked open to see a starless night. I could feel cool grass beneath me. I raised myself onto an elbow and looked around. Flickering torches in tall stands and several massive bonfires provided light. Silhouetted figures moved in a wild and uncontrolled dance around the flames. I stood and became aware that I was completely naked. I turned at the sound of laughter close behind me to see a man and woman coupled in erotic embrace. Leaving them to their pleasures I wandered forward to the nearest of the bonfires. I passed several other people in various states of sexual orgy.

“You’re new here aren’t you?” purred a soft voice. I turned to face my questioner.

A stunning, nude woman stood before me. I goggled at the sight of her exquisite beauty. She smiled seductively, “You’ve got that unbelieving look. It gives it away.”

She reached forward and embraced me, her lips like velvet on mine. I responded in kind and then dragged her down to the cool grass.

I pursed my lips to taste her once more, but was puzzled by a strange new sensation. My eyelids flickered open to reveal that my gorgeous seductress had been replaced by a wiry beard and a pair of deep set beady eyes glaring back at me.

“He lives. Muhbelung be praised.” said Togale gruffly, the stink from his breath invading my nostrils.

A strong hand grabbed my shirt front and hoisted me to my feet. “We thought you be dead.” said Argonne, his ugly face awash with concern.

“I was.” I sighed with a rasp. I had no doubt that I had arrived at Pandemonium, the heaven for the true followers of Laster.

I coughed and tried to clear my throat. It was no good. It ached. A quick rub with my hands found the tender spots where the pressure had been applied and also the clotted blood from the talons. No doubt I was bruised and battered and looked an awful mess.

“Good. He’s up. Let’s get moving.” said Strav. I searched for a hint on concern in his voice, but found none. Perhaps he had known I would be alright, then again perhaps not.

“You OK?” queried Morgan.

“I feel horrible. What happened?” I replied, with a voice that was every bit of rough as I felt.

My companions quickly briefed me on what had occurred. Mortec had heard my call and came quickly to try to aid me, but it was Kuruul’s keen eyes that saw me dangling from the ceiling, my neck being throttled my some strange beast that clung to the rafters. Then Kuruul had created a light that illuminated my attacker and I so that the others could shoot us down. Just as I was about to question how they would prevent my death from the uncontrolled fall Argonne told me how he had grabbed the net of Srcan, and with Moxadder’s help, managed catch me when Morgan threw Iron Gut, the very spear I had thrown at Rumscully Jack, at the beast, striking its arm and causing it to drop me.

Moxadder was the first to react when he saw my grave wounds and tried to bandage them as best he could but it was Mortec that managed to stabilise me and Togale that resuscitated me. I owed them all my life. And it was a debt that I was glad to have.

I thanked them all for their help and then realising I was once again filthy from where I had been lying in the muck of the bathing chamber, I excused myself to get changed.

Perhaps half an hour later I returned to find that my comrades had moved on.

I stepped over and around the corpses of the Gerechians (the Rat Trolls had been burnt) and proceeded into the dining area beyond the pool room.

There were more Gerechian corpses. Some created by the blades of my comrades, others torn to shreds by the feasting trolls. I heard Morgan talking in the distance and followed the sound of his voice, quickly passing several doors and rooms.

Rounding a corner I found an unusual scene before me. In front of an altar was a rat troll wearing all the splendour of a priest of Gerech. In one claw he held a small baton that he waved to and fro as he preached in terrible Old Gerechian.

Standing infront of him were Morgan, Argonne and the priest Sneefal, who was imploring the troll to hand over the sceptre. Moxadder was carefully making his way to a pair of Gerechians that sat in one of the pews. Strav, Mortec and the dwarfs stood just inside the entrance.

I took in the strange scene for an instant, for that was all I had, before the violence began again.

Sneefal launched himself at the rat troll mock priest only to be struck down with a tremendous blow from the baton that he had sought. He crumpled, falling across the altar of his god.

A twang from beside me turned my attention to Stravarious. He was hunched over his massive crossbow, aiming at the troll, but his bolt missed its mark. Instead it slammed into the masonry behind him.

I saw Moxadder draw a blade across the throat of one worshipper, but the Gerechian spun suddenly, and lashed out at Moxadder with a clawed hand. The follower beside him also stood and bared needle like teeth at Moxadder.

Without thought I burst into the room and ran down the aisle to aid Moxadder. As the second Gerechian prepared to bite Moxadder, I vaulted a pew and thrust my thin blade into his neck.

“Ah ha! Take that, foul Gerechian!” I cried triumphantly as the corpse slid from my sword.

A quick thrust from Moxadder which buried his dagger and almost his fist, into his opponent saw a quick end to our foes.

At the altar Argonne, still making good use of the net, tangled the rat troll which enabled Morgan to relieve it of the baton.

As the Fastendian grasped it he was irradiated with a burst of brilliant white light. We all glanced in his direction as he spoke.

“Valentin tells me this is Artyom’s Sceptre, another powerful relic of the Gerechians.” he proclaimed. Another conversation with his mask and another cause of worry for the rest of us methinks.

“Well you best keep it then. You’re gathering quite a collection aren’t you.” muttered Stravarious. It was a thought that I shared.

In short time the rat troll was smouldering, he would trouble us no more. Our only casualty was Sneefal and I admit I cared not for the loss.

There was only one other exit from the room, a staircase that spiralled down further into the bowels of the temple. Quick consultation with the dwarfs confirmed that it was from these stairs that they had come after fleeing from the red-eyed demon.

 

[Haraash Saan]

We could not see down them very far, not so much due to their spiral but more so the strange fog that hung in the staircase. That did not deter Moxadder, he was quick to go down, despite several appeals from us to regroup and rethink.

“That’s interesting.” pondered the lanky, hunched Fastendian to himself as he skulked down the staircase. He faded into the mist.

Argonne soon followed the drug addict, “Best I keep ‘im outta trouble.” he said.

The dwarfs ambled down too, and then Morgan. I did not understand. There was little or no consultation, people seemed drawn to enter the fog enshrouded staircase with its slime covered dank walls and steps.

With a shrug Strav and Mortec joined the others. With a curse I reluctantly followed, another set of clothes was going to be ruined. I really needed to find a tailor as soon as we were out of this horrid place.

I trudged down the staircase, the muck squelching under foot. I could barely see Mortec’s tiny shape just ahead of me so dense was the fog. Fingers suddenly clutched at my shirt! I leapt to the side avoid their grasp. Misjudging the opposing wall due to the mist I slammed into it and felt yet more hands groping me.

I spun away, this time drawing Eldritch Light and commanding it to illuminate with the words Zmrat had taught me. Lashing out with my glowing sword, I met flesh that offered little resistance. The light it cast revealed a more gruesome sight than I had imagined. No living thing had grabbed at me, I wish that it had. The slime covered walls had human body parts jutting out from within them. I felt myself dry retch as I gazed upon this horror. Arms that I must have brushed against, legs and even the odd torso were embedded into the walls. It truly was a grotesque vision. Viscous ooze dripped from the fingers that sought to grab me. I shuddered as I realised that the sleeve that had been plucked at and my back had been coated in the stuff that clung to the walls. With a deep breath I controlled my natural revulsion and moved on to catch up to my companions.

A corridor lay at the base of the stairs and I could hear one of the dwarfs saying gruffly that they had fled from the red-eyed demon just a little further on. Argonne brightly encouraged all to move forward. I passed several closed doors before almost trodding on Mortec.

“Sorry my little friend.” I apologised.

“I’m not that small!” he answered huffily.

We stood in an open chamber. Several pillars supported the ceiling and various pots and jars leant against the walls. Moxadder and Argonne were discussing their contents.

“Some sorta goo.” said Argonne.

“I’ll bet its some religious stuff. Ya know, sacred or somethin’.” replied Moxadder with conviction.

But before they could go on a deep rumbling voice boomed from the within the relentless mist. “Who comes to seek the blessing of Gerech,” it said.

A tall looming figure, wisps of mist trailing off the black robes that enshrouded it walked into view.

“Who comes to seek the blessing of Gerech?” it repeated.

The power in its words sent a chill through me and I seemed to be drawn to its stare. Its’ red eyes seemed to look through my soul. I assume the others felt the same as it shifted its gaze to each of my companions.

Stravarious was the first to recover and answered in the only way he knew, with violence. Thin bolts of light sprung from his fingers and struck the figure in the chest. It stumbled slightly and groaned with pain. Even I did not think the black elf’s approach was inappropriate, although it did attract its attention.

“So you besmirch the name of Gerech!” it roared as its head twisted to stare straight at Strav.

Stravarious howled with pain, clutching his head. He fell to his knees as blood began to flow from his ears, eyes and nose. Groaning with the effort, or pain he stretched out his arm and pointed once more at the black figure with a bloodied finger. Another bolt of light shot out from its tip and struck his assailant. Then Strav fell face forward onto the dank flagstones.

His fall stirred me from my stupor. I hurdled him and charged forward, rapier cocked back for an impaling thrust. The demon brushed me aside as if I was of no consequence, but my effort enabled the others to act.

Missiles flew at him, some striking home but most clattering uselessly on the cobbles or sinking into the horrid walls.

In a display of genius Moxadder called out to the dwarfs telling them to coat their weapons with the supposedly holy unguent that he had found on the jars by the wall.

“You cannot harm Holton the Imperator!” it laughed as it carelessly shrugged off more missiles.

After following Moxadder’s instructions Rokana led Rahurt and Hakad into the fray, flailing at our foe with their weapons. Each struck true and their coated weapons caused Holton to howl in pain.

Again I slashed and again Holton turned away my blade. It was as though he could sense my strikes before I delivered them. Another bolt of light struck him. I looked and saw Strav with Togale beside him. The elf’s hand was thrust before him in the act of hurling his magic. It was the perfect distraction.

Argonne seized the moment and charged Holton seeking to grapple him and take him to ground. Effortlessly Holton pushed the woodsman away.

Morgan pulled the strange sceptre from his belt and suddenly his muscles seemed to tighten, his back arched and his head snapped back, his legs stiffened and his arms stretched out from his sides. A golden light radiated from him, burning away the mist in the immediate vicinity. He brought his head down and staring at Holton, he strode forward.

Holton noticed Morgan immediately. “Mine!” He hissed as he stared at the breastplate worn by Morgan, the very breastplate Morgan had found on the first day of our exploration of the temple, the very breastplate that was in a tapestry on the level above with that very word scrawled in blood on it. But before Holton could lay claim to the breastplate Morgan smashed the sceptre into his chest. The monster screamed in pain. The blow had left a searing golden glowing wound across his chest.

It was Holton’s turn to retaliate. He shrugged aside another of my blows and that of one of the dwarfs and grabbed the breastplate that Morgan wore. It shone brighter than before and smoke began to come from the Holton’s sleeves. He jerked his hands back from the pain, the stink of burning flesh now hung in the air.

Argonne, now armed with the torch he had been carrying, crashed a blow into Holton’s back. His robes flared as they caught fire.

“Enough!” commanded Holton as he clapped his hands together. The clap caused a massive boom to resound through the room. It was so strong that all but Morgan fell to the ground.

I looked up from my disadvantaged position to see the imposing figure of Holton raise his hand to strike Morgan and again it was he that was struck by Strav’s bolt of light. Distracted Holton turned once again to Strav. It was to be his undoing. Morgan brought the sceptre down across the side of his head. He was staggered and that gave Mortec the opening he needed. As he had done with Grisha the dwarf Mortec leapt forward his right palm out thrust. The little hand latched onto Holton’s thigh and dark power flowed into it. Holton screamed in agony and then crumpled to the ground.

 

[Haraash Saan]

There was no joy in Holton’s demise, just a feeling of relief and exhaustion. I cannot recall how long it was before we managed to gather ourselves and move on, but it must have been close to an hour.

Strav, as was becoming his hallmark, led the way into the unknown from whence Holton had come. A short corridor led to a massive circular chamber with a sunken floor, perhaps ten feet below the level of the passageway. A stone jetty that maintained the corridors’ level led into the centre of the room. The rooms stretched beyond the range of our torchlight.

Continuing to indulge his ceaseless curiosity the black elf moved out to the end of the jetty, away from our flickering flames.

“Finally I am away from those infernal lights.” he grumbled to himself. “I can see a little further.”

“How curious.” he muttered “Very curious.”

“There are twelve pedestals against the wall, each with what looks like a door on the wall above them. I’ll take a look.”

With that he nimbly jumped down onto the sunken floor and strode out of our sight.

“This is weird.” We heard Strav call back to us. We had now moved forward to stand at the end of the jetty, but could no longer see any walls.

“Well,’ he continued, “those doors I mentioned. They’re not doors but paintings of doors. But the really interesting thing is that there are indentations on the top of each of the pedestals. It looks as if you have to put something in them.”

“Let me have a look.” said Morgan impatiently. He too jumped off the jetty, torch in hand.

Our eyes followed Morgan as his torch began to illuminate the scenario that Stravarious had been describing.

I asked the dwarfs whether they had come here via this room. They responded that they had, but were unsure as to which door they came through. Such was there haste to avoid Holton that they barely took in their surroundings.

At this point we spread out, each keen to do our own investigation. I inspected several of the pedestals and saw some writing in Old Gerechian. Each pedestal seemed to be some sort of mechanism for either communicating with other Gerechian temples or a magical doorway to them. That explained how the young priest and the dwarfs had come to be here in Yorath, hundreds of miles from the mountains north of Riverglenn.

The indentations Strav had mentioned looked very much like those symbols of power that we had seen on the statues on the upper level of the temple. I reasoned that one had to place the particular item, say the sceptre of Artyom Seth, into the appropriate pedestal, and a doorway would be opened.

Morgan, keeper of the sceptre, tried the idea. It almost worked. The sceptre indeed fit into the pedestal, however, no door was produced. I called out for Mortec, hoping that his immense knowledge might be able to aid us. His name just echoed around the immense room but I was surprised to get no answer. I felt concern for the little Gnome, not that I should have after seeing him suck the life (or unlife perhaps) out of Holton, so I sent Argonne off to find him.

Morgan decided to ask the mask of Valentin for its thoughts. Even as I write this I feel strange. A mask that thinks?

Anyway forgive me. Morgan asked the mask if it knew how to open the doorway. It told him that we needed an incantation spoken by a priest of Gerech while performing the right ceremony to open the door. The only Gerechian priest we knew that had not yet tried to kill us was now dead. Poor Sneefal. Perhaps I had been too harsh on him. It was not his fault that the world was the way it was. But still, he was a Gerechian which means he believed that all that Gerech had done was right.

Gerech, god of all that is right and just, or so he was proclaimed. Long ago Gerech decided that he was to be the one god because all the others bickered and fought amongst themselves. There was no order amongst them, nor their followers, so Gerech would deliver order to Anka Seth. So whilst his worshippers warred with those of the other gods, his priests created the Lightstone, the portal that allow Gerech to manifest himself in the world. Thankfully Navorod and Cassovary tainted the creation process of the Lightstone and Gerech was trapped within it. However, his followers were triumphant and began to rule the world with their extreme laws, persecuting those that did not adhere to them. It was more than a thousand years before the Druids finally brought an end to the Convocation of the Gerchians, but in doing so they released the horrors that would become the Dominion. Now all of Anka Seth was in peril due to one god trying to enforce his will upon it.

Without a priest it did not look like this was going to provide the exit we had searched for. The dwarfs were not able to return the way they had come so instead would have to come with us to Halfast via the only way we knew, the temple entrance.

We spent little more time in the chamber of the doors, as I began to call it. As we were preparing to leave Argonne returned, “Mortec is doin’ somethin’ to that corpse. Rubbing it and oiling it up. He said something about releasing it’s soul.”

Soul? Surely that had left when the servant of Geduld had turned into whatever he had been before we killed him. We left the chamber of the doors and found Mortec kneeling over the body.

He was muttering something in the gnomish language that he had been teaching me. Mostly it was a ritual of some sort. Here is an example:

“Todesmagie I beseech thee. Traverse the void and find this man’s soul. A soul is knowledge and knowledge I seek for thee.”

I interrupted him. “Mortec my good little fellow, what is it that you are doing?”

“I seek his soul. It must be released from the void to be judged. It will find no peace in the void, I must release it.” he said.

It was all cryptic to me. I knew only a little of the workings of religions and much less of souls. From my childhood instruction I knew that each religion offered two afterlives; the first was in heaven by your gods’ side (In my case Pandemonium at Laster’s side) the other in one of the hells (and no one wanted to go to hell now did they).

We let Mortec be, telling him that we would explore the doorways and passages that we had passed on our journey from the staircase. The Gnome did not even acknowledge us, so deep into the ritual of soul retrieval he was.

 

[Haraash Saan]

There were several empty rooms, and several that bore such an air of foreboding that we chose not to explore them. Best leave some things as they are. The only really interesting room was the one which had been Holton’s personal chambers. Figuring he would no longer need his possessions, we looted the room. We found hundreds of coins and several jewelled trinkets, but the most impressive discoveries were a broken symbol of Gerech and a scroll written in the language of the Dominion. Strav was quick to read it and I peered over his shoulder. Dominus was another language I had been learning, this time from Strav.

The scroll was a contract or pact that surrendered Holton into the service of Geduld. Nasty stuff. People in their right minds do not sell themselves to the God of Death. The scroll made me think back to the tapestry that we had found that had the figure of a Gerech priest leading his followers. The text mentioned Cardinal Holton, the very same Holton that became Geduld’s servant. Then I remembered the ash near the four stakes with leather thongs were someone had been tortured. It very much seemed that Holton did not sign over to Geduld of his own free will. Perhaps Mortec was right to attempt to free his soul.

Of course, in case that did not work we decided that the best thing to do was to burn the contract. Surely it could not hurt. We reassembled the symbol of Gerech as best we could and placed the parchment atop it. Morgan, in Holton’s breastplate no less, sparked a flint onto the paper. It took quickly, a little too quickly in my mind. Black smoke curled up from it as pieces began to flake away and still glowing with flames, float up into the air.

As the final discernable scrap burnt to a crisp I thought I heard a shrill but almost silent scream, and just as suddenly it was gone. Only ash remained of the contract Holton had made with Death.

There was nothing else for us here, so we gathered our booty and went to collect Mortec.

“Come on, we just burnt the contract Holton signed with Geduld. His soul should be fine now.” said Argonne bluntly.

“What?” cried Mortec in an anger that quickly subsided to annoyance, “The contract would have made freeing his soul so much easier.”

“So you are not done then?” I asked hesitantly. I feared his answer. I was right to.

“Finished? Of course not! This will take many days, depending on how willing the soul is to be judged.” snapped Mortec.

Now it was Morgan’s turn to be annoyed. “Days! We’re not waiting days for you. We have move on and get to the Games.”

“You do remember that is what we were supposed to be doing don’t you.” Morgan goaded.

“Yes, yes, but this is much more important. I’ll catch up with you in Halfast if I must.” replied Mortec anxiously.

And so it went on. We all chimed in until it was decided that we rest upstairs where we had set up a camp of sorts. Stravarious was the only one that sided with the Gnome. So it was he that carried the dead Holton to the upper levels where Mortec was to continue working on him.

Exhausted I slumped into the corner of the room I had made my own I pulled my knees up to my chin and made myself as comfortable as I could. My slumber was short lived.

I woke to the sound of the earth groaning as if it too were being woken from a deep sleep. The very ground shook. Dust which had been undisturbed for a century vibrated off walls. I coughed as I scrambled to my feet.

“Let’s get out of here!” shouted Argonne over loudening rumbles.

No one disagreed. I hurriedly gathered those possessions that were not already in my pack, and followed the loping woodsman from the room. A glance behind me saw the others in pursuit.

We quickly arrived at what was left of the Gerechian choir in the entrance hall. They had obviously gone back to what comforted them best; their dreadful singing. Snatching the reins of my horse I ran to the double doors. The thought of rats did cross my mind, but I preferred to chance them rather than stay in an ancient temple that was being shaken to pieces.

Someone had had enough foresight to light a torch. I could see it bobbing violently ahead of me, before stopping abruptly. They must have arrived at the doors.

All around me I could here the earth protest. The floor began to crack. Tiles fell from the ceiling, shattering as they hit the stone floor. The noise had become deafening.

When I arrived at the doors Strav, Argonne and Moxadder were tugging them open. A shaft of sunlight split the torch lit gloom. The doors were open! I was blinded by the harsh sunlight that bathed us. That minor setback did not stop me stumbling forward.

I coughed and spluttered as the fresh air washed through my dust encrusted lungs. It tasted so sweet and so alive compared to the stagnant, cold air of the temple.

A final ominous crash rumbled from behind us, followed by a massive cloud of dust, and then all was still. I managed a surveying glance to make sure we had all made it out of the temple. Everyone was there, including the corpse of Holton. How Strav managed it I still do not know.

 

[Haraash Saan]

Chapter 9 – My oh my, what a comfy bed

The morning sun revealed the desolation that surrounded us. The rats had moved on but not before having eaten every living thing, including the farmers we had seen during our flight. Broken brush and dirt was all that remained.

No one had been significantly injured during our recent flight, however, because he was carrying Holton, the extra weight had caused Strav to stumble as he charged through the doorway.

As the dust settled an argument began.

“It’s not natural!” fumed Argonne as he pointed to Holton’s body. “He’s dead. He should be buried or burnt, not oiled and fawned over.”

“You don’t understand, you simpleton!” Spat back Mortec. “I am trying to save his soul. A lost soul is terrible thing. Imagine its pain, wandering forever with no peace.”

“He’s dead.” Argonne repeated as he reached into his pack. After a moment his flint was in hand. “Morgan surely you of all people would understand. Gather some dry brush and we’ll burn the corpse.”

“No.” commanded Strav as he stepped between the body and Argonne. “Mortec says he can release its soul. And so he will.”

Argonne took a step toward Strav, who tensed, hand moving to the hilt of his rapier.

“Um, who’s that?” queried Morgan casually, completely diffusing the tension.

My gaze followed his finger to the lintel set above the great doorway of the temple. A man sat cross-legged upon it. His hair was wild, knotted and unkempt in contradiction to his serene and peaceful face. A long bone pipe rested casually between his lips, its bowl clasped between thumb and forefinger. Somewhat disconcerting to me was that he appeared not at all concerned that we were now aware of him.

Always the spokesman I introduced myself, “Hello good sir. I am Gerard d’Mowbray and these are my companions. May I ask what it is that you are doing perched atop that lintel?

Our mysterious watcher pulled the pipe from his mouth and smiled as he replied. “Merely contemplating my surrounds.” He drew a long breath on his pipe.

“And how long is it that you have been sitting there contemplating?” I asked sounding friendlier than I felt.

Another inhalation followed by a moments pause, “Most of the morning I would think. It seemed a nice place to relax.” Said the stranger.

With that he leapt off his roost and landed nimbly in a crouch. Standing up, he said “My name is Zhontell.”

Our concerns regarding Holton were ignored as Zhontell explained that he had been travelling the peninsula of Yorath for some weeks, wandering with no purpose or destination.

As Zhontell spoke I realised that he was no man, but an elf. His face was angular, even more so than Stravarious’, but his skin was pale, not black.

His loose homespun tunic did not hide his large and toned muscles, unusual for an elf, and the reason I had initially taken him for a human. The ash staff he carried was the only sign of a weapon.

My initial suspicions faded, there was a calming air about him. He seemed a likeable fellow so at the conclusion of his story we invited him to join us on our journey to Halfast.

Such was our trust we allowed Zhontell to lead us across country to shorten our trip. Once again the travelling party has grown; first with dwarfs and now this odd elf. The mood was light and relief at escaping the Gerechian temple was obvious, but our initial boisterous conversation faded quickly. We were simply too tired to continue.

The elf led us to the ruins of the temple of Srcan where we had previously sought shelter from the rain more than a month ago whilst on our original journey to Yorath.

Seeing the ruins again caused me to remember the strange bone that I had found on our earlier visit and ignore my fatigue. After making camp I pulled it out of my pack and studied it intently. It was slightly curved at each end and there were unusual markings, very much like writing, on one side of it. My fingers traced gently over the inscription. I had never really taken time to study it before, not that I would have made much of it.

A shadow, flickering in the camp–fires light, loomed over my right shoulder. “May I have a look at that?” ask Zhontell.

“But of course.” I said as I handed it to him. “Can you read it?”

“Hmm? Yes.” said Zhontell as he looked it over, “The writing is in the language of the Fey. It says ‘Strong arm to the mistress of the strike.’ A saying usually attributed to the followers of Srcan.”

“So what is the bone for?” I asked, seeing an opportunity to build a rapport with our newest companion.

“Ah, I thought you knew. It is a bow. It simply needs a string and it will make a fine weapon.” he said.

I chuckled. Well that was one question answered. All this time I carried around some sort of holy weapon.

“May I have it?” asked Zhontell.

I had no need of it and I recognised another opportunity to learn more from our friend, so I agreed on the condition that he teach me the Fey language. He agreed, and so began my lessons in Fey.

 

[Haraash Saan]

The next two days passed quickly for me. I spent my time between the dwarfs and Zhontell learning all I could of their respective languages whilst I had the opportunity.

The countryside had gradually changed from open flat scrub land to the scattered woods we now travelled in, all evidence of the rat plague long gone. It was late afternoon on the fifth day of Burn when we heard voices on the around the bend on the road ahead.

“Come now lads. Put your backs into it.” cried Zmrat’s familiar voice.

As we rounded the corner we saw that he was standing beside the road and directing the others of the Massive Hand to haul a huge tree that had fallen over the road.

We quickly exchanged greetings and salutations and went to work helping the Massive Hand. Manual labour is not my forte but my horse was happy enough to assist.

It was dark by the time our task was complete, so we made camp and I swapped adventures with Zmrat until long into the night.

The only unusual circumstance of the next few days travelling was a mysterious figure that Zhontell saw hiding in the scrub. Investigation only confirmed that someone had been there. Our observer had quickly scarpered into the brush when he realised he had been seen.

Zmrat seemed unconcerned, dismissing the incident. “So the intrigue begins,” he said. “He was no doubt a spy out to see who we are and how much of a threat we are to be in the Games.”

The Halfast Games were always dangerous, more so outside of the arena than in. At least in the arena there were rules, when an entrant was not competing all manner of mishaps could befall them. ‘Accidents’, unfortunate injuries, poisoning and even murder were all pitfalls of participation in the Games.

Whilst nothing else of particular interest occurred during those hot and dry days, I took all chance to continue my lessons with the Rokana. Dwarven was a hard language to master but I had started to get my tongue and mind around its guttural harshness. It was so different to my native Guernean.

Of an evening I took to trying to decipher the books of magic that we had taken from Grisha the dwarf. I spent many candle lit hours scouring through them attempting to discern any patterns or similarities.

It was midday on the eleventh of Burn that we returned the town of Thornwood. The stillness loomed thick and demonstrated that even in the forty days since we had last passed this way that the danger of plague still lurked.

I was all for passing through town, surely there was little risk now, but others were doubtful. To put our debate to rest Togale gathered us to around and proceeded to bless us in Muhbelung’s name. He reached down and grabbed a handful of earth in his fat palm, then raised both of his stumpy arms into the air, closed his eyes and called out to the skies. In an act of finality he scattered the dirt over us and said, “The great Muhbelung has blessed us. We are free to pass through the village without fear.”

Whilst I am always one to be grateful for a divine benediction, I was abhorred to have soil thrown over me. I did well to control my anxiety, but as soon as the cleric had turned away I ferociously brushed myself down and made sure that I removed all traces of the dirt from my person. I caught myself before I verbally damned Muhbelung and his filthy ways. As I have said before, there is no point angering the Gods.

So it was with holy intervention that we entered Thornwood. An eerie warm wind whistled down the vacant main street. Buildings had been looted long before we had arrived. Doors were smashed in or swinging on their hinges. Every home or shop we passed had the dishevelled look of a ransack about them.

At least the town provided some respite from the biting sun. For days we had travelled with little shelter from its unrelenting heat. With that in mind the decision was quickly made to take a long midday break.

One of the dwarves found the smithy and fired the furnace and began to tinker with some of scrap metal that was about. After paying my respects in the desecrated temple of my own God, Laster, I found an empty building with a solid chair and sat myself down to study my magic books. I passed most of the afternoon with my nose firmly planted between their pages with the thin and shrill hammering from the forge as an accompaniment.

Some hours later a loud hail roused me from my studies. Strav, rapier swishing menacingly in hand and the others were standing in the street facing an elderly black robed man.

No one spoke for a moment, then I heard him say, “Yes, good, all here” as he opened a scroll tube and unrolled a parchment.

He hacked through a cough to clear his throat and called out, “I seek a member of the Hydra!”

Strav stepped forward, “I am a Hydra. What do you want?” he said disrespectfully.

“Yes, good. This is for you.” The old man said as he hobbled forward gently palming Strav’s rapier aside as he handed him the parchment.

He then turned on his heel and shuffled off, much to my amusement. None had even thought to ask his name before he had rounded a corner and was gone.

We crowded around Strav as he read the paper that he had been given;

“To the team from Yorath known as the Hydra.

It is with pleasure that we offer you an invitation to participate in the annual Halfast Games.

Registration is to be completed in Cassavary Square in Halfast on the Twenty Sixth Day of Burn.”

So our official invite to the Games had arrived. How the old codger had known to find us here in Thornwood was a mystery. On inquiring of the Massive Hands’ invitation Zmrat slapped his breast and said “Already received ours back in Yorathton. They must have missed you when you were away on the Baron’s business.”

The sun had slowly begun its descent so we decided to move on and journey as far as we could in the pleasant warmth of the evening before settling for the night.

 

[Haraash Saan]

It was mid-morning three days later as we approached the sprawling city of Halfast when Zhontell noticed smoke coming from a large copse of trees a few miles off the road. Whilst no one else thought it important he was curious enough to decide to investigate and told us that he would meet us that evening at the Inn at the End of the Road.

The dwarfs too finally took their leave of us. They wished not to be noticed, as dwarfs always do in the cities of men, and chose to skirt the city before continuing on their own journey.

It was good to be back in civilisation, even if it was the pit of Halfast and not the cultured halls of Thessingcourt. Excitement radiated throughout the populace. Every person within the city was keen to see the Games. Who would win? Who would be killed? What amazing magics would be seen? All these questions and a thousand more were on everybody’s lips. The Inn at the End of the Road was no different.

A typical assortment of patrons occupied the common room, but there were several that I noted. A large man sat perspiring in one corner counting a pile of coins. A mug of beer rested untouched in front of him. He snorted so violently that the fat that kept him warm in the winter jiggled uncontrollably. A thin and scrawny old merchant sat at a table in the middle of the room. Upon the table lay a ledger, a pot of ink and a fine quill. A small locked chest sat beside the ledger, and every now and again a patron would approach the table, have a quick word and then pass him some coin. At the end of the transaction he fished an iron key from within his robes, unlocked the chest and deposit the coin within and then once again locked the chest. As the merchant took another wager the process was repeated. However he was at no risk of it being removed for it was under the watchful eye of giant of a man who stood behind him. No less than six and a half feet tall and all of three hundred pounds. The man was a mountain! His small beady eyes stayed focused on a point not quite at the bar but not quite on anything in between either. A large bludgeon hung loosely from his rope belt. It somehow seemed an appropriate weapon for the shaven headed giant.

There was a wizened priest of Todesmagie sitting thoughtfully near the door but more importantly a very attractive wisp of a girl sitting with a heavy set woman who was armed to the teeth. The girl was certainly one to draw attention to herself, not only pretty but an albino as well. Her white hair fell across her face and covered one eye only adding to her mystique.

Morgan was quick to make her acquaintance. Mortec spotted his brethren and, after a grabbing a mug of ale, made his was to the priest. The others ordered likewise and sat themselves at a vacant table. For my part I simply asked for the best room and for a hot bath.

It was a few hours before I rejoined my merry comrades. Many empty tankards sat on their table. I went to the bar to order my companions another round when I saw a bottle of Montfort’s finest, Astrid’s Marvelous Mead on a shelf behind the bar. No wine for me, no indeed!

A delightful creature served me. Mousey hair framed an angelic face. All my thoughts of the wispy girl vanished when the angel smiled. I introduced myself and asked for her name.

“Melinda my lord.” She replied bashfully, her big blue eyes fluttered as they looked away from me.

To say it was a wonderful night would be understating it. Not only was I back in the civilised world but I had managed to savour the delicious mead of my home and also shared my bed with a beautiful and energetic girl.

The next day I discovered the Zhontell had returned after I had turned in for the evening. He had found a clearing with no less than seven corpses. They had once represented a team that had previously competed in the Games and was expected to do well this year. One, a sentry, had had his throat slit, the others had been poisoned.

Zhontell also found their assassin hiding in the brush. At least he died knowing his killer. The murderer wore a small badge that a lucid Moxadder confirmed to be the emblem of the Silent Way, the local guild of thieves and cutthroats.

Days earlier when Zhontell had spotted the watcher on the road just before we arrived at Thornswood we had disregarded any threat to us, but his latest news had us all on edge. Obviously someone would go to any lengths to have their potential opponents eliminated before the Games.

So impressed with his tale my drunken friends offered him a place on the Hydra. At least they added the provision that he must pay his own way as there was no way we could raise the five thousand sickle entry fee for him. And so it was that we found an eighth head for the Hydra. I hoped that we would not regret it. We were yet to see him fight, only hear his own tale of his victory over the assassin.

Morgan’s evening had not been fruitless either. He had befriended the albino, who went by the curious name Ship’s Cat, and her companion, a woodswoman by the name of Delpheen, self proclaimed ‘Ranger of the Dawn’ and another competitor at the Games. Morgan’s initial plan had taken an interesting turn when he had left with Delpheen and not Ship’s Cat as he had originally intended.

My first task was to find my brother Absquith. A simple task it proved to be. I quickly discovered that he was staying at rooms nearby to the Inn at the End of the Road of which he was a regular patron.

I quickly located his lodging and pounded upon its solid oak door. “Absquith!” I bellowed, “It is Gerard come back from Yorath. Open up!”

In only a moment the door swung open quickly to reveal a beaming Absquith.

“Ha ha! You’re back at last! I was beginning to think that you had become lost!” he said jovially as he pulled me into a strong embrace.

"Lost? Unlikely dear brother. You know that I would never miss the games!” I responded. “How good it is to see you! How have you fared and what news of the family?"

“The family is hale, though your twin makes herself more and more absent from Mowbray. Isabella has secreted herself away near her dismal trading post, and spends much time with some odd woman from Montfort who sails up the river to visit her. In the last month I passed though Montfort to check on the mead brews, they look to be good for the next few years, and to check on her. She misses you as dearly. You would do well to write to her.” He said.

“Yes indeed. I must write her. I have not had a chance to write since succeeding in the Baron’s tasks. And so much has happened since then!” I said.

Absquith keenly listened to the tales of myself and my companions. He was most impressed with my adventures with the pirate lord Rumscully Jack and our unexpected exploration of the Gerechian Temple.

“I can hardly believe my own little brother capturing Rumscully Jack! Or even more surprisingly venturing into the dark and dirty depths on an ancient temple! Ha ha, magnificent!” he laughed as he slapped his knee, “Father would be most impressed I am sure! You must look forward to being knighted? I'd say a couple of victories at the Games may well be enough to satisfy Mendus!”

Baron Mendus was the lord of our family lands and the man whom I would serve when I was knighted.

“But of course dear brother. A couple of victories should be no hard task!” I bragged, “I am certainly a changed man since I left Halfast. I have learnt so much and cannot wait to test myself in the arena!”

We spoke until the shadows of the sunset descended upon the city. Absquith told me that when he was not training he had been courting the Countess Bontein. It would be a fine match for Absquith. He was after all a knight and she a Countess of the Fastness! Whilst he did not feel confident he hoped to impress her with his performance in the Games.

He told me of various rumours and court whispers that he had heard and also of the growing ill health of the King and how the kingdom prepared for his passing.

It was sad news. Thurlland II was a good King that had done much for the unity of Guerney and the prosperity of its people.

“So Absquith what chance are you in the Games? Will you win a bout?” I asked with smirk trying to goad him.

“Win? Of course, I may even win a few bouts depending on my opposition. But alas it would take a good draw and some luck for me to be victorious in the Journeyman division.” He said.

“But I do know that I’ll do better than you little brother!” he added with a chuckle. “You’ll not win one match methinks. I’ve even wagered against you!”

“Against me?” I was momentarily aghast before I realised it was he that had goaded me, “Well I will take your gold big brother. I will win my first tourney!” I said with confidence.

Of course I would win! How could I lose? I was like a serpent with my blade, striking before an opponent knew that I was there.

He accepted my wager and I bid him good evening, I wanted to catch up with my comrades and more importantly Melinda.

“One last thing Gerard. Isabella sends you this.” said Absquith as he handed me a red scarf.

“It came with this note.” He added as he passed a rolled parchment with the seal of Treville on it.

I thanked him and went on my way wondering what Izy had written in the note.

 

[Qwernt]

This is EXCELLENT writing! Love the style!

 

[Haraash Saan]

Thanks very much for the kind words. Much appreciated.

 

[Haraash Saan]

Back in my room at the inn I hurriedly broke the wax and unrolled the note from my sister. Written in her careful and considerate flowing hand was;

“Dearest Gerard,

Please accept my small gift. Wear it and speak to me of your thoughts brother. It will be as when we were young, when our thoughts were one.

With my love,

Isabella"

I examined the scarf. It was clearly well made but it did not seem unusual in any way. But my sister was blessed with power and I trusted her. So I tied it around my waist so that its ends hung from my hip. Inwardly I chuckled at the memory of how she and I used know how we felt by simply thinking of the other. How we could share our thoughts and have conversations in silence. Funnily I had never really given it much thought until now. I had never really considered why or how we could do it. I suppose I just attributed it to Izy’s gift.

I must admit I felt a little foolish when I called to her with my mind, as I used to when we were children.

“Isabella?”

“Dear brother, I see that Absquith gave you my gift.” Isabella’s reply blew into my mind.

I was so startled that I jumped. Momentarily my mind felt violated as if my thoughts were no longer my own, but then her thoughts seemed to blend with mine, and my anxiety was replaced with the comfort that I remembered from long ago.

“Beloved sister, I had not imagined that we would ever converse like this again. It’s been so long.” I said.

“Indeed it has.” laughed Isabella, “But fear not, for I can sense some fear in your mind, I can only hear those thoughts you direct at me. I cannot read your mind, well not without touching you.”

We spoke for hours. I told her of all my adventures and she spoke of her rural life and her experiments with her sorcerous talents.

“What of your own talent Gerard? Have you been practicing?” she inquired.

“Indeed I have. In fact I was being taught in Yorath by a worldly fellow named Zmrat. But I fear I have very little of the gift that you are blessed with.” I said, “However, during my travels I have seen many wondrous magics and even found some books that discuss all manner of spells and tricks. I have been trying to decipher them but am having a great deal of difficulty.”

“Hmm, book magic. How interesting.” She replied thoughtfully. “Perhaps you could find Leo’s apprentice Freydis. She is in Halfast gathering all manner of things for old Leo. She may be able to help you unlock the secrets of your magic books.”

Leo was an ancient, hobbled wizard that had retired in Montfort. He was very strange but very clever and studious in the arcane arts. Freydis learnt what she could from the old man and repaid him with errands such as the one my sister had mentioned. She may very well be able to teach me how to understand the power within the parchment of my books.

“And what of you gorgeous one?” I asked, “No doubt you have some rustic knight or three swooning over you.”

“No, far from it. Since running from Mowbray and Father’s selected suitors none have been interested in courting me. I keep to myself, inland from the trade dock.” she replied, “I spend time with one of your less forthcoming subjects, Grimhilda. I am not sure you would have heard of her, let alone collect her taxes each month. She lives on your north border, closer to my cottage really.

“Perhaps she should be my subject?” Isabella added with a laugh. “What of you, the great adventurer Gerard de Mowbray? My handsome brother must have all the ladies of the court chasing him hmm?”

“Whilst it should be so I have not really been presenting myself in court. I have been avoiding it truth be told. And in any case I have a beautiful lass that is providing me with company.” I said, telling her of the delightful Melinda.

Isabella feigned shock that I, son of Sir Reginald de Mowbray, would dare share my bed with a peasant. We both laughed for our half sister Regina came from a similar indiscretion of my Fathers.

Our talk moved to more benign topics. Izy had been creating an ‘herb’ garden, ‘Recreational herbs’ she described her produce. Immediately I thought of Moxadder and how he would enjoy a visit to my sister’s home. And then how the honey had been excellent in Montfort and Astrid, brewer of Astrid’s Marvellous Mead, had had a fine year.

“But dear brother not all is well here in our lands.” She said sadly. “Barbarians have been spotted by trappers on my northern borders. And whilst they seem to pose no threat, I am still worried that they will venture further south.”

It was unusual that the violent and uncultured creatures would be so far from their usual haunts of the mountains and the steppes. I myself had not seen a barbarian before, but I recalled Absquith’s tales from the borders of Guerney where he fought the barbarian hordes. They were a tough and hardy nomadic people that lived off the flesh of anything that they could find. Their skin was the colour of the night sky and he said that in the darkness only their yellowed fangs and red eyes could be seen. Fell and repulsive to look upon they were ferocious warriors. I certainly did not want these beasts near my sisters or my lands.

“Grimhilda has also brought news of several bandit attacks on merchants. Some were attacked coming down the river to Montfort, others on the road North from Thessingcourt.” Isabella continued. “I think it would be best if you came home to see for yourself what is happening in your lands.”

“Indeed I will my dear one.” I said with conviction, “I will come North. North to my home and North to ensure that you are safe.”

And so we ended our conversation, my mind still tingled with her lingering words.

A few days after having conversed with Isabella I ventured to a herbalist to see if there were any plants, berries or potions that may be able to aid me in the Games. After seeing the effects of drugs on Moxadder I was almost certain there must be some good to be found in the plant world.

“These will make you feel more energetic and more powerful young Master.” said Miscrott, the hook nosed proprietor of the store as he offered me some small purple berries.

I purchased them with a little scepticism but thanked the little fussy man for his wares and help. He told me to take them just before entering the arena so that they would give me the best effect.

As I stepped from his quaint little store back into the sunlight of the chaotic street I noticed, though squinting eyes, a familiar face. In fact it was really an unforgettable face.

The nose that sat upon it was broken and crooked. The left eye was half closed through some strange affliction and several large warts congregated on its chin.

“Freydis!” I exclaimed as I recovered from my natural repulsion, “How good it is to see you.” It was an interesting expression in her case.

“Milord?” she said

“Yes indeed Freydis.” I confirmed jovially. “How are you and how is old Leo? Causing no magical mischief is he?”

“I am well milord. Thank ye for asking. As is Leo, although I fear his mind may be slipping in his dotage.” She replied sheepishly, no doubt uncomfortable speaking to her master.

I explained my circumstance and asked her if she could help me with interpreting my books, offering her payment of the knowledge within. She was most excited by the prospect of taking me on as her pupil, but also at the chance of acquiring more magical knowledge.

In those days leading up to the Halfast Games I spent my mornings sparring with my companions or Absquith, my afternoons locked away in my room at the Inn at the End of the Road trying to decipher my magical books and my evenings enjoying the inn’s hospitality and later Melinda’s.

She was a delightful girl, and I must admit to beginning to fall for her. She had strange sort of innocence that one doe not find in the ladies of the court and she quite simply adored me (which of course was understandable). Although perhaps that was because of the mistreatment she had experienced. In recent months one nefarious scum, Vrsock, had taken an interest in her, at first he himself took her forcibly but then began paying her for her company to make her ‘safe and secure’. I was mortified that she had been raped by him and then essentially used her has his own personal prostitute. The thought of this Vrosck character forcing my Melinda to lie with him made me furious! I made a vow to myself to catch him and make him pay for harming her.