Lazybones
Adventurer
I'll update the Rogues' Gallery shortly.
* * * * *
Chapter 86
THE RETURN
A cold wind rose up, swirling around the knobby hills and sending plumes of dead leaves spinning through the air.
Corath Dar stood at the edge of a familiar valley, almost in the same exact spot he’d been when he and his erstwhile companions had been doomed to a harsh fate in the dungeons of Rappan Athuk.
It was a gloomy day, the sky above an unbroken slate of dark gray. Winter had come in earnest, but the weather had in fact seemed to conspire to speed them here; the first early storms had blown past them, and the road they’d taken from Camar had been dry throughout their hurried journey. Talen had expressed hope that they might catch Allera’s captors on the road, but Varo had not been optimistic. The cleric had taken on an air of fatalism that had grated on Dar. Things were dark enough without such a mood.
He stared down into the valley. The lowest part of the valley seemed to be immune to the wind; wisps of persistent fog continued to clog the space between the mausoleums, the long fingers of mist creeping up through the gravestones, finally fading about fifty yards from where he stood. The stench of death was fresh, mixed with the smell of char. The bodies scattered around the western edge of the valley had been picked clean by predators, and there were bones everywhere one walked. The burned wreckage of the Camarian fort jutted into the air like a momument to the place.
Grim, Dar thought.
He turned to regard his companions.
The mood on the journey here had been darkened by more than the gravitas of their mission, and the well-deserved reputation of their destination. Even Dar, not much for subtlety, could sense the lines of tension between the members of this company. Their camps each night had been quiet, with little idle conversation and a good share of dark stares. In some ways, this group was more at odds with itself than the original Doomed Bastards. There, they had at least shared a common foe, and a hatred of the authority that had compelled them to enter the dungeon.
Talen and Shay stood together, yet turned slightly away from each other. Dar felt that they were being stupid. Now that their relationship was more or less out in the open, that should have taken care of that. Her escape from Rappan Athuk had been unbelieveable enough; she’d shared a tale of flight through a great underground cavern, of mushroom men and goblin miners and fearsome umber hulks. What little he’d heard of it had forced him to reevaluate his impression of the dark-haired scout. She was someone to be reckoned with.
But Dar got the feeling that Talen wasn’t happy to see Shay return to Rappan Athuk, while Shay clearly bristled at the unwelcome overprotectiveness from her former captain. Talen was distracted, and it probably was for the best that he wasn’t in clear command of this mission. Not that some of their number would have obeyed his commands, in any case. The fool probably felt guilty for abandoning his lord as well. Dar didn’t waste any time on such thoughts; Tiros would either handle things in Camar, or he wouldn’t. In any case, it was a waste of time to dwell on anything other than their current objective... and staying alive.
Varo was... well, Varo was Varo. Dar knew that the cleric concealed layers of hidden motivations under his inscrutable façade. Dar wasn’t stupid enough to turn his back on him. Varo had saved his life numerous times, and Dar did not doubt his hatred of the cult of Orcus. But Dar had been thinking a lot lately of their earlier visit in Rappan Athuk, and questions kept coming to mind, especially when he thought back to the things that Varo had done and said in the Dungeon of Graves.
The elf was even more of a mystery. He’d been completely transformed when Varo had released him from the insanity that had gripped him their last time here. His features, then warped by madness, now bore the quiet and alien somberness that seemed a birthright of all of the sylvans. He’d been healed, but his body still bore the marks of the incredible physical strains to which he’d been subjected. He still moved with the smooth grace characteristic of his people, but Dar could see that he was neither as fast nor as strong as he’d witnessed before. Normally composed, Dar had noticed that the elf tended to flinch at loud or sudden noises, and he often looked into the shadows with a faraway, haunted expression in his eyes. While now at least nominally sane, his memories had been gutted, and he did not even remember his name, or who he had been prior to his appearance in Camar. He now called himself “Malerase,” which Shay had explained meant “forgotten one” in the language of his race. Varo had said that he was a magic-user, and while he hadn’t done anything that had impressed Dar thus far, the cleric had said that his abilities would develop quickly as he recovered from his ordeal. He spoke little, and Dar had made no effort to draw him out.
His gaze shifted to the two newest members of their company. They were a good part of the reason for the tension within the group. The two men returned the fighter’s scrutiny with cold gazes of their own.
The newcomers were the result of Valen Tiros’s negotiations with two of the stronger power groups in Camar. Although clearly torn by the capture of Allera, it had been obvious that the marshal would not be joining them on the mission to rescue her. Tiros had his hands full keeping Camar from tumbling over the edge into outright civil war. Sending a platoon of soldiers to help them was out of the question, and in Dar’s mind, probably for the best. Where they had to go, they would probably only leave bodies behind them.
In all justice to the marshal, Tiros had done his best. He’d provided them with mounts and spares, and new equipment. Dar wore a new breastplate, an exceptional suit in a slightly archaic style. It was probably older than he was, but it had been kept up, and infused with magic to boot. The breastplate had been etched with the rose of Camar in faint relief, but a plain black surcoat had taken care of that.
The two men, their new allies, had been the response to Tiros’s plea for aid to the Guild of Sorcery and the Church of the Shining Father. Both organizations had been complicit in the corrupt rule of the Duke, at least in Dar’s mind. But Tiros would need their support if he was going to have any chance of establishing a new ruling coalition. So quiet negotiations had been undertaken, ‘arrangements’ had been made, and now a representative of each organization stood with them at Rappan Athuk.
Theodorus Vitus Zosimos was a lean, almost wiry man in his early forties. His features were drawn, his face covered with a meticulously trimmed beard of black as yet untinged with gray. His expression took on a particular intensity when he was thinking about something, which was almost always. They’d already seen his magic, when they’d encountered a quartet of trolls on the road two days ago. The evoker had blasted the creatures with a fireball from a hundred yards out that had been impressive indeed, and when they’d put the injured creatures down after a brief and violent melee, Zosimos had finished them off with a spray of fire from his fingertips. He was competent, cool, and supremely arrogant; in other words, the perfect embodiment of the Guild.
And then there was the cleric. If the Church had wanted to drive an explosive wedge into their midst, they could not have done better than to send Marcus Cornelius Valus as their representative. Varo had greeted the news calmly, but Dar had known him well enough to know that the cleric had been furious. But the help of a high priest could not be refused, and Dar knew well enough to know that they’d probably need the man’s talents on this trip. He and Varo had spent the entire trip avoiding each other, which was fine with Dar. Even leaving aside the man’s role in sending them into Rappan Athuk the first time, Valus was a prick. He’d obeyed his orders, and had helped to heal them in the aftermath of the brief battle against the trolls, but he made no attempt to conceal his contempt for those he was sent to aid.
There were four others riding with them, scouts from Tiros’s old command. Their role was to watch their horses and keep a secure camp, hidden in the adjacent hills. From what he knew of the area around the dungeon entrance, Dar knew that they weren’t going to have easy duty by any means.
“All right, let’s get this over with,” the fighter said. He checked his weapons for the fifth time since their arrival. In addition to his magical club and punching dagger, and a new longbow, the sword Valor hung at his side. Tiros had not contested his claim to the blade, perhaps knowing that Dar would have far more need of its power, where he was going.
The fighter started down into the valley. Bones crunched under his feet, and behind him he could hear the others, forming a broad line as they made their way back to Rappan Athuk.
* * * * *
Chapter 86
THE RETURN
A cold wind rose up, swirling around the knobby hills and sending plumes of dead leaves spinning through the air.
Corath Dar stood at the edge of a familiar valley, almost in the same exact spot he’d been when he and his erstwhile companions had been doomed to a harsh fate in the dungeons of Rappan Athuk.
It was a gloomy day, the sky above an unbroken slate of dark gray. Winter had come in earnest, but the weather had in fact seemed to conspire to speed them here; the first early storms had blown past them, and the road they’d taken from Camar had been dry throughout their hurried journey. Talen had expressed hope that they might catch Allera’s captors on the road, but Varo had not been optimistic. The cleric had taken on an air of fatalism that had grated on Dar. Things were dark enough without such a mood.
He stared down into the valley. The lowest part of the valley seemed to be immune to the wind; wisps of persistent fog continued to clog the space between the mausoleums, the long fingers of mist creeping up through the gravestones, finally fading about fifty yards from where he stood. The stench of death was fresh, mixed with the smell of char. The bodies scattered around the western edge of the valley had been picked clean by predators, and there were bones everywhere one walked. The burned wreckage of the Camarian fort jutted into the air like a momument to the place.
Grim, Dar thought.
He turned to regard his companions.
The mood on the journey here had been darkened by more than the gravitas of their mission, and the well-deserved reputation of their destination. Even Dar, not much for subtlety, could sense the lines of tension between the members of this company. Their camps each night had been quiet, with little idle conversation and a good share of dark stares. In some ways, this group was more at odds with itself than the original Doomed Bastards. There, they had at least shared a common foe, and a hatred of the authority that had compelled them to enter the dungeon.
Talen and Shay stood together, yet turned slightly away from each other. Dar felt that they were being stupid. Now that their relationship was more or less out in the open, that should have taken care of that. Her escape from Rappan Athuk had been unbelieveable enough; she’d shared a tale of flight through a great underground cavern, of mushroom men and goblin miners and fearsome umber hulks. What little he’d heard of it had forced him to reevaluate his impression of the dark-haired scout. She was someone to be reckoned with.
But Dar got the feeling that Talen wasn’t happy to see Shay return to Rappan Athuk, while Shay clearly bristled at the unwelcome overprotectiveness from her former captain. Talen was distracted, and it probably was for the best that he wasn’t in clear command of this mission. Not that some of their number would have obeyed his commands, in any case. The fool probably felt guilty for abandoning his lord as well. Dar didn’t waste any time on such thoughts; Tiros would either handle things in Camar, or he wouldn’t. In any case, it was a waste of time to dwell on anything other than their current objective... and staying alive.
Varo was... well, Varo was Varo. Dar knew that the cleric concealed layers of hidden motivations under his inscrutable façade. Dar wasn’t stupid enough to turn his back on him. Varo had saved his life numerous times, and Dar did not doubt his hatred of the cult of Orcus. But Dar had been thinking a lot lately of their earlier visit in Rappan Athuk, and questions kept coming to mind, especially when he thought back to the things that Varo had done and said in the Dungeon of Graves.
The elf was even more of a mystery. He’d been completely transformed when Varo had released him from the insanity that had gripped him their last time here. His features, then warped by madness, now bore the quiet and alien somberness that seemed a birthright of all of the sylvans. He’d been healed, but his body still bore the marks of the incredible physical strains to which he’d been subjected. He still moved with the smooth grace characteristic of his people, but Dar could see that he was neither as fast nor as strong as he’d witnessed before. Normally composed, Dar had noticed that the elf tended to flinch at loud or sudden noises, and he often looked into the shadows with a faraway, haunted expression in his eyes. While now at least nominally sane, his memories had been gutted, and he did not even remember his name, or who he had been prior to his appearance in Camar. He now called himself “Malerase,” which Shay had explained meant “forgotten one” in the language of his race. Varo had said that he was a magic-user, and while he hadn’t done anything that had impressed Dar thus far, the cleric had said that his abilities would develop quickly as he recovered from his ordeal. He spoke little, and Dar had made no effort to draw him out.
His gaze shifted to the two newest members of their company. They were a good part of the reason for the tension within the group. The two men returned the fighter’s scrutiny with cold gazes of their own.
The newcomers were the result of Valen Tiros’s negotiations with two of the stronger power groups in Camar. Although clearly torn by the capture of Allera, it had been obvious that the marshal would not be joining them on the mission to rescue her. Tiros had his hands full keeping Camar from tumbling over the edge into outright civil war. Sending a platoon of soldiers to help them was out of the question, and in Dar’s mind, probably for the best. Where they had to go, they would probably only leave bodies behind them.
In all justice to the marshal, Tiros had done his best. He’d provided them with mounts and spares, and new equipment. Dar wore a new breastplate, an exceptional suit in a slightly archaic style. It was probably older than he was, but it had been kept up, and infused with magic to boot. The breastplate had been etched with the rose of Camar in faint relief, but a plain black surcoat had taken care of that.
The two men, their new allies, had been the response to Tiros’s plea for aid to the Guild of Sorcery and the Church of the Shining Father. Both organizations had been complicit in the corrupt rule of the Duke, at least in Dar’s mind. But Tiros would need their support if he was going to have any chance of establishing a new ruling coalition. So quiet negotiations had been undertaken, ‘arrangements’ had been made, and now a representative of each organization stood with them at Rappan Athuk.
Theodorus Vitus Zosimos was a lean, almost wiry man in his early forties. His features were drawn, his face covered with a meticulously trimmed beard of black as yet untinged with gray. His expression took on a particular intensity when he was thinking about something, which was almost always. They’d already seen his magic, when they’d encountered a quartet of trolls on the road two days ago. The evoker had blasted the creatures with a fireball from a hundred yards out that had been impressive indeed, and when they’d put the injured creatures down after a brief and violent melee, Zosimos had finished them off with a spray of fire from his fingertips. He was competent, cool, and supremely arrogant; in other words, the perfect embodiment of the Guild.
And then there was the cleric. If the Church had wanted to drive an explosive wedge into their midst, they could not have done better than to send Marcus Cornelius Valus as their representative. Varo had greeted the news calmly, but Dar had known him well enough to know that the cleric had been furious. But the help of a high priest could not be refused, and Dar knew well enough to know that they’d probably need the man’s talents on this trip. He and Varo had spent the entire trip avoiding each other, which was fine with Dar. Even leaving aside the man’s role in sending them into Rappan Athuk the first time, Valus was a prick. He’d obeyed his orders, and had helped to heal them in the aftermath of the brief battle against the trolls, but he made no attempt to conceal his contempt for those he was sent to aid.
There were four others riding with them, scouts from Tiros’s old command. Their role was to watch their horses and keep a secure camp, hidden in the adjacent hills. From what he knew of the area around the dungeon entrance, Dar knew that they weren’t going to have easy duty by any means.
“All right, let’s get this over with,” the fighter said. He checked his weapons for the fifth time since their arrival. In addition to his magical club and punching dagger, and a new longbow, the sword Valor hung at his side. Tiros had not contested his claim to the blade, perhaps knowing that Dar would have far more need of its power, where he was going.
The fighter started down into the valley. Bones crunched under his feet, and behind him he could hear the others, forming a broad line as they made their way back to Rappan Athuk.
![:]](http://www.enworld.org/forum/images/smilies/devious.png "Devious :]")
