The Doomed Bastards: Reckoning (story complete)

[Lazybones]

Varo is definitely the coolest. You are doing a great job with this SH. I would love it if Varo found a way to bind the vampiric Talen to his service! Any chance of an update in the Rogues Gallery?

I'll update that thread either today or tomorrow (feel free to poke me with a stick if I forget). I did work up some stats for the vampire-Talen, who knows, maybe he'll return later in the story.

* * * * *

Chapter 278

HANGING BY A THREAD


Letellia looked up and stopped pacing as the door to her great-uncle’s chamber opened. She felt a tiny stab of relief as she saw Allera’s face; the other woman’s expression was grim, to be sure, but not dark enough to bear the news that she’d feared.

“How is he?” she asked.

“The archmage is resting,” the healer told her. “The stroke was not as bad as it could have been, but there is only so much that healing magic can do in the face of old age.”

“Thank you for coming back again. I know that... well, I heard about what happened under the cathedral.”

Allera nodded, and ran a hand through her hair absently. Much of it had grown back, although the cut was still too short to be fashionable. The scars that covered her scalp, however, were hidden from view.

“The spell was wreaking a terrible havoc upon him, even before the sudden break in the transposition in the Talon. He had to know what effect it would have, to suddenly disrupt the spell like that.”

“There was little choice,” Letellia said. “The mage’s forcecage was interfering with the mental transfer in any case, and it would have taken a minute, at least, to manage the transition safely and return control of my body to me. He knew that I had command of the dimension door, to bypass the prison in time to stop the foe from slaying the three of you.”

“I spoke to the cleric of the Father who attended to him in the aftermath. I am not pleased that he allowed Honoratius to cast the transposition again the next day.”

“You have spoken with my great-uncle,” Letellia said. “His personality is a... forceful one.”

“That is not an excuse for reckless behavior.”

“He is almost a hundred years old,” Letellia said. “He made his decision with full knowledge of the consequences. If he hadn’t returned to Rappan Athuk, then we’d still be there.”

Allera nodded.

“Will he recover?” Letellia asked, after a pause.

“He was lucid, earlier, and I do not believe that the injury affected his faculties. But I cannot condone further use of the transposition magic, not in his current condition. Even a regular casting of the spell could trigger another stroke, and a disruption like the last one could kill him.”

Letellia nodded, but it was clear that she was keeping her calm only through an effort. She bit her lip. “I will do what I can, but I cannot guarantee that he will accept that condition.”

“I understand. He is quite an imposing man... even in these circumstances.”

“Thank you for coming, Allera. I know that there are other matters...”

“Honoratius was there for us, when we needed him. I will check in with you again tomorrow. Until then, try to see that he gets lots of rest.”

“I will.”

The sorceress escorted the healer to the door that led to the tower’s main stairs. They paused there. “Is there any news from the Tribune?” Letellia asked.

“Tiros has headed to the old legion camp at Trajaran, to consult with the leaders of the Second Legion,” Allera said. The Second Legion had just returned from Dalemar, and from what Allera had heard, its men were in poor shape after the long siege of the northern city. It had been a long tradition in Camar not to quarter armies in the city itself. There was a newer camp just a mile from the city walls, but that site was full with the recruits for the budding new Fifth Legion, barracked for the winter. Tiros had ordered the old training camp at Trajaran reopened. His motives were not just to provide for the reprovisioning of the Second; with all of the trouble facing Camar, it was likely that there would be more refugees arriving from the south and north seeking succor. Trajaran was almost a city itself, and was located only about five hours away from the capital city if one had fresh horses. “Dar and I were supposed to meet with him tonight, but he got a late start, and he may end up spending the night there.” The road connecting Trajaran and Camar, like all of the roads near the capital, was kept in good repair, and at one time the journey along the north road had been pleasant, even at night. But these days there was more to fear than a lingering winter, and most travelers were staying home, unless desperation drove the out onto the roads. And desperate people made the roads even more dangerous.

After a quick and slightly awkward embrace, Allera took her leave of the sorceress. The young apprentice that had shown her here had departed, but the healer knew the Tower well enough by now to need no guide. A year ago, the thought of entering this stronghold of ancient magic would have sent chills down her spine. It was strange, but this place of alien wonders and sinister secrets had become just another location for her of late. Maybe it was the knowledge that the Guild of Sorcery was neither as powerful nor as numerous as she’d believed growing up. Or maybe it was just that the constant exposure to strange and wondrous—and terrible—things in the past months had deadened her to those sorts of feelings.

The ground floor of the tower seemed cavernous and empty. She nodded to the guard at the door, a youth of barely sixteen armed with a wand, and headed out into the courtyard. As she walked, she thought again of Tiros, and of Camar.

While he had not admitted it, Allera suspected that Tiros had elected to abandon the siege of Dalemar. The Third Legion was still up there, in a winter camp outside the city, but they were likely in as bad shape as the Second. For all the critical significance of the northern province, the issue of Camar’s immediate survival was more pressing. The return of the Second Legion had done little to calm the fears of the people of the city, and Allera was likewise uncertain whether the presence of another legion would make a difference. She had not been surprised at the fear and anger she’d sensed on the streets of the city since their return. What had caught her unawares, however, was the sense of resignation that had fallen over the city. She hadn’t spent much time out on the streets, especially with the icy cold wind that seemed to blow constantly off the sea, but she had seen hundreds of people either shambling about with blank faces, or huddling in the shelter of doorways or within the galleries that hosted open-air markets during the warmer markets. Even with the recent flood of refugees into the city, there were plenty of empty buildings to shelter people from the harsh elements. The Night of the Dead had cut through entire neighborhoods, and had been followed by an exodus that the influx of refugees had not yet countered. But despite the cold, people seemed to want to gather together in the open air, and Allera passed at least five collections of at least a dozen people, standing in close knots around fires in empty plazas or intersections of mostly-deserted streets. Some of those people recognized her healer’s robes and looked questions at her, but she had no answers for them. What could she say to console these people? Pulling her cloak tighter around herself, she hurried past each such gathering.

She encountered more people as she approached the ducal palace. Here there was a great deal of activity, much of it conducted by men in the varied uniforms of the new City Guard. The loss of General Pravos and three hundred men to the claws and teeth of one of the ravager spawn had hurt the city’s main defense force, but more men and women had continued to join the ranks, enough so that they had run out of the old orange and gold uniforms of the Ducal Guard. Pravos had started designing a new uniform with new colors to distinguish the new organization from the old, but it had still been in the planning stages with his death. So the Guards now worse a mixture of garments that included Guard uniforms, Legion formal and battle dress, or in a number of cases, just an armband of orange cloth worn with street clothes.

The huge gates that warded the main entry to the palace complex were open, and the guards there came to attention at her approach. These men, at least, were well trained, and in the past few months they’d had plenty of experience in wielding the short swords buckled at their sides. Allera acknowledged them with a nod, and entered the courtyard beyond the gates.

The inner court was pretty in the spring, with its gardens blooming and the long galleries to each side lined with trees sagging with fresh fruit. Now, it just looked cold and barren; the plants all dormant or dead. There was activity here, with a half-dozen wagons being unloaded at one of the side entrances. As she watched a pair of teamsters boarded one of the empty wagons and lashed the two dray horses into motion. The men barely glanced at her as they left, returning to the city.

Her boots scuffed on the packed dirt of the courtyard as she made her way to the marble steps that led up toward the main entrance of the palace. There were guards here as well, and she knew that there were others that she could not see. She crossed under two statues of robed men whose outstretched arms formed an arch of sorts over the entry, and headed inside.

The palace itself was pristine, kept up by the same small army of servants that had supported it in the days of the Duke. It was an impressive feat, Allera thought, considering the not-quite-so-small army of soldiers and visitors that passed through these halls each day.

A man clad the orange-trimmed robe of a palace functionary had been standing in an alcove near the entrance; he came forward as Allera passed into the foyer. His bow was practiced and perfect. “Healer Hialar, can I be of assistance to you?”

“I am looking for General Dar.”

“I believe he is in the East Hall,” the man said. “If you would come with me?”

Allera knew the way to the East Hall, but she let the man lead her. She glanced back and saw that another servant replaced her escort as they left the foyer and headed deeper into the palace. For some reason, that small sign of efficiency gave her a feeling of reassurance. At least there was something that was working well in Camar, these days.

She heard Dar before she saw him. Her lover was wearing his dragonhide breastplate, which gave him a fearsome appearance even exclusive of the dour look that seemed etched onto his face of late. Valor hung at his side, and a young adjutant hovered a respectful distance back, close enough to provide assistance as needed.

Dar was engaged in a discussion—if you could call it that—with Gallo Eutropius, the representative of the city’s mercantile guilds on the ruling council. The olive-skinned Eremite was gesticulating to punctuate the points of his argument, but he broke off as Dar said something that Allera could not quite make out. His hand had fallen to the hilt of Valor, she saw.

The merchant turned and strode away, and after a moment Dar gestured for the adjutant to follow after him. Eutropius did not acknowledge her as she passed, but Allera could read his mood quite clearly in his eyes.

“You’re the first person I’ve encountered today that I’m happy to see,” Dar said, as she came up to him.

“What happened with Eutropius?”

“He wanted me to give him answers that I don’t have.”

“You threatened him?”

“I told him that if he wanted answers, he had to talk to Tiros. I’m just a sword-swinger. My job is to hack stuff up.”

“You told him that?”

“I may not have used exactly those words.” His grin, however, indicated that they hadn’t been far off.

“I think the esteemed councilor was less than pleased at that comment.”

“The esteemed councilor can go screw himself. By the gods, sometimes I wonder how many of these idiots don’t realize what’s going on here.”

“They weren’t at Rappan Athuk, Corath. They don’t know what we know, only that everything is crashing down around them. There’s a lot of fear in the city; you can see it in the faces of anyone walking in the streets.”

“They should be scared,” Dar said. “They—”

He stopped at a small gesture from Allera, and turned to see five men standing behind him. They hadn’t quite snuck up on them, but the healer hadn’t spotted them until they were almost upon them, and it wasn’t clear from where they had come.

They were of foreign ancestry, with coloration ranging from a deep tan to a rich earthen brown. They were clad in nondescript but high-quality garments that covered and obscured their bodies, but which did not look bulky enough to conceal large weapons. Four carried themselves with the air of warriors, obvious despite the lack of armor and weapons, subtly warding the fifth, whose eyes bore a sharp and canny look of intelligence.

Dar was not in the mood for an interruption, and he made his feelings clear at once. “What the hells do you want?”

The guards tensed slightly, their expressions darkening, but the leader calmed them with a slight gesture. “I do not wish to impose upon your time, General Dar, but I have come on an important errand, and I believe that Tribune Tiros is not available at the moment.”

“You can wait until he gets back. I don’t have time for—”

“Excuse me for interrupting, but this matter does affect you directly. And you too, Allera Hialar.”

Dar’s eyes narrowed. “Just who are you? And how did you get in here without an escort?”

The man made a small bow. “My name is Master Alzoun. These are my associates.” He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping conspiratorially. “We have come to offer what aid we can to those who war against the Demon.”

Allera saw that Dar’s hand had fallen once more to the hilt of Valor. Allera glanced around; there were no guards within sight, and in fact she suddenly realized that the hall was unusually quiet.

If Dar noticed the change, he didn’t indicate it. “You’re walking a dangerous path, Alzoun. I want to know who sent you here, right now, or there is going to be... trouble.”

The man nodded, and reached up to draw out something on a chain around his neck. “I believe you will recognize this sigil,” he said.

“Gods freaking damn it,” Dar muttered.

 

[Lazybones]

Rogues' Gallery thread has been updated with the current DB stats, along with stats for the undead versions of Navev and Talen.

 

[Lazybones]

Chapter 279

THE CAVERN


The quiet and darkness were absolute, pure, and that made the breaking of both that much more dramatic.

He was alone, surrounded by a soft glow of magical light. His boots made only the slightest scuff on the bare stone floor, but even those faint sounds echoed deeply throughout the place. The odd angles and unusual formations of the cavern made every noise echo back strangely, until one could not recognize the nature of the original sound.

Elegion Alderis moved deeper into the cavern. Most elves did not look their age, but the arcanist wore the effects of Rappan Athuk upon his frame, and his steps were deliberate, as though every movement cost him credits from a diminished account of vitality. In this place, the magic of the layered auras protecting him seemed to sizzle in the air.

Others had come, since he had first found this place. He could sense them in the very air of the cavern. But the Conclave had not found what he had found here, that he knew.

It was gone now. The crystal he’d taken from this place had been destroyed by his old friend, Sultheros; there was nothing left here but memories and nightmares.

Then why was he here?

With some difficulty he made his way down a staggered tier of stone shelves that deposited him on the edge of a natural gallery fashioned in a deep crevice in the rock. Moisture glistened on the bare rocks in the glow of his light spell.

And then, so suddenly that it seemed to jump out of the darkness, he saw it.

It looked innocuous to casual observation. A vein of... something, not quite mineral, not quite crystal. The substance seemed to drink in the light of his spell. There was an opening in the middle of the vein, a depression that had held an object about the size of a wand, only thicker, like a dagger. It looked like a crack in the crystal, and one wouldn’t have known there was something unusual about it, if you hadn’t known to look.

Alderis knew. He knew all too well.

Without conscious thought he extended a hand toward the gap.

A flash of blackness.

For an instant, the gap between heartbeats, he was in a different place. A vast hall, sinister, with walls fashioned out of the bones of millions of dead creatures. A stale stink of death filled his nostrils. Behind him, something huge and terrible stirred.

Another flash, and he was back in the now, back in his reality. Pain exploded through his chest, and he staggered back, nearly falling.

He looked at the crystal formation. It had all begun here, when he’d been lured by the promise of power to take that which did not belong in this world.

A flash.

He saw himself, young and vital, reaching for the object embedded in the wall. He heard laughter, but his echo-self did not hear it. There was a flash, and he heard himself cry out in pain.

Reality. He was alone, back in the present. But the pain continued to burn inside him. He reached down and tugged at the neck of his robe, baring his chest.

There was a radiance coming from within, beneath the surface of his flesh. His chest shone with a crimson glow, like iron heated within a blacksmith’s forge, but the skin was icy cold to his touch. Black tendrils of power radiated around him. Somehow, he could see them, although his light had diminished, failing before that unholy glow.

A flash. The pain surged.

He was in the land of his dreams. A blackened landscape, populated by the dead and those who were on their way. A vast plain, as far as he could see, only corruption and decay.

A flash. The agony in his chest had grown almost unbearable, but his mind clung persistently to consciousness.

The heart of Aelvenmarr, once his home. Trees, their dead branches reaching for the sky like claws. A vile substance flowed around his ankles, burning where it touched his skin. He felt the pressure of unseen eyes, and turned to see a dozen dark figures standing behind him, their cold eyes accusing.

A flash. Fire, searing through his soul.

Here. No, not here, not again. Anywhere but here. The Dungeon of Graves, the humans called it. Darkness. Memory. And death. So much death. The death of a world. And within it all, the power of the dark god. Laughter, again, mocking, terrible.

There was another eruption of power, one that washed his sense of self away like smoke before a gale. The elf only gradually became aware. He was lying on the floor. His fingernails throbbed where he had clawed at the hard stone, and blood trailed down the side of his face where he had bit down on his lip. Pain lingered all throughout his body, but it was the dull ache of old wounds, not the flaming dagger that had cut a swath through his soul before.

Dazed, Alderis slowly dragged himself up to a seated position. He could not move any further, not yet. Once again his light spell surrounded him with a warm bubble of illumination, but the darkness beyond seemed malevolent still. He rubbed at his chest. The red glow was gone, but he still felt a cold emptiness inside him, one that did not fade as feeling returned to his body, and he slowly picked himself up off the ground. The elf stood there for what seemed a long time, his head bowed. Then, shaking himself out of the lassitude that clung to his bones, he spoke a word of magic, and vanished.

 

[Lazybones]

Chapter 280

THE HUNGER


When Gnaeus Sorio woke, he was greeted with the most intense feeling of hunger he had ever experienced. It felt as though there was a chasm inside of his belly, yawning empty, fiercely demanding.

He tried to move, but could not immediately do so. A foul stench filled his nostrils, equal parts filth and excrement and rot. Somehow the smell only intensified his hunger. The need clawing at him finally gave him the strength to move, at least to roll over.

The source of the stink was identified; he lay in a ditch that was thick with filth. It covered his body, and a part of him recoiled at the sudden urge to lick the noisome gunk off of his arms. He was weak, so very weak, but as the hunger continued to build it was giving him strength.

It was night, yet somehow he could clearly distinguish his surroundings. Realization set in; he was in one of the trash middens set outside the outer edge of the camp. He tried to remember how he had gotten here, but the hunger made it difficult to concentrate. He‘d been in his tent... no, he’d been on punishment duty... hadn’t he? His memories swam together and apart, indistinct, vague thoughts that fled as soon as he tried to fix on them. The hunger was overpowering.

Something stirred in the midden nearby. His hand shot out, and seized a fat mound of fur. It squeaked as he grasped it, and it bit his hand, but he felt only a faint dull pressure that faded against the force of the yawning need.

The next thing he knew, he was looking down at the bloody remains of the rat, not much more than scraps of fur and a few bones. His hands were covered with blood and filth. There was some small part of him that felt sick, but that was overridden by the brief, fleeting feeling that was already fading as the hunger returned.

The rat had given him some strength. Sorio crawled forward, to the edge of the ditch. He did not notice that his hands were like claws, which found easy purchase on the steep lip. Within a few seconds, he had pulled himself up.

The night was dark, very dark, but he could clearly make out the details of the stockade wall a few dozen paces away. The camp was dark, but he could smell the familiar stink of unwashed human bodies. The hunger leapt and roared at the taste of it in his nostrils, and he quivered at the power of it.

The confused jumble of memories were quickly dying, but there was one that had grown clearer, a beacon that survived the surging hunger, accompanied by a name. Lucan. Yes. Lucan.

The name was one that was known throughout the Second Legion. Sergeant Lucan was a man in the same sense that a wolf was a dog. In the winter camp outside Dalemar he’d created a nice little fiefdom for himself. As the weather had grown increasingly harsh the fact of the siege had become little more than a technicality, and the men had turned to the more immediate question of survival. In that situation, there were advantages to be had for a man with special skills and few scruples.

Lucan’s empire had begun with food. In the winter camp, with rations tight, everyone in the legion had become a scrounger. The choicest prizes had made their way up to the officers, enough to keep their eyes turned away. As the siege had lengthened Lucan had diversified into gambling, fights between animals and men, and whores. The sergeant had built a small corps of toughs around himself, hard veterans who had monitored his operations and kept rivals in check.

Sorio hadn’t thought of himself as a rival, but on one of his patrols he and three others had come upon a farmhouse that somehow hadn’t yet been plundered. The farmer had protested, but that was nothing a sword thrust couldn’t fix, and suddenly Sorio found himself an entrepreneur. For a week he and his companions had found themselves suffused with wealth.

Until Lucan’s men had paid him a visit.

The beating had been fearsome, but his assailants had been experts, and while he had not suffered permanent debilitation, neither had he ever fully returned to what he had been before.

He hadn’t realized until later that his companions had sold him out; not until he saw them in Lucan’s hut on another occasion.

He had borne a grudge. Shortly after they’d returned to the camp here at Trajaran, he’d gotten his chance. Lucan had had a favorite, a camp follower named Helena. In the chaos of settling into the new quarters at the old legion camp, Sorio had watched and waited for an opportunity. He had finally caught her alone as she fetched water from one of the nearby streams. It had only taken a moment. He had doubted anyone would catch him; Lucan had a lot of enemies, and no one had seen him leave the camp.

He had been wrong, about a great many things.

The stockade wall was in ill repair, but even so it formed an impressive barrier, fully twenty feet high around the perimeter of the camp. But it barely slowed Sorio, as he sprang up and clambered over with surprising quickness. He landed softly on his feet, inside the camp.

The smell of flesh was almost overpowering, and he had taken several involuntary steps toward the nearest of the long, low barracks buildings before he stopped himself. But his hatred retained enough of an edge to guide him, and he crept through the darkness toward the far end of the camp, set upon his goal. As he passed by barracks buildings men inside stirred in their sleep, moaning as dark things invaded their dreams. But the camp of the Second Legion remained unaware, as death stole silently through their midst.

 

[Lazybones]

Next week: all hell (or rather the Abyss, I suppose) breaks loose in Camar. But for now, it's Friday...

* * * * *

Chapter 281

THE RISING AT ALBRITH


Galev Kostas held his lantern high as he walked the deserted streets of Albrith. The ring of light surrounded him for a good fifteen paces, but it offered little reassurance to the nervous guardsman. The town, stricken by calamity, seemed haunted by fell spirits.

Some of the buildings on the south edge of the town had been reinhabited, or scavenged for materials with which to build shelter. In the aftermath of the disaster, the survivors had established a camp in the woods to the south, but with the winter storms battering the region in a seemingly neverending succession, returning to the town was almost inevitable. It testified to the stubbornness—or foolishness—of people as far as Kostas was concerned.

He shook his head. He was in no position to offer criticism. Ella had wanted to leave with the others, the exodus that had survived the quake but which had decided that one lucky break was enough. There were only about three hundred people left in Albrith now. Kostas had inwardly agreed with his wife, but where could they go? Their house had been completely destroyed; it had been through the Father’s grace that the four of them had escaped with their lives. He had kin in Emor, but that journey was long and hazardous in the best of times, let alone in the depths of a particularly harsh winter.

He slowed as he neared the end of the street and saw the chasm up ahead. Most of those who had remained to Albrith had committed to rebuilding, but it wasn’t clear if there was enough left of the town to support its revival. Those structures that hadn’t fallen into the chasm had been heavily damaged by the quake, and fully nine out of every ten were like Kostas’s house, either wreckage or too unsafe to reoccupy. His brother-in-law, who’d owned the cooperage, had spoken of hard work and the stubbornness of Albrithers at the last town meeting, but inwardly Kostas had already decided that with the coming of spring, he would follow Ella’s prompting and take his family to Emor, to start anew.

A noise from ahead drew his attention back to the present. There was nothing there but the chasm, but it was possible that some fool was defying the standing orders of the town council and looting the wreckage close to the tenuous edge. Kostas reached for the sword at his hip, the movement causing the lamp at the end of the pole he carried to gyrate roughly, almost spilling the oil. Berating himself silently for his foolishness, steeling his nerves, he recovered and started forward, alert for any signs of trouble.

The chasm was a black slash that gaped like an open wound in the earth, over a hundred feet across. The quake had struck right in the center of Albrith, opening a gash through the center of the town that extended for almost a half-mile in either direction. Most of the buildings that had been near the edge had tumbled into the opening as the earth had bucked and opened.

He paused, and listened. The scrabbling sound that he had heard before was not repeated. Maybe he had scared off whoever it had been.

But there was... something, a vague perception of danger that flitted beneath his conscious awareness. It was an instinct more basic, more primitive, that hadn’t been fully civilized out of him by a life in a town. That instinct told him to run, but Kostas had always taken his duty seriously, and he knew how to use the weapon that he carried.

The watchman drew his sword, and stepped forward almost to the edge of the chasm. He respected the crumbling edge, and remained a good distance back. He held out the lantern, his senses fully alert and extended.

The gap was too broad for the fitful light from his lamp to reach to the other side. But the progression of the chasm was uneven, jagged, and to his right there was a jutting outcrop that allowed him to clearly see the cliff face as it descended into gloom.

As his light fell upon that rough surface, Kostas sucked in a terrible breath.

The cliff was... alive.

It was hard to distinguish the individual creatures; they clung together in a close mass, dragging themselves up the cliff, their claws finding purchase in the rough rock. A few looked up as the light flared upon their pale, sickly gray flesh, and they hissed in anger. The leading edge of the wave was just a few paces below the lip of the cliff.

Kostas staggered back as if struck. His limbs felt stiff, as if he’d forgotten how to move. The hissing noise made by the unholy creatures he’d seen was sounding larger, filling the chasm; the watchman suddenly realized that it was not just an echo, but a chorus, a noise torn from thousands of throats, all united in a common purpose.

The scream he’d been holding suddenly came alive as his muscles came alive again, and he fled toward the far edge of the town, where the survivors of Albrith had taken shelter.

Behind him, ghouls clawed their way up out of the chasm, forming a wave that swept forward over the town, seeking blood, and marrow, and life to destroy.

* * * * *


Just over two hundred miles away, Nelandro Agathon suddenly shot up from a deep sleep, his eyes wide, his body trembling. He looked around him in fear for a moment, before he realized that he was in his room in the rectory of the Great Cathedral of Camar. He spoke one word, laden with dread.

“Albrith.”

 

[thelettuceman]

You drew me out of lurking to post my first post here. Grats on that.

I started reading your story on thursday of this past week from the beginning, because I rarely come to these forums for anything but the storyhour and I finished it just now. I honestly could not pull myself away from the action and the characters you created except for the necessary few hours of sleep or class.

I'm unfamiliar with the module you're running in the background, but your story clearly transcends a simple dungeoncrawl. You've crafted characters with their own quirks and personalities and it's utterly intriguing to see how you see them grow over the course of time from the beginning of this thread til now. That's the hallmark of a true story, no matter how detailed (or not) one's writing is, it revolves around characters.

You have characters, detail, and well written action.

Bravo. Now I just have to disappear for a while and let another sizable chunk of posts accumulate so I can read them in one sitting.

 

[Lazybones]

Thanks for the praise, thelettuceman. I appreciate you unlurking to post.

* * * * *

Chapter 282

A RUDE AWAKENING


Velan Tiros, Tribune of Camar, woke suddenly.

The former marshal had picked up the habits of a light sleeper in his first campaign. Those instincts had been dulled just a bit, perhaps, by the recent months sleeping in comfortable quarters in the Ducal Palace. With consciousness came awareness of the myriad physical aches that had become constant companions of late. Tiros pushed them aside ruthlessly. Old age was a real bitch, but one had to make an accommodation with her.

“What is it?” Tiros asked, before realizing that his adjutant hadn’t woken him; he was alone in his tent.

The Tribune pulled back his coverlet and rose, shivering slightly in the cold air. Through the thin gap in the opening of his tent he could see that it was still dark, likely that deep, quiet time that came just before the dawn.

He did not remember what had woken him, but he felt an odd tingle, a sense of anticipation that he’d learned not to question. Then he heard it; a faint noise, distant, but likely still within the borders of the camp. The stockade walls served to keep in sounds, he knew from his days with the legions. One learned to tune out the background noises, which were a constant feature of an occupied camp, even in the depths of night. He wasn’t familiar with the distinctive noises of Trajaran yet, but they weren’t far off from those of every other camp he’d spent time in during his life as a soldier.

But this was something different. And then a noise he knew all too well; a scream, thick with fear and agony.

When his adjutant finally burst into the tent, the marshal was already buckling on his armor. “Status!” he barked, reaching for his sword. The weapon was magical, a prize taken from Rappan Athuk. It was not Valor, but it nevertheless bore a potent enchantment. Talen had given it to him...

He thrust that thought violently aside as the adjutant tried to make sense of chaos. “There’s an attack... something, in the camp, it seems to be localized in one place, cohorts are rallying...”

Tiros yanked the swordbelt tight around his torso, and cinched the buckle. “Come on,” he said, clapping the young man hard on the shoulder.

Once outside the tent, Tiros could better discern the situation in the camp from the layered noises that filled the area within the stockade wall. Men were all around, the yells of sergeants and centurions trying to bring order out of the chaos. The men of the Second were veterans, and the situation was not complete anarchy, although it would have taken a keen eye to recognize the difference.

Over it all, Tiros was drawn to the noises coming from one part of the camp, near the rear wall of the stockade. His adjutant had to hurry to keep up with him as he rushed in that direction. Another man rushed up, bringing his horse, but Tiros ignored him; the camp wasn’t that big, and he didn’t want to risk trampling someone in the dark. A pair of men bearing torches appeared, joining the small coterie that had formed in the Tribune’s wake.

By the time he reached the source of the disturbance, just over a minute later, his followers had grown to a loosely organized mob of just over a hundred men. The noises had come from within a knot of old barracks, most of which hadn’t yet been rehabilitated for safe occupancy. With the rickety old structures unsuitable for use, the unit assigned to this location had set up its tents in the open space between the long, low buildings. There was a fairly large gathering of men there already, about forty men, armed and armored, facing inward. Tiros could taste the fear in the air.

A terrible cry rose from within the circle of men, a noise of torment and longing. Tiros thrust himself forward, and as those on the outer edge of the ring heard his approach, they parted and gave him access. Tiros could see that the camp was in disarray, with several of the tents lying collapsed, and the weapons that should have been gathered in neat arrays were scattered about. The light was poor, but he saw something lying half out of a tent that might have been a body. The command tent for the century, a heavy structure the size of a small cottage, had been erected against one of the barracks on the far side of the clearing.

“What in the name of all the gods...”

“Sir, watch out!”

Several things happened all at once. There was a loud crash that came from within the command tent, followed by a sick cracking noise that sent a cold chill down the former marshal’s spine. But even as the soldier shouted his warning, Tiros stepped forward into a wave of pain.

The wracking needles of agony made his muscle aches feel trivial by comparison. It was as if someone had thrust a hot knife into his body in a dozen places. Fire clenched in his gut, and he was barely able to keep the bile from exploding out of his throat.

Several men rushed forward and grabbed him, and pulled him back. As they retreated, the pains eased.

Tiros scanned the crowd, and finally settled on a man wearing the shoulder boards of a non-commissioned officer. There were no men of higher rank present, as far as he could see, but many of those present were not in uniform, clad in bits of armor or the plain tunics worn by members of the legion when off-duty. “What is going on here, sergeant?”

The sergeant’s uniform bore the markings of a veteran campaigner, but his face was pale and his hands shook as he spoke. “There’s something... in the tent, sir... we can’t approach, the pain... It’s coming from inside... We heard... sir, it was terrible...”

“Cordon off the area!” Tiros shouted, directing the order to the men behind him. He glanced back at the command tent, gauged the distance at about fifty feet. The tent was dark, so he could not see what was inside, not even the shadows of movement. “Set torches around the perimeter!”

“Sir!” The shout was accompanied by a palpable surge of dismay from the crowd.

Tiros turned in time to see the thing that emerged from the tent.

Only subtle hints remained to indicate that it had once been a man. The remnants of a legion tunic clung to its hips, and the markings of what might have been a legion tattoo covered one shoulder. It was difficult to tell; its flesh was gray and bloated, its body gruesomely obese. Its face was an abomination, dominated by huge jaws that were covered with blood. It carried a bloody mess of a carcass, and as the legionaries watched in horror, it lifted its prize to its mouth, and thrust huge gobs of still-warm human meat down its massive gullet.

The soldiers of Camar cried out and retreated as the monster’s aura of pain washed over them with its approach.

All save one.

Tiros stood there, his face tight with the effort of withstanding the waves of agony that radiated from the creature. He drew his sword.

“SLAY THAT MONSTER, FOR CAMAR!” he shouted, his voice echoing loudly throughout the camp, like a beacon lifted in the darkness.

 

[Lazybones]

Chapter 283

THE DEAD HORDE


The dawn was just starting to brighten on the eastern horizon as five nebulous, insubstantial forms drifted down out of the sky toward Albrith. The town proper was cloaked deep in shadows, dominated by the black slash that cut through its center and formed a wound upon the earth.

The ghostly figures descended and drifted over the southern edge of the town. The place was silent, without even the chirping of a bird to disrupt the stillness.

Albrith was a graveyard. There were not many bodies visible in the air, the occasional limp form crumpled in a doorway, or a bloody limb jutting out from a ruined building. Bloodstains here and there. They might have been taken as lingering remnants of the original disaster that had struck the town, but the five wind walking over the place knew better.

The travelers drifted to the ground near one of the larger, more intact structures and took on substance. Allera was the first to fully materialize, and she rushed toward the open door of the building. Dar was right behind her, Valor bare in her hand.

“Allera, wait!”

He ran into her just inside the entry, frozen, pale.

The chamber was an abattoir. Blood covered the walls, dark splatters that continued to trail thin lines down the long wooden planks, gathering in pools that merged in shallow depressions in the floor. Most of the furniture had been smashed; there was enough left near the door to suggest that a barricade had been hastily erected and defeated there. Scattered amidst the chaos were... remains, not enough to call bodies. Bones could be seen, starkly white; many of them had been split to access the marrow within. There was one intact body not far from the door, lying on its belly, its gray flesh hacked with crude cuts.

“By the gods,” Dar said, affected despite the many terrible things he had seen in recent months. He took Allera and forced her toward him, turning her away from the grisly scene. Behind him, he could hear Nelan voiding his stomach. He took Allera out.

The other two were outside. Letellia, and Yanis. The sorceress and the ranger looked pale. Yanis still looked a bit bewildered, but he came to attention as Dar fixed his stare on him.

“Check out the surrounding area for tracks or other signs, but don’t go far, and don’t leave sight of this spot.”

“Aye, general.” The ranger saluted and started looking around.

Yanis Ophilio had been a last-minute addition to their company. When Nelan had come to the palace compound, just a few hours previous, he’d brought a warning of the Demon unleashing another attack upon the world of Men. With Tiros still out at Trajaran, Dar had found everyone looking to him for guidance—a position he was not pleased to be in. Nelan’s sense of urgency had been contagious, and he’d inisisted that a dire threat had emerged at the ruined town of Albrith. He’d prayed to the Father for guidance, and had been granted the power to transport himself and four others on the winds to the region to determine the nature of the threat.

Nelan had wanted to leave at once, but he’d agreed to Allera’s suggestion that they seek out Letellia’s aid. Honoratius was still at death’s door, but the young sorceress had proven her own talents in Rappan Athuk, and they might have need of an arcanist against the still-unknown threat. Shaylara, however, was nowhere to be found, and ultimately Dar decided that they couldn’t wait for her to turn up. He sent a rider on a fast horse to warn Tiros at Trajaran, and left further orders for the leaders of the Watch and the Fifth Legion outside the city to prepare to face battle. Yanis had been in the wrong place at the wrong time; they’d needed a scout, and the ranger had been a tracker in the Border Legion. He’d survived the debacle at Southwatch only because he’d come down with pneumonia in the long forced march that Dar had led from the camp in the Galerrs. He’d been assigned to help with training duties for the new Watch, and Dar had all but grabbed him out of his bunk, ordering him to get his gear and get ready for battle. Now he was finding himself having to deal with things alien to his experience, such as wind walking across two hundred miles of terrain to explore a dead town.

“What is it?” Letellia asked.

Dar opened his mouth to respond, but Allera beat him to it. “Ghouls,” the healer said.

“How many?”

Dar looked around. They sky was starting to brighten incrementally, and he could now see the deep claw marks that cut into the threshold of the door to the building where the last survivors of Albrith had made their ineffective stand.

“Many,” he said.

Nelan emerged from the building, his face grim. “We don’t have much time,” he said.

“General!”

Dar turned to see Yanis hurrying over. “There were a lot of them,” the ranger said. “They headed northeast. It won’t be hard to follow their trail.” He pointed in that direction. Even from a few hundred feet away, Dar could see the marks made by the undead horde as it had left Albrith. Their own route here had been indirect, as they’d followed the River Nalos before turning south along the trade road. The path chosen by the undead had been more direct.

Northeast. Straight toward Camar.

 

[Lazybones]

Chapter 284

THE FAMINE SPIRIT


Men screamed and armored bodies crashed loudly to the ground. In the confined space bounded by the old barracks structures, the chaos of battle was amplified.

Tiros ground his teeth painfully, his jaw clenched against the unending surge of torment that emanated from the monstrous ghoul. The thing had already taken wounds that would have killed a dozen men, and it seemed almost invincible. It seemed to be healing the damage it had suffered, even as the determined soldiers hacked at its body with their swords.

At his initial order, the men of the Second Legion had attacked. A wave of pila, the light but deadly javelins favored by the legions, had shot out toward the creature, accompanied by a few arrows from those few archers who had arrived. At least half a dozen of the spears scored hits, piercing the creature’s fat body, but it had ignored the wounds. Three dozen men had charged forward, their short swords raised as they roared the battle cry of the Camarian legions. That cry had wavered some as the phalanx encountered the ghoul’s aura of pain, but the men of the Second had grimaced and kept going, closing the distance between them and the creature.

The ghoul had not waited for them to come to it. Yanking a pair of spears out of its body, the creature had charged forward with a speed unbelievable for a thing of its bulk. Within a few heartbeats it had covered half of the distance separating it from the onrushing legionaries, and then it had leapt into the air, its bloated form rising a good ten feet above them before it plummeted down directly in the center of the charging ranks. One man had screamed as the creature’s weight shattered his legs; the sound had died quickly as it reached down and seized his head, ripping it off his torso. As the surrounding men looked on in horror, the ghoul had thrust the entire head into its mouth, which stretched improbably wide to admit the prize. Blood and brains splurted from its mouth as it crushed the dead man’s skull within the vise of its jaws.

Tiros had been on the right edge of the charge, and had urged the others to attack. Those soldiers closest to the ghoul on its landing had hewn at it almost by reflex, but the constant torture of being close to it had hindered their blows, and the monster had suffered little by the shallow gashes inflicted upon its flesh. One man, driven almost to madness, had leapt at the monster with a fierce scream, sweeping his sword at its head with both hands. The blow never landed; the ghoul had lunged, and seized the soldier’s right arm at the elbow in its jaws. The man screamed as the ghoul bit down hard, and he fell to the ground, blood gushing from the stump of his ruined arm.

The survivors had nearly broken, for all that they still outnumbered the creature by more than thirty to one. But Tiros had driven them forward, his voice a stentorian voice of command over the agonized cries of the soldiers and the terrible noises that issued from the creature. He could not come on it himself at first, as men pressed around it from all directions, flanking it and delivering more blows against it from all sides. The ghoul roared as the legionaries struck at it; with it surrounded, it could not avoid all of their attacks, and while none of the hits thus far appeared to seriously hinder it, the gashes covering its body looked to be taking a gradual toll.

But the ghoul retaliated with a counterattack that was amazing in its violence and speed. As a legionary buried his sword in the ghoul’s back it spun and swatted him with a meaty paw. The blow hit with enough force to knock the soldier sprawling, gasping as he tried to draw air into his crushed lungs. With its other claw it seized a soldier, and effortlessly lifted him to its snapping jaws. Its bite encompassed the joint where its neck met its body, and it bit through armor, leather, and flesh alike as it ripped a huge chunk of meat from the hapless soldier’s throat. The soldier died in a spray of bright crimson, and the soldiers pressing the creature drew back in horror at the sudden change of initiative. The ghoul pressed its advantage, tossing its latest victim aside, and leaping eagerly into the nearest knot of legionaries. It took several more hits, but delivered another pair of crushing blows that dropped men like ninepins, and seized another man who screamed as he tried to get away, only to have his left leg bitten off just above the knee. Even as the ghoul swallowed the soldier’s limb, it swung the dying man like a club, striking down another soldier who was only trying to get away.

The fragile morale of the surviving legionaries would have collapsed right there, but for Velan Tiros. The marshal roared a challenge as he leapt at the ghoul from behind. Tiros no longer looked like an old man as his blade, shining with magical potency, bit deep into the ghoul’s sagging, bloated flesh. The ghoul, which had started to take another bite of the soldier it had just killed, dropped its victim and turned to face this new threat. Tiros raised his sword to strike again, but the ghoul smashed its hand across the marshal’s face. Even with his helmet on, Tiros felt like he’d been struck with a battering ram. The thing was... strong didn’t begin to describe it. The ghoul fought with a ferocity unlike anything he had ever seen. It came at the marshal again; Tiros tried to dodge its second swing, but the ghoul’s meaty punch smashed into his right side, just under his arm. The blow knocked him sprawling.

He was able to roll over just in time to see the monster bearing down on him, its jaws yawning wide like the mouth of a bloody cave.

 

[Richard Rawen]

jeez

you take a vacation... I take a bit of a break from SH's . . . and when I return...


jeeezz!

I mean... congrats... you kinda grossed me out there. I'm sittin here, kinda ... ick.

more please