The Red Hand of Doom - Completed 8 February 2008: Against Tiamat and Epilogue

[Pedestrian]

Xerxes patted Sol on the shoulder as the half-Orc rose to his feet, grunting thanks at Kayan and wiping bloody muck from his face. Xerxes dug around in the murk to retrieve Sol’s axe, which he returned to his friend. There were still some nasty wounds on the warrior, gashes and welts, but at least the rent in his stomach was gone. “Let’s have a look about” suggested the southerner, and Sol nodded his assent.

They trudged up the hill, which Xerxes thought might make a decent camp if only they could get the bird corpse down from it, but Sol veered off to one of the trees, and begin digging in the muck around the roots. “Saw somethin’” he grunted over his shoulder. He paused, reached into the pit he had hollowed out and, with a deep grunt, wrenched a rusted iron chest, scarred and pitted by acid, and set it down on the ground at his feet.

Xerxes hurried over to get a closer look. Sol tried the lid and, finding it unlocked, flicked it open, revealing a finely made sword, one of the lighter style of blades popular in Embre, a silver circlet set with a small diamond, a thick hematite ring and a milky white pearl. Testing the usefulness of the items, Kayan took the pearl and the diadem, and Sol the ring. Xerxes picked up the thin blade. It was well made, light in the hand, deadly sharp, but he felt mildly foolish. His only awareness of swords was that you tried to stab the enemy with them.

He was just about to fasten the sword to his belt when he heard a light thump. Unnoticed in the deepening twilight, and completely silent, five giant owls had descended from the sky, landing in a circle about them. From their backs sprang a group of elf warriors, dressed in hunting leathers and cloaks which seemed to gather the colours of the swamp into themselves. One of them, probably their leader, said something to the other four. Xerxes knew Kayan understood elf speech, but there was no time to confer. Two of them headed back into the fen, the other two moving up the hillock to examine the fallen owl.

“You. What brings you to the Blackfens?” The leader’s speech was heavily accented, and Xerxes took a moment before he understood. The elf man was tall, muscular and his face was covered in swirling tattoos. He hardly matched the refined image that was recorded in the libraries of his homeland.

“We are searching for goblins in the fens” Xerxes spoke loudly and slowly. He didn’t wish to seem rude, but equally he didn’t want to be misunderstood. Both outcomes would possibly result in their being killed and eaten by the massive birds that now circled overhead. “A horde calling itself the Red Hand is attacking Elsir Vale, and we think they are looking for something here in the fens. At the ruined city.”

“Have you encountered one of my people in the Fen? A young boy, though to you he would look a man. He would answer to the name of Lanikar.”

“Sorry, we’ve only encountered the reptile that attacked us.”

The elf seemed to accept this, as he nodded and strode past the three of them. Xerxes relaxed slightly, and motioned for Kayan and Sol to come to him. “So, what do we make of this?”

“I reckon we could take the elfs, but the birdies’d get us” grunted Sol. Xerxes grinned, but shook his head.

“I admit, I find this a little confusing” Kayan glanced over his shoulder, speaking in hushed tones “Elves this far north? The only elves that live on the mainland are Embrean, and they… well, they are a little more sophisticated. They are not Breogan, obviously, nor Bereg” he paused to think, Xerxes nodding along they he understood very little “In fact, from the markings I would say they are Cale Elves, but that’s ridicu-“

“Humans.” The elf captain interrupted them. He had stood some distance away, but if the tales of elf senses were true, then it was likely he had heard the entire exchange. The two elves who had set off into the swamp had returned and they, along with their fellows, hung back, standing about the trees. “My name is Killiar, “Arrowswift” in your language. My people would thank you for ridding the fen of the Harrowblade, and welcome you to our village. I am certain our elders would wish to speak with you.” Though it was phrased as a request, the elf’s pose communicated clearly that he would not take no for an answer. Ignoring a twinge of ever-more familiar paranoia, Xerxes agreed.

Each of the three was guided to an owl, and they set off. Xerxes was sat behind Killiar, who would quietly point out some landmark in the swamp as they rode. Xerxes paid scant attention, as he had drawn out the Book of All Hours from his pack. Much like Kayan, he had never before encountered a “Harrowblade”. Flicking through the magical tome, he came across an illustration of the beast. As he read, the entry grew more detailed, completed before his eyes. This chilled him. The Book had never behaved like this before. The knowledge it contained before had been readily available, any lack had been his fault for not searching correctly. But more chilling, one word, inked in letters that writhed against the limitation of such small form:

Tiamat.

 

[Pedestrian]

Interlude at Starsong Hill

The meeting with the elves had gone well. The three of them had met the elf leader, Sellyria “Starsong”, and discussed their intentions in the swamp. It seemed that the elves avoided the ruins out of respect for the humans who had died there, though the Gnolls who prowled the Blackfens had no such reservations. Recent activity at the ruins, coinciding with the emergence of the Harrowblades, and sightings of a dragon flying over the city had been pressing hard on the Elvin defences. Xerxes, Sol and Kayan had agreed to look into the city – no problem as they had intended to go there anyway.

Enchanted by word of their battle with the Harrowblade, Sellyria had invited them to stay at Starsong Hill and take part in the celebration of Lannikar’s life. Trellara “Nightshadow”, Lanikar’s brother, had agreed, and so the three had joined the singing and dancing, sharing tales with the elves, though Kayan declined the last, unable to think of anything beyond sermons, and he doubted the elves would be interested. Instead, he asked after the village cleric, who, he was informed, was away from Starsong Hill at this time, investigating rumours of a pox spreading through some of the other camps.

Xerxes told the elves of Sol and he first meeting. Xerxes had been exploring ruins in Srax, dating from before the hobgoblins occupation. He spoke of history carved into the stone, an ancient civilisation, enlightened and advanced in matters of philosophy, craft and magic. Then, bandits had attacked him! Hard pressed, he had been fleeing through the night to try and avoid them, but to no avail. With his back to the wall, Xerxes had thought his day done when who should appear from the night but Sol. The hulking half-Orc had set about the villains with his axe. In short order, the bandits were dead and Xerxes was saved.

By the end of his story, Xerxes was quite flustered. The elves looked to him with bored eyes and, though they managed some polite applause, the northerner was all to glad to let someone else speak up.

That someone was Sol. The big half-Orc grasped the talking stick in both hands and took a deep breath. His eyes were closed, and he began to speak. At first, his voice was slow, unsure, but as he got into the flow of his story, his words became more confident. He told the elves the tale of Grun, a tale one of his aunts had told when he was a child.

“Grun had been all things a good orc should be. He was strong and tough, quick and cunning. He knew when to hide and when to fight. He listened to the words of the gods and respected them. Unfortunately for Grun, all these good things had to be balanced with the bad. Grun was a slave. He had been taken by a bigger tribe when he was just a little orcling, and put into work with their herds and in their mines.

“So here was Grun. The biggest orc you ever saw, but shackled into chains and forced to watch sheep and break rocks. In his heart, Grun knew that this was not the way things should be, but he did not know how to make things change. All Grun knew is that they must.

“Grun’s change came about, as many good things do, by paying attention to the words of the gods. The gods speak so loudly, that you can only hear if you watch for the things that are shaken by those words. And so Grun would go about his work, chasing sheep and digging in the earth until one day, after much listening for the gods, he heard them.

“The boss of the slaves, a big fat orc named Urig, carried on him a big hammer, made of iron, covered in dwarf letters. This hammer Urig used to break rocks, and break slaves. All the slaves hated Urig, but not even Grun could fight him, chained up as he was.

“But that day, there the world trembled when one of the gods shouted, and Urig ran away. He forgot his hammer! Grun didn’t waste a second, he snapped up the hammer and used it to bash apart his chains. Clang clang clang! And the chains were snapped. Grun looked at the other slaves huddled about, and decided he could free them too. Clang clang clang! And they were free.

“Grun and the other slaves ran off into the ice, and could have lived there, and most of them did. But Grun had heard the voice of the gods, and he knew that the gods had only granted him his freedom so that he could perform them a service. As a powerful hammer had freed him, Grun decided that he should look for other powerful things, to give them to his gods.

“So Grun set off to look for those treasures. Over the years, he came back from time to time, but always he set off again to look for more. Honour the gods!”

Sol finished speaking, and there was a moment of quiet as the story sunk in. Then, an elf leapt to his feet with a whoop, and clapped Sol on the back. Cheers rang out from the audience, and Sol grinned, blushing a deep green. He slumped down beside Xerxes. “Don’t think I want to do that again” the half-Orc grumbled under his breath, though he did not stop smiling.

 

[Pedestrian]

Kayan looked at the elf across from him. He was tall, thin, and pale with platinum blonde hair, almost white, willowy and sorrowful of expression. Illian “Snow mantle” was not born of the Tiri Kitor, obviously one of the Breogan, though he had been accepted as one of their own. Kayan would have liked to ask the elf how he had come to be here, what he knew of this secret offshoot of the elves, even how Illian knew they existed. Yet the sands of time trickled away so quickly, the Salacian could almost feel them passing through his fingers.

“So, human” Illian’s voice was slow, thoughtful, but his tone was neither dismissive nor rude, instead weighted with a quiet wisdom held in those reserved green eyes “you come to ask me to part with the secret lore of my God.”

Kayan nodded. He had already traded with the cleric for some lesser magic, offering a few coins and one of the ensorcelled swords Marcus had gifted him in exchange for a selection of scrolls and potions. Haggling with the elf was as lengthy and drawn out as the course up the Elsir River had been. Here in the Blackfens, amongst these tattooed elves, he was out of his depth. Truthfully, he was unused to not being able to simply present his holy symbol, make a donation and demand what he wanted. The elves had their own gods, and they did not kneel before the Celestial Throne.

“The magic you seek, the divination of dweomers, is a gift I may call upon, granted by Corellon” Illian broke through Kayan’s foglike reverie. Whether the elf had noticed or not, he displayed no sign. “But it is a gift from my god to his faithful servant, and not something to be traded for all the riches of the world.”

Kayan had expected this. Gold might not interest Illian, but magic? Magic was as sweet to elves as honey was to the bee. The white ash staff the other group had found in Vraath keep might make him more amenable to negotiation. He began to rummage in his back, but was stopped by a hand from Illian. For the first time, an expression – of faint distaste – marred the almost-marble-like contours of the elf cleric’s face.

“You know of the troubles that have recently weighed upon my people, the Tiri Kitor,” Kayan nodded, but Illian did not seem to notice “Killiar reports that they may originate from the human ruins in the swamp. My divinations on the matter have revealed that an enemy of my god, and of yours, has laid seed there that will grow into ruin for us all. I believe it would be in the interests of both the Elves, and your Orthodoxy, if this threat was wiped out before it has chance to blossom.” Illian’s eyes, hard as emeralds now fixed on Kayan “Do this, and you shall have your scroll.”

 

[Pedestrian]

Session 7: The Ruins of Rhest

Morning broke over the Blackfens, another scorching hot day with the sun blazing down onto the backs Xerxes, Sol and Kayan. The heat only added to their sweat as, abandoning even a pretence at stealth, they pushed the canoe granted them by the elves across the still waters of Rhest lake. Of the once mighty city, nothing could be seen but the occasional stone building breaking the waters, ruined reminders of a time long past.

Ogre sentries stationed at what had once been the city hall hooted and bellowed as they swept into view, and the three ducked low as they could in their boat as javelins the size of small trees splashed into water. In short order, they were upon the boardwalk surrounding the building.

Sol wasted no time, leaping out of the canoe, setting it rocking dangerously, and sprinting along the swamp soaked planks. Xerxes lacked his friend’s sure feet, and progressed slower along the slick wood. He noticed a second building, of unclear purpose, newly linked to the city hall by the boardwalk. Behind him, he heard Kayan trying to scrabble up the outer wall, relent and begin intoning a prayer to Pelor, and Xerxes struggled and lost against the urge to loudly blaspheme.

From ahead, Xerxes heard the sounds of conflict, the clash of Sol’s axe and the feral grunts of the Ogre sentries. He climbed the steps, seeing the bold warrior fending off four of the creatures, holding them where the wall had fallen in – or been demolished. The crude brutes battered away at the half Orc with heavy lengths of wood bound in black iron, but nimble Sol danced between their blows, employing his own massive axe as a ward, while taking whatever opportunity he could to slash at the Ogres.

Sol attempted to slip through the clumsy brutes, but a powerful blow crashed into his side, sending him skidding along the stone. Xerxes was about to rush forward, and channel the healing power of his belt, but the half Orc sprang to his feet and dived forward, spinning and slashing in a reckless fury of blood and steel before dancing back, once more parrying blows furiously.

Xerxes leapt into the fray, spear in hand, but instead of gouging at one of the Ogres, he released a roiling gout of fire onto the debased giants. On fire, the brutes were quickly dispatched by an exultant Sol as Kayan gained the balcony.

Before them was the long roofless top floor of Rhest’s former city hall. The years had not been kind to the building, and the new tenants even less so. Pile of stone and debris littered the ground, along with waste from the Ogres. Xerxes carefully trod forward, noting two staircases leading downward, and a large hole in the floor just ahead.

He had reached the opening and was about to peer down when a sleek, night-black creature sped up and passed him, spreading its wings as it gained the open air. It was the size of a man, with thick black horn adorning its gaunt and bony head. “Skull dragon” “Black dragon” shouted Xerxes and Kayan at the same moment.

“Mine!” Bellowed Sol as he charged forward, axe held high. With a mighty leap, he reached the creature, his axe carving a crimson arc through its dark hide, and then he dropped like a stone into the room below. There was a loud splash as he hit the water.

“Ssssarvith!” the creature bellowed. At first, Xerxes thought the drake had spread its wings impossibly wide, as darkness engulfed the room, but discounted the thought. He heard a second splash. The dragon had followed Sol into the water. The southerner heard an invocation of the sun, and the darkness receded.

Unsure what to do, and partially motivated by a desire to be out of the cursed light of the vaunted Sun King Xerxes flung himself over the edge of the pit, into the water below, just in time to see the dragon soar past him, away from a furious Sol. He also noted a large, grunting, two headed giant moving towards the half-Orc, before water drenched his senses. He panicked – he had never really learnt to swim – but managed to regain the surface. It seemed the water was restricted to a pool, and the rest of the room was still dry.

From above, he heard a gurgling hiss, and then screams of pain from Kayan before the priest followed his two associates into the pool, the filthy water cooling his stinging skin. By this point, Sol had already regained dry land, weathering the blows of the creature Xerxes now recognised was an Ettin, and was now returning in kind the beating the creature had delivered. In short order, the beast had been felled by the warrior, and the other two were free of the pool.

They had no time to recover, however, as a large set of double doors was flung open, revealing a ferocious looking goblin brandishing a bow, no doubt Saarvith, a taller hobgoblin wearing a black robe featuring a stylised eye and manacle and the dragon. The hobgoblin pointed one hooked claw at Sol “Obey.” The half Orc blinked and, in response, raised his middle finger to the hobgoblin before leaping forward. Kayan was quicker still, however, and invoked the judgement of the Celestial Throne upon the wicked sorcerer, binding him in place with spiritual weight. Sol barrelled into the goblin, and received several arrows in his chest as a result.

Xerxes reached out with his mind and invoked the powers of his dimensional boots, teleporting just behind the dragon and Saarvith. He reached deep inside himself, letting the burning hatred of a god long deposed flow through his blood, filling his belly with a churning crimson flame before exhaling it over the two. The dragon whipped around, shielding itself and Saarvith from the worst of the fire with its wings, but the smell of charred flesh choked the air.

Sol and Xerxes then found themselves subject to a deadly assault of claw and fang as the dragon lashed about in a fury. In response, Sol slashed his axe with deadly precision, puncturing the dragon’s flesh once more, though the goblin managed to dance aside at the last moment. Kayan, meanwhile, attempted to heal Xerxes, but he was filled with battle lust, and pushed aside the unwanted ministration of the weak servant of deceivers.

“Regi! Flee!” crowed the goblin, and he scuttled up one set of stairs, and the dragon bolted up the other. Unwilling to let the pair get away, Sol and Xerxes pursued the dragon, while Kayan gave chase to the dragon. The stairs led back up to the top floor, where the leaders of the Red Hand in the Blackfens were about to make there escape. Seeing their pursuit, Saarvith span around to puncture Kayan with arrows, but his panicky shots went wild. The dragon, however, had much greater fortune, mauling the others and leaving them bleeding on the ground.

The dragon was about to finish the job, but the insistence of Saarvith had him turning tail. Once more, they took flight, the goblin rushing down onto the boardwalk, the dragon leaping into flight.

Still Kayan pursued, and once again he called down judgement, this time on Saarvith. The goblin was frozen in face, his fierce red eyes alive with hatred and fear. As the final words of the interdiction left his lips, Kayan heard the furious roar of the black dragon as it swept back round across the water. Its massive maw snapped down on him, flinging the Salacian into the hard stone wall. Pain shot through him as he felt his ribs crack. Gasping, he pushed himself up. Kayan reached to his belt, loosening the slender crystal wand strapped there. He would not die on his knees against this brute of darkness.

He was shocked, then, to see the dragon had landed on the boardwalk, between Kayan and the goblin Saarvith. The creature appraised him with cold reptile eyes which, if Kayan had not known better, he would have took to have been fearful.

“Parlay” hissed the creature in Draconic. Kayan, willing his hand not to cradle his injured side nodded. “I will take Saarvith, and go. You will let me, and save your friendssss.” The creature waited for his response, which came in the form of a sharp nod. Kayan backed away, not taking his eyes off of the dragon, not even to look at the bloody ruin of his side.

 

[Pedestrian]

Sol grunted and stretched, swinging his axe this way and that. It’d been two days of hard fighting, broken up by one day of boredom. Yesterday, had been spent healing. The fighting with the goblins and the dragon had been a whole two days ago. They’d found some nice treasure, and the fight had been good. One of the rooms had been pretty bad, with stuff for torture he recognised from his days as a slave. He’d wished he could have chopped off that hobboes head again, just for that. Kayan had let the dragon and the little gobbo get away, but he’d wanted to keep him and Xerxes alive, so loaded them into a boat and taken them to shore. There’d been some noise in the night, but he’d been pretty out of it.

One day to heal – no exercise and certainly no looking for fights! – and then back on the boat to look around. Kayan had managed to get them up and about enough after the dragon to gather some nice things, like Sol’s shiny new breastplate. Mithril, they called it. That sounded a bit dwarfy to Sol, but he didn’t mind. It was really shiny in the sun, thick plates of metal, but light enough that he could run pretty fast. It was lighter than his old shirt! Funny thing, magic. Kayan had said it was nothing to do with magic, but it was magic, Kayan had done some mumbo jumbo and it was. Sol was happy to think it was metal magic, like his skill. Kayan had swiped a mace, and Xerxes a nice cloak with a lion on it. There was plenty of gold, but nut much to spend it on, seeing as they were in a swamp where the nearest city was a ruin.

But yeah, they’d come back, and looked around. The rest of the Hand seemed to have cleared out pretty sharpish. Shame, as he reckoned the hobboes needed to be taught the kind of lesson that involved heads being chopped off but, well they’d probably been scared when their gobbo boss had scarpered. So they’d gone back and decided to have a look in the building with the sidewalk, by the city hall. Truth be told, Sol hadn’t even noticed it the other day, he was all excited about getting the Ogres.

The door had been tied shut, which seemed odd, but Sol had chopped the wood down with his axe. That might have been a mistake. One of the massive great green dragony things had leapt out at him. Xerxes had shouted “Spawn!” but Sol was pretty sure it was a dragon. He’d also been expecting to have to chase around after this one, like the last, but it stayed still. It seemed to be protecting stuff. Xerxes was hit pretty bad, so Sol had made sure to hit the monster really hard, so Kayan could fix Xerxes quicker – the bugger had been in a bad mood again this morning, barely sharing a word with either, and it seemed Kayan had to try harder to heal him on those days. Xerxes could be such a grumpy git.

Anyway, they’d done killing the monster and Sol had immediately thought to himself it didn’t run about, it was protecting something, that must have been treasure. He made sure Xerxes was up and about, but as soon as he leapt into the water – he didn’t like swimming, but dragons always had nice things – and looked about. All he had found were some weird, spiky balls. It took him a moment, but Sol twigged that they were eggs. He noticed Xerxes and Kayan had become all grim faced, and he thought he knew why. They’d just killed these poor eggs mums. That was pretty bad, little eggs without a mum.

Then he saw Xerxes fiddling with his electric gloves, and Kayan getting out his wand. They wanted to kill the babies! Sol knew that the big monsters were pretty bad, but eggs were just babies, right? They couldn’t be born that wrong. Kayan had started to talk about how they were the spawn of Tear Mat, and must be destroyed. Sol had tried to talk to Xerxes, but he’d just said “Either help or get out of the way.”

So Sol had got out of the way. He went outside and did his katas for a bit. He moved away, back into the big stone building where they’d had the fight with the Ogres. A proper fight that, with proper monsters who could fight back properly. He ignored the crashing coming from the stone house, just focused on the edge of his blade as it cut the air.

When Kayan and Xerxes were done, Sol wordlessly rowed them back to the shore, and they trudged along in silence. Sol hoped he’d get to fight a real monster again soon.

 

[Pedestrian]

Session 8: Looking for Ghosts

Two items recovered from the ruins of Rhest: a ghoulish, barbaric pendant; and a neatly scribed letter, penned by “Ulwai” , whoever that was; had provided clues to the next moves of the Red Hand. It seemed that the pendant – which Kayan had easily identified as a phylactery, house to the withered soul of a Lich – was being kept from an entity known as the Ghostlord, perhaps as leverage for some favours. With an army of goblinkin ravaging the Vale, the last thing needed would be for the profane might of the undead to assist them, even now Brindol could count on support from the elves of Starsong Hill. The three from Dennovar had conferred, and decided it best that the Ghostlord be dealt with.

Of course, before any of that could be done, they needed to find where this Ghostlord was. Research would need to be carried out. Sol had despaired at the thought, knowing his skills, or lack thereof, would only slow the proceedings. Fortunately, both Kayan and Xerxes were accomplished scholars. Trellara, Lore Mistress of the Tiri Kitor, maintained a store of books and scrolls that were of some interest to the elves. Brindol too might house some lore regarding the Ghostlord. Xerxes could summon a steed from the nether to take them to the city, but it would only carry two, and doing so would tax his will greatly.

It was decided that Kayan would remain with the elves, reading through Trellara’s hoard, before reuniting with the others when the elf rangers went to the city. Xerxes suspected, but refrained from making comment, that the lore hungry priest would also spend his time pressuring both Illian and Sellyria for their secrets. Sol and he would ride on to Brindol.

They were not as fleet as they might have been, even with a mount of unreal origin. It was disconcerting, to catch occasional glimpses of the road beneath the quasi-horse, even more so get a fleeting look at where it hailed from. Xerxes allowed his attention to wander as it would, doubly grateful as it allowed him to blank the pressure of Sol’s terrified grip. The half-Orc was not comfortable.

To make up speed, they pressed the creature they rode hard, riding twelve hours each day, plodding progress but steady. It would take three days at this pace to reach Brindol. Xerxes was unsure what that meant in terms of the Red Hand’s progress, but it likely would not be good. Best not to dwell on it.

It was the second day when they spotted the road block. Sol saw it first, nudging his travelling companion as he slipped to the ground. A wooden platform, supported by four wooden posts, overlooked a thick wall, crudely hewn timber and hastily erected. Hobgoblin sentries lolled about the platform, while two massive Ogres slumped against the walls, all of them rendered stupid by the blistering sun. Seeing it, Xerxes dimly recalled rumours of road blocks… had they met with some agent about that? Well, it seemed the Red Hand had set up a camp here, and aimed to ensure that no help would reach Elsir vale through the road.

Practiced companions, the two exchanged a few quick signals, and then Sol was off. The sandals he had won on the bloody sands of the Srax arenas sparked with fire, propelling him at an inhuman speed. Xerxes didn’t wait to see if his comrade connected – hardly like timber could dodge – raising his hand to call his nethereal lance into being. With alien precision, he levelled the point, and charged at the nearest post. The cracking impact shook his arm, leaving it numb. The timber buckled, and sharp splinters sailed through the air. Some struck Xerxes’s mount, and for a moment he could see them, suspended in glassy flesh.

The rumbling growl of the Ogre to his left brought his gaze up, just in time to miss a clumsily swung club. Xerxes could see Sol, already having cleaved one leg of the tower, running up to assist him. As the half-Orc moved, the band on his left arm flashed a brilliant, bloody red, and the second Ogre, in pursuit of Sol, stumbled, mistiming his swing against the former gladiator.

Xerxes, seeing that his ally would deal with the Ogres, willed himself away, a quick jaunt through the Astral plane placing him and his eery steed some sixty feet up the road. Goblish arrows clattered around the mounted northerner. He frowned. He had forgotten about the archers on the tower in all the excitement of the charge. Now they crowded the near edge of the platform, yelling in their buzzing tongue and aiming arrows at the pair.

At that moment, Sol reached the buckled post. The fierce warrior ducked low under the Ogre’s reach – the brute still confused at Xerxes’s sudden relocation – and whipped his massive axe about. One slash tore a gory rent in the Ogre’s chest, the other chopped through the compacted wood of the post. With mercurial speed, Sol dived forward between his foe’s legs as the entire structure collapsed, carrying a dozen or so screaming hobgoblins – and one stunned Ogre – to the afterlife.

Xerxes sighed, then noted the other Ogre pushing up through the debris. It pulled a length of timber up in one massive paw – the other hand being smashed to blood oozing ruin – fixed its one remaining eye on Sol, who was still lying stunned from his leap away from the tower. Xerxes, unnoticed on his mount, levelled his lance at the Ogre and charged.

It was finished quickly, a lance through the back of the neck. Xerxes pulled Sol up onto his mount, and carried on. Someone should probably let Brindol know that the road was cleared. Good thing they were headed that way. They had to find out where the Ghostlord was.

A prod from Sol reminded Xerxes that they needed to get moving.

 

[Pedestrian]

Two days later, they reached Brindol, having passed through the first farms under the flag of the city before first light. The city had a commanding position, atop a high hill overlooking the Elsir, circled by thick stone walls. Already, it showed the signs of a town readying for war.

Warriors in mail lined the walls, crossbows held tightly in hand, eyes on the horizon., The main gate, swollen with refugees hopeful for protection, benefited from a double duty of guards, Lions from their blue and gold tabards. They were attempting to impose some sort of order, but the desperate people of the Vale milled and shoved, moaned and bickered. Despite this, progress was being made as people filtered into the city.

Xerxes had banished their mount the previous day, presuming the defenders might look askance at two strangers riding in to town atop a spectral steed plucked from the nether. As the pair moved up the road, they picked up the chatter from the surrounding folk. The horde has spread out across the vale, burning and looting as they went. The sacking of Drellin’s Ferry had only been the beginning. While they had paddled slowly up the Rhest, Terrelton had been conquered, despite valiant efforts by a wandering band of Embrean Jasite Knights. Nimon’s Gap taken, and the heroic last-stand of a nameless mage at the Gap, hurling fire at the sky, only to be devoured by a red dragon. Xerxes said a quiet prayer for Marcus, commending his soul to the Celestial Throne.

They were let into town with little hassle, Sol drawing some glances, but no more comment than recommending they contact the captain of the watch, as competent swords would be welcomed with gold.

Xerxes considered as his friend led the way. They knew from the plans the four from Drellin’s had recovered that the Horde’s destination in the Vale was Brindol, as smashing the town would destroy any resistance amongst the northern Argyles. Dennovar might have the money, but only Brindol had the might to oppose the Red Hand. It would be here that the final battle would be fought.

But not right now. The Red Hand was a good weeks march away at best, and moving an army that size could not be done quickly. Time for Brindol to marshal forces, and allies. Soon, Tiri Kitor rangers would join the humans of Brindol in defending the walls. Were there any others in this land who would take a stand with the city? Xerxes reflected on his experience home in the north, the broken remnants of the Sun Empire. Unless the Orthodoxy commanded it, rivals for the Golden Throne would as likely see one another blown away in the desert winds. Hopefully, relations here were not so cut-throat.

For he and his companions, the task was to undermine the strength of the Red Hand, and to do that, they must find the Ghost Lord. Brindol would undoubtedly have libraries, but they would just as assuredly be in the keeping of the temples. Though the Pelorites here were not Orthodox, instead the heretical Templar Tradition of the south, Xerxes would not feel safe. Besides, the Sepulchre of Wee Jas, one of the pagan goddesses of Crucis, also had a temple here, and one of the Witch Queen’s interests was knowledge. Knowledge and death.

Surfacing from his thoughts, he informed a bored looking Sol that he would meet him later, then hurried off up the hill.

 

[Pedestrian]

Sol liked coloured glass. He’d first seen it in Dennovar, had no chance before then, but he’d straight away loved it. Not the pictures, though they were nice, but the way the light shone through the panes on a clear day. Like standing in a rainbow. The first time he’d seen a rainbow, he’d only been small. Just fresh off the cart into the Srax. He’d thought maybe the sweeping lights would take him away from the cages and the cruel sun. It’d been the first time he’d come down northways, hadn’t been used to the heat then. Now, standing in this pool of colour, it wasn’t so bad.

Rolling his shoulders to loosen a knot, Sol pondered on how much he’d achieved today. He’d booked a room in a rough-but-cheap-tavern, the Zombie, from a bloke named Torgin, a big fat guy, a half-orc like him, a bit greener, who’d seemed alright. Bit obsessed with his crossbow. Sol couldn’t understand why someone would want one. Strange heavy things that could get smashed to bits with any old bit of stone or whatever. Much rather have an axe. Nice to meet another orc anyway. Well, nearly an orc. After that, he’d had a mug which hadn’t been much better than what his cup magic’d up normally, and gone for a wander. Xerxes had gone to look up the Ghost Lord in some books, and Sol had thought he might lend a hand. Not being one for reading – he could, thanks to Xerxes, but truth be told he found words on paper more intimidating than a tree wielding ogre – he’d tried asking people.

He wasn’t stupid, not even bothering to ask people in frilly clothes or women with little children, but ducking into bars, buying a few drinks here or there, and he’d managed to get a good understanding of this Ghost Lord. His story was an old one to the people around here. Born Arikel, he’d led a tribe of lion worshippers some five or six hundred years ago – after the fall of the Empire, but before Salac, anyway. They’d even built a big lion statue. Then, folk had come down from a big city, some said Rhest, and hunted the lions, so Arikel had ordered his warriors to protect the lions. They’d been wiped out completely by the city people. But apparently, the Ghost Lord – which he’d become on the night of his death – had lain a curse on the men of the city. The spirits of lions had got up and led by the Ghost Lord, they’d run rampant through the city, killing everyone. Sol shivered. Always best to not mess with shaman. They could put your insides out.

“Excuse me,” the voice, soft yet resolute, interrupted Sol’s meandering thoughts, recalling him to the temple. He opened his eyes, blinked to clear the colours swimming before them, and looked around and down. A girl, well a woman really, looked up at him with stone-patient grey eyes. She was short, coming to just under his chest, but stocky, broad shouldered and with close cropped brown hair. A warrior then, though she wasn’t dressed like one, wearing simple robes, the dingy cream of cheap cloth, the only point of decoration on her a talisman to the sun god hanging from her neck, sparkling like a star in the multi-coloured light. The look she was giving him made Sol uncomfortable. Weighing him up, he thought. “Excuse me, sir, but is there any assistance the Temple can offer you today?”

“Uh…” he figured laughing would make a bad impression, but couldn’t help cracking a huge grin. Politest way anyone had ever asked him to get out. He looked about, noticing that the common-folk of the temple were giving him a wide berth, before looking back at the templar. Well, she had offered. “Well, I’m looking around, you see, for books. About a Ghost Lord. Arikel something or other. He liked lions, and got killed for it. You heard of him?”

The priestess’s brow furrowed angrily. “The Ghost Lord, Arikel Zarl, was a monster, slain for crimes against both the city of Rhest and his own people. What is remembered, and what happened, are often very different events” she frowned at Sol “If you would seek to learn from his example… well, I cannot stop you, but you’ll find no aid at Temple. The Jasites are more likely to assist you.” She made to move off.

Sol went to reach for her arm, thought better of it. Two serious looking characters in black cloaks were watching his talk with a great deal of interest. Heavies. “No, I’ve got a friend looking with them already.” The priestess stiffened. “I mean, we’re looking to find where he lives… uh, died. We think the Red Hand might be working with him.” That got her attention. “We want to put a stop to that. Goblins are bad enough, but ghosts? That’d be the end.” The priestess had turned to face him again, that same look in her eyes. “See, what I’ve heard around town is that this Arikel weren’t so bad, he just got wronged and wanted revenge. We could maybe explain to him that you lot here, you’re not like the ones what did for him. You all like lions, what with all the pictures of them all over.”

The Priestess shook her head. “I will tell you this much, sir. Arikel Zarl’s death was not as cut and dried as folklore would have you believe. His evil, his turning away from the spirits of his people, came about long before the intervention of Rhest. An aggressive necromancer, his death had long passed him by. If you seek out Zarl, there can be no reasoning with him, only the sword.”

“Either way, we’ve got to get to the bugger afore doing anything about him. Do you know where we could find him?.”

“My apologies, but the archives here at the Temple are not as expansive as they could be. We have histories, but no maps. Perhaps your friend will have more luck amongst the Jasites.” She bowed, and left him. Sol sighed. Well, at least he might get a chance to fight a real monster. The half-Orc shuffled off, not wanting to hang around the Temple any more. Maybe Xerxes had had more luck.

 

[Pedestrian]

The stale air in the catacombs of the Jasite temple was making him sneeze, and he’d had just about enough. Enough of the air. Enough of the piles of scrolls and books, haphazardly stacked, with no appreciation for keeping them in any semblance of order or thought given to preserving whatever knowledge they might hold. Enough of the milky eyed, shaven headed acolyte who had brought him down here, who’s heavy breathing and furtive presence was setting him on edge. Most of all, he had had enough of sorting through dusty manuscripts detailing cabbage soup, crop rotation and the inventory of a ship crossing the Gateway from Embre. If this was the Jasite idea of wisdom and knowledge, then no wonder the Argyles had converted away. Xerxes would honestly consider recanting any sins for the opportunity to once again walk through an Orthodox archive.

“Is… the… master… not… finding… the… collection… to… his… sat…isss…faction?” Breathed the strange little acolyte. Xerxes could not tell whether the creature before him was a human, or a dwarf, or perhaps a goblin. He’d read about the local Jasites in the Book on the way here. The cult had a peculiar practice of giving its acolytes the appearance of blindness, for reasons Xerxes hadn’t yet fathomed. Certainly the little toad seemed fully sighted, following him around like a hound.

“I’ve looked, but I can find nothing of any use in this… heap.” Xerxes brushed past the man, not wanting to wait for him to finish inhaling and the agonisingly slow speech that would follow. He took well the intention of the rattling coin box, however, pushing a silver coin through the slot.

Xerxes marched quickly out of the Temple to Wee Jas, a dingy grotto of heaped earth and stone, the traditional grave barrow of the Queen of the Deep Earth, an image that had slowly changed into concern for death and knowledge, things the Argyles had thought resided in the ground. It was amazing what he could learn from the Book, and he might very well have used it in the barrow, were it not for the nagging paranoia someone might see it. He had no doubt that the clergy of Wee Jas were a sticky-fingered bunch.

He breathed away his black mood, ignoring a closed door through force of will. Though the chill of night was descending, he headed towards the market, hoping the chatter of commerce would take his mind off things for a time. Xerxes couldn’t doubt that his path had changed him, from simple researcher for an arcane academy, to a vagrant, an itinerant on the road, bearded, scarred. Like some philosopher of life in the street plays he had so reviled in his younger years. And worse yet, scrabbling around in some barbarian city, chasing the natives’ fairy tales. Chasing fairy tales had never done him any good.

Still, his own blasted good nature impelled him to continue. The agent who had contacted them back in Dennovar seemed far away now, and they’d likely never see the rest of the gold they had been promised, but he wouldn’t give up. Good-nature or stubbornness? Well, either one kept him on the road, kept him looking into things that he probably shouldn’t, kept him fighting for the homes of others. Not like he had a home to return to.

“Oi! Xerxes!” Sol’s bellow cut over the drone of buying and selling, and Xerxes looked across the crowd for his friend. He spotted him, pushing past the people, his face a scowl of frustrated intention. Xerxes changed his course to meet Sol’s, politely excusing himself to the strangers in his path.

“All right there? Found anything out?” Xerxes shook his head, and was surprised by Sol’s characteristically large grin. “No worries, I did some lookin’ an’ I’ve found out loads. Seems like this Ghostlord is two blokes. One’s right nice, real hero of the people, raised lions an’ stuff. The other’s a scum bag who probably ate babies. Might be that they’re the same guy.” Sol explained his encounter with the Templars.

“Hmm, well at least we know something, of both man and myth. But we still have no idea where we should look for this Ghostlord, beyond heading south of Rhest, which includes just about all of Elsir Vale.”

“I s’pose you’re right… Still, Kayan might have dug something up amongst those elves. They’re funny lookin’, but they like words.” Sol shrugged his broad shoulders. “Something’ll come up it. It’ll work out. Always has before. Then we can get to fightin’.”

Xerxes chuckled. Even if he ever was tempted to give up, Sol would never let him. The burly southerner might not have been much for elaborate moral debate, but he would certainly box the ears of someone he thought of as a wrong-doer.

“Curios! Trinkets! Exotic goods! Maps and charts! Icons and-“

Sol and Xerxes both stopped, mouths open to speak. Sol spoke first “See, something always comes up.”

“Excuse me, merchant, but you mentioned maps?” Xerxes stepped in front of the hawker, a wiry old man, amber eyed with pale grey hair. His lined, leathery skin was dark, and his accent hinted at a northern homeland. He smiled at Xerxes, inclined his head to a large woman, dwarf-looking, sat whittling on a stool, and continued his cries.

“Looking for maps are you, me dears?” The dwarf woman flashed a grin that did not reach her eyes, and hopped off of the stool. “Well now, I’ve got charts of the Gateway and the Glass, parchment wi’ passes through the Ironpeaks, good maps of central Srax, even one o’ me homeland in the Cales.”

“Do you have any local maps? Maps of Elsir?” Xerxes leaned forward, looking around the little stall. There were a myriad of maps, some unrolled and pinned to the back of the structure, many more rolled in cases. There was also an assortment of strange items – flutes and statues and compasses and glasses and all manner of oddments – which prevented him from having a better view of the maps.

“The Vale? Harrum.” The woman looked disappointed, but not surprised. “Aye, I’ve got plenty of them, fresh scribed from the cartographers up Dennovar. It’s a gold fer one, but they’re on good quality parchment, first copies.” She pulled a clean, new map from behind where she had been sitting, displaying it to Xerxes. He could see the Dawn Way, the towns of Drellin’s Ferry, Brindol, markers for the Witchwood… identical to the map they’d picked up in Dennovar, bar one or two copy errors. He sighed.

“My apologies, but we were looking for something a little more detailed. We seek something a little more focused on the lesser explored areas of the Vale.” He went to walk away, but froze. The crowd had parted for a moment and he was sure he had seen… no, it couldn’t be…

“’Ere, Xerxes, this lady’s map is great. Look at it, oh never mind. Here’s your money, and a little extra cos you’re nice.” Sol handed over a fist full of gold, taking an old, faded map, scribed on lambskin in exchange. “Xerxes, take a look at this map. It’s great. Look, in this ‘Thorn waste’ place, there’s little lion and it says ‘tomb of Zarl’. That’s the Ghost lord. Ooh, there’s ‘Rhest’, remember the dragon there? Hmm I wonder what this dragon thingy here is –“

“Sol, we have to leave.” Xerxes grabbed the warrior’s arm, not looking away from the black cloaked figure. The crowd moved, and the ominous sentinel was gone. Seraphim. He dragged the confused half-Orc along beside him, heading to...

“Sol, where did you say we were staying?”

“I haven’t told you yet. The Drunken Zombie. Bit dodgy, but cheap.” Sol dug in his heels, pulling Xerxes to a halt. “Mate, you’re not ‘aving one of your moods again are you?”

Xerxes looked around nervously, expecting cowled figures to leaps from the lengthening shadows at any minute. “Sol, do you remember, when you first found me, those bandits attacking me?”

“Yup. Surfim you called ‘em. Bastards.” Sol’s mouth lolled open. “I saw one. Up in the temple. Gruumsh’s hairy nutsack.” Xerxes nodded, and attempted to drag Sol on. “No. No” the half-Orc repeated firmly. “Xerxes, if they’re ‘ere, they already know where we’re kippin’. Probably already be there, tryin’ to get the drop on us. Come on.”

Now Sol pulled, and Xerxes was powerless to resist him. They moved swiftly through the press of people, Sol shoving and pushing those too slow or stubborn to step aside quickly enough, Xerxes muttering apologies as he could.

“See, when I was looking around for a place to stay, some folk mentioned a pub called… oh, I forget. It’s a nice pub anyway. Expensive. But it’s not like anyone is gonna start a fight in there. And the doors have locks. The Surfim can think we’re at the Zombie, wait for us there. We’ll hole up at the Raven, Craven Raven, that’s its name, and then slip out tomorrow. Dunno how we’ll get word to Kayan. Those crazy blokes in black follow us, we can show ‘em what for out in the country without having to bother the guard.”

The crash of glass from up ahead brought them both up quick. Though the light of day was fading, Xerxes could still pick out a forlorn looking sign, a distinctly scruffy raven pocketing silver, hung limp in the still air. The Raven was closed, though only recently it looked. In front of the expensive glass windows – now smashed – stood four rough looking men. Each of them had a crude red crescent tattooed around their right eyes. The air about them stank of sweat and cheap booze. Before the two could back away, the group of toughs had spotted them.

“Oi, whatcha lookin’ at, darkie?” spat one of the thugs, to Xerxes. Sol was about to surge forward, but Xerxes placed a hand on his arm.

“We’re just passing through. No reason to get alarmed.”

“Get alarmed. Wassa matter, worrying we’ll rough up yer boyfriend? Bloody empire pervs. Don’ worry none, I reckon we can sort you out somethin’ prettier.” The thug grabbed at himself provocatively. “Sneakin’ aroun’, up tuh no good. Probably workin’ wi’ th’ goblins. We’re Tiger’s, we’ll bust you for messing in our business.”

“Ay, Keif, watchit. I fink I’ve ‘eard o’ these two. They was at the Ferry. Me cousin saw the big’un take on some dragons!”

“Yes. We aren’t looking for trouble, just a place to stay for the evening.”

“I betcha you are, you f-“ the tough lunged forward with his club, but was intercepted by a violent swing from the enraged Sol. The others thugs tried to rush in, surround the half-Orc, but the pair of them were more than a match for the drunken, uncoordinated gang. Two of them were left lying on the floor, groaning and bleeding, while the last fled off down an alley.

“Xerxes, son of Malichi of the city of Ataurk,” The voice booming across the darkness spoke in Imperial. Two black cloaked figures stood atop the roof of the building opposite the Raven. The Seraphim. The rising moon glittered off the edges of their drawn blades. “We are here to carry out the sentence of the Orthodoxy, in the name of the Celestial Throne. Throw down your weapons and accept judgement.” Xerxes let his head fall, just a moment. He could never have peace. His grip on the haft of his spear tightened, and he looked up defiantly.

The speaker recognised the expression, no doubt from countless other pursuits “Very well. The sentence for practicing heresy is death.” There was a crackle, and the smell of saffron, and suddenly the larger Seraphim was upon him, appearing in a whispy cloud of shadows. The smaller leapt from the building, rushing forward to flank him, the billowing cloak trailing behind them foiling Sol’s axe blow.

Xerxes received a stinging cut across the rib, shallow but painful. He heard the light step of the other Seraphim behind him, and teleported away, to the side of the raven, leaving a billowing cloud of bluish mist in his wake. The silent Seraphim pursued, flickering in and out of sight with every step.

Sol held the other Seraphim at bay with powerful swings of his axe, battering his opponents guard with savage, powerful blows. “Y’know,” grunted Sol as he swung to decapitate the cloaked warrior “for a bunch of sun-worshippers, you guys sure like shadows a lot.” His heavy swing went wide, smashing the cobbles beside the Seraphim.

“I am sorry,” the man’s Argyle was flawless, unaccented. He ducked around and behind Sol, and his sword shone like a thousand candles in the night. “But those who would stand with the servants of demons must fall beside them.” He thrust his blade into Sol’s back, passing through his armour and puncturing his flesh. With an animal roar of rage, the half-Orc whipped around with his axe, putting every once of strength and momentum into the swing, slamming into the Seraphim with an audible crunch.

As the slighter Seraphim’s assault faltered just a second, Xerxes took his chance. Once against hopping through the Astral, he reappeared inside the Craven Raven. Wind quick, he flung a bolt of lightning into Sol’s opponent’s back, at the same moment the half-Orc’s axe struck home.

The smaller Seraphim rushed forward, pulling aside the cloth mask she wore, revealing the thin-boned features of an elf-woman. Her luminous green eyes clouded with grief as she caught her falling mentor. “Qin… Qin get away. Flee.”

Tears streamed down from her hardening eyes as she looked up hatefully at Sol. “He will be avenged” she whispered as her features blurred and shifted in shadow “You will pay.”

She was gone.

 

[Pedestrian]

Session 9: Through the Vale

The heavy clank of mail booted feet echoed along the cobbles of Brindol, reaching the ears of Xerxes and Sol outside the Craven Raven, accompanied by the creeping yellow light of unmasked lanterns. The pair thought to run, but there was no time, and they found themselves surrounded by four black-leather clad youths, three men and a woman, all hard, cold and clean-cut. The fifth, features hidden behind a heavy iron-mask and thick nearly-black crimson, stepped forward.

“What passes here?” the voice seemed to echo up from some pit buried far beneath the bright places of the earth. Xerxes tried to see the eyes of the speaker through the helm, but could not make them out.

“I am this Xerxes, and this is my friend Sol, defenders at the Battle of Drellin’s Ferry. We were seeking a place to stay for the night, when we were attacked by some thugs,” Xerxes pointed at the fallen Seraphim, “we managed to fight them off but one managed to escape.”

“More’s the pity,” grumbled Sol.

The heavy face-plate fixed on Xerxes, cavernous hollows where eyes should be weighing down on him. “I see.” The contact was broken, and a slight motion from the leader prompted one of the other four to kneel and inspect the Seraphim. The black haired man found something on the cloak and pulled it off, handing it to the leader, who turned it over in one mailed fist. Xerxes was not able to see the symbol, but he guessed it would be the silver sun of the order.

“I will see to it that this… matter is dealt with,” the leader spoke, not looking at either of them “it would be best if you found lodging for the evening. The Red Hand has this city on edge.” Having dismissed the pair, the masked motioned to the four others and they grabbed up the fallen Seraphim. As they set off, the leader called back “In Nomine”, then departed.

“In Nomine…?” Murmured Xerxes.

“Sounds like a place,” supplied Sol, rubbing his injured side.

“No, no it’s… well, it’s a dialect in the Empire. Nearly extinct. In the name of the father. Well, usually.”

“Oh. Coulda been a place. Woulda been handy. Maybe where the Ghostlord is.” Sol, seeing his friend bogged down in the mystery, gently took his shoulder and guided him along the road. “C’mon, Xerx. We can stay at the Zombie now, no-one’s lookin’ for us. Have a nice nights sleep.”

Unfortunately, they found little sleep at the Drunken Zombie. Their cheap shared accommodation left them both on edge, jumping at the snorts and grumbling of their room-mates. Much as if they were in the wild, Sol and Xerxes divided the night into watches, rising with the first light and getting out into the street as soon as they could.

It seemed theirs was not the only night to have been busy. As they wandered down to the market, a dozen familiar outlines flitted across the washed out sky, silencing the chatter of hawkers. The Owls of Starsong Hill had come to Brindol, fulfilling their oath to the three from Dennovar. Sol let out a quiet whoop, and even Xerxes felt gladness pulling at his heart. But he had to be away, to clear his mind and call in the others.

Sol let his friend hurry off, setting his mind to the purchase of horses. He wanted quick mounts, but not frail. It took him a little looking around the city – there was a war on, and horseflesh was at a premium – but he managed to pick up a fine pair, a pale-golden haired gelding and a white and brown dappled mare, along with harness and saddle, for only a slightly marked up fee. The warrior was well aware that they had a fortune in safe-keeping with the elves, and was not in the least bothered by the expense. It was quite a change from the days of slavery, to be able to afford whatever he wanted.

When Xerxes returned, Sol found himself quailing ever so slightly. The lines on his friends face seemed deeper, more accentuated, shadows drawn long over his dark skin. And from his mouth, and the sleeves of his vest, pouring out his boots, came whisps of blue white smoke. Wordless, Sol handed Xerxes the reins to the mare. The pair left quietly, by the Shepherd’s gate.