81—Good night, bad Night
Elgin Trezler speaks softly with the small and quiet part of himself that lives within the Truth of his god, and holds the knowledge of all beginnings.
Is there anything that this lich Alvodar would be willing to return to life for? Yes.
Would he come back to attempt to complete what he began? Yes.
Can Ceredain Deathstalker be redeemed? Yes.
Does the book of the dead hold the key to granting Ceredain peace? Possibly.
Does the Night intend to use Ceredain to become a deity herself? Yes.
Is the Night close to achieving this aim? This is uncertain—her true mind dwells in places the dawn’s light cannot reach.
Is the Night vulnerable to our spells and weapons? Yes and No.
Is the Night laying a trap for us? You will never sleep soundly so long as she lives. She has learned the true identity of your companions.
-----
“True identity?” Taran says. “Like one of those masked aristocrats that knows how to sword-fight and has bandit adventures?”
“You lot would make a worthless bandit gang,” Merkatha laughs. “You talk too much, and don’t have sh-t for flair.”
“I do not steal in any case,” Gorquen says icily. “Base thievery is a sign of a flawed character, and worthy of scorn.”
“He does not mean who we are,” Thelbar says. “That much is well known, and we make no secret of it. He means who we were. The Night has pierced the memory charm.”
“So she can divine, too. Big deal,” Taran says dismissively.
“It could be a ‘big deal’,” Thelbar says. “We do not know.”
“I could divine the truth of you, if you wish it,” Elgin offers.
“Thank you, Elgin,” Thelbar says. “But no. When we are ready, we will ask. Until then, we are all better served divining things that are directly relevant to the dangers that lie ahead.”
-----
Elgin finishes his commune.
Can the Night subvert the pasoun? Yes.
“Wow, that’s bad-ass,” Taran says.
“Shh!” Gorquen hisses.
Has the Night learned the truth of Taran and Thelbar’s past lives? Yes.
Was it Alvodar who set the plague on Isk? Yes.
Does Ceredain have a pre-existing relationship with Ishlok? Yes.
Is the plague an attack on Ishlok by Ceredain? Not directly.
Was Ceredain aware at the time that Alvodar was going to release the plague? Ceredain is the plague.
Has Ceredain escaped Kor’En Eamor? No.
Do we have what the Night needs to complete her ceremony? No.
Is the Uqaraq’s phylactery with Ceredain? Yes.
Is Ceredain aware of her surroundings? At times.
-----
Elgin finishes his session with a trio of divinations. In the first, he states the course of attacking the Night immediately, and receives, “This danger is balanced against gain—she waits patiently, but is no spider; Night will act against you if left be.” Next, he offers up Taran’s plan of stealing the Uqaraq’s phylactery from Ceredain; “Terrible woe and the greatest danger posed in all these halls lies that way.”
“But it would work, right?” Taran says.
“You’re worse than she is,” Merkatha snorts, jabbing her thumb at Gorquen. “She’s an idiot, but you’re stupid and crazy.”
“Crazy like an ox,” Taran says cryptically.
Elgin finishes his divinations by offering up the course of leaving the Delve altogether and returning to New Ithor, and receives this reply: “Sleep with your swords at hand, and spells on your lips. ”
“I think we should confront the Night,” Elgin says. “I do not like the tidings I have received about her. Ceredain is terrible, but Ceredain is not moving against us directly. This Night has cause to hate us now, and the means to trouble us even should we leave this place. It seems to me that we have made an enemy that we have good cause to fear.”
“Well,” Taran says philosophically. “In my experience, it’s hard to really fear things that stay dead when you kill them. The way I see it, until we waste this hag, we won’t know how scary she really is.”
-----
The central chamber within the Halls of Fire is a huge domed octagon that gives access at its far end to a short stair that seems to run directly into the flow of lava. As the party descends, they realize that they are walking within a carved tunnel of clear stone—a marvel, and tribute to the dwarven sense of grandeur; in essence, it is a forty foot hallway, not particularly large or ornate. But it winds through a lava flow, and is crystalline in its clarity. It is an entirely common passageway rendered in an entirely un-matched fashion; an offhanded reminder that no other people in any other place have equaled the heights of the craftsdwarves of the First Home.
The doorways at the end of the hall are likewise unadorned, but give off a slight chill, and the cause is evident as Taran gently swings the perfectly-balanced steel portals open. The room beyond is cold. As the group moves into the space, they see their breath misting in the air.
A coven of familiar outsiders await them within the chamber, frail old women standing at attention with the dignity of a diplomat’s delegation. Two of the dagger-wielding bodyguards flank a large throne dominated by a massive hag, all wrinkles and shadows with red eyes glaring out from within the disturbing vagueness of her features. She is clearly a creature made not of flesh and bone, but something greater—greater and far worse. A dozen other hags stand at attention along the sides of the great chamber, their pose disturbed by the constant wringing of hands and cramped gesturing that marks their race.
The huge hag, in contrast, sits completely still. Her shadowy and wrinkled skin is marked with ritual scars and tattoos, piled one upon the another, forming layers of mystical markings and vile symbols. Upon her head, she wears a crown of finger bones, thousands of them strung together with wire and guts, each digit radiating a dim and flickering light. The lights flicker as if alive, and seem to struggle against their casing. Underneath this disturbing crown, wispy tendrils of thin hair writhe and blow in an unseen wind.
A physical aura of power radiates from her, bespeaking her status as an Elder Being, and tickling some deeply buried fear in the mind of each of the heroes.
“I should have suspected I’d see you today,” the hag begins, her voice thin and distant, yet clear within the ear. “I should have known that such worthies would not stoop to cowardly flight.”
“Do we know one another, lady?” Thelbar asks politely.
“Oh, I make it a point to know all the great butchers,” the hag whispers. “So many souls . . . can you even hear them? Can you hear them curse your name? With each life you take, you add to the refrain. Can you hear them now?”
And they can. At first, the sound is like a thin whine—a distant and emaciated call coming from somewhere far away, barely audible over the hag’s whisperings. But as she speaks, the sound becomes louder, and what started with one voice, becomes a chorus of thousands. The sound grows in volume until it is a physical thing that blows the heroes back toward the door, and threatens to sweep them off their feet.
The sound fades for a moment, and is gone. “That is the music you have made with all your precious lives,” the hag sneers. “Hardly a worthy use for this immortality your goddess would starve the multiverse with.”
Elgin Trezler raises himself to his full height. “I had come to offer you terms, creature, but now . . .” He removes his holy symbol, and shrugs his shield onto his arm.
“Terms?” The Night laughs. “You stand among the butchers of the multiverse,” the hag says through a wheezing laugh. “What can you offer me but the over-rare get of their bloody work?”
Taran is glaring at the creature, and trying to keep a fierce expression on his face. As he speaks, he slowly moves toward her, “I never killed anyone who didn’t deserve it,” he says, “starting with my first orc, and ending with . . . you.”
“You know so little of your past,” the hag says, a mocking sadness in her voice.
“And you know so little of your future,” he promises.
“Surrender your souls to the pasoun, and we will show you mercy,” Gorquen says.
“We have no souls,” the hag replies. “We are eternal beings, and were great before the multiverse was seeded with your kind. Your “souls” are the collars that mark you as slaves, and we were among those who put them on you.” The hag smirks, and at a gesture, her lesser attendants slip into the etheric plane. “Your goddess calls herself a ‘mother’, but deals only destruction,” the hag sneers. “The teat of oblivion is what she offers the worlds, and you lap at this milk because her skirts are the only place for you to hide.” She glares directly at Thelbar. “Well, I have determined that it is time you grew up. I have sold your names to those who seek you, and the gates of Hell swing wide to swallow you back.”
“Okay, I’ve heard enough,” Taran says, looking around the room. “Who’s the first to die?”
“I have a suggestion,” the hag drawls, “but you’re not going to like it.”
Elgin Trezler raises his holy symbol and grows to twice his height as he calls into himself Lathander’s righteous might, and with a second gesture the cleric calls down a quickened flame strike upon the throne. The Elder hag makes no move to evade the burst, and the pillar of holy fire washes over her harmlessly.
Thelbar enters into a time stop, and after a few flickering moments he emerges, displaced and protected by a shield. The back of the room is swept by a horrid wilting, and rattled by the multiple explosions of a meteor storm. None of the spells seem to affect the hag in the slightest, although her two bodyguards are shaken by the assault.
Taran and Gorquen are also quick to act, charging at the throne, and swinging their weapons at the hag seated there, but she easily avoids their blows, moving with a graceful synchronicity that makes the exchange look like a well-rehearsed dance.
From the etheric plane, all ten of the hags stationed there point withered and decrepit limbs at Thelbar and pelt him with a barrage of magic missiles. Five arcs of light streak from each of the hags, causing a rare panic within the mind of the mage. His shield spell absorbs the barrage, but he realizes that should the hags target any one of his companions, the victim could not hope to survive for long.
The Night leaps first all the way to the back of the dwarven-carved stone throne, then springs off of it and lashes onto Gorquen’s back, biting her in the wing-joint and licking her neck. “You taste like . . . failure,” she whispers into Gorquen’s ear. “Your goddess doesn’t protect the losers.”
The two greater hags move into the fight, ripping at Taran with their unholy daggers, and forcing him away from the Night. Fortunately, his displacement ward is able to confuse their assault, and after exhausting their momentum, the hags warily back away.
Elgin calls his deva to his side again, and the radiant embodiment of all that is Right and True places a blade-barrier between his allies and the two greater hag bodyguards. Both of the wicked creatures are forced back, but they avoid the whirring blades by parrying them with their daggers in a flashing display of superhuman skill.
Gorquen shrugs the Night from her back, and whirls around, her sword flashing low, hoping to trip the creature. But the Night merely catches the flat of the sword against her leathery calf, and stomping downward, shoves Gorquen fully off balance, dumping the winged elf on her back! Gorquen rolls and flutters to her feet, her next sword-strike missing far wide. Taran leaps at the Night, a primal growl in his throat, but she evades his flurry handily. Taran is one of the best swordsmen in Cormyr, but he cannot land a blow.
“Think, Tar-Ilou, think!” Taran mutters under his breath.
Picking this up through the telepathic bond, Thelbar replies, “Don’t think, Taran—kill! I will do the thinking!”
“Yeah, I was talking to you. You’d better come up with something, because I can’t hit this bitch.”
Thelbar uses a limited wish to transport himself into the etheric, and once there, flash-fries half of the hags with a quickened fireball.
Merkatha, meanwhile, has crept into the room, and silently positioned herself near the lashing hag and her two attendants. She has used her hat of disguise to take on the form of the dominated hag, and steps forward, delivering a wicked sneak attack on one of the Night’s bodyguards. This seems to enrage the Night, who speaks a curse against all traitors in her foul abyssal tounge.
The etheric hags are predictably selfish, and focus their attention on the threat at hand—with a perfect conformity ten rays of enfeeblement streak toward the mage, forcing him to scramble out of the way. Even though he evades the worst, he is still weakened greatly and says a silent prayer.
The Night dances away from Gorquen, and seizes Taran in her jaws, punching through his armor, and staggering the bull-necked fighter.
In the etheric, Thelbar destroys the remaining hags there with a well-placed cone of cold, freezing over the burns his earlier fireball left behind.
Taran slips into a thoughtless state, and leaves the fighting to his body, as his mind calms itself. He whirls his twin swords about him in an unconscious fighting-pattern, shifting unpredictably in response to his opponent’s feints and counters This has some effect, and he is able to cut the Night once, although she doesn’t seem to be overly concerned by the wound.
Elgin Trezler enters the fray, and swings his mace with crushing impact, killing one of the greater hags with three withering blows. The other “sister” turns to him, and attempts to repay him in kind, drawing blood. Elgin’s deva follows his summoner into the fighting, and puts his greatsword to use against the remaining bodyguard.
Both remaining hags screech their displeasure at the presence of a celestial, and slip to either side of the deva, severing his tie to the Prime with a series of crushing blows, bites, and knife-wounds. Elgin attempts to defend his ally, leveling a destruction spell at the greater hag, and a quickened searing light at the Night. Both spells fail to take effect, shunted aside by some otherworldy protection. Overwhelmed by the hags’ assault, the deva disappears with a regretful sigh, sketching a shallow bow to Elgin as he goes.
At this moment, Merkatha puts herself directly behind the Night, hoping to distract the creature, and make her vulnerable. Thelbar returns to the prime, and his quickened magic missile pierces the remaining bodyguard’s resistance, provoking a weakened cry of pain and terror from the thing.
As the magic missiles streak home, the Night turns on Merkatha and rips into the disguised drow with her claws, screeching something vile in her filthy language. Merkatha is nimble enough to save her own life, but is still badly hurt. She backs away from the Night, and at that, the Elder hag realizes the duplicity.
“Clever drow,” she says, her demeoner shifting from rage to bemusement in an instant. Fortunately for Merkatha, even if the Night intended to pursue, she has her hands full evading a pair of top-notch fighters. Taran cannot harm her, but after a brief exchange, Gorquen lands a lucky blow.
“I think she’s reading my mind!” Taran thinks. “That’s why I can’t touch her.”
“Yes,” Thelbar replies, “and I’m tempted to feeblemind you.”
But instead, Thelbar casts his feeblemind at the Night, and through some outrageous luck, the spell takes effect! Taran, Gorquen and Elgin seize the opening, and lay into the Night with a ferocious assault, but even deprived of her supernatural insight, the Night is still protected by magical wards and an impossibly tough hide. The feebleminded Elder hag lashes out at her mortal tormenters with a furious (if strategically shallow) activity. Taran is cut again, and Gorquen receives a vicious bite for her troubles.
“Damn, this is just wrong!” Gorquen curses.
“Stop bitching and keep swinging!” Taran shouts.
Elgin backs away from the fray, and heals Merkatha before the beleaguered drow can bleed out onto the cold stone floor.
“Just . . . keep . . . attacking,” Taran cries, and as his weapons are turned aside again and again by the hag’s skin, says, “I told those Thayvians the best possible enchantment! This is ridiculous!”
“Stop bitching and keep swinging!” Gorquen shouts.
Thelbar has no further luck with any of his spells. Elgin’s weaponry, while formidable, does not possess the requisite strength behind it to really harm the hag. Elgin moves away from the fighting, and begins curing Taran and Gorquen, who together slowly weaken the Night. Even if the rest of the fight is an anti-climax, it is an unusually long one, and by the time the Night is finally destroyed, both warrior’s arms are throbbing and fatigued. As the Night howls one last time, and collapses to the ground, Taran staggers back, and sits down himself, completely exhausted.
He regards Black Lisa, now called Arunshee’s Kiss, and mutters, “maybe I should ask for my money back.”
Thelbar prods his brother to his feet, and sets him to the task of looting the hag’s bodies, while he and Elgin discuss what should be done with the wretched artifact that decorates her head.
“I am sure they are repositories for souls,” Elgin says. “But of what sort?”
“Does it matter?” Thelbar asks. “It is enslavement, pure and simple, and even wicked beings do not deserve such a fate. When we leave this place, we will see about destroying the thing, and perhaps we can set them loose, for good or ill.”
