Travels through the Wild West: a Forgotten Realms Story

[Lazybones]

Part 22

The unseasonably moderate weather came to an end the next day, as a winter storm blew down from the north and dropped its wet cargo on the city. Lord Dhelt and his entourage left early in the morning, before most of the city’s citizens had even stirred from their beds, and the hour and the weather kept all but a few die-hard well wishers from gathering to bid their ruler farewell on his mission. The rain ran down the gutters of the city streets, washing away the dust and grime, and in at least one case, the blood from a night of ambush and battle.

Three figures in waterproof cloaks with heavy cowls huddled in the lee of a large building, from which the constant din of metal striking metal issued. From a distance, they looked like a man and his two children—although one of them seemed rather bulging, his cloak barely managing to cover his stout form. From a little closer, though, it became quite clear how unusual this small group of strangers were, even before one caught sight of Lok’s stony-textured skin.

“He’s late,” Lok said.

“He was supposed to meet us here after an hour. What if something happened to him?” Delem asked.

“Benzan can take care of himself,” Cal said. “But I’m all for getting out of this rain.” They moved to the entrance of the building, a large wooden door built to slide open on heavy iron rails. A blast of heated air blasted them as they stood before the opening, welcome for the first few moments but quickly growing oppressive even before they had fully entered the place.

“Ah, the smell of the forge,” Lok said, clearly remembering a distant memory.

The place seemed quite busy even given the bad weather outside, with at least two dozen men—and at least one dwarf that they could see—working the equipment inside. The “forge” was in reality at least a half-dozen fully operating furnaces, with other stations along the walls for shaping, molding, and working metal. A big pile of iron stock was set near the doors, and storage racks further down displayed a wide variety of finished or nearly finished items, including weapons and armor. Through an open doorway on one side wall they caught a glimpse of another chamber, where yet more men were seated at tables apparently doing detail work on items that had come out of the forges.

For a few moments they just tried to take in the scene with all of the noise, heat, and confusion. Finally, Lok nudged Cal and gestured to a mountain of a man who was helping two others shape what looked to be the basis of a heavy iron plow.

“The master smith, I take it,” Cal said, walking with his two companions over to where the man could see them.

The smith did notice them, but he continued at his work for several long minutes, finally turning over the plow to his assistants before coming over to them.

“What do you want?” he asked them bluntly.

Cal almost had to shout to be heard over the din, but the gnome had never had any difficulty in being loud when necessary. “We have some questions about some armor and weapons that were forged here,” he began.

“Purchases and inquiries are handled at the main office, outside and across the street,” the smith said. He had already half-turned to go back to his work, but Cal quickly forestalled him.

“Please, this is quite important,” Cal said. “We won’t take but a minute of your time.”

“Look,” the man said. “We get a lot of people in here on a daily basis, each of whom only want a ‘minute of my time’. Go to the office. The clerk can help you with whatever questions about your order that you might have, and can tell you about our refund policy if need be.”

A loud clanging sound came from further down the building, followed by several loud curses. The smith turned immediately in that direction, the companions already forgotten.

“Let me try,” Delem said, as he quickly moved into the path of the smith before he could leave to help his employees.

For a moment, as the smith’s face darkened, it looked like Delem was about to suffer a rather unpleasant fate. The smith was almost twice his size, with thick arms nearly as thick around as the slender young man’s waist. But the sorcerer only smiled, and when the smith looked down into his eyes, he saw flames dancing inside them, flickering, drawing him into their depths. He stared at Delem for a dozen heartbeats, mesmerized, before he shook his head.

“Please, sir, just a minute of your time. It will be worth your while, I promise.”

“Uh, yeah, all right,” the smith said. He paused to shout something at the workers who had dropped the shield they were working on, then moved to join the companions in the relatively quiet area by the open doorway.

“Now then, my friend just had a few things we wanted to ask you, and you can get back to your forge,” Delem said to the man companionably.

“Of course,” the man replied. “Anything for a friend, I guess.”

“Now then,” Cal said. “We were wondering about some items—weapons, and armor, that were apparently produced here. We asked around, and it seems that this factory produces the best such equipment in Elturel.”

“That’s true,” the smith said. “The Blazing Shield Works have been running for almost thirty years now, and it’s well known throughout the west that we produce the best. I’ve got four smiths, including an armorer and weaponsmith, who are masters in their own right, and I’ve sold some of my own work to His Lordship the High Rider for magicking and stuff.”

“Quite impressive,” Delem said, and the man smiled broadly at the compliment.

“We’re particularly interested in a suit of half-plate that we encountered a while back,” Cal said, and he described the armor that had until recently belonged to Zorak. Lok, himself an expert armorer, added some comments about the unique features of the armor that he remembered from handling it, and the man’s face brightened in recognition.

“Yeah, I remember it,” the smith said. “Part of a shipment that we sent out for Lamber Dunn, almost… the better part of a year, I suppose. It was a big order, assorted armor, weapons, for shipment down river to Baldur’s Gate—part of a contract for the Flaming Fist, if I recall correctly. They’ve got the invoices in the office, I’m sure. I remember that piece, because they wanted something really top notch, for magical enhancement I’d guess.”

The companions exchanged a glance. “So you weren’t handling this contract?” Cal asked.

“Oh, no. We sell most of our armor and weapons here locally, and have a lot of customers who come a long way for our gear. But the distance stuff, we work with distributors who buy up what they need, and then they have to worry about the transportation, security, and all that. It works fairly well, overall.”

“And this Lamber Dunn is a distributor?”

“Yeah, mostly along the river, up to Iriaebor and down to Baldur’s Gate. He’s hooked up with one of the major houses… hmm… Cobbledon, perhaps? Anyway, he’s got a warehouse down along the docks, at the base of the road down the bluff.”

“What about this?” Lok asked, lifting out from under his cloak one of the shortswords that they’d taken from the dead assassins. The smith examined it carefully.

“Yeah, I think this might be from that shipment, but it’s tough to say. We make a lot of swords, and we don’t mark each batch separately. I could ask Balak, he’s the weaponsmaster, if you want.”

“That’s all right,” Cal said. “Thank you for your help, master smith.”

“No problem. You let me know if you need anything else, ok?” He smiled at Delem, then turned back to his work.

“Oh, one more question,” Cal said, drawing the smith back around. “Who owns The Blazing Shield Works?”

“Well, most of us masters have a stake in it,” the smith replied. “But I don’t suppose it’s a secret that Lord Mandragon owns a majority share in the operation.”

Actually, no one they had talked to earlier had been able to furnish that simple bit of information, but Cal only said, “I see. Thank you.”

As they were leaving the building, they caught sights of Benzan coming up the street. The four of them ducked into a nearby tavern, where they settled briefly at a crooked table near a roaring fire.

“We were worried when you were late,” Delem said.

“What did you find out?” Cal asked the tiefling.

“Somehow, no bodies turned up anywhere near The Laughing Elf this morning,” Benzan told them. “I poked around the area a little, but no one was talking about anything unusual happening last night that they noticed.”

“So somebody cleaned up after us,” Cal said.

“Looks like it,” the tiefling replied.

“Shouldn’t we go to the authorities now?” Delem asked. “I mean, we’re no longer out in the wilds—this is a major city.”

“Go to the guard… and tell them what?” Benzan asked. “We have no evidence, now, save for a few weapons and pieces of armor. Those assassins were very well equipped, and knew exactly where we would be and when. Even leaving aside the masterwork weapons and equipment, tanglefoot bags aren’t cheap or easy to come by, and the poison they used… well, let’s just say a single dose is rather pricey, and you can’t just walk into a shop and buy some.”

“What are you saying?” Delem asked.

“What I’m saying, is that maybe we’ve stumbled into something bigger than we thought, that maybe someone in a position of power is involved in what’s been going on around here. It usually ends up that way, anyway, in my experience. The only difference between the rich and the poor, in terms of criminal behavior, is that one gets their hands a little dirtier than the other.”

“Benzan, you’re a cynic,” Cal said.

“Just experienced,” the tiefling shot back.

“So what do you suggest, then?” Delem asked, a little cross at Benzan’s attitude toward him.

“Well, that depends. What did you guys find out?”

“The smith admitted to making the armor we found on the hobgoblin cleric, and probably made most of the other weapons and armor we’ve been fighting against over the last week,” Cal said. “He doesn’t sell directly to purchasers out of town, however, working instead through outside distributors. We got a name, and an address to check out, down by the docks—a distributor who was supposedly buying the gear in question for the Flaming Fist in Baldur’s Gate.”

“And it just happened to end up in the hands of a bunch of hobgoblins operating a major silver mining operation in the Wood of Sharp Teeth, not to mention a group of assassins who try to kill us,” Benzan said. “It could just be coincidence, I suppose—weapons and armor often make their way to new owners, after all—but I don’t like this many coincidences stacking up together when it involves the continuation of my good health. As my ma always said, if it smells like a sheep and has wool, it’s probably not a goat.”

His three companions just looked at him blankly.

“Anyway, let’s check it out.”


* * * * *

After defeating the hobgoblin fort in the Wood of Sharp Teeth, the group leveled up; new stats are posted in the Rogues' Gallery.

 

[MasterOfHeaven]

Interesting. I'm looking forward to the next update. Good work.

 

[Lazybones]

Part 23

In a shadowy room, silent but for the patter of raindrops on the roof above, a man sat waiting. A gray slant of light that came in from the two windows high along the walls barely illuminated him enough to outline his visage. He was well into middle age but not yet truly old, with a carefully trimmed beard and penetrating, hooded eyes. He was dressed in a simple outfit of undyed wool, the sort that might have been worn by a middling townsman, or perhaps even by a well-off peasant making a visit to relatives in the city.

He looked a little pensive, as if grappling with serious thoughts this day. He did not show a reaction when the sound of a door being opened sundered the silence, nor did he turn to view the newcomer who came into the room, staying deep within the shadows. It was impossible to tell more about him—or her, as it may have been, for even when the newcomer spoke, it was with a voice pitched so deliberately neutral that it might have belonged to anyone.

“You sent for me,” the shadowed one said.

The seated man did not respond for a long uncomfortable moment. When he finally did speak, his voice was soft and melodious, yet somehow it seemed as cold as frost on a winter’s day.

“What were you thinking, Enialis?” he finally said.

Enialis shifted, and came briefly into the beam of light long enough to reveal a finely stitched wool cloak, trimmed with fox fur and silver thread.

“Why do you mock me with that name?” Enialis said. “It is not who I am, nor ever truly was.”

“Sending those assassins was the epitome of foolishness,” the seated man continued, as if the other had not spoken.

“Those four adventurers are dangerous to us. They needed to be eliminated—they were getting close…”

“Bah! They had nothing, nothing to link us to the operation in the Wood of Sharp Teeth, nothing to connect the banditry along the roads to us here in Elturel. That fool Zorak gave us that much, at least. Now, they are engaged, and curious, and… dangerous.”

“I admit, they proved more adept than I anticipated, but no one found out about the attack, and the four did not go to the Guard.”

“That only confirms that they suspect something.”

“They are outsiders,” Enialis offered. “They won’t get very far in their search, and—”

“They’ve already gotten farther than they should have,” the seated man cut him off. “And two things that you should remember, my friend. First, these outsiders are ‘heroes’ to the public, at least for the moment, and that gives them the ear of those who would not otherwise be inclined to hear. And second, and never forget this, your noble title and all your wealth won’t be worth a thing if even the whisper of your other… affiliation… becomes public. Or do you think that Lord Dhelt will be understanding, should he find out?”

That seemed to cow the shadowed figure, who finally said, “So, what should we do?”

“YOU will go back to your normal routine, and keep playing the foolish games that you do. Luckily, I had anticipated something like this, and I have already acted to bring in an ally to clean up the mess that you and Zorak have created here.”

“You don’t mean—”

“Exactly. I would just as soon not have brought them into this, but at the moment I have little choice. Now, get out of here.”

The dismissal was one that could not be refused, and ‘Enialis’ quickly scuttled out of the room, leaving the other to return to his dark thoughts.

 

[Lazybones]

Part 24

The rain continued in a steady patter as night settled over Elturel, and its citizens settled by warm fires to banish the chill of the day from their bones. The area along the city’s docks, at the base of the bluff atop which the city perched, was particularly quiet, the night and the rain casting a pall that was barely interrupted by the infrequent light cast by the street lamps along the crowded riverfront boulevard.

The end of that narrow stretch of road, away from both the docks proper and the circuitous road that led up the cliff to the outer wall of the city, culminated in a cluster of old but sturdy warehouses. Owned by the city’s major merchant interests that engaged in long-distance trade, they were typically used for temporary storage or to hold items slated for transshipment to other destinations along the various trade routes that the city intersected. Only a single lamp cast a faint glow along this dead end, its flame flickering as if it was reluctant to serve its duty this night.

Thus it was that the four shadows that moved down this dismal street went unseen, moving silently in the shadows of the looming warehouses toward a structure near the very end of the street, near the lapping waters of the River Chionthar. The cobbles here were choked with thick growths of weeds and a slippery layer of muck that clung at their boots as they walked. The four figures were determined, though, ignoring the weather that had most decent folk resting in the shelter of their homes this night. Soon they marked their destination, a place that they had already scouted earlier that day, and with purpose slipped into an alleyway between two of the squat buildings. At the end of that alley, with little but mud and the face of the cliff beyond, they found a heavy door in a recessed threshold.

“Just a second,” Benzan said, bending before the heavy but not particularly sophisticated lock on the door. The darkness did not hinder him in the least, but Delem was utterly blind, and even the gnome’s low-light vision was little help in the gloom. They had considered having just Benzan and Lok sneak out to the warehouse, as they possessed darkvision, but with assassins still possibly seeking them, they decided against splitting their strength. Once they got inside, Delem could provide his own light.

The lock clicked audibly, and the door opened to reveal a black interior. Benzan urged them all inside, and then closed the door behind them.

The place was silent, save for the patter of the rain on the roof above them. The interior of the warehouse was a single open space, perhaps twenty-five feet across and double that in depth. There were windows, cloudy panes high up along the walls, but with the darkness outside they were only distinguishable from the walls as vague gray squares. What struck them immediately were the smells; the sharp odor of herbs and spices with a hint of coffee grounds mixing with other, unfamiliar scents.

“A light, then,” Benzan said, “but keep it dim.”

In response, Delem called up a faintly flickering flame, sufficient to illuminate the area around them but unlikely to draw attention to themselves. The light revealed several rows of large crates, marked with a variety of merchant symbols, but the cavernous interior of the warehouse was far from crowded. A thin layer of dust hung over the place, indicating that no one had been in here for some time.

“Looks like this might be a dead lead,” Benzan said, as he walked slowly out into the place, his bootsteps making a slight echo on the hard stone floor. “Doesn’t look like anyone’s been here for a while.”

“Well, we’re here, so let’s check it out,” Cal suggested.

The four men spread out into the interior of the warehouse, checking the boxes and sifting through piles of discarded old materials like moth-eaten and moldy bolts of cloth and staved in barrels that still smelled strongly of the wine they had once held. Delem’s flickering flame faded after about a minute, so Cal cast a cantrip that caused the tip of his sword to glow like a torch, allowing him to poke it into dark crevices to look for clues.

“Hey, over here,” Benzan called from the other side of the warehouse. “I think I’ve found something.”

Cal and Delem joined him beside a pile of crates that he and Lok were moving aside, revealing what looked to them like just another foundation block. “I don’t see anything,” Cal remarked.

“Ah, it’s good work, I’ll grant them that,” Benzan said, as he drew his dagger and began poking around the edges of the slab. Finally he was rewarded with a loud click, and a section of the seemingly-solid slab rose up out of the floor, revealing a wide but shallow space underneath.

“A secret compartment!” Delem said.

“Looks like someone has something to hide,” Lok commented.

Cal shone the light down into the space, which was about fifteen feet square, extending for a fair distance under the foundation of the warehouse, and about four feet deep under the thick stones of the foundation. Before anyone could suggest caution, Benzan jumped down into the space, and began poking around.

“Looks like some weapons racks, storage shelves, and a few crates… all empty,” he called up. “Whoever used this space, they cleaned up real well—hello there.”

“What?” Cal asked.

“Found something,” he said. “Stashed behind a rack—looks like someone missed it.”

He popped back up through the narrow opening, showing them a small wooden box, just a few handspans across.

“What is it?” Delem asked.

“It’s a box,” Benzan said dryly, but he was already examining the box, carefully checking for hidden traps or catches. He didn’t find anything, and the box came open after a few moments of jimmying its clasp with his dagger.

Inside were several padded spaces, all but one of which were empty. The last, however, held what looked like an open metal box, the bottom of which was fashioned with a design that protruded from the metal.

“So we have our answer, it would seem,” Benzan said. Lok and Cal were silent, but their faces bespoke a similar understanding.

“I don’t understand,” Delem said in confusion.

Benzan held the object up into the light. “This, Delem, is a casting for a five-pound silver bar,” he said.

“But—the hobgoblins were casting their own bars at the fort,” Delem said in confusion. “I don’t see how this is linked.”

“Their refining facilities were very crude,” Lok said, “and those bars we found contained impurities that would have to be removed, and the bars recast. In addition, silver bars are not generally accepted in trade unless they are marked with a reputable stamp, attesting to their purity and weight.”

“There’s more to you than meets the eye, my friend,” Benzan said as he looked at the genasi. “For a guy who doesn’t say much, you’ve got a brain inside that thick skull of yours.”

Seeing that Delem still hadn’t fully made the connection, Benzan indicated the metal design at the bottom of the mold. “See that symbol? Recognize it? I’ll give you a hint—we saw it last at the party the other night, on the breast of one of our new aristocratic friends.”

Delem nodded, realization finally setting in.

“I should have seen it earlier, really,” Cal said, “It does make sense—”

“A pity you will never get the chance to share your revelation with anyone,” a voice came from the darkness behind them.

The four spun as one toward the sound. “Benzan?” Cal whispered, drawing one of his wands from his coat.

“I can’t see anything,” the tiefling hissed, as the four rose, weapons coming into their hands as they spread out warily.

“A fascinating little group,” the voice continued, coming from somewhere in the direction of the door, on the far side of the building. “A gnome, a sorcerer, a genasi, and… ah, a demon spawn, no less. Interesting, very interesting. A challenge—and I so like a challenge.”

“Why don’t you reveal yourself, and I’ll show you a challenge,” Benzan said.

As if in response, the light from Cal’s sword suddenly grew dim, its light fading to a feeble glow.

“Oh, that can’t be good,” Benzan said.

 

[Lazybones]

Whew, wrote a lot over the last week! Big confrontation coming up, but first of all, I’d like to conduct my own informal poll of my readers (all five of you )…

Who is the mysterious ‘Enialis’? I won't ask you about the plainly-dressed guy who was giving Enialis and Zorak orders (i.e. Mr. Big Boss), as I didn't give enough clues for you to figure out who he is (but a big bonus if you can guess ).

And

Who or what is about to attack the companions in the warehouse?

(Just trying to gauge how effective my set-up was!)

 

[Broccli_Head]

After two days of trying, I am finally able to reply!
I think that the big bad guy is Lord Mondragon since he is the only guy that is mentioned.
Also went to the rogue's gallery and saw the characters. Liked Delem becoming a priest. Thought that Cal would take a level of bard instead. See the logic in Benzan's fighter pick up. Lok is a no-brainer--dwarven defender PrC in the future?

 

[FreeZ0r]

Make that six readers

Just have to say that so far the story is great, you have got a very good balance of story and action, I like it.

I am thinking that maybe the not so young half-elf, Lord Evan Rathman has something to do with it....at the party we found out that

"...he had his hand in several mercantile activities in the city, including the town’s largest importer of expensive luxury foods like eastern tea, spices, and wine from the Dalelands."

And as we all know the warehouse smelled strongly of herbs and spices, and they found a number of old wine barrels....coincidence?

On the other hand it could be Lord Fariq...

"Fariq? Informal ambassador, merchant, spy—no one’s really sure, and everyone has at least a few guesses. He’s an interesting fellow, though, and according to some accounts, he possesses some fairly potent magic as well."

Or maybe they are both mixed up in it....

I wonder if maybe Lord Mandragon is just a red herring throw into the mix....it will be interesting to see how it all pans out.

 

[Lazybones]

Thanks for persevering, Broccli_Head--I got a notice a few days ago that you tried to post to this and the RG forum, but then the boards got all funky on us. For a while I feared I'd lost my readers as my view tally slowed to a crawl, then I realized that everybody was having problems as new posts on the Story Hour forum went way down. I heard that the slowdown was due to all the new registrations; hopefully it'll smooth out soon.

You weren't the only one who thought that Cal would focus more on his bardic skills, but I think that his future lies down a more arcane path (although nothing is set in stone, yet).

FreeZ0r, welcome to the story, and thanks for posting! Of course, I can't comment on anybody's predictions yet, but I think that you'll like the way the story develops .

I'll post the next installment first thing tomorrow (PST).

LB

 

[Horacio]

I don't dare to guess who is the villain, I'd had said Lord Mandragon, but I think it's too easy as an answer.

Great stroy, I hope you will post the next update today!

 

[Lazybones]

Part 25

“Stay close, everybody,” Cal said, as the four companions searched the darkness for their still-unidentified assailant.

“I think—aaahhhh!” Delem cried out, collapsing to the ground as a dark shadow materialized behind him.

The others turned to face their enemy. In the faint light cast by Cal’s spell he was just a shadow in the shape of a man, a dark figure in an enfolding cloak that shrouded his lean form. He carried a longsword in his hand, the blade slick with Delem’s blood, the steel black like a slick of oil upon water.

“Let’s dance, shall we?” he said, taunting them, blocking the route to where Delem lay bleeding out his lifeblood upon the stone.

Benzan and Lok both charged, but before they could reach the man, he split into a quartet of images, identical copies of himself that followed his every movement, blurring in and between him until his confused attackers could not identify which was the real foe. Benzan snarled and launched himself at one anyway, but his blade passed through empty air, causing the mirror image to vanish.

Lok came forward to strike, imitating Benzan’s strategy, but before he could swing his axe the images all lunged nimbly at him. His heavy armor was proof against most attacks, but this enemy found a crease between plates and stabbed deep, causing the genasi to grunt in heavy pain. The genasi returned with a powerful arcing swing, but his attack too clipped only an image, leaving two—one of which had to be the real foe.

Cal, meanwhile, was trying to circle around to help Delem, but was having difficulty getting around the battle. He considered using a sleep spell, but realized that it might inadvertently catch one of his friends as they battled their dark adversary in a swirling melee. Instead, he cast a minor illusion, causing the sound of clanking metal to appear behind their enemy in an effort to distract him and give Lok and Benzan an opening.

The enemy warrior, however, paid no heed. “Nice try, gnome!” he said, lashing out again, this time at Benzan. His sword again struck hard, drawing a cry of pain from yet another adversary as he penetrated the tiefling’s armor and the shoulder beneath it with a thrust from his dark blade. Benzan staggered, but retaliated with a swing that actually connected, but which was deflected by the hard coat of mail-links that the dark warrior wore under his shroud.

“He’s armored!” Benzan said, to warn Lok.

“Indeed, foolish tiefling, my armor is quite—arrgh!”

Their enemy’s taunts were suddenly cut off as Lok barreled quickly in, slicing into him with a powerful sweep of his axe into his torso. The blow clearly had an effect, tearing through the man’s armor to cut flesh, but he spun with the impact and danced back, still dangerous.

“It would seem that I should not underestimate you,” he said, waiting for them to come again.

The exchange had given Cal time to get to Delem. The gnome crouched over his unconscious friend, and was amazed to see that somehow, the deep wound had already closed, seemingly without volition from the stricken sorcerer. Delem was still unconscious, but not in danger of dying. There was no time to consider this mystery, however, so Cal drew out his wand of healing and called upon its power. The pale blue glow suffused Delem’s form, restoring him to consciousness.

“You’ll have to do the rest yourself,” Cal said to him with urgency as the sorcerer-cleric stirred. “The others need my help!”

Indeed, the battle raged on. The unknown adversary, still with one shifting image obscuring his form, came at them again. He thrust at Lok, who had proven himself the more dangerous adversary, and again hit, although this attack only tore a slight gash in the genasi’s weapon arm.

Benzan moved to flank the dark warrior, coming in from behind to sneak attack him. His stroke was perfect, but unfortunately found only an image, causing the last figment to vanish but leaving the warrior just a few feet away unharmed.

“Damn!” the tiefling cursed.

“Wait your turn, now,” the warrior said without turning. “I’ll get to you in just a moment.”

With the last of the images gone, and his target now clearly defined, Cal strode deliberately right up to the edge of the melee, one of his wands ready in his hand. The dark warrior sensed him and turned toward him right as the gnome released a color spray full into his face.

The splash of blinding colors lasted only a moment, but when the brilliance faded, the warrior was still there, unfazed.

“Fool! Your petty enchantments cannot harm me! The darkness is my cloak, my shield!” With his words he slashed out at Cal, connecting with a devastating blow that sent the gnome reeling.

“Let’s see how you do in the light, then,” Delem said, as he staggered to his feet a few yards away. He lifted one hand, and summoned the power of a spell.

Four twinkling lights came into being, forming a box around the warrior. Each was only half the brightness of a torch, but collectively, they dispelled the shadows around the warrior and for the first time clearly revealed their adversary.

He was a powerfully built man, still in the prime of youth, but his skin was a sickly gray color, like ashes in a fireplace, and his eyes were dark orbs that bespoke the corruption of whatever fell magics had created him. The rent in his black shroud caused by Lok’s axe revealed a coat of silvery gleaming mail links underneath, although as they watched it seemed like the cut in his flesh was already healing, the flow of blood all but stopped.

“What manner of demon are you,” Benzan breathed.

“You cannot begin to comprehend the truth of what I am,” the man said, his scowl taking in all of them at once. “Your corrupted societies will come to understand soon enough, though.”

“Whatever you are, prepare to taste steel!” Benzan shouted, charging at him as Lok came in from the opposite side.

The dark warrior seemed weakened, slower in the ring of light, but he still reacted with speed and fury to the combined assault. His blade turned Benzan’s attack, but he staggered as Lok chopped into his hip with a powerful sweep of his axe. Delem had moved to help Cal, but the gnome had already retreated from the battle, using his healing wand on himself, so the sorcerer fired two magic missiles into the warrior. As with Cal, however, the magic faltered upon whatever arcane resistance the shadow-man possessed, the bolts dissipating into nothingness as they touched him.

There was still a lot of fight left in the dark warrior, though, as the companions quickly learned. He staggered back a step, as if trying to disengage, but as Lok and Benzan pressed him, he suddenly lunged and thrust powerfully at Lok. This time, however, the genasi was ready for the attack, and took the blow on his shield. Side by side Benzan and Lok attacked again, but their thrusts missed, Benzan’s swing glancing once again off of the warrior’s resilient coat of mail, and Lok’s powerful swing missing the mark as the warrior dodged nimbly out of its path. As they moved, Delem summoned another quartet of floating flames, keeping their enemy completely bracketed by light. That seemed to weaken him, and in fact his face twisted into a dark scowl as he stared at the sorcerer.

“This isn’t over!” he hissed, and he suddenly changed direction, darting back from Lok and past Benzan, his cloak billowing out behind him like a cloud of smoke.

Lok could not reach the quick-footed warrior, but Benzan did not stand idly as he passed. The scimitar slashed upward so rapidly that it was just a gleaming blur in the light of Delem’s dancing flames, intersecting with the black shadow that was the warrior as he darted in the direction of the exit. A sudden cry rewarded him as he finally hit with a critical blow, the keen weapon slicing deep into the warrior’s neck. For all his fell powers of the dark, he bled common red blood, a fountain that poured down his shoulder relentlessly with every step he took.

But the warrior kept going, staggering away, calling upon some reserve of fortitude as he made for the promise of the darkness just a few yards away. And in fact, as he left the muted radiance of the lights, he seemed to recover some, his steps growing surer, his pace growing faster.

“Not so fast,” Delem said, and he spoke a word of magic.

A flare of sudden, brilliant light exploded in front of the warrior’s face, dazzling him. His magical resistance could not protect him from the flare, and he stumbled, the light stabbing pain into eyes accustomed to the dark, but causing no real damage.

But that moment of hesitation was costly. Even as the warrior started forward again, a crossbow bolt from Cal’s bow slammed into his back, penetrating the links of mail and stabbing deep into a lung. The dread warrior still staggered forward, reaching out as if to grasp the cloying darkness.

And then Benzan came up from behind him, and ended it with one final blow.

“By the gods,” Delem said, moving quickly to help Lok, who was grievously wounded. They were all injured, and cognizant of how close they had come to disaster. If the warrior had landed that third strike and dropped Lok, he would not have tried to flee, and opened himself to Benzan’s counter. As it was, they were amazed at the punishment that he had taken, and the dark magics that he had summoned forth.

“Good thing he wasn’t that smart,” Cal said. “Or he might not have given us the clue needed to defeat him.” And a good thing that Delem somehow managed to survive that first strike, the gnome didn’t add out loud, curious at yet another unusual power manifested by the surprising young human.

After Cal and Delem worked some needed healing upon them, they gathered around the body of the fallen warrior. There was little more that they could divine about him now that he was dead, except that the armor he wore turned out to be a finely crafted suit of chainmail fashioned of mithril, an incredibly rare and expensive metal that was both light and durable.

“You might have left him alive, so we could question him,” Cal said to Benzan.

“Under the circumstances, I didn’t want to take the chance,” the tiefling replied unapologetically. “Who knows what other tricks he might have had up his sleeve?”

The tiefling had crouched over their dead foe, and was beginning to remove the man’s armor when he paused. “Hello, what do we have here,” he said, pulling a tightly rolled scroll from the man’s cloak.

“Careful,” Cal cautioned. “Sometimes there can be danger in the written word.”

“Spoken like an educated man,” Benzan replied lightly. But the others noticed that he handled the scroll with caution as he unrolled it and held it up in the light so they could all see the writing upon its surface.

“What language is that?” Delem said. “It looks like scribbles to me.”

Benzan sighed. “It is Draconic—a language used by wizards.”

“And you understand it?” Cal asked.

The tiefling nodded. Cal knew there was another story there, but he let it rest for the moment as Benzan read to them the contents of the scroll.

“I am pleased that you could return to Elturel on such short notice,” Benzan read. “I apologize that we cannot meet in person; with so many eyes watching, it is too great a risk even given your particular talents. I hope that you will find the armor in the enclosed package to your satisfaction; it was quite difficult to acquire. At the bottom of this scroll you will find detailed descriptions of the four men requiring your attention; I leave it to you to decide the time and place of their elimination, so long as they are removed swiftly and quietly, without any evidence.” There was no signature to the missive, but by now they had all gained a fairly good idea of its origin.

Benzan scanned the bottom of the scroll, and looked up at them. “Wow, their descriptions are pretty thorough… I don’t really have an ‘irritating manner,’ do I?”

Despite Benzan’s attempt at lightening the mood, for a moment the companions said nothing, only looking at each other in gazes that said much. Finally, it was Cal who spoke. “We have unfinished business, it seems.”

“Some of us are still injured,” Benzan said.

“Not for long,” Cal replied, taking out his wand.

“Your other magic?” Benzan asked.

“I still have most of my spells remaining,” Cal said. He looked over at Delem, who nodded in response.

Benzan walked over to where the box they had found lay discarded on the stones, and picked it up. He lifted out the metal mold, and examined it. “Then let’s finish it tonight,” the tiefling said.