Travels through the Wild West: Books V-VIII (Epilogue)

[Lazybones]

Hey hey, just got back from Hawaii late last night. Thanks to everyone who kept this thread alive in my absence, and special thanks to Horacio for posting updates.

Here's a short weekend update; back to regular updates tomorrow!

Lazy "married man" bones


Book VI, Part 23


“Report.”

“A small party of intruders has attacked the guard station at sector 4G, Master.”

“Their composition?”

“Two gnomes, Master—a druid and a wizard. The druid has a dire wolf as an animal companion, a beast of great ferocity. A human warrior. All are very skilled, with powerful spells and magical equipment.”

A short pause.

“Jakal.”

A small, odious, rat-like creature, standing just a little over a foot in height, stepped forward. “Yes, master.”

“I want you and the other jermlaines to track these intruders. Do not engage, and do not reveal yourselves, but monitor their movements, and pass the information on to the other stations.”

“Yes, master.” The diminutive creature sped off.

“I want the rest of you to organize a convergence, using Jakal’s reports to plot a reasonable point of attack. Margas, you will coordinate.”

“As you wish, master.” The speaker, a balding, middle-aged man clad in the tattered remains of a robe, bowed.

“I want these intruders brought to me, alive.”

“Yes, master,” the chorus of voices replied.

“Go then—”

A figure stepped forward from the back ranks of those gathered. A young gnome, his torn tunic dangling awkwardly from his lean frame. “Master.”

“What is it?”

“I think that I know these intruders, Master. The gnomes, anyway.”

Another pause, very brief.

“That may be useful.”

 

[Krellic]

Welcome back Lazybones, surprised you've had time to think of an update!

But grateful all the same...no I'm not even going there..

 

[Horacio]

Cool! Now I can bump again!

 

[Lazybones]

Book VI, Part 24


Delem screamed in pain as the dull head of the kabbak-johr brushed his side, the plain metal burning like fire as it touched his bare flesh. He spun around, feeling like he would pass out from the pain, knowing that he could not. He was barely able to bring his own weapon around in time to deflect the next stroke, and the next after that, but then a solid blow caught him in the chest, and he was falling backwards, everything around him lost in a haze of pain.

When had recovered enough to become aware of his surroundings, he saw that he was on his back on the jagged stone, looking up at the horned visage of the demon who had struck him down.

“You are weak, human,” it said to him, its voice thick with contempt. Delem tensed slightly, expecting anything, but the demon only turned and walked away.

Slowly the sorcerer lifted himself to his feet. He watched as the demon crossed to the far side of the unevenly shaped room, and replaced the kabbak-johr on a rack among the numerous other unusual weapons that hung along the entire length of the wall. Delem saw that it had taken up his own discarded weapon, a guisarme with a heavy iron haft and a serrated blade of black metal, and placed it up on the wall as well. Delem half-expected the demon to say something else to him, but it didn’t even look at him again as it turned and left via the steep staircase that led back up to the cavernous halls above.

Delem was left alone, breathing heavily. He felt pain in various parts of his body, but had grown so familiar with that feeling that mere physical hurts barely troubled him much any more. Not that such tolerance helped him any—the demons were perfectly able of devising fresh torments that would strip away whatever shields he had constructed, delving him into new depths of suffering and despair.

Left completely alone, he debated heading back up to the complex, but ultimately decided to remain here. He walked over to the wall of weapons, examining them. He’d already learned how to use many of them, after a fashion, although he was no warrior and he doubted that he ever would be able to wield blades in the way that Lok, or even Benzan had. Thinking of those two names, even incidentally, brought new pain that he couldn’t easily ignore, so he squashed the thought and turned back to the weapons.

They were all ugly, brutal things, awkward and difficult to use. Many of them inflicted pain upon the wielder as well as the target, even when used properly. He ran his hand along the surface of one, letting the physical pain drive away his inner pain, if only just for a second. He didn’t even bother with the line of blood across his hand. It would heal, or it wouldn’t; it didn’t really matter, here.

As always happened when the demons left him alone, his mind drifted back to the audience—when had it been? Time was so intangible here, in a place without days or nights or even simple physical reminders like the need to eat or sleep. Sleep—ah, what he wouldn’t have given for just the simple oblivion of sleep! Here, whenever he was bludgeoned into unconsciousness or otherwise incapacitated by a demon’s whim, the only dreams that came were those sent by them. Even his own thoughts weren’t his own, a reality that he knew only too well.

Was he insane? There was no way of knowing, but he supposed just being able to ask the question was a good sign. He laughed at the absurdity of it, the sound as always surprising him, the noise sounding as though it was coming from a different creature’s throat.

Ah yes, the audience. It flooded back into him now, when the glabrezu had brought him before his tormenter, when he had looked into the face of that being which now... owned him, owned him in the same sense that he had owned his own thoughts back when...

He’d recognized him immediately, though he couldn’t say where or when he’d gotten that knowledge. There was something familiar, though, something from his past life, a niggling reminder of...

The thought was overwritten by the words in his mind, playing over their conversation once again as it already had a thousand times before.

“Welcome, Delem. I have been watching you for some time, now, even before you came here, in fact.”

“Why?” A simple word, with so many meanings.

“I have had an... interest in one of your companions, but must admit, that of all your little band, you, Delem, always fascinated me the most. There is a certain presence to you that lies just beneath the surface, something that your friends never fully saw.”

“Why have you done all of this to me?” Not that he expected an answer from such a being, but he had to ask the question, could not keep it inside him any longer. He was already shaking, trembling with the combined force of a thousand emotions running through him.

“The torments were necessary, Delem, for you to rediscover who you are—what you are. And see, you have recovered your powers, and in fact will grow stronger, under the proper... guidance.”

“What do you want from me?”

Laughter. “Why, nothing at all. After all, anything that I could want from you, I already have. Make no mistake, Delem, you are mine now, as much so as my sword or my palace or my slaves, here.” In an unnecessary display he had reached out toward a hezrou standing nearby. The stupid creature had started to come quickly over to them at the gesture, only to begin a horrid mewling as it suddenly halted, as if it has struck a wall. He formed his hand into a fist, holding it up for several long seconds, and the hezrou had flailed and cried and begged as its body began to collapse under it. Finally he had released it, relaxing his hand, and the demon melted into a putrid heap of ruined flesh on the floor.

“Why don’t you just do the same to me, then?” Delem had asked, the words coming from somewhere deep inside of him.

“Ah, there is that fire inside, still burning. You still have much to learn, my Delem, but I will leave you with one final thought. I realize that you have little reason to trust any of us, but take it for what you will.”

“There is a way out of here, Delem... a way that you can get back to Faerûn.”

Delem fell back into the present, turned away from the wall of weapons. He’d pressed too deeply, and he could feel his blood pooling on the floor beneath his hand.

No matter.

He heard scratching noises, and turned to see a half-dozen dretches gathering near the base of the stairs. They respected him, now, respected his power for all that they were heavily resistant to his fire.

Another lie, that had been. Still, he sometimes thought back to that day when he at least had believed that he could strike down the demons, savored the way that it had felt to be the one inflicting, rather than receiving, the pain.

He lifted the kabbak-johr from its rack, holding the heavy weapon in both hands. It hurt just to hold the weapon, and it was slick as the blood from his hand smeared on the weapon’s shaft.

“So, another test?” he shouted, to no one in particular. The dretches wouldn’t care no matter what he said; the creatures were blindingly stupid. But they were tenacious, and as they lurched forward a certain eagerness shone in their dark eyes.

Delem met their rush, unaware that the same feeling was reflected in his own eyes.

 

[Broccli_Head]

So are you taking guesses as to who Delem's new patron is?

 

[Horacio]

So are you taking guesses as to who Delem's new patron is?

My lips are sealed

 

[Lazybones]

So are you taking guesses as to who Delem's new patron is?

Hey, that's a good idea. Time for some reader participation! Instead of giving it away here in the thread, why don't we have a little contest...

If you know (or think you know) who 1) Delem's new demonic patron is, and 2) who the mysterious "Master" of Undermountain is, send me an email at kmcdonal@cde.ca.gov with your answers. Those who are correct on both counts will receive, in their email inbox, an advanced copy of the conclusion of book 6, before everyone else gets to read it on this page! Now everyone can be like Horacio, reading ahead of the group!

Here's one hint for question 1: it is someone who is also featured right now in another popular story hour here at ENWorld.

And now we return to your regularly scheduled program...

* * * * *

Book VI, Part 25


Dana knelt before the crescent-shaped font in the small, private chapel that adjoined the temple. The water in the font, which was fashioned of silver-inlaid iron, was blessed, holy water sanctified by Seral himself. The room was quiet, with only the soft sound of the night breeze to disturb the stillness of her meditation. Seral had remained in the main temple, giving her privacy for her devotions.

She had completed her prayers, and Selûne had granted her the power that she required. Now she called upon that divine power, focusing her attention on the water in the font.

It took time, and great concentration, but Dana was used to summoning discipline and focus to tackle a task. The ritual associated with this particular spell took a full hour to complete, and she went through each step calmly, drawing the energy that she would need to complete her goal.

Finally, when she looked down at the waters, she saw not a pale reflection of her own face in the dim evening light, but rather a deep well of shadows that seemed to go on forever. Answers waited in those depths, she hoped.

“Show me Benzan, mother,” she said. “Show him to me.”

The patterns in the water shifted and coalesced, but instead of solidifying into the familiar image of his face, they broke apart again and continued to roil uncontrollably in the matrix of her spell. She tried again, with a similar result, and then drew back, troubled.

A sick feeling rose up in the pit of her stomach. If something had happened to him...

No, she told herself, dismissing that thought. She’d felt... something, but it was as if there was a barrier between them, blocking the functioning of her spell. She’d never actually used the scrying magic before, but she’d learned a fair amount about its operation, enough for her to believe her interpretation.

If she wasn’t deceiving herself, a tiny voice in the back of her head whispered.

She returned to the main temple. Seral read her face immediately, and came to her.

“You did not see him?”

“The spell worked, but there was a... barrier of some sort, blocking the spell. I could not get his image to form in the water.”

“Hmm...” the old cleric said. “It could be a number of things—a spell of screening, either on his person or on the place where he is located. And there are some places where scrying will not function, areas of dead magic...”

She stamped her foot against the stone, a frustrated look upon her face.

“Don’t worry,” he told her. “There is one more thing that we can try.”

He left here there and went to his quarters. When he returned a minute later, he was carrying a scroll.

“I wrote this a year ago, but never had need of it, until now.”

He showed her the scroll, and she looked up at him in surprise. “I... I mean, I don’t know what to say, such a potent gift...”

“You do not need to say anything, Dana. I can see the light of the Mother shining in you; by helping you, I am helping her cause as well.”

They returned to the chapel, and the elf sat across from her on one of the low benches that ran along the lengths of the walls.

“I will need something that belonged to him, to cast the spell. Or you could try it yourself, although it is a very difficult spell.”

Dana nodded—Seral was being tactful; in reality she knew that the spell on the scroll was way beyond her abilities. So she reached under the collar of her tunic, and drew out a small, almost delicate silver amulet on a slender chain.

“He insisted that I take it, when we parted. It bears a minor protective enchantment... he had it for about a year, I think, before he gave it to me.”

“It will suffice.” He took the amulet and held it in his hands for several moments, then unrolled the scroll. His elven vision was sharp enough so that even the poor light was enough to read by, and he started to speak the words of power that he had recorded upon its surface.

The spell took time, although not as long as Dana’s scrying. Dana felt herself drifting at the reassuring sound of her former mentor’s words; she hadn’t slept regularly over the last few days and exhaustion was beginning to catch up to her.

With a start, she returned to full awareness as she realized that the spell was finished. Seral had straightened, his eyes staring deep into someplace other than here.

“Where... where is he?” she asked, unwilling to break his concentration but needing to know.

Seral’s eyes cleared, and he looked fully upon her. When he spoke, he said only one word, but it landed upon her like a heavy weight.

“Undermountain.”

 

[Enkhidu]

Here's one hint for question 1: it is someone who is also featured right now in another popular story hour here at ENWorld.

Hah! I knew it! It's Meepo!

Er, It's not Meepo?

Dangit.

 

[Lazybones]

Only two guesses thus far? Oh well. (p.s. both were half right)

Okay, here's a clue, a little cryptic, for Question #2. It won't give you the answer, but it will narrow your search:

B4P6, B4P25, B5P9, B6P18.

And today's update.

* * * * *

Book VI, Part 26


Wary of another ambush, the companions moved deeper into Undermountain. While cautious, they moved with purpose and determination, covering ground quickly, not stopping to investigate side chambers or shadowed corners. Valor detected no further signs of Nelan’s trail, but it was easy enough to follow the frequent signs of passage through this region, signs clear enough so that even the rest of them could mark that this area was frequently traveled.

They had chosen a direct approach, eschewing subtlety for speed and daring. The passage behind the fortifications of the watchstation led deeper into a complex of rooms and passages, similar to those they had been traveling since entering Undermountain but clearly kept up by the strange community whose members they had just battled.

They had fortified their defenses as best they could, expecting that another confrontation with the Undermountain community would follow sooner rather than later. Cal still had his stoneskin up, and he’d cast cat’s grace on Benzan to enhance his agility. Pelanther’s barkskin spells had already expired, but he cast protective wards on himself and Fenrus to give them some temporary resistance to fire attacks. He also placed a powerful enchantment upon the wolf that would give a potent magical boost to his natural attacks, turning his fangs into magical weapons for the duration of the spell.

Thus enhanced, the five of them pressed on.

Their course took them down long corridors and through assorted chambers of varying sizes, all empty of any living thing. They did encounter signs of recent occupancy, scattered bedrolls, some old animal bones and other remains of meals, and some tattered remains of discarded clothing. In one chamber they passed through they found a battered old stewpot hanging over the ruins of a campfire, directly under a long crack in the sloping ceiling above. Scattered around the pot were a half-dozen bed piles, stinking collections of dirty straw, ratty furs, and scraps of old cloth that could no longer function as clothing.

“Still warm,” Benzan reported, checking it out.

“Whoever dwelled here, they weren’t very sanitary creatures,” Pel said, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

“Looks like everyone here left in a real hurry,” Cal noted.

“Yeah, I’m sure they’re all preparing something real special for us,” Benzan said, as they left the makeshift camp behind them and pressed on.

An hour passed with them exploring, and frequently backtracking, through the complex. They passed through at least a score of rooms with little left to indicate what function they might have originally served. The architecture was impressive, with massive stone risers along the walls supporting vaulted ceilings high above, in some cases forming domes thirty or more paces across. The stone was cracked in places, crumbling in others, but the place still held an impressive sense of immensity that made them feel small and insignificant in comparison. Most of the rooms were completely vacant, spaces larger than many homes in the crowded city above cavernous and empty, with only dust and the occasional distant echo to accompany their coming and going.

“I’m starting to see what you meant, earlier,” Benzan said at one point, his voice carefully pitched so that it wouldn’t carry beyond them. They had all taken to talking in hushed whispers, as the acoustics of this place tended to pick up louder sounds and carry them deceptively far. “This place seems to go on forever.”

“My stoneskin spell has expired,” Cal said wearily, pausing to lean against a nearby stone wall.

“Are you all right? Do you need to rest?” Benzan asked. Pelanther, who’d been ranging ahead more often beside Fenrus, noticed that they’d stopped and turned around, an impatient look on his face.

“No, I’m all right,” Cal insisted. “Remember, though, we started the day in Silverymoon, this morning... a lot of ground to cover in one day.”

“We should stop, eat something,” the tiefling suggested. “We’ve been down here for hours, now.”

“No, we should continue. I’m all right, really.”

So they pressed on, continuing their exploration of the massive underground complex. As they entered the next area, another long, vaulted hallway with numerous side passages exiting off its length, Valor suddenly grew animated, probing along the stone floor with his magically superior nose.

“Smell something?” Cal asked the onyx dog.

“Nelan’s scent,” the dog reported. “He has come this way, fairly recently.”

“How recently?” Benzan asked.

“Tough to say. Hours, I would guess.”

“All right, let’s go then!” Pel said, too loudly as his words seemed to echo off the high ceiling above. With the magical dog in the lead they pressed onward, fatigue gone now in the excitement of impending action. They passed down the length of the hallway, and Valor led them past several side passages to a short corridor leading to a single heavy stone door.

After a brief examination of the portal, Benzan looked back at the others. “Ready?”

The gnomes nodded, and Benzan opened the door. Beyond lay another passage just like the dozens they had already traveled, meandering for about thirty paces before ending in yet another door. Again Benzan made his check, and again they passed through.

Into yet another empty chamber. This one was large enough so that their light barely outlined the far walls even for the low-light vision of the gnomes, perhaps forty feet distant. Thick stone pillars ran around the edges of the place, supporting a network of heavy stone bolsters that reinforced the ceiling above. A faint but cloying scent hung in the air, an admixture of something sweet with a slight undercurrent of decay.

“What’s that smell?” Pel asked.

“I don’t know,” Cal admitted. “Do you have the trace, Valor?”

The dog was already searching out the scent, and it led them into the room toward several exits they could just make out along the far wall. The floor here was inset with faded tiles, some of which were broken and crunched under their feet as they moved. The tiles might have once made up a mosaic, but whatever pattern had once been here had been worn away through the passage of time.

Abruptly, Valor halted, lifting its head and looking around. Fenrus growled.

“What is it?”

“Invisible enemies ahead!” the dog reported. He did not have time to elaborate, as several things happened in that next moment.

First, a loud snap sounded directly above them. The companions barely had time to look up before a huge weighted net fell from the ceiling above, smothering them in its thick folds. They were all caught, although Benzan had dove to the side at the last instant, and was within a few paces of the edge as the net settled onto them. The strands of the net were thickly braided cords, and the whole was coated with a layer of sticky goop, the source of the smell they’d detected earlier.

Second, a secret door in the south wall, to their right, opened up, and a number of black-cloaked figures emerged into the room, carrying heavy leather slings and stout wooden cudgels at the ready.

And finally, Valor’s warning was born out as directly ahead, from the dark corridor in the far wall, several forms emerged out of thin air. Their numbers included a drow elf, an armored dwarf wielding a huge battleaxe, and a half-dozen humans, half in the remnants of Watch uniforms, and half clad in rogues’ garb that would have been fashionable in the seediest depths of the Docks Ward.

As the companions struggled within the grasp of the net, one final figure appeared, suddenly becoming visible as he cast a magical spell upon the companions. Those with magical protections suddenly felt those defenses ebb, as the effects of a dispel magic settled in upon them. This final arrival was a middle-aged man, dressed in old robes that had seen better days, and as his forces gathered at the ready, he shouted out a command.

“Slay the beasts, but take the others alive!”

At that order, his forces leapt to the attack.

 

[Horacio]

Wonderful as usual, Lazybones

I would say I want to, know how it continues... but I already know