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

[Lazybones]

Oooh, it's (technically) Friday. That means we can look forward to another killer cliffhanger sometime today...

Well, not as killer as next week's is going to be (let's just say we're building to a dramatic confrontation), but today we get another look at Delem:

* * * * *

Book VII, Part 43

Within the cavernous chamber hidden deep within the fastness of the Sunset Mountains, Delem rose and with an effort walked forward away from the now-closed Portal. He wore only a set of tight-fitting trousers that seemed fashioned from the hide of some alien beast, with a small pouch belted at his waist. A small amulet of dull black metal hung at his throat from a throng strapped so tightly that it looked as though it might already be choking off his supply of air. His only other possession was the ungainly weapon he bore, a short staff of gray metal topped at each end by an oblong disk of the same substance. A faint buzz, like the sound of a small horde of angry bees, seemed to come from the weapon, but it might have just been a trick of acoustics underground.

The flaming demon turned to face the sorcerer. “Give me the Seeking Stone,” it said, its voice hissing like the sound of steam coming from a lidded kettle.

“I am in command here, palrethee. You forget so easily the commands of your Master?”

“We are no longer in the Abyss, manling, and do not think that the stolen skin you wear gives you the right to direct me. I have existed for aeons, and the sum of your puny human existence is merely a drop in the wellspring of what I am.”

The man looked upon the demon with a look of contempt. “Ah, yes. I know you palrethee hold exalted airs upon your mighty ‘status.’ Did you once stride the planes of the Abyss as a mighty balor? Whom did you anger, demon, to earn the lowly skin you now wear? For mark me, the reason you were chosen for this mission was because a greater demon could not penetrate the temporary rift in the Portal.”

The palrethee hissed in fury, and came forward a step, its clawed hands coming up threateningly. But before it could come any closer Delem spoke a phrase of magic, and a lance of pure magical energy erupted from his hand, a spear of liquid flame that extended in an instant from his fist to a few inches before the demon’s chin.

“You have learned little indeed, if you think that your petty flames can threaten me,” the demon warned.

Delem shrugged, and with a flick of his wrist the head of the thunderlance sliced to the right, its tip catching the demon’s shoulder with a cut that drew a line of steaming ichor from a shallow gash in its flesh. The demon jerked back in sudden pain, but it quickly recovered, fixing the sorcerer with hate in its eyes.

“Know this, demon,” the man said, and his voice was deep with power. “After I was raised to the Skin I was sent for my final training to the battlefields of the Blood War. I know how to hurt fiends, and if you challenge me again, I will see that your next incarnation is in a more appropriate form. A dretch, perhaps.”

The palrethee shot a glance at its fellow demon, but the shorter creature merely watched the confrontation with an intense look in its eyes, clicking its claws together. Finally it turned its gaze back to Delem.

“We serve the same Master,” it said. “I follow his commands.”

Delem flicked his hand again and the fire-lance vanished. “Go above, and scout out the area above. Do not reveal yourself to anyone present, but report back to me.”

The demons departed, leaving the sorcerer alone in the same quasi-darkness that he’d often encountered in the Abyss; a blackness that was deeper than night and yet which his eyes could somehow penetrate in a form of weird shadow-vision. It was disconcerting, with everything he saw taking on a sort of unreality, as if solid things were about to flow into the outlines of something completely different. The effect could make your head spin if you weren’t used to it, and even though Delem had adapted to much worse he still called forth a dancing lights cantrip to shed a more natural illumination around him. The light from the hovering wisps of flame was weaker than usual, as if the darkness resisted this encroachment upon its domain.

He did not allow himself to relax even once the demons had departed. He could not afford to show weakness now. The transition between planes had disoriented him more than he had expected, leaving him vulnerable enough for the palrethee to attempt its unsubtle attempt to seize leadership from him. He regretted the encounter not for what it was—it had been necessary to humble the demon, after it had threatened him—but for the fact that now he would have to redouble his vigilance. Demons were not quick to forgive a slight, real or imagined.

That part of his body that was still human protested as he started across the room. Fortunately, he had a great deal of experience in ignoring such minor annoyances as mere physical pain. He’d forgotten how cold it could be here, however; in the fiery pits of Gehenna, on the eternal battlefields of the Blood War, it was always hot. Blistering hot, a heat that got inside your bones and threatened to boil away any shred of feeling you might still have within you.

He would have to secure garments.

His steps took him near the summoning circle, and the ring of corpses lying there. Delem looked at them without regard. He did not know who they had been, or how or why they had facilitated his coming here, and he did not care. He started toward the nearest, a dark figure clad in a warm-looking cloak, but stopped as he caught a flash of movement from the corner of his eye.

Wary, he spun into a defensive posture, bringing up the kabbak-johr with reflexes that had been honed by an interminable time of vulnerability and torment within the demon-realms of the Abyss. One of the corpses had shifted. He almost thought he had imagined it, when suddenly they all started to move, twitching until they gained enough energy to straighten contorted limbs and awkwardly lift themselves to their feet.

Delem’s mouth twisted in disgust. He had long since lost his touch to Kossuth, in fact could barely remember what it had felt like to channel divine power. But even as a fallen cleric he could still recognize the undead. Even as the first of the undead creatures—a human, different than the others—turned toward him, he lowered one hand from his weapon and called upon his magic. A small globe of eager flames erupted in his palm, ready to blast these abominations back into the depths from which they had sprung.

The former man, its features gaunt and sunken, stared at him with eyes that were haunted dots of feral red light. It showed no reaction to the flames that the sorcerer held ready, but its jaw fell open, and words issued from a throat that no longer breathed mortal air. Delem recognized the words all too well as the desperate sounds of a soul in torment.

“We... serve...”

 

[Horacio]

Great update!

Good to see Delem again

 

[Maldur]

Great stuff LB!

Is there a pic of the weapon? I cant really picture it ( I can depict about 14 different versions that all fit the description)

thx, for the story...so far

 

[wolff96]

MMMmmm.

Now that's good story hour.

Nice to see Delem back in Faerun. And keeping his minions in line, to boot. I've got to imagine it WOULD be a rude shock to go from Hell and it's various environs to the cold North... Nice touch!

 

[Lazybones]

Maldur: the demon-weapon is sort of like a dire mace.

Monday update:

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Book VII, Part 44

Benzan emerged from the dark tunnel warily, his bow held close against his body to protect the bowstring against the omnipresent damp. It was useless; his sodden garments pressed against his flesh already, and as he stepped from the narrow cleft that led into the valley the downpour that had continued throughout the night and most of the day before greeted him once more with its full force.

The valley was much as the hobgoblin had described, a wide bowl nestled within a ring of surrounding peaks. To his right, a mountain stream transformed into a torrent by the rain ran through a steep-sided ravine to vanish into a gaping slash in the stone cliffs, destined to emerge again somewhere lower in the mountains. Perhaps this stream would eventually feed the River Chionthar as it poured down out of the mountains to wind its way all the way to Iriaebor, and ultimately to Baldur’s Gate and the Sea of Storms. A long way to go, even for water...

The tiefling shook his head to clear it of such idle thoughts. He was tired. They all were, although the companions were in far better shape than the survivors from Asbravn. Dana, in particular, had driven herself relentlessly, calling upon her own energy and the power granted by Selûne in a battle to keep as many of those unfortunates as possible from being drawn across the line into death. Despite her best efforts, they’d lost four the night before, and would lose more if they did not secure shelter quickly.

The rain had begun in earnest shortly after they had set out again, early yesterday afternoon. They had shared out the arms and clothing of the slain hobgoblins among the former prisoners, and virtually all of the supplies stored in Cal’s magical knapsack. It would take nearly all of Dana’s magical abilities to create enough food for so many, unless they were able to find game, but Targos told them that there would be at least some stores left in the valley camp, along with a handful of guards left behind from the raiding force.

The hobgoblin had been very helpful, freely offering his cooperation and suggestions under the effects of Dana’s magic, but Benzan did not trust him. He had offered to help Benzan scout, but after his initial reaction to the tiefling they had all decided that it was better to keep the two of them apart. Targos seemed content to follow Dana around like a puppy, but Benzan did not forget the long arrows that the hobgoblin had fired into him during the battle earlier, or the way he had so casually mentioned some of the things that he had done during the raid on Asbravn. Benzan would have preferred it if he had been tied up and guarded like the other four prisoners they had taken from the hobgoblin force. He wouldn’t have minded if those four had been left for the carrion like the rest, but Cal and Lok had firmly overruled him on that matter.

Again he berated himself for letting his thoughts drift, and he turned his attention back to the valley. The falling rain interfered with his view, obscuring the far side of the valley, but he could not see any signs of habitation. From what Targos had told them, however, he could mark the probable location of the hobgoblin camp.

Turning back into the shelter of the tunnel, he hurried to alert the others.

* * * * *

It took them the better part of two hours just to move their column through the narrow pass and the dark tunnel and across the valley to the hobgoblin camp. The companions led the way, wary of the guards that Targos had warned of, but the place seemed utterly deserted, the entire valley devoid of life. They found signs of occupancy that hadn’t been washed away by the storm, most significantly a cluster of five crude huts of stone and wood that spread out over a larger cleared area that had clearly accommodated a much larger group fairly recently. A ditch ringed by a stockade of undressed logs formed the perimeter of the hobgoblin camp, although the gate stood open as they approached. Benzan and Lariel continued their search while the others led the Asbravners into the simple shelters. A few of the townsfolk possessed enough woodslore to help Lok find some wood dry enough to burn, even despite the deluge, and soon they had crammed most of the cold and tired villagers into the huts close around small but warming fires. Targos found the stores of food he had promised, barely enough for a single meal for the gathered mass of people, but he could not explain the absence of the guards.

“Perhaps other orders were sent, recalling them to the main column,” he suggested. “I admit, it would not be out of character for the shamans to issue strange commands without notifying the rank-and-file warriors.”

As night began to fall on the camp, the companions’ eyes were drawn repeatedly to the dark opening just visible in the far cliffs that rose sharply at the rear of the valley.

“We’d better go take a look,” Cal said. “If they’re in there, we don’t want to give them time to prepare a nasty surprise for us.”

“Shouldn’t we at least wait for morning?” Benzan said. “We can defend this place, and at least some of us can get some rest first.”

“Maybe we can just take a quick look,” Lok suggested. “See how far back it goes.” Targos had been unable to provide intelligence as to the contents of the cave, or tunnel, or whatever it was, since none but the human cleric and the shamans had been allowed to enter.

“I’d better stay here,” Dana said. “Some of these people are already very sick, and even with the fire and hot food I’m not sure how many will survive the night.” Her friends were reluctant to break up their company, the more so with each look at that dark tunnel, but ultimately they agreed. Before they set out, however, Benzan took her aside.

“Be careful with that hobgoblin,” he said. “I don’t trust him, even with your charm.”

“Don’t worry about me,” she snapped, then, recognizing the way her voice sounded, she sighed. “I’m sorry. It’s just that ever since... I mean, lately you’ve been... hovering a bit too much. I haven’t suddenly been transformed into a clay doll that you need to pack in straw. You should know me well enough by now to know that I’m not going to change what I am, not even for you. You’re mule-headed enough without... Look, I don’t know. I’m sorry, I’m babbling. Maybe I just need some rest.” By the hard look of her jaw, however, he knew that she’d get little rest that night, not so long as these people needed her strength. Would she save some for herself? Not likely—she was right about one thing, anyway; he knew her.

“What’s so funny?” she asked, looking askance at his change of expression.

“Nothing,” he said. He toyed with the idea of adding a comment about her own “mule-headed” traits, but wisely decided against it. Instead he glanced at Cal, Lok, and Lariel, who were standing a short distance off in the rain, waiting. “I’ve got to go. Just be careful, and let yourself get some rest. You won’t be of any help to these people if you’re too exhausted to pray for your spells tomorrow.”

Her expression tightened slightly further, but she didn’t respond. Nonetheless, her eyes clearly bespoke her suggestion for him to mind his own affairs, and leave her to hers. For some reason, an image popped into his mind of her using the power she’d used on Targos on him, twisting his mind around until he no longer knew anything but following her around like a puppy.

It was too late, he knew. She’d already ensnared him with a power greater than any charm. They might be squabbling now, but that wouldn’t change that basic fact.

Her expression hadn’t softened, so he didn’t press his luck with a kiss. Instead, he smiled again in the way he knew infuriated her, and joined the others as they trudged through the sucking mud and over rain-slicked rocks toward the dark opening in the cliffs.

 

[Maldur]

the tension!!

thx LB!

 

[Horacio]

the tension!!

thx LB!

What he said

And great update too

 

[Lazybones]

Book VII, Part 45

The dark hole in the cliff swallowed them up, and in just a few steps it was as if they had transitioned into another world, with only the insistent patter of the rain behind them as a reminder of the weather outside. Even that sound was muted, as if the heavy stone surrounding them absorbed all noise, leaving only the quiet darkness.

It was immediately clear that this place was not natural, the lines and angles too precise for a cavern, although everything had a kind of rough-hewn simplicity to it. The tunnel ran straight ahead into the mountain, an even five paces across.

“Nice place,” Lariel commented dryly. “Demon worshippers, right?” He unlimbered his bow, and changed out his damp bowstring with an ease that belied frequent practice. After a moment, Benzan imitated his action. Meanwhile, Cal called upon a cantrip, casting a light spell that drove back the shadows.

“I should have remembered to ask Dana for her torch,” Benzan said. “I forget sometimes that you guys can’t see in the dark.”

“We’re not going to be here long,” Cal said. “Just take a quick look around.”

Benzan took the lead, scanning the walls and floor for any signs of traps, and they moved ahead.

The tunnel had led them barely fifty feet, just enough for the sound of the rain outside to fade away behind them, when it opened into a slightly wider area with a ceiling a good ten paces above them. A heavy arch of solid stone slabs framed another tunnel that continued on ahead, but flanking that entry were a pair of constructs that gave them pause.

They were statues, each easily ten feet high, carved from the heavy stone of the lintels themselves to face each other across the opening. They were roughly man-shaped, although the details of their forms were indistinct even when the full light of Cal’s spell fell upon their features. As they looked closer, they could see that it wasn’t that the statues were weathered by age, but rather than they seemed... unfinished, as if their creator had not been able to commit to a final vision for the details of their appearance. They were clad in robes, or perhaps it could have armor; again it was impossible to be certain. Their faces were vague as well, only the hint of features that could have been male, female, any of a dozen of Faerûn’s races or none of all.

For a few long moments the four scrutinized the statues. Finally, Benzan shook his head. “I don’t like this. This place doesn’t feel right.”

“I feel it as well,” Lariel said. “It’s as if there’s something here, something undefined that I cannot quite see. It’s like... like a tickle going down your back, when you think you see something move in the shadows of a sealed room.”

“Lok?” Cal asked.

“Strange,” the genasi rumbled. “I do not recognize the stonework. Clearly fashioned by intelligent hands, but by no craft that I have ever seen.” Warily he moved closer toward the statues, but suddenly and abruptly stopped in mid-stride.

“What is it?” Cal asked, sensing that something was wrong.

“I... I cannot move!” the genasi grunted, each word forced.

Benzan was already moving forward, despite Cal’s word of warning, but the tiefling only crossed to where Lok stood and dragged him awkwardly backward. As they fell back the genasi regained control over his limbs, and the four retreated back to warily confront the dark tunnel and its silent guardians.

Cal cast another cantrip, scanning the portal. “It is as I suspected,” he reported. “There is a potent ward here, a magical shield that protects this place. I cannot say exactly what it is, but I think we’ve gotten a good idea as to its effects.”

“And we get past it how...?” Benzan asked.

“I don’t know. Perhaps with more study... and I should speak with Dana...”

“Well then, perhaps we should call it a day then,” Lariel suggested. “If there is anything in there, it no doubt knows we’re here, and it hasn’t chosen to act. We’ll keep a tight watch tonight, and try again in the morning.”

Cautiously the four companions retreated to the surface, and returned to the camp that was already just a vague shadow as the gray haze of twilight deepened into full night.

 

[wolff96]

You just keep turning up the anticipation, you know that? Of course you do, what am I saying? You're the master of the evil cliffhanger.

Another great update... and I still can't wait to see the sparks fly when Delem shows up and Dana and Benzan learn where he's been.

 

[Maldur]

great stuff, LB thx.

And I always called him a evil cliffhanger guy!

But this wasn't that bad!