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

[Lazybones]

Book VIII, Part 29


“Neh, those are plentiful here, at least,” Kargan said, “although finding a particular one can be a challenge. Friend or foe, this one you seek?”

“Friend,” Dana said, the first word she’d contributed to the interview. Even through her disguise she looked haggard; the last few days had not been easy ones for any of them. Her divine magic, kept fully potent through the power of the special pin that Cylyria had given her, kept them all healthy and hale in the corruption of this place, but it seemed that each day drained a little more from her, until at some point all that would be left would be a hollow shell.

“Neh, your friend, he got himself lost, no? No, that would be too easy, perhaps not lost then, but taken?” Seeing the answer in their faces, he did not wait for a reply, but went on, “Well, then that is a matter for you; I do not conduct negotiations, nor involve myself in disputes over property.”

Benzan opened his mouth to speak, but Cal forestalled him with a quick look. “All we wish is the divination; we will handle any other part of the issue ourselves.”

“Indeed, indeed... I make it a point not to pry too deeply into the personal affairs of my clients. If you would like, then, I can arrange a meeting with my contact; it will take a few days to make arrangements, but if there is a place in the city where you may be reached...”

“Perhaps it would be best if we contacted you,” Cal said.

“As you wish. Now, while you will not be required to submit payment until after it is determined whether my contact will be able to help you, a small gift will go a long way toward winning his approval of a meeting. And, of course, I myself would take a small concession for arranging such a rendezvous.”

Cal’s hand dipped into his pouch, and withdrew a small bundle of tightly-wound scrolls, the whole wrapped with a thin leather cord. He handed them to the demon, who scanned the titles written on the outside of the parchments, then drew them up to his splayed nostrils, as if sampling the aroma of a choice dish.

“Ah.... neh, potent magics indeed. Yours... or the work of a close relation, perhaps? Her smell is a sweet one indeed...”

Cal looked momentarily flustered, and Benzan’s hand had drifted back to the hilt of his sword. The demon laughed, and waves his hand dismissively. “Come now, no need to take offense! These will do; I will use one as the greeting-gift and keep the others as my fee. Let us meet in three days’ time at highsun bell, I will either be here, or I will leave word with Ugo as to where I can be found.”

* * * * *

“I should be with her,” the tiefling said, distracted.

“She’ll be fine, and Lok will see that she doesn’t come to any harm,” Cal replied. In truth, he wanted to keep Benzan away from Dana, afraid that he might do something foolish. Dana did seem to be recovering, although it was clear that the strain that was taking its toll on the woman was becoming increasingly reflected in Benzan. The tiefling was irritable, uncertain, and Cal realized that unless they could commit to a plan of action soon, Benzan might feel driven to try something rash and desperate for her sake.

Around them the activity of the city continued with little regard for their personal quandaries. Here, though, in the shadow of the massive white walls of the Argent Palace, the din seemed muted, as though the residents in this quarter wished to avoid drawing notice from the entities that dwelled within. In any case, the walls that rose up above them like a great cliff dominated the surrounding structures that seemed like puny things by contrast. Above those walls rose the pinnacles of numerous spires, a forest of towers that testified to the might and grandeur of the Lord of this realm.

It was two days since their meeting with Kargan. Two days by the measure of this place, at least; although they lacked a means for making an accurate reckoning, by Cal’s estimate they had spent at least six days in Faerûn-time looking for answers, and an alternative to treating with the demon. Cal had insisted that they needed to keep a low profile, and Kargan’s comment about the vrock incident were evidence that they’d already drawn too much intention to themselves. Cal remembered the feel of the demon’s claws as they snatched him up from the square where they’d been walking, and shuddered. They had not had further trouble with the city’s residents other than that seemingly random attack and their battle with the bar-lgura on their first entry into the city, eight days of Zelatar-time past. They’d learned that the appearance of power was critically important to survival here, and Cal had noticed how all of them, even he himself, had started behaving more aggressively, quick to respond to a threatening gesture or sideways glance with a hand to a weapon hilt, or a drawn wand. He’d even drawn his wand of sonic arrows on an old woman in the Abrithar Market earlier that day, and felt ashamed of himself when the woman, cowed, drew back and fled.

This place is changing us, he thought grimly. We’ve got to finish this and return home.

The others no doubt felt the strange way. Maybe that was why Dana had tried what she had last night, without warning them in advance. It was foolish; even with their limited information, Cal could have told her that. But she had tried nonetheless, attempting a dimension door to pass directly into the walls of the Argent Palace. The spell had rebounded on her in some way, and she’d been unconscious for the better part of an hour. She seemed to be recovering, but despite his relief, Cal knew that he’d have to watch her more closely from now on. Which was why Lok was with her now, and Benzan was at his side.

Cal didn’t really expect to learn anything new on this reconnaissance. Through a trick of this place—and there were many, he’d found—the Argent Palace was visible from almost every point in the city, even in places where simple geography suggested such a thing was impossible. The Abyss was clearly a mutable place, dangerous to those who didn’t know its rules. If there were even rules to learn, for this place was the epitome of chaos, mutable and often unpredictable.

A shadow passed over them, causing them to reflexively lower their hoods and huddle in the shadow of an adjacent building. When it passed, they looked up and saw a flight of vrocks high overhead, departing the Palace on some errand.

Benzan sighed. “I’m starting to think this is hopeless,” he said quietly.

Cal shook his head, refusing to give betray his own doubts to his companion. “Well, we’re not done yet; we’ve got a few tricks left up our sleeves.”

The tiefling turned to face him. “This place... it’s sucking the life right out of us. Even our weapons aren’t working properly.”

It was true, Cal knew. He’d noticed it during the battle with the bar-lgura, and again in the brief but violent confrontation with the vrock. Benzan’s bow didn’t work at all, now, at least not its magical properties that caused otherwise mundane arrows to burst into magical flame. Dana was using her clerical power to enhance several of their weapons at the start of each day, but like Cal’s seeming and their other long-duration enhancements, that only lasted for about twelve hours before the magic faded. And many demons had the power to dispel magic, Cal thought, reflecting back again to the battle in the alley, although he didn’t feel the need to tell Benzan that just now.

Cal glanced around to make sure there was no one listening nearby. “You have your sword,” he said quietly, indicating the hilt jutting above Benzan’s shoulder. “And we have each other.”

Benzan turned to face the wall, his body stiff and betraying the emotion that gripped him. Cal knew that something else was bothering him, but knew his friend well enough not to prod, to give him his own time to decide whether to share his pain.

Finally, after a long minute, the tiefling shifted and looked back at him again. “A short time ago...” he started, haltingly. “Dana... she thought she was with child. She wasn’t... we learned just before we decided to come here...”

Cal didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not. After seeing this place... We’re being careful, now...” He looked around, at the blue sun in the sky above, the buildings familiar and yet so different, the looming white walls of the Palace. In a voice little more than a whisper, he said, “Anything born of this place is an abomination...”

“Benzan...” Cal stepped forward, his hand outstretched to take Benzan’s, but before he could reach him the tiefling turned suddenly. “We’d better get back. We’re not going to find anything out here. Looks like we’re going to have to try this ‘contact’ of Kargan’s...”

He strode off, not waiting to see if Cal was accompanying him. With a sigh, the gnome strode after his friend.

 

[Maldur]

Nasty bit of self reflection there by Benzan!

Thx, LB!

 

[Lazybones]

It's Friday!

* * * * *

Book VIII, Part 30


The walls pressed close in around them as the companions traversed the long, narrow, stair that spiraled down deep into the stone foundations of the city. The torch in Dana’s hand flickered and wavered and cast dancing shadows that made the descent a treacherous thing. The brand was mundane; Dana’s magical one had gone out as soon as they’d entered the building above, just as Kargan had said. The magical enhancements that they cast daily now had faded, as well, which was more than a little disconcerting to the companions. But having come this far, they could not back down now.

“It’s cold here,” Benzan said, from the lead.

“It will get colder, but not enough to harm you, if you do not dally,” Kargan said from behind, just ahead of Lok who brought up the rear of their small column. The demon’s tone was tinged with a hint of pique; he’d not wanted to come down with them, had intended to bring them to the site of their meeting and depart. Cal, however, had suggested that the agent accompany them at least until they met with his contact. Kargan had demurred, insisting that the contact—a creature he only named “The Silent,” did not enjoy his personal company.

Benzan had quashed that with a deliberate grip upon the hilt of his sword of the planes, and a curt, “We insist.” After that, Kargan had come along, if not without complaint.

The structure above was little more than a one-story blockhouse, most of which was comprised of a single large, windowless room. The servants that greeted them were minor demons—quasits, Kargan called them—who ushered them through the chamber and into a cellar that in turn gave access to this staircase that they now traversed.

“This ‘Silent’ clearly doesn’t like to be bothered,” Benzan said. “How far down are we, anyway?”

“Approximately two hundred feet,” Lok replied from the rear.

Benzan opened his mouth to say something else, but at that point they could see that the stairs finally came to an end just ahead, at a landing little larger than the confined space of the stairs. A heavy stone door was set into one wall, the only apparent route to continue.

Benzan hesitated, and glanced back at the others. “Go ahead,” Kargan exclaimed impatiently. “He’s expecting you, as I said.”

Benzan turned and opened the door. Despite its apparent size and thickness it opened easily at his tug. As he did a deep, violet light poured out from the chamber beyond, enough to see clearly, once they had adjusted to the strangeness of the radiance.

The room was clearly some sort of laboratory, looking smaller than its actual size due to the crowded collection of stone tables, shelves, racks, and other furnishings that filled much of its space. The skins—or in a few cases, the entire carcass—of at least two dozen creatures dangled from racks of hooks attached to the low ceiling, alongside various oddly-shaped tools with unclear function. The tables were jumbled with vials, beakers, flasks, bowls, and other containers filled with a hundred different substances, along with the occasional open tome or bleached skull. A few mixtures were boiling over low flames from portable stoves, their vapors filling the room with a thick, cloying scent, and a quartet of fat, bulbous lamps emitted the bright purple flames that cast the light they had seen earlier.

For a long moment, they just stood there, taking it all in. Then Kargan prodded them forward. “There, go,” he said, gesturing toward a portal they had missed in their initial perception, a narrow threshold half-sheltered behind a heavy bookcase that led into another chamber beyond. Warily, his eyes darting into every crevice and shadow, Benzan led them through the room and through the doorway into the next room.

This room was smaller, but seemed more spacious due to the lack of clutter. There was only a pair of tables, one with several drawers underneath, and large diagram patterned on the floor that took up three-quarters of the floor space. The design was etched in a silvery substance that glistened in the light of Dana’s torch, like a snail’s tracings, and it was all spirals and loops and circles that seemed to flow in and around each other until it started a headache if you looked at it for too long. There were two other exits, narrow open doorways like the one they had just traversed.

A shadow appeared in one of the doorways, materializing into a tall, white form that entered the room and regarded them coldly.

It was nude, the size of a tall man and roughly the same shape, but lacking the gendered organs that set most humanoids apart. Its skin was a pasty white, stretched tightly over its frame, and it was so thin that it looked as though a slight stumble might break it in two. Its face was a grim mask, its mouth a tight slit that formed an inverted “V”, its nose just two smaller slits above that, and its eyes a pair of dark orbs recessed deep within its skull. It had no other features, no ears that they could see, no hair, nothing that might give it even the slightest air of normalcy.

It fixed them with a hard look, then made a gesture with one hand, its fingers easily half-again as long as theirs, with an extra joint to each. Although it made no sound, and they heard nothing, somehow they understood the meaning behind that gesture as though it had spoken clearly to them.

I did not invite you here, Tsorok

“Indeed ser, and I apologize for the trespass,” he said, with a curt bow. “But these who sought your wisdom insisted that I guide them, at least to the meeting with you.”

They have met me. You may go.

Kargan bowed again, and quickly—with a last look at the companions that might have meant anything—turned and departed. As he left they could hear the outer door sliding shut, a very grim sound indeed given their current surroundings.

Cal stepped forward. “Silent One, we have come...”

The creature cut him off with another gesture. I know of your need. Let us begin.

Cal was surprised, expecting from their earlier interactions with demons some preliminaries, at the very least a negotiation over the price that would be required for the creature’s assistance. He was under no illusion that the few scrolls he’d given to Kargan would be sufficient, but the Silent was apparently not waiting, gesturing them toward the intricate pattern etched out on the surface of the floor.

Do not touch the scrathings. Step over, into the silver circles.

The companions watched dubiously as the creature itself moved around the border of the diagram and stepped into place at its far side. They could see that there were five large empty circles within the pattern near its edge, connected to the others by intricate weaves and spirals. Each was perhaps two feet across, sufficient space for someone to stand if they were still. The demon—if, in fact, that was what the Silent was—now occupied one of the circles, and it regarded them with an intent stare.

If you do not wish to do this, you may depart now. The gesture was a simple, curt slash of its hand, yet someone the full meaning of the statement was imparted to them.

“We do not wish to appear untrusting,” Cal began, “but only fools leap into a strange situation without knowledge...”

The creature imparted another series of gestures, moving its head, hands, and body in a sinuous rhythm. You will not be harmed. The Weave is only a focus, that will allow you to cast out your mind without drawing the attention of those who See. I myself will energize the matrix, and will shield you from sight. It is not unlike your illusions, Balander Calloran.

The companions exchanged a look. “We need answers, Cal,” Dana finally said, the pleading clear in her voice.

You possess the connection to that which you seek. Enter the Weave, and do what you came here to do.

Dana was the first, stepping boldly into place, but Cal could see the way she trembled. Cal, Benzan, and Lok followed, taking their positions within the open bubbles of space within the Weave. Benzan fixed the Silent with a hard look. “You’d better not play us false, demon.”

The demon’s gesture was barely a flicker of its head. Hope instead that you are not false to yourselves.

Dana reached into her pouch, and drew out a scroll. Inscribed therein was a potent weaving, a gift from her friend, the elvish high priest of Selûne, Seral. She had tried the spell back home in Faerûn; it was among the first things she had thought to try. But even the incredible power of the discern location enchantment had proven of little use. Here, without protection, its casting would instantly alert the one whose notice they were trying above all to avoid. So now they had to trust that the strange power of the Silent would be enough to cloak them...

Dana unrolled the scroll. She had gained in power since the last time that Seral had guided her through the enchantment, but there was still a chance that she would not be able to work the difficult and potent dweomer. It was not their only option; she and Cal had prepared other spells, divinations and scryings and even the powerful ability granted to Dana from her goddess to find the path to a desired destination. But even that would be of little use, if they could not find where Delem was.

The mystic wanderer looked across the Weave at the Silent. The creature nodded, and lowered itself into what looked like an awkward and uncomfortable crouch, its knees protruding out over the borders of its circle just above the spirals of the Weave. Its penetrating eyes grew distant, and it began to emit a faint sound, a buzzing that grew slowly and steadily louder until it seemed to fill them with its cadence. The silvery trails that made up the pattern began to glow, until they were all that was, an endless spiral that folded in upon itself in ever-deeper swirls. Within that matrix the four companions stood, the three men watching their comrade as she drew upon the fullness of a power that was alien to this dark place.

The words poured out of her; there was no doubt, no hesitation. The others could feel the power building, could feel the very fastness of reality shifting around them as Dana cast out her mind, a mouse creeping through the vastness of a house built of shadows. They could not see what she was seeking, but each of them was drawn into the casting nonetheless, a part of what she was doing...

A presence suddenly appeared.

It was cold, black, powerful, eternal.

A face appeared out of the shadows.

Laughter.

And then they were falling, all of them, still together, plummeting, as everything fragmented into a thousand shards...

Pain...

Then Nothing.

 

[Maldur]

Frak!

NO Im not gonna comment on the nastynessof this cliffhanger!

thx, LB!

 

[Elemental]

A shadow appeared in one of the doorways, materializing into a tall, white form that entered the room and regarded them coldly.

It was nude, the size of a tall man and roughly the same shape, but lacking the gendered organs that set most humanoids apart. Its skin was a pasty white, stretched tightly over its frame, and it was so thin that it looked as though a slight stumble might break it in two. Its face was a grim mask, its mouth a tight slit that formed an inverted “V”, its nose just two smaller slits above that, and its eyes a pair of dark orbs recessed deep within its skull. It had no other features, no ears that they could see, no hair, nothing that might give it even the slightest air of normalcy.

It's Marilyn Manson!

 

[Broccli_Head]

It's Marilyn Manson!

LOL!

It seems appropriate also!

Note to Heroes: Don't mess with Demon Prince on his own plane!

 

[Lazybones]

Hoo, boy.

Not to spam my own thread excessively, but it was a slow work day today and I managed to pound out a draft of the final climax scene of Travels. I'm far from done, and I hope it all manages to come together with the drama and impact of some of my earlier Book-ending posts.

But first things first. Next week is not going to be a good one for the travelers. I think I may be able to manage a post-a-day, ending with... of course... a big Friday cliffhanger to set up that final confrontation!

Have a great weekend all, and thanks for your reading and comments!

Lazy

 

[Lazybones]

Thus begins the Week of Travail...

* * * * *

Book VIII, Part 31


The warrior ran down the narrow corridor. For a moment he found himself disoriented—where was this place? Why was he here? Then the sound of the alarms, the thrumming that permeated the living stone all around, reminded him, and he rushed onward.

The corridor split, and he hurried to the left before he could remember to be confused. The passage widened, and opened onto a chamber where lamps cast a ruddy illumination upon a stone table around which a number of dwarves were crowded. They were old creatures, these dwarves, their skin as crannoged as the wrinkled stone of the chamber walls, and they wore their weight clear on their tired faces.

They looked up as he entered. “What word, young Dura?”

Dura. Yes, that was his name. Only another name brushed against the edges of his consciousness. Lok... No. He shook his head, and that distracting voice faded.

“They have bypassed the Shield Wall, elders. They come up from below, through the Harvest Halls.”

“Blast!” one of the elders cursed, slamming his fist down upon the table.

“We must draw back, adjust our forces,” another said.

“The warriors are already moving to block the enemy,” Dura said. “The stones have spoken to us... they will not catch us unawares.”

“You have done well, young Dura,” one said. “Our strength is depleted... but we shall stand bravely, and defend our people as best we can.”

Dura stepped forward, drawing himself up. “I request the honor of leading our people against their enemies,” he said.

The elders regarded him. “Your courage honors you, Dura. But you are young...”

“My father is dead six turnings of the world stone past, slain by the duergar in captivity. I am the eldest of my House, and I stood by the Hero in the rush of the gibberlings. I am blooded, honored ones.” And there is no other, he added inwardly, in his thoughts.

They knew, heard the unspoken words. “Aye,” spoke the Eldest. “Would that our arms still bore the strength that yours do, Warrior. You shall lead us, serve as the Stone against which our enemies shall falter.”

Dura nodded, but remained a moment longer. “I ask one more boon. I claim the armor and weapon of the Hero, left behind by him, that their use may fortify the People.”

One of the elders shook his head. “Nay, Warrior... those items are not for you... they were left by the Hero, against the day of his return.”

The pounding of the alarm drove Dura to recklessness in his speech. “Elders... I mean no disrespect, but Lok cannot help us now. The Hero has abandoned us...” He saw the anger his words provoked in the elders, but he pressed on. “I apologize... I am as grateful for our deliverance from bondage as any, and respect the legacy that Lok left us, but the fact remains that our very existence is once more under threat... we must defend ourselves with all of the resources that remain to us!”

The elders hesitated, then finally, the Eldest nodded.

* * * * *

The faint thrumming of the alarm persisted a short while later, as Dura entered the largest of the Harvest Halls. The chamber rose up to a height of upwards of fifty feet, the ceiling a maze of stalactites. The floor was more even, deliberately leveled to better accommodate the neatly ordered patches where the harvests grew. A harvest had recently been completed just a few days ago, so the growing patches were largely empty, although the rich smell of the cultures was still evident in the air, and throughout the chamber the tiny bulbs of the next harvest’s mushrooms were already evident.

The clank of mail accompanied the movements of the young dwarf. Clad in the magical plate left by Lok, and carrying his axe, Dura was followed by a phalanx of two dozen fellow urdunnir. Only a handful wore armor as heavy as his; most were clad in heavy coats of working leather sewn with metal studs, here and there supplemented by a breastplate or set of greaves. Their weapons looked imposing enough, but in truth most were craftsmen, not warriors. The People had not had time to fully recover from their ordeal at the hands of the duergar.

There would be no more time, Dura mused, glancing back over his “army.” The stones had spoken. The enemy was here.

As if called by his thoughts, movement became evident in one of the corridors that exited from the far side of the chamber. The dwarves came forward even as those shadows grew distinct, hulking forms that moved swiftly forward. The only light in the chamber was a weird, pale glow that came from some of the lichens that clung to the walls of the place and flourished in the musty air, but the dwarves needed no torch to mark their foes.

Bugbears. At least two score, well armored and armed.

The humanoids saw the dwarves, and immediately formed a disorganized line, moving steadily across the expanse of the chamber, hefting spears and axes and clubs high above their heads, treading carelessly upon the budding heads of the next harvest.

“Defensive wedge!” Dura growled, moving into position at the lead point. His head was filled with memory, and his blood sang with the bravery of that day when he, the Hero, had stood in this same place, and held the line against the gibberling rush. Now it was he, Dura, who would enter the annals of his people...

Behind Dura, the dwarves formed into a tight formation, a spearhead bristling with steel forged in many cases by the Hero himself. He was not there to help them this time, not there to defend the People from their foes, but at least they held his weapons, and the example that he had set for them in their hearts.

“Fire!” he shouted, when the bugbears reached the center of the cavern.

Thick bolts shrieked out from within the wedge, hurled by the heavy crossbows of the urdunnir defenders. Several missed their targets, but those that hit punched through metal plate and thick leather alike, driving deeply into the bodies of the onrushing humanoids. The bolts were followed by oblong stones shaped by the potent hands of the stone-dwarves, simple rocks that had been fashioned through the urdunnir’s special lore into dense, heavy missiles. Fired by simple slings, these missiles as well struck hard and deadly, crushing bones.

Six of the initial forty were down, and others staggered by violent hits. But the bugbears continued their approach, picking up speed as they came on. There was no time to reload the heavy crossbows, but the slingers managed a few more hits, and another foe went down, his skull cracked by a direct hit.

The bugbears in the vanguard hurled a few spears as they came, but they glanced off of the armor of the dwarves. The pause cost one attacker, as a hurled hammer caught him solidly in the shoulder, crushing his arm. The bugbear shifted his axe to his good arm, and came on.

The bugbears hurtled themselves into the defenders with a ferocity born of hard years spent in the fierce realm of the Underdark.

“For the People!” cried Dura, smashing his axe into the chest of the first attacker. The magical axe clove through its breastplate, and it crumpled backward, replaced an instant later by another pair that smashed at the dwarf warrior with heavy maces. Lok’s plate armor absorbed the force of the impacts, although Dura could feel their force shudder through his body. “Never again slaves!” he cried, bringing the heavy axe around in a blow that dug deeply into the first bugbear’s hip.

“Never again slaves!” echoed the other dwarves, as they fought and killed and died in the violent melee. The line held, however, and the bugbears, for all their size and strength, could not break through. Each time a dwarf fell the others closed to fill the gap, dealing out death.

Dura hacked and blocked and hacked again. He felt as though his hands were guided by an outside force, for he’d never felt so alive with his strength and skill. He somehow managed to defend against attackers he’d barely seen, and even as his arms grew tired he drove through the bugbears’ defenses to land telling blows. Already he’d slain four, their corpses scattered around his position at the point, and the others that continued to attack were clearly wary, surprised by the ferocity of this lone dwarf’s defense. He’d taken a wound, a spear thrust that had crunched through the armor at his right hip, but the young dwarf barely felt it.

And then the bugbears were falling back, retreating across the chamber from whence they had come. Nearly half their number had been slain in the brief battle, and many of those that retreated bore serious wounds.

Dura’s blood was singing, and his head pounded with the excitement of the fray. He lifted his bloody axe in triumph, and behind him the other dwarves roared.

No, do not, it’s a trap...

“After the dogs!” he cried, and rushed forward, the others close on his heels. They would teach these invaders a lesson, send a message throughout the Underdark that the urdunnir could and would defend themselves, that they were no longer victims...

The bugbears had retreated all the way to the far side of the chamber, near the corridor mouth where they had appeared. Their leaders had drawn them around, ready for a final stand, apparently, but Dura and his dwarves, flush with victory, seemed unstoppable.

And then, suddenly, everything went dark.

A forest of dense, sticky strands sprang up around the dwarves, snaring them in the mess of a magical web. The twang of crossbows could be heard, from the corridor, from the cracks along the walls, from above, amidst the stalactites. A few dwarves staggered from the darkness, webs clinging to them, only to crumple as several of the tiny crossbow bolts worked their grim purpose.

Dura, calling upon a last reserve of strength, tore free of the webs, and lurched out of the darkness. Realization came belatedly, along with a crushing despair that threatened to clamp down on his heart as he watched his companions fall beside him, or struggle uselessly against the clinging webs, or thrash about blind in the sphere of darkness.

The bugbears waited at the edge of the webs, making no move to attack. Dura lifted his axe and charged toward them, but the strands snared his legs, and he nearly fell. Thrashing violently he chopped at the webbing, but his progress was too slow. The bugbears pointed at him, and a few even laughed.

And then he sensed a dark presence above him. He looked up to see a lean, tall form descending slowly from the shadowed forest amidst the stalactites. His heart sank as he recognized the figure, clad in chain links as black as her skin.

“Come down here and face me, bitch!”

The drow priestess regarded him with an almost amused expression. With a wave of her hand, Dura felt his muscles stiffening, and he fell, as helpless as a babe. As helpless as they had all been, taken as slaves by the urdunnir.

Unable to even turn his head to look, the sticky webs clinging to his face and making it difficult even to breathe, he could still hear the laughter of the drow, and the bugbears.

“Never again slaves...” he mumbled...

“Kill the warriors, and take the rest. But leave this one, he might provide some... amusement, before we offer his soul to the Spider Queen.”

Dura tried to scream, but it only came out as a gurgled hiss.

Why did you abandon us, Hero...

Blackness.

 

[Maldur]

Not a cliffhanger, But still cruel!!

 

[Lazybones]

Not a cliffhanger, But still cruel!!

Oh, it gets worse! Muwhahahahaha!

* * * * *

Book VIII, Part 32


Cal stirred. The first thing he was aware of was pain, but it was a subdued, familiar pain, like an old companion. The pain was brother to a deep feeling of emptiness, a hollow pit that seemed to fill him deep inside the core of his being.

He tried to get up, but found that he could not. It was as if a heavy weight lay upon him, although he could feel nothing more than an thick blanket that felt scratchy against his skin. He looked around, but couldn’t see much; he was in a small chamber, with a single exit blocked by a hanging curtain. The furnishings were spartan, just the hard bed on which he lay, a side table, and a chair shoved into a corner. The walls were old stone, cracked and worn.

“Where am I?” he asked, but there was no one to hear him. His own voice felt strange, tenuous and scratchy. Again he tried to get up, with no more luck than his first effort. He wasn’t wearing his rings or other arcane items, and when he tried to recall the words of a spell, his head only spun and the room grew out of focus.

A noise drew his attention to the side of the room just before the curtain flapped back and a man entered the room. He was a human, once tall but now bent, maybe sixty years or so old, with little more than a fringe of white hair and a face that was a maze of hills and valleys. He was carrying a flask and a wooden bowl, and his brows tightened when he saw that Cal was conscious.

“So, yer awake. Might’a been better if yer’d stayed out... I’m afraid the corruption’s spread, and yer goin’ have to lose them legs, I think. Maybe yer life, but I’m thinkin’ I can save that, mayhaps.”

“Get... a cleric...” Cal managed to groan.

The man looked at him incredulously. “A cleric? For you?” He laughed, but it was a cold, bitter sound, with no mirth in it.

Cal closed his eyes and tried to call upon his own inherent magic, the healing song of the bard, but that discordant jumble in his mind was the only response. “Where am I?” he asked.

“Ah, so yer forgettin’, is that the way of it? Can’t say I’m surprised, what with the fever you’ve had since they brought you in here. Dumped you, more like. I don’t know why I’ve bothered to help you, once I learned who—and what—you are.”

“I... I don’t understand...”

The old man leaned over, close enough so that Cal could smell the stale onions on his breath. “I should turn you in. The Lords’ Alliance has increased the bounty to ten thousand crowns, I hear. Not that it matters. Not that anything matters anymore...” He drew back, a wasted and broken expression on his face.

“What did I do?”

The man fixed him with a hard look. “The fever’s truly taken your mind, then? Well, that rich, truly. The gods love their ironies, they do...”

“My friends... there’s one, a cleric, she can help me...”

“Weren’t you listening? NO CLERIC CAN HELP YOU! You and your friends, you’re all forsaken! What you did... you don’t even know, do you!” The man paced violently through the small room, shaking with the emotion that had stirred in him. “I should drag you outside, and show you! You can still see the smoke rising from the pyre that was Elturel, if the day’s clear enough. Not that we get many clear days left... Or maybe we could go visit the other ruins; Iriaebor, Berdusk, Scornubel? How about the hell-pit that is Baldur’s Gate? The scorched wasteland that was once the Greenfields? The ribbon of black ooze that was once the blue Chionthar!” He was now screaming, spittle blasting from his lips as he hurled each statement like an accusation at the helpless gnome.

“I’m sorry,” Cal said. “I don’t remember.”

“You brought them,” the old man said, his voice now calm and cold as ice. “You opened the door, let them into Faerûn. You and your friends.”

“Who?” Cal said, though his heart had suddenly gone cold and his breath caught in his throat with the word.

The old man leaned over him again, his lips tight over his uneven teeth. “The demons. You brought the demons.”

Cal shook his head. “No. We waited, we did as the Oracle commanded, we waited until the Portal closed...”

“I wasn’t there,” he said, “but I knew some who were, at the conclave called at Harper Hall shortly after your return. From what I understand, it started soon after you returned, with your friend. He was the one that carried the link, that burst the barriers that separate our realm from the Abyss... But by the time the High Ones realized it, and destroyed him, it was too late...”

“Delem? They killed Delem? I... but we had to bring him back, to free him...” Cal’s head spun, and he felt the world swimming out of focus around him again.

“You freed him. And condemned the West to death and destruction. By the time we realized what was happening, thousands of demons had already come through the first portal, and others were opening throughout the region. Demons, and other beings—uncontrollable elementals, half-fiends, undead... They poured into our land, and although the Lords rallied the defenders of Faerûn to stop them, they could only slow the devastation, could not undo it.”

“But... the gods...”

“I don’t know how or why it happened. But when you sundered the link between the Planes, you disrupted the contact between Faerûn and the Outer Realms. Oh, it wasn’t as bad as the Time of Troubles, but it was bad still. Wizards, too—they say that the presence of so many demons at once in our reality tore the Weave, threatened to unravel it altogether. If it hadn’t been for the intervention of the Chosen, it might have been Armageddon. As it is, it will take centuries for the West to recover, if it ever does. Tens of thousands... hundreds of thousands, perhaps, have been killed. Cities ruined. Demons still lurk by the hundreds in the dark places, scattered across the land. The Portals have been closed, but the cost... oh, the cost...”

Cal started at him, his eyes wide in horror. The man seemed to have forgotten him, lost in his despair, sobs wracking his lean frame. He was holding something, a wooden symbol dangling from a thin chain around his neck. As the man shifted, Cal caught sight of it—a familiar sigil, carved in the shape of two hands bound by cords.

“Ilmater,” he breathed.

The word broke through the man’s grief, and he looked up again at Cal. “Yes. The Suffering One has been given no shortage of grief. My oaths bind me to care for you... they are all that I have left. But my magic cannot touch you, the gods have abandoned the ones who unleashed this hell upon their people. I will care for you... I will save your life, but it will cost you your legs.” He rose, and turned to leave, pausing the glance at the flask that he’d laid on the table near the bed, close enough for Cal to reach it. “I would drink that, if I were you. It will make you sleep throughout. I will return shortly, and we will begin.”

“No, please... there’s got to be another way! Don’t go!” But the man had already departed, the curtain swaying shut behind him. “Wait! Don’t take my legs! Please! I’m sorry! I’m sorry.... we didn’t want to... please...”

Blackness.