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Message: <blockquote data-quote="Lazybones" data-source="post: 519319" data-attributes="member: 143">The plot thickens...* * * * * Book VII, Part 9The man known within the Black Network only as the Pereghost sat at his desk.  The small room, with its walls of bare, unadorned stone, was decorated as an apparent tribute to military values.  A number of heavy, functional weapons hung from pegs behind the desk, and the side walls bore a collection of old banners—some still bearing faded bloodstains still visible in the cloth—several dented shields bearing a variety of insignia, and a spiked helm that looked as though it could comfortably fit a giant.  One thing stood out; at the end of the row of weapons hung a simple farmer’s tool, an iron hoe with a thoroughly rusted blade.  Those who came here often remarked upon that incongruity, wondering at its significance.  Some suggested that it indicated that the Pereghost had come from simple beginnings, and kept the tool as a reminder.  Others argued that the hoe was a reminder that even a simple tool could be a weapon, in the hands of a man desperate enough to use it.  In any case, the mystery remained unsolved, for like most of those who dwelled in the Darkhold, the man did not speak of his life before he had come to the Zhentarim.  The man himself looked somewhat incongruous in his chosen surroundings this day.  Chain links were just visible peeking out from under his tunic, but otherwise his clothes were expensive linen lined with fur—even spring was cold within the Sunset Mountains.  Today he bore a pen, not a blade, marking reports with a quick, efficient hand.  Occasionally his angular features would twist into a scowl, but otherwise his face was as cold as the bare stone walls surrounding him. He heard footsteps in the hall outside, and placed the report to the side just as a tall, powerful woman entered the office.  “Ah, Pelara, you have arrived at last.  I trust your long journey was not too... tedious?”The woman fixed him with a stare that contained hatred that she did not bother to mask.  She was clad in plate mail that had been masterfully fit to her muscular form, and a wickedly spiked morningstar marked all over with spiraling runes hung from her belt.  She held her helmet in the crook of her arm, revealing a face that might have been considered attractive, were it not painted with vertical stripes of color that gave her an almost garish appearance.  “You can save your false politeness, Traitor.  I only hope that I am present when Fzoul finally sends your death order, so that I can watch you kick out your last moments on the end of the hangman’s rope.”The Pereghost leaned back in his chair and regarded her.  He did not relax his guard—he rarely did, and never in the company of the servants of Bane—but nor did he let the woman’s vicious comments incite him.  In his youth, of course, such words would have driven him into battle, but age and experience had inured him to such petty tactics.  And besides, it wasn’t as if he and Pelara hadn’t played this game many times before.  They had known each other for nigh on thirty years, in fact had sworn fealty at Zhentil Keep before Manshoon himself, when both of them were young, arrogant, and full of vague but mighty ambitions.  “It is a pleasure, as always, to hear your fond endearments, Pelara,” he said.  “If you are finished with your greeting, then, what orders come from our mighty leader this time?”Her eyes narrowed to daggers, but she held her anger barely contained as she moved fully into the room.  As she did, he saw the subtle signs about her person that he’d missed before, in the first clash of their greeting.“Ah, so you’ve finally earned that promotion.  Congratulations.”“You can save your false flattery as well, Pereghost.  Fzoul is not pleased with the news coming from the West.  He, and many others besides him, wants to know why nothing has been done to respond to these flagrant efforts to discredit us.  Slaving raids carried out in our name on villages barely a week from here, and the slaves vanish into the ether without a trace.  The humanoid tribes of the southern spur of the Sunsets refuse to pay tribute, and reports are that they are mobilizing for something.  Raids on caravans have increased throughout the region, and yet somehow the portion flowing east into the Network are lower than they’ve been since after the Time of Troubles.”The Pereghost leaned back in his chair, and his jaw tightened.  Few in the Zhentarim liked to remember those days, when Bane had disappeared and the Black Network became embroiled in a vicious internal struggle for power.  Things had quieted down somewhat since that time, but there were still tensions.  He himself, for instance, was right in the middle of one such fault line.  Many, he knew, felt as Pelara did, considering him little more than a traitor, eager for the word that the time had come to cleanse Darkhold of its divisions.  But that time would not come soon, the warrior knew.  His faction still had a lot of supporters in key areas, and in the face of this new crisis the Zhents would need all of the force they could muster.  “So, what would you have us do?” he asked, his voice level and almost casual.His calm demeanor seemed to make the woman more angry, and she trembled with it as she slammed a mailed fist down on the edge of the desk.  “You must act!  You have a full legion here, sitting on their hands while the name of the Zhentarim is slandered.” He leaned forward again, folding his arms before him on the desk.  “And who would we strike against?  Whoever is behind this, they have not been foolish enough to leave us a signed note, claiming responsibility.”  In fact, he did have more than a little information, leads cobbled together from a variety of sources, but he wasn’t going to share anything until he found our how much she—and the Zhent leadership—knew.  And there were the dreams...For the moment, he kept all of it hidden behind a neutral mask, watching her. “Our enemies are well known,” she said.  “What of your... friends in Amn, in their towers?”The Pereghost almost smiled.  So, she knew nothing after all.  He snorted.  “The leaders of the Two Towers have reason to hate us, but the Cyricists lack the organization and the discipline to coordinate something like this.”  But the dreams...  “Your loyalty to your oaths is admirable,” she said, mockingly.  He met her gaze squarely.  Both knew that he had been subtly tested in the last few months, but even his proven loyalty to the Zhentarim would not be enough to save him when it came time to purge the last of those still attached to Cyric from the ranks of the Black Network.  He knew that day was coming, but there was nothing he could do about it; his ties to that master went deeper than even the binders that connected him to his current allies.  He shrugged dismissively.  When that day came, he would deal with it; he had made his preparations.  “If you are too incompetent to ferret out those behind the slaving raids,” she went on, “at the very least you should send a punitive expedition out against these humanoids that defy the Network, and the bandits that think they can pluck our chickens without paying their proper tribute.  If you let these transgressions pass, it will only encourage others to challenge us in the future.”  She reached out and slid a heavy iron paperweight across the wooden surface of the desk.  “I would have thought that a man with your background would have seen such an obvious truth.” He held his tongue, although there were numerous retorts he could have used against such an argument.  The armed forces in the Hold were depleted both from the infighting and those that had been siphoned off for the disastrous campaigns in the Heartlands from last year; he had only about five hundred regular troops left and perhaps a hundred more less-effective auxiliaries.  Plus he knew that the leadership had to be aware of the reaction of the Lords’ Alliance to the recent raids; even his limited sources told him clearly that an armed response against them was very possible come summer.  And finally, a campaign in the Far Hills would not be an easy one; the humanoid tribes that lived among the crags and ravines of the region knew every hiding place, every twist and trick of the land, and in many cases were dug into extensive fortified complexes that could virtually withstand a siege.  But he held his tongue, not so much because he was afraid of what the leadership of the Zhentarim wanted, but rather because of his dreams.  They had been vivid of late, staying with him for long after he awoke.  Just last night, he had dreamed of the armies of Darkhold marching out to battle, but without him at their head.  So he only sat there, his face a mask of false deference, even as Pelara stared at him warily.  That deference made her uncertain, but she finally tugged a scroll out of her belt and placed it on the table before him. “This places me in command of the military expedition that will depart from this fortress in three days’ time.  Reinforcements will be sent to bolster the operation; a wing of flyers with a Skymage will be arriving before then, and will support the mission.  In addition, I have brought a pair of underpriests, and a squad of veteran cavalry.”  Those last will be particularly useless in the mountains, the Pereghost thought to himself.  But outwardly, he only stood, nodded, and replied, “Very well.  I will have quarters prepared for you and your men, and will notify the quartermaster to expect the flyers as well.  I am sure your expedition will bring great glory to the Zhentarim; you will find that the forces of Darkhold are up to the task.”She looked at him suspiciously, but he had given her no further provocation to hang another insult upon.  Finally she turned and left, her booted feet clapping loudly against the hard stone of the floor.  The Pereghost sat back down in his chair, a pensive look on his face.  Idly, he wondered just what it was that Cyric had in mind.  Whatever it was, it looked as though it would be an interesting year for the Western Heartlands.</blockquote>

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