“Blessed be the flame,” Ois murmured. “Blessed be the flame. Blessed be…”
Thomas looked at her sharply as her voice trailed off. She was in her normal form, so her pupils were not visible, but he was fairly certain that she was going into shock from the cold water.
Make veins outside, very hot, wrap all over, a better flesh to – He forced that part of his mind shut, and he slid the magical staff under the sheath loop strap that held is greataxe. Keeping his right hand gripping the rope that the half-orc’s hawk had dropped, he again slid his left arm under the armpits of the changeling woman.
Do I hate her, truly?
You must hate her. It was not the other half of his mind. It was not his mind at all. It was the tiny brain of the stormstalk. You must. Her kind stand against us.
SHUT. UP. He was the symbiont’s master, and he forced it into silence. There were some men, normal men, who sought out daelkyr gifts for some reason. They had to be forever on their guard, else the symbiont’s mind would take control. Thomas had no such problem. His flesh and spirit were daelkyr. Half of them anyway. The symbiont obeyed him, hating him, but obeying him, for such was its very making – to obey the Twisted Lords…and their scions.
Build fins from her nose. That was him. Half of him. An insane half that could not leave natural alone.
“I do not hate you,” he said, speaking aloud as he kicked his feet. It wasn’t much, but he wasn’t in the proper position for swimming, and his armor inhibited him too much anyway. “I do not hate you,” he repeated, forcing the other half of his mind into a whisper. “All changelings are liars. I was angry that you made me believe the lie that the Silver Flame could forgive me.” He peered through the rain. Delegado was rummaging around on the deck. Why wasn’t the half-orc pulling the rope?
The answer came screaming down at him, seeking to tear his back up with sharp claws that sought to find his heart beneath his armor. Only the eyestalk saved him, twisting around and firing at the flying fiend. As it was the claws dented and scratched his armor very badly, but the breastplate held.
Thomas looked behind him, and wished that he had not. There were three of them. They had the faces of hateful, angry women, with leathery wings, red eyes, and needle-like teeth. But their lips were a deep and beautiful red.
And the lips were singing.
And he could do nothing but listen.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Monday, July 28, 2008
Chapter 2 - Part 2
“And should I tell you what I see, do you think I would necessarily tell the truth?” cackled the old woman. Her skin and hair were a light gray, with no color at all save for the reddish horns that barely poked up an inch from her scalp.
The centaur stood with his arms folded before the tiefling seer’s tree. Pellhomno had been en route to Varna when word had come to him from a druid with whom the centaur was friendly. The seer, an adept who followed the Traveler who was also a diviner of no small skill, lived atop a tree that could only be found when Kythri manifested itself in a hidden glade within the forest.
“I think that you shall only tell me what serves chaos the best,” the centaur said with a forced smile. “And given my connections, and the shadow war between my masters and the fiends, I will cause the most chaos if I can act on truthful information.”
The elderly tiefling laughed and laughed at this, pounding the knees of her filthy, dust-caked dress. “Oh, oh, oh,” she laughed, finally wiping tears from her eyes with gnarled fingers. As she did, the centaur was able to see that one of the eyes was not real, but rather the socket had a polished round stone containing a multitude of colors within it. “Oh very good, very good, yes.” She grinned. “Shall I charge a price, or give it to you as a gift?”
“No gifts!” the centaur said quickly. This produced another round of chortling from the woman. He waited until she stopped, and then produced a heavy bag of gold, shaking it so that it clinked.
“What need have I of that?” the old tiefling asked, grinning so that what was left of her teeth showed.
“The coins within were stolen from a Mror warlord,” Pellhomno explained. “They bear his personal seal, and he is most anxious to find them.”
“Ah,” the tiefling woman said, her smile growing wider. “A funny gift to give someone, a great trick that you assist me in performing.”
“Indeed,” the centaur agreed. He hated it, he hated the way it felt, and he hoped that whatever poor soul found himself on the sharp end of Mror justice would forgive his soul eventually, but he had to know. He threw the woman the gold.
She took it, nodding and licking her lips. “I shall perform the rituals,” she told the centaur. “You will have your answers within the hour.”
The centaur stood with his arms folded before the tiefling seer’s tree. Pellhomno had been en route to Varna when word had come to him from a druid with whom the centaur was friendly. The seer, an adept who followed the Traveler who was also a diviner of no small skill, lived atop a tree that could only be found when Kythri manifested itself in a hidden glade within the forest.
“I think that you shall only tell me what serves chaos the best,” the centaur said with a forced smile. “And given my connections, and the shadow war between my masters and the fiends, I will cause the most chaos if I can act on truthful information.”
The elderly tiefling laughed and laughed at this, pounding the knees of her filthy, dust-caked dress. “Oh, oh, oh,” she laughed, finally wiping tears from her eyes with gnarled fingers. As she did, the centaur was able to see that one of the eyes was not real, but rather the socket had a polished round stone containing a multitude of colors within it. “Oh very good, very good, yes.” She grinned. “Shall I charge a price, or give it to you as a gift?”
“No gifts!” the centaur said quickly. This produced another round of chortling from the woman. He waited until she stopped, and then produced a heavy bag of gold, shaking it so that it clinked.
“What need have I of that?” the old tiefling asked, grinning so that what was left of her teeth showed.
“The coins within were stolen from a Mror warlord,” Pellhomno explained. “They bear his personal seal, and he is most anxious to find them.”
“Ah,” the tiefling woman said, her smile growing wider. “A funny gift to give someone, a great trick that you assist me in performing.”
“Indeed,” the centaur agreed. He hated it, he hated the way it felt, and he hoped that whatever poor soul found himself on the sharp end of Mror justice would forgive his soul eventually, but he had to know. He threw the woman the gold.
She took it, nodding and licking her lips. “I shall perform the rituals,” she told the centaur. “You will have your answers within the hour.”
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Chapter 2 - Part 1
CHAPTER TWO - THE MORE PLAYERS, THE MORE THE GAME CONTINUES
Early morning on the 2nd of Aryth, 993 YK. A cold beach on the northwestern edge of the Demon Wastes.
They kneeled in prayer over the unmoving body of their friend. Around them a storm raged, and being of pure evil howled their murderous intent to destroy the intruders.
There was nothing but cold rain, intense prayer, and impending death…until something heavy crashed loudly through the surf to the west, heard above the storm.
The half-orc looked first, turning his head to the right, peering through the thick weather. He blinked, water running out of his eyes from the rain.
“What is it?” asked Ois. She let go of Delegado’s and Thomas’ hands, standing as she drew her sword.
“I see Crimson,” Thomas said, slowly standing.
“I see motion, not color, but there is a ship out there!” Delegado said. The half-orc stooped and lifted Iron Orphan’s body. “Thomas, get your horse, get moving!” The half-orc clicked his tongue twice, and his hawk launched itself west, over the ocean.
A bounding thing, something like a gorilla, but with red eyes that leaked smoke and with coal-black worms a foot long wiggling and weaving in and out of its gray, hairless flesh, howled a wordless battle cry as it hurled itself through the mist and landed on Thomas’ horse. The gorilla-like fiend gibbered madly as the horse screamed and whinnied and died.
“Get into the water!” Thomas said, holding aloft the magical staff. Wind slammed into the gorilla-thing, shoving away from the horse’s corpse. The gorilla-thing had only been atop the horse for a handful of seconds, but it had somehow launched the worms within its own flesh into the horse, and the animal was eaten up from inside. Even now as the magically summoned wind pushed back gorilla-thing and worms, barely a quarter of the horse’s mass remained. Thomas concentrated, and a lightning bolt ripped down, incinerating the remains of his former mount. “Go! Go! Go!”
They ran, the freezing water hitting their feet, then their waists. Delegado bore the shock of the cold, his years in the outdoors giving him a greater endurance. He strained to keep his grip on his friend’s body as hard and loose rocks under the water tried to twist his footing.
Ois shuddered, nearly falling, but Thomas came up behind her and put his shoulder under hers, supporting her. She did not flinch at his stormstalk, and the stormstalk did not pull away from her, either. Neither the half-daelkyr nor the changeling had had enough sleep, and neither were handling the freezing water very well.
Snarls and gibbering behind them told them that their foe had not stopped pursuit. Storm and wind raged around them.
“If you were planning on waking up,” Delegado coughed to Orphan’s limp body, as seawater splashed into his mouth. “Now would be a good time.”
The mist in front of the half-orc suddenly parted, and a large ocean-going vessel moved from north to south- barely twenty feet from the son of House Tharashk. Delegado barely got a look at what were intricately craved patterns in the red-painted wood before a rope attached to the deck splashed down next to him.
“A ship!” he called back. “A Crimson Ship!” The half-orc grabbed the rope with his right hand, secured his grip on his warforged friend with his left, and kicked forward on the waves. He swung forward and braced his feet on the hull. Muscles straining and screaming in protest, he began hauling himself upwards, his boot toes finding purchase where they could.
From atop the railing Feather screamed. The hawk grabbed another rope in its claws, flew out, and dropped it down to Ois and Thomas. They grabbed on, and once they had firm grips, the ship turned, heading slowly out to sea.
On the beach, the demons howled in frustration, still not understanding how their prey had eluded them.
Early morning on the 2nd of Aryth, 993 YK. A cold beach on the northwestern edge of the Demon Wastes.
They kneeled in prayer over the unmoving body of their friend. Around them a storm raged, and being of pure evil howled their murderous intent to destroy the intruders.
There was nothing but cold rain, intense prayer, and impending death…until something heavy crashed loudly through the surf to the west, heard above the storm.
The half-orc looked first, turning his head to the right, peering through the thick weather. He blinked, water running out of his eyes from the rain.
“What is it?” asked Ois. She let go of Delegado’s and Thomas’ hands, standing as she drew her sword.
“I see Crimson,” Thomas said, slowly standing.
“I see motion, not color, but there is a ship out there!” Delegado said. The half-orc stooped and lifted Iron Orphan’s body. “Thomas, get your horse, get moving!” The half-orc clicked his tongue twice, and his hawk launched itself west, over the ocean.
A bounding thing, something like a gorilla, but with red eyes that leaked smoke and with coal-black worms a foot long wiggling and weaving in and out of its gray, hairless flesh, howled a wordless battle cry as it hurled itself through the mist and landed on Thomas’ horse. The gorilla-like fiend gibbered madly as the horse screamed and whinnied and died.
“Get into the water!” Thomas said, holding aloft the magical staff. Wind slammed into the gorilla-thing, shoving away from the horse’s corpse. The gorilla-thing had only been atop the horse for a handful of seconds, but it had somehow launched the worms within its own flesh into the horse, and the animal was eaten up from inside. Even now as the magically summoned wind pushed back gorilla-thing and worms, barely a quarter of the horse’s mass remained. Thomas concentrated, and a lightning bolt ripped down, incinerating the remains of his former mount. “Go! Go! Go!”
They ran, the freezing water hitting their feet, then their waists. Delegado bore the shock of the cold, his years in the outdoors giving him a greater endurance. He strained to keep his grip on his friend’s body as hard and loose rocks under the water tried to twist his footing.
Ois shuddered, nearly falling, but Thomas came up behind her and put his shoulder under hers, supporting her. She did not flinch at his stormstalk, and the stormstalk did not pull away from her, either. Neither the half-daelkyr nor the changeling had had enough sleep, and neither were handling the freezing water very well.
Snarls and gibbering behind them told them that their foe had not stopped pursuit. Storm and wind raged around them.
“If you were planning on waking up,” Delegado coughed to Orphan’s limp body, as seawater splashed into his mouth. “Now would be a good time.”
The mist in front of the half-orc suddenly parted, and a large ocean-going vessel moved from north to south- barely twenty feet from the son of House Tharashk. Delegado barely got a look at what were intricately craved patterns in the red-painted wood before a rope attached to the deck splashed down next to him.
“A ship!” he called back. “A Crimson Ship!” The half-orc grabbed the rope with his right hand, secured his grip on his warforged friend with his left, and kicked forward on the waves. He swung forward and braced his feet on the hull. Muscles straining and screaming in protest, he began hauling himself upwards, his boot toes finding purchase where they could.
From atop the railing Feather screamed. The hawk grabbed another rope in its claws, flew out, and dropped it down to Ois and Thomas. They grabbed on, and once they had firm grips, the ship turned, heading slowly out to sea.
On the beach, the demons howled in frustration, still not understanding how their prey had eluded them.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Chapter 1 – Part 9
Carl withdrew a small stone carved with glyphs from a tunic pocket. He rubbed it with his thumb, and it emitted a soft, green light as he walked. It wasn’t much stronger than a candle, but it let him see the ground before his feet.
“Cover that piece of Mockery’s snot before you give away our position,” came a harsh whisper from Carl’s left.
The human grabbed his sword hilt and hesitated. “Who goes there?” he asked.
“Flower call-sign two, five, blue,” said a goblin in leather armor, walking forward and staring angrily.
“Countersign eleven, green, one,” Carl said, letting his sword go and deactivating the stone. Only the stars and half of two moons gave light now, but of course the goblin could see him clearly. “Are you the one called Brezzy?”
“Corporal, did you get your rank by being the least stupid?” came the exasperated answer.
Don’t screw with a Dark Lantern on a mission, someone had told Carl once. They’ll gut you like a fish if they think you’re blowing their operation. “Sorry, sir,” Carl said reflexively. He fished the long, thin package wrapped tightly in parchment out of his boot. From its shape and weight he knew it to be an arrow, and from the secrecy involved it was obviously enchanted. He’d found it in Fromlay’s pack. “This is what we were supposed to deliver,” he said, leaving it on the ground.
“Sit rep, now,” he heard the goblin demand from his left. It was obviously pacing around him, but he hadn’t heard it move at all.
“We came across enemy advance units yesterday morning,” Carl began. “After initial –”
“I was at the battle,” the goblin said, exasperated. “I know what happened. Give me the political situation.”
“Jegala has been given command, it will be announced in the morning,” Carl said. “She’s made it clear we’re to break camp away from them. They’re heading to Riverweep.”
“Then so are you,” the goblin told him.
“Sir, she will order an attack on us.”
“If she told you Riverweep it means she’d headed to Varna,” the goblin said. “Keep your men together, the Aundairians will be making another attack soon. Nothing major, but expect a series of sorties.”
“They’ve lost big,” Carl said. “Their strategy is always based on their magicians, aren’t they likely to regroup?”
“They’re likely to try and show that they aren’t gone from the game,” the goblin said. “And no one saw that they would throw so much magical strength at this juncture.”
“Why did they?” Carl asked, not really thinking when he made the request.
“If I knew you think I’d tell you?” the goblin snorted. “Keep your men together and keep them alive, Corporal Carl. Most Reachers don’t agree with Jegala, their enemy is across the river in Aundair. You’ll get to Riverweep and find the highest-ranking Brelish officer that you can. Should you find anyone over the rank of major, tell them that you started to bake bread after Chubat died, but the bread did not have time to rise.”
Carl waited for a minute. “Is that all, sir?”
Except for the soft night noises of crickets and gnats, there was silence.
“Sir?”
Nothing.
Carl activated the stone again. The packaged arrow was gone, and he was quite alone.
“Cover that piece of Mockery’s snot before you give away our position,” came a harsh whisper from Carl’s left.
The human grabbed his sword hilt and hesitated. “Who goes there?” he asked.
“Flower call-sign two, five, blue,” said a goblin in leather armor, walking forward and staring angrily.
“Countersign eleven, green, one,” Carl said, letting his sword go and deactivating the stone. Only the stars and half of two moons gave light now, but of course the goblin could see him clearly. “Are you the one called Brezzy?”
“Corporal, did you get your rank by being the least stupid?” came the exasperated answer.
Don’t screw with a Dark Lantern on a mission, someone had told Carl once. They’ll gut you like a fish if they think you’re blowing their operation. “Sorry, sir,” Carl said reflexively. He fished the long, thin package wrapped tightly in parchment out of his boot. From its shape and weight he knew it to be an arrow, and from the secrecy involved it was obviously enchanted. He’d found it in Fromlay’s pack. “This is what we were supposed to deliver,” he said, leaving it on the ground.
“Sit rep, now,” he heard the goblin demand from his left. It was obviously pacing around him, but he hadn’t heard it move at all.
“We came across enemy advance units yesterday morning,” Carl began. “After initial –”
“I was at the battle,” the goblin said, exasperated. “I know what happened. Give me the political situation.”
“Jegala has been given command, it will be announced in the morning,” Carl said. “She’s made it clear we’re to break camp away from them. They’re heading to Riverweep.”
“Then so are you,” the goblin told him.
“Sir, she will order an attack on us.”
“If she told you Riverweep it means she’d headed to Varna,” the goblin said. “Keep your men together, the Aundairians will be making another attack soon. Nothing major, but expect a series of sorties.”
“They’ve lost big,” Carl said. “Their strategy is always based on their magicians, aren’t they likely to regroup?”
“They’re likely to try and show that they aren’t gone from the game,” the goblin said. “And no one saw that they would throw so much magical strength at this juncture.”
“Why did they?” Carl asked, not really thinking when he made the request.
“If I knew you think I’d tell you?” the goblin snorted. “Keep your men together and keep them alive, Corporal Carl. Most Reachers don’t agree with Jegala, their enemy is across the river in Aundair. You’ll get to Riverweep and find the highest-ranking Brelish officer that you can. Should you find anyone over the rank of major, tell them that you started to bake bread after Chubat died, but the bread did not have time to rise.”
Carl waited for a minute. “Is that all, sir?”
Except for the soft night noises of crickets and gnats, there was silence.
“Sir?”
Nothing.
Carl activated the stone again. The packaged arrow was gone, and he was quite alone.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Chapter 1 – Part 8
The Aundairian camp was a place of grim men, quietly frowning, tending to numerous small tasks necessary for an army. Too many of them bore wounds, and too many of them nursed dark thoughts. The bards had promised them victory, their commanders had told them of how the Eldeen would fall, and the wizards had declared that fire and lightning would scatter the druids and forest men.
Instead the bards were dead, ripped apart by wild animals that appeared and fought for the rebels. The commanders were picked off, one of the most able taken out by a goblin’s arrow through his visor. And the wizards, the great and powerful magicians – their blows had fallen hard at first upon the rebels, true.
But the dwarf with the axe…
The stories the survivors told said that the dwarf could not die. That the dwarf would rise up and come for them.
A pair of magician students, barely old enough to handle the simplest spells, had laid wards that made alarms on the western edge of the camp. Great stretches of open ground lay beyond it, giving no cover to creeping Reacher rebels that might seek to cross it. Trenches had been hastily dug, bowmen stood by, carefully fingering arrows. A magewright stiffly held a wand, fearful that he might actually see battle.
In the middle of the camp, there was a circle made out of stakes. An elf with an enchanted longbow stood by it, eyes on the dark night sky. The elf had served the previous three commanders of the camp, who were now all dead. The new commander had told him to watch for a pair of eagles, and so he did, not understanding why.
The eagles came, perhaps an hour after the sun went down. The elf’s keen eyes spotted them, and he watched how they circled before landing in the middle of the circle of stakes. Some soldiers standing nearby glanced at the odd tableau curiously. They had all been told to stay away from it and not talk, but nothing could stop them from staring.
When one of the eagles unfolded and grew into the form of a druid, the men cursed and grabbed for weapons.
The elf with the longbow grinned a smile with no humor, and raised his hand. The men stood down, but groused to each other.
“I am expected,” said the druid, who was also an elf.
“Your bird stays,” the elf with the bow said, jerking a thumb behind him. “New commander, in the tent.”
The druid nodded, and walked past the elf with the longbow. Both elves knew that the druid longed to unleash some magic on the longbowman, and both elves knew that the druid dared not to. The druid pretended to have some dignity, and the longbowman left him pretend.
The tent the longbowman indicated was the newest one in the camp, tall, with clean, white canvas walls. The front flap was open, and magically lit stones glowed inside.
The druid stepped in, and beheld a long table laden with trays of food. Fresh fruit, decanters of wine and water, cooked pheasant, and newly baked bread were placed for all to enjoy. The table was low, merely a couple of feet from the ground, and surrounded by cushions and low stools. Aundairians of all races, predominantly humans and half-elves, sat around the table and were discussing things in low whispers. The whispers cut off as the druid entered.
“Come down here, Aruunis,” said a half-elf in polished breastplate at the other end of the table. His breastplate had new gold brocades on it. Captain Hackkim had been fourth-in-command before the battle of the day before. Now he was first.
“Why do we have a nature-worshipping rebel here?” spat a human to the left of Captain Hackkim. He wore wizard’s robes, and a bandage wrapped his left wrist, where a hand had once been.
“Aruunis is a Gatekeeper druid,” Captain Hackkim explained, overly loudly. “The Gatekeepers do not follow the rebels as do the other druids. They supposedly have some higher calling, some older duty.” The half-elven commander sneered, his sarcasm not even hidden as he chewed on a pomegranate.
“Captain Hackkim,” Aruunis said, his words sticking in his throat. “You summoned me.”
Captain Hackkim stood up. “Everyone keep eating,” he said. “The dirt-worshipper and I have things to discuss.” The half-elf walked out of the tent’s back flap, wiggling his fingers at the druid as one would a small child. The men around the table snickered, and Aruunis’ face burned, but he followed.
Once out alone in the night air, Captain Hackkim turned towards Aruunis, his face set in stone. “Aundair did not lose yesterday because of the other druids in the battle. Aundair lost because of this Sister Pienna, and her savage dwarf fiend who she empowered.”
“The dwarf is dead,” Aruunis said quietly.
“I know, and good riddance,” Captain Hackkim snorted. “The wizards he slew will set us back greatly. The spells that Pienna cast, the vigor she projected into him, the fogs that she conjured, all enabled him to do so.”
“Pienna does not act for the Gatekeepers –” Aruunis began.
“Silence!” Captain Hackkim snarled. Aruunis shut up. “Old seals, you Gatekeepers say! Ancient duties! Perfect cover for spies! This Pienna comes from Cannith, in Cyre, takes up with a rebel dwarf first, then joins the Gatekeepers second, and within these past few months slays powerful wizards in Merylsward and on the border? You Gatekeepers are not neutral! Aundair should hunt your order down, and exterminate them! Why should we not?”
“She is not regular,” Aruunis protested. “The rest of us are not like her!”
“Oh?” Captain Hackkim mocked. “She is an aberration of some kind?”
Aruunis’ cheeks burned with anger, but he dared say nothing.
The half-elven captain watched the druid for a moment, then he slowly withdrew a piece of parchment from a pouch on his belt and handed it to Aruunis. The druid’s hands shook as he took it, tears welling in his eyes.
“A letter from your wife,” Captain Hackkim informed the druid. Aruunis already knew, of course. He knew his wife’s handwriting well. Since she had been convicted for sedition by Aundair’s courts ten years before, letters were the only way that he heard from her. “We moved her into a softer camp. She still does menial work for us by the Thrane border.” Hackkim fished around in his belt pouches some more, producing a pipe and some tobacco. “Conditions are hard in these work camps, even the softer ones.” The half-elf lit the tobacco and took a puff. “You still maintain that your Gatekeepers provide the world with such a vital function?”
“Yes,” Aruunis whispered, his eyes reading and re-reading the few lines on the parchment.
“And you still maintain that the Gatekeepers are truly neutral, and this Pienna is an exception?”
“It is so,” Aruunis said softly.
“Then your course is clear,” Captain Hackkim said from around a mouthful of pipe. “If you want your Gatekeepers to move freely about Aundair, something must be done about Pienna.”
“I have spoken to her,” Aruunis said.
“You’re dense, dirt-worshipper, you know that?” the half-elf asked. “It’s very simple. You kill Pienna and bring me an identifiable body or major part thereof, and you do it within the next three months, or your wife will be executed. Do you understand?”
A moment passed, and then Aruunis slowly nodded.
“It will be done,” the elven druid promised, his voice raspy.
Instead the bards were dead, ripped apart by wild animals that appeared and fought for the rebels. The commanders were picked off, one of the most able taken out by a goblin’s arrow through his visor. And the wizards, the great and powerful magicians – their blows had fallen hard at first upon the rebels, true.
But the dwarf with the axe…
The stories the survivors told said that the dwarf could not die. That the dwarf would rise up and come for them.
A pair of magician students, barely old enough to handle the simplest spells, had laid wards that made alarms on the western edge of the camp. Great stretches of open ground lay beyond it, giving no cover to creeping Reacher rebels that might seek to cross it. Trenches had been hastily dug, bowmen stood by, carefully fingering arrows. A magewright stiffly held a wand, fearful that he might actually see battle.
In the middle of the camp, there was a circle made out of stakes. An elf with an enchanted longbow stood by it, eyes on the dark night sky. The elf had served the previous three commanders of the camp, who were now all dead. The new commander had told him to watch for a pair of eagles, and so he did, not understanding why.
The eagles came, perhaps an hour after the sun went down. The elf’s keen eyes spotted them, and he watched how they circled before landing in the middle of the circle of stakes. Some soldiers standing nearby glanced at the odd tableau curiously. They had all been told to stay away from it and not talk, but nothing could stop them from staring.
When one of the eagles unfolded and grew into the form of a druid, the men cursed and grabbed for weapons.
The elf with the longbow grinned a smile with no humor, and raised his hand. The men stood down, but groused to each other.
“I am expected,” said the druid, who was also an elf.
“Your bird stays,” the elf with the bow said, jerking a thumb behind him. “New commander, in the tent.”
The druid nodded, and walked past the elf with the longbow. Both elves knew that the druid longed to unleash some magic on the longbowman, and both elves knew that the druid dared not to. The druid pretended to have some dignity, and the longbowman left him pretend.
The tent the longbowman indicated was the newest one in the camp, tall, with clean, white canvas walls. The front flap was open, and magically lit stones glowed inside.
The druid stepped in, and beheld a long table laden with trays of food. Fresh fruit, decanters of wine and water, cooked pheasant, and newly baked bread were placed for all to enjoy. The table was low, merely a couple of feet from the ground, and surrounded by cushions and low stools. Aundairians of all races, predominantly humans and half-elves, sat around the table and were discussing things in low whispers. The whispers cut off as the druid entered.
“Come down here, Aruunis,” said a half-elf in polished breastplate at the other end of the table. His breastplate had new gold brocades on it. Captain Hackkim had been fourth-in-command before the battle of the day before. Now he was first.
“Why do we have a nature-worshipping rebel here?” spat a human to the left of Captain Hackkim. He wore wizard’s robes, and a bandage wrapped his left wrist, where a hand had once been.
“Aruunis is a Gatekeeper druid,” Captain Hackkim explained, overly loudly. “The Gatekeepers do not follow the rebels as do the other druids. They supposedly have some higher calling, some older duty.” The half-elven commander sneered, his sarcasm not even hidden as he chewed on a pomegranate.
“Captain Hackkim,” Aruunis said, his words sticking in his throat. “You summoned me.”
Captain Hackkim stood up. “Everyone keep eating,” he said. “The dirt-worshipper and I have things to discuss.” The half-elf walked out of the tent’s back flap, wiggling his fingers at the druid as one would a small child. The men around the table snickered, and Aruunis’ face burned, but he followed.
Once out alone in the night air, Captain Hackkim turned towards Aruunis, his face set in stone. “Aundair did not lose yesterday because of the other druids in the battle. Aundair lost because of this Sister Pienna, and her savage dwarf fiend who she empowered.”
“The dwarf is dead,” Aruunis said quietly.
“I know, and good riddance,” Captain Hackkim snorted. “The wizards he slew will set us back greatly. The spells that Pienna cast, the vigor she projected into him, the fogs that she conjured, all enabled him to do so.”
“Pienna does not act for the Gatekeepers –” Aruunis began.
“Silence!” Captain Hackkim snarled. Aruunis shut up. “Old seals, you Gatekeepers say! Ancient duties! Perfect cover for spies! This Pienna comes from Cannith, in Cyre, takes up with a rebel dwarf first, then joins the Gatekeepers second, and within these past few months slays powerful wizards in Merylsward and on the border? You Gatekeepers are not neutral! Aundair should hunt your order down, and exterminate them! Why should we not?”
“She is not regular,” Aruunis protested. “The rest of us are not like her!”
“Oh?” Captain Hackkim mocked. “She is an aberration of some kind?”
Aruunis’ cheeks burned with anger, but he dared say nothing.
The half-elven captain watched the druid for a moment, then he slowly withdrew a piece of parchment from a pouch on his belt and handed it to Aruunis. The druid’s hands shook as he took it, tears welling in his eyes.
“A letter from your wife,” Captain Hackkim informed the druid. Aruunis already knew, of course. He knew his wife’s handwriting well. Since she had been convicted for sedition by Aundair’s courts ten years before, letters were the only way that he heard from her. “We moved her into a softer camp. She still does menial work for us by the Thrane border.” Hackkim fished around in his belt pouches some more, producing a pipe and some tobacco. “Conditions are hard in these work camps, even the softer ones.” The half-elf lit the tobacco and took a puff. “You still maintain that your Gatekeepers provide the world with such a vital function?”
“Yes,” Aruunis whispered, his eyes reading and re-reading the few lines on the parchment.
“And you still maintain that the Gatekeepers are truly neutral, and this Pienna is an exception?”
“It is so,” Aruunis said softly.
“Then your course is clear,” Captain Hackkim said from around a mouthful of pipe. “If you want your Gatekeepers to move freely about Aundair, something must be done about Pienna.”
“I have spoken to her,” Aruunis said.
“You’re dense, dirt-worshipper, you know that?” the half-elf asked. “It’s very simple. You kill Pienna and bring me an identifiable body or major part thereof, and you do it within the next three months, or your wife will be executed. Do you understand?”
A moment passed, and then Aruunis slowly nodded.
“It will be done,” the elven druid promised, his voice raspy.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Chapter 1 – Part 7
A corporal should not be the commanding officer of a unit, Carl thought to himself. He sat cross-legged on the grassy soil within the tent that served as the command center of the Brelish forces attached to this part of the Aundairian front. Lieutenant Fromlay had been the commander, but Fromlay had died early in the battle yesterday.
“Commander,” came the soft call from outside the tent. Carl knew the voice, even if the shadow cast by the central cookfire was vague.
“Come on in, Henry,” Carl sighed.
Henry entered carefully, his leather helmet in his hands. Like Carl, Henry was a human, and a member of the Brelish army sent to assist the Reachers against the Aundairians. Unlike Carl, who was in his mid-twenties, Henry was a prematurely white-haired man in his forties who had served in the army before Carl was born, then reenlisted after both of his children were killed in the line of duty. Technically Henry was a private, but everyone deferred to him. Even Fromlay, a half-elf who was two decades older than Henry, had listened to his advice.
“How are you holding up, sir?” Henry asked. The man’s crossbow was on his hip, next to a dagger. Henry’s sword had been shattered by spell energy, and the man had been working on fashioning himself a club.
Carl frowned at his own blade. He had been cleaning it and re-cleaning it, even though it was spotless. It gave him something to do. “Should I have spoken more at the service?” he asked Henry. “I said only a few words for the people that died. Barely mentioned Lieutenant Fromlay.”
“We’re guests here,” Henry sighed, sitting down on the forest floor next to the corporal. “And we aren’t wanted. The Reachers don’t like the fact that they need us.” He turned his head briefly to look out of the tent flap.
“They’ve bled more than us,” Carl sighed. “And that dwarf, that Chubat…” His voice trailed off and he shook his head. “We’d all be dead if not for him. The Aundairians placed triple the magical strength expected at this point on the line.”
“Yeah, that dwarf may have changed the course of the war,” Henry said. The older man stretched his hands, and let something fall into Carl’s lap while he did so. “Imagine that,” Henry said, slowly standing, his eyes slowly moving about to make sure no one had noticed what he’d done. “One dwarf with an axe and determination changing the course of the war.”
“A lot of time and effort went into training those wizards,” Carl agreed, his hand slowly covering what had been dropped. “Although I wonder why the Aundairians committed such magical strength here with larger battles taking place farther north and south.”
“For heads above ours, sir,” Henry shrugged. “I just figured I’d drop in and see how you’re doing is all.” He paused. “The men can’t see you uncertain, sir, we’re too far from home for that.”
“Sure, understood,” Carl said. His fingers were telling him that the thing in his lap was a forest flower, wrapped twice with grass strands. He tried to keep his voice normal. “Have a good night, Henry.”
“Good night, sir,” Henry said, leaving.
Carl waited a few minutes, playing at polishing his sword, and then he finally looked at the flower. It was what he thought it was. Three days ago Fromlay had told Carl that there would be a Dark Lantern in or near the camp. Carl had been surprised to discover that an agent of Brelish intelligence would be this far from home. Fromlay had told Carl that there was more than their seemed to be in this little piece of the front, and that should something happen to the Lieutenant, the Dark Lantern would contact Carl via one of two signals. The wrapped flower was one, and it was the more urgent of the two.
And the Dark Lantern had chosen to give it to Henry, and Fromlay had apparently told Henry what to do with it.
Carl waited longer, then slipped the flower into a pocket before rising. Sheathing his sword, he walked out into the night. He was no actor, and he didn’t think anyone would question his choosing to relieve himself in the middle of the night, but nonetheless he feigned a hitching of his trouser strings as he headed towards the woods.
“Don’t tssip on a fairy,” came a voice from behind a tree as Carl left the camp. The man whirled around, drawing his sword.
A woman stood with her back against the tree. Carl had not seen or heard any clue of her presence before she had spoken. She was a middle-aged human with a hard, lean body, a shaved scalp, and several visible scars. It took him a moment to place her. She was Jegala, a Reacher who had made it clear that she hated the Brelish.
Carl spoke only a few words of Sylvan, the sort that a soldier would know, and he knew what tssip meant. He also knew that Jegala was seeking to bait him.
“I would never show such disrespect to the fey or the other inhabitants of the Reaches,” Carl said carefully.
Jegala sneered. “I’m originally from Erlaskar,” she told him. “I left, came north across Lake Galifar. You know why?”
“No,” he said, although he could guess. Erlaskar had been the site of some pitched battles between the Eldeen Reaches and Breland two decades ago.
“You do know,” she said, reading his eyes. “Breland killed everyone I loved.” She glared at him for a moment before continuing. “Now, you know Ch’walla? Our highest officer? Who lost her legs?”
“I do.”
“She isn’t continuing as commander. She already picked a replacement. She’ll announce it in the morning. Guess who it will be?” The triumph in her voice was ugly, hateful, full of promise.
“I assume you,” he answered, as dread gripped him. He was no diplomat, and his men were outnumbered by almost ten to one. Should Jegala break the arrangement, it wouldn’t be the Aundairians that killed him.
“You assume right,” she told him. “And we are going to break camp and head northeast to Riverweep. And your people are not coming with us.”
“Our two nations have –”
“Nothing to do with this place here,” she informed him. “I’d order a full-bore attack on your blue uniforms, but we’ve lost enough in the past two days.”
“Not all of your people would join in your attack, and you’d lose your command,” he told her.
“That might be it, too,” she said. She turned and walked away from him. “Be careful in the forest,” she told him. “Be a shame if something happened to you.”
Carl watched her go, then headed into the forest.
“Commander,” came the soft call from outside the tent. Carl knew the voice, even if the shadow cast by the central cookfire was vague.
“Come on in, Henry,” Carl sighed.
Henry entered carefully, his leather helmet in his hands. Like Carl, Henry was a human, and a member of the Brelish army sent to assist the Reachers against the Aundairians. Unlike Carl, who was in his mid-twenties, Henry was a prematurely white-haired man in his forties who had served in the army before Carl was born, then reenlisted after both of his children were killed in the line of duty. Technically Henry was a private, but everyone deferred to him. Even Fromlay, a half-elf who was two decades older than Henry, had listened to his advice.
“How are you holding up, sir?” Henry asked. The man’s crossbow was on his hip, next to a dagger. Henry’s sword had been shattered by spell energy, and the man had been working on fashioning himself a club.
Carl frowned at his own blade. He had been cleaning it and re-cleaning it, even though it was spotless. It gave him something to do. “Should I have spoken more at the service?” he asked Henry. “I said only a few words for the people that died. Barely mentioned Lieutenant Fromlay.”
“We’re guests here,” Henry sighed, sitting down on the forest floor next to the corporal. “And we aren’t wanted. The Reachers don’t like the fact that they need us.” He turned his head briefly to look out of the tent flap.
“They’ve bled more than us,” Carl sighed. “And that dwarf, that Chubat…” His voice trailed off and he shook his head. “We’d all be dead if not for him. The Aundairians placed triple the magical strength expected at this point on the line.”
“Yeah, that dwarf may have changed the course of the war,” Henry said. The older man stretched his hands, and let something fall into Carl’s lap while he did so. “Imagine that,” Henry said, slowly standing, his eyes slowly moving about to make sure no one had noticed what he’d done. “One dwarf with an axe and determination changing the course of the war.”
“A lot of time and effort went into training those wizards,” Carl agreed, his hand slowly covering what had been dropped. “Although I wonder why the Aundairians committed such magical strength here with larger battles taking place farther north and south.”
“For heads above ours, sir,” Henry shrugged. “I just figured I’d drop in and see how you’re doing is all.” He paused. “The men can’t see you uncertain, sir, we’re too far from home for that.”
“Sure, understood,” Carl said. His fingers were telling him that the thing in his lap was a forest flower, wrapped twice with grass strands. He tried to keep his voice normal. “Have a good night, Henry.”
“Good night, sir,” Henry said, leaving.
Carl waited a few minutes, playing at polishing his sword, and then he finally looked at the flower. It was what he thought it was. Three days ago Fromlay had told Carl that there would be a Dark Lantern in or near the camp. Carl had been surprised to discover that an agent of Brelish intelligence would be this far from home. Fromlay had told Carl that there was more than their seemed to be in this little piece of the front, and that should something happen to the Lieutenant, the Dark Lantern would contact Carl via one of two signals. The wrapped flower was one, and it was the more urgent of the two.
And the Dark Lantern had chosen to give it to Henry, and Fromlay had apparently told Henry what to do with it.
Carl waited longer, then slipped the flower into a pocket before rising. Sheathing his sword, he walked out into the night. He was no actor, and he didn’t think anyone would question his choosing to relieve himself in the middle of the night, but nonetheless he feigned a hitching of his trouser strings as he headed towards the woods.
“Don’t tssip on a fairy,” came a voice from behind a tree as Carl left the camp. The man whirled around, drawing his sword.
A woman stood with her back against the tree. Carl had not seen or heard any clue of her presence before she had spoken. She was a middle-aged human with a hard, lean body, a shaved scalp, and several visible scars. It took him a moment to place her. She was Jegala, a Reacher who had made it clear that she hated the Brelish.
Carl spoke only a few words of Sylvan, the sort that a soldier would know, and he knew what tssip meant. He also knew that Jegala was seeking to bait him.
“I would never show such disrespect to the fey or the other inhabitants of the Reaches,” Carl said carefully.
Jegala sneered. “I’m originally from Erlaskar,” she told him. “I left, came north across Lake Galifar. You know why?”
“No,” he said, although he could guess. Erlaskar had been the site of some pitched battles between the Eldeen Reaches and Breland two decades ago.
“You do know,” she said, reading his eyes. “Breland killed everyone I loved.” She glared at him for a moment before continuing. “Now, you know Ch’walla? Our highest officer? Who lost her legs?”
“I do.”
“She isn’t continuing as commander. She already picked a replacement. She’ll announce it in the morning. Guess who it will be?” The triumph in her voice was ugly, hateful, full of promise.
“I assume you,” he answered, as dread gripped him. He was no diplomat, and his men were outnumbered by almost ten to one. Should Jegala break the arrangement, it wouldn’t be the Aundairians that killed him.
“You assume right,” she told him. “And we are going to break camp and head northeast to Riverweep. And your people are not coming with us.”
“Our two nations have –”
“Nothing to do with this place here,” she informed him. “I’d order a full-bore attack on your blue uniforms, but we’ve lost enough in the past two days.”
“Not all of your people would join in your attack, and you’d lose your command,” he told her.
“That might be it, too,” she said. She turned and walked away from him. “Be careful in the forest,” she told him. “Be a shame if something happened to you.”
Carl watched her go, then headed into the forest.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Chapter 1 – Part 6
Pienna resisted an urge to call down fire and fry the filthy vardigg. Grues were horrible things at best, and were usually slain when sighted, but this one hailed from the Demon Wastes. She had negotiated with it for information, many years before, and now she did again.
“Ohh but the Mistress can be more generousssss,” it bubbled at her in the language of water elementals. Its eyes shifted around in its muck. “This poor vardigg, so poor, so sssad.”
“I would think that you would enjoy your freedom, having escaped from the Wastes,” Pienna said, knowing not to give in too quickly. The grue hated the Wastes, and escaped when it could, traveling along underground streams into the Eldeen Reaches, but something always called it back. It hated the Wastes, but was addicted to them somehow. “I would think that your euphoria would keep you from demanding too much.”
“I know about the half-breedsssssss,” the vardigg said. “Both part of your race, one born from the swamp-strong, the other touched by the Buried Masters.”
Pienna deliberately pointed her staff at the creature and made the end of the wooden tip glow. “Are you a water elemental twisted by the daelkyr, then?” she asked. She already knew the answer, having cast a spell that detected aberrations many years previously. The grues were twisted by the Lords of Dust, not the daelkyr, but the vardigg didn’t know that she knew that.
“Vardigg is not flesh-twisted!” it insisted. “Not! Vardigg merely hears how others under the ground speak.”
“You saw a half-orc and a half-daelkyr?” she demanded.
“Heard of them,” the vardigg said, submitting. “They came to the place that the fiends allow with a thing of walking stone and wood. They killed a feared thing there, another half-breed touched by the daelkyr. They treated with a bugbear, and left with another bugbear.” The vardigg twitched as it spoke quickly.
So they passed Festering Holt, Pienna thought to herself. An ashbound had come to her, after she had left Merylsward, telling her that he had carried Orphan, Delagado, and Thomas across the mountains into the Demon Wastes, and that he had been ordered to tell only her what he had done. Understanding Oalian’s desire for secrecy she had only told Chubat.
Who was now dead of course.
The vardigg appeared not to know what to make of her fresh tears. It tipped its ‘head’ about, wondering what to say. Objecting to this sudden motion, Missy hissed at it, and the thing pulled back a bit from the great panther’s fangs.
“What more do you know?” she asked.
“What will the mistress give?” the vardigg asked, weaving about.
Sudden rage surged through Pienna. She had been dancing in conversation with this damned thing for almost an hour, and she was tired of its greed. The power of nature rose within her, and a flame appeared in her hand as she spoke sounds of power that were almost words. She threw the flame point blank at the vardigg, and it keened loudly in pain.
The vardigg did not seek a fight with the powerful druidess, instead darting quickly beneath the surface of the small pond that it had risen from. An underground stream passed by it, and in less than a minute the vardigg was away and gone.
“Brilliant, Pienna, that accomplished a lot,” she scolded herself aloud. The grue left a foul smell behind it, and she wrinkled her nose. Not only was the smell offensive, it reminded her of the price of her impatience. She had lost her temper, and now her only source of information on the Demon Wastes had left her with only a baleful vileness.
Again she called on nature’s power, summoning winds to whirl and move about, to remove the smell.
In the process, the wind shifted a bit, and Missy bolted upright, staring at an oak tree some forty feet or so behind her. Pienna whirled, gripping her staff.
A short creature, a goblinoid, gradually came around the trunk of the tree, holding its empty hands above its head in plain view. A sheepish grin on its face, it wore leather armor, plain woods-colored clothing, and carried a shortbow and a quiver of arrows on its back.
“Brezzy,” she said, recognizing the goblin. A quiet walker and an expert archer, he had taken out an important cavalry officer in the battle the day before. Hailing from Droaam originally, the little man had made his way north and east through the Eldeen Reaches, fighting Aundairians. “Why were you spying on me?”
“Brezzy just looking,” the goblin said with a foolish grin. “Brezzy go looking for Pienna, see slime-thing, got scared. Waited.”
For a moment she believed him. Then she thought. “Brezzy, the camp you came from is to the east, but you came from the north.”
“Brezzy follow game trail first,” the goblin said. He eyed Missy with elaborate caution. “Brezzy put his hands down now?”
Pienna sighed and nodded. She made the ‘stand down’ noise to her panther as the goblin relaxed and lowered his hands. “I have many enemies, Brezzy, it is both rude and dangerous to sneak up on me.”
“Pienna not protect Brezzy from ugly water-thing?” the goblin asked, making big eyes at her.
“Before the ugly water-thing I had a conference with another druid who was greatly angry,” Pienna informed the goblin. “Had you snuck up then, he may have reacted violently.” The goblin seemed relieved to hear it had missed a bad fate, but Pienna thought she detected something resembling frustration in his demeanor. It made no sense, and after a moment’s consideration she decided that she had been mistaken.
“Brezzy and Pienna walk back to camp now?” the goblin asked.
“Yes,” Pienna said. She began walking east, and Missy followed her. Brezzy trotted rapidly after the two of them.
“Brezzy sorry about Chubat,” the goblin said after a moment. “Brezzy felt sad listening to Pienna speak.”
“Thank you,” she said. “But I have spent enough tears. I wish to speak no more of it now.”
They walked back in silence. Not until they were within sight of the tents did Brezzy say anything, and then only a quick goodbye as he disappeared from sight into some bushes.
“Ohh but the Mistress can be more generousssss,” it bubbled at her in the language of water elementals. Its eyes shifted around in its muck. “This poor vardigg, so poor, so sssad.”
“I would think that you would enjoy your freedom, having escaped from the Wastes,” Pienna said, knowing not to give in too quickly. The grue hated the Wastes, and escaped when it could, traveling along underground streams into the Eldeen Reaches, but something always called it back. It hated the Wastes, but was addicted to them somehow. “I would think that your euphoria would keep you from demanding too much.”
“I know about the half-breedsssssss,” the vardigg said. “Both part of your race, one born from the swamp-strong, the other touched by the Buried Masters.”
Pienna deliberately pointed her staff at the creature and made the end of the wooden tip glow. “Are you a water elemental twisted by the daelkyr, then?” she asked. She already knew the answer, having cast a spell that detected aberrations many years previously. The grues were twisted by the Lords of Dust, not the daelkyr, but the vardigg didn’t know that she knew that.
“Vardigg is not flesh-twisted!” it insisted. “Not! Vardigg merely hears how others under the ground speak.”
“You saw a half-orc and a half-daelkyr?” she demanded.
“Heard of them,” the vardigg said, submitting. “They came to the place that the fiends allow with a thing of walking stone and wood. They killed a feared thing there, another half-breed touched by the daelkyr. They treated with a bugbear, and left with another bugbear.” The vardigg twitched as it spoke quickly.
So they passed Festering Holt, Pienna thought to herself. An ashbound had come to her, after she had left Merylsward, telling her that he had carried Orphan, Delagado, and Thomas across the mountains into the Demon Wastes, and that he had been ordered to tell only her what he had done. Understanding Oalian’s desire for secrecy she had only told Chubat.
Who was now dead of course.
The vardigg appeared not to know what to make of her fresh tears. It tipped its ‘head’ about, wondering what to say. Objecting to this sudden motion, Missy hissed at it, and the thing pulled back a bit from the great panther’s fangs.
“What more do you know?” she asked.
“What will the mistress give?” the vardigg asked, weaving about.
Sudden rage surged through Pienna. She had been dancing in conversation with this damned thing for almost an hour, and she was tired of its greed. The power of nature rose within her, and a flame appeared in her hand as she spoke sounds of power that were almost words. She threw the flame point blank at the vardigg, and it keened loudly in pain.
The vardigg did not seek a fight with the powerful druidess, instead darting quickly beneath the surface of the small pond that it had risen from. An underground stream passed by it, and in less than a minute the vardigg was away and gone.
“Brilliant, Pienna, that accomplished a lot,” she scolded herself aloud. The grue left a foul smell behind it, and she wrinkled her nose. Not only was the smell offensive, it reminded her of the price of her impatience. She had lost her temper, and now her only source of information on the Demon Wastes had left her with only a baleful vileness.
Again she called on nature’s power, summoning winds to whirl and move about, to remove the smell.
In the process, the wind shifted a bit, and Missy bolted upright, staring at an oak tree some forty feet or so behind her. Pienna whirled, gripping her staff.
A short creature, a goblinoid, gradually came around the trunk of the tree, holding its empty hands above its head in plain view. A sheepish grin on its face, it wore leather armor, plain woods-colored clothing, and carried a shortbow and a quiver of arrows on its back.
“Brezzy,” she said, recognizing the goblin. A quiet walker and an expert archer, he had taken out an important cavalry officer in the battle the day before. Hailing from Droaam originally, the little man had made his way north and east through the Eldeen Reaches, fighting Aundairians. “Why were you spying on me?”
“Brezzy just looking,” the goblin said with a foolish grin. “Brezzy go looking for Pienna, see slime-thing, got scared. Waited.”
For a moment she believed him. Then she thought. “Brezzy, the camp you came from is to the east, but you came from the north.”
“Brezzy follow game trail first,” the goblin said. He eyed Missy with elaborate caution. “Brezzy put his hands down now?”
Pienna sighed and nodded. She made the ‘stand down’ noise to her panther as the goblin relaxed and lowered his hands. “I have many enemies, Brezzy, it is both rude and dangerous to sneak up on me.”
“Pienna not protect Brezzy from ugly water-thing?” the goblin asked, making big eyes at her.
“Before the ugly water-thing I had a conference with another druid who was greatly angry,” Pienna informed the goblin. “Had you snuck up then, he may have reacted violently.” The goblin seemed relieved to hear it had missed a bad fate, but Pienna thought she detected something resembling frustration in his demeanor. It made no sense, and after a moment’s consideration she decided that she had been mistaken.
“Brezzy and Pienna walk back to camp now?” the goblin asked.
“Yes,” Pienna said. She began walking east, and Missy followed her. Brezzy trotted rapidly after the two of them.
“Brezzy sorry about Chubat,” the goblin said after a moment. “Brezzy felt sad listening to Pienna speak.”
“Thank you,” she said. “But I have spent enough tears. I wish to speak no more of it now.”
They walked back in silence. Not until they were within sight of the tents did Brezzy say anything, and then only a quick goodbye as he disappeared from sight into some bushes.
Chapter 1 – Part 5
Bresbin Delavane wiped the knife carefully on leaf as he slid down the branch from the squirrel’s nest. His feet made not a sound. He had chosen the spot because he thought if any of the druids that may be in the area would notice sound or movement they would think it to be the squirrels. Until that damned big bug had come creeping along he had thought the spot was perfect. Now the soft, slight, almost non-sound of the spider’s dead body hitting the grass below was thunder to his ears.
Bresbin Delavane was usually not seen or heard until he fired his shortbow from whatever hiding spot he was in. An Aundairian cavalry leader had discovered this when Bresbin had put an arrow neatly through the slits in his visor, killing the hardened battle leader as quickly and neatly as the goblin had killed the spider the following day.
The goblin moved carefully and softly, knowing that he had to approach upwind so that the great panther would not notice him, and more silently than ever given how good the wood sense of the druidess Pienna was said to be.
It took him almost a half-hour before he traveled the short distance to the thick oak that hid his small frame. On the other side, perhaps forty feet away, Pienna had most of her back to him, and was speaking with a strange creature.
After checking to make sure the great panther had its focus away from the oak, Bresbin inched his small head around the edge of the oak, peering intently.
It was a foul-looking thing, Bresbin could see that even from this distance. It was almost twice his size, and it resembled a loose, frigid mass of tainted water held in some membrane of slime and moisture. Streams and pseudopods of liquid flailed away from its shapeless body. Shapeless, but not unmarked. Dark malignant eyespots drifted loosely on its surface, eyeing either the human woman or the panther.
Bresbin focused, trying to listen. Two druidess and the thing were speaking in a language that he didn’t understand, but he was willing to bet was Aquan. The goblin suppressed an urge to frown, not wanting even the tiniest movement to catch one of the thing’s many eyes.
Bresbin didn’t really understand the purpose of his orders, but they were clear. Find out as much as he could about the druidess Pienna’s action at all costs.
Even if it meant fighting alongside Eldeen troops against the Aundairians.
Bresbin Delavane was usually not seen or heard until he fired his shortbow from whatever hiding spot he was in. An Aundairian cavalry leader had discovered this when Bresbin had put an arrow neatly through the slits in his visor, killing the hardened battle leader as quickly and neatly as the goblin had killed the spider the following day.
The goblin moved carefully and softly, knowing that he had to approach upwind so that the great panther would not notice him, and more silently than ever given how good the wood sense of the druidess Pienna was said to be.
It took him almost a half-hour before he traveled the short distance to the thick oak that hid his small frame. On the other side, perhaps forty feet away, Pienna had most of her back to him, and was speaking with a strange creature.
After checking to make sure the great panther had its focus away from the oak, Bresbin inched his small head around the edge of the oak, peering intently.
It was a foul-looking thing, Bresbin could see that even from this distance. It was almost twice his size, and it resembled a loose, frigid mass of tainted water held in some membrane of slime and moisture. Streams and pseudopods of liquid flailed away from its shapeless body. Shapeless, but not unmarked. Dark malignant eyespots drifted loosely on its surface, eyeing either the human woman or the panther.
Bresbin focused, trying to listen. Two druidess and the thing were speaking in a language that he didn’t understand, but he was willing to bet was Aquan. The goblin suppressed an urge to frown, not wanting even the tiniest movement to catch one of the thing’s many eyes.
Bresbin didn’t really understand the purpose of his orders, but they were clear. Find out as much as he could about the druidess Pienna’s action at all costs.
Even if it meant fighting alongside Eldeen troops against the Aundairians.
Chapter 1 – Part 4
The spider moved quietly along the tree branch, it’s inch-long mandibles quivering silently as it crept up on its prey. As wide across as a serving plate, its long legs moved quickly and efficiently towards the smell that made the long hairs around its nose slits twitch. Baby squirrels, high in their nest, made tiny sucking sounds as they nursed from their mother.
A drop of poison glistened on the spider’s mandibles. Not only was it far larger and far more intelligent than any of its kind found in this part of the Eldeen Reaches, it was far more venomous. Not two days ago it had been a companion to a young druid that sought to bring early winter to the Aundarian forces.
That young druid had been splintered into smoking scraps of flesh by a lightning bolt. The spider had fed off of its former master once it emerged from hiding.
But it enjoyed live flesh more. It enjoyed the fear and cries of smaller animals writhing beneath it. The spider was not normal it many ways. Ever since it had fled into a sacred site for the Children of Winter after it hatched, it liked to feed even when it was not hungry.
The squirrels nest shook as the mother sensed something coming near. The spider hurried, closing the gap quickly.
When it was barely inches away from the nest, its many eyes saw a goblin appear from behind the leaves. The spider did not have enough time to register shock at the sudden appearance of the goblin before the leather-clad humanoid that had been hiding in the trees shoved a knife through it.
A drop of poison glistened on the spider’s mandibles. Not only was it far larger and far more intelligent than any of its kind found in this part of the Eldeen Reaches, it was far more venomous. Not two days ago it had been a companion to a young druid that sought to bring early winter to the Aundarian forces.
That young druid had been splintered into smoking scraps of flesh by a lightning bolt. The spider had fed off of its former master once it emerged from hiding.
But it enjoyed live flesh more. It enjoyed the fear and cries of smaller animals writhing beneath it. The spider was not normal it many ways. Ever since it had fled into a sacred site for the Children of Winter after it hatched, it liked to feed even when it was not hungry.
The squirrels nest shook as the mother sensed something coming near. The spider hurried, closing the gap quickly.
When it was barely inches away from the nest, its many eyes saw a goblin appear from behind the leaves. The spider did not have enough time to register shock at the sudden appearance of the goblin before the leather-clad humanoid that had been hiding in the trees shoved a knife through it.
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