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Ive been working on a new novel, which is a companion piece to the campaign. Not required reading but it may give some insight into the world.
The Operative
Miarorra wandered the keep’s hallways regularly. Stone on stone on cold stone, one hall much the same as the next, always cool on her bare feet. The halls were hers; none of the back servant corridors for her, always visible and always within reach. It’s what made her good at what she did, always speaking kindly, always being a helping hand. It was a ruse for access she told herself, refusing to admit that much of the training had crept into her personality and taken up residence.
She rarely slept and lying in bed only frustrated her without the company of a lover. Lovers were easy for her to attract were she in the mood, but the previous few days had been stressful, and she craved the solitude of the barely lit hallways. An assassin two day’s prior was challenge enough, but the previous evening the return message she received chilled her to the heart. “Damn you, Flindel, you fucking gnome twat!” She fumed at the thought of what was surely to come, and no doubt drag her willing or not into it. She wasn’t part of the gnome’s last foray but that he sent the message as he did made her certain she wouldn’t have a choice in what was to come. Even before the marquis died, rumors of the dead haunting, or clawing their ways from the grave had reached the castle. One such report is a rumor or the drunken stories too common in the taverns; three and four such stories began to lend themselves to something darker.
She looked at dawn’s first light coming through the open window at the end of the hall. It was time to wake Baron Orto and get on with it. He had been melancholy since his son died as one would expect except the young man had always been sickly since early childhood so making it to his nineteenth birthday was more than most expected. Yet losing a child, circumstances be damned, had to be hard. Miarorra wouldn’t know. She’d lost people along the journey to who she was now, but always kept them at arm’s length anyway, never in her soul. And certainly never possessed of a maternal bone in her body, children weren’t ever a thought.
A guard at the side corridor she entered nodded as she passed and she gave a polite smile. She was not a fan of the fae and the man — whatever his name was — had clear signs in his face of elven blood. Being human, she felt she was always plying her trade in a field where the fae seemed to have the advantage. The short hallway ended at a wide door, gilded in copper and bronze; nice but not ostentatious, she thought to herself. It was a passing thought, perhaps to distract her from what lay beyond the door. She pushed the door open and entered. The smell was the first thing that caught her attention though the source, the young marquis’ body, was equally disturbing. A guard and a young acolyte sat idly, their conversation breaking off as she entered. The odor seemed to no longer bother them.
“M’lady,” Kardeth, the guard greeted her.
“How’s the preservation going?” she asked, grimacing at the signs of decay as the fingers and facial features withered and shrank away.
“I’m casting preservation each hour,” the acolyte said defensively.
“I’m sure you are. It’s not enough if we’re to wait another three days for those arriving.”
“Of course, m’lady. His Grace Kenderson will be by this afternoon. He can do some restorative spells to extend the time we have.”
Miarorra nodded. “Find me once he’s come and gone. I will see the results for myself.”
“I can have him meet you…”
“Just find me when he’s gone.”Unpleasant though that was, what came next, as it had the past five days, was worse. She made her way to the east of the keep, guttering torches lighting the bleak hallways lacking windows, which were many. The door was closed as expected. She knocked, loud enough to be heard but respectful, she hoped, if there was such a thing as a respectful knock.
“Come,” Orto’s voice shouted from within.
The room was the royal bedchamber and with a noticeable wince, Miarorra entered; the smell here not much fairer than the room with the nearly week-old desiccated body.
“Much to do, Orto,” she said, pulling the covers back. His naked body, once muscled as a warrior, had faded to that of a septuagenarian clinging to past vigor. “Get up and get a robe on.”
“I’m not feeling up to a schedule today,” he said, pulling a pillow on top of him.
“I’m not feeling like dragging your naked ass to the audience chamber and you need to be there today. It’s been a week.”
“I’m sure Dorlan can see to the meting out of petty theft punishments and matters of sheep and cows.”
“As he has. The land disputes have been set aside for your grand wisdom.”
“Don’t mock me.”
“If I were to mock you, I would have started when I pulled the covers off. Get up.”A breakfast of biscuits and fruit and spiced nectar got Orto to gain the motivation to wash, dress, and
make his way to the throne room. It was neither much of a throne nor an audience; Orto was never
comfortable with the pomp around royalty. Despite being a baron, given such title for his valor so many
years ago, he chafed around titles. Miarorra always saw strength in his decisions and saw a genuine
concern for the people in his charge.
The goodlady Harihesta, m’lord,” Dorlan, the steward announced.
Harihesta approached, stopping ten feet from Orto. “M’lord Baron. I’m afeared of the yard beyond the temple abutting my farm. The ground moves as if the dead are restless. I fear they are coming from their graves.”
“I will send some guards to look,” he assured the woman. “I don’t think the dead are rising.”
The woman went off though her face seems distracted by the shortness of the decision.
“The goodman Tellis, m’lord.”
A tall man with a build created by years of labor and a face worn by the sun and wind presented himself. An empty belt loop where a sword or axe found rest was empty for the audience. “Lord baron, I am not a man given to fear. I’ve lived my years as both a soldier in my youth and a forester for a score more. I’ve seen things both natural and untoward, and faced them all as a man must do. Yet this was something beyond my mettle.” The man hesitated for a moment. “My daughter died of a fever, m’lord. It came upon her and within a half-score of days, we set her to the ground. M’lord,” the man’s voice broke. “She was standing on my porch last night. Mottled from the grave, soil on her hands from crawling from the grave. M’lord… she begged me to help her. She said the gate was closed, though I know not what she meant.”
A cold chill ran down Miarorra’s spine and she could tell Orto was experiencing the same feeling.
“Goodman,” Orto said, “Where is your daughter now?”
“M’lord, after asking, she fell dead again.” Tellis broke into tears. “I had to bury my daughter a second time!”Orto sent the rest of the petitioners away for the day. “I’m retreating to my quarters.” He looked to Miarorra. Find Ja’akin and meet me there.”
The Mechanizer
Flindel sniffled at the stench wafting from the docks as the fishing vessels unloaded their day’s catch. As a proper gnome, his interest in bodies of water greater than a still lake disquieted him. Worse, the putrid smell of fishermen and their rotting fish assaulted every breath, causing him to use more will than he desired to keep his afternoon repast below his wide black belt. The mold-crusted streets and weather-worn buildings could have been transported from a dozen other ports Flindel had the displeasure of knowing. The Salty Sea Star was supposed to be an inn of repute though the faded sign was only the first hint that reputation may have been buttressed either by drink or desperation. The porch housing a trio of passed-out drunkards did nothing to calm his suspicion that the inn reflected the questionable neighborhood. “Only half day the day gone yet already toes-up,” he muttered. Upon entering, Flindel noted that the porch was merely an overflow of the inn’s ne’er-do-wells and inebriates who could not remain upright. Boisterous conversations – mostly tales of the sea that never happened – issued from every table. Despite the mid-afternoon hour, there seemed no quarter given to the mission of becoming blind drunk. Sidestepping the many patrons, he moved to the bar lining the back wall. His power all but drained by the long jump to Dorytown, he opted to make the best of it rather than seeking better accommodations. Despite the wearying trip, there was simply no other way short of scant portals that one could use. “Fakking inbred gnomes,” he muttered under his breath, stepping past a dwarf vomiting into the floorboards as he reached the bar. “The name is Flindel,” the gnome said from beneath the front of the bar. “I sent a courier to secure a room last week.”
The innkeeper nodded and pulled forth a book of bound parchments. He sifted through them before stopping on one with Flinder etched in black ink. “Seems close enough,” he said indifferently, leaning over the bar to see the impeccably dressed gnome. From the tip of his conical hat, resplendent maroon jacket with obligatory gold buttons, Flindel was the epitome of what being a gnome was. His beard was trimmed to a very respectable point, as was proper, and his black boots held a shine despite the filth of the streets. “Two nights and board for three silvers,” The innkeeper said. “Need that in advance if you will.”
Flindel took off his hat and reached in deep to his shoulder, and pulled out a hefty bag of coins. He sifted out three silver coins and set them on the bar before retying the bag and tossing it into the hat, which made no outward appearance that anything had landed in it. “I’ll be taking my meals in my room.”
“As you wish,” the barkeep said indifferently.
“If a gentleman by the name of Xandrakus comes in, send him to my room. All others, turn away.” Flindel took the offered room key and made his way to the stairs, meandering around the indolent patrons. “Fakkin dullards and charlatans,” he muttered under his breath. “Why they insist on each vying for attention with no reason for an audience!” He stepped over a human obstacle and made his way up the too-tall stairs.
Reaching as high as his body would allow, he barely reached and turned the knob on the door. The stale air wafted over him, causing his eyes to burn. Beyond the opening salvo of things he found offensive, the drapes on the solitary window were the second indication there were likely more surprises in store; one half was a tattered rag and the other was entirely gone. The bed, likely the hardest-working piece of furniture in the inn, sagged heavily in the middle – it might work just the same as he could curl up in the mattress hole like a nest. The rest of the furniture seemed to have taken unceasing abuse since the business was founded a generation ago. “By my withered testicles this will not do,” he muttered. Tired though he was, a simple spell would make the stay bearable. He reached into his hat and retrieved an ornate metal box. Whispering a few words, his fingers played over the box. He set it on the floor and watched the box grow, flipping sides open and spreading to fill the room around him. The floor and walls shifted and the ceiling of the small room turned into a complex bas relief of mountains and gnomes, setting off a light glow that removed the dreariness. Within moments, the existing furniture became elegant, the bed a place for royalty, and the awful drapes suddenly shaped into ornate window coverings. The smell yet remained but nothing a stout pipe couldn’t set right he told himself.
“I never liked Dorytown,” he muttered under his breath. “Not the best place to pop out, Xan.”An hour later, a knock on the door startled Flindel. He’d fallen into a trance in an effort to regain some of his waning magics and the intrusion was most unwelcome. He climbed onto a stair, a necessity which had come from the metal box, and unbolted the door. “Come!” Flindel ordered.
A lad of tween years opened the door cautiously. He held an envelope in front of him. “Apologies, master gnome, but my master… er, my other master, forgot to give you this when you paid your way in.”
Flindel accepted the envelope, shooing the boy along. He recognized the seal on the envelope. Orto knew he was arriving, but anything sent such would be of immediate attention. It was not what he needed, Flindel told himself, after such a day. He opened the letter.Dearest Flindel,
It is with the heaviest of heart that I must tell you that the marquis Haladon has died. Orto could use your counsel.
Mia
“Frail and fleeting,” he muttered, rereading the note. Miarorra had access to all things and all people within Orto’s castle, so it was not surprising her name was on the missive under Orto’s seal. This would move the timetable up, assuming Xandrakus cooperated. Yet mages – and Flindel knew more than most – were an unreliable lot. Something always seemed to send them in one direction or another, one pressing matter followed by another even more serious matter. It seemed in their blood to find events of urgency, or that events found them. Either way, Xan had been missing for nearly seven months and not without something amiss in his travels. Despite the long delay, the portents indicated he would be in Dorytown within a fortnight.
“Let’s get on with it,” Flindel said aloud to himself. He’d gotten used to speaking his thoughts aloud as Clink didn’t hear the silent magespeak. Clink was no more yet habits died hard. Flindel reached into his hat and pulled out a circlet of silver, wide enough to slip onto his wrist but no more. He set it on edge in the center of the room and spun it. As it spun, the circlet widened, filling the room floor to ceiling within moments. “Bazrahael Jagarezthiad.”
The words sparked the circlet, which slowly opened into a portal. A miasma of violet with streaks of silver flecking its way through the mist filled the center. Flindel hated the initial smell of the aether that crept through, yet it beckoned him like a beacon to home. A moment later a man — if such it could be called — stepped through.
“Gnome Flindel,” the creature said, his accent rough yet understandable. He was an armored figure though where the skin ended and the armor began was difficult to ascertain; ruddy and course, bronze. Rough ridges on beaten metal of an undiscernible origin covered his body, foot to fingers, and a helm of burnished bronze sat above ears not unlike an elf’s. His face was a mix of human and elf, with maybe a touch of dragonkind, giving his features sharp edges, both exotically attractive and threatening. He held a sword, seeming of the same makeup as the armor though sharpened to a gleaming edge. “Jagarezthiad, Son of Irindathria, has answered your summons.”
“Jagarezthiad,” Flindel said by way of acknowledgement. “I am honored by your presence.”
“Is this to be a battle?” the warriors asked.
“Not today. My apologies.”
“If service is to be rendered, honor requires payment, nonetheless.”
“Of course. I would not besmirch your reputation by suggesting otherwise,” Flindel said with a bow. The Dindreohn were a proud race though once they accepted one’s friendship, always paid, they were infallible as allies. “Per previous arrangements, I wish to hire your services, of which no other is skilled or able. Do you accept this contract?”
“Before discussing terms, I am required to speak of contract limits.”
“There are terms to all Dindreohn contracts,” Jagarezthiad said, his voice a silky baritone.
“As I would expect.” Despite this being the ninth time Flindel would hire Jagarezthiad’s services, each time required the Dindreohn disclaimer of limits.
“I will not kill children. I will not kill a holy man of any religion. I will not kill a man unarmed through passive profession. I will not kill a man possessed. I will not kill a man whose coin has honed my skills through previous contracts. These are the untouchable tenets of Dindreohn honor and as such, are mine to uphold.”
“Your honor is commendable and all such requests will be within these boundaries.”
“As it must be. Gnome Flindel, what do you require?”
“I don’t need you to kill anyone as the primary request. I need you to contact someone. Not here, of course; a common courier could do that task. I need to get a message to a lord. He won’t wish to hear of it.”
“A kill or a message requires the same coin.”
“Of course.The Dindreohn warrior was gone, accepted contract and coin in hand. Flindel sat back on the bed, stretching his legs. “Xan, you bastard, you better arrive soon lest I should lose my mind in this fakkin’ fish market.”
Ooohhhh, fun stuff.
The dead are starting to crawl out of their graves, fellas.
Characters of note:
Flindel, a wealthy Gnome summoner with friends in high places. A mechanizer? Original creator?
Xandrakus – Sounds like a high-level wizard who can travel the planes. Associate of Flindel.
Dorytown: A place…checking the map….
Miarorra – A female of importance in the court of Baron Orto, also an acquaintance of Flindel.This is a companion piece, not necessarily cannon to the campaign. Consider this story as legend, myth, or simply, a story told around fire pits. However, it will give some insight to the world at large once it gets there.
The Death Warden
Fresin’s frock chafed her legs as she ran the length of the monastery, but pain was fine she reminded herself; it was just a reminder of the Lady’s graces. The rolled parchment in her hand seemed urgent as the courier nearly killed his horse in the effort to get to the monastery. Message in hand, she arrived before a pair of poor wooden doors, a lit brazier fuming on each side in the otherwise dark hallway. A single guard with limited armor, more ceremonial than battle-tested, stood between the braziers.
“What’s about, Fresin?” the guard asked.
“A message for his lordship, Lirrel,” she said, a hitch in her small voice.
“He said not to disturb him. You know how he is.”
“I know,” she demurred. “But it is urgent.”
“Unless the world has been consumed with darkness, he’s not to be disturbed.”
“It is from Lord Flindel. A decree stamp is upon it.”
Lirrel barely hesitated. “I pray death takes you gently into her arms,” he said as he opened the door. The windows in the bedchamber provided adequate light. Fresin had never been inside Warden Rhislock’s personal chamber. It was barely more extravagant than her own chamber, which housed two straw beds and a single table with a lone oil lamp on it. Rhislock had a desk and a few other amenities but not to the extent she assumed a man of his stature would warrant.
“I left orders not to be disturbed,” a rasp of a voice said through the window light and shadows.
“A message, your grace…”
“NOT… to be disturbed!” Rhislock shouted.
“From Lord Flindel, milord,” Fresin said meekly, hoping the name was enough to spare her Rhislock’s wrath.
Rhislock nodded with a resolved sigh, holding out his hand. “I knew the goddess was preparing.”
“May I be of further assistance?”
Rhislock gave her a stern look.
“May I be of further assistance, your grace?”
Rhislock nodded in approval. “Mayhaps.” She withered a bit inside. Yes, he was a Death Warden by title, but he lived the role in every aspect. Despite her being an acolyte in Her Lady’s service, Rhislock was of the warden caste, which assisted the dying in their passing. “Hold a moment.”
Rhislock broke the seal and spent a full minute reading the parchment. His face betrayed nothing, though that was not unusual; Fresin had been in his service for nearly two years and had never seen the man crack so much as a hair of a smile. “I’ll need to send a response. Are you versed as a scribe?”
“I have been trained as such, your grace.”
Rhislock pulled a dyed-black parchment from his desk. Fresin groaned inside; the man was so morbid even his parchments were of the same black that he wore from his cleric’s hood to his boots. “Red ink, your grace?”
“Lacking white, yes.”
Fresin sat at the desk as Rhislock paced about the small room, peering out the narrow windows as he passed them.
“Write this down; make sure to capitalize ‘her’,” he said. “Lord Flindel, as a devout servant of Her Lady, I am called where Her hand is most present. I shall seek Her wisdom and, should She grant me leave, I shall meet you forthwith in Everton Wells in three days’ time. Should I fail to present myself, know that I wish you well in what will be a severe challenge. May your death be a comfort.” He paused for a moment. “That will suffice. I’ll add my signature and seal.”
“ Of course, your grace.” She put a few finishing touches on the letters and blew gently on the ink to assist the drying. “Is there anything else, your grace?”
“As you leave, inform the guard I am not to be disturbed again. And see to it this letter is sent immediately to Flindel at Dorytown.”
“As you say, your grace.” She accepted the now rolled parchment from Rhislock and with proper deference, backed out of the chamber, glad to be out of his presence. Lirrel was waiting at the door as she left the room.
“You live,” he jested.
“I do indeed, Lirrel.”
“Are you free of duties this night?” he asked. “We could flatten the straw if you’re in need of some release.”
“I’m not up for anything tonight, Lirrel. I have to get this letter to the courier.”
“If you change your mind, I’m free of duty tonight.”
“Likely not, but I’ll let you know.” She wandered off, leaving the guard behind. He bedded her several times recently but catching his words to fellow guards just days ago ensured he would not be flattening her straw again. Her beauty was buried beneath an exterior devoid of the most desirous attributes that many women enjoyed. ‘Pear-shaped body with a face as plain as rainwater’ one of the guards jested to Lirrel. She had heard worse. But Lirrel did nothing to defend her in her absence, so absence was what he earned.
“May the lady take them all,” she said comfortingly to herself. The hallway leading to the rookery just outside the monastery walls in the garden felt like an escape portal. The garden was her solace against a life of death. The world hadn’t ever been pleasant to her. Growing up homely and finding no bloom of beauty in her adulthood, she consigned herself to religious service. The faithful accepted everyone and all brothers and sisters dwelled in harmony with each other. At least that was the lie the brothers told. At only twenty years and a few moons of age, Fresin knew she knew less than she knew. What she had figured out was, in truth, the brothers were all just a bunch of horny bastards and third sons recruiting “sisters” for their own pleasure. Beauty didn’t matter when the oil lamp or the candles burned low and as they worshiped death herself, they lived each day as their last. It made them insufferable. But she succumbed to their charms, rude as they were, because she had never been the object of anyone’s desire. She constantly berated herself for that and swore there wouldn’t be a next time. Yet she had made that same promise nearly a half-dozen times before, but each time couldn’t resist the momentary attentions in an otherwise lonely life.
“Fresin!” A voice from the rows of beans called out to her as she stepped into the garden. A man of once-robust stature stepped out, a lone figure among two dozen long rows of beans, corn, squash and thrice as many potatoes; potatoes being a staple of every spiceless meal coming from the monastery kitchen.
“Kabrin,” Fresin greeted the man. He was one of the few who had never made her an offer to flatten the straw – or the beans or corn for that matter. If she had one friend in the citadel, it was Kabrin. Even her roommate, Nancillia, was more a frenemy than a true confidant. “How grows the garden?”
“We’ll all eat for another season,” he said with a broad smile.
“I always thank the Lady for the life she extends to us.”
Kabrin let a pained smile cross his lips. “Warden Rhislock…” he paused, uncomfortable.
“Don’t worry about him. He’s not that bad.” A lie.
“He’s accused me of avoiding the Lady.”
Fresin froze. “That’s… why!?”
“I’m nearly sixty summers old. Sixty is the most any of us should avoid her embrace.”
“She’ll find you when she wishes,” Fresin said, attempting to comfort her friend though it was true; no servant of the Lady was to avoid her embrace past his or her sixtieth year. “What are you going to do?”
“There’s word of a war coming. I will likely put myself in the thick of it and conclude my life’s work.”
“I would miss our talks.”
“You will have them with others,” he said with a reassuring smile.
“Death is all about us,” she said sadly. Such a distraction to the duty at hand. She chastised herself briefly before happily changing the subject. “The Warden asked a bird to be sent. Master Flindel in Dorytown.”
“Of course he sent someone else, never dirtying the soles of his shoes on the soil that feeds him.”
“We need to be respectful.” Another lie.
“Give me the message,” he said, holding out his hand. “Lord Flindel? I’ve heard of him.”
“Aye. One of the gate closers.”Formatting note: Italics does not copy to this forum. All Azakai’s speech is supposed to be in italics.
The Mage
Seven months. That was too long to do anything. Teleporting sounded like a wonderful thing; one instant there, the next here. Magic of the highest order and something that only the most adept trifled with on the primary plane. But this time was different. Xandrakus was more than adept, yet he did not know why the spell failed. Nothing to do except concentrate and push forward toward the destination. It would have been easier to ride a horse—if such was possible from where he came from—and trade a sore ass for the headache that pounded relentlessly.
“Ambinoduraminalus Azakai,” he said, reaching his left hand to the sky.
“Where in the twenty-six planes and all the hells have you been?” a voice, no more than a rasping sound emulating speech, asked. Azakai was pissed to even attempt speech.
“Teleportation mishap,” Xandrakus said as a giant scarlet wasp alit from the dark sky and settled on his shoulder, its two-foot wings folded around its body.
“I thought you were a good sorcerer,” Azakai said in silent magespeak, heard only by those of ability.
“Even the best mages tend to have their challenges.”
“I’ve had to fend for myself for more than half a year!” the giant wasp said. “Our agreement is I serve you and you take amazing care of me.”
“We’re in town, Azakai. Another form, if you would.”
“I hate being a cat.”
“Then be a dog or a parrot. Just not a giant wasp that will call out the town guard in panic.”
“I’ll be a derivative black cat,” Azakai said.
“I hate cats,” Xandrakus said.
“That’s why I’m being a cat,” Azakai said, leaning into Xandrakus’ neck, purring.
“Knock it off.”
“I’m a Crimson Vestige wasp. I like being a wasp. So wasp or a fucking cat so we can be mutually annoyed. You pick.”
“You’re annoying. Dorytown isn’t as I remembered it,” Xandrakus said aloud.
“Was it a bigger shithole? Doesn’t look like there’s ever been much in the way of cleanup.”
“No, it’s always been a shithole, but I remember it being cleaner. Or maybe fourteen years cleaned up my memories some.”
The buildings harbored an unhealthy layer of mold and filth that oozed down the walls of timber and thatch in green and grey stains. Seagulls hovered or perched on each building, shitting on everything below; their squawks and calls seemed to laugh at those who traveled the dirt-poor streets, covered in the shit of horses, oxen, or other animals. It was almost dark, and the first lanterns glowed outside the closest tavern. Darkness offered nothing but gloom to the already dingy place.
When Xandrakus left, he carried a dagger; a small book of scrawled writings by one Aberton Dymindle, deceased; and a pouch of seventeen silvers tucked in his worn clothes. The dark blue robe he wore now was worth more than all that plus the value of the tavern he approached.
Ah, the tavern. Lilly’s Garden. Less than a tavern yet more than a whorehouse. He spent a youth of summers taking out chamber pots, pulling sticky sheets from straw beds, and helping the whores dye their hair red, hence the seventeen silvers.
None of that mattered much now. He was here for but a single nagging concern and to fulfill a promise. His mother—the gods cradle her soul in grace—asked him to promise not to take vengeance upon his uncle, now stepfather. She begged on her deathbed, and though Xandrakus had never denied her any request, that was one begging of his good temper too far. He stood outside The Lilly, and should his uncle—he refused to acknowledge the stepfather role—still live, someone inside would know where the man was.
Xandrakus parted the doors, pushing with more strength than he appeared to have, his physical effort augmented with subtle magic. The dimly lit interior housed a dozen tables populated by patrons and red-headed whores. The doors creaked loudly behind Xandrakus, yet no one turned beyond a casual glance at him, dressed in soft black leather armor and a deep blue cape. Such a presence was not out of the ordinary for this place. Fortune hunters and those seeking adventure frequented Dorytown as a layover point before heading farther south toward the haunted Grunfeld lands. Many sought out the whorehouse as it was a provincial legend that fucking a redhead before such a venture brought luck. Xandrakus crossed the room through the rich stench of stevedores and the putrid scent of ale, swilled, spilled, and pissed so many times into the floorboards that nothing short of an all-consuming fire would ever take it away. Patrons crowded the tables, most poor and angry at their hard lot, some few others hopeful and drinking to eventual success in the Grunfeld. A dozen tables with twice the stories. Such was every dockside tavern from Dorytown to Werental’s finest establishments: the ale and the stink were the same, but the prices always differed.
“I’m going to look for a rat,” Azakai said, jumping from Xandrakus’ shoulder. “Or maybe a cat to fuck.”
“Ale,” Xandrakus said as he reached the bar.
The barkeep complied, serving up a metal mug of warm froth that spilled down the sides and onto the ale-sodden planks serving as a bar.
“I’m looking for Darmic. Also known as Mic of the Dark.”
The barkeep rolled his eyes. “Aye,” he said. “Many are.”
Ale was three coppers. Xandrakus produced a couple silvers and slid them onto the bar.
“He’s in Shurel’s room. Second door on the right up the stairs. If you kill him, you have to take the body out,” the barkeep said. It seemed a house rule.
“I’m not killing anyone tonight,” Xandrakus said, downing the frothy mug before heading up the stairs. Azakai followed him, a rat hanging from his mouth.
The stairs led to a short open hallway above the tavern, with rooms marked by thin doors, barely masking the sounds of passion. Xandrakus walked to the second door. He expected his heart to be rapping inside his chest in anticipation, but now he just felt sad. The man deserved what was coming. He deserved everything for the death of his mother, Darmic’s fault or not, and the whoring out of his sister, again, Darmic’s fault or not. Poor people do desperate things, and evil people take advantage of their daily hunger. Without a knock, Xandrakus checked the door. It was locked. He moved his fingers, ending in a light snap, and the lock clicked. With a push, the door flung open and slammed against the wall. A heavy man stopped in mid-stroke atop a woman, a look of astonishment on his face as he turned his head toward the interruption.
“Wha the… busy here!” Darmic shouted.
“I assume he’s who you’re meeting?” Azakai said.
“Not now,” Xandrakus said.“Darmic, you have a debt that has come due.”
“Who in the fack-all of dragon piss are…” Darmic’s voice trailed off. A look of sudden recognition crossed Darmic’s face before breaking into a smile.
“Hello, uncle,” Xandrakus said. “Mother asked me to be kind. Being of my mother, I always sought to find a means to be kind when able. But also, being of my father’s line—also your line—have a streak of darkness that’s always hovering in the shadows of my mind. You didn’t deserve her, and you don’t deserve her kindness now.”
Darmic’s smile turned to puzzlement.
“You can’t come in here,” Shurel said by way of order, pointing to the door Xandrakus had come in through.
“Dear lady, there are some circumstances that dictate I can do whatever I please.” Xandrakus outstretched his arm, palm upward, and Darmic rose from the bed. The paunchy man flailed awkwardly with nothing to grab except Shurel. Shurel screamed as Darmic grappled with her to keep from floating off, but a quick motion of Xandrakus’ wrist sent Darmic free of the woman and hard into the opposing wall.
“Why are you doing this?!” Darmic screamed.
“The rats here are pretty tasty.”
Xandrakus ignored Azakai. “You whored out my mother and sister. You threw me out.”
“You misremember…” Darmic stammered.
Another motion and Darmic was again airborne, making desperate swimming motions to try and reach any purchase. Xandrakus smirked unkindly and sent Darmic into the hallway and over the banister. Again, Darmic grasped at the banister, but Xandrakus pulled him free with another gesture. Xandrakus followed behind as Darmic sailed out of the hallway and over the tavern below, his naked ass turned to the crowd. The entire crowd looked on in astonishment. Xandrakus moved his hand and Darmic rolled slowly in the air, over and over like a pig on a spit.
“Mother asked me not to kill you,” Xandrakus said. “But I will take everything from you as you did her.” With that, he cut the spell and Darmic dropped ten feet onto a large round table, his naked body hitting with a splashy thud. A moment of stunned silence suddenly broke as one of the table legs splintered from the weight, sending Darmic into the lap of a Heggan warrior. The giant Heggan immediately flew into a rage and tossed Darmic into a table of three dwarves. The dwarves took umbrage at both the Heggan and the naked man, who whimpered in pain as he tried to gain his feet. Fists met Darmic, and he slumped to the tavern floor, curling into a ball as the Heggan and dwarves went into a brawl on top of him. Shurel was now out of the room, holding Darmic’s clothes in front of her, too stunned to scream. Xandrakus flicked his index finger and the clothes burst into flames. She stood dumbfounded as the clothes showered into smoldering ash.
“That was a bit overkill.”
“He deserved it and more,” Xandrakus said in magespeak. “Does he still own the hovel on Anchor Tree Way?” Xandrakus asked Shurel.
Shurel nodded mutely.
Xandrakus descended the stairs and left the tavern unimpeded. Azakai followed him out, finishing off the rat while on the run.
Xandrakus felt neither pride nor shame; men created their own misfortunes and the consequences that accompanied them. Anchor Tree Way was a block away from the docks. Each building stood so close to the next that even a cat could not squirm between them. Xandrakus punched open the door to the third house with a simple spell. It was dark and empty inside except for the furnishings of a man of little means. To set it aflame would harm the neighbors, and he had no desire to do that. Instead, he sent a black slime from his fingers that crept through the doorway and crawled up the walls in the dark. It covered the floor and the furniture and stretched across the ceiling. After a minute, Xandrakus slowly closed his open fingers into a fist, and the slime contracted. Xandrakus stepped outside the house and continued closing his fingers to the sounds of strained wood creaking under the tightening grip. As the slime contracted, so too did the house; furniture burst to shards, walls buckled, and the roof timbers and driftwood siding cracked and broke, crushing everything inside. Xandrakus’ fingers closed to a white-knuckled fist, his rage at the years of injustice finding relief as the death throes of the house screamed in creaking agony before the entire structure collapsed inward on itself. A light rain started falling; a perfect encore were he responsible for it, but weather was not his forte.
“You killed a house,” Azakai noted.
“It does appear so. Enjoy the rain, Darmic. Now to find a horse.”
“Flindel’s here. In Dorytown. I can feel him.”T’ayend’anna smiled at the man sitting across from her. He butchered her name three times, after which he settled on “Lady Delight” as even the shortened “Tay” wasn’t pleasing to him. That was best as he wouldn’t remember her, though she cared little if he did. The poor bastard’s cheeks grew redder with each passing moment as he was losing the battle with the wine, making this too easy for her.
“Gullibility has a price,” she thought. Twice her age and half her looks. She could sense beast-blood, which no fae—or half-fae in her case—would ever trust. But she wasn’t interested in the man; his known wealth was the focus of the evening. She put on a perfect smile that invited both trust and curiosity, leaning her lithe figure seductively toward him.
The inn in which they sat and the table with fine linens spoke volumes about the man’s wealth and prestige in the community. Only six tables in the room and theirs was the most secluded. If he was gullible enough to believe that a woman half his age and thrice his looks wasn’t after his silver, then it wasn’t for her to school him. Better still, it was almost a shame not to take advantage of such a trusting soul.
“So, m’lady,” Lord Umberton III cooed, “upon completion of this fine meal, wouldst thou grant me the most divine privilege of showing you about the grounds? They’re lit well in preparation for the upcoming festival, but I know a few less-illuminated spots.”
“Oh, what a treat! Of course, sir,” she said demurely, batting her brown eyes rimmed with a touch of gold at the man. “You are such a gentleman.” Her dress pinched her waist and pushed her dagger into her hip. If payment were to be made by the hour of discomfort in such an outlandish costume, then it should be in gold and no less. She reached her white-gloved hand across the table to take his hand, only to pull it back, slipping the soup spoon into her lap where her other hand nestled it among the folds of the dress.
“So much unpleasantness,” Umberton said. “I hear tales of woe from those who have seen terrible things; tales of the dead. I don’t mean to frighten you, my dear. I’m more than able to protect you if such unsightly things should appear.”
“I’m sure your sword is both sharp and able,” she said convincingly.
“I was a military man in my younger years. I served in Lord Catridge’s supply lines during the Rhodick war. Terrible time.”
“I’m sure you saw your share of difficulties.” She scoffed internally; she’d stake her meager fortune that this man hadn’t seen a copper piece’s worth of what she had seen.
A boorish hour of conversation later, Umberton took T’ayend’anna, now known as Lady Delight, on a tour of the inn’s expansive grounds. She let him lead; he would do what all men of his stature would do. Like a scripted play, Umberton led her to a quiet “less-illuminated” place between hedgerows, sculpted into waves to look like a green sea. He took a handkerchief from his pocket, his fatty cheeks aglow in anticipation, and gently laid the cloth on the manicured lawn in a spot between the waves. Taking her hand, he sat her down on the handkerchief before sitting on the ground beside her with noticeable effort. Then he moved on to Act Two of the script, kissing her neck as he ran his hand inside her blouse. “Good luck finding anything there,” Tay thought as his hands found pert nipples on an otherwise unimpressive chest. It had gone far enough; whoring was not her trade and never would be. “Not here. We should go to your home,” she whispered.
Lord Umberton grinned foolishly and with all due speed rushed her to his home with an impressive courtyard but a few hundred steps from the inn.
“A moment,” the corpulent lord said. “I’ve quite enjoyed this evening, but I’d like my mind clear for the dessert course.” He opened the door and a manservant stood immediately inside.
“Good evening, M’lord,” the man said evenly.
“Fetch me my special elixir, Dodrian. I need to regain my senses.”
Dodrian looked at T’ayend’anna, his gaze disapproving.
“As you wish, M’lord.”
It was only a moment before the man returned with a glowing tincture.
“Let me help you with that, M’lord,” T’ayend’anna said, intercepting the vial from Dodrian.
“Much obliged,” Umberton slurred.
She closed her eyes briefly and pulled the stopper. A moment, nothing more, and she could feel the magic of the potion flowing into her. It was nothing outwardly obvious, just a slight dulling of the liquid but to a point of inertness.
Umberton quaffed without hesitation. “My mind will return to its fullest brilliance in a moment,” he said.
He led her into the bedchamber. She needed a moment of focus. “May I wash up, M’lord?”
“Of course, my dear, he said, closing the door behind them. Wash basin is on the nightstand. I’ll lend assistance if you need.”
She closed her eyes and concentrated; this was more than ‘drinking’ the magic from a potion. “Look at this,” she said, eyes still closed.
She listened to him approach; his shuffling steps, the folds of his cape brushing the bed, his expectant breaths. She turned her face to meet him and opened her eyes, catching his drunken gaze. He stopped short as if she physically held him at bay. His expression went blank. “You look tired, M’lord. You should sleep.”
Lord Umberton III nodded wordlessly and made his way to the bedside, falling onto the covers before passing out.
“Now where do you keep your gold?”
She didn’t kill the repugnant bastard. That was worth at least ten gold. He felt her nipples. That was another five gold—or maybe it was ten for the nipples and five for his life. Didn’t matter. Gold was gold. Granted, those were unreasonable prices, but they were hers to impose. She listened to his pointless stories for more than an hour. That was worth another ten thousand gold. And he was none the wiser, asleep in his drink-induced delirium, remembering none of it. She shifted the sack of coins from one hand to another, assessing the weight. At least twenty. The winter would be good. A few nights at an inn and days enjoying the last of autumn’s sun before winter took command would do her well.Flindel heard a polite knock on the door. He used his conjured stair to reach the handle and open the door. Xandrakus was standing in front of him.
“Flindel,” Xandrakus said by way of greeting. “I don’t suppose my arrival and yours in the same shithole is a coincidence?”
“We both abhor the concept of coincidence,” Flindel said, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, old friend, I bear ill tidings.”
“It seems to be a theme of our meetings in recent years.”
“Hello Azakai,” Flindel said, closing the heavy door.
“Flindel,” the cat answered.
“Haladar has passed,” Flindel said.
Xandrakus nodded, unsurprised. “When?”
“This past week. I guess we should thank the gods he reached adulthood.”
“How’s Orto?”
“Aggrieved, I assume. I sent a response that we’ll both be there but haven’t had contact since then. I was waiting to give you the news in person before heading there. The funeral is in two days. Orto is holding the service before the festival begins.”
“I’ll make the ride. I’ve been pushing through planar muck for months so the ride will do me good.”
“You’ll forgive me if I don’t accompany you. I have to stop by the Loft. I’ll meet you in Everton Wells.” Flindel paused for a moment. “There’s worse ill tidings, I’m afraid.”
Xandrakus looked sternly at the gnome. “What’s worse than the death of a close friend’s child?”
“The Gate.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Azakai said.
“Tartarius and I were looking into… anomalies before I headed here,” Xandrakus said.
“Did you find anything?”
“Empirical? No. But Tari was going to do some further exploration. It’s difficult to get to the Gate, as you’re too well aware, without being dead. Word is there have been factions that wished the Gate to malfunction again. Either way, it’s failing again for whatever reason.
“I knew it was failing,” Flindel said. “Once you see the Gate, you tend to have a magical connection of sorts.”
“Agreed. Tari was looking into the potential failure. I was going to head here, finish some old business, and then seek out Sidrigan to see what help he could be.”
“Odd, that,” Flindel said. “Sidrigan left Everton Wells a few moons ago. Something urgent like everything you sorcerers do.”
“Sid’s more of a book wizard,” Xandrakus said. “But he knows books, mundane and not, and owns more than most.”
“I find it odd that your delay wasn’t a coincidence,” Flindel mused. “With Sidrigan’s leaving before you arrived, might a delay have been… planned convenience?”
“I wouldn’t rule out anything. Too many moving parts. Any chance he’ll be back for the funeral?”
“Even if we weren’t expected, that alone would be reason to attend. In the meantime, I sent Jagarezthiad to deliver a message, hoping to get a bearing on your whereabouts should you have failed to appear. I also took the liberty of contacting the others. They were with us once; they’ll already be up to date on the… environment.”
“Have any of them responded?”
“I didn’t tell them why I needed them, only that I needed them. I fear they would all find a forest or cave or tavern to hide in if they knew the scope of this. I asked them to meet for Haladar’s funeral in Everton Wells.”
“I’ll leave in the morning as soon as I buy a horse.”
“I’ll meet you there for the funeral.”His work done in Dorytown, Xandrakus traveled to Everton Wells the next day, nearing the town as the sun was setting. His ass was sore, but at least his headache was gone. He didn’t sleep well the night before; too much to ponder, so he looked forward to a bath, even if he had to conjure clean water himself. A pint of ale by a firepit would get things back on an even keel for whatever was to come.
He prodded the horse forward. Inclement weather was at his heels, but the cheaply bought nag lagged as she sauntered toward the setting sun. Xandrakus was far from old but the years on the roads and in various wars or adventures took their toll. He scratched absently at his stubble, thinking he’d have to shave at his destination; the gray hair hadn’t reached his head, but his beard was fraught with frost.
“Why are you a cat again, Azakai?” Xandrakus said to the feline rubbing into his neck.
“Because it bothers you. I know deep down you’re a cat person.”
“I’m not a cat person. I’m not a you person either when you’re doing this.”
“We’ll be in town soon. Will you like me as a cat then?”
“No, but I won’t like you less.”
“You love me.”
“You’re a giant wasp,” Xandrakus said dismissively.
“I’m a giant useful wasp!”
“I think I can see the tops of the trees ahead. Wanna jump up and do a quick scout ahead?”
“No, but I will.” Azakai jumped onto the horse’s haunches and leapt into the air, transforming as he did. His paper-thin wings spread out to a full four-foot span, and his cat tail became a wicked stinger the length of a dagger. “If anyone shoots arrows at me, I expect a full fragmentation of the forest via fireballs,” he said as he alit.
“Don’t be seen. Problem solved. And stay quiet. We don’t need to announce our arrival to anyone we’d rather avoid for a funeral.”
“Could you state that more awkwardly? Did you know you’re terribly bossy when your ass is hurting?”
“You get to stretch your wings, so don’t lecture me about being surly.”
Xandrakus watched his companion disappear, soaring above the pathway. He would enter a short span of forest over the next rise and Everton Wells was just past the clearing. Orto requested he visit a year ago, but the teleportation mishap delayed him longer than anticipated. Despite his fondness for Orto, he hoped to get in and out of the small town for the funeral before the triennial harvest celebration began; too many people and none of them worthy of a conversation once the drinking started. The final days of growing season were done, and the farmers celebrated the promise of a bountiful yield before plunging into the backbreaking toil of harvest. That they didn’t celebrate every year was a testament to at least some common sense.
“Trouble ahead,” Azakai broke into Xandrakus’ thoughts.
Xandrakus stiffened his back in the saddle for a better look ahead. “Bandits?”
“I’m supposed to be quiet, remember?”
“What’s the danger?” Xandrakus said, annoyed.
“I didn’t say danger, I said trouble.”
“I swear I’m going to lightning bolt you the next time I see you.”
“Who are you swearing by? Last I heard, Cordan wasn’t speaking to you.”
“Are you trying to get me to dismiss you?”
“We both know you won’t, but okay, no danger. Trouble. As in a roadside beggar of the most notorious type.”
“Fak and be damned. Bandry?”
“Yes, but I smelled him first. Why do dwarves always smell like rocks, and moldy ones at that?”
“I didn’t know rocks have a smell.”
“You don’t know a lot of things, which is why you need me. I can see you.”
Xandrakus crested the hill. A wide grove of ash and oak trees spread on both sides of the cart path; this was not a main road into Everton Wells but the most direct means from Dorytown, which was best left behind if one should ever end up there.
Xandrakus saw Azakai first—but he had a second sense of where his mystic companion was most of the time anyway—and then spotted the dwarf resting against the broad base of an oak tree. Bandry was a burly dwarf with mismatched boots and a set of armor of which no two pieces were of the same maker. A cape so dirty that it carried the filth of a dozen towns and a hundred tavern floors clung to him like a wet sack. The dwarf’s brown hair was a collection of sticks and anything else that clung there from wherever his head lay the previous night or week. Bandry Rocslayer, the Vagabond Dwarf.
“His beard looks like the braids were done on the run…” Azakai said.
“He’s never had a fetish for neatness.”
“…during a battle, in the dark, while riding a dragon with its balls in a death-grip. Please tell me we’re not traveling with this miscreant again.”
Xandrakus knew Bandry heard none of Azakai’s words.
“Hale and well met!” a boisterous call came up as Bandry gathered his belongings about him, standing to greet the mage.
“Hale, Bandry,” Xandrakus said with less enthusiasm. At least it had been a year since he last saw the dwarf.
“I bet he’s broke again,” Azakai said.
“Stop,” Xandrakus said silently.
“I’ve been awaiting your arrival for nearly two days, my dearest friend!” Bandry said.
“The town has several fine inns,” Xandrakus said as the dwarf fell in beside the horse. “I didn’t announce my coming.”
“It’s festival season! The town is abuzz with tales and rumors, and with the tragic loss of Haladar, I was certain you’d come. But I’d rather the comfort of the quiet forest than a noisy inn,” Bandry said.
“Told you,” Azakai snarked.
“I wasn’t aware you developed a love of the forest.”
“With a touch of imagination fueled by a less-gentle touch of ale, one can feel it’s a cave about him rather than fragile mold-scented wood. My bones like a bed of soft stone but a slumber in moss is a nice change for the nonce.”
“You’re broke.”
“Broke? My good mage, the Dancing Dwarf is never truly without coin, merely between performances.”
“Told you told you told you.”
“So, you drank your last performance away?”
“It was not the most lucrative of towns, and the ale cups were disappointingly small.”
“And Everton Wells will be different?”
“Of course! It’s the festival! And a funeral. Two drinking events in one week. Once the festival begins, I see a season of coin coming my way within days.”
“Mayhap,” Xandrakus conceded, having little interest in the dwarf’s finances. “I’ll loan you a few gold until the festival gets going.”
“I am embarrassingly grateful for the offer, but I was hoping to possibly throw my cape on the floor in your room if you would be so kind.”
Xandrakus bristled at the thought. “I’m staying at the barony.”
“With Orto? Well, that’s a fine accommodation if there ever was one! So, will you be having your own room and perhaps— ”
“The invitation does not allow a guest,” Xandrakus cut him off.
“Surely Orto will be as thrilled to see me as I—”
“The invitation does not allow a guest,” Xandrakus said again.
Bandry looked disappointed only momentarily. “Then I am again grateful for your offer of three gold as the weather looks to be weighted with rain, which will no doubt be cold.”
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