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It had been a long journey back to the frozen halls of Thurgadin. Carved out of the living ice and rock, sequestered secretly at the end of a narrow gorge, Thurgadin was now home for many travelers. The sturdy, pale skinned Coldain dwarves had survived for centuries, despite an ongoing war with the Kromzek storm giants, lethal cold, and having to uproot from their previous home, deep in the Crystal Caverns. Yet they welcomed strangers from all over the rest of the world known as Norrath with only mild apprehension. Thurgadin had become one of the few places where wanderers, wizards, merchants, heroes and thieves of any race or background could walk openly without fear of reprisal. A far cry from the sinister and sordid catacombs of Neriak, that house of evil the Tier’Dal called home.
Tier’Dal. Dark Elf in the common tongue that pervaded communication everywhere. It was a name that garnered fear, hate, and respect. And while he valued its impact, it was a name of foul memories Akherat wished he could forget. A wish the bright walls, cool air and strong ales of Thurgadin were very good at fulfilling. There was nothing quite like a good pint of Coldain ale at the end of what had become a very long road.
Akherat propped his boots up on the table and leaned back in his chair. Two of his fellow travelers, warriors by trade, sat at a table playing dice not far away. Haradgrim, the half-elven Myrmidon, moved with the serpentine grace of someone not to be trifled with, even when he was laughing with friends. His opponent at dice, the gigantic barbarian Drox the Warlord, bulged with muscle from every conceivable direction. From their expressions, Drox was winning. The pile of gold coins on the table confirmed it. Haradgrim frowned slightly through a salt-and-pepper shaded goatee, concentrating on the clattering dice cup being shaken in meaty fist of Drox. The dice flew from the cup onto the table.
“Ha!” Drox cried. “Eleven again! Pay up, Harad. I’ll not rest until your gold is safely tucked into my coffers!”
“Bah,” Haradgrim grumbled, casually tossing another handful of gold coins onto the table before taking up the dice and placing them in the cup.
Akherat reached deep into the pocket of his dark green robe, fishing for his pipe and pouch of tobacco. The dice game was far from over, and the evening was young.
The flame in the lanterns that lit
the inn had danced low. Most of the
patrons had long since gone home.
Akherat tapped the cold ashes from the bowl of his pipe and returned it
to the folds of his robe. Drox and
Haradgrim had given over playing dice for drinking, and both had taken on the
ruddy glow of having drunk one too many pints of ale. They were joined by another of their cohorts,
Crispen Cloverleaf. Crispen hailed from
the country town of
“Up late, again, are we?” a familiar voice queried from the doorway.
Akherat turned and looked over his shoulder to confirm what his ears had already told him. Azeca McTollen, High Priest of the goddess Tunare stood in the doorway, his blonde hair and smooth, pale skin radiating his High Elven heritage even in the low light of the inn. Standing next to him, one graceful hand resting lightly on his forearm was his wife, Syriena. Tall, slender, and as arrogant as they were beautiful, High Elves were the racial enemy of Dark Elves. Akherat did not care one way or the other. He had received the healing ministrations of Azeca far too frequently to let his heritage rule opinion. Syriena smiled dispassionately at Akherat. They shared a curious, love-hate relationship with each other. Both respected the abilities of the other, but neither of them would admit any sort of relation, friendly or otherwise, between them. They had traveled often together, however, and had grown accustomed to their personal differences.
“Late?” Laughed Drox, “tis early!”
Azeca grinned lightly, already knowing full well that the drinking had a long way to go before any end was in sight. He guided his graceful wife to a table adjacent to the one Akherat was occupying. The Coldain barkeep scurried over with two large goblets of deep red wine.
“Not drinking, Akhy?” Syriena chimed, a hint of humor underlying her tone. Syriena was a favorite of their band of adventurers. Her powers as an enchantress were considerable, both magical and otherwise. Men had been known to give their lives in her defense, and considered it an honor.
“Akherat doesn’t want to drink with us, Syriena,” Crispen cut in, “he’s afraid we’ll roll him in the street for coin.”
Syriena laughed. The musical tones brought a lopsided grin to Azeca’s face. The priest always smiled when she laughed. Akherat scowled at Crispen, pointing a dark blue finger at him. Crispen seemed unplussed as Akherat casually waved his hand in the air. A tankard of ale appeared on Akherat’s table, beaded with condensation and foaming over the edge, down one side of the mug.
“Ey now, none of that!” The barkeep cried, “you be conjurin’ yer vittles and ale someplace else, fine, but donna be workin’ yer magic in me inn! Ye know me rules, conjurer Akherat, and ye know ta follow ‘em, too.”
As quickly as it appeared, the tankard of ale vanished. “Fine, fine. Yours tastes better, anyway,” Akherat conceded, his voice lilting and serpentine. Akherat had tried to break himself of the Tier’Dal accents that made him sound like an angry viper, but had only partially succeeded.
“Ye all be Revo, aye?” The barkeep queried, plunking a fresh draught of ale on Akherat’s table.
“We are all members of Revolution, yes,” Azeca replied proudly.
The barkeep grinned widely. “Me ears did hear tale that Revolution did battle inta da heart o’Kael Drakkel itself. A 'undred strong an’ more ye went. Be der’ any truth to it?”
“There is truth to it,” Azeca replied, pride radiating from him. “Although I doubt we were a hundred strong, we did battle in the storm giant capital only a fortnight ago.”
“Ah,” the barkeep replied happily, “an’ a grand sight ye all be ere’ alive. Th’ Dain be pleased to hear o’ it.”
Dain Frostreaver IV, king of the Coldain. Akherat knew the name, and had even met the
gnarled dwarf once. A more iron-willed
individual he had never met. The Dain was the backbone of the Coldain people, and the reason
they were sitting in that inn. It was
his foresight that the “outlanders” would be fighting the giants that had
prompted the Coldain to welcome them. Outlanders is what the Coldain called anyone who wasn’t a
dwarf. More specifically, a Coldain
dwarf, as the dwarves of the
Revolution was the name of their adventuring company. And while their numbers were indeed well over a hundred strong, they ventured far and wide, seldom more than forty or fifty of them in any one place at a time. They had garnered a reputation as a force to be reckoned with, by friend and enemy alike. Akherat knew that they had plans in the works for another attack on Kael Drakkel. Particularly they were intending to defeat the champion of the giants, Derekor the Vindicator. Many other adventuring companies had attempted to defeat him. He was a very formidable adversary.
Akherat had barely cleared the thought of the giants from his head when a dark, slim shape appeared in the doorway. The aura of command radiated from the figure. Akherat stood and faced the doorway, as did the rest of his companions. The figure stepped from the doorway into the light. Dark tresses spilled from under her hood, and tattoos materialized on her arms as the light played across an exposed arm.
“Xaviera,” Azeca said, sounding surprised, “won’t you join us for a glass of wine?”
“Later,” Xaviera replied hastily, her husky, sultry voice echoing from the walls, “Trakanon has risen again. Crispen. Good. We need to be in the Emerald Jungle as soon as possible.” Xaviera pointed to Drox and Haradgrim. “Sober them up, Azeca. Take Akherat with you, we’ll need him. We need to be in Sebilis within the hour. Get on it. Rifkind is taking me there after I round up Zaknaefin and a few others. I will meet you there.”
With that, Xaviera disappeared out the doorway as quickly as she had come.
“Excellent,” Drox beamed, flexing his considerable muscles. “I could do with a good dragon slaying.”
Crispen looked longingly at his half-finished ale. “I hate wasting a good drink. Gather around, everyone. Let me see if I remember how this druid teleportation thing works.”
Akherat waited a moment for the queasiness to fade. Teleporting always made his head spin. Crispen glowed slightly, his face etched with the concentration of imbuing them all with the spirit of a wolf. It was a relatively simple magic, although only those who had trained in the arts of nature and animal spirits could invoke the proper incantations. When done properly, it allowed those imbued to run with the speed of a wolf on the hunt.
"There", Crispen sighed, looking slightly drained. "We’re all
here in the lovely Emerald Jungle, and ready to run like a scared dog. I’ll
need to be checking the druid rings for others in need of transport. See you
all in Sebilis, hopefully." With that, the little man glowed brightly with
the much stronger and more complex magic of building a magical gate to the
sacred druid ring in the
Drox and Haradgrim were off and running almost immediately, the beginnings of the call of battle and the excitement of the coming combat hastening their steps. Azeca and Syriena, ever together, sped off behind them. Akherat paused for a moment. Sebilis was in the heart of a ruined city. Once a great and powerful civilization had conquered and occupied the exotic lands of the continent of Kunark. Now a shadow of their former power, the Iksar, reptilian people that still called these lands home, were once again trying to spread the might of their god, Cazic-Thule across the world. Sebilis was the remains of a once great city, now full of ghosts and aggressive flora and fauna. Nothing that would seriously jeopardize himself or his companions, but dangerous still, especially to the unwary.
As if on cue, a blood-chilling shriek tore Akherat from his thoughts. Charging from behind him, a great, dark-skinned gorilla rolled back its lips to reveal deadly rows of heavy teeth. Akherat would have to move quickly, or the beast would be on him. Spinning quickly to face his adversary, Akherat tucked both hands under his left arm, making a circle with his fingers. A tiny ball of flame swirled into the center of the circle. The ball grew rapidly in size, and Akherat flung his hands towards the oncoming beast. The ball of fire leapt forward, and with the accuracy of experience and agility, struck the gorilla squarely in the chest. The acrid smell of charred flesh immediately filled the air, and large, inflamed welts appeared like scars across the beast’s chest. The welts formed a curious sigil shape. Momentarily shaken by the surprise blast, the gorilla paused. Akherat took advantage of the beast’s lapse in concentration to begin invoking a slower, but stronger magic. The gorilla recovered more quickly than Akherat had anticipated, however. Before the incantation was complete, the enraged beast bore down with a clenched fist. Akherat aborted his magics and tried to duck under the blow. The gorillas fist managed to clip him across the top of the head, however, and Akherat spun from the blow, stunned. The beast swung again, catching Akherat across the ribs. His heavy robes absorbed some of the impact, and although he was still reeling from the glancing blow to the head, Akherat spun away. The gorilla must not have anticipated the blue-skinned magician recovering so quickly, and had stepped past its target. Akherat again called on the scars of the sigil, and quickly flung another ball of fire into the beast. Flames erupted against the gorilla’s back. The startled beast, wounded badly from the burns, hobbled as hurriedly as it could towards the concealment of the jungle. Akherat called on his magic a third time, using the slower, more powerful spell that the beast had interrupted before. With a tremendous flash of light and an intense wave of heat, the gorilla momentarily vanished in a wave of charring flames. When the flames vanished almost as quickly as they had come, the gorilla lay lifeless on the ground in a pile of seared and smoking flesh.
The sound of a snapping twig behind him made Akherat jump in surprise. Whirling about, hands already circled, Akherat nearly fell backward in surprise. Xaviera, still radiating her intense aura of command stood casually inspecting the smoking remains of the gorilla.
"It’s over-cooked," she said mildly, surveying Akherat with one calculating eye, the corpse with the other.
"Yes, well, I prefer my gorilla more on the done side," Akherat replied, wincing slightly from the blow to the ribs the gorilla had given him.
"And it appears it likes its Dark Elf tenderized. Rifkind, Akherat is injured. Tend to him before you head out to pick up the others waiting in the Dreadlands. I will be heading for Sebilis."
Rifkind, a human whom also practiced the druidical arts, stepped from behind Xaviera. She was a handsome woman, not beautiful in the radiant way of the High Elves, but more of an earthy, motherly attractiveness it was hard not to like. She was dressed in armor, but her auburn hair swung freely about, framing her lightly freckled face.
"You should be more careful, Akhy," she said, reaching toward him with a lightly glowing hand.
Akherat felt the pulsing blasts of healing carry through him. The ache in his ribs faded to nothingness, and the headache of the blow to his head vanished as quickly as it had come. With the headache gone, Akherats vision cleared enough to see that they were not the only ones there. Behind Xaviera stood Zaknaefin. Zaknaefin was, like Akherat, a Dark Elf. He stood resplendent in plated armor, his arms lightly crossed, and a perpetual look of amusement etched across his face. He looked like a drawn bow, nocked with the arrow used to kill bears. He had a reputation as one of the finest warriors of any land. A reputation easily justified once you had seen him in battle.
Standing slightly behind, and well above Zaknaefin was the barbarian shaman, Neverwinter. As tall and burly as Drox, spear slung casually in one hand, Neverwinter was more reserved than Drox. His introspective look told Akherat that while it was unfortunate, the death of the gorilla was necessary for everyone’s safety. Neverwinter was a shaman, after all, and affinity towards the creatures of the land was part of his very noteworthy power. He also happened to be a favorite travelling companion of Zaknaefin. Shamans possessed the ability to enhance someone with animal spirits; much like Crispen had done with the spirit of the wolf. Neverwinter was also adept at the use of plants and herbs, both for healing and harming.
"Let’s be going," Xaviera said. With that, they began speedily running towards the ruins of Sebilis.
Sebilis. Its ruined walls and destroyed buildings had been built on an elevated platform deep into the western reaches of the Emerald Jungle, named Trakanon’s Teeth by the ancient texts that scholars had recently discovered. No one remembered when the living had last walked the paved streets of the devastated city, not even the Iksar. The companions still ran, avoiding the haunting sounds of the apparitions and ghostly forms that fleetingly appeared and vanished from the corner of the eye. The jungle flew by. Akherat spotted their landmark, the fallen pillar that marked the end, or beginning, of a now lost road that led to Sebilis. They turned up the lip of the platform, and skirted the remains of a building wall, passing through an archway. There in the floor was a wide, paved ramp, amazingly still in good repair, leading downward, under the city. Those Iksar that had managed to grasp the common tongue called the lair of Trakanon Old Sebilis, but none knew why. They ran down the ramp, Xaviera slightly ahead, and rounded a corner, revealing a remarkable room. Circular in shape, the chamber was devoid of any furnishing or decoration. Set in the exact center of the floor was a large, blood red hemisphere. The atmosphere was permeated with evil. Death seemed to radiate from that orb. Upon closer inspection, it appeared to be filled with some form of liquid, perhaps blood. It looked alive. In this room, they stopped. Standing and sitting in casual positions around the perimeter were several groups of Revolution adventurers. Akherat knew most of them by name, and their comforting presence alleviated the feeling of dread produced by the orb.
"Well met, all of you," Xaviera said, smiling around the room, like a proud parent. "I received word from a reliable source that Trakanon has risen from the dead. We do not know if the frogloks performed the deed, or Trakanon possesses some foul magic that allows him to return. Most of you know, it was Revolution that returned him to the grave not to long ago. We will put him there again."
There was a nodding of heads and a low murmur of agreement. The tension level had risen significantly at the mention of Trakanon’s name. Xaviera held up a hand.
"There is more," she went on. "After some…devious…research by the Sorcerer Ganndor," Xaviera paused to nod to the human wizard, sitting casually with his back to the wall, "we have learned that the very same ghost of Emperor Ganak, the one that provided us with the quest that allowed us to enter Old Sebilis, has another quest, of even greater import." Xaviera paused to let the magnitude of her words settle on those gathered. "Most of you know of the Ring of Scale. They are the wurmkind, the dragons of this land. Some of you know that the Ring is led by the dragon, Phara’Dar. With the help of some Iksar friends," Xaviera paused again to nod at Shakah, an Iksar martial artist that had left his homeland to join the ranks of Revolution, "we have learned that this Ring of Scale is intent on conquering the continent of Kunark for their own design. We simply cannot allow this. The ghost of Emperor Ganak will provide us with a key to the secret mountain home of Phara’Dar, and the generals of the Ring of Scale. A component of this quest are the teeth of Trakanon."
A low murmur swept through the room. Akherat knew that there was something deeper in Xaviera’s words. Something being left unsaid. He had met this ghost emperor during the quest to attain the key to Old Sebilis. The ghost had seemed, hopeful, and sad at the same time. As if there was more to its story that it wanted to tell, yet couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. Which would explain Ganndor’s involvement. Ganndor was an interesting individual. His mannerisms and personality were nothing like the quintesential wizard. He was boisterous, cynical, devious, and irresistibly likable. His close trimmed beard and non-descript brown hair belied the honed mind underneath. It would not be a very long stretch of the imagination to think of Ganndor as a criminal mastermind. Despite his less than traditional methods, Akherat was very fond of the wizard.
"Ganak wishes to test our resolve," Xaviera continued, "the quest he has laid out is both difficult and extremely dangerous. Yet the goal is attainable. And attain it we will."
The hardening resolve amongst those gathered was palpable in the air. Akherat knew that the road back to the inn in Thurgadin would again be long, difficult and fraught with perils. Something that he had grown accustomed to since joining Revolution. Now forty members strong, they began assembling those last pieces of equipment to be donned before entering Old Sebilis. Akherat was ready. Reaching into his belt pouch, he produced a small, crudely carved idol.
"See you all inside," Akherat said, placing his hand, small carving firmly clenched in his fingers, against the orb. There was a roaring sound, followed by a blackness that murmured quietly in his ears. It was a voice of death.
Akherat
felt like he was falling through blackness, but none of his senses could
confirm it. And as suddenly as the
sensation had come, it vanished. He
stood in the foyer of Old Sebilis. A
tall ledge ran along the edge of the rectangular room, except for one end,
where a steep ramp led down to a wide stone door flanked by two tall white
marble pillars. Guarding the door were
two frogloks, short green amphibian like men.
They had two large, bulbous yellow eyes set wide apart, over an equally
wide mouth. They had not sensed the
presence of the Revolution adventurers yet.
Despite the large yellow eyes, frogloks had a very small area of
perception. Which was fortunate, as
frogloks were formidable fighters at close range.
“Hey there, Akh,” a thick voice came from behind him.
“Hello, Buvien. It has been a while,” Akherat replied, still studying the frogloks near the door. Akherat had adventured with Buvien on several occasions. A knight of the church, Buvien was a stalwart fighter. His appearance told a tale different than one might have imagined. Although it was all in good repair, well kept and laquered, Buvien’s armor was a microcosm of battle scars. Dents pitted the breastplate, vambraces, bracers and even his gloves. The shield he carried had more hack marks from turned blades than one could easily count. His helm carried a huge dent from the war maul of a storm giant. Akherat remembered the day Buvien received the blow. All thought him dead, but Azeca was quick to call upon his goddess for healing magic, and Buvien had sprung up from the wound like a small boy on the morning of his birthday. His face was as haggard as his armor. Sporting a salt and pepper goatee very similar to Haradgrim’s, Buviens gaze was fixed on the frogloks. His eyes penetrated with the stare that bore through anything, giving him the appearance of always looking towards something very far away. It seems almost all veteran fighters developed that look.
“It has,” Buvien replied. “Have you been well?”
“As well as can be expected,” Akherat replied, “between Kael Drakkel, Chardok, the Labyrinth of Velketor the Sorcerer and Karnor’s Castle, I have managed to stay in mostly one piece.”
Someone behind them laughed. Buvien’s eyes never wavered from the frogloks, who appeared to be growing anxious. Akherat looked over his shoulder at Trifno. A Wood Elf, and like Crispen, a druid. Wood Elves were also racial enemies of Dark Elves, although they seemed more able to set aside racial enemity in the interests of defeating common enemies. His blonde hair and ruddy, tanned complexion was reminiscent of the young humans that had a penchant for spending most of their waking hours by the seaside. Trifno’s demeanor was equally as carefree.
“You know, Trifno,” Buvien said quietly from the corner of his mouth, “frogloks do have ears.”
“Sure they do. But I’m sure some of our new arrivals will take care of that,” Trifno grinned.
The new arrivals he referred to were Vesperr and Revanent. Bards by trade, both were outstanding minstrels. Their songs, both melodious and full of discord, could inspire their companions and weaken their enemies. Both were encased in plate armor, laquered blue in the manner of their profession. They milled casually among the growing number of Revolution, passing words of encouragement. Most all of those that had gathered at the orb were there in the foyer. Rifkind appeared as if from nowhere, looking unphased by the disorienting blackness of passing through the orb.
“That’s the last of us,” Rifkind beamed. “We should be ready.”
“Get rid of those frogs,” Xaviera commented dispassionately. “We need a clear path down. More Revolution will be coming. Messengers are out gathering them now.”
“Here, froggie froggie,” hissed
Hamanu. Hamanu crept by Akherat like a
black cat across a patch of
“Hey! Frog! What, are you blind and deaf! You couldn’t guard your socks!” Ganndor shouted from the top of his lungs. Akherat lurched from the echoing sound.
The frogloks snapped toward the direction of Ganndor’s voice. With a hair splitting screech, one of the frogloks pitched forward. Hamanu’s daggers materialized in its back. The wounded froglok spun to face his attacker.
“I’m gonna eat the legs of your children!” Drox shouted, charging down the ramp at the other froglok. There was a surge of people pressing down the ramp, and Akherat lost sight of the amphibian men. Chunks of meat flew into the air. Akherat could hear Drox and Zaknaefin laughing as they worked. As quickly as it had started, it was over. There wasn’t much left of the battle, only several large pieces of bloody meat, and two large pools of blood.
“Wait a minute,” came a voice from the back of the crowd of people. It sounded like two dry bones rubbing together. “I can cook that. Tastes like chicken.”
Akherat immediately identified the sound of Zarvlad’s voice. Zarvlad was a necromancer, practicing the dark arts that dealt with the dead. He also was very passionate about his other profession, cooking. Zarvlad could make jerked beef taste like fresh bread. A much appreciated talent when one had been away from homes and inns for a long time. He shared the same heritage as Akherat, being a Dark Elf, although their factions within Neriak were one step from open war, neither really cared much about the politics of their homeland. Zarvlad hurriedly trotted down the ramp, unslinging a small bag from his belt. He selected a large chunk of one of the dead frogloks, and dumped a fair portion of the contents of the small back onto the bloody pulp of flesh. The acrid smell of salt filled the air nearby. Zarvlad slung the chunk of meat into a satchel he wore over his back.
“Very well,” Xaviera said, surveying the scene with a practiced eye. “Azeca, take Zaknaefin, Ganndor, Hamanu, Syriena and Jerrod. Scout ahead. Thume, get with Drox, Haradgrim, Crispen, Buvien and Neverwinter. Reinforce the scout team. Aghar will go with me, Rifkind, Zarvlad, Selinore and Nerzhuul. Trifno, take Akherat, Vesperr, Kukar, Kylemall and Wombat. The rest of you, form up into teams and make sure everyone knows who your healer is. Try not to make too much racket. Trifno, make sure you can port yourself back here, to pick people up as they arrive. Akherat will summon them to where we are. Everyone be careful, frogloks will attack in numbers. Move out.”
The scout team pushed the lever that lifted the stone door. There was a brief grinding sound, and the six lead members vanished through the doorway. They were followed by Thume’s team shortly thereafter. Everyone waited for their turn to pass through the door. Torchlight danced along the walls of the foyer, making shadows race along the floors and ceiling. The whole feeling was very unsettling.
As he descended the ramp, Akherat could hear the clash of metal and Drox’s boisterous laughter. They entered a long narrow corridor lined with pillars. Torches lit the length of the hall, making for large, uneven shadows that played with the senses, making the space seem much larger than it was. Large splashes of blood on the marble columns at the end of the hall marked the passage of the scout team. The door at the distant end of the hall was open. They moved forward in relative silence.
Once through the second door, the scenery changed. It was much darker, although that bothered Akherat little, as he could see well enough even in the total absence of light. Dark Elves possessed the ability to see in spectrums of light past that of torches and lanterns, and even of heat. Roughly hewn from the rock, a wide, tall corridor led downward and to the right. The ramp was slick with moisture and some sort of mossy growth. They descended further, echoes of battle coming up from below in frequent intervals. They would pass by bodies of dead frokloks, sometimes in pairs, sometimes alone. At the bottom of the ramp, the corridor turned back to the left, and opened once again to a very large room with finished stonework.
The floor was tiled in a pattern of squares, and a large marble entryway, complete with stairs and four, evenly spaced pillars stood ahead and to the left of them as they entered, facing out to a bridge over a wide chasm that arced from the right side of the room to the left, distant corner. Akherat could hear the rushing of water deep within the chasm’s recesses. The ceiling of the chamber arched up nearly out of sight. On the far end of the room was another bridge, crossing the chasm and leading to another dark, roughly hewn corridor. The central bridge led to a landing on the other side of the chasm, and yet another rough hewn corridor. A narrow ledge led back to the right, over the chasm and to presumably another corridor Akherat could not see.
“The lead teams have already gone down,” came a whisper near the edge of the chasm. Jerrod crouched there, swords drawn. Sparks of electricity rand up and down the length of both blades. Swiftwind and Earthcaller, the blades had been named, rare artifacts of great power. Jerrod was a human, a man of the forests. Rangers, they were called. You could not see his armor, but Akherat knew there was fine mail underneath the heavy traveling clothes. Speed and stealth were the hallmarks of a ranger, and Jerrod was a master of both. “Be wary of the drop, and do not strike the sides on the way down.”
Akherat had learned to dread certain necessary elements of being an adventurer. Leaping into dark chasms was one of them. He knew the water at the bottom was deep, and cold, and had, at one point in time, been part of a sewer system. Something he preferred not to think about. They had made this trip before, and, in fact, had made several visits to Old Sebilis. The frogloks here possessed many magical items of remarkable power, remnants of the lost civilization. Akherat still dreaded the jump.
As if hearing his thoughts, Trifno turned, his back to the chasm, smiling at Akherat. “Think of it as a good thing, Akh. Wombat is in dire need of a bath.” With that, the druid stepped backward off the ledge.
The shock
of striking the frigid water nearly stole his breath. Icy fingers clutched at Akherat’s throat as
he tried to get his bearings. Swimming
quickly to the surface, Akherat surfaced in a great rush, gasping for air. The smack-thud of something heavy hitting the
water close by told him that Wombat had made the jump. Wombat Ratstomper,
dwarf of the
The passage was still clear. Akherat pushed his way through the water, swimming under the edge of where the chasm normally would have ended. In the very bottom was a round hole, water-filled and leading down. Akherat tilted himself head-down and descended through the hole. And at once, he was out of the water in a small, algae covered room. There was a cylinder of water in the room, held in place by an arcane power long since lost. The other members of Revolution were lined up along the wall, letting the water drip from their clothes and armor.
Akherat was a conjurer, a master of manipulating the elements. Reaching deep within, Akherat reached out with his mind, searching, calling. The algae covered room vanished, and the hum of his magical powers flooded through his ears. A great roaring filled him, as elements of air and fire heeded his call. Akherat opened his eyes, still seeing nothing, and brought his hands together. The sound was like a small clap of thunder. Hot winds blasted the room. The great roar continued, as the members of Revolution turned slow circles. The winds died down. Everyone in the room was dry.
“Thanks Akherat,” Rifkind grinned, “I hate looking like a drowned rat.”
At that moment, Wombat stepped out of the cylinder of water, walking towards the door to the small room as if it were the door just down the hall. A froglok shaman appeared in the doorway, likely to investigate the noise created by Akherat’s spell. Wombat didn’t stop. Sword and hand axe appeared in his hands, and before the surprised shaman could move, Wombat planted his axe squarely between the frogloks eyes. Blood spouted up from the wound. The stocky dwarf wasn’t done. His sword, its short, wide blade whistling through the air, caught the hapless foe squarely in the ribs. There was a plucking sound, followed by a hiss. Arrows bloomed from the frogloks body from several directions. Wombat pulled his axe free and let go the handle of his sword, still wedged in the frogloks ribs. Taking the haft of the axe in both hands, the dwarf swung in a huge underhanded arc. A small sound escaped from the lips of the shaman as the axe blade disappeared between its legs. It fell over backward, dead. Wombat retrieved his weapons from the body. Peering out the door in both directions, Wombat stepped through the door, turned left and plodded on down the hall.
“Well then,” Xaviera shrugged, “I guess we go that way.”
The end of the hall was a pool of water. Rings rippled out from the surface where people had walked into the water. Another underground passage full of freezing water. Akherat shivered, still standing at the waters edge. He was an expert swimmer, but always dreaded having to dip into the icy darkness. Hardening his resolve, Akherat stepped into the pool and waded out to where he had to duck under the wall. At the edge of his vision, he could see a pair of boots disappear around a corner. Akherat swam after. Halfway down the long, cold passage was an alcove that led upward. Akherat swam up, breaking the surface in a long, narrow room. Evenly spaced along the wall were iron gates, long since rusted. A waist deep trench full of water ran down the center of the room. There was a battle in progress. Several members of Revolution were busily hacking at 3 frogloks, and a fourth was hopping the length of the room towards them.
Syriena was quick on noting the additional creature. Weaving her hands about her, a dance of small yellow lights, like fireflies, appeared about her. With a motion not unlike blowing a kiss, the small lights raced down the narrow room, surrounding the oncoming froglok. It stopped in its tracks, blinking in surprise. The small lights danced around the head of the beast, mesmerizing it.
The warriors and fighters made short work of the other frogloks. As the last one fell, the remaining froglok tore himself away from the dancing lights. Sighting Syriena, the beast leaped forward like a dart. There was nothing between it and Syriena. Akherat watched as time seemed to slow. Zaknaefin seemed to materialize from nothingness as the froglok raised its crude iron axe to strike at the beautiful enchantress. With the calm grace of a seasoned warrior, Zaknaefin caught the axe on his shoulder, just below the blade. With no way to defend itself, twin glowing swords swung, and the froglok's eyes widened in surprise and then dimmed into darkness as its last gasp of air escaped it. Zaknaefin, still spinning in his warriors dance, carried the corpse of the frog through the motion, the lifeless body cascading off the twin blades and into the far wall. There was a sickening pop as the body struck stone, followed by the thud of lifeless flesh collapsing to the floor. Zaknaefin turned and beamed a rakish smile at Syriena before trotting back to the head of their group. Ever the High Elf, Syriena maintained her non-plussed expression, but the knowledge that she had just escaped certain death was evident in her eyes.
It was slow going through the myconid catacombs. Xaviera and Shakah took turns scouting ahead, and would occasionally come bolting back down the algae covered hallways with a myconid or two close behind. But they did make progress. Akherat watched as Xaviera came barreling down the corridor, hair whipping behind her. She ran right up upon the gathered adventurers, stopped, and turned. The floor of the corridor was vibrating. With an eerie cry, Xaviera collapsed, just as a gigantic golem, a beast roughly carved out of rock in the shape of an iksar, thundered down the corridor towards them. The floor was vibrating with each step it took. Juggernauts, they were called, for their veracity and strength in battle were something to behold. Akherat glanced down at their fallen leader. As if sensing his gaze, Xaviera’s eyes opened long enough for her to turn up one corner of her mouth in a sly grin, and wink at him before she returned to her feigned death state. It was a talent of the martial artist, devout monks of a select few of the gods of Norrath. Feigning death was also a great tactic for tricking the less intelligent into believing they had slain the fallen, and turn their attention elsewhere.
Arrows hissed through the air. The golem waded forward as if it had been bitten by a gnat. Drox and Zaknaefin stepped to the forefront, along with Wombat, Buvien and Hamanu. The golem swung both its rocky arms before it in a wide arc. Hamanu was caught in the midriff and sent sailing against the wall. He collapsed, stunned. Buvien’s shield turned the other rocky fist, although in so doing added a sizable dent. Drox sailed into the golem with one shoulder, driving forward with his massive legs. The sebilite juggernaut was taken unawares, and stumbled backward. Zaknaefin’s blades whistled through the stagnant air of the catacombs, landing rapidly all along the sides and legs of the rocky beast. Drox continued to ram the beast with his shoulder, forcing it to move backward.
The beast’s weight shifted backward, and it was then that Haradgrim took action. Not having had a clear avenue to engage the beast, Haradgrim took a step back before running forward, towards the juggernaut. He leapt, placing one booted foot squarely on Wombat’s head, and, using the dwarf as a springboard, sailed high into the air. It was fortunate for Haradgrim that the ceilings of the catacombs could support such a radical maneuver. He landed with his feet planted on where the juggernauts collarbone would have been, were it a living thing. The huge beast toppled backward. Haradgrim swung the heavy hand axe he carried, catching the golem upside the head. The blade bit deeply into the creature. Flailing downward with his sword in the other hand, Haradgrim landed a blow to the neck, and the head of the beast cracked into pieces, the body landing with an earthshaking blast that echoed throughout the corridors.
“That was a…unique approach, Harad,” Xaviera commented, rising and walking around the fallen stony creature. Haradgrim shrugged in response.
“What is this?” Drox cried, picking up something that looked like a rolled up piece of parchment from where the beasts head had been.
“Let me see it,” Ganndor replied, hurriedly stepping forward. “It’s a spell,” Ganndor said, unrolling the parchment to examine it more closely. From the look of the symbols, I’d say it’s a magician’s work. Akherat?”
“Indeed,” Akherat replied, after examining the paper Ganndor handed him. “It is the incantation to call forth the most powerful water spirit. In the realm of water, there is none greater, and it is currently beyond my abilities. I can certainly make use of it at a later time, however.”
“Keep it,” Xaviera grinned. “I believe the safe in the guild hall has one or two of those very same scrolls from the last time we were here.”
“It’s a good thing the former inhabitants of this place had magic users that liked to write,” Ganndor smiled.
“Agreed,” Rifkind chimed in, “an excellent perk to venturing here.”
Shakah came trotting back up the corridor, his lizard-like tail swaying casually behind him. “It is clear up to the gatehouse,” he reported.
Xaviera paused. A brief, violet glow surrounded her head. She nodded, as if someone were speaking to her. The glow departed.
“Flec, Kaugg and Kaunk have just come through the orb. Once the courtyard past the gatehouse is secured, Akherat will summon them down,” Xaviera said.
“Now there is an odd trio,” Trifno smiled, “two trolls and a gnome.”
The catacombs finally ended in a cavernous room. The rock walls narrowed in the middle, and a wall of smooth stone blocks divided the chamber in half. A narrow archway with a pointed top penetrated the center of the wall. A steep stone ramp led down to the gatehouse from where the corridors of the catacombs let out into the chamber. Any gates that had hung there had long since rotted away. They proceeded down the ramp. As Akherat passed through the archway, he could see a large stone door, similar to the one they had passed through upon first entering Old Sebilis, ahead to his left. Against the far corner of the wall stood two sebilite juggernauts, both motionless. They animated and attacked when a living thing approached too closely.
“Trifno, teleport yourself back up to the foyer, and touch those waiting, so Akherat can call them down.”
Akherat reached into a pouch at his belt. He withdrew a handful of small, opalescent pearls. Speaking softly under his breath, Akherat’s hand began to glow. There was a small popping sound, and each pearl had split neatly in half. Closing the hand containing the pearls, Akherat concentrated and opened his other hand, palm upward. Half of the cloven pearls appeared in his open palm. He placed the contents of one hand back in his belt pouch, and handed the contents of the other to Trifno.
Trifno grinned, placing the gem halves into his own belt pouch before stretching his arms to make a wide circle over his head. With that, the druid vanished.
“I need a beer,” Crispen said, breaking the silence. “Akhy, you got any?”
Trifno appeared in a corner of the foyer. In front of him were two tall, wide, green skinned trolls. Their long, narrow noses quivered slightly as they eyed the small, short, robed gnome that stood not far away, apprehensively eyeing the two trolls back. Trifno knew the two trolls, although not well. Kaunk was a powerful shaman, although not quite as adept as Neverwinter. And certainly lacking Neverwinter’s personal hygiene skills. Kaugg was a warrior, powerful and brutal in combat. And legendary of appetite, even for a troll. Other races even told misbehaving children Kaugg was coming to eat them. His capacity for ingestion was truly amazing. Both had the golden glowing eyes of trolls, and their skin was warty and covered in patches of wiry black hair.
“Wit’ spice an’ saucies,” said one troll in a guttural, booming voice.
“Wit’ veenigar an’ salty,” argued the other.
“Gnomies yucky wit veenigar,” came the reply.
“You’re not going to eat me,” the tiny gnome snapped back. “I’ll ignite the bones of both of you.”
Trifno grinned widely. Kaugg and Kaunk were the two trolls. They delighted in tormenting people by discussing the methods in which they were best cooked. They relished especially the smaller races, such as gnomes and halflings, as it was well known that trolls of an evil bent would indeed eat them.
Flec’s small, round face turned bright red under her pointed hat. She was smaller than even Crispen, but had mastered the most sinister art of her people, necromancy. Her threat about igniting bones was very real. She had seen Trifno appear, and knew the trolls were only trying to upset her in a playful way, but she was impatient.
“Hello, Trifno,” Flec snapped.
“Treefno!” Cried Kaugg, standing up onto short, wide-set legs. The trolls were again as wide as Flec was tall, and were heavier than even Zaknaefin or Drox could lift twice over.
“Heya Kaugg. Kaunk. Hungry, are we?” Trifno grinned widely at them.
“Me be ‘ungry all da times,” Kaugg replied. “But we jus’ foolin’ da Flecie.”
“We are just past the gatehouse. Akherat is waiting.” Trifno handed each of the trolls half of a pearl. He handed one to Flec as well.
Akherat felt the pull of his magic when Trifno distributed the halves of the pearls. Summoning a person was exhaustive, and consumed much mana. But it was something that magicians of his stature were highly sought for. Akherat focused himself inward, recalling the details of the foyer in his mind. He could feel the elemental energies of the four people waiting to be embraced by his magic. Akherat selected out Kaunk, and bringing his powers to bear, wove the spirits of earth, water, air and fire into a bridge between himself and the elemental energies of Kaunk’s body. With a roaring blast of wind, Kaunk appeared at Akherat’s side.
“Heddo everbodee,” Kaunk grinned in a gap toothed smile.
Akherat released his tenuous hold on Kaunk’s elemental energy, and refocused on Kaugg. It would take several seconds for him to be able to focus enough to build another bridge. He summoned Kaugg, Flec and Trifno. Sweat sprouted along his brow. Nearly all of his mana had been consumed. Akherat sat down, back to the wall, breath racing.
Vesperr came and sat next to him, drawing a small lute from a pack the bard was never without. Light, refreshing chords sprang into the air. The music was charged with power. Akherat could feel his mana returning more quickly than he could have managed on his own. Syriena past by, lightly touching Akherat on the forehead. A soft breeze filled Akherat’s mind, and mana poured back into him. Syriena frowned in displeasure, and she stopped to lean down to wipe her finger on Akherat’s sleeve.
“Don’t sweat,” she chided, “it’s unprofessional.”
“Okay, people,” Xaviera thundered, holding up her hands for silence. “The remaining juggernauts have been cleared. Trakanon is awake. We will move into the last chamber before we enter his lair to prepare. Remember, he is undead, and radiates strong poisons. Maybe this time he will stay dead.”
Everyone nodded in agreement, and in hopes that they could finally lay the dragon to rest. Drox flexed, grinning.
They moved through the lone door, and down a narrow, finely finished corridor, the gray slate tiles still in good repair. Torches were evenly spaced to provide good lighting. They stopped at the end of the corridor, where a narrow alcove turned to the right and out into a vast chamber. Everyone began preparing themselves for upcoming battle. Magic users of every variety cast spells to benefit their comrades, assistance in resisting poisons, defensive spells, enhancements to strength and swiftness of limb.
Zaknaefin and Drox stood at the very end of the alcove, both nearly vibrating with anticipation. Their muscles strained against their armor. Weapons twitched impatiently. Kaunk and Kaugg sat together to one side, quietly arguing with Crispen that they had not eaten his favorite cousin. Xaviera stood near the front, surveying their preparations. Rifkind walked slowly amongst their ranks, passing words of encouragement. Vesperr and Revanent played simple, soft, soothing songs. Hamanu stood in the shadows, idly turning a platinum coin back and forth over the tops of his fingers. Azeca huddled with the other priests, discussing their strategy for keeping the warriors alive during the battle. Syriena lounged nearby, looking more like a princess in a palace than an adventuring enchantress deep within the bowels of a dangerous dungeon. Flec paced back and forth, murmuring to herself about matters of dealing with the undead. Haradgrim was busily apologizing to Wombat for the boot print he had left on the dwarven warriors’ helm.
“We’re ready,” Xaviera said quietly. Everyone stopped. Noiselessly assembling, they formed ranks. Warriors, fighters, followed by clerics, shamans and druids, and magic users in the rear. “He is unaware of our presence. Those who will be in melee with him will go first, with the healers close behind. Ganndor will call the casters in at the appropriate time.”
They marched forward as quietly as they could. The cavern was immense, the far reaches well out of sight. They walked along a ledge, a sheer drop to a deep, black lake of water on one side, sheer, slick rock on the other. The ledge followed the edge of the cavern, and at last they came to a warn rope bridge. Their column narrowed to three abreast, and as they crossed, they lined up against the wall on the opposite side. Under the bridge could be heard the sound of rushing water, a narrow river that descended under the wall of the cavern, destined for an unknown ocean. There were few lights, barely enough for those without special vision to see. Xaviera passed along the wall, stopping to look each person in the eye, ensuring they were ready.
Xaviera reached the end of the line. She looked to the front, where Zaknaefin and Drox were anxiously awaiting her signal.
Xaviera nodded.
***The Tribute***
They waited. There was no signal from Xaviera, no sound of fighting. Akherat leaned forward from where he was standing, turning his head to see Xaviera, a look of consternation and shock on her face. Unable to resist curiosity, Akherat moved to behind Xaviera’s shoulder, and looked towards where Xaviera’s gaze was locked.
Trakanon was perhaps sixty feet long. Dark, greenish blue scales covered his hide. There was a large chunk of flesh missing from his neck, and it was easy to see the bones underneath. Wings were tucked in close to his sides, and talons of both front and hind legs, as long as swords, gripped into the stone floor. The warriors had made a quarter circle to the dragons left. They all stood, watching. Zaknaefin’s swords hung loosely from his hands. Wombat had dropped to one knee, and Akherat could not tell if it was in a show of respect or if something was wrong with the dwarf. His eyes, like those of the other warriors, were locked on Trakanon’s head.
The head of Trakanon was a wicked mass of arm length teeth. The dragons lips had fallen away, leaving him with rows upon rows of the yellowish white fangs displayed in a permanent smile, if you could call it that. Two massive horns curled from his brow, and the dead, black eyes had two small, burning points of purplish light fixed on something below its maw.
It was Drox. Evidently, their attempt to surprise the dragon had failed. The massive barbarian warrior stood, one hand planted on Trakanon’s upper jaw, one on the mandible of the lower jaw. The dragon was straining to try and close its mouth. And it was pushing forward, trying to snap those wicked teeth down on Drox. The lone warrior was literally holding the sixty foot dragon in place by force of will. Akherat could hear the warrior grunting. It was the most awe-inspiring thing he had ever seen.
Drox surged, and the dragon winced in pain. With the sound of bending metal, Drox’s armor burst from the warriors body. The metal pieces clattered to the floor. Akherat watched the barbarians muscles ripple as he put forth another surge of strength. Trakanon took a step back. Drox leaned forward, surging with his legs. The straps holding his greaves in place snapped, and the armor dropped away. The huge warrior was standing in little more than his boots and the kilt wrap of his homeland clan, straining against the certain death should the dragon’s jaws close.
Syriena had come to where she could see, both hands clasped over her open mouth.
“Oh my,” she mouthed silently. Then, with a light of inspiration, Syriena began to weave a spell. Akherat could not confirm it, but he could swear he saw the faint, radiating outline of Syriena’s goddess, Karana, standing behind the enchantress, one ghostly hand resting lightly on the High Elf’s shoulder. Behind her, to one side, was another ghostly figure, a man. Massive, and covered in armor, Akherat immediately recognized the visage of Rallos Zek, the Norrathian god of war. The shimmering figure was looking at Drox, one hand outstretched in a salute.
Syriena’s spell completed, and the ghostly shimmer of the gods faded. Akherat had only seen the spell Syriena now cast once before. It had been cast by the Phantasmist Nitzen, and Syriena had not yet achieved that level of power. The spell was beyond her power, and yet Akherat saw the gold light shoot from her palm and weave its way through the space between her and the entrenched barbarian warrior.
*****
Drox strained again. He knew that he was nearing the end of his strength. The dragon’s jaws would close around him, and he would die. Not without a fight, he thought, this bitch of a wurm is gonna remember me. Gold light enveloped him, and as if at once, Drox was outside himself. He sat on a throne of gold, every inch inlaid with the largest, most precious stones. Polished marble steps led to the throne on which he sat, and the floor, walls and ceiling of the room were of the finest polished marble as well. At his feet, lounging amidst piles of the finest furs, were at least a dozen scantily clad barbarian women, each as beautiful as the last. They all looked upon him with adoring eyes, ready to serve his smallest whim. The wall of the throne behind him was decorated with the preserved heads of his enemies. The heads ran the height and width of the wall, the centerpiece being the head of the god Innoruuk, Lord of Hate. At the base of the stairs, sitting in ornate chairs that made a half circle facing the dais, were his closest friends, all laughing and making merry. Drox leaned to one side, listening to the whispering of the advisor standing next to him.
You have done well, Drox. The whispered voice was that of Rallos Zek. Your name will be legend in eternity. Come, take your place at my side.
*****
The spell ended. Drox came back to his own body. Drenched in sweat, Drox could feel his strength ebbing. The spell had done its work. The barbarian had separated and broken the dragon’s jaw, and had managed to twist its head far enough to one side to fracture several vertebrae in the neck. He had also pushed the beast back several feet. The last of his strength faded from him.
Trakanon exhaled. A noxious cloud of greenish gas rapidly enveloped Drox, coating his bare skin, seeping into his veins. The barbarian fell to his knees.
Zaknaefin’s battle cry echoed the length of the chamber. Akherat fancied that it would have been heard in the foyer. Drox turned, saluted is friend, smiled, and fell to the stone floor. The Dark Elf warrior became a blur. All that could be seen of his passing were the deep wounds left by his swords all along the dragon’s flank. The other warriors charged in.
With a broken jaw and neck, there was little the dragon could do. It couldn’t turn its head to see its enemies, and with its back to the wall, couldn’t turn its body to face them. Akherat watch as Xaviera went to work on the dragon as well. It began with a spinning kick that caught the dragon just beneath one curled horn. Several rapid strikes to the dragons eyes and upper jaw followed. Trakanon could not lift his head to get out of the fighter’s reach. Xaviera crouched low, and let loose with a full body uppercut. The blow actually went under the dragons upper jaw, landing in the soft palate. Xaviera’s fist penetrated the flesh. Akherat watched as the purple flame of the dragons eyes winked out. Xaviera’s fist came back out with a handful of brain. The body of the dragon collapsed.
“We have a problem,” Azeca said, his voice quiet in regret. “I cannot resurrect Drox. The poison….”
“What about the poison?” Zaknaefin snapped.
“We can’t get it out of his body. I could revive him, but the poison would kill him again.”
“Fix it,” Zaknaefin hissed. “Or are all your priestly powers for naught, High Elf?”
“That is neither here nor there,” Aghar interrupted, “his spirit refuses to return.”
“What does that mean?” Xaviera snapped.
“He’s dead.” Aghar replied, looking Xaviera in the eye, tears streaming down his face, leaving damp trails in his beard.
“Let’s get out of here,” Xaviera sighed. It was evident she was struggling with her own emotions. “Someone get the lower jaw off the…corpse. Drox’s death will not be in vain.”
“I have Drox,” Zaknaefin said. He lifted the limp body, draping it on his back.
Several people stepped forward to help the encumbered Dark Elf warrior, but the look Zaknaefin gave them would have split stone.
Crispen and Trifno gathered people around them, and began teleporting them home. Ganndor, able to teleport to areas of wizardly power, took several more with him. In the end, it was Xaviera, Rifkind, Akherat and Zaknaefin.
Rifkind laid a gentle hand on Zaknaefin’s chest. “Perhaps he will change his mind, and want to come back.”
The cold look never left Zaknaefin’s face. He merely glanced at Rifkind.
“It’s time,” Xaviera said. Rifkind began casting the teleportation spell.
Somehow, Akherat felt that the inns of Thurgadin would no longer give the comfort they once did. Something would always be missing.