Daughter of Tangled Corpses: Part 5

Art by Moreven Brushwood

Bodies. Not the withered husks of the pale folk, but true human bodies. Piled in a mound, twisted into a single diffuse form. The tangle stood over them like a living creature, blocking any flight from the caverns. A half dozen heads rose above the mess. They were dead, and yet they gazed in unison upon the three thieves.

Banros only hesitated for a moment. He bolted, dodging to the creature’s right side and plowing forward to pass it. Alger and Jeanette moved to follow. But a chain of arms—each gripping the stump of the next—lashed out from the tangle. They slammed into Banros’ chest like a club, sending him straight onto his back. He curled in pain, but manged to force his body back onto its feet in time to avoid a second blow.

“Run!” he squeaked, his voice knocked out of him. The group sprinted back through the main cavern, but the way back was blocked. The cavern had begun to fill with pale folk. Jeanette expected to see the same terror on their faces that she knew was on her’s. But she saw only rage.

“What is it!?” she screeched to Eclesius when she saw him.

“Be silent, barbarian whores!” the caller bellowed, his pale face ruddy with rage. “We accepted you into our homes! Into our beds! You shared our food, now you rob us! You murder us!”

Jeanette was trying to form some convincing lie when Alger shoved her aside. She stumbled, then wheeled around to snap at Alger, but she stopped. Alger’s sword protruded from the old man’s back. A clean thrust through the chest. The cavern was still. In the quiet, Eclesius blood poured onto the sand like pattering rain. When his body fell to the ground, the pale folk began to scream, and fled to their caves.

Another howl rose behind them. Not a single voice, but a chorus of screeching sounds tumbling together into a single expression of hate. The corpse creature was swift. In an instant it was upon them. It lashed an appendage at Alger before the soldier had even turned to face the howl. The strike flung him back, rolling over his head and coming to rest flat on his belly.

Banros drew his own sword, attempting to hack at the creature’s limb. But before his blow could fall, the chain of arms withdrew into the mass. Banros fell off balance, and the limb lashed out again. Even as Alger climbed back to his feet, the creature sent Banros sprawling to the side.

Jeanette fumbled to get her dagger in hand, but didn’t move to help. She backed away, hoping to avoid the monster’s attention. But the moment a glint of steel appeared in her hand, the creature’s many faces spun on her. She dropped the dagger, and spread her open palms wide as she continued to step back. The monster didn’t heed surrender. It took two quick steps towards her. A downward slash from Alger sliced through its side.

One of the creature’s many bellies burst open, spraying dark blood on Alger’s face. Black and withered intestines sprang from the wound as well. The ropey innards wrapped round Alger’s wrist and swung the soldier to the side. He stumbled, and the creature continued to charge Jeanette with swift, lurching movements. Its many eyes had never left her.

She fled, arcing towards the cavern’s exit and the freedom of the world above. The spray of sand thrown up by the creature’s charge grew dense around her. She could hear the others shouting something, and risked a glance over her shoulder. The monster was three steps behind her, keeping pace. The tangled bodies were shifting. They separated—a mouth opened. The opening loomed behind her. Every muscle in her body pressed against the ground. Away from the creature. Towards the exit. A blow to her ankle sent her stumbling forward. A wet, claustrophobic darkness closed around her. Then crushing pain.

Alger helped Banros to his feet.

“It can be cut; it can be killed!” Alger encouraged. He shoved the other man’s weapon back into his hand before taking off after the monster. Banros paused, and took a long look at the path between himself and the exit. It was clear of obstacles. He could even pick up a bag of gold on the way…

But he wasn’t fast enough to make it out before the monster finished with the other two. Then it would come after him, and he’d be alone. His best chance at survival was sticking with them. Which meant fighting that thing.

“I’m going to die.” Banros muttered.

He sprinted towards the fight. The corpse creature was gaining on Jeanette. Its body was shifting, opening up.

“Look out!” he heard Alger shout.

“Keep running!” Banros called. Jeanette turned, and tangle of corpses closed around her. She was gone.

“Don’t stop.” Banros commanded. “We still can’t run. We still need to kill it!” Alger never broke stride.

But the creature took no notice of them. In fact, Banros realized, it hadn’t moved at all since the witch had tumbled into its maw. The bodies were writhing. They rose to the mound’s surface, then retreated beneath it again. The whole mass was pulsating. Alger must have noticed it as well, because he slowed to a stop a few steps outside sword range. Banros stopped next to him.

“We need to run.” Banros said, already beginning to jog towards one of the discarded sacks of gold. Alger moved to stay beside him.

“It will catch us!” Alger hissed.

“Maybe. If it starts running. But killing it was a long shot.” Banros hissed back.  He handed one of the sacks to Alger, and hefted the other over his own shoulder. “We were never going to kill it. It was going to kill us. But fighting was our only chance, so I thought we should do it. Now we have a better chance.”

“What about the witch?”

“She’s dead.” Banros replied. He fiddled with the sack, trying to find the best way to hold it without slowing down.

“You don’t know.” Alger sounded morose.

“Do you think she’d stick around if it was you?” Banros asked. “Hell, she was running when we were both on the ground. She thought she could get away while the fucking thing ate us.”

Alger didn’t answer.

They reached the passage that led to the drawbridge. Banros tore off one of his sleeves and wrapped the cloth around his sword blade. He leaped, dunking the blade into one of the channels of black oil that lit the cavern. The makeshift torch was sloppy, but Banros didn’t intend to stop to make a better one. With all speed, the pair charged into the darkness.

They had covered a hundred yards when the howling chorus rose behind them again. It was coming closer. The howl was growing louder faster than any creature could move.

“Run!” Banros screamed. Alger’s chest burned as the drawbridge came into view. Maybe they could climb it–

He felt a sharp blow. He sped forward, but his feet weren’t on the ground anymore. Both men slammed into the raised drawbridge, rolled down it, and landed in a heap. Banros screamed again, this time in pain. He slapped his own face to put out the fire that was burning there. In the tumble he’d struck himself with his torch. The pitch boiled away at his skin. He screeched in panic and pain as he flailed.

The corpse creature loomed over them. Its many faces leered with toothy grins. They were trapped. Alger didn’t think. He dove forward and plunged his sword down one of the grinning throats. He didn’t even remember drawing it. It didn’t matter. He pulled it back and plunged the sword forward again. The beast surged forward. Alger was elbow-deep in its gullet. It rammed him against the drawbridge. It pressed on him, crushing his body against the wood. The sound of cracking rib echoed in Alger’s ears, and he roared in pain. If he could have collapsed to the floor he would, but the press of flesh kept him upright. He focused every survival instinct he had on pulling his sword arm back again. He hacked at the creature. He sliced down, separating one of its heads, leaving a gaping hole.

“One of us.” echoed a dozen voices all at once. “Blood of our Blood. Kinswoman. Nobeli.” Jeanette’s mind was fuzzy. She recognized that she was hearing words, but she had forgotten their meaning. She was being pressed flat, crushed. Her breath came in gasps. Everything hurt. She couldn’t think.

“You will merge. You will become us. Nobeli. Once of us. One of us. One of us.” The voices began to repeat the final words over and over. As they went on, they separated from each other. The chorus became a discordant argument made up of a single phrase. They bandied back and forth in different tones. The fuzziness began to lift from her mind. The crushing sensation disappeared as the press of bodies passed through her like water. She drew a deep breath of air, and as she exhaled her body flowed out with her breath. It became a shade. She drew more air into her mind. She exhaled, and some part of herself she’d never noticed before left her. Then it returned, buffeting her like the winds of a hurricane. She waded in sensations of important meaninglessness.

Then there was silence. Pounding vibrations shook her. Hatred rose in her. Hatred for the lessers. Then pain, pain and more hatred. Feelings she had no words for overwhelmed her. Her mind was too small. She had to reach out to the others. Connect to them.

And then she was back. The press of bodies was crushing her. Her breath came in gasps. But there was light! Light she could see with her eyes. It felt real. And everything that had just washed over her now felt cold, and dead. She became aware of her body again. Her arm ached, but she reached out for the light, and felt something clamp on to her hand and pull. She slid forward.

Jeanette choked on a lung full of air. Alger had her hand. His eyes were wide. He pulled, and she felt her other limbs untangling from the corpse creature. A wet sucking sensation began to pull her back, but Alger’s grip didn’t slacken. Once her other arm was free, she shoved against the creature too, inching her body free of its grip. When her hips slid free, the creature spat her onto the ground in a pool of sludge.

Alger dropped her hand, and leaped onto the offensive again. He plunged  the blade deep into the gullet Jeanette had been spat from. He sliced into something fleshy before the gullet snapped closed on his arm. The corpse creature twisted. It flung Alger like a toy, slamming him into the cavern wall before spitting him out. He laid unmoving where he fell, gasping for breath. Jeanette scanned the ground for his sword, but it was gone.

A rapid clicking sounded above them, and Jeanette looked up. She saw Banros on a small catwalk, standing beside a spinning crank. With a great crash, the drawbridge fell open, exposing the path to freedom. Banros dropped from the catwalk, and landed feet-first on top of the corpse creature. Carried by the momentum of his fall, Banros’ knees bent, and he plunged his sword into the fleshy mass.  Without pause, he rolled off its side and knelt beside Alger. A cascading scream bellowed from the many rotting heads.

“Can you move?” Banros asked Jeanette, even as he hefted the wounded soldier to his feet. Jeanette felt weak. Any other time she would have said she couldn’t…but she didn’t have a choice. She forced herself upright, and stumbled away with Banros and Alger beside her. The recovering corpse creature was only a few feet behind.

A sound caught in Jeanette’s ears. It was small next to the pounding of feet. The old chains were groaning, and the decaying wood was creaking. They were struggling under the weight of the corpse creature. They wouldn’t break. Not quite. Not in the two steps the creature would need to get back to solid ground. She turned.

Jeanette watched the monster’s weight come down on one of its forelimbs. She felt what she had felt before. A sensation rushing through her. A current of knowledge without meaning. And as it rushed outward she directed it. She curved herself towards one of the chains holding the bridge aloft. The chain snapped, and the bridge drooped. The creature’s foreleg reached out for solid ground, but the strain overwhelmed bridge. It collapsed. The corpse creature tumbled into the blackness below. Silent, until the faint thud which marked the end of its fall.

Jeanette stared after it in gape-mouthed astonishment over what she had done. Banros and Alger had made it  halfway across the chamber before the sound of crashing bridge caught their attention. They rounded just in time to see the monster tumble into the crevice below. They shuffled back to the edge to stand beside Jeanette.

Banros broke the silence first with a forced, humorless laugh. It failed to take, and silence reigned for a minute longer before Alger said

“Are we safe?”

“Yeah.” Banros answered.

“How…” Alger began.

“It is the single luckiest event of our lives.” Banros interrupted. “Don’t question it or god might take it back.” his words hung in the air for several minutes before Alger spoke again.

“Seems a waste. All the trouble and no gold for our burdens.”

“Actually,” Banros said, grinning. “I managed to strap my bag to my back.” He turned to show the others his jerry-rigged backpack filled with gold. “It’s not what we thought we were going to get away with, but it’s not a bad haul.”

“We could always go back” Jeanette said. Her voice was ragged. “With the creature gone, we could take anything we wanted.”

“No.” said Alger. His tone was firm.

“Yeah.” Jeanette agreed. “I don’t want to go back either.”

“In fact,” Banros’ added, “I think we should leave immediately. There’s nothing in camp we need that much.” Jeanette and Alger both agreed.

Without a torch, the party had to navigate the passage to the surface by feel. Alger and Banros kept their spirits up by discussing how they’d spend their share.

Jeanette couldn’t think of anything but what the fuck it was she had done to that bridge.

The End.

Daughter of Tangled Corpses: Part 4

Art by Moreven Brushwood

Discovering the drawbridge had renewed the trio’s dreams of fabulous wealth. Upon returning to camp they spent hours in excited conversation. Wild speculations of what was behind the door, and what they’d spend it on when they got it. The mysterious sound they’d all heard was conspicuously undiscussed. And, after a night of fitful sleep, they returned to the cellar, and the cavern beneath it.

Banros hefted his grapnel, standing at the ledge across from the drawbridge. He hurled it across the chasm, and it caught at the top of the drawbridge on the first throw. Alger and Jeanette shared an impressed look. Banros was apparently quite the expert. He tested the line, pulled it taut, and hammered it to the stone floor with a stake. A second rope he tied around his chest, just under his arms. He checked its security three times before handing the other end to Alger.

“If I fall, the pull will be sudden–” Banros began.

“I’m understanding.” Alger interrupted. Banros’ jaw clenched, and even in the torchlight Jeanette could see him turn red.

“If I fall to my death because your grip is too loose, the spell will kill you too!” he snarled at the soldier. Then, turning to Jeanette he added “Right?”

“It will.” she confirmed. Alger looked annoyed.

“I’m understanding.” Alger said again, with careful solemnity. He stepped forward to stand on the spike pinning the grapnel line. Banros gave the other man a curt nod, and knelt beside the rope. He wrapped his body around the rudimentary ‘bridge,’ clinging with arms and legs. He adjusted his grip a few times, then shuffled over the edge of the chasm on his back. The taut rope drooped, and the wood of the drawbridge creaked, but the rope held. Banros’ movements were slow. With crossed legs and white knuckles, he inched across the chasm.

He’d made it halfway across when Jeanette noticed his breathing  quicken. It took her a moment more to notice the gradual slackening of the line he was clinging to.

“Alger! Hold fast, the–!” she shouted, before the rotten drawbridge plank gave way under the grapnel’s weight. Banros’ arms and legs lashed out for purchase, but there was none. His scream lasted only a moment before the second rope went taught. The sudden tightness around his chest knocked the wind out of him and cut his scream short. There was an ugly thud as Banros’ falling body swung into the side of the chasm.

“Pull me up-pull me up!” he sputtered. Alger and Jeanette heaved at the rope together. When Banros’ hands came in sight, Jeanette dove forward to help him the rest of the way. He rolled away from the chasm, onto his back, covering his face with both hands. The other two fell to sit on the ground beside him. All three were silent, save for their ragged breathing.

Banros held up his hands to look at them. Jeanette saw the last two fingers on his right hand were at incorrect angles.

“Gods” he wheezed.

Jeanette helped fashion a splint with torn cloth and a piece of the floor-testing stick. After a short rest, Banros was the first to stand back up.

“Torchlight’s burning. We need to try again.” he said.

Using a torch tied to the floor tester, Banros examined the drawbridge. He found the most reliable looking planks, and tossed the grapnel again. It missed, latching instead to a plank Banros’ didn’t trust. It took several more throws before Banros managed to hook a plank he trusted. With even more caution than the first time, Banros climbed out onto the rope again.

It was clear to Jeanette that the crossing was a strain. She worried he was too weak to make the transition from the hanging line to the top of the bridge. If he fell from that high, the safety line might still kill him.

He stopped moving as he reached the end of the rope, perhaps wondering the same thing. Jeanette wondered if perhaps she should shout some encouragement to get him moving. As she was trying to think of something good to shout, he lashed out with his uninjured hand. It clamped down on the edge of the bridge. His strength held as he pulled himself closer, and added his second hand to the first. He wiggled his elbows over the lip before releasing the rope with his legs. He let his body drop before pulling himself up, and swinging a leg over the edge to straddle it. It was too dark to be sure, but Jeanette could hear the grin on his face as he called down to them.

“I’m untying the safety rope, and tossing back the grapnel now, Alger. Pull them back up to your side! I’ll see about getting the bridge down so you can join me.”

“Be careful!” Alger warned, sounding nervous. The sound of Banros sliding down the other side of the drawbridge was his only reply. Then there was quiet.

“If what’s past the door kills him, do we die?” Alger asked.

“No,” Jeanette answered, starting to feel a little exasperated with maintaining this particular lie.

“Good.” Alger said

The two were saved from further smalltalk by the sound of a large crank. The bridge began to descend.

“That was fast.” Jeanette remarked, stepping back from the bridge to avoid getting caught beneath it. The chains thunked and the bridge came to a stop four inches from the edge of the precipice. Standing across it they saw Banros, surrounded on all sides by pale, gangly monsters.

Jeanette turned to run. She saw Alger already had his sword in hand, and ignored him. She set her eyes on the passage hidden in the darkness beyond. She made it a few steps before a dozen more of the creatures emerged from the darkness ahead of her. She reversed direction, tumbling to the ground, and scrambling back towards Alger.

None of the creatures moved, and Jeanette realized that they weren’t monsters at all. They were human, or at least something like it. They were pale, with wispy hair and hollow faces, but they were human. She could see them breathing, see the nervous glances they gave each other. She realized they were afraid to approach.

She also noticed that each one of them wore jewelry of gold, and gems. Any one of them was wearing enough wealth to make a Rotain noble jealous.

Beside Banros, one particularly saggy-skinned creature wheezed a command towards Alger and Jeanette.

“Do not struggle and we shall do no harm!” Jeanette’s eyes went wide. The saggy-skinned man was speaking Ancient Brimese. Alger raised his sword higher, panic in his eyes. Jeanette realized the words would sound like a spell to the soldier. She clasped a hand to Alger’s sword arm and forced him to lower it.

“Weapons down!” she called, loud enough for Banros to hear “They say they won’t hurt us.” Alger’s head turned towards her, a protest forming on his lips. She shook her head. “Keep calm. Don’t start anything.” she said. Alger sheathed his sword.

The ‘pale folk,’ as Jeanette dubbed them, pressed inwards. They were  nervous. She noticed even the tallest of them was shorter than she was. Burly Alger would be a giant. She could understand their fear. The pale folk herded the three companions together. They tied their hands, and took their equipment. The torches were thrown into the chasm, leaving the party in total darkness. Pressed against one another by the shoving crowd, they stumbled through the black.

The pale folk moved without speaking. Their bare feet padded with hardly a sound, even in so many numbers. Jeanette was searching for some way to weasel away, when Banros’ spoke up.

“There is no unbreakable promise spell.” he said. Jeanette thought she detected grudging respect beneath the resignation in his voice.

“What!?” Alger gasped.

“There were too many of them. It would have been futile to try to save you. If we’d tried to fight we would have died.” Jeanette explained. “We weren’t abandoning you. We could have come back once we were able.” Banros snorted in forced amusement.

“You’re not my captive anymore. There’s no point in lying to me.” he said.

“The trick to being a good liar is commitment.” Jeanette replied.

“You bitch!” Alger shouted. His voice echoed through the caverns. Jeanette thought she heard a few of the soft footsteps around them stumble in fear. She wondered, too late, if they could have escaped just by yelling loud enough. The trio stopped speaking for a few yards before Banros’ again interrupted her thoughts.

“I just hope you have a better lie for the monsters.” he said.

A short distance further, the room grew brighter. Dim at first, but she could make out the shapes of the pale folk, tinged yellow by the light. They crowded around the captives. Jeanette thought their numbers had grown in the dark. Further into the cave complex, she saw that the light was emanating from channels on the wall. A few feet above her head. It was bright enough now for her to study her captors in detail.

A latticework of blue veins spread across the pale bodies, bulging beneath their skin. Their eyes were larger and more widely set than normal. There wasn’t a full set of teeth in the bunch. But more interesting than their commonalities, were their many differences. Every one had some deformity or blemish. She saw bulging foreheads, black rashes, noses with only a single nostril, crooked legs… There were as many deformities as there were pale folk.  They may as well be monsters, Jeanette thought.

The mob entered a large chamber, and ushered the three prisoners  to a stone column. Iron manacles replaced the rope bindings on the trio’s hands. Once they were secure, a ring formed around the party. Those in the rear pressed forward, while those in the front tried not to get too close.

A break in the crowd appeared, approaching the column. A decrepit pale-man emerged from the crowd. His skin sagged so much Jeanette thought it might fall off. She also noticed he wore twice as much gold as any of the others. He approached to within a few feet of Alger, studying him with his gaze.  He moved between them, pausing before each of the three before moving to the next. Jeanette saw disgust in his eyes, and decided to break the silence.

“Are you the leader here?” she asked in Brimese. The old man’s eyes narrowed. With slow, deliberate movement, he turned away from Banros to examine Jeanette again.

“You speak the civilized tongue? You are no barbarian?” he asked. Jeanette had some trouble following the words—she hadn’t conversed in Brimese since childhood. It was a dead language; useful only to appear cultured or mystical.

“We are no barbarian” she replied. She hoped her broken syntax wasn’t too obvious. “We are not here to be cruel to you.”

“Why do you come here?” There was a threatening edge to the elderly pale-man’s words. Jeanette needed to say something interesting enough to keep his attention.

“I am Jeanette Malbrache Piiremus,” she began. “Descended of the Nobeli from many parents ago. I came on a pilgrimage to see the ruins of my ancestor’s homes.”

The old man moved his face close enough for Jeanette to smell his rancid, flaking skin. His eyes bore into hers. She suppressed the urge to crinkle her nose at the smell of his breath. Finally, he took several steps back. His face softened. Slightly.

“We also value the ancestors.” he said. “We descended from those who made their home above. I am Caller Eclesius. I speak for those now gathered here.”

“What’s he saying?” Banros asked.

“Quiet!” Jeanette spat at him in the common tongue. To the caller she asked, “The villa has lain abandoned for many hundreds of years. You stayed here all that time?”

“We must stay here!” he raised his voice with indignation. “The ancestors fled here to escape the barbarians, who overwhelm everything above! They command we maintain their vigil.” Eclesius paused. A strange, almost mischievous look filled his face.

“But you are of our people. You will remain here. With us. You will tell us of the world above. Perhaps with your knowledge, the ancestors will guide us to renewed prosperity!”

“Yes! I would be happy to tell you anything you want.” Jeanette replied. Eclesius then gestured to Banros and Alger.

“And who are these with you? They do not speak our tongue.”

“They are my servants.” Jeanette lied.

“Are they, then, loyal servants of Brim?”

“Yes! They are.” Jeanette put on a large smile and nodded. She hoped the others would take her lead, which they did.

“Then all three of you shall become one with us!” Eclesius cried with a celebratory raising of his arms. The crowd behind him began murmuring.

“How do we become one with you?” Jeanette asked. She tried to sound as pleased as the Caller did. The way he was phrasing things worried her.

“It is as you said. We have been one people for many hundreds of years. The ancestors will not allow us to return to the surface to seek fellowship. And you are only the third to come to us in our long history.” Eclesius explained. “No one now standing in this hall is not sibling, or cousin; parent or child to everyone else. Our bodies grow weaker with each generation. But you, and your loyal servants, shall give new life to our community!”

Jeanette began shaking her head, even as the excited throng removed the group’s manacles.

“No, um, we can’t…” Her voice was soft, and trailed off without finishing the objection.

“It is a joyous occasion, Jeanette of Malbrache” Eclesius said. The merriment in his voice didn’t mask the sternness of the command. “You and your companions will add your blood to ours and all will grow stronger for it.”

Jeanette lay awake long after everyone else had fallen into exhausted sleep. The pale folk seemed to trust her. At least enough that they hadn’t restrained her. Their inexperience with outsiders was to her benefit. Gingerly, she stepped over the hairless, mushy bodies that surrounded her. She’d suffered through the retch-inducing series of mutated partners with stoicism. But she didn’t intend to be around long enough to suffer through it a second time.

She gathered her personal effects and crept out into the main cavern. It was tempting to make a break for it. But she didn’t want to leave empty handed. The pale folk had separated her from Banros and Alger, but she’d need their help. She followed the lighted corridors, peeking into each of the small chambers she passed. Most housed a few sleeping pale folk. Others were empty, most likely the homes of those she’d left back in her chambers. Or those she expected to find in the chambers of her companions.

Sure enough, she soon found a chamber with two dozen sleeping women in it. Jeanette left her boots outside, and tied her skirts up around her waist. Every step had to be planned. It was a careful, tip-toeing dance. When she reached the bed she found Banros, fast asleep. There was a woman’s leg across his knees.

With the lightest touch she could manage, Jeanette shifted the woman’s leg aside. She knelt beside the bed, and placed a hand of Banros’ mouth. Jeanette paused, unsure how to wake the man without waking the  woman as well. She tapped her hand against his cheek, but he only flinched and continued to doze. She rapped her knuckles hard against his forehead, careful not to shake the bed. Banros’ eyes snapped open. He glanced around in fear, then saw Jeanette, and gave her a slight nod. She released him, and together they tiptoed back out of the room.

They stalked the halls until they found Alger. Jeanette let Banros wake him while she stood watch. Reunited, Jeanette led the others to the center of three adjacent empty rooms. She’d noted it as a place they could talk without disturbing anyone nearby.

“If’n the whole lot of them are asleep, no need to talk! We run for the exit.” Alger insisted “We’d be far past camp ‘afore the soggy fucks knew we’d gone!”

“What about the gold?” Jeanette and Banros asked in unison. They looked at each other, then both turned to Alger. He looked ready to hit them.

“Hear me out.” Jeanette said. “I saw maybe a dozen rooms along this passage with between one and four pale folk each. If we work together, and work quiet, we can have a whole room dead before they make a sound. With all the gold the ‘soggy fucks’ wear, we’ll have more than we can carry!”

“It’s a solid plan, Soldier.” Banros said. “At most we’ll be here an extra three quarters of an hour.”

“Fine.” Alger conceded after a resigned silence. “Plenty time to get caught in, but we’ll do it. But I’ll kill you both before I fuck another sogg.”

The three moved first to the central cavern where they’d been prisoner. The chamber was well lit, and there were no guards. Their equipment was still laying against the wall where it had been thrown.

“These soggs are too trusting.” Banros whispered. His voice was jovial as he tied his short sword to his belt, and clasped his dirk. “Let’s go kill them and get rich.”

The process wasn’t any more difficult than Jeanette had predicted. The pitiful less-than-humans snored loudly and slept deeply. In most rooms, the three of them were enough to kill everyone simultaneously. In the rooms with too many soggs, they kept their murders quiet. Nobody ever woke up, and they were able to finish off the rest without worry.

And the riches! They filled sacks with golden rings, elaborate neck pieces, bejeweled headdresses, and fanciful brooches. Each corpse they made yielded new treasures. After a dozen rooms, all three held hefty sacks over their shoulder. They jingled and jangled with wealth as they walked. As the group crept, tinkling, from their final kill, Alger remained steadfastly silent. But Banros and Jeanette were giddy. They made ridiculous grinning faces at one another. It was hard to restrain giggles as they moved to the passage leading to the drawbridge.

Their merriment vanished as they turned the corner. An incriminating clatter echoed from their dropped booty. The three companions stared at the creature which towered between them and freedom.

Unlike before, there could be no chance this monster was human.

Daughter of Tangled Corpses: Part 3

Banros led the trio south, away from the sea, and civilization. They kept off the roads at first, but after three days there were no more roads to keep off of. Or, if there were, they were ancient things. Too overgrown to make travel any easier. Stretching only a few miles, before disappearing again beneath centuries of shifting dirt.

Jeanette had considered abandoning Banros the moment they were clear of the city. Unfortunately, she’d succeeded in convincing Alger he would die if he broke his word. Much as Jeanette hated the savage soldier, she didn’t want to leave him behind. His brute strength was too useful in traveling the wilds. But neither did she want to put the idea in his head that her spells could be fake. Besides, Banros wasn’t wrong in thinking there might be booty in the ruins.

The wealthy and powerful of Brim had crafted sprawling miniature cities for themselves. They competed with one another to build in the most far-flung, exotic locals. Then, as their empire collapsed, they all fled back to their homeland. Now, without Brimese infrastructure, the wilderness had reclaimed much that had once been civilization. And for anyone skilled enough, and lucky enough, there was treasure for the taking.

If this worked out, Jeanette would have enough money to get herself out of the country. Back to Rotain. Once she was home, she knew how to disappear. With the booty from a city-villa, she could live in luxury as her memory faded from Pestor Ulric’s mind. And even if they found nothing, a few weeks in the wilderness would let her trail grow cold.

The travel was hard going. Banros was a better hunter than either Jeanette or Alger—though not by much. Jeanette envied the other two their sensible clothes. She’d never had a chance to change her gown. It was so tattered and wet with muck that she might as well be naked for all the warmth it provided. All three were in a sorry state by the time Banros called out:

“There she is!”

Weariness forgotten, Jeanette surged up the hill they were climbing, Alger on her heels. At the peak, she studied the valley below. What had once been the grounds was now obstructed by dense growth.  But a handful of red roofs stuck out in the foliage. As they studied at the valley below, details began to take shape. There were dozens of small clearings, and structures with collapsed, or moss-covered roofs. Banros’ map was in his hands, and he flicked his eyes between it, and the scene before them.

“That large empty space is probably the southern courtyard. While that one beyond it should be the reflecting pool, I think. I don’t see the temple dome at all…”

“Prolly fell in.” Alger said. “Domes fall in easy.” Banros was too engrossed in his survey to hear the soldier.

“Those trees over there look different. That probably used to be the orchard…” he continued.

Jeanette’s attention trailed off. She’d known the ruins would be large. Villa-cities needed to be. They housed all the comforts their masters would find in a bustling metropolis. But this was a palace beyond her imagining. Even at a glance, it was clear that the outer edges were miles apart. The sheer presence of it was overwhelming. She felt small.

Once the initial rush of excitement wore off, the three made camp. Jeanette suggested setting up below, in one of the buildings with an intact roof. But the other two overruled her, opting instead for a flat patch of earth back down the hill. Out of sight of the ruins. Banros and Alger were willing to brave the ghosts and hexes in daylight. They didn’t intend to be anywhere near the ruins in the dark. Jeanette wanted to argue the point, but held her tongue. A little discomfort was a worthwhile exchange to maintain the fiction that magic was a fearsome thing.

The next morning they ventured back up the hill, and down into the ruins. Banros cut a long branch from a tree, and shaved it of excess growth. Before entering each building, Jeanette made a show of declaring it free of curses. Then Banros thumped the floors and ceiling with his awkward device. The precaution saved them from two floors that collapsed into the cellars below.

The party first searched through several of the small, outlying buildings. When those proved devoid of valuables, Banros cut across the grounds. They passed a dozen smaller buildings as he led the group to where the temple ought to be. The dome had collapsed, as Alger predicted. But the walls were intact enough to protect the interior form shifting dirt. The trio spent hours excavating fallen stones, uncovering the temple’s altar, and vestibule. Both were intact, but neither contained anything more valuable than painted pottery fragments. The tile mosaic built into the floor could have been worth a fortune. But there was no way to move it without an army of workmen, carts, and horses. The mood was somber as the three marched back to camp.

A few modest discoveries did little to raise their spirits over the next two days. A torn painting, a set of bent silverware, and a gold-hemmed robe weren’t worthless. But after twelve days of grueling travel, several more of searching, and another long journey back ahead of them, these otherwise decent treasures felt like a pittance.

On the fourth day the party ventured into the cellar beneath the kitchens. Each carried a rudimentary torch Banros had taught them to make the night before. As their search dragged on, the men’s fear of ghosts and curses had subsided. They wandered freely within sight of each other, kicking debris and old furniture aside. They scanned for anything that glittered in the torchlight. At this point, Jeanette would have gotten excited over a bit of colorful fabric.

“A floor-door!” Alger called, breaking the morose silence that had settled over the group. It was the only thing any of them had found that day. He clasped trapdoor’s heavy iron ring and heaved. The door creaked, but held shut.

“Locked.” he grunted. Banros came over and crouched to take a closer look, lowering his torch to the floor.

“No keyhole, or any latch on this side. It’s probably barred from below.”

“Foolheaded way to make a door.” Alger said.

“It’s likely an escape route.” Jeanette replied “Below is a tunnel a half mile or so long. It would lead to a cave or a tree hollow that lets out into the woods.” Banros stood, and shook his head.

“If it’s an escape tunnel, they would keep it open until they needed it. And they’d only need it if they were attacked. We haven’t seen any signs of violence here. Not so much as a discarded weapon, or a singed roof.” he said.

“Better to open and see than sit and guess while the torches burn.” Alger said. “We searched a smithy yesterday. It had pry bars and hammers a-plenty. In a quarter hour we can have the floor-door open. Lock or no.”

The three went to the smithy together, and retrieved the tools. It took no time at all to pry and smash apart the old door, revealing a heavy iron bar on the other side. It was simple enough to slide the bar out of place, and it fell to the ground below with a loud clatter.

There were no steps, just a straight passage leading down. Banros dropped his torch. It landed 17 feet below in a narrow, natural cavern, with a sandy floor. Beside it were the fallen door bar, and a wooden ladder that had fallen flat.

“C’mon, witch. We’ll lower you and you can put up the ladder.” Banros said.

“Fuck no you’re not lowering me into that hole.” Jeanette replied, indignant. “You go.”

“You’re the lightest one. It makes sense for you to go first, since we’ll need to lower you by hand.” Banros said.

“That ladder is an ancient wreck! What happens when it collapses before I can come back up?”Jeanette asked.

“You’re pretty light yourself” said Alger, gesturing his head towards Banros.

“I thought you two had to have my back.”

“Doesn’t mean we have to get ourselves killed on your whims!” Jeanette said, with defensive swiftness.

“Fine. Lower me.” said Banros with exaggerated resignation. “At least I know you can’t leave me if the ladder breaks.”

Jeanette and Alger knelt by the pit and each clasped one of Banros’ hands in theirs. They lowered themselves until they were lying on their stomachs. Arms dangling through the doorway. Jeanette tried not to look as though she was struggling to keep her grip. Once they’d lowered Banros as far as they could, he called up.

“Alright…let me go!” They both did. The fall was longer than Jeanette would have guessed. Even in sand, the thump of his body hitting the ground was ugly.

“You are good?” Alger called.

“Fine” came Banros’ testy reply. “My fucking feet and ass hurt, but nothing broke.”

“Raise up the ladder then!” shouted Alger.

It was awkward. The ladder was large and heavy, and the corridor below was narrow. Maneuvering it into position and hefting it up took Banros several minutes. Alger spent that time shouting unhelpful instructions down to his struggling companion. Once it was finally raised, Alger descended cautiously. The last thing they needed was to destroy their only way out of the hole.

When Jeanette reached the bottom, Banros was pacing. He strode around the ladder with his torch, with one hand on the wall.

“There’s only one path forward.” he said once he’d made a full circuit. He handed his torch to Alger. “I’ll stay in front testing the ground and looking for holes. Alger, you keep that light high and make sure I can see where I’m going. And both of you, keep your eyes peeled.”

Jeanette chafed at being given orders, but held her tongue. The plan kept Banros out in front. That was fine with her.

Nooks and crevices filled the passage walls, some large enough to hide a grown man. But the path forward was narrow. Broad shouldered Alger had to twist himself to avoid knocking elbows against the stone. By contrast, the floor was more or less even, excepting a few gentle slopes. The journey was not difficult. But Jeanette felt a growing sense of disquiet as the passage went on.

She could sense the others’ growing tension as well. They’d expected the passage to be less than a mile long, yet it seemed endless. Jeanette wished she’d thought to count her paces. At least then they would know how far they’d traveled already. She was certain it was more than a mile now. Their torchlight illuminated the cramped surroundings well enough. But that only made the darkness, extending before and behind them, feel more dangerous. They moved in silence.

Jeanette’s feet were sore by the time the narrow passage began to widen. The ceiling rose first,  moving beyond torchlight as they proceeded further. Only a few dozen steps after they lost sight of it, the walls opened up into a larger cavern. Blackness surrounded their little circle of light. The walls and ceiling were beyond the reach of their torches. Only the floor, and the wall they’d just emerged from were visible.

Without a word, Barnos turned left and continued forward. He kept one hand on the only wall they could see. Jeanette counted this time, reaching 122 paces before the wall made an abrupt turn. Banros’ turned with it and continued to lead the others forward. Jeanette couldn’t help but glance into the vast expanse of blackness to their right. Only children are afraid of the dark, she reminded herself.

“Gods-!” Banros gasped just as Jeanette counted 169 paces. It was the first any of them had spoken since entering the passage. Alger and Jeanette jumped back with a start. When Banros didn’t explain himself, Jeanette hissed at him.

“’Gods’ yourself, asshole! Spit it out! What’s worth scaring me half to death with your shouting?”

“Give me a torch.” Banros commanded, ignoring the complaint. He held his hand back towards Alger without even looking. His eyes were fixed on something three paces in front of him. Tired of Banros dismissive attitude, Jeanette stepped around Alger and marched forward. She stopped short and scrambled back when she saw the pit Banros was standing at the edge of.

It was 15′ across. On the other side was a sheer wall, rising beyond torchlight. Jeanette lowered herself, and crawled forward. She didn’t trust her own balance near the precipice. Banros tossed his torch into the chasm. It spun, and the light flickered in the rushing black air. It bounced off the far wall, then the near one, before coming to rest as a pinprick of light in the black.

All three spent a quiet moment peering over the chasm at the spec of light. Then, with no other choices to pick from, they turned to walk along the chasm’s edge. Though they kept a good for or five feet of distance from it. Just as Jeanette reached 122 paces for a second time, Banros stopped again. He didn’t make a sound, and Jeanette moved forward to see what had stopped them this time. She stared at the ground for long seconds before realizing Banros was looking out. Across the chasm. She followed his gaze to the sheer wall on the other side. And to the door built into it.

It was a drawbridge. Struts near the top held it aloft with heavy chains. The door blocked their view of whatever passage lay beyond it. But there was a three or four foot gap at the top. Banros was the first to speak.

“Our torches are low and we don’t have the equipment to get across. I’ve got a rope and grapnel in camp. We’ll come back tomorrow.” He grabbed the torch from Alger’s hand, turned away from the drawbridge. He marched straight through the darkness in the center of the cavern. Sure enough, the passage they’d entered from was directly across from the bridge. They set a brisk pace. Jeanette had just counted 231 steps on the way back when they heard a noise. A tinkling of chains, followed by a resounding thud from the room they’d just left.

Jeanette and Alger’s first instinct was to flee. But Banros had been in front, and the passageway was too narrow to get by him. He ushered them back to the cavern. Alger, thinking himself bound to protect the Banros, allowed himself to be moved. Jeanette did the same. But she managed to wriggle herself to the rear before reaching the cavern.

Banros sprinted and the others sprinted after him. They made a terrible racket which echoed as they entered the larger chamber. The group slowed to a stop at the chasm and found…nothing. The drawbridge was up. A brisk walk zig-zagging through the black cavern revealed nothing different.

“The torches are going out.” Jeanette reminded Banros. “We need to go.”

Grudgingly, Banros broke off the search. They made a brisk pace down the corridor. Only a flicker of light from a single torch remained when they reached the ladder. As they clambered out, they discovered it was long past nightfall.

The trio fled back to their camp with all haste.

Daughter of Tangled Corpses: Part 2

Jeanette gnawed at the overcooked rabbit Alger had caught.

“It’s terrible,” she said.

“Whine when you catch food by your lonesome, bitch.” the soldier replied. Jeanette’s alchemical trickery had stopped him from killing her. But it didn’t force him to like her much.

And that’s just fine, Jeanette thought. Aloud she said “I’m paying you, aren’t I?”

“Not yet. And you paid only for a sword-hand. Not for a cook.” Everything Alger said was calm and contemptuous. Jeanette might have liked him more if he sounded half as frustrated as she was. She returned to the task of digesting the gamey supper he’d caught. Bad as it was, it was the first thing they’d managed to eat since midday yesterday. And Jeanette had to admit, she would have been worse off without the nasty brute.

Which didn’t mean she wouldn’t kill him eventually. The Xulcam pollen made him forget the savage beating he’d given her. But she never would. The worst of her injuries were only now fading. But there would be scars to keep her memory fresh.

And he’ll pay for each one, tenfold. Jeanette vowed. She tossed the bone she’d been gnawing on into the fire. It sizzled. She rose to her feet.

“We need to get into town. We need hot food and a soft bed.”

“You want hot food and a soft bed.” the stoic soldier corrected.

“Need it or want it, we’re going go get it” she snapped. He stayed silent, chewing at his meat. He picked a bone clean before offering a reply.

“If the money for those things is in your pocket, why’m I not paid yet?” he asked.

“60 gold crowns is a small fortune. I’m talking about five sheckles of food and cloth.”

“Do you have the sum of that?” he asked, in a patronizing tone. Jeanette rolled her eyes. The dolt’s superior attitude made her want to kill him all the more. She strained to keep her voice even.

“Two days back we passed a road going into Nulara right? One the locals use for trade?”

“Yarb, we did that. ”

“You’re a soldier. Don’t tell me you’ve never turned bandit when your pay was late.” His eyes narrowed as he caught on to her plan. He didn’t seem to like it.

“Yarb, but with ten and more men to my right and left. Not just a sword and a witch.” Jeanette counted the note of testiness rising in his voice as a small victory.

“So we stalk some trader until they make camp, then slit their throats at night. The road is at least a three day journey, they’ll need to make camp.”

“And what of your wantedness? You get nabbed for some coin, and I don’t get paid.”

“Getting ‘nabbed’ would be worse for me than it would be for you. But it won’t happen. Even if Ulric sent word this far, I’m hardly the only Nobeli woman in Lauglen.” Alger stared at her, unconvinced, so she continued.

“We’ll stick to the dregs, and I’ll scrounge cloth for a bonnet to hide my hair. We can get a good rest and be gone before anyone realizes we were ever there. If anything it’s your cloak and armor we ought to worry about. If you’re marked as a deserter by now, it’s a dead giveaway.”

Alger just grunted and reached for the last piece of rabbit. Jeanette could see him mulling over what she’d said as he chewed at the gamey meat. Finally he muttered:

“Awright”

Jeanette opened her eyes. All she saw was black. Her temples throbbed against a rope tied tight around her head. It was hard to breathe. Her mouth was dry–filled with rags. She tried moving, but the the rub of ropes on her arms and legs left no room for it. She could feel her pulse quicken in her temples as the reality of her situation set in. She had apparently been very wrong about how recognizable she was. And about how badly Pestor Ulric wanted her dead.

As her heartbeat throbbed faster, her wiggling became more spastic. Each failed attempt to escape the ropes increased her mounting hopelessness.  She tried to clear her thoughts.  Panicking will only hurt you she told herself. But whomever had done the ropes knew what they were doing. She tried to take deep, calming breaths. But the gag restricting her breathing only fueled her panic. She was on the verge of screaming when she heard a hand on a doorknob. She went completely limp, doing her best imitation of unconsciousness.

“You’re not fooling anyone, witch.” Came a man’s voice a moment later, accompanied by a sharp kick to her thigh. Caught, Jeanette tried to rise to a sitting position. She forced herself to be calm. The man had a Lauglen accent. Whatever trouble she was in, she wasn’t back with the army. Yet.

“Hrmmn nm muuuh!” Jeanette knew he wouldn’t understand her. She didn’t even actually say anything—but how else to get his attention? There was a pause before he responded.

“Rewards almost the same if you’re dead, which you will be if you scream.” She felt hands at the back of her neck fiddling with a knot. The rope slackened, and she spat it out, along with a soiled rag. She enjoyed several deep breaths.

“I can pay you.” she croaked through dry lips. The offer sounded weak even to her. She wasn’t surprised to hear her captor chortling.

“First, no you can’t. You barely had any coin on you. And if you were rich or powerful back in Rotain, then the army wouldn’t have a 300 crown bounty on your ass.” Jeanette winced, hoping Alger wasn’t in the same room. The promise of 300 crowns would overwhelm the paltry charms of the Xulcam pollen.

“Second, even if you could pay more, I’ve already sent a runner to your Governor. Ten thousand crowns wouldn’t be enough to save me if I let you go. I’d be dead just as surely as you’re gonna to be. No dice.”

Jeanette searched for anything she might offer in exchange for freedom. There was nothing. No bargain would get her out of this. She would have to escape. She needed to be easy, calm, and friendly. She needed to create opportunities, which might become cracks she could wriggle out of.

“Can…can you at least bring me—us, my friend and I—some food? The army’s at least a few days out. We’ll need to eat if you don’t want to hand over a pair of corpses.” Again, the man paused before responding. Either he was slow in the head, or he was being much too cautious.

“Yeah, alright. I think there’s some old mash out in the other room.”

Jeanette heard him moving, the opening and closing of a door, and the turning of a lock. A few seconds later the sounds repeated in reverse.  If he locked the door just to walk across a room, when she was already bound, then he wasn’t slow.  He was cautious.

Hands freed her arms from their binding, and removed her blindfold. He could have made her eat blind. That small mercy would at least give Jeanette a chance to examine her surroundings. She saw a cold bowl of beige gruel on the floor near her, Alger was a few feet away, still unconscious. There was blood on his temples. She guessed he’d put up more of a fight than she had.

She reached out for the bowl, knowing better than to push her luck asking for a spoon. She dug into the mash with her fingers. A few mouthfuls in, she looked up at her captor.

“Thank you…um”

“Banros” he replied, after another pause.

“Thank you, Banros.” She returned to her food, glancing around the room between scoops. She tried to look curious, rather than calculating. He was watching her. They weren’t in a proper cell for prisoners. It was clear the room had another purpose most of the time. A rudimentary office, free of adornment save for a large map hanging on the wall. It was printed on a yellowing vellum. She could tell at a glance that it was an older artifact than she’d expect to find in a place like this.

looks like a Brimese map. A Nobeli villa-city, right?” She kept her eyes on the map, avoiding the temptation to look at his reaction. He waited so long to reply that she began to wonder if he’d actually heard her at all.

“Finish eating.” He said. He was trying to sound stern, but Jeanette caught the shift in his tone. His curiosity was at odds with his better judgement.

“I’m Nobeli, you know. My mother’s line traces back to the heyday of the Brimese Empire. It’s where my magic comes from.” This was true, as far as she knew. At the least, it had always helped to enhance her mysterious image.

“Last chance to be eat.” Banros said. He was definitely interested. Jeanette didn’t know why, but it was a crack in her cage. She returned to her food. She needed to pique his curiosity further, without pushing him too far. As she tried to suss out her next move, he saved her the trouble.

“They said you were a witch, but if you’re so damn magical why are you tied up on my floor?”

“It’s a subtle thing.” Jeanette said. “You’re smart enough to know old stories exaggerate.” His eyes flared, and Jeanette knew she’d misstepped before he spoke.

“Don’t patronize me.” he said, his voice steely. “You’re done eating, and when my runner gets back in a few days, I’m turning you over to the army. That’s it.”

Jeanette opened her mouth to smooth things over, but he was already shoving rags into it. The knots he tied on her arms felt even tighter than before. He left in a hurry, and the door lock sounded behind him. Whether through kindness or carelessness, he’d left her eyes uncovered. That was something.

Jeanette weighed her options. It was clear that the map was important to Banros. It was also clear  that he thought she might have some value with regard to it. It wasn’t clear what that value might be. But, given another opportunity, she might work his interest into an advantage. If she made her captivity too difficult, then preventing her escape would distract him. That would limit her opportunities to talk to him.

She had a few days at least. Long enough to try talking a few more times. If that didn’t work, she could always try to escape later.

She spied a mouldering pile of hay in the corner. With the little mobility she had, she scooted closer until she could roll onto it. Once she got used to the smell, she drifted to sleep.

“Wake up!” The harsh whisper cut through Jeanette’s light doze. It felt like she’d been asleep for hours, but she didn’t feel any better for the rest. The room was dark, but enough light was visible under the doorway that the sun must be up.

“You living?” the voice came again. Alger had managed to work the gag out of his mouth. She tried to shush him, but all she could produce was a vague “Phuuuph!” which didn’t seem to have any impact on the soldier.

“Work it off, it’s not hard!” he hissed across the black room. Jeanette began to work against the gag with her lips and tongue. She slid the ropes over her lower lip inch-by-inch. After long minutes, the ropes fell to hang loose around her neck. She coughed the rags out of her mouth. Her throat was painfully dry.

“Be quiet!” she spat at Alger. He ignored her.

“Listen, we’re not in army hands yet. But soon enough we will. We gotta get to running.”

“How do you know that?” she asked.

“You’re in ropes, I’m in rusty irons. Army has better gear. Now you wiggle free, can you magic my locks?”

“No.”

“Then find the damned key! Ropes is easy. Then I’ll–” the pair’s whispered argument fell silent as footsteps sounded outside. A moment later the lock turned, and Banros entered again, holding a steaming bowl.

“Got your gags free, huh?” he said with unsettling cheerfulness. “That’s always a hard hole to keep plugged.” He set the bowl down in front of Jeanette, and fished a spoon out of his pocket. Hot mash, with an egg. Jeanette forced her face to remain neutral. Her captor’s sudden kindness meant he’d decided Jeanette had some power. She needed to figure out just how much power she had.

Jeanette stared Banros in the eye. Alger looked between them, confused about what he’d missed. The room was quiet.

“So,” Banros spoke first “you know something about my map. I can make sure you have a bed and some hot food for the next few days. Much better than sleeping on the floor and eating the scraps we remember to toss you.” Jeanette let her captor’s offer hang in the air while she mulled over how to proceed.

“Could you give this food to my companion?” Jeanette nodded towards Alger. “I’m still full from last night.” Banros looked confused, but picked up the bowl and set it before the soldier. Hands still bound, Alger burried his face into the bowl without shame.

“Thanks.” Jeanette said, careful not to sound grateful. He needed to know that she wouldn’t be persuaded with creature comforts. And it didn’t hurt to show Alger a little loyalty. He might come in handy during an escape.

“What do you know about your map?” Jeanette asked.

“I know it’s a Brimese ruin. I know around about where to find it. And I suspect there’s a fair amount of booty to plunder from it.” Banros replied.

“Then what do you need from me? Loot it.”

“I need to know what hexes might be on a place like that, and how to ward them away.”

Jeanette had no idea, but answered anyway.

“There’s no such thing as a standard set of protective hexes. I’d have to be there, sense them for myself.”

“I can’t do that.” Banros replied, frustration evident in his voice. “You can help me and these last few days will be comfortable, or you can be coy and miserable.”

“I don’t know why you think I can tell you so much just from looking at a map. There’s nothing I can tell you without being there.”

Before the last words had left her mouth, Banros leaped to his feet and threw his stool at the wall. It struck a few feet from her head, and bounced onto the floor with a clatter. His face was flush with rage, and Jeanette saw a knife in his hand that hadn’t been there before.

“Don’t fuck with me, witch! You know you aren’t worth much more alive than dead. So here’s the deal: you tell me how to avoid the ghosts in that place or I gut you here and now and save the army the trouble!”

Jeanette couldn’t help squirming away in fear. She was helpless. If he was going to kill her, she was already dead. She was already spinning together some hokey bullshit in her head. Something to satisfy his curiosity and get him away from her. She stopped herself. Satisfying him would get her nothing. The worst he could do now would be to kill her a few days earlier than she was scheduled to die anyway. And if Banros killed her, at least her death would include a lot less torture. She had nothing to lose.

“Why are you so scared of thousand year old wizard tricks?” Jeanette asked, refusing to brace herself against the blow that was sure to follow. It surprised her when, instead, the anger drained from Banros’ face. He slumped into a nearby chair, and rubbed his forehead with his free hand.

“It’s not me. I’ve been to the place before, years ago. Way out in the lowland woods, where nobodys been since the Brim left. Untouched. Probably filled with the kind of loot you could live on the rest of your life. I’d risk ghosts and curses for that. But my boys won’t, and I won’t risk it alone. I thought if I could get some specifics from you then maybe…to hell with it.” He stood and made for the exit.

“Wait!” Alger burst out, speaking for the first time since Banros entered. “We’ll go with you. Watch your back.” he looked to Jeanette for support.

“Absolutely.” she said. Banros paused halfway through the door, but didn’t look back.

“You’d stab me in the back the minute we were out of the city.” he said. Alger winced, and Jeanette thought that had likely been exactly what he was planning. She hurried to pick up the slack.

“I can cast the unbreakable promise spell! We’ll bind ourselves to you.” Now Banros did turn around. He stepped back into the room and closed the door halfway behind him.

“Once cast, we would die if we betrayed you.” Jeanette continued.

“You can’t escape a few ropes and a locked door, but I should trust my life to your witchery?” Banros asked.

“I told you. It’s a subtle thing.” Jeanette replied. “But promises are sacred, they already have a bit of magic about them. There’s an ancient ritual which strengthens that magic. Makes it deadly to the oath breaker. We’d waste away in a few days if we betrayed the conditions of the promise.” Banros’ silence was encouraging.

“There’s still the Governor and his army.” Banros rejoined after a moment “Somebody will get the blame for your escape. I’ve got no intention of being too busy running for my life to spend my money in comfort.”

“Who’s the easy ones for the Gov’ to blame?” Alger asked, “A man already far away? A man for whom a new hunt must begin? OR, your cowardly fellows who will be right here for the hanging?”

Banros gave Alger a serious look, then peeked back into the room beyond the door. He closed it.

“How do we cast the spell?” Banros asked.

“A candle and a copper coin.” Jeanette said. “And we’ll both need our hands and legs free.” Banros quickly found both nearby, and freed his new allies. Jeanette fussed over the precise way the other two should stand, and how they should hold their hands. While, in her head, she worked out the performance of this “Spell.”

She put the coin on the back of the Banros’ left hand, and stacked her’s and Alger’s hands atop that. With her right, she held the candle a foot beneath their stacked limbs. Banros winced as the heat from the tiny flame burned him.

“The magic must burn through us, do not pull away!” she insisted. Distracting pain always made spells feel more solemn.

Jeanette muttered a poem in Brimese that she’d learned as a child. It was  about a little girl who danced too wildly, broke a sacred vessel, and became cursed with two left feet. But to people who’d never learned the ancient tongue, it sounded portentous. After two lines of the poem she said in the common tongue:

“Alger and Jeanette do solemnly swear to assist and protect the coinbearer, Banros, on his journey to seek wealth in the homes of the long dead!” She then pressed all three hands down hard, extinguishing the candle’s flame. Banros, burned by the wax, gritted profanities through his teeth and dropped the coin. Jeanette retrieved it, and held it out to him.

“So long as you hold this coin, we must abide by our promise, or we will die.”

Banros, shaking his hand to soothe the burn, stared at the coin. There was fear in his eyes. With a trembling hand, he reached for the coin as though it might shatter like glass. He hefted it in his burned palm.

“It’s cool.” he murmured. “It feels heavier.” Jeanette resisted the urge to roll her eyes at the awe in his voice.

“Wait for me here.” Banros said, sliding the coin into a pocket inside his vest. “I’ll get your things and make sure the coast is clear, then we’ll be on our way.”

Daughter of Tangled Corpses: Part 1

art by Moreven Brushwood

In late 2014 I wrote a short fiction series for a website that no longer exists. At present, the story hasn’t been available anywhere for several years, and since the rights have long since reverted back to me, I thought I’d take the opportunity to commission some new art for each of the 5 chapters, and republish them here on Papers & Pencils.

The site will be updating daily until the story is complete, so be sure to check back! I hope you enjoy The Daughter of Tangled Corpses.


At best, Jeanette had maybe ten minutes before the messenger’s body was discovered. She tumbled through the hole she’d slashed in the back of her tent, and into the mud. She forced herself to her feet and pulled her skirts up for a sprint to the edge of camp. The scene she’d left behind wasn’t hard to interpret. When Governor Ulric was told, he’d order her immediate execution. Of course, he’d been planning to do that anyway. He just hadn’t expected her to figure it out in advance.

Her tent was near the war camp’s edge. A fortuitous effect of being the Governor’s secret shame. Unfortunately that edge was also the furthest from the camp’s single gate. Without fleeing through an entire camp of soldiers–who may already be in a mood to burn her alive — escape would mean climbing the wall.

She clung to her skirts, struggling not to drop her book or her knife as she fled through the ankle-deep mud and driving rain. Ahead she saw a guard patrolling the inside of the palisade. He looked at her with curiosity. Good, she thought. He didn’t know Jeanette was the scapegoat yet. His confusion made it easy for her to throw herself against his chest—knife first. As he fell she managed to plunge the knife into him four more times, and he had the courtesy to die quietly.

Rising, she dropped her skirts and sheathed her still bloody knife. She checked her book’s clasp, took it in both hands, and heaved it over the palisade. As she watched it tumble over the wall’s spires, she was already bunching up her gown to loop between her legs, and tie together in the front. The wall was more than twice her own height. She didn’t have time to waste.

She tried, first, to find hand and foot holds in the wall to climb with, but she couldn’t even get both feet off the ground. Fuck I am going to die, she thought as she spun around, looking for anything that could help her get over. There was a trio of barrels nearby, but stacking them would be a feat of strength beyond her ability. Her eyes fell on the dead guard’s spear. She grabbed it, and hurled it into the wood of the palisade, where it stuck. With great effort she rolled one of the barrels through the mud, and turned it upright. If she could get a leg-up from the spear, she should be able to reach the top. She climbed onto the barrel, but the moment her weight touched the spear it dislodged, and she careened down to land on the dead man below.

Growling, she hefted the spear and climbed back atop barrel. The angle was awkward, but she thrust the spear in, careful to keep the tip horizontal and angled downwards between two of the palisade’s trunks. Hopping down, she rolled another barrel over near the end of the spear, aware of every lengthy second the process took. She used the dead man’s helmet to hammer the butt of the spear in as hard as she could. After a few good blows, she heard cries of alarm in the tent she’d fled from. No more time. No more chances.

She sprinted for the wall, leaping up to the barrel and clambering to her feet. She raised a leg to rest gently on the spear. She paused for a deep breath, then hurled herself forwards and upwards against the unstable foothold. The spear drooped, but she kept her momentum. In the space of a heartbeat her hands were clasping at the pointed tops of the palisade trunks as the spear fell away beneath her.

The muddy schlupping of running feet drew closer. Fear pumped through her, fueling her straining arms which otherwise would have given out already. She swung a leg over the wall, and heaved her body up to straddle it with a defiant howl. Just as she balanced herself, an arrow flew from below and struck her just above the left elbow. It pierced through the meat and stuck into a bit of stomach flab.

She allowed herself to fall, limp, off the outside of the wall. The wet thunk of her body crashing into the mud didn’t sound half as bad as it felt. For a moment she lay still, blinking away the rain that pelted her face. She knew she wasn’t free, but it was hard to justify anything other then lying still. She could hear Urlic’s voice now, shouting for his men to get a ladder, and sending word for soldiers to move around outside the wall.

His voice was angry. He said something about ‘avenging fallen comrades.’ Jeanette felt some satisfaction knowing she’d judged him correctly. He did intend to scapegoat her as a witch for his disastrous defeat on the field today. As though it were her fault her palm reading had been accurate enough one time to convince him to plan wars around her vague chicanery.

She was still lying in the mud. You’re going to die, she chided. She forced her body to roll, to get her hands under herself. She heaved against the ground, pulling her feet under her and stumbling away from the wall. Ignoring the pain, she willed herself to run for the distant tree line. Scapegoat or not, she’d be the one that was set on fire. She would not be set on fire.

Her vision of the trees wavered and she stumbled. Her head was pounding and bile was rising in her throat, but she forced it down. She kept running, focusing on the trees, and doing her best not to trip over her own feet. Blood from her side ran down to her hip, its warmth contrasting with the chill of the hard-falling rain. But still she pumped her legs, each step taking her closer to the tree line. An arrow struck the ground a few feet from her, and she realized she’d heard at least a half dozen others falling around her already.

She tried zig-zagging to make the archer’s task harder, but she already felt as though she was moving slower than normal. Like running in a dream. She settled on a beeline for the trees. The trees would save her. They were thick. Arrows couldn’t get her there.

Soldiers could, though.

The falling arrows were close around now. Even with the dark and rain, the growing number of archers climbing the walls made it ever more likely one would hit. Only a few yards more. One struck the shaft of the arrow still embedded in her arm, causing it to twinge. She lurched, and opened her mouth to scream, but had no breath to do it with.

And then she was among the trees. Jeanette felt as though she was suddenly moving faster as their trunks whipped past her on either side. She couldn’t see more than a few steps ahead. She stopped running for a moment to break the shaft of the arrow in her arm. The last thing she needed was to impale herself by slamming it into a tree.

She needed to rest. She had no time. She starting running again.

She had no idea where she was, but angled her flight away from where she’d entered the woods. They’d search for her everywhere, but there was no point making it easy for them by continuing to run in a straight line.

There were shouting voices behind her, but they sounded distant. Relief began to creep into her mind. No! she thought, clamping down on that relief. You are almost certainly going to die tonight. Whatever slim chance of survival you’ve got relies on NOT GETTING SLOPPY.

She forced her legs to keep pumping up and down for what felt like hours, hoping all the while that she wasn’t running back towards camp. The black sky denied her any lights to guide herself by. Occasionally she heard men or horses. She knew she was never more than a throw of the dice away from being caught and dragged to her death.

Her legs finally gave out beneath her, and she tumbled onto her face. She scrambled back up with her hands and legs, but the world swam around her and she collapsed again. Her body could not flee any longer. It took every ounce of willpower she had not to lose consciousness. She looked around for some place to hide, and saw an upturned tree with a hollow of dirt beneath it. She dragged her body towards it, unable even to crawl now without stumbling. She wriggled into it, curling herself into a ball for warmth. There was a sharp pain on her thigh. She craned her head to find a rabbit biting at her in defense of its hovel.

With her last ounce of strength she took hold of the animal and broke its neck before falling into deep unconsciousness.

I didn’t bleed to death, Jeanette thought, as a fuzzy semblance of wakefulness returned to her. She squinted against the intrusion of the bright midday light. Apparently they didn’t find me, either. That’s two strokes of luck I’ll have to pay for eventually. Though, the clear and sunny day and her long sleep went some way towards paying that debt. They’d have resumed the search hours ago, and if they got close she’d be easy to spot.

She struggled to pull herself out of the cramped hovel, beset by every ache she’d earned the night before. The most pressing among them was the cavernous ache in her stomach which demanded she find food. She tried to push it down, focusing instead on her arrow wound.

The gouge in her torso where the arrow had gone through wasn’t all that bad. It hurt when she poked it, but she had bruises that hurt more. Which, she hoped, meant the wound was shallow enough to ignore. Her arm was in much worse shape. It was pale, and felt like pins and needles when she tried to move it. The blood around the holes was crusty and dark.

She untied her gown from around her waist, and fumbled to get her knife into her off-hand. She had to cut her dress up to the knees before getting a strip of cloth that wasn’t caked with mud. Makeshift bandage at the ready, she gave the arrowhead a gentle test tug, and felt the meat of her arm painfully tugged with it. This was going to hurt a lot.

She yanked hard, and the arrow shaft tore its way out of her arm, releasing a fresh gout of blood. She wrapped the bandage, careful to place the cleanest spots she could over the wound’s two openings. The pins and needles in her arm got worse as blood dribbled down to her elbow. She was relieved as it slowed, then finally stopped. She tied off the bandage to keep pressure on.

Climbing to her feet, Jeanette assessed her surroundings. The trees were close about her, which was good. So long as she didn’t make any noise, search parties would need to get close before they could spot her. Doesn’t mean I can sit still, though, she thought. Without landmarks, she couldn’t be sure just what direction the camp was in. She did remember the tree she’d hidden under had been on her right last night. So, if she stood with the hollow to her right and walked in that direction, it ought to be away from camp. She checked to make sure she had her knife and her book with her, and–

Fuck.

Jeanette dug her fingers into her brow, and groaned, despite the need for quiet. She didn’t have her book. She’d had it when she left the tent, but didn’t remember picking it up after falling over the wall. She knew she hadn’t been holding it during her mad dash across the field. She pounded her fists into her forehead. That had been it. The book was her one real source of magic. The one thing she could turn to when her parlor tricks didn’t cut it.

A metallic thunk and a blow that sent her sprawling flat on her face cut Jeanette’s recrimination short. She spun onto her back to see a soldier rearing his leg back to deliver a savage kick to her bruised right thigh. She yelped in pain and tried to roll away, to get to her feet, to run again. Before she even got her knee under herself he’d stepped forward and kicked again. She collapsed into a fetal ball.

“That’s sixty gold crowns for me, witch!” the man cheered, slurring his words over an ugly accent. He bent to roll her over, but Jeanette lashed out with her arms and legs like a cornered animal, catching him above the eye with her foot. He stumbled back, but didn’t fall. She scrambled to her feet and ran. He heavy footsteps were at her back in an instant. Before she’d covered five yards he slammed his body into hers, crushing her against a nearby tree. She fell again, feeling as though every bone she had was broken.

“I’d dash your brains here if it’s my choosing,” he snarled, kneeling on her back as he secured her arms. “But Governer Ulric wants you burned crisp for all to see, so you’ll live ’til I’ve been paid!” Wriggling in panic, Jeanette managed to free her good hand. She dove for one of the pouches on her belt, praying its contents hadn’t been ruined by the rain. The Soldier clasped her shoulder and flipped her over. His fist rose to deliver a punch, but went limp as the yellow powder she threw struck his face. His eyes became glassy and unfocused. She tried to speak, but could only gurgle for long terrifying seconds before finally croaking out

“You helped me escape because you don’t want any harm to come to me!”

She lay still, staring up at him in silence. The pollen of the Xulcam flower was a hit-and-miss. But he didn’t look too smart. If it was working, his mind and memories would be folding over on themselves. Trying to accommodate the new information. If it wasn’t working, he’d probably go crazy and beat her to death. As the silence stretched on, she was very aware of the buzzing in her ears, and the narrowing field of vision from her swelling eye. She tasted blood.

Then the soldier was rising to his feet, and helping her onto her’s.

“You’ve been beat harsh! Did you catch the way he went running?” he asked. Jeanette shook her head, too taken aback to trust herself speaking.

“We’d better get out of here before he gets back, though.” she said. “He’s likely to bring a dozen horsemen with him.”

“Yarb, true. Nothing can harm you if I want the 60 gold crowns you owe me!” he answered. She nodded, and the pair began to move off.

As she limped along beside him, Jeanette allowed herself a small, painful, grin.

 

Death Touched

I recently wrote a piece of short fiction about a magic user, a fighter, and a specialist who band together to go treasure hunting in a dungeon deep in the forgotten wilderness. OSR Today has graciously given my fiction a home, and for the last 5 weeks, one chapter of my story has been going up every Friday. As of today, the final chapter has been posted, and you can now read the story in full.

November 26, 2018 Update: OSR Today went belly up almost immediately. It turns out that attempting to create a commercial hub catering to a small, distributed, independently minded artistic movement doesn’t work. I’ve since uploaded these same stories to my own site under the much better name “Daughter of Tangled Corpses.” The links below will redirect to those posts.

Death Touched Part 1.

Death Touched Part 2.

Death Touched Part 3.

Death Touched Part 4.

Death Touched Part 5.

 
It only now occurs to me that perhaps I ought to have been making blog posts about this the whole time. Self promotion doesn’t really come naturally to me. I’ll do better next time.

The Girl and the Granite Throne: Chapter Five

Erin and Byert sat in the cobbler’s shop, sipping tea his wife had brought to them. It was dark now, and the cobbler had been out for several hours letting the other faithful know that there would be a gathering that evening. He had told her they may not be ready until late into the night. Some of the faithful would need to cancel plans or make excuses in order to sneak away for an unscheduled meeting such as this. She tried to act as though that’s what she had expected–but truthfully the thought hadn’t occurred to her. Though she followed the god of secrets, she’d spent most of her life among the god’s followers, and never needed to make excuses for pursuing his ends.

The cobbler’s wife–Nara, if Erin recalled correctly–entered the room with clasped hands.

“They’re ready for you now, mistress” the woman said. Erin thanked her. No need to be haughty when someone was already showing you the proper respect. She stepped out of the room, gesturing for Byert and ‘Nara’ to follow. They descended the hidden staircase, not bothering to close the shelf behind them as it was well past midnight. The walk through the tunnel was brief, and they emerged into the meeting room to find it filled with a scant handful of people. Erin took count, there were only nine, including the cobbler and his wife. Nine faithful to help her conquer a town of over a thousand. She’d known her resources were scarce when she made her plans with Immar, but seeing their numbers in front of her made the task seem all the more impossible.

She did her best to put her uncertainty aside. She needed to appear confident, and authoritative. Again she strode to the center of the room, and stood behind the altar.

“Do you know who I am?” she asked, hoping she sounded intimidating. Every head in the room nodded, and she hoped that was a good sign. “Good. Then here’s what you need to know: the government of Heathrop has been deemed corrupt by The Bite. It must be cleansed by the brilliance of the Hidden Lord. Tomorrow night, during the festival of high summer, we shall take the town as our own.”

Erin paused for their reactions, and she wasn’t disappointed. They looked shocked, and rightfully so. She had not, nor would she, mention that several Trenche of Illumian warblades would be coming in to handle most of the fighting. They didn’t need to know that. Immar trusted the faithful of Heathrop, but he wasn’t willing to let his entire plan hinge on their discretion.

Erin continued, without acknowledging their trepidation. “I was told that one among you is a local brewer, is that correct?” A thin young man stepped forward, clasping his hands nervously.

“That would be me, ma’am.”

“Excellent,” she said. Loatie hopped out of one of her robe’s many pockets with two plants in his mouth. She took them and held them up to the young man. “Are you familiar with these two flowers, brewer?”

“Well, the red ones grow just outside town.” he replied. “I’m not familiar with this thorny one, though.”

“It grows in the woods, about half a mile south near the edge of the stream. Tomorrow I want all of you to gather as many of these flowers as you can before mid afternoon. Once you’ve got them, you’ll crush four of the red ones and two of the thorny ones into each barrel of ale you’ve got. Together with the alcohol, they form a powerful sleeping agent. During the festival tomorrow evening, you’ll be giving away as much free ale as you have. Do you understand?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Good. Now who is the priest that leads this congregation?” The eldest of the group straightened up

“I am Erbon Illad, a Thought of the Hidden Lord.”

“And our lord has blessed you with the ability to raise those who have fallen as our allies?”

“He has.”

“Then you and I shall travel to the graveyard as the festival begins. My magics have not yet granted me that ability, but my warblade companion and I can protect you as you chant your spells.”

“Perhaps you overestimate my power, ma’am.” the priest said, choosing his words carefully so as not to offend her, “I cannot raise enough to subdue the town’s guard.”

“I don’t expect you to.” Erin replied, “I merely expect you to raise as many as you can.” The priest looked unsure, but bowed in submission.

Erin looked out over the room again “The remaining seven of you will also have a task to perform during the festival. As you know, there are three armories in town for the militia to arm themselves from, should the town come under attack. These buildings are locked, but not guarded. As twilight approaches, shortly before the festivities begin, you will force your way into the armory nearest the town square, and barricade it from any entry. With everyone in the town square for the festival, the other two armories will be too far away to do them any good.”

“I assume everyone understands what I’m asking of them. Are there any questions?” Another young man, this one more broadly built than the brewer, spoke up.

“That’s hardly enough for us to take the town, ma’am.”

“No, it is not.” Erin agreed. “But it is what you will do.”

The man snarled “And why should we think this girl speaks for the Maimed Lord?” he shouted, half turning to his fellows. Byert began to step forward, but Erin was already moving. Swinging her duom spear in a wide arc, she brought the steel shaft across the blaggard’s temple, hard. He dropped to the ground with an ugly thud, some blood dribbling from his slack lip.

“You had led me to believe that my credentials were well understood, but let me repeat myself. I am Erin Wallcraft, sent on behalf of Immar Twistfinger, known to you as The Bite. I speak for him. When this brute wakes, I trust you’ll inform him of why my orders are to be followed, yes?” She turned immediately and strode to the exit, trying to hide the smile creeping on to her face. Her delivery of that speech had been much better this time.

She caught only a glimpse of their frightened nods as she left. They were…satisfying.

Erin took a room at the Heathrop Inn and got as much rest as she could. She instructed Loatie not to wake her, and without him she slept well into the midmorning. When she woke, she studied her spellbook more carefully than normal, knowing the incantations selected would be the ones she took with her into battle. It took her over an hour to meticulously lay the pathways for each spell in her mind, focusing the complex energies of the arcane so that when she needed, she would be able to release them with a snap of her fingers, rather than a twenty minute ritual. It was very nearly noon before she walked out of her room to meet Byert downstairs.

With her plans already set in motion, there was little to do but wait for the evening. The pair spent their time walking through the streets, examining the guard’s movements, and the festival preparations. They hoped to spot some of the paladins and take their measure, but the two of them had no more luck on that count than Erin had the day before. They checked the armories to ensure no guards had been posted there as part of the festival preparations, and did their best to familiarize themselves better with the streets which would soon be their battlefield.

The waiting was interminable. Erin’s stomach was twisting itself into knots, and she frequently caught herself gritting her teeth. She just wanted the fighting to start already. The danger couldn’t be any worse than the waiting was. She had skipped breakfast, and wasn’t feeling hungry at all. If anything, the thought of food nauseated her. It took Byert an hour to convince her to join him in a small meal purchased from a street vendor. The two sat by the side of the cart. Byert ate vigorously, and Erin envied his calm. Young though he was, this would probably not be his first time in combat. The best she could manage was to nibble at the steamed vegetables and sweet bread.

Suddenly, she was struck from behind, and nearly bowled over. Regretting that she left her spear in the Cobbler’s shop, she brought a spell to mind, and nearly cast it before she noticed a man’s form tumble to the side of her. She righted herself, dropping her food to the dirt road and leaping to her feet. She noticed Byert was already up, clutching a small dagger she hadn’t realized he was carrying. The tumbling man was sprawled in the street, face down. With a quiet hiss and a nod, Erin indicated Byert should put the dagger away, and it disappeared into his sleeve.

“Are you alright?” she asked the man, trying to sound like someone who hadn’t been convinced she was under attack a moment ago. He made it to his knees, and Erin offered him a hand to help him to his feet.

“I’m fine, but what about you? I’m so sorry, I ought to look where I’m going!”

“It’s no problem, you just startled us is a-” Erin trailed off as her eyes met his. He was gods-damned gorgeous. He stared back at her, and it seemed as though a long time passed before he spoke again.

“Well…if you’re sure you’re alright, I won’t impose on your time.” he said, offering her a small bow before turning and taking a step away. He didn’t get further than that before he stopped, and turned around to face her again.

“I’m sorry for being so presumptuous, miss, but will you be attending the festival tonight? Would it be possible for me to meet you there? I am told the local cuisine is particularly superb during festivals, and I would be happy to treat you and your companion by way of an apology. I clearly owe you that much.” He indicated Erin’s lunch lying in the road. Her lip quirked a bit. This would have been a pleasant surprise at any other time.

Vecna did love his irony.

“You’ll see me there.” she said, trying to sound alluring rather than ominous, and not sure she succeeded.

“Excellent. I’m glad.” he said with a smile. He reached out a hand to shake hers. “I’m Sarin, by the way. And you are?”

Erin returned his smile “You can meet me properly tonight. Much more fun that way.” It took a significant force of will not to visibly wince at her own pitiful attempt at dodging the question. She wasn’t even sure why she’d done it, it’s not as though her name would give anything away. Fortunately for her, he seemed oblivious to just how awkward she was being.

“Then I’ll meet you tonight. Good day, miss!” he said cheerily, before bowing once more and turning to leave. She stared after him for a moment before Byert stepped up beside her,

“We should get moving” he said in a low voice. “Twilight is approaching, and we should equip ourselves before meeting with the others.”

Erin nodded, returning to the grim present.

The two made their way back to the cobbler’s home, where they’d left their more obvious combat gear the night before. Adventurers passed through town often enough that she doubted anyone would have found it terribly suspicious if they had kept it with them but there was no need to risk undue attention. Byert donned the light leather-and-chain he had brought, strapped his sword to his side, and his shield to his back. Erin, meanwhile got out of her non-threatening robes, and changed into her more comfortable breeches. She was relieved to take possession of her Duom back from the cobbler’s wife. It had only been a few days since it had been given to her, but she’d felt naked without it.

When they emerged from the back room, the old priest from the meeting was waiting for them. Erin stepped forward and nodded curtly.

“Good eve, Thought.” she said, addressing the priest by his formal title.

“And to you, Tooth.” he replied, using hers.

“Does your congregation understand my instructions?”

“They are being implemented as we speak. We all spent the day gathering the herbs you showed us. When I last saw Horace, he was beginning to add your concoction to his brew. The rest will meet at the armory 15 minutes after the evening lamps are lit and the festivities begin.” He smiled a wicked smile “And I am here to lead you to the graveyard. At a casual stroll, we should arrive shortly after full darkness.”

“Lead the way then, Thought.” Erin said, giving him a smile of her own. “And may the hidden lord see our victory in his right eye, and our failure in his left.”

“Let us pray it will be so.” replied the priest.

The three moved casually through the streets, taking side roads and avoiding any paths with the sounds of people coming from them. Not that there were many people to be avoided. Everyone had already gathered in the center of town for the festival of high summer, leaving the side roads deserted. As the priest had estimated, they reached the graveyard not long after dark. It was a modest plot of land a few hundred feet away from the nearest building of the town proper. The local custom of planting a small bush on each plot was the only indication that anyone was buried there.

The old priest nearly skipped as he approached. Despite his earlier trepidation, he seemed eager to begin. If Erin had to guess, she’d say he had rarely had the opportunity to reanimate the dead. Immar had told told her the feeling of power was an intoxicating experience.

“They’re too deep for us to dig up quickly” he said. He was trying to keep his voice low, but Erin could hear the excitement in it. “They’ll have to dig themselves out, but the spell will take longer if I can’t touch the bodies. I’ll raise as many as I can.”

“Be quick about it, Thought.” Erin said, turning to look back towards the town. “Our time is limited, and The Bite is relying on us to do our job well.” His only reply was to begin chanting the reanimation ritual behind her.

“Byert,” she called the the warrior, standing just a few feet away. “Keep your eyes peeled for anyone who might be within sight or hearing. If the town is alerted to this before we’re ready, then the entire plan will fail.” The warblade nodded. He’d already subdued his lighted runes to help his night vision, and was peering out at the town intently.

A quarter hour passed, then another, then a third. The edges of the town remained dark, and the sounds of the festival remained distant. Every few minutes Erin heard the squish of dirt as another skeletal creature clawed its way out of the ground to stand behind the chanting priest. It was a half hour longer before Erin saw it—a flare of light. Red and yellow dancing around each other as they flew into the air, and paused just past the treeline.

The Illumians had entered the city.

“Alright!” Erin called behind her, so terrified it was a wonder her voice didn’t crack. “The signal has been raised. Thought, lead your skeletons towards the center of town and drive anyone you come across back that way. Don’t let anyone escape!”

“Yes, my lady!” the priest roared. To his newly raised minions he commanded, “Now, through the city! Drag any who flee back to its center!”

Silently, the dozen and a half skeletons slinked towards town, with the priest behind them shouting praises to his god as though the battle was over, rather than just beginning.

Erin chanted a spell of protection for herself, running through the words and gestures quickly to surround herself in a magical field. It wasn’t as good as a suit of armor, but it was better than going into battle in nothing but her breeches and blouse. And, unlike armor, it wouldn’t hinder her movement enough to make the gestural aspect of spellcasting difficult.

“Byert, my magic is best used from a distance. We need to find the closest area of heavy fighting so I can assist.”

“Lets climb to a rooftop, then.” the warblade suggested. “It will give us a better vantage point, and provide us with some cover if any bowmen spot us.”

“Good thinking.” Erin replied, already running off towards the buildings. Byert was close on her heels. They dodged through the streets, moving closer to the town square, and trying to avoid any minor skirmishes as they approached the center of the fighting. They found a nice two-story building–the Inn they’d stayed in the previous night, actually–which would give Erin a good vantage point to cast from. It had a gnarled tree beside it which was easy enough to climb, though Byert’s armor gave him some trouble.

They made it to the roof and walked carefully towards the edge. What they saw was chaos. A large number of people were passed out, asleep from the drugged ale, but many others were armed and fighting back against a ring of llumian warblades who, masters of battle though they were, were struggling against numerous defenders each. Aside from the town guard and a few peasants with swords, there were the Paladins. Fully armored titans on the battlefield. There were fewer of them than there were of the warblades, but with Immar’s forces already overwhelmed by the townsfolk, they were no match for the seasoned crusaders. The paladins waded through the crowd, slaying the Illumians as they would animals at slaughter. She didn’t see Immar, but a lightning bolt called down from the sky to strike one of the Paladins dead told her that her master was still alive.

She was trying to determine where her help was most needed when she heard a rapid series of heavy footsteps behind her. She dropped to her face immediately, but not so quickly that she didn’t feel the wind from a large weapon pass through the space where her head had been. Erin rolled to her back to see the heavily armored paladin reverse his swing, bringing an armored elbow to bear against Byert’s head, forcibly pushing the young warrior to the side, where he stumbled and fell from the roof with a cry, and an ugly sounding thud.

The Paladin turned his gaze back towards Erin, as she frantically moved her hands and chanted the words required to release a spell. Then their eyes met, and the warrior and the wizard both froze in place. The paladin was the gorgeous young man Erin had flirted with mere hours before. He stumbled to speak.

“How…I thought you were…” he began, visibly upset. She locked eyes with him, saying nothing, but offering a silent prayer that he didn’t notice her hands finishing the motions of her spell.

He didn’t.

Erin stretched out her hand, whispering the triggering words just as the paladin raised his sword to defend. A bolt of white light shot from her index finger like an arrow, striking the man in the center of his armored chest, sending him stumbling back and giving Erin time to scramble to her feet. She leaped towards her dropped spear, and brought it to bear just in time to block another swing from the Paladin’s sword. It struck hard enough to send the spear flying from her hands and off of the roof. The force of the blow rattled the bones in her hands painfully. She had no time to react as the paladin brought his greatsword around for a second blow, connecting directly to her hip. The magical protections she had cast upon herself did a little to turn the blow, but the blade still cut into her side, and the force of it sent her stumbling towards the edge of the roof. She fell, tumbling through the air gracelessly and landing hard on the dirt road below.

A moment later she woke to Loatie frantically croaking in her face. She hadn’t even realized she’d fallen unconscious, but she wasn’t dead or in custody so it couldn’t have been very long. She tried to stand, but fell immediately prone again, nearly crushing Loatie beneath her. Her body could not support her. She dragged herself through the dirt to the wall of the building she’d fallen from, propping herself up against it to prepare for the imminent arrival of her foe. She didn’t have to wait long.

His clanking footsteps announced his presence before Erin was able to see his form in the darkness. He stood in front of her broken body, sword held at the ready.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked, sounding confused and sad. Erin made no reply, giving him a hard look with her one good eye. He raised his sword with both hands, and placed its tip over her left breast.

“I’m sorry. I’ll make it quick.” He said. Then, whispering only just loudly enough for her to hear, “You were so pretty, too.” He paused to look her in the eye before delivering the finishing blow, and in that moment Erin completed her spell.

Black energy arced between the two, filling the air with a shifting, crackling magical force. Erin couldn’t see his face in the darkness, but his shoulders slumped and the blade drooped away from her breast, then fell completely as his arms became too weak to hold the heavy steel. The paladin fell to his knees before her, breathing heavily.

“Gods, what did you do to me?” he rasped. Without answering, Erin struggled to a kneeling position, bringing herself face to face with the boy. She bore into him with her eyes, breathing hard and trying to gather her strength. The spell of weakness would last a full minute. That was enough time. She reached out to cradle his jaw in her hand.

“It’s too bad,” Erin coughed. “You were so pretty too.”

Then she placed her index finger in the boy’s mouth, and released another bolt of energy, directly into his head. His body twitched, and went suddenly limp. Erin released him and he dropped to the ground. Blood, and bits of grey matter dribbled from his gaping mouth.

She remained on her knees and stared for a long time. Stared into the blank expressionless eyes which had seemed so alluring to her only a few hours before. Then she doubled over and vomited next to his corpse. She’d hurt people before. She’d hurt a lot of people, actually. But she’d never killed anyone. But…she’d had to, right?

“I’m sorry.” she whispered, feeling a lot less sure of herself now that the immediate danger had passed.

Carefully Erin rolled the body to the side, away from the mess she’d created. She shakily pulled herself to her feet. This time she managed not to collapse. Calling for Loatie to return to her, she moved to find her spear. It had fallen off this side of the roof as well, and wasn’t difficult to retrieve. Leaning heavily on it as a walking stick, she shuffled around to the opposite side of the building, where Byert was struggling to pull himself to his hands and knees after his own fall. In the dim light of his runes, she could see his head was covered in blood. It looked like his fall had been worse than hers.

“Damnit, Warblade!” she said, trying to sound jovial as she rushed to help him to his feet. “Some protector you turned out to be!”

“I am sorry, my lady.” he said deliriously. “I’m sorry…”

“Shut up, I was joking.” she spat. The boy had enough presence of mind to force a weak courtesy chuckle.

Just then, the two heard a voice from up ahead, so loud it had to be magically enhanced.

“People of Heathrop, I come to you bearing good news!” it began. It was Immar’s voice. “Your corrupt mayor has brought my wrath down upon this town, but I do not wish to come to you as a conqueror. I have defeated you, and now I wish to liberate you…”

The old wizard continued on, but Erin stopped listening. It was clear what the speech meant – the battle was over, and her master had been victorious. With Byert standing somewhat sturdily on his feet, the two shuffled through the streets towards the center of town, leaning on one another to keep from falling over. They emerged into the town square after a few minutes, with Immar still speaking. Most of the warblades stood in a containment perimeter around the people there, while others moved into the street to search for anyone trying to flee.

As Immar finished his speech, telling the people he’d just conquered that he would lead them into a new era of enlightenment, he saw Erin and Byert near the edge of the crowd, and gestured to one of his bodyguards. She stepped down into the throng of frightened humans, and they scrambled to give her room. She escorted the two wounded teenagers up to Immar, who embraced his apprentice, grinning as though he didn’t even notice her bruises and blood soaked clothes.

“My dear girl!” he cried. “You did well! We might have been overwhelmed if not for your efforts.” Erin struggled to think of how to reply. Right now, she felt pain more acutely than any sense of victory.

A weak “Thank you” was the best she could manage.

“Please,” he continued “Name any spoil, it will be yours!”

“A week of sleep would be nice.” she said, managing a smile for her mentor. He laughed boisterously, clearly in a good mood after his victory. Then Erin noticed a group of people off to the side, away from the rest of the crowd. Perhaps two dozen of them, guarded by four Warblades.

“Who are they, Master?” she asked, nodding towards the group. Immar glanced at them. “oh, no one, really. The mayor, his cronies, and their families. I’m afraid we can’t keep them around to disrupt the utopia we will build.”

“Those two.” she pointed, indicating a pair of boys in the group. The same two boys who had mocked her the day before. “The blonde haired boys in white shirts.”

“The mayor’s sons?” Immar asked. “What about them?”

“I would have them.” she said, turning to look Immar in the eye. “They insulted me, and if I may have my pick of the spoils then I would have them.”

Immar shrugged “As you wish, my dear. Now I’m afraid I must attend to the securing our conquest. For now, take the rest you asked for. You’ve earned it.” the older wizard walked away.

Byert stepped forward, apparently having regained some of his senses. “Would you like me to cut out their tongues?”

“No” Erin let a wicked grin spread across her face, and turned back to the two pretty captives which were now hers to do with as she pleased. “I have use for their tongues.”

The Girl and the Granite Throne: Chapter Four

Erin and Byert on the road to Heathrop, by cbMorrie

This probably requires some explanation.

If you’ve been reading my blog for any length of time, you’ve probably seen the link at the top which reads ‘The Girl and the Granite Throne.’ In all likelihood, most of my readership hasn’t made a point of exploring that link or that story. Or, at least, I assume so because I probably wouldn’t have if I were them.

The Girl and the Granite Throne is a work of fiction which I started writing a little over a year ago. It follows the story of a young woman named Erin in my Regalia campaign setting. She was a pivotal NPC in that game world. Over the years we played in that world, both my players and I came to care for her a great deal. By a wide margin, Erin is the most memorable NPC I’ve ever created. I often found her much more interesting than anything else I was doing in that world. I’ve literally got a binder filled with notes about her and those who followed her.

One of the first things I did when this site began was start writing episodic fiction about Erin’s life. I had a very rough outline in mind, and a lot of notes from my Ascendant Crusade campaign. For the most part, though, I simply wrote each chapter as ideas came to me. By this time last year, I had four chapters posted, and two more outlined in great detail. That’s when I decided to start taking this blog more seriously, and began updating it five times a week instead of “whenever I felt like it.”

The increased writing schedule was really good for me in a lot of ways, and I’ve accomplished a lot since I started doing it. Unfortunately, the number of posts I started requiring of myself meant that I had difficulty finding time to write the much longer, and more difficult, Girl and the Granite Throne posts. So for nearly a year, that story has sat unfinished. Perhaps the single most consistent request I receive from my readers is that I finish the story–which is odd, because upon re-reading it, there are some very serious flaws with my pacing.

When I passed the 1 year hurdle, I made two resolutions: first, I wanted to start taking on more ambitious projects than simply putting up four ramblings a week. There’s a limit to the value of that kind of post, and if I want to continue to grow and improve, I need to move beyond them. Second, I wanted to learn to write faster. Regarding the latter goal, I’m actually doing remarkably well. I think I’ve dropped the actual time I spend typing up posts to about 25% of what it was previously. Regarding the former goal…well, the post is entitled “The Girl and the Granite Throne: Part Four,” so you take a guess.

If you haven’t yet–or if it has simply been a very long whilte–I recommend you read the story so far before continuing below:

Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3

The Girl and the Granite Throne Chapter 4


“You cannot be serious. Never?” Erin asked in disbelief. Byert, following a few paces behind, kept his eyes fixed on the ground.

“Not as such, miss. No.”

“Well hells, you ought to. It’s fantastic, and it’s not as though you’d have any trouble finding someone willing!”

“Please, miss Erin-“

“Just ‘Erin,’ will do, Warblade.”the young wizard corrected.

“Please, Erin, this is not an appropriate subject.”

“Oh?” Erin turned to face her guardian, continuing to walk backwards along the forest trail “Are young Illumians forbidden? Or just young Warblades?”

“No, it’s just, you see that…it’s not proper.”

“Pft, fine,” she said, turning away from him again and continuing on her way. Erin’s familiar mirrored his mistress’ disappointment by hopping from one of her traveling robe’s many pockets and on to her shoulder, croaking loudly at the warblade. “You’re quite right, Loatie!” Erin replied, as though she could understand the toad’s speech.”So, what do you do for fun then, spoilsport?” The air between them was silent for a moment, and Erin thought perhaps she’d taunted the boy a little too much.

“I read.” he finally responded, quietly. She laughed.

“Gods, you’re as much fun as a wizard. What use does a soldier have for dusty tomes?” Silence was her only reply, so she continued. “Well, tell me then, Warblade, what do you read?”

“History.” he replied, simply. Erin pressed for more information.

“Who discovered what, and when such-and-so treaty was signed? Riveting.”

“No,” he began, his voice finally beginning to take on a bit of heat “I like to read about great generals, and tactics, and battles that were fought. That sort of thing.”

“That’s a little more exciting, I suppose.”

Byert continued, his voice sounding more engaged than before. “Just last night I was reading about the campaigns leading up to the fall of Oriac. Not many records from that time period still exist, but a man named Jorus Balt came up with a good estimate about how the war progressed from the documents that survived from that era.” Erin murmured her approval, and allowed Byert to continue his story. It was good to hear him talking passionately about something. And the subject was interesting enough that it would help the time pass more quickly.

The two made small talk for the next several hours. Erin allowed Byert to dominate the conversation with tales of ancient battles, and found she quite enjoyed them. The boy was a talented storyteller. It wasn’t until noon that they finally reached the main road through the forest, and another several hours before they crested the hill outside of Heathrop.

“Warblade-” Erin began, interrupting her companion’s tale of General Kaygan’s charge.

“Byert.” the Illumian corrected, sounding more confident than he had a few hours prior.

“Right, Byert. I know it’s not exactly comfortable, but subdue your runes. Immar is familiar enough here that they will mark you as one of his kin. We need to be inconspicuous.” The young man’s face screwed up in annoyance. All the same, he closed his eyes and began to strain. The glowing letters which encircled his head slowly faded, then were gone. If he were anything like Immar, Erin knew, suppressing this natural trait of his species would give him a dreadful headache, but there wasn’t much choice right now.

While he did that, Erin pulled out a tangle of gaudy baubles and cord, and began wrapping them around the three blades of her Duom spear.

“What are you doing that for?” Byert asked.

“Weapons aren’t strictly prohibited in town, but a girl with an exotic Illumian war spear is likely to attract a little more attention than a girl with a fancy walking stick.” Byert was silent for a moment after she spoke, watching her adorn her weapon before getting up his courage to ask,

“What about your face?” Erin stopped what she was doing and glared at him. An expression only enhanced by her missing eye.

“What?” she asked, sharply.

“I mean…what I meant, um…won’t anybody recognize you?” Erin continued to glare, letting him dangle for his remark before turning back to her work.

“No,” she answered, “I’ve never been to town.”

“How is that possible? You’ve been my uncle’s apprentice for years, have you not?” Erin paused before answering, keeping her hands and her eye on her work.

“I have no fondness for uneducated peasants. Let’s leave it at that.”

Byert did not press her further. The two completed their preparations, and continued along the road and down into town. Heatherop was a small town of perhaps 1200 inhabitants, with many more trappers and merchants than that passing through daily. It had no walls, but an active town guard which–in honesty–was probably much more competent than Immar gave them credit for. Erin kept an eye open for anyone who looked as though they may be a paladin, but all she saw were the common goings-on of a trading town on the edge of civilization. Byert spoke, cutting into her thoughts.

“It’s nice here, actually. The buildings aren’t too close together, the air smells of cooking meats. And look at those children playing over there!” Erin rolled her eyes and tried to ignore his naivete. She knew that beneath the town’s idyllic image was a corrupt government supported by an easily swayed populace. They were sheep, and she was here to herald a shepherd.

Byert continued pointing out Heathrop’s supposed beauty. Much as she enjoyed the boy’s company, after several hours of his enthusiasm, she needed some space to clear her thoughts and scout the town in peace.

“Byert, we need to eat something before we meet with the faithful,” she said. “Go and get enough for the both of us, then meet me across the street from the Cobbler’s shop near the center of town.”

“Understood,” the warblade responded curtly, before eagerly jogging over to a nearby street chef. Apparently suppressing his runes wasn’t bothering him too much.

Alone, Erin walked casually through the town. She made a show of examining the wares of several merchants, handling furs and glass baubles as she scanned the streets around her. All together she counted six different guards currently on patrol. Doubtless there were more on duty elsewhere, and still more who could be called to action if the need arose. They were outfitted in leather armor, and each had a sword and club. Their ages ranged from young to middle aged. She didn’t see anyone young enough, or old enough, to look like easy prey. But neither did any of them seem battle-hardened enough to be a paladin. She had hoped she mights spy one of them and take their measure, but she saw none.

After an hour of scouting, Erin began to feel hungry, and was about to go find Byert when she happened upon two of the most lovely boys she’d ever seen. They were blonde, and lean; likely brothers. Both looked to be a bit older than her, perhaps sixteen and eighteen. They were kicking a ball between the two of them in a small field at the edge of town. She sauntered towards them, hoping she looked casually alluring rather than just flustered. She leaned her back against the wall of a nearby building and watched them move. Making contact with the faithful could wait a few minutes longer.

At first the two boys didn’t notice her. But when a stray kick sent the ball flying in her direction, they turned to follow it, and stopped short when they saw her. Erin flirtily curled her red hair around her finger as they exchanged some excited words she couldn’t hear. Without looking, she made sure Loatie was safely hidden away in one of her robe’s deeper pockets. He’d ruined her chances with more than one pretty boy in the past, and she wouldn’t have any more of that today.

She straightened as they trotted over, and when they came within easy hearing distance, she called “Hey there. You looked pretty good out there with the ball.” They didn’t answer at first, grinning as they continued to run towards her. They came to a stop about five feet away from her, and the younger one turned to the elder, speaking as if Erin couldn’t hear him.

“Gods, you were right, Raf! Look at that face!”

“An old boyfriend cut you up, sweetheart?” the older boy mocked. “Poor slut couldn’t keep her eyes to herself, so she lost one!”

Erin immediately turned and began to walk away briskly. It wasn’t the first time her scars had served as a snake detector. Normally she would have responded with more violence. But she needed to keep a low profile, and that meant letting the bastards walk away without severe burns. Of course, the downside of avoiding violence was that they could follow her.

“What’s wrong, red? We hit a sore spot?” the older boy crooned, jogging to keep up with her.

“I think a fisherman must have mistaken her for a whale and harpooned her right in the face!”

“No need to run, we get it! Ugly girls need to get laid too!”

Erin gritted her teeth and struggled against the urge to send bolts of energy through the boorish peasants’ legs. She began walking more briskly, aiming for crowds and taking unexpected turns, moving generally away from the cobbler’s shop where she needed to meet Byert. A few tears began to form in the corner of her good eye, but she clamped down on them as hard as she could. It shouldn’t matter. They were children, she was a master of the arcane. Their words could not hurt her–and her words could certainly hurt them.

Besides, in a few days, no one in this town would ever dare speak to her like that again.

Byert looked anxious when Erin finally reunited with him twenty minutes later.

“I thought you were going to come right here?” he asked, sounding put upon, as he handed her some kind of sugary bread wrapped around shredded meat and local fruits. It was soggy by now, but Erin didn’t care. She devoured fully half of it before answering.

“I wanted to surveil the town. It took a little longer than I expected.”

“I should have accompanied you for that! What if you were attacked?”

Erin answered through a mouthful of food, “Unlikely. The fighting hasn’t started yet.” she swallowed, “Besides, it’s easier for one person to be subtle than two.”

“My job is to protect you. Not wait around with your lunch like a fool.” Byert sounded as though he felt hurt more than angry. But he did make a good point.

“You’re right” Erin said, as she chewed the last mouthful of food, dropping a slice of fruit into her pocket for Loatie. “But it’s getting late. Shops in town close after dark, so if we want to avoid looking suspicious we better go inside now.”

The two crossed the dirt road and Byert began pulling open the door before Erin stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

“One thing before we go inside.”

“Yes?”

“Our conversation has been casual to this point. You are my master’s nephew, and I know I can trust you. But from here, you must address me with respect, and obey me without comment. Do you understand?” It would be hard enough for her to command men and women twice her age. The last thing she needed is for them to think she couldn’t even command a boy a year her junior. Byert appeared a little unhappy with the command, but nodded.

“I understand.” She wasn’t sure that was true, but she didn’t need him to understand. She gestured for him to open the door, and he did, causing a small bell to ring. Erin stepped inside, doing her best to appear authoritative. She could not show weakness. Behind the counter was a middle aged man, already standing up from his work bench and walking over to speak wither her.

“What can I help you with, young lady?” Erin was quiet until she heard Byert close the door behind them.

“Can you make a shoe for a man with one foot?” she asked. His brow furrowed and he glanced around nervously before answering.

“I think you’re looking for the glover. Her shop is down the street.”

“Oh, that’s right.” Erin replied, with a nod. The cobbler nodded back, and turned his head to call out,

“Nora. Come look after the counter for awhile!”

A woman appeared from elsewhere in the small shop, and the cobbler gestured Erin and Byert to come behind the counter. Silently, he led them into a back room where he closed the door, and shuttered the window. He moved to a shelf filled with tools, and began to push it aside. The shelf was heavy, and the man clearly struggled to move it. Byert moved to help, but Erin placed a hand on his chest. If she was to appear aloof and in control, so must her companion. Byert looked annoyed, but did not press the issue. They waited as the man gradually revealed a hidden stairway in the wall. To his credit, he didn’t ask for any assistance. Erin appreciated that respect.

The cobbler gestured for them to proceed him, and they did, descending the small staircase into the dirt tunnel bellow, then waiting as he pulled the shelf back into place, just as slowly as before. While his back was turned, Erin nudged Byert, and waved her finger around her head. He understood, ending his suppression of his runes with a barely audible sigh. The dim light didn’t provide much more illumination than a couple candles would, but she didn’t see a torch in their guide’s hand. Perhaps he had intended to test them with an unnerving walk through the dark.

When the shelf was back in place, the cobbler squeezed past them, and began leading them through the narrow tunnel. It was simple construction, probably the best that the handful of faithful in this wretched town could accomplish. It was little more than a corridor of dirt, with lumber used as support every few feet. Erin estimated they walked perhaps 100 yards, towards the north western edge of the town. Then the walls opened up into a small room, and the cobbler pulled some flint from his pocket to light a torch mounted on a free standing post. He then used it to light several more throughout the room. Erin watched it all in silence. Like the tunnels, the room was small, and supported by wooden planks with a ceiling that rose to about 7ft in the center. Aside from the torches scattered throughout the room, the only ornamentation was a small stone altar in the center, with a tome and a dagger resting upon it. Both bore the crest of the hand and eye.

Erin moved to the altar and rested her hands on the cool stone, hoping that occupying a position of power within the room would give her commands a little more weight. She rested there for a moment, Byert moving to stand behind her, and waited for the cobbler to finish lighting the torches. Once he had, he turned to look at her and asked

“Who are you?”

“My name is Erin Wallcraft. I’ve been sent here by Immar Twistfinger, whom you know to be The Bite of Vecna, as his voice. I am to take command of the faithful here, to carry out our Lord’s will. You will assemble them tonight.” Erin spoke a little more quickly than she wanted to, letting the words she’d practiced pour out of her in a single excited breath. Not a great first impression. The cobbler sneered a bit.

“Do you mean to tell me that The Bite sent a disfigured child to lead us?” he spat out disdainfully. Erin straightened, and tried to inject a little venom into her voice to hide the tremor she knew it would have.

“The Bite sent a maimed wizard to lead the faithful of the Maimed Lord.” she declared, keeping her eye locked with the older man’s gaze.”Now assemble my congregation.”

May of the Dead: Crypt of Ancient Wisdom

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This week’s May of the Dead post is partially inspired by an idea for a novel which I’ve been toying with for a few years.

The Tragedy of the Gorovik Family

It began when a warrior named Toman Gorovik led his followers to an untamed piece of land. There they settled, establishing the Kingdom of Gorvikar. Toman found a high, defensible ridge with a sweeping view of the forest, and began to build his castle there. He would never live to see the massive structure completed, but to honor her father, Yehne Gorovik had a crypt built into the castle behind the throne. When she lay her father to rest, she decreed that the monarchs of Gorvikar would always rest upon the wisdom of their forebears.

An unintentionally prophetic statement.

Three generations later, the Gorovik Family Castle came under siege from a violent army of southern men, eager to gain a foothold on the northern frontier. Anotar Gorovik, a skilled diplomat, was at a loss against his intractable foe. His military advisers tried to help, but each suggested a different course of action, and Anotar felt unqualified to pick between them. In a moment of frustration, he ordered everyone out of the great hall so that he could think. He paced the room for fifteen minutes without making any progress. Desperate for guidance, he pushed the stone door behind the throne open, and descended the short spiral staircase into the family crypt.

Anotar knelt beside his father’s shelf in silence for long moments. When he finally spoke, he told his father of the trials he was facing, and his lack of preparedness for them. He outlined the potential dooms he predicted if he were to follow any of his advisers’ council. He begged for his father’s guidance. He did not expect an answer, but his dead father’s mouth moved slightly, and with dust filled lungs he whispered “Harron,” the name of one of Anotar’s advisers. The young man stared with mouth agape for long moments, not sure if his father’s advice had been real or imagined.

Resolving that a decision he was wary of was better than no decision at all, the young king sealed the crypt, and ordered his soldiers to follow Harron’s plan. They did, the siege was broken, and the southerners were sent running back to their distant homes. Anotar was hailed as a military mastermind, and he humbly tried to divert the praise to Harron, fearing the backlash from his people were they to learn he had received advice from the dead. He returned again to the crypt many times throughout his rule, and found he could seek guidance from each of his ancestors buried there. By taking advantage of each of their wisdom, Anotar’s rule became the most prosperous in the history of Gorvikar. The nation’s territory and influence expanded greatly.

The secret of the Crypt of Ancient Wisdom was passed from monarch to monarch for a century before it was given to young Queen Byan from her father as he lay on his deathbed. Byan was a scholar, and shortly after her father’s internment, she began interrogating the corpses there about how the crypt functioned. When she found that none could answer her, she brought in necromancers from around the world to study the phenomena. They discovered that the castle had been built on a small fissure in the prime material plane, which intersected with the Negative Energy Plane. The fissure was very small, and the negative energy which filtered through it acted like a permanent Speak With Dead spell upon the whole castle.

The effect was so unique that Byan had no difficulty recruiting the greatest necromancers in the known world to help her study and refine the effect. Over the years she became quite a necromancer herself, and was personally responsible for many of the major breakthroughs in understanding and manipulating the fissure. As knowledge of the fissure spread, she comforted her people by telling them only that the gods had granted the Gorovik line a gift, by allowing them to seek advice from their ancestors who had passed on to the heavens. The reality wasn’t quite so celestial, but no one needed to know that.

Thanks to Byan, the fissure’s energy was focused so it only affected the crypt itself. And the fissure’s shape was refined, allowing the ancestors interred there to offer more than one-or-two word answers. They could converse with those who came to seek their wisdom, and even offer suggestions of their own. Byan also established a permanent, and secret, school of necromancy within the castle. It was her hope that research and refinement of the fissure would continue long after her time had passed. Though, since she herself would be interred there, she hoped to continue her research even after her life had ended.

Byan’s daughter, Gwyndolin Gorovik, trained every day at her mother’s knee. She became a powerful necomancer herself. When it came time for her to take the reigns of power, she already had great plans for how she would contribute to her mother’s legacy. She hired agents, graverobbers, to go out into the world and bring her the remains of history’s wisest. Philosophers, tacticians, scholars, and wizards were all brought to her, and she personally placed each one in the quickly-filling crypt. The collective knowledge of the crypt grew tenfold during Gwyndolin’s reign. Guided by the crypt, Gorvikar embarked on an expansionist war of conquest against its neighbors. The day Gwyndolin accepted the unconditional surrender of the nation of Thoreon, she declared herself the first Necrarch of the New Gorvikar Empire.

For a thousand years, the unbroken line of Necrarch’s ruled the Gorvikar Empire ruthlessly, easily out-thinking and out-maneuvering all who challenged them. An open bounty on the remains of anyone wise enough to contribute to the Crypt caused an endless stream of fresh perspectives to be added to the ever-expanding catacombs. The rift which caused the effect repeatedly had to be widened to cover a larger and larger area of the castle, as the crypt was expanded to accommodate more bodies. By the reign of Ophelia Gorovik, all that remained in the castle was the throne itself, and thousands upon thousands of bodies. When Ophelia died on her throne without an heir, it was thought that the Gorvikar empire would end with her.

Weeks passed. Many of the nations which had been conquered over the ages began to secede, thinking the threat of the Necrachs had passed.  Even those who hoped to seize the throne of Gorvikar for themselves agreed that the Gorovik Family Castle must be destroyed. As they stood outside the castle gates, planning the demolition, they began to hear an indecipherable whisper. As they listened, the whisper grew more confident, and was joined by other voices. Soon, thousands upon thousands of voices joined together in a booming, unified chorus:

“We are Gorvikar. The nations to the south have seceded. This is unacceptable.”

Colorful Characters 3: Cohen Strauss, The Town Blacksmith

Cohen Strauss was born far away from where he lives now, in a small farming community. When he was seven summers old, a party of adventurers came through his town. He was fascinated by the fineness of their arms and armor. Having lived all his life amongst poverty, he was amazed to learn that items of such beauty could exist. When none of the adults were looking, he bravely strode up to the dwarf and asked where he got such wonderful armor. In typical dwarvish fashion, the adventurer responded that only the greatest dwarven smiths could craft such armor and weapons.

Cohen never learned where they were going or why they stopped in a community so far off the main roads, but he never forgot his fascination with the fine armors of the adventurers. As soon as he was of age, he apprenticed to the village blacksmith, where he learned the basic skills and tools of the craft. But sodding horses and constructing crude farming implements did not satisfy Cohen. Whenever a traveling merchant came through town, or some farmer went to market, he put up all of his meager earnings to buy books on the crafting of arms and armor, and on the dwarves who were known as the finest of all craftsmen. He taught himself to read using these books, and by the age of twenty he had surpassed his master in skill.

Realizing there were no opportunities for further advancement in such an out-of-the way town, Cohen resolved to seek out the dwarves. He bid goodbye to his family and his friends, and began the long trip to Gorren’Vor Mountain, stronghold of Moltenforge clan. There were other dwarven clans nearer his home, even clans who were renowned as craftsmen amongst dwarves. But the Moltenforge clan had a reputation for being welcoming to outsiders who wanted to commission their craft. Cohen hoped they would be as welcoming of a student eager to learn from them.

It took the eager young smith over a year to cross the distance to Gorren’Vor, stopping occasionally along the way to earn pay as a blacksmith as needed, and to pick up new knowledge and skills. He never lingered too long though, eager to reach his destination. When he finally arrived, feeling as though his entire life had been one long journey to the mountain which stood before him, Cohen eagerly requested to be granted an audience with a dwarven smith.

His audience was granted. And, after hearing the young man out, the smith he was taken to refused to accept him as a student. The one which Cohen saw the next day refused him as well, as did the one he saw the day after that. Day by day, Cohen saw his dream crumble as he was rejected by one potential teacher after another. Most had been kind to him, but none were interested in passing on their skills to a human.

“Why trust me legacy and me teachings to a boy who’ll be dead before me beard’s gray?” one dwarf had said. After a few months the guards simply stopped allowing Cohen to enter the dwarven city. Crushed, the young man found a bar in the human settlement of Taire at the base of the mountain. He sat down, ordered a drink, and didn’t stop ordering drinks until he had to find a job.

It wasn’t hard for a skilled blacksmith to find work in town. And with the constant flow of adventurers stopping on their way to Gorren’Vor, Cohen had many more opportunities to exercise his craft than he would have ever had in his home village. So for fifteen years he has made his life in Taire. He has become well respected in the town as a reliable smith, though most agree that he drinks too much. It never seems to affect his work.

When not working or drinking, Cohen makes arms, armor, and jewelry of remarkable quality. It easily matches the dwarves’ work in quality, which is why most assume he purchased it from them. After awhile, Cohen just stopped correcting them.

Personality

Cohen Strauss is dour, and not terribly friendly. When dealing with dwarves he can be particularly spiteful, often openly ignoring them, or using racial slurs. In truth, Cohen suffers from a severe inferiority complex. Despite the high quality of his work, he feels completely inadequate after his rejection by the Moltenforge clan. Years of demeaning labor as a common blacksmith, as well as the lack of recognition he’s received for his more finely crafted items, have not helped matters in the slightest.

Thoughts on Use

Cohen Strauss could be used as a simple smithy if that’s all the game requires. The players could also be told that he’s a good person to commission work from by a local who knows of Cohen’s largely hidden talent. If the GM was so inclined, the lack of recognition for Cohen’s work could make it difficult to learn that he’s a skilled craftsman, and as a reward, Cohen’s lack of self-worth might cause him to sell his items below their market value.

Particularly altruistic characters could be enticed into a political/role playing adventure wherein they try to get the dwarves of Gorren’Vor to accept the talented Cohen as a student.

Smithing

Cohen keeps a number of scrolls available, and has a good working relationship with the same wizard who provides magical assistance to the Moltenforge clan smiths. He has studied enough of magic and scroll use to be able to use the scrolls to imbue his creations with powerful dweomers.

Much of his work is improvisational in nature. Rather than engraving a scene from mythology on a shield, for instance, he largely plans what engraving he makes as he goes along. Oftentimes the patterns and designs on his work seem random, or have no definite shape.

Interesting Facts

*Despite being relatively well settled, Cohen’s demeanor does not endear him with women. Most of the women in the local bawdy houses know him as a somewhat unpleasant customer who pays well.

*Years of heavy drinking, as well as other vices, have caused Cohen’s voice to develop a rasp.

*Cohen is completely clean shaven, never allowing the hint of a beard to remain on his face.

Cohen Strauss (CR 9)

XP: 6,400
Human Expert 12
LN Humanoid
Init +0; Senses Perception +0


Defenses


AC 10, Flat Footed 10, Touch 10 [10 + Armor(0) + Dex (0)]
hp 70 (12d8 + 12)
Fort +9 Ref +4 Will +4


Offense


Speed 30ft
Melee Masterwork Blacksmith’s Hammer +12/+7 (1d8 + 3/x3)


Stats


Str 15 (+2) Dex 11 (+0) Con 13 (+1) Int 16 (+3) Wis 11 (+0) Cha 6 (-2)
Base Atk +9/+4; CMB +11; CMD 21
Feats Craft Magic Arms & Armor*, Craft Wondrous Item*, Master Craftsman(Craft Weapons), Skill Focus (Craft Weapons), Skill Focus (Craft Armor), Master Craftsman(Craft Armor), Master Craftsman(Craft Jewelry)
Skills Appraise +18, Craft(Weapons) +26, Craft(Armor) +26, Craft(Locks) +18, Craft(Jewelry) +20, Intimidate +13, Knowledge(History of Dwarves, Arms, and Armor) +18, Profession (Blacksmith) +15, Spellcraft +18, Use Magic Device +13
Languages Common, Dwarven
Gear Heavy Leather Apron, Masterwork Blacksmith’s Hammer, Masterwork metal crafting tools, 500gp

*Technically, according to the rules in Pathfinder, one must be a caster of level X to take these feats. However, I not only find that silly, but downright offensive to the proud history of the Fantasy genre. If this rule were to be enforced, then every master smith in fantasy literature would need at least a few levels of wizard. How many dwarven smiths seem like wizard types to you?

Edit: -C of Hack & Slash pointed out in the comments that I overlooked the Master Craftsman feat, which allows non-casters to qualify for Craft Magic Arms and Armor, and Craft Wondrous Item. I also notice that I forgot to increase the benefit from skills focus from +3 to +6 after 10 ranks. Both issues have been corrected. Sorry about the mistake everybody! -LS