Umber

The adventurers penetrate deeper into the territory of the slavers, and find themselves in over their heads far from friends.

The soft drizzle of the evening before had whipped itself into a substantial storm overnight, and by morning high winds, heavy raindrops and occasional hail slapped at the third-floor window of the Grey Kingfisher. Lars seemed in a foul temper at the enforced confinement, to which Lyssa responded by burying herself in Klavicus’ latest manuscript, The Spontaneous Replenishment of Abruptly Created Force Lacunae: A Case Study on Oerth. The demon himself was writing at an intricately carved ebon desk, books with cracked leather bindings and yellowed pages piled high around him. Although Lars’ pacing was nearly silent, it kept intruding on the balor’s peripheral vision, and finally he’d had enough. “Come here,” he snapped to the shapeshifter. “I want a word with you.” The two spoke together quietly for a few moments, Lyssa catching only the occasional phrase and trying assiduously not to hear any more. We’ll be back for lunch, Klavicus said before they vanished.

After a flurry of midnight travelers seeking shelter from the approaching gale, Hanen had little traffic, and by late morning he felt easy leaving the tavern in the hands of his assistants. He found Lyssa alone, still reading. “Where’s Klavicus?” he asked.

“I think I overheard him say something to Lars about hunting.”

“Hunting what? And where?”

She grimaced. “We probably don’t want to know the answer to either of those questions. I expect them around – “ she leaned forward to look at a clock made of an elaborate interweaving of bones, “actually, any time now.”

He drew up a chair near her. “Truthfully, I’m glad they’re gone for the moment. I wanted to ask you – “

“What I’m doing here,” she interrupted, setting the manuscript aside. “Klavicus sent for me.”

“Klavicus sent you a message?” A small, petulant frown crossed his face. “No one else knows how to reach you; why does he?”

“Not because I offered him the information,” she grimaced. “But he claimed he was worried about you. Which doesn’t seem entirely in character for him.”

“He does have his moments of sentiment,” he protested.

“Granted. But still…” she shrugged. “I never have been able to read him. You, on the other hand, are a different matter. Hanen,” she asked in, for her, an uncharacteristically gentle tone, “who told you this story?”

The bard looked, also uncharacteristically, nervous. “No one, precisely.” As she glared at him expectantly he said, “It comes to me, at night, when I’m more or less asleep.”

“More or less? Do you mean you dream it?”

“Not exactly. It’s more like a chorus of whispering voices. It’s not unpleasant,” he added hastily at her expression. “It’s just a little – peculiar, somehow. And inexorable.”

“Inexorable?” The celestial looked concerned. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

“You know me.” He tried to sound light-hearted. “I never have been good at keeping a story to myself. I just feel a little more compelled to tell this one than others I’ve heard. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“But still…” She rose and began looking through the balor’s voluminous library, oblivious to Hanen’s departure. When he returned with a luncheon tray, she was just closing a book and putting it back on the shelf. With impeccable timing, Klavicus and Lars chose that moment to return. Lyssa’s mouth tightened to a thin line as they materialized. “I remember that look,” Lars said in a growling purr. He glanced at the balor. “I hope it’s directed at you.”

The celestial frowned at Klavicus. “Which one of you chose the site for this inn?”

“I did,” he responded.

She paced the room slowly, hands tucked behind her back and under her wings. “Isn’t it strange that in the chaos of Greyhawk, where whatever peace there is to be found is still won by force of arms, that this one simple inn manages to maintain calm in some radius around it with no apparent effort at all?” She stopped before the balor and glared at him. “You built this on top of a ley line, didn’t you?”

He shrugged. “Well of course I did. Wouldn’t anyone, if they knew how to find them, and the land was available?” Is there a problem?

She was more sure than ever that he was up to something, but she knew better than to stage a frontal assault. I haven’t decided yet.

When you do, feel free to share the matter with me. You know how I hate to see you in distress. He waved a hand toward the sitting area. “Shall we enjoy the fruits of our host’s most excellent kitchen? And then, perhaps, he would be so good as to continue his tale.”

After they’d eaten and settled into the study, rain still drumming on the roof overhead, Lyssa asked, “So what did they do with the Eyepatch of Gruumsh?”

“I think Tenebrae briefly contemplated trying to use it,” Hanen replied, “but in the end sided with Basil’s desire to give it to the fey queen, as Morgan had intended.”

“But it’s a thing of great evil!” she protested.

“They did get the fey killed,” the bard pointed out.

“And they did agree to work with him,” Klavicus added.

“That’s a different matter,” she said. “They should never have made the agreement in the first place.”

“Better to leave the slaves captive,” the demon suggested.

“False choices,” she snapped.

“In any case,” Hanen said hastily as Klavicus showed signs of continuing the debate, “Carignane said that some things weren’t meant for discussion, and took his rapier to it.”

“Amusing impudence,” Lars purred.

“That wouldn’t have any effect at all,” Lyssa protested.

“Even better,” the shapeshifter replied.

“He did shame the cleric into making the attempt.”

“And he succeeded?” the celestial asked. Hanen nodded. “What kind of backlash was there?”

“The kind none of the adventurers were able to redress, nor was a simple night or month’s rest going to help. They finally sought assistance at a temple of Moradin. The clerics were happy enough about the destruction of such an item that they offered their services for half-price.”

“Half-price?” she said in disbelief.

“And the wheels of commerce go ‘round and ‘round,” Klavicus smirked, staring pointedly at the celestial.

“Don’t look at me,” she said indignantly. “I wouldn’t have charged for it.”

“But you could afford not to, couldn’t you?” Lars interjected.

“You and your friends nearly overturned Greyhawk’s economy, back when there it still had one,” Klavicus added. She glared at the pair of them, but made no reply. “Alienating the Fey Queen and Gruumsh all in one day,” the balor went on. “Was anyone pleased with their day’s work?”

“The Lord High Mayor was pleased enough with the maps and documents they brought back with them, and his captain sported rather a wolfish grin as he led Tenebrae’s captive nobles away for interrogation. And since they spent several weeks in town resting and training, the patrons of the Golden Lion were graced with a number of performances.” At the demon’s snort of disgust he said, “Really, they were gaining a quite excellent reputation. And near the end of their stay, they were invited to a banquet at the mayor’s mansion.”

“I hope they appreciate how fortunate they were,” the demon said with a faraway gaze. “Darg’s banquets are a thing of legend.”

“You know him?” Lyssa asked.

“Oh yes. He and I go back a long way.”

“Long in whose terms?” she asked suspiciously.

“Long in anyone’s terms,” Hanen said. “There’s some positive mystery overhanging the Lord High Mayor of Irongate. For one thing, no one can recall a time when he wasn’t mayor.”

She looked at Klavicus. “I don’t suppose you’d care to enlighten us as to the nature of this mystery.”

He smiled back at her genially. “No, I don’t suppose I would.”

“If they had the Irongate entertainment market cornered,” Lars said, “what after-dinner amusement was provided at this banquet?”

“A kind of treasure hunt, I suppose you could call it. The mayor led them through a warren of caverns under his mansion to a room full of gates.”

“Where did the gates lead?” Lyssa asked.

“In times past, each led to one of the towns participating in the Iron League. With times the way they were then, though,” he coughed delicately, trying to spare Lyssa’s feelings, “one would have expected them to be wholly inactive.”

“But they weren’t?” she said.

“They no longer led to the cities of the former Iron League. But they were still accepting travelers.”

Lars bared his fangs in what passed for a smile. “Journeys from which not everyone returned,” he said tonelessly.

“I didn’t say that,” Hanen protested.

“You didn’t need to.”

At the bard’s discomfited expression, Klavicus waved a clawed finger at the shapeshifter. “Remember what I said about those eyes,” he warned.

“Did Cobb Darg himself know where they led now?” Lyssa said.

When Hanen shook his head Lars interjected, “These adventurers seem like a useful commodity of his. Why would he expose them to such danger?”

“Not entirely of his own volition,” the bard replied. “But he had a visitor, who told him that those particular individuals needed to pass through the gates – or consciously choose not to, as they wished. So they – ”

“Come now,” Klavicus interrupted genially, “you could at least give us the name of this individual who had the temerity to tell Darg anything.”

Hanen frowned. He had the distinct feeling that Klavicus already knew the answer, and was just trying to make trouble. “It was – ” he looked sidelong at Lyssa, “Blastir.”

Lars sighed, looking almost sorrowful, but Lyssa’s face grew as dark as Hanen had expected. “Busy man,” she muttered, then changed the subject. “Tell us about these gates. Did they choose to enter?”

Hanen nodded. “All entered, and all returned, although none was the same individual coming out as he had been going in. For nested within the choice to enter was yet another choice.”

The shapeshifter leaned forward intently. “What choice?” he demanded.

The bard closed his eyes in concentration, then recited,

    Wind Blows, and reveals all things.
    Fire Burns, and yet gives life.
    Water Flows, and nurtures all things.
    Earth Endures, and conceals.
    Time Is, and Will Be.
    Light Illuminates, and blinds.
    The Void Exists, yet does Not Exist.
    Chance happens.

“What does it mean?” Lyssa asked in obvious perplexity.

“Power abhors a vacuum,” the balor replied. “And not all forces pursuing it need necessarily be – ” he glanced at Lars, then away, “personal.”

The side of Lars’ mouth curled into something between a smile and a snarl. “What did they choose?” he asked.

“Their choices were various. The steadfast samurai Jack chose Earth, passionate Carignane Fire, mercurial Tenebrae Chance. Basil, Krunk and Yzzof all gravitated toward Time, something they never seemed to have enough of.”

“Or too much,” Lyssa murmured absently, appearing to sink into a sudden gloom.

“And what did it avail them?” Lars asked.

“Each was granted certain abilities as appropriate to his choice.”

“The usual thing,” Klavicus interjected to the shapeshifter. “You should know.” Lyssa wondered why the balor seemed determined to bait him, but as Lars seemed unperturbed she sank back into her melancholy. “By the way,” the demon continued, “who is this samurai Jack? I don’t recall hearing his name mentioned before.”

“Oh, he was another individual in Cobb Darg’s employ.”

“And he sent him off to travel with five bards?” Lyssa said. “He must have a dreadful sense of humor.”

“It’s highly developed, in fact,” Klavicus said, “if idiosyncratic. And where, once this set of most interesting choices was made, did he send them to?”

“To a small fortress coastal fortress in the north called Highport, occupying a murky zone between Irongate and Onnwal. Rumor had it that the Scarlet Brotherhood had a toehold there and were running a small slaver operation.”

“Murky zones?” the demon said. “Sounds like our heroes would fit right in.”

“They took a boat to the southern shore, then started on horseback to Highport. The journey was largely uneventful, although along the way they did meet an escaped slave heading in the other direction. He gave them some basic information on the layout of the compound, and told them his escape route: a rope tossed out the window of one of the guest rooms. If they made good time, he suggested, it might be still undiscovered. Jack gave up his horse to speed the man on his way out of danger, and they continued to the fort, arriving during the night. They crept around to the back of the compound, scaling a cliff-side wall out of sight of the guards.”

“And was the rope still there?” Lyssa asked.

Hanen nodded. “Indeed it was. They scrambled up and found themselves in an empty room, apparently used for storage. While the, shall we say, less stealthy members of the party waited, Carignane and Tenebrae took a survey of the top floor. Several of the rooms were occupied by sleeping men with richly appointed clothing.”

Lars snarled softly. “Looking for cheap labor. They deserved to be murdered in their beds.”

The bard raised a critical eye. “You anticipate me. Tenebrae was not the sort to leave someone behind her to potentially raise an alarm.”

Lyssa looked horrified. “You mean she did leave them lifeless in their beds?”

“Not exactly.” Hanen coughed nervously. “She didn’t want them to be discovered quite so quickly so she – ah – moved the bodies and remade the beds, covering the bloodstains as best she could.”

“Moved them where?” Lyssa asked suspiciously.

“Each room was appointed with an – uh – armoire.”

Klavicus snorted appreciately at the image of dead noblemen stuffed in among their own clothes, but seeing Lyssa glowering said, “Yes, well perhaps we should move on. After they secured the guest quarters, where did they go next?”

“The barracks was their next destination. The fort was fairly well guarded, and they preferred to deal with the menials before tackling the principals.”

“Presumably the guards worked in shifts,” Lyssa said.

“Yes indeed. Listening outside the door, they could hear the sounds of raucous laughter and gaming from within.”

“So they waited until everyone was asleep?” she asked.

Hanen shook his head. “They conceived a somewhat bolder plan. Bursting in through the main doors, they announced that they had been hired to entertain the troops, as it were.”

“Awfully well-armed for mere performers, weren’t they?” Lars asked dryly.

“They argued that the northern wilderness is very wild, and they must be prepared to defend themselves against any danger. And since your average guard isn’t very bright, and these were rather bored besides, they succeeded. I don’t think they were expecting trouble from outside the gates, and sufficiently underfed slaves don’t pose too much of a threat from within.”

“And did they get the performance of their lives?” Klavicus said.

“Certainly the last performance of their lives. While the others sang and Jack, looking like a bodyguard, blocked the primary exit, Krunk put half of them to sleep. The other half were easily dispatched before they could give warning. Then they tucked the bodies into their beds, cleaned up the blood, turned out the lights and waited until the night shift returned, which they dealt with in much the same manner.”

“Leaving them free to take on their captains with no petty interference,” Lars prompted.

“Yes, after they figured out how to deal with the massive wolf chained in the courtyard. Carignane slipped outside to try some of his rangerish tricks, only to find it staring straight at him and asking in Common what he wanted.”

“A captive,” Lars said.

“And more than willing to assist them if they’d free it. And so armed with a suitable sphere of silence and a hammer Yzzof crept outside, using the wolf himself as a cover, and smashed loose the collar that held him. After that, the rest was relatively straightforward. Big battle, bloodshed, liberation of the captives. What was especially noteworthy, however, was the presence of drow.”

Lyssa, with a sibling who entertained a special hatred for those denizens of the Underdark, looked up with interest. “Drow?”

Hanen nodded. “Seems the fort has some kind of trapdoor leading underground. Since none of the enemy was left alive, it was hard to say what the Scarlet Brotherhood’s arrangement with the drow might be.”

“And what about the slaves?” she asked.

“Some returned home. Others had no particular home to return to, and asked to stay on. Tenebrae in particular suddenly grew enamored of the idea of their own personal keep, so she encouraged the idea.”

“Were any of them trained in the martial arts?” she said. “Or did they have some other force at their disposal?”

“No.” At her displeased frown he said, “By the time they had returned to Irongate, Cobb Darg had received word that the fort was retaken. Carignane in particular was quite upset at the idea that they’d freed the slaves only to lead them into possibly a worse fate, for if they tried to defend themselves they were almost certainly dead. He was determined to retake the fort and keep it this time. To that end they inquired around town, and found some two hundred mercenaries available for hire.” Lyssa wrinkled her nose. “This was outside the official purview of Irongate,” Hanen reminded her. “The Lord High Mayor couldn’t very well send in official troops. Not right away, at least.”

“Mercenary bands of that size are notoriously slow to muster,” Klavicus said.

“Yes,” the bard agreed, “and it was a week at the least for this one. They weren’t idle in the interim, however. Rumor had been raised of an underwater entrance to Varrus’ mansion, and Cobb Darg still desired to know more of the man’s schemes for the region.”

“Did they find it?” Lyssa asked.

“It was not heavily guarded, but guarded it was. By the time they reached the vicinity of the mansion, they could hear a positive storm of activity aboveground. Sounds of packing and moving. Varrus was leaving Irongate.”

“And no one knew why?” Lyssa said.

Hanen shook his head. “But the Lord High Mayor wasn’t entirely satisfied to just watch him sail into the sunset – or sunrise, as it were, since the departed closer to dawn. If Irongate was a factor in some wider plot, he wanted to know what it was. Swimming under the hull or sneaking past the guards, our little band of adventurers stowed away on the ship.”

“A risky proposition,” Lars said.

“Not the most comfortable way to travel,” the bard admitted. “And the journey went on for weeks, taking them far to the south. Tenebrae snuck out occasionally to keep them reasonably well-fed from the ship’s stores, Carignane to take bearings. Eventually the ship docked on some tropical island which none of them recognized.”

“Inhabited?” Lyssa asked.

“Very much so. Down by the docks was a dilapidated shantytown, inhabited by the kind of population you might expect: healthy, strong laborers hoping for honest work; arthritic laborers wracked by pain from years of hefting boxes and, unable to work any longer, reduced to penury. There were tavern keepers tending sailors’ carnal needs, and thieves and brigands exploiting anyone who gave them an opening.”

“Surely this wasn’t Varrus’ destination,” she said.

“Occasionally a noble in the mood for slumming might stop by a bar while his cargo was unloaded, but Varrus immediately wound his way up a hill to an attractive, prosperous, walled and gated town, to which he was admitted with no delay.”

“But they weren’t Varrus,” Lars suggested. “It would be a trick for an ordinary person to gain entry.”

“There was a trick, though some might say it was deserved.”

“This is going to involve more wholesale slaughter, isn’t it?” Lyssa asked.

Klavicus smiled mockingly. “This from the celestial with the violence-free life. Given your escapades, and if we count those activities in which you weren’t directly involved but nevertheless caused deaths, your tally might be in the thousands. Wouldn’t you agree?” The celestial frowned, but remained silent.

Hanen avoided looking at either of them. “Heading to the tavern for information, they had the good fortune to encounter the slaves of eight recently arrived noblemen who were inside enjoying a brief libation. Since the party wanted the noblemen’s papers and the slaves wanted to be free, they had little trouble coming to a mutually agreeable arrangement with the bravest of the lot, a man by the name of Aran. Hiding in a copse of trees partway up the hill, they waited for Aran to lead his masters just a little astray.” He nodded to Lyssa. “And yes, they were dead before they fully realized what had happened. The adventurers kept the clothes and the papers, and gave all of the nobles’ money to Aran and his companions, for a new life.”

“There you are,” Lars said to Lyssa, grinning in approval.

“There you are,” she retorted. “That sounds much more like your kind of solution to a problem than mine.”

“And to what authority, pray tell, were they supposed to take these happy slaveowners?” He looked over at Hanen. “I assume this was a slavers’ tropical paradise. Perhaps even Varrus’ home town.”

“Available evidence would seem to suggest so,” the bard replied, “since the central piece of artwork within the gated town was a statue of the slave lord Feetla.”

“Then they encountered no trouble at the gate,” the celestial said.

She thought she saw a look of discomfort flicker across Hanen’s face for a moment, then vanish. “No. In fact, they found an apparent ally sooner than they could possibly have expected. A wizened man hobbled toward them, asking for alms. Carignane and Jack both reached for money, and as the old man accepted it he murmured, ‘Seek out the Ivory Paladin.’ Before they could question him, a guard appeared and drove him off for begging.”

Lars sat up and began tapping a finger on the arm of the sofa. “Allies too quickly?” he asked. When Hanen shrugged the shapeshifter snarled, “I don’t like this particular species of suspense.”

“If I knew, I would tell you,” the bard assured him. “But I don’t know. All I have are the facts.”

“The home of a coterie of slave lords seems an unlikely place for a paladin,” Lyssa remarked.

“Indeed it does,” he agreed. “And in fact the closest thing they discovered, after making a circuit of the town, was a very pricey inn called The White Knight. After eating a fine meal and passing an obscene amount of coin to the innkeeper in bribes, they received the cryptic piece of information, ‘Learn from the Knowledge that never dies.’”

“A treasure hunt,” Klavicus intoned in a bored voice. “How quaint.”

Lars, on the other hand, was even more intent. “And where did this lead them?”

“To the local cartographer and librarian, who sold them a book called The Illumination of the Rose. After skimming through it and finding nothing of interest, Krunk suggested holding it up to the light. There on the frontispiece was an unusual watermark – the image of a shop sign depicting a rose.”

“Another clue,” Lyssa said.

The shapeshifter’s expression became ever more lugubrious. “Sounds like a poisonous trail of breadcrumbs to me. But I suppose they insisted on following it.”

Hanen, knowing where the trail led, grew ever more reluctant to continue, but the inner compulsion forced him on. “They found a whorehouse with a matching sign. Going inside and searching the premises, they found in an empty room a trapdoor which seemed to lead under the city.”

“And what kind of resistance did they meet there?” the celestial asked.

“Surprisingly little. Suspiciously little, some might say. They did encounter an odd, twelve-foot-tall statue with rusted metal spiked into it. Approaching to investigate, they found it was a flesh golem made to look like a bad copy of an iron golem.”

“But why would someone do that?” Lyssa said.

Hanen shrugged. “Who can say?” They dispatched it and continued their winding way through the tunnels beneath the city, until they came to a room where ten men sat on thrones.”

“The slave lords,” Lars muttered.

Hanen nodded. “Assessing the situation, they expected a battle where the odds were overwhelmingly against them. What they didn’t expect was for invisible walls of force to close in on either side of them, and for the room to fill with gas. Jack stood defiant for a long time after the others had fallen unconscious, but eventually he too succumbed.”

Lars had been growing increasingly agitated as the adventurers unwound the skein of clues left for them, and as Samurai Jack finally collapsed he sprang to his feet, face contorted in agony. ”I can’t take this anymore,” he snarled. Still in hybrid form, he flung open the door and fled toward the stairway.

Before Lyssa could do more than start in alarm, Klavicus vanished from his seat. Hanen rose swiftly and shut the door, leaning heavily against it after it swung closed. “He’ll get him under control. And veil his appearance until he does.” At the celestial’s mildly skeptical look he replied, “If nothing else, it doesn’t serve him for people to think the Inn such an extraordinary place.”

She started toward the door, then altered course to stare out one of the windows instead. ”He’s been haunted by his own demons for so long,” she sighed, “it may take one to understand him. Perhaps we should continue without them – I don’t think Lars is going to want to hear about captivity.” When Hanen didn’t reply, she turned back into the room, and was stunned to see him slumped on the floor.