Umber

Zane clears a small space at camp and sets the Sword of Camelok on the ground in front of him. Following the ritual, he slows his breath and opens his mind, allowing the sword’s past to whisper to him. As he gets responses, he tunes his mental pathways to resonate. After an hour’s dedicated concentration the sword rings once, brightly. A scene, partially translucent, but with great detail, forms.

A tall man with long silver-gray hair stands before a workbench, lost in thought, tapping a small strip of leather against his left palm. A simple shortsword lies on the bench before him. His hair matches the grayish greatsword that hangs almost casually across his back, held there by the simple expedient of a narrow strap. The one bit of color in the room is his bright blue gi.

“Leaving?” he says to no one obvious. He makes a quick gesture with his left hand and a small scaly creature, perhaps four feet tall, with a broad, lizard-like face and large, not quite aligned eyes appears in the hall behind him, apparently in the middle of sneaking past the work room.

“How do you do that?” asks the small figure.

“Because it’s my tower, and because that charm you tried to place on me a minute ago failed again, as it always does,” replies the man. A smile, half-formed, fades as he continues speaking. “And I’ve been expecting you to do this for quite some time now.”

“Well, it doesn’t always fail. You just don’t remember the times it worked. It was that good. Anyway, there’s no way you could have known.”

“Maybe, and yes, there is. Maybe because you are awfully good at it, and yes, because you’re about as subtle as a brick. Also, it’s what I’d be doing. I’d also be trying to sneak out because it’s a suicide mission and I wouldn’t want to have the ‘no, you can’t go’ argument.”

“So now we have to have the argument?”

“No.”

“You’re going to try to keep me here? You can’t do that forever.”

“Maybe I could, but no, I’m not going to try.”

“You’re not?”

“No.”

“Why? Like you said, it’s suicide.”

“I already said. It’s what I’d be doing. Anyway, it’s the right thing to do, by definition. We’ve tried everything else.”

“But it’s not your people…” starts the shorter figure.

“Bullshit,” shouts the man, angry now. “I don’t care about any of that. It’s wrong and that’s enough. And if it wasn’t I swear I’d do it anyway. How many times have you saved my life now? And if it was the Human race out there where the Kobold stand today, I know you’d be there. So don’t insult me. Besides, we’ve done impossible things before. We’ll pull it off this time too.”

“Five.”

“What?”

“I’ve saved your life five times.”

The man laughs quietly. “I see you’ve been counting. Very well. Let’s go for a sixth, shall we?”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no?”

The smaller figure looks away, and seems to shrink a bit. “No, as in, no. No, as in, no, you’re not coming. No six. Five enough. Suicide, you say. I say, too. Please, no.”

“Bullshit,” says the man, but quietly this time. “For two reasons. Number one: I made you this.” He takes the shortsword from the bench and hands it over. “It’ll heal you when you’re injured.” The short figure takes the proffered sword, and swings it gingerly, awkwardly.

“Thank you. Even if I’m more likely to hurt myself with it than anything.”

“Bah. But I swear that we shall not go down easily. I swear that we shall not know despair. I swear that we will prevail. I swear it.” Both greatsword and shortsword hum and flare and small blue sigils float across the two people’s foreheads. “There. Now we’re bound. If you make a liar out of me, it’ll hurt me. Very, very badly.”

“But I don’t know how not to – “

“Reason number two: it would be suicide for you. Or for me. Or even for both of us together. But that’s not how it’s going to be.”

There is a solid whump of displaced air and a barrel-chested man in brown appears, holding a crooked white staff. “Hail Master Tenser, hail Master Meepo,” he says. Another, and a tall red-headed woman with bright green eyes, hand on sword hilt, speaking similar words. And another, and another, until eight people, each somewhat odd taken alone, but somehow forming a coherent whole, fill the small space.

When all are assembled, Tenser speaks. “We have seen the rise and fall of Greyhawk and the Great Kingdom, and brought their flesh and bones back to breathe again. We have seen the rise and fall of Rham and done the same with its shards. We have seen the rise and fall of Camelok and done the same with its legend. We have seen the rise and fall of the House on the Hill and done the same with its soul. It is not just fancy-play and wasted words. We are here, and we do have more to say. We will steal the seed from this ruin and bring it forth into the future, for we are the Circle of Eight, and this is what we have always done.”

Together, they walk down the castle’s stairs, through its azure halls, and out its gate. As they walk down its ramp, the Archmage known as Tenser raises his right hand and the others follow suit. A slight stomp of their feet and they leap into the air, transforming into comets with blazing trails as they fly to the East.

Within moments they are at their destination. A series of shield domes protects it. Subtlety, quick thinking, powerful magic, and in some cases brute force allows them access, with effort, to the core. Within is a huge arena. Held to the arena floor with massive chains are dozens upon dozens of dragons of every color – blues, silvers, blacks, coppers, even terrifying reds and majestic platinums. Surrounding them are hundreds of thousands of kobolds, malnourished, unconscious in the dirt. In the center is a figure that looks like a human, bipedal but with draconic limbs and facial features, surrounded by a greasy smoke that shifts in the wind but always reasserts its shape – the shape of a massive dragon.

It breathes dust as the eight approach, and their comet-forms are dispelled, and though they land softly upon the ground, it laughs. “Thank you, oh honored ones, for bringing me the last kobold. I have sought long for him, but he has not deigned to help me with my great undertaking. Disobedient thing! Their pathetic kind has always served the true dragons of which their form is mere mockery. And am I not the greatest dragon who has ever lived? But that is in the past, forgiven, now that he has seen the error of his ways. Again, I thank you.”

The Circle does not bother to respond, but simply march forward, protective spells swarming now about them like angry hornets. They approach one of the dragons’ chains, and Tenser raises his greatsword. One mighty blow and an adamantite link as thick around as a strong man’s leg shatters. The dragon, a tattered white, begins to struggle for freedom, but Meepo speaks to it, calming it, directing its energies towards the next chain.

“Ah, I see that I have erred. How sad. Then be the destruction of your own, it matters not to me.” Waves of kobolds rise from the ground, teeth gnashing, vicious weapons in their hands. Their eyes show terror which belies their ferocious stances, but they charge nonetheless.

But Meepo stands before their rush, smiling gently. He begins to whistle a short tune, slightly off-key, and takes a step to his left. The horde staggers right. Meepo takes another step, then another, and another, and the mob follows each time. Soon, each is dancing a small jig, and many, even when they understand that their compulsion has been broken, continue the dance, cheering.

“My friends. My people. Now, my army. Killed,” says Meepo., “we can be, yes. But broken, never, no. Free the ‘kin!” he shouts, and all hear. Thousands upon thousands of kobolds rush to the trapped dragons, and try to dig free their bonds.

The Dragon is angered now, and wastes no more words on taunts. He breathes fire and ice and poison and acid. His tail is a hammer, smashing into the Eight, and his claws are scythes, rending earth and flesh. Magic too he calls, meteors striking earth, shadowed hands reaching out of the ground to grasp at the magi. Blow after blow they strike, and though they draw blood many times, each time he slays another dragon and his wounds heal and his form becomes more solid. By the kobold’s efforts, some of the dragons escape, but they are hungry and weak and there are many chains. And the Dragon’s power, almost as an accident, burns them to ash, by the score and one by one.

And one by one, the mages fall.

Tenser’s sword flashes, once, twice, three times in the blink of an eye, and he doubles in height with each blow. Meepo reaches into the heart of the dragon, and tugs bits of its life from it. The Dragon staggers under the assault. It rises into the air on its hind legs, striking blow after blow at Tenser who barely withstands the assault. The Dragon stomps the ground, sending cracks through the nearby stone which lifts into the air, the entire arena a burning sphere supported by rage and magic – and Tenser, his entire frame incandescent, stumbles. The Dragon swipes again, connecting with a blow that makes Tenser reach out for anything that he can find for stability, bands of power leaping forth, blindly. The moon, low in the sky, splits in half under his grasp. He falls, half of his face torn away.

Meepo turns to him, a look of horror on his face. He turns to the Dragon and charges, screaming, shortsword swinging wildly.

“Not a liar. Not yet,” Tenser whispers, through broken teeth. “To happier days, friend. To Camelok.” He touches his forehead. There is a blue flash, and Meepo, engulfed in flames, vanishes. The Dragon, enraged at being denied this victim, does not even take the time to savor his final kill.