Umber

It had been nearly a week since the storm tore through the Vale, and Desverendi and Klavicus had only just finished clearing away the worst of it. Though while it raged the two of them had managed to stave off the total devastation that might otherwise have occurred, there was still considerable damage. The elemental druid moved through the Vale at a glacier’s pace, absorbing every out of place pebble and boulder and discharging it again into the deep places of the earth. Klavicus followed in his wake, occasionally pausing to straighten a bent but unbroken shrub or sapling or to coax a frightened animal from some hidden den but more often conferring healing and revitalization merely in his slow passing.

Exhausted from their labors, they sat at an edge of the Vale on the evening of the sixth day watching the sun sink below the horizon. Not all of the dust and sand had settled from the atmosphere, and the sky was streaked with fiery oranges and reds. “Will something like this happen every time a new piece of the Seed is mated?” Desverendi asked.

“Almost certainly. It has been separated for too long, and the corpus mundi has settled into a new kind of stasis in its absence.”

“The cure seems worse than the disease,” Desverendi observed.

“It might if we didn’t know the disease was fatal.”

“And if the cure proves equally so?”

Klavicus meticulously stacked dead wood onto a fire he was kindling. “The multiverse should be restored at the least. You and I could retreat to our home worlds.”

“And where would your home be?” Cracks suggestive of a smile appeared at the corners of his mouth. “It does not seem that the Abyss would welcome you any longer. Celestia, perhaps?”

“Very funny,” Klavicus grumbled, poking at the fire with a viciousness that toppled the recently added wood and forced him to start over. “If you want to know how the passel of paladins fared in the storm, I suggest you let me work in peace.”

For some time the only signs that the fire was relaying past events was a graininess in the flames. Then it settled in to a cloudy image of Kerac, Regan, Reign, Saphira and Zane struggling across the desert as a vicious wind whipped first sand and then rocks around them. Desverendi and Klavicus watched silently as the group grew increasingly uncertain of their direction and held their tongues even as Kerac, Saphira and Zane pitched into a hidden ravine.

Regan drew a rope from her pack and uttered a word of command as she tossed one end toward where she had last seen Zane, smiling with satisfaction as it slithered on farther than she could have thrown. Reign fastened the other end around her waist. The two women braced themselves against first one tug of weight and then a second, looking at one another in alarm when they failed to feel a third. Reign cocked her head in concentration then leaned in toward Regan, shouting to be heard above the storm, which was now picking up boulders and tossing them about like feathers. “Zane says they hear voices on the wind! But the storm is less violent in the ravine – we should come down.”

Regan winced as a rock slammed into the back of her knee, nearly buckling her. She looked ready to throw herself into the chasm if it offered relief from the wind. “Wait!” Reign shouted. She tied the rope around Regan as well. “Okay, at least we can control our descent.”

A larger rock struck Regan between her shoulder blades. With a look of disgust and despair she tugged at Reign’s knot and tossed the rope aside. “At a controlled rate,” she shouted, “the fall might kill me, but the storm certainly will!”

Reign shook her head as the avenger crouched at the side of the ravine and slid out of sight, gripped her tiger-etched blades and followed. She landed lightly on her feet beside Zane, who was just helping Regan up from the heap in which she’d fallen, and Saphira, who was helping Kerac test his ankle. Now Klavicus and Desverendi could hear the voices as well, singing with an eerie, unearthly quality. “Do you know what that is?” the daimon asked the druid.

Desverendi was listening with an expression of intense concentration, head tilted slightly sideways. “Perhaps…” to Klavicus’ irritation, he trailed off and said no more.

The youths were deciding whether to move toward the sound or away, whether the voices were leading them into a trap or shelter, whether they had caused the storm. “We can answer that question definitively at least,” Klavicus muttered.

Since forward lay commiseration or confrontation, either more satisfying than the impersonal, intangible hostility of the storm, they moved on with bowed heads and hunched shoulders, struggling virtually blind toward the source of the music. Suddenly its tone changed, grew more shrill, and Saphira held up a hand. “It’s a warning,” she said.

Before anyone could ask whether the warning was for them or of them, the air in their immediate vicinity cleared even though just behind the storm still raged. Not more than a few steps ahead lay a chasm, so deep they couldn’t see the bottom, and to the left a narrow bridge, the only way across. “Guess it was for us,” Kerac murmured.

They crossed the bridge and continued a short distance to a small camp. A seated woman, face drawn with fatigue and strain, held a piccolo-sized instrument to her lips that was the source of the unearthly music; Saphira realized now that the tones were somehow holding back the storm. “The Unspoken,” Desverendi said.

“The what?” Klavicus asked.

“A small, nomadic community of – I’m not sure what they’re identifying communal characteristic would be, other than their music. But I hesitate to call them musicians, as they are uninterested in performing for audiences.”

“I’ve never seen or heard of them.”

“I’m not surprised,” the druid replied. “They pursue no historical or intellectual endeavors. All save one of them – their designated intermediary with the larger world – never speak.”

“Vow of silence, eh?” Klavicus observed.

“Somewhat more drastic than that.” Desverendi concentrated, and the fire’s view swept across the playing woman and then her companions, all scattered about the camp fast asleep. Many of them bore scars of one kind or another on their necks. “Some are slaves who had their vocal cords cut to render them more useful to their masters. The rest voluntary silence themselves in a similarly permanent fashion when they join the community.”

The daimon shuddered. “That seems excessive.”

“It is their way,” the druid replied mildly.

Saphira had her harp in hand now and was trying to match the tones of the quickly tiring Unspoken. The woman smiled her encouragement, but an expression of frustration grew on the bard’s face as she realized that even playing with alternate tunings she would not be able to coax the harp to produce the desired sounds.

“What about that other string you have in your pack?” Kerac asked.

She looked at him blankly for a moment, then pulled it out and fitted it to the harp. The change was dramatic, and in short order Saphira had matched the Unspoken’s tune. For a few brief moments the field surged and strengthened, then collapsed back to its former strength as the piccolo player collapsed to the ground, passed out from exhaustion.

More hours passed and the storm did not abate, until Saphira looked as weary as her predecessor. Growing concerned, the others swept through the camp again, but not a single soul could be roused. Fortunately for all concerned, the bard and the winds reached the end of their strength together: Saphira and the shield collapsed, but a light breeze swept no more than the smallest grains of sand across the desert.

As the strangers returned to wakefulness the flute player hurried to a man and exchanged a series of signs. Nodding, he left her when she was finished and approached the youths, bowing deeply before Saphira. “Kife,” he said, “wielder of the quantum singularity, we are honored by your presence and grateful for your aid.”

“The…quantum singularity?” she replied. Smirking, Zane and Kerac nudged one another, murmuring sotto voce about Strings of Ultimate Power, but Saphira silenced them with a barbed look.

“The cosmic string,” he offered. Seeing no more comprehension on her face, he spread his hands in apology. “I am sorry, Kife. I have no more words to explain it.”

Desverendi looked more closely at the harp. “Do you know where that string came from?”

“Perhaps,” Klavicus snapped, a little petulantly. After a few moments he said, “Skarp’s brood was sucked into the sphere of influence of a devil some time ago. The string as well as the lenses for the glasses Kerac wears were in his possession.”

“The string and the Seed, the staff and the orb, the weapons wielded by the warriors…they have acquired so many powerful items in so short a time,” Desverendi murmured. “Truly the world has chosen its champions.”

“Or they have become the champions because they are particularly talented scavengers.” The daimon sounded irritable. “Really, Desverendi, you’re a druid, not a shaman.”

“The forces align,” the druid rumbled. “Look at you, what you have become. And had you been somewhere else when the storm descended…”

Klavicus rolled his eyes. “If I had been somewhere else and given the priest the World Seed fragment there, the storm would have missed you altogether and you wouldn’t have needed me at all. If you’re going to talk nonsense, be quiet and listen.”

“Yes, Ancient One,” Desverendi replied, but there was no meekness in his tone.

The Unspoken spokesman was reiterating his gratitude. “Alas, we have no tangible way to express our thanks.”

“The cliff we didn’t walk over is thanks enough,” Kerac pointed out.

“If you wouldn’t mind, though,” Saphira put in, “teaching me the shield ritual…I can sustain it, but I don’t know how to begin.”

“Of course, Kife, of course,” he replied eagerly. “You would honor us in the learning.”

“What is this ‘Kife’ he keeps calling her?” Klavicus asked.

Desverendi shook his head “I have no idea. It must be related to the string somehow. Do you know what function it is intended to serve?”

The daimon picked up several rocks and crushed them sequentially between his fingers. “No,” he finally said, his scowl expressing his displeasure with ignorance more eloquently than words. “I’ve never seen or heard of it before.”

The speaker, apologizing again for their inability to repay the Kife’s service, mentioned misfortune coming upon them near the mountains as part of the cause. “Beasts walking on two legs took nearly a dozen of us, and we who remain fled without many things.”

Kerac asked for a clearer description, and the man was only halfway through it when Desverendi and Klavicus looked at one another. “Hobgoblins,” the druid said. “I thought they had died out, like so many races.”

“Gone to ground. They haven’t been seen overworld for centuries upon centuries. But they’re a tough race – I would have been surprised if they weren’t still around.” The youths were asking where the other Unspoken had been taken. “I thought they were going to bury Alentha,” Klavicus grumbled.

“The sands will take care of that,” Desverendi said.

“That isn’t the human way.”

The druid made a dismissive gesture. “Only because they crowd themselves into spaces so tight that the mildest of pathogens threatens them all with destruction.”

“From high Tiran politics to this,” the daimon snorted. “You’d think they had better things to do than go chasing off after some ragtag tribe’s lost lambs in the Underdark.”

“We have given them no direction,” Desverendi pointed out. “And they are behaving, I believe, in a manner consistent with the Galeb Duhr’s intentions when he anointed them paladins.”

Klavicus grunted noncommittally, pulled a pipe from a jacket pocket and prepared it for lighting. “They’re going to be in for a rude shock.” At Desverendi’s puzzled glance he said, “Have you been underworld?”

The druid shook his head. “Maintaining life here consumes all of my time and energy. Why?”

The daimon took a hard draw on the pipe. “Oh, you’ll see.”

After resting a brief time with the Unspoken, the paladins made their way toward the mountains where the attack against their rescuers had occurred. The violent storm had long since erased any possible sign of which way they had gone, but after a brief consultation they decided to head for the foothills. “Logical enough,” Klavicus said. “If hobgoblins have never been seen by anyone overworld, presumably they won’t be heading to a city with their plunder.”

“It seems risky,” Desverendi said, “seizing slaves from the overworld. Someone might come looking for them.”

“Not if they’re careful. The desert covers tracks well, and – well, if they get that far, you’ll see the other problem.”

The youths were following a new trail of debris now, and found themselves confronting a nervous dwarf who was simultaneously gathering and attempting to hide broken poles and shredded bits of fabric. He was enjoying little success with either effort. After they had convinced him of their benevolent intentions he introduced himself as Rong and accepted their offer to help retrieve his broken belongings and return them to a nearby cave. “When the storm first began I thought the wind might be perfect for a little test but then it grew so strong so quickly that I thought I’d better take it down but then it grew so much stronger so much more quickly that it – ” he paused for his first breath, “well, it was quite ruined.”

“It?” Kerac asked.

The dwarf narrowed his eyes at them, calculating, then relaxed a little and said, “My flying machine, of course.”

Several of the youths suppressed smiles. “And has it flown?” Zane asked.

“Not yet, not yet,” Rong replied breezily, “but I get closer with every prototype.”

“And how many prototypes have you made?”

He counted on his fingers rapidly, repeating several times, then shook his head and dropped his hands. “Forty?”

Reign and Regan rolled their eyes, but the others gamely pressed on. “And what’s gone wrong?” Kerac said.

“Inferior materials! I can never get quite what I need.” He held up shards of broken poles. “More flexibility!” He flung a piece of fabric into the air, where it hovered for a moment before falling limp against his fingers. “Lighter weight!”

“Have you tried silk?” Zane asked.

“Yes, but it isn’t stiff enough.”

“Some kind of animal skin?” Regan put in with a sigh.

“Yes, but it’s too heavy. Well, dragon skin might do,” he lowered his voice, “but I think that would be very hard to come by.”

They promised to keep an eye out, and asked, speaking of eyes, if Rong during any of his scavenging or testing had found any passages into the mountains. He pointed them in the direction of a door he’d seen once, wished them an enthusiastic farewell and turned back to his work as if they’d never been there.

When they reached the place Rong had spoken of, they stared in silent astonishment. Fifty feet tall, the double doors were intricately carved with strange beings that Kerac could only identify as hobgoblins, minotaurs and demons because of his fascination with history. What he as well as his companions failed to identify was any means of opening them. Prying and pounding had no effect, and a night spent camped near the door hoping someone would emerge gained them nothing but chills. By then Zane had determined that the opening was sealed with arcane spells, and without meeting whatever requirements had sealed it or possessing the correct passphrase they could sit before it the rest of their lives and never get inside.

They explored nearby caves but none offered any adequate ingress to the mountain’s depths. They considered climbing in search of a higher entrance, but the sheerness of the mountainside was daunting. Reconnaissance was called for, but they shared the conviction that time was an enemy; the longer they spent looking for the slaves, the more likely they had changed hands to a new master still more difficult to find.

Kerac suggested enlisting Klavicus’ aid, but Regan and Zane demurred. “Do you know how to open them?” Desverendi asked the daimon.

“Once upon a time, yes. I don’t think I could now. Poor timing sending Sugar Primrose and Po off in search of Mahlanda. The druid might have done something with them.”

Desverendi gave him a sharp glance. “How?”

Klavicus shrugged.”I only said ‘might.’”

A discussion on how to proceed ended with a decision to head for a major city in search of supplies for Rong – if they could get his flying machine into the air, perhaps they could find a way into the mountain. They could expect a hostile welcome in Urik if they were recognized, but it was far closer than Tir and since time was of the essence they opted to get underway and trust to luck to provide a way in when they were closer.

As it happened they didn’t need to enter Urik at all. On the road just outside the city they encountered a pair of bickering slavers driving a wagon with a single occupant, swathed in blankets and completely hidden from casual inspection. The two men were arguing bitterly over opportunity costs and misjudgments regarding the value of their exotic but apparently undesirable property.

A slave wagon had gotten the young people out of Urik; they saw no reason why another one couldn’t get them back in. Saphira undertook negotiations with the slavers, which rapidly grew more complicated when she realized that their unwanted prize might have come from the very place the paladins were trying to get into. Her request to examine “the goods” met with the protestation that the creature was unable to endure sunlight – that was, in fact, the reason they were having so much trouble selling him.

Klavicus skipped the fire ahead to nightfall, murmuring, “Curiouser and curiouser,” as the slavers removed the man’s covering and a dark-skinned, pale-haired man with obvious burns on his body stood before them.

Desverendi stared intently at the flames. “Drow?” he exclaimed. “The drow survived as well?” He studied Klavicus’ expression. “You don’t precisely seem surprised.”

“Surprised that he is overworld, yes. Surprised at his existence, no. Don’t look at me like that,” he said as the druid’s gaze remained fixed on him. “If I began an exhaustive list of everything I know and didn’t stop until the end, the sun would have failed and the Dragon died of old age in his bed before I was finished.”

Desverendi frowned, but said nothing. The drow was introducing himself as Gendar, an antiquities dealer who had the misfortune to be captured in an unguarded moment and sold into slavery. He eyed them suspiciously. “What do you want from me?”

“Nothing,” Kerac said.

“Nothing permanent,” Regan amended. “We’re looking for a way into a mountain.” She described the location.

“Yes, I can aid you,” Gendar said. “And that is all you want?”

“Possibly some information about what we’re walking into. But yes, that’s all.”

“How did you get caught?” Kerac asked.

“Business deal gone bad,” the drow replied. “I was acquiring a trinket for a client – nothing powerful, sentimental value – but someone apparently didn’t want me to deliver it.” He looked at them thoughtfully. “If you’re going to be poking around anyway…If you come across an ebony scepter, topped with a skull and a gem at its base, there’s, oh say, three hundred gold in it for you.”

“Our other business takes precedence,” Zane said, “but if we happen upon it we’ll bring it to you.”

They walked through the night, Saphira speeding their travels with rousing tunes. Gendar’s attempt to open the doors without witness crumbled before Reign and Regan’s not very thinly veiled threats. “We’re not planning on setting up a trade route or a colony,” Regan said. “But if something else that belongs overworld is – mislaid – down here, we will come back to retrieve it.”

After a long silence he nodded. “In the twists and turns of the labyrinth may the darkness consume you,” he recited.

As the door swung silently, slowly closed behind them Regan asked, “How do we get out again?” Gendar showed them. “And now we go back outside and try getting in,” she said. “In case there’s something about the passphrase you didn’t tell us.”

“It will take ten minutes to reset the door,” he complained.

“We can wait.”

Once inside he seemed eager to be away from them, and muttered darkly of dangers and intrigues. “Make for the Seven Pillared Hall,” he said. “That’s neutral ground, you’ll be safe enough there. What you’re looking for is likely to be in Blood Reaver territory though.”

“Blood Reavers?” Reign said.

“A coalition – more of a gang, really – of goblins, hobgoblins and bugbears. Rumor is they’ve allied with the duergar – dwarves,” he said at their uncomprehending looks, which grew no more certain at the thought of the kindly dwarves they knew consorting with thugs. “It’s the duergar likely want the slaves.”

“What do they do with them?”

“What does anyone do with slaves?” He looked at them as if he thought them dense. “Do the work you don’t want to do. If you want yours back you’d better hurry though. The duergar do have a way of using them up.”

They were walking down a long hallway now, tall pillars carved with statues flanking them on either side. Klavicus looked lost in memory. “Seventy-seven demons,” he murmured, “leading to the Seven Pillared Hall.”

“So you not only know how to open the doors,” Desverendi said, “you’ve been through them.”

“Often, in the old days.” The daimon relit his pipe. “But the demons are gone now, I suppose.”

There were alcoves set between some of the statues, and the youths paused before one from which voices emerged. “I’ll buy myself for five gold!” a thin, frightened but cultured voice said.

“No,” gruff tones responded.

“Ten!”

“Who is that?” Kerac asked.

“Sounds like the Blood Reavers have caught themselves a halfling.”

“A halfling?” Regan said. “But he sounds so educated. They’re all feral.”

“Feral?” Gendar laughed. “You folks live in one messed up world.”

“No denying that,” Regan muttered.

“What will happen to him?” Saphira asked.

“They’ll hand him over to the duergar, I expect.”

“What if we buy him?”

He looked her up and down. “You could try. I’d be surprised if you succeeded, but you could try.”

Regan frowned. “We’re here for slaves.”

“He’s going to be a slave.”

“We’re here for the Unspoken’s slaves,” the avenger amended. “We have to decide how much trouble we want to make – or attention draw – along the way.”

“We’re supposed to be paladins, aren’t we?” Zane pointed out, murmurs of assent greeting his words.

Regan shrugged then gestured toward the entry. “I’ll guard the hallway, keep anyone from getting out if they’re not in a negotiating mood.”

“I’ll join you,” Kerac said.

Reign and Zane accompanied Saphira, who was delegated to do the talking. Zane looked pointedly at Gendar.

“I’ll be over here,” the drow said. “Not getting killed.”

His remark proved prescient. The hobgoblins’ fear of their absent duergar employers proved more potent than their unease at five armed strangers, and though the ensuing conflict ended with the hobgoblins dead and the halfling still standing the conflict was unavoidable.

Rendil Halfmoon was an amiable fellow, as far removed from the halflings the young people encountered overworld as it would be possible to be and remain the same species. He grinned and waved as the drow stepped out of the shadows. “Gendar, you’re back! Do you have these fine folks to thank for your liberty as well?”

The drow muttered something unintelligible and skulked along behind as the group moved toward the Seven Pillared Hall. “You’ll have to stay at the Halfmoon Inn while you’re here – free of charge, of course,” Rendil chattered. “And have a few drinks. Erra – the innkeeper and my aunt – will be so relieved I’m all right.”

“I thought the Seven Pillared Hall was safe harbor,” Regan said, casting a sideways glance at Gendar.

“Oh it is, it is,” he assured them. “The mages keep everything orderly. You have nothing to fear, nothing at all, as long as you follow the rules.”

“The rules?” Zane said.

“They’re very straightforward, actually. Number one is don’t avoid taxes. That makes them angry. And don’t cause trouble in the Hall. Oh, and it’s not a bad idea not to get on Brugg’s bad side – he’s the ogre who keeps the peace on a day to day basis. Bad-tempered and not – ah, shall we say – overly bright, and he does like to throw his considerable weight around, but he has the mages’ imprimatur, so if you attract his attention I recommend walking away as soon as prudently possible.”

“If the Hall is safe, how did you fall in with the Blood Reavers?” Kerac said.

“Oh, I was – well, I was – I guess you could say – spying on them. They were nosing around the Halfmoon and I didn’t like that. I’m fond of Aunt Erra and – well, not the wisest thing I’ve ever done, and now that you’ve saved me from a most unfortunate fate – did I thank you? I think I did but in any case thank you again – I certainly won’t be trying that in any near, conceivable future.”

When they emerged from the dimly lit hallway into the Seven Pillared Hall the young people stopped as one and stared. “Impressive, isn’t it?” Rendil said, gesturing toward a massive statue of a minotaur that towered over the hall, intricate runes carved along its base. “If you have a complaint you may speak to the statue and Ordinator Arcinis – he’s one of the mages – appears to settle the dispute. A serious complaint, of course, it’s never wise to waste the mages’ time with frivolous – uh,” he broke off, “are you looking at the statue?”

“Of course they’re not,” Klavicus observed. Beside him, even the old druid’s eyes widened at the sight of a waterfall emerging from the shadowy heights of the cavern and spilling into a stream that ran through the center of town. The youths edged closer to it, allowing the spray to fall on faces animated with almost guilty pleasure. “I wonder if it’s against the rules to bathe in public…” Regan murmured, then shook herself and attended to what Rendil had said. “The mage who appears – is he human?”

“Yes, he – well, I’ve always assumed he was. He’s the right height, anyway. But he wears a mask – with human features – no expression on it,” he shuddered, “now that you mention it, it is a little creepy. But effective – you do feel as if you’re dealing with a force of law, not a man – individual – whatever he is.”

Desverendi felt Klavicus stir beside him and eyed him shrewdly. “Have you been to the Hall recently enough to have know what the halfling is talking about?”

“I saw Ordinator Arcinis once, briefly.” The daimon pursed his lips and blew through them softly. “Those mages know if a strange demon is about. They don’t like it much.”

“Surely you could have overcome their opposition.”

Klavicus laughed harshly and threw up his hands in frustration. “Why does everyone seem to think I’m omnipotent? I didn’t care to discover if I could or not. There was nothing there of particular importance to me – I was satisfying idle curiosity. Idle curiosity wasn’t worth the bother of conflict, so I left.” When Desverendi wrinkled his brow the daimon repeated more slowly, “Not – worth – the – bother. I didn’t leave because I didn’t want to be responsible for the carnage. Stop trying to turn me into some kind of cursed solar.”

Rendil was leading them on toward the Halfmoon Inn, peppering them with questions about the world above. He and Gendar shared more than one smug smile and knowing glance as the youths described the desperation wracking their ravaged world. From their expressions and slightly sagging shoulders, it was obvious that Skarp’s brood realized they had stumbled into lives much more comfortable than the ones they had known. “Laugh while you can, little underworlders,” Klavicus said, looking irritated.

“What do you mean?” Desverendi asked.

“That was a cushy corner of the Underdark: plentiful resources and the kind of environment that a balor or glabrezu could call a home away from home. There was so much contention it was dangerous even for me in the old days. These little maggots have spent centuries plundering the demon built and the demon owned and the unwillingly demon abandoned. If we succeed in shoving the Prime Material back to its rightful place in the multiverse there will be a reckoning, I expect. Balor and glabrezu have long memories.”

“So we will imperil a community that might have survived in the name of preserving our own?”

“The operative word there,” Klavicus reminded him sharply, “is might.”

“I do not mean that I would chart a different course,” the druid rumbled. “The Vale is my care, and I would not see it destroyed. But it is worth contemplating the unintended consequences of the things we do.”

Klavicus jabbed a finger in his direction. “Don’t any of you who goaded me into action start lecturing me about the virtues of contemplation now.”

“Yes, Ancient One,” Desverendi murmured, and this time there was a note of apology in his tone.

Skarp’s brood were gathered around a table in the Halfmoon Inn with Rendil, drinking ale and listening intently. Regan gulped hers down between bouts of mad scribbling on a piece of paper; the halfling talked volubly and rapidly and she seemed to be having difficulty keeping up. “The Blood Reavers skulk about in the Chamber of Eyes – I expect they’ll have taken your lost people there. Find a door carved with a dragon holding an orb and you’ll be on your way. Now if you happen upon a different door marked with a stylized T, that leads to the Shining Road and you’ll want to stay away from there. That’s something to do with Torog. Not that the Chamber of Eyes doesn’t as well – rumor has it that it’s a shrine dedicated to him, built by the minotaurs, who were struck down by the god Baphomet for playing both sides of the deific coin, as it were – but that’s neither here nor there for you, I suppose, as neither – ”

“Wait,” Regan waved a frustrated hand, “who is Torog?”

“The King that Crawls is another name for him. He was said to be rather froglike in form and – and – ” words failed him for a moment, “to be honest I don’t know much more about him than that. He’s not the sort of god you want to think about too much, not like lovely Erathis. The Temple of Hidden Light here is dedicated to her – you might want to drop by there if you have time, pay your respects – it’s a dangerous thing you’re meaning to do and a little more support, even of the intangible kind, couldn’t hurt, you know.”

The remainder of his information was more pedestrian: House Azaer might have supplies if they needed any although the tiefling Naristo was not the friendliest individual Rendil had ever met. The Grimmerzhul duergar might have parts for a flying machine. Terrlen Darkseeker was the best guide thereabouts if they needed someone to show them around the deep places, Bennik the Wanderer was the local bard and told a good tale or two.

Saphira looked puzzled. “Azaer is a merchant house based out of Urik. It sounds from your description as if this Terrlen and Bennik are human. But we’ve never heard of any of this. How did they?”

“Azaer knows a good thing when they see it,” Klavicus informed the flames. “They’re not going to risk their profits.”

“Most of the humans were born here,” Rendil said. He bit at his lower lip. “And at the risk of sounding offensive – the overworld doesn’t sound very appealing. We have a good life here – Blood Reavers and vicious duergar aside – but our resources aren’t limitless. A stampede of desperate overworlders – well, that would just ruin things for everyone, wouldn’t it?”

After assuring him as they had Gendar that they had no plans for sending along hordes of overworld refugees, they thanked him for his hospitality and made their way to the Temple of Hidden Light. Its door warden, a Dragonborn named Surina, eyed them suspiciously. “You came with the drow, didn’t you?”

“We rescued him from overworld slavers and in return he led us here, where we have business with – ” Regan paused a moment, “other individuals who have taken things that don’t belong to them.”

“You have business with the Blood Reavers then. If you aren’t going to kill the drow, you could at least kill some hobgoblins. Or duergar. The world would be a much better place if their races were eradicated.”

Regan opened her mouth to reply, but Zane tapped her on the shoulder. “Some will likely die as a side effect,” he said, and when the Dragonborn responded with a grim smile said, “May we we enter the temple?” She nodded and swung the door open.

Phaledra was yet another human, a pretty, quiet woman who had lived underworld her entire life and knew nothing of the world above. Hearing of their mission she was quick to offer the temple’s services should they be needed. “We can supply some healing, perhaps even the raising of dead – ” the young people looked at one another nervously, “of course, more services might be available if I understood rather more of your character. Everywhere you look there are people who need aid. Aiding them would, of course, earn you Erathis’ favor.”

Upon leaving a fifty gold donation with the temple they went in search of the object of Phaledra’s most intense worry, a human named Vadriar the Sage. They found him wandering the street with a heavy backpack stuffed with books and scrolls; Phaledra said he had traveled to the deep places for scholarly information but came back drastically changed. When he saw them his first impulse was to flee and it took all of Saphira’s skill to calm him. Even then when asked about his plight he could do no more than scratch a T in the sand with his foot before resuming his helpless stammering.

“This ‘He Who Crawls’ – Torog, perhaps?” Saphira suggested after they left him.

“Could very well be,” Zane said. He had studied the man’s movements intently. “His behavior is consistent with someone suffering a geas or similar curse. Not your garden variety curse either. Something very powerful.”

Regan made more notes, and now it was Zane’s turn to remind her that they were here primarily to retrieve the Unspoken’s lost companions. But she still insisted on looking for a creature the bard Bennik had mentioned, a beggar with the singular name of Chrrak who claimed to know the Dragon. They found him, in a dark corner of the Hall, bundled into a pile of dirty blankets and rags. He was as strange a creature as Bennik claimed, and if Zane hadn’t had a vision through Po’s sword, of the Archmage Tenser and his peculiar looking apprentice Meepo, they wouldn’t have known his race.

“It’s a – but it can’t be!” Desverendi exclaimed.

Klavicus’ brow furrowed. “It can’t be, but it is. How he managed to keep alive all this time I can’t even begin to imagine. Kobolds have nothing like that kind of life span.”

He was a sneaking, sniveling thing, aggrieved and boastful by turns, claiming that he was a warlord who should have been a king. At the latter claim he emerged from his blankets and began to strut about, but leapt back and hid when the Dragon was mentioned. “How did you survive?” Zane asked.

“I wasn’t there, I wasn’t!” he sniffled. “I was here, I was here all along, deep, down deep, that’s why he didn’t find me…not like the hobgoblins found the drow,” he changed the subject abruptly. “You came with the drow, didn’t you? He was poisoned, you know, poisoned at the Halfmoon by someone like putty.”

“Someone like putty?” Reign said. “What do you mean?”

“Why would he accept a drink from a stranger?” Regan asked. “He seems very suspicious to me.”

“Didn’t know it was a stranger. Looked like someone he knew. Thought he was safe, but he passed out and they carried him away, carried him away and sold him like cattle.”

Amidst all the stops and starts and mutters and asides it didn’t dawn on them to ask what ‘cattle’ were; instead they asked if Chrrak knew who the ‘person like putty’ was.

“Three hundred gold.” He held out his hand and the change in his manner was stunning. He was no longer unfocused, no longer cowering. “Three hundred gold and I’ll find out. I’m good at finding things out.”

After conferring among themselves briefly they agreed to his terms. They intended to question him further but heard the sound of heavy boots behind them. “The odious Brugg,” Klavicus observed, and after a brief, unfriendly exchange they reluctantly took Rendil’s advice, mollifying the ogre as best they could and then hurrying out of his sight.

“All right, it’s time to do something practical,” Zane said. “Let’s find this Terrlen Darkseeker.”

In spite of the psion’s dogged intentions they were distracted once more, this time by Orontor, a mage at the custom house who when he heard they were heading for the labyrinth’s asked them to keep an eye out for another mage. “Paldemar is his name, and he’s gone missing. My suspicion is he’s either dead or up to something he shouldn’t be. I can’t get away, and ordinarily I wouldn’t ask strangers for help, but then ordinarily we don’t get strangers I expect to see come back out of the labyrinth ever again. I’ll pay you – 900 gold pieces and a quality item of magic – for information about him. Significant information, mind you, not a rumor of a robe you saw disappearing down some dark hallway. That said, if you do see him stay out of his way. He’s no pushover, and well-armed as you are you’d be made of sterner stuff than the casual glance suggests if you could handle him.”

Even Zane’s impatience was mollified somewhat by the promise of nine hundred gold, and they accepted Orontor’s commission respectfully before at last making their way to Terrlen. He was, to Zane’s relief, the first laconic individual they’d encountered in the Hall. “I’ll broker for you with the merchants,” he said. “They’re in the habit of ripping off anyone they don’t expect to see again, and that’d be any strangers. Take ten percent for myself, but that’s less than they’d charge, I assure you. As for where you’re headed…I’m not one to turn down coin, but you don’t need me to get to the Chamber of Eyes. Go through the dragon-marked door, follow the double-lined marked path, turn into the lintel marked with five staring eyes. And don’t expect a warm welcome.”

“And if the people we’re looking for aren’t in the Chamber of Eyes?” Zane said.

Terrlen stroked his chin thoughtfully. “If they were taken for the duergar – and we have no reason to believe otherwise – then they’d be put to labor in the Horned Hold. For their sake and yours, hope that they aren’t there yet. Or that you can move very quickly.”

Klavicus let the fire die down as the youths made their way back to the Halfmoon to rest for the night before heading out early in the morning. “Nice little laundry list of irrelevant chores they’ve accumulated,” he grumbled.

“Irrelevant?” Desverendi said. “At least this world seems more black and white than ours. Call it schooling in the long lost art of being a paladin.”

The daimon rose and headed for his own begrudged night’s rest. “We shall see, won’t we?”