by Levi Samuel
An old orc with braided, gray hair approached the group. He pressed firmly against his walking stick, balancing himself with each step. "Let him pass." The voice was calm, but commanding. The elder turned and slowly made his way back toward the large, fur covered hut in the center of their grounds.
The orcs lowered their weapons, moving to give the half-breed access to the largest hut. It was clear they weren’t happy about it. But no one would go against the shaman’s orders.
Krenin passed between them, feeling their anger on his skin. He approached the large hut and lifted the fur covered flap. Stepping inside, the musty scent of herb and smoke burned his nostrils.
The floor was lined with animal pelts. A large log was cut lengthwise and smoothed, making a bench large enough to seat three full-sized orcs.
The aged orc had a long, braided beard, matching color to his equally lengthy hair. His olive-green skin was beginning to wrinkle and turn to ashy in places, but he looked as if he could still fight if required, despite his need for the cane. He gestured to the wooden bench, waiting for the half-orc to sit.
Krenin plopped down, hearing it creak beneath the sudden weight.
"What brings a half-breed to the lands where he is considered an outcast?" The elder orc grabbed a large gourd and pulled the wedged cork free. He placed it to his lips and took a long draw.
"I was asked to speak in regard to the dreualfar threat. They escaped the underground and already crippled Tresengal. If we don't band, they can overrun Dalmoura."
The chief spat the liquid on the ground. "Dalmoura— a name given by humans! It has no meaning here. Nor does your concern of dreualfar. They concern only myrkalfar. As far as I am concerned, let them wipe each other out."
"The threat is bigger than the rivalry of two races. If you do not heed my warning, they will be here soon."
"Your words are noted. If they come, we will deal with them. If not, they are not my concern." The elder orc said calmly, replacing the cork and laying the gourd to rest.
The flap of the hut opened, allowing daylight to drift into the large, smoke filled shelter.
"Chieftain, Kalgar is dead." The newcomer glared at Krenin, his eyes full of hatred.
The shaman waved his hand in dismissal, watching the flap fall shut. "Unfortunate news. He was able. Served this clan proud. I am afraid you must settle his death."
Krenin looked from the chief to the door flap. "I apologize for his weakness. But I must return and inform your decision."
"That is no longer your concern. Kalgar had family. Without him they will have a difficult winter. The clan helps, but not enough. You must take care of them now. In Tulgrimm, you will work to feed his family. Once settled, you will be released to continue your path."
Krenin felt the rage growing inside him once again. He could crush this frail old orc with ease. Nobody could stop him. And that’s exactly what he would do if they tried to overtake him.
The aged orc waved his hand, letting his energies flow.
Krenin reached for his weapon but it was too late. Several vines shot from the ground, wrapping tightly around his body. He struggled against them, unable to reach his axe. The need for air was becoming precious, against the constricting bands. He fought to get free, fought to breathe, but the vines were too tight. Accepting his doom, Krenin felt his fight drain away. Staring at the frail, old orc, blackness overcame him.
Mushrooms grew in thick patches, hunkered together in the cracks and crevices along the cave walls. They put off a soft glow in the Underdark, illuminating the tunnels like tiny torches every so often. The floors and ceilings were rough, layered in thick mineral deposits. It was clear these passages hadn't seen visitors in quite some time, if ever.
Nezial casually walked around the protruding stalagmites, their unique beauty lost upon him. He had one job, to free Izaryle. Beauty was a commodity he could no longer relish.
The ancient energies called to him. They were close, yet so far away. Feeling a change in their disposition, Nezial froze, turning to study the jagged walls. He placed his hand against the cool stone, listening for the response.
The glowing fungus dimmed, the rubbery stocks flexing to avoid his touch.
“I'm on the wrong damn level!” Nezial’s anger boiled. He’d wasted so much time trying to find this specific tunnel, far below the known territories. Yet now it seemed he hadn't found the right one. “It matters not! I'll find it either way!” Determined, he threw his other hand against the wall. The energy flowed from him, burning deep into the stone. He watched the layers meld together and start to recede, leaving a deep crater where he'd touched. The corner of his mouth tightened with his success. Forcing his will into the spell, he pushed further, allowing his magic to cut through the earth, digging deeper, seeming never to stop.
He felt like it had no end. Every time he started to tire, renewal washed over him. It was Izaryle calling him home. It had to be. What else had the ability to rejuvenate a man such as he? His smile grew wider with each passing breath, reassuring his victory. The humans and alfar didn't stand a chance. Even if they rallied against him, his army was too massive. They were restricted only by the hole they crawled from, but the constant mining and new openings eliminated that problem. Shadgull was days from falling and the dragon stone was hidden in plain sight. Even if they knew what it was, there was no way they knew he sought it.
The last bits of rock melted away, revealing a perfectly smooth tunnel angling deeper into the Underdark.
Nezial had trouble seeing the distance, but there appeared to be some form of structure at the base. He lowered his hands and stepped into the newly constructed tunnel. The walls were slick like glass, all traction burned away by his spell. He slid down the perfectly round hole, careful to keep his footing.
Reaching the bottom, he couldn't help but feel lost in the sights before him. It wasn't so much the perceived beauty that caught his attention as much as it was the expert craftsmanship of the— cathedral? Every inch of its towering presence was engraved and smoothed, removing any evidence of tooling. It was as if the strange, black stone had been grown into its current shape and harvested to fit perfectly among the others. Even the fabled dwarves he'd read about didn't have that amount of skill.
Nezial stood in the shadow of the monumental underground complex, feeling his master's call from within. He marched around the side, finding an ancient road set in the cavern floor. It was made of the same onyx mineral, equally ornate and seamless. Which seemed odd considering it was simply a road. What purpose did it serve other than to travel upon?
Following the flawless pathway, he found the entrance to the antiquated structure. The doors were polished to a mirror finish, reflecting the looming cavern behind him. A thick layer of dust had settled over the surface, leaving a haze in the image. He approached the towering doors. They were much larger than required for any creature he'd ever heard of. By this scale, even the eldest of dragons would have had plenty of room to enter, not that a dragon would willingly come this far underground.
Lifting his hand, Nezial faced his palm toward the sealed seam. To his surprise, he couldn't see himself in the dusty reflection. Like a lost toy you didn't realize was missing until you searched for it. Dismissing the notion, Nezial channeled his energy, letting it soak into the mysterious ore. To his surprise it felt like the doors were absorbing his magic, pulling more than he desired to release. He tried breaking the spell, but it kept pulling, threatening to drain everything he had.
“No!” He couldn't let it take it all. He had to do something. His will focused into a single action, Nezial siphoned off what power he could hide from the demanding tether. Building it as quickly as he could, Nezial released it into one massive burst, exploding out in all directions.
Collapsing to his knees, a sigh of relief escaped him, feeling the siphon break. Panting heavily and near exhaustion, Nezial picked himself up. It was clear his magic wasn’t going to work here. "Well shit, it looks like I'm going to have
to do it the hard way."
Smoke rose from the center of camp, fading into the moon lit night. Embers danced among the rolling wisps, turning to ash and floating off. Twelve men sat in silence around the fire, staring into its hypnotic draw. Each well dressed, less than noble, but more than peasant. It was clear these men held great wealth, recently obtained, judging by their attire and trinkets. They held respect for one another, but played a silent rivalry. It was their intention to surpass the others, while not knowing where to start. From an outside perspective, they looked foolish, wearing their most expensive garment and effects to a private meeting in the woods. Were these men not the ruling leaders of thieves and bandits, this party would have welcomed such.
Lythus watched from the shadows, sizing the men. They displayed their weaknesses proudly, unaware of their broadcast. It was time. Stepping from the shadows, he revealed his presence to them. "I'm glad to see you all made it." He marched to the center of the villainous group, placing him back to the fire.
They were startled by his sudden arrival, unaware how long he'd been watching them.
“Enough games! You've called us here. Reveal your face so that we may look upon the man that has lined our coffers.” A man with a tricorne hat and thick woolen coat demanded with a laugh.
“As you wish.” Lythus slowly lowered his hood, revealing a bleached mask made from an orc skull. The protruding cheekbones reflected the moonlight.
They stared in confusion. “Why would he drop his hood only to be hiding behind a mask?” Whispers erupted among the group, growing in volume at a rapid pace.
“Silence!” Lythus demanded. "My identity is irrelevant. You're here for one reason only. The one thing you in common."
"And what is that?" A bearded, portly man asked, interrupting him.
Lythus moved with such speed, the man was caught off guard. "You like to interrupt when someone more powerful is speaking." Lythus whispered to his dagger, lodged in the man's ear. Pulling the blade free, he wiped it on his shoulder, watching him collapse. "And you all piss yourselves when confronted with your demise." He continued, increasing volume so they could hear clearly. Returning to his place near the fire, he started again, scanning each of them. "Now, as I was saying, if there are no more interruptions—," Lythus paused, daring them to step forward.
The band of brigands shook their heads, hoping to avoid the wrath of the disguised figure.
"—you seek easily obtainable wealth, but you're too stupid to obtain it by yourselves. You hold command over low-lives, savages, and scum, making your combined forces one to rival the armies you oppose. Prior to my arrival, you were met with resistance from the knights of Shadgull. But with my assistance, you've amassed a great deal of wealth. Your men are happy, and you have enough gold to rival the lords you seek to steal from.” Lythus paced back and forth in front of the assembled leaders, lost in his words. “The one thing I've asked in return was that you come when I call.” He looked around the group, locking eyes on each man. “And looking around, you have. It's time to repay your debt.”
The leaders followed him, hanging on each word. He wasn't wrong. Profits had dwindled for all of them prior to his arrival. If it hadn't been Shadgull's nobles, it was the new band of protectors from Marbayne, a group called ‘Border Wardens’. They served The Order, acting as protectors and bounty hunters for Dalmoura as a whole. Fortunately, their numbers were still fairly small, preventing them from establishing a solid hold in the highlands. But that would soon end if they didn't slow progression. The constant shuffle of armies also didn’t help matters. While it was easy to infiltrate the larger units, soldiers didn’t have much.
Lythus pointed to the south, continuing his speech. “In two days’ time, the gong of Shadgull City will sound. She'll be without her lord. She’ll be without her knights. And she’ll be without her army. Each of you will gather your men and impregnate the bitch. You’ll have nothing other than a few guards to deal with. They’ll be easily overcome by your numbers. Once you’ve entered the city, I don't care what you do. Rape the horses, pillage the treasure, and plunder the women, whatever it is your type likes to do. I don't care. What I do care about, however, is a very special emerald that is set in the center of Baron Remle De Leon's throne. Retrieve this emerald and I’ll consider your debts paid. If you fail me, I'll slaughter you. I'll slaughter your families. And I'll slaughter your men. Am I understood?"
They nodded agreement, fearing his unnatural speed and swift execution when questioned.
"And one last thing. You’ll have three hours from the sound to acquire my gem. Any longer, and you risk the return of Remle and his band of ass hats. I’d recommend being gone before then."
The fire flashed, blinding them for the briefest of moments. Searching the opening, the cloaked tactician was gone, disappeared into the shadows.
The unfamiliar walls were covered in thick patches of moss. Glowing fungus clung to the crevices, displaying a variety of faint blues and yellows in the rocky passageway. The ceiling was moist. Thousands of water droplets gathered, ready to fall to the floor below, leaving tiny bits of mineral behind on their jagged columns.
Gareth cautiously walked along the natural formations. Chunks of blood and gore dripped from his shield, leaving a trail behind him. The glowing tunnel was eerily quiet, alerting him to the absence of his hated foe. He didn't recognize the passage. And judging by the unmolested walls around him, the dreualfar didn't frequent this place either.
Truth was, he only came this way because they were guarding it. Had they paid it no mind, he wouldn't have bothered. But they were, so it had to hold value. Gareth continued forward, spotting a change in design. A perfectly round hole was inset against the otherwise jagged wall. He approached to inspect the unnatural find.
It was a tunnel leading deeper into the Underdark. The stone was smooth, like it had been drilled away with the finest precision. As far as his eyes could tell, it didn't dip, or slant, or curve in any direction. It was simply a perfect hole, leading straight into the unknown. Whatever they were guarding, it had to be at the other end of this hole. Slinging his shield, Gareth stepped into the mouth. Subtlety was not his strong suit, but it was required in this endeavor. Checking the width of the tunnel, he pressed his shoulders and arms against the low ceiling and tight walls. Content he could slow himself, he leaned back, allowing his hide soled boots to slip against the glass-like surface.
Within minutes he reached the bottom, seeing an ancient structure carved into the underground mountain. He guessed it was a dwarven city. He’d never met a dwarf, but from the stories he’d heard, he thought he would get along with them quite nicely.
Gareth followed the walkway, rounding the ancient complex. A large set of steps lead to what he guessed was the entrance. A huge set of blackened stone doors stood open to the empty cavern, inviting him into the complex.
Gareth stopped just outside the massive doors, dwarfed by their size. Continuing onward, he stepped inside, lost in the imagery. Each stone was carved and molded to fit perfectly against the others, leaving no trace of a seam between stones. Each was made of the same material as the doors. Not a single pebble was out of place, revealing the magnificence of the craftsmanship. He saw no sign of dust or debris, a miracle in its own right considering the age and size of the place. That thought was troubling. Clean, meant occupied. But where were the residents?
Carefully, Gareth walked down the darkstone stairway, keeping his eyes open for any movement. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end in the looming darkness. The solitude was almost worse than finding his enemy.
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Gareth passed through the wide archway at their base. Several pews rested in the grand hall. A pathway remained open in the center and along the sides. The far end held a domed chamber with a large altar as the centerpiece.
Marching across the cathedral, Gareth walked the bare floor between pews, listening to his echoing footsteps. The craftsmanship was exquisite, much like
the structure itself. These benches were made from the same stone as everything else, but appeared mechanical, like they could shift form. He inspected a bit closer, realizing a pattern to their design. Three rows made a complete set. The first row was immovable, while the second converted to form a table. And the third, the backrest rotated and seated on the opposite side of the seat. It was amazing how such a simple design could convert it from a church to a dining hall in a matter of minutes.
Glancing around the chamber, twelve towering figures stood over the room. Six per wall. The stood like columns, stretching up the ceiling. Black armor covered their form, everything but the faces. Near twenty-foot tall swords reached from their overlapped hands to the equally dark floor. Gareth peered at the stone face, unable to discern what he was seeing. Each time the features settled, it would shift to another, as if they were in constant fluctuation. He couldn't explain his reasoning, but he knew the twelve were protectors. Not just of him, but of the entire realm.
Shaking the vastness of their purpose from his mind, Gareth noticed the many thresholds along the wall between the column-like figures. All but one of the magnificent doors stood sealed for an eternity. Eyeing the single open door, Gareth resolve drove him toward action. That was where he’d find his enemy.
Gareth cautiously approached the open doorway, his hand locked around his mace. The dark room was bare, save for an open passage to his right. It looked as if the portal was once hidden behind the stonework, now busted and scattered about the floor. He stepped through the rubble and into the opening. A single chamber lied beyond with a partial hole in the floor. He could see the top few wedge-shaped steps, disappearing below. Quickly traversing the winding corridor, Gareth paused, seeing the flicker of fire light. The dreualfar didn’t require light to see. This raised more questions. Slowly stepping forward, Gareth peeked through the archway.
