“Gladly.” The thought of some hot stew and a tankard of ale in her belly sounded wonderful. “I don’t recall so much bustle last time we were here.” A wagon caravan nearly blocked the road leading into town, and travelers and traders mobbed the narrow streets, much more traffic than she remembered from her brief visit there once before with Arron and Zita as they fenced some goods which were too hot to sell in Nexus.
Grimdark had supposedly been founded at the heart of all the towns and passageways scattered throughout the hundreds of miles of the cavern system. According to Yosrick, and corroborated by what she had heard before, the Deep Roads hid a number of scattered portals, yet the location of the crossroads itself wasn’t so widely known. They would have to inquire as to its location.
“This place has an ill feel to it, even more so than Nexus,” Idrimel remarked quietly. “A haven of rogues and criminals if I’ve ever seen one.” She seemed somewhat rejuvenated after having rested and spending a few minutes in prayer.
“Live a little, sister.” Nera slapped her on the back, startling the priestess. “Not all of us are bad. Some only half bad.” She grinned, making sure to show the plane-blessed her pointed canine teeth, before pushing past the Solites and leading the way down the staircase.
Endira fell into step beside her, and the others followed, Arron trailing behind after a few moments as if lost in thought.
“Now, this is a place I could get comfortable with,” Nera said with a sideways glance at the elf. “Reminds me of the slums of Nexus a bit.” She had already picked out a couple of cutpurses lounging near the mouth of an alleyway. A moment later, the stench hit her. “Ack… Well, perhaps not. Besides the smell, I’m not sure I’d want to live here for long since everyone is literally on top of each other. But now that I’m no longer welcome in Nexus, perhaps I shall give it a chance.”
“Once we have found Malek, perhaps,” Endira said, “but from what I hear, this place is controlled by criminal syndicates. You’d not last long unaffiliated. Besides, don’t forget your bargain with Yosrick and the siblings. I would advise against antagonizing Idrimel and Athyzon too much—they have proven to be staunch companions.” She looked around Grimdark with curiosity as they stepped off the staircase and into the bustle of traffic.
Nera sighed. “Always duty with you lot, eh? The blessed ones are way too uptight… Doesn’t hurt to have them out of their comfort zones a bit. You’re right—they are useful to have around, if a tad insufferable,” she admitted when Endira gave her an amused look.
A group of merchant caravan guards eyed them with hostility as they moved up the main street into town. “Merchants” was a charitable description in this case—they looked like a thuggish group of slavers to Nera’s eye. Their wagon train, consisting of several reinforced wooden carts with barred windows, shaped like bricks on wheels, were parked in the road, nearly blocking all ingress and egress from the main street through town. A team of arrvak, giant docile lizards frequently used as beasts of burden, lay in the mud, unperturbed by the clamor around them. People jostled each other trying to squeeze around the wagons and arrvak.
A pair of ogres towered over the wagons where they were posted at either end, spiked clubs leaning casually over their shoulders. The nearest of the massive humanoids stared at Nera and her companions as they approached. They wore only loincloths, revealing flabby-looking bodies marked with numerous scars. Their soft appearance belied their great strength, however. Nera’s suspicions about the caravan were confirmed when, through the window of the nearest wagon, she saw people packed inside, shackles clinking occasionally as they moved.
The street had apparently once been dirt, but as a result of moisture dripping from the cavern ceiling as well as excrement from pack animals and likely some emptied chamberpots of residents also, it had been trampled into a foul-smelling muck.
The crack of a whip made Nera whirl. A dagger’s toss off to her right, a small group of goblins strained to move a cart loaded up with overflowing burlap sacks. The cart’s wheels had sunk into the mud, and the goblins pushed and pulled, desperately trying to get it moving again. A dark elf scowled at them, bringing the whip back to strike once again. Just then, the goblins managed to heave the cart free of the muck, and the heavy cart groaned back into motion. She caught sight of some mushrooms and tubers inside the sacks.
The dark elf caught her gaze and returned it with an icy stare. His skin was a bluish black, his eyes purple, and a shock of white hair stood up in spikes. Nera held his gaze a moment before turning her attention back to the traffic funneling through the narrow gap ahead.
“Where are we headed?” Athyzon stepped up beside her as she paused to let a loaded cart squeeze through the gap between the slaver wagon and the wall of a store. He and Idrimel wore their cowls pulled low again, to avoid undue attention. The paladin frowned as he looked around at the slaver caravan and general filth of the town.
“Somewhere warm, where we can get a hot meal in our bellies and a mug of ale,” Nera replied. “We did nearly freeze to death outside, after all. Your sister is probably weary from the effort of her spell—a brief rest would do us well.”
The Solites exchanged a glance. “Very well, but let us not tarry long, if that is acceptable?” Idrimel said.
“I don’t like it,” the paladin grumbled under his breath, but he didn’t argue.
“A meal, a drink, and some directions, then we leave,” Nera reassured them.
They didn’t have to walk far to locate a tavern. The main street seemed to consist solely of taverns, inns, whorehouses, and rundown stores. Unsavory characters loitered in the shadows of the doorways and alleys. Many of them studied the companions with interest, some with open hostility.
A wino stumbled into Idrimel. His eyes went wide when he saw her face, and he tripped over his own two feet, falling onto his backside in the muddy street.
“By Sol’s blinding light!” he exclaimed. “Angels sent down from on high, to cleanse the filth of the Deep Roads.” The drunkard stared at the siblings as if they were incarnations of Sol himself.
“Not quite, friend. Merely his humble servants,” Idrimel said with a patient smile. She reached out a hand and helped the dirty man back to his feet. She pressed a few coppers into his muddy hand.
“Thank you, milady.” The drunkard bowed awkwardly and watched them go, eyes wide with a sudden fervor, as if his faith in Sol had been restored.
“Doesn’t take you two long to make friends,” Nera said with a smile. “Or to draw all kinds of unwanted attention.”
She was uncomfortable with the attention the group was attracting. Despite the siblings wearing their cowls up, all eyes still seemed drawn to the party, perhaps by the mere presence projected by the Solites. In an unsavory town such as Grimdark, such attention could prove deadly.
She hurriedly picked a tavern called The Piper’s Flagon, stopping at the edge of the porch to get a feel for the place. The notes of a jaunty tune drifted through the open door, along with the appetizing smell of roasting meat from the kitchen. The establishment didn’t look any seedier than any of the others, and she was tired and ready to rest for a bit.
“What about this one?” she asked.
The companions’ reactions were predictable: Idrimel and Athyzon looked at it with disapproval while Arron and Endira were agreeable. Waresh and Yosrick, unsurprisingly, seemed downright eager to step inside.
“Very well, in we go.” As she stepped onto the porch, she felt eyes on her. She shot a sharp glance at a pair of toughs lounging against the wall. One was smoking a pipe, from which he exhaled a thick cloud of smoke in her direction. She could smell the acrid odor of civet. The other spat a gob of phlegm onto the creaky wooden floor an inch from Nera’s boot.
“Mind your spittle, arsehole, lest I ram my dagger through your scurvy sack.” Nera glared at the pair of scruffy humans.
“This one’s got a mouth on her.” The smoker coughed in surprise, eyebrows raised.
“Aye, I reckon I could find a use for that mouth,” replied the spitter with a leer. The two of them laughed.
“Piss off before me boot finds yer arses. Find somewhere else to harass the customers.” Waresh planted himself between Nera and the two toughs, one hand stroking the haft of his axe and a deadly glint in his eye, as if hoping they’d be foolish enough to start a fight.
After a moment, the toughs backed down, the spitter muttering a curse as they sauntered off.
Nera studied Waresh, surprised he’d been the one to defend her. Any other time, Arron would’ve had my back. She glanced over her shoulder to find him intently watching the crowd behind them on the street. He’s distant now… not the same after his experience. The dungeons must’ve been tough on him. She cursed herself for a fool at the thought. Of course, the Magehunter dungeons would have been unpleasant for anyone. He’ll likely just need some time to get over it, that’s all.
“After ye, lass.” Waresh gestured for her to enter, the hint of a mischievous grin on his face.
“Just so you know, I had that well in hand, dwarf. But I suppose thanks are in order just the same.” She smiled and smacked him on the pauldron of his armor before stepping inside.
The Piper’s Flagon was crowded, but the group managed to find a table just vacated by a group of laborers. A piper sat on the edge of a small stage, playing merrily away at some tune while a few patrons whistled and tapped their feet in time with the music. A fire roared in the hearth, and the heat of the common room felt good as Nera lounged back in her chair.
A harried barmaid quickly cleared the table and took their orders, disappearing into the kitchen a moment later. The group sat in companionable silence, everyone either too tired or too preoccupied for conversation. Their drinks arrived in short order, and Nera slaked her thirst on a dark ale that was a tad bitter for her taste, but she didn’t complain.
After a meal of roasted mutton, carrots, potatoes, and heavy biscuits slathered in butter, Nera leaned back in her chair with a full belly. The food was better than expected, and judging by the cleaned plates and few complaints, her companions felt the same.
“Where is this crossroads we need to get to?” Endira asked.
After everyone exchanged uncertain looks, Yosrick spoke up. “The place we seek is operated by a group known as the Order of Peraphrax. I suspect it has a local name, but I know not what that might be.”
“We can make some inquiries and spread some coin around,” Arron offered. “It can’t be a great secret.”
“Actually, it’s not very well known. I only came across its existence during some recent studies.” Yosrick looked around at the group. “The name Dron Reach was associated with it—perhaps that’s a section of the caverns where we can find it.”
“Well enough,” Athyzon spoke up. “Do you know the best way to find the Dron Reach?” he asked the barmaid, who had just approached.
The plump, middle-aged woman shook her head. “Nay, that I don’t, sir. You could try Menlo, the innkeep. He was a caravan master traveling throughout these parts for many a year before retiring here to start this tavern.”
The companions counted out coins and paid the woman, who wished them well before waiting on another group of travelers.
“Arron and I can take care of getting directions,” Nera said. “The rest of you, why don’t you meet us out near the staircase where we entered town?”
“Yes, that would be best. The filth of this place offends my senses.” Athyzon got up from his seat and waved for the others to follow.
“Must not offend them too badly—you cleaned your plate, you big oaf,” Nera muttered quietly. “Oi, make sure you keep to yourselves!” she called as the others got up and followed the paladin. “We don’t need any ruckuses while we’re here.”
“Since when don’t you want to make a ruckus?” Arron regarded her with amusement.
“It’s all this damned talk of duty and whatnot,” she said with a sigh. “Enough to make one act all grown up and responsible. That’s what leaders do, right? Try to keep the boyos out of trouble?”
“You sound like an old maid, Sister.” His crooked grin made her smile in return.
“Aye, at the rate this quest is going, perhaps I will be afore this is all said and done. Let’s go find this Menlo so we can be away from here.”
***
Idrimel trailed her companions back down the street. She was troubled to see the slaver caravan still blocking the road. A righteous anger simmered at the sight of the miserable people being carted around like livestock. The giant arrvak lizards seemed to have a better life than the slaves.
An angry exchange erupted ahead as a pair of warriors cursed at the caravan guards to move their wagons. An arrow lodged in the mud between one of the men’s feet, and he thought better of quarreling with the guards, especially when one of the ogres frowned at him. They moved off, faces hard with anger, and taunts were hurled in their wake.
As Idrimel approached, she saw the group of guards and wagon hands had swelled to about a dozen human, elven, and mixed-race individuals lounging against the nearest wagon, acting oblivious to their obstruction as the crowd was forced to circumvent them. The men passed a pair of flasks around, and a couple of them smoked on pipes.
A half-elf with an eyepatch covering one eye and a short sword on his hip leered at Endira as she passed, who studiously ignored him, before shifting his attention to Idrimel and Athyzon. His lone eye widened, and he nudged the tough next to him. Soon, the whole group was staring at Idrimel and Athyzon.
The attention wasn’t lost on the siblings. “I don’t like this, Sister,” the paladin said under his breath.
Too late, Idrimel realized her cowl had slipped back. Before she could react, one of the men stepped forward, leering at her blatantly. “Say, beautiful, me and the lads were wonderin’… Do angels have feathers covering their gashes?” The man turned and looked back at the group, which roared laughter at that.
When the tough turned back around, Athyzon’s armored gauntlet slammed into his face, lifting him off his feet and depositing him on the ground unconscious several paces away. His jaw had been deformed to one side, obviously broken, and blood trickled out of his slack mouth.
Waresh hooted with laughter. “Har! That bastard’s feet left the ground!”
Athyzon glared dangerously at the crew, his hand on the hilt of Redeemer. “Your vile words offend my sister and I. Speak to us no more and be about your business.”
Huge feet thumped loudly into the muck as one of the ogres lumbered closer. “Hrrrm. You hit Rorik? Me hit you back!” he shouted, face filled with glee. The ogre lifted his club and wound up for a mighty swing.
“Hold!” a voice called. A short, portly dwarf wearing a broad-brimmed black hat with a white feather through it strode up, hands on hips. He had knee-high black boots with big silver buckles and wore a rich-looking crimson tunic and breeches. His beard was oiled and braided into a tight length resting across his substantial belly and tucked into his belt. “What is happening here?” He was flanked by a pair of Canician bodyguards more than twice his height.
“That angel bastard there attacked Rorik and laid him out flat, Master Darkstone,” the half-elf with the eyepatch said. “Me and the lads all saw ʼem.” He licked his lips nervously but seemed to find courage from his nodding friends at his back.
Likely, his courage is fueled by that flask of booze, as well.
Darkstone glowered at the companions, eyes darting from them to survey his wagons. “You see them sneakin’ about the caravan or anything?” His eyes finally settled on his fallen man, taking in his broken jaw and bloody chin.
Waresh snorted loudly. “Do I look like I do any sneakin’? If I’ve a mind to go somewhere, ye’ll see me coming, that’s Reiktir’s own truth.” He glared belligerently at the slave master.
Darkstone ignored Waresh, staring hard at Idrimel and then Athyzon. “Well, a pair of plane-blessed! And here in Grimdark, the arsehole of the p
lanes! I’ll be buggered with a trident.” He smiled, lips curling in an expression devoid of any warmth or humor.
Idrimel took a step backward unconsciously. The second ogre had tried to sidle nearer as unobtrusively as a ten-foot-tall humanoid weighing over six hundred pounds could.
“Apologies, Master Dwarf. It was a simple misunderstanding is all,” Athyzon said.
“What he means to say is that arsehole lyin’ there ran his mouth off and insulted the lady here.” Waresh nodded toward Idrimel. “And the fool got what he deserved.” He crossed his arms over his chest and stared hard at the slave master.
Athyzon didn’t deny it. “Perhaps your man will be wiser in whom he chooses to insult in the future. At any rate, we must be on our way now.” He turned to leave.
“Not so fast. There’s the matter of my man here. He’ll be needing some healing for that mashed face, which costs coin.” Darkstone rubbed his fingers together as if they didn’t understand the concept.
“Sol blesses me with some healing ability, which I’d be happy to apply to your man,” Idrimel offered although she was ashamed to admit the thought of healing the foul-mouthed guard disgusted her. “Or we can just pay you for the inconvenience,” she added when Darkstone’s scowl deepened. She reached for her coin purse. This is not going well. Why can some people not be reasonable over a misunderstanding?
“Nay, we will not be payin’ this dandy prick even a copper.” Waresh stayed her hand, stepping in front of her beside Athyzon, who had turned back to face the slave master. “This lot will get nothing from us, and that whoreson”—he pointed to the fallen guard—“will perhaps learn to hold his flapping lips next time. Count yer losses and move on.”
Darkstone’s face darkened as if seeing Waresh for the first time. “Do you have any idea how much a pair of plane-blessed would fetch as slaves? There are those who would pay dearly.” His eyes gleamed with greed or lust, perhaps both—Idrimel couldn’t be sure.
She shivered under his unwholesome stare, fighting back the urge to again cover her features with her cowl, but she didn’t want to appear intimidated.
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