Back to the previous chapter: Book IV: Reflections

First Draft

A fine cloth floated a pace above a tightly-fit stone floor. Somewhere overhead, a harsh light shined down upon the cloth, creating a cone of sunlight five paces in diameter. Outside the circle of light was nothing but darkness, a darkness that suggested nothingness. The cloth stretched from one side of the circle to the other, with nothing suspending it. An observer would see that the cloth moved, slowly drifting from an unseen loom in the nothingness to the left towards an invisible bolt of cloth to the right.

A closer inspection of the cloth would show that it was not properly a cloth. What looked like threads from a distance appeared to be walls and corridors, as if the cloth were an impossibly intricate miniature garden labyrinth. The walls and paths shimmered, however. Sometimes they were green and brown, other times they were shades of blue. Yet other times, they were golden walls with brownish paths. The colors shifted depending on who was concentrating on the labyrinth.

Two figures stood next to the cloth, watching it in silence as it passed in front of them. The woman, a short figure with the fairer complexion of a Kellt from the northern lands that bordered the Vasmar, had hair that was too light to be a brunette, but too dark to be blonde. She wore a brown silk dress of a simple noble's cut that almost hid her bare feet. Her companion was a gruff man whose leathery face told of many days in the sun. His clothing was of a rough cut, trousers and shirt and boots of a type one would expect of a man who worked the land.

As the cloth shimmered once more, looking for a moment like a vast field of green crops with brown irrigation channels, the man spoke. "They stopped the caliph from escaping his prison. I don't see why you still hold such an interest in them. They are mortals. They are fleeting. Their threads will end, and others will replace them."

The woman leaned over the cloth, stretching to brush her fingers lightly near the center of the labyrinth. "They have not wandered far from the center of the weave," she observed. "Their threads are still central. They are still important." She straightened and looked at her companion.

"Edain, I dislike these things. Such designs as yours are too much. The cloth will weave as it does. Our purpose is not to influence it as much as you do."

"Bres, the future is not ours to control. We can influence mortals now to affect the future, by deciding which of the possible outcomes will likely happen. The future is always modal, and the most we can hope is to keep a preferred outcome as the likely one. If we do nothing to affect lives, the future will weave as it will, but we may find outselves without followers. Without followers, we are impotent. Look at the threads. Follow them forward. With no push from us, the future probably will continue."

"As it should," Bres interjected.

"But it takes little to upset the balance. Watch." Edain focused on a part of the thread where one of the miniscule labyrinthine paths was indistinct. The path appeared to turn, or to go straight. It could not do both. With a bit of attention, the indistinct threads became clear. "With this one decision, a decision for them not to travel, the outcome changes. Look forward. The future ends in a rend across the fabric, in just a few months. The entireity of life ends, because they decided not to travel."

"But it's not the determined future," Bred protested.

"If I can affect the outcome that easily, at one time of decision, it is still a possible future."

"But the false god..."

"...has not noticed any of my nudges yet. We can't openly oppose that being without it waking to cause wanton destruction. A few more nudges will ensure that it doesn't wake, and it will be none the wiser."

"It is still a gamble."

"The mortals made gambling part of my sphere of influence. Maybe it has affected my decisions." Edain looked once more at the labyrinth of lives. "Regardless, we still need to affect lives to ensure that those lives continue."

The Lady Edralve stood nervously in the well-lit ballroom. The large windows on one side of the ballroom looked out into the vast darkness of the Nobles' Cavern of Erelhei Cinlu. The dark elves had a highly structured society, with the drow nobles living in a cavern that was over a mile long. The commoners and slaves lived in an adjacent cavern of similar size that was a crowded warren of buildings. Edralve had been fortunate enough to avoid staying in the city proper. Drow viewed humans, even freemen, poorly. A drow could kill a human with impunity, and far too many drow did so.

Edralve shifted on her feet, fighting the urge to fidget with the black silk dress she wore. Despite it being winter, she wanted to look proper when she visited the baroness, but, even though the chill air of the ballroom was warmer than the caves outside, it was still uncomfortable in her Francian court dress. Something warmer, next time, she decided. She looked up at the elaborate chandelier overhead, watching the flickering of dozens of candles. The baroness liked the effect of natural flames, preferring them over the reliable and steady glow of magickal orbs that so many drow used. The chandelier was a replacement for the one the baroness previously had in the ballroom, when those others had interrupted the baroness's plans, and her ball. The baroness was still livid about having to replace a five thousand year old chandelier, and her grudge would outlive Lady Edralve.

The vast double doors of the ballroom snapped opened, reining Edralve in from her mental wanderings. Two orcs, dressed in the black adamantine breastplates of house guards, stepped in. The porcine-faced beasts stood stiffly at attention, one at each door, their dark eyes fixed straight ahead. The Baroness Eclavdra swept into the room. The drow noble wore a shimmering black dress that contrasted with the dull black of her flesh. Her silver hair flowed loosely, held out of her face by a platinum headband.

Eclavdra strode to Edralve, watching impassively as Edralve curtsied deeply.

"Rise, Lady," the Baroness barked.

"My Baroness, I arrived as quickly as I could. Summoning me to your home is unusual. I had to leave orders for Josacal the Younger to keep watch over Suderpol in my absence. There are matters of great import to discuss?" Edralve straightened, absently pushing her copper locks behind her shoulder with one hand.

"The caliph was a fool. Once again, he failed in his goals, and his failure affects Our goals. We gave him a chance to redeem his failure after the Sun King's minions stopped him, but We shall waste no more time with his petty games." Eclavdra stopped to regard the mortal, barely hiding the sneering disdain she felt for the short-lived human. "The stars align soon. The alignment happens only once every two thousand forty-eight years, allowing the undersea city to rise. Only then will the rituals succeed to release the imprisoned Great One from its sleep. We have waited two millenia to give the caliph a second chance, and he failed us. We will not wait for the end of the next Era to try again. A reliable servant is ready to succeed, but we must act quickly to give him the opportunity."

"Yes, my Baroness. What do you require of me?"

"The Shadow Kindred have returned to the Evening Star now that the caliph no longer reaches through his prison, and they have taken their darkblades with them. Our warriors could make use of such magicks to give them an advantage over the humans."

"But the magicks of the darkblades... They affect man and elfkind alike. We can not wield a darkblade for more than a few minutes."

"Which is why We shall send mages to Suderpol to study the Rituals of the Darkblade," the Baroness replied. "There must be ways to improve the dweomers to make them useful for Our warriors."

"Baroness Eclavdra," Edralve protested quietly, "the rituals must not be altered. The agreement..."

Edralve winced as the drow's violet eyes fixed upon her a harsh, cold glare. The drow's darkly musical voice was menacing. "The agreement was made between man and centaur. The drow were not party to the agreement, and they are not restricted by it."

"But... We were not to reveal the rituals."

"You dare refuse Us?"

Edralve glanced towards the ground. "Of course not, my Baroness."

"Of course not," the drow repeated mockingly. She looked out the large windows of the ballroom, into the near-darkness of the caves beyond. Some lumenescent creature slithered up the distant cavern wall, a study of serpentine mauve motion. "Our mages will arrive in Suderpol within a week of your return. They will study the dweomers and the rituals, and they will make changes to those rituals so that the smiths conducting the rituals are not affected. Once they have made the rituals suitable for Our purposes, We shall start creating darkblades of Our own." Ecalvdra regarded the human once again. "In order to protect Our mages, and the supply of adamantine within the volcano of Suderpol, We shall send a garrison of Our drow, along with a Finger of Dark Cave Tribe orcs." A sneering smile crept onto the drow's face as a grimace crossed the human noble's face. "You have served Us well in the past, Lady Edralve, but your loyalty to the caliph was misplaced. Show Us such loyalty, and you shall be rewarded." She paused for a moment before adding, "You may refuse Our agents hospitality in your city, but that would be unfortunate."

"A garrison is not needed, my Baroness. We shall host your mages without protest."

"If your centaurs decide to act upon your violation of the agreement, you will be thankful for Our garrison. Your supply of adamantine, and the Forges within the volcano, are essential to Our plans now. We will not allow these plans to be disrupted like your Great Lord's."

"Of course, my Baroness."

"You are dismissed. Ready Suderpol for Our mages. And do not fail Us."

Lady Edralve was relieved to be leaving the baroness's presence. Losing control of her city and risking the wrath of the centaurs was not what she expected when she arrived in the cave-city of the drow hours ago. Perhaps she could find a way to salvage this situation yet.

Sultz the orc walked down an avenue in Portsdale. The sun was pleasant, breaking the chill of the late winter that still lingered over the Dales. A mild breeze carried the scents of freshly baked breads. The cook-fires were being stoked for evening meals across the town, and the pleasant smell of cooking meat would soon greet the orc. As he crossed a sidestreet, Sultz watched a quartet of Elven Archers stride by. They dipped their heads in acknowledgement of Sultz. The elves had remained aloof to the orcs longer than the humans of Portsdale had. Bitterness from millenia of conflict between the Seelie Court and Unseelie Court on Phaeree still lingered in the long-lived elves. They had shown a grudging willingness to evaluate the orcs of the Tree Eaters Tribe, who had spent the two thousand years since the war against the human Sun King living in the forests of the Dales; however, Sultz was not a Tree Eater. He was born and raised a member of the Dark Cave Tribe, the tribe of orcs who defended the drow in their city beneath the mountains of the Middle Ranges. It had taken the elves nearly a year to decide that Sultz was worthy of respectful address.

The townsfolk accepted Sultz shortly after they accepted Baronet Bilbus del Cartach's rule. Sultz was the personal guard of Bilbus del Cartach. Sultz had personally supervised the purging of corrupt watchmen from Portsdale's town watch when the del Cartachs returned from saving Avillonia from the Dark One. Baronet del Cartach had supported the Baron del Bartholo in the Baron's bid to gain a seat on the Inner Council of the Dales, and many other council members had seen it fit to sabotage Portsdale in any way possible while its ruler was in absentia. By the time the Baronet and his wife had returned, Portsdale was in shambles. Corrupt watchmen helped bandits harrass the populace, and sections of the town were in rebellion.

The swift, ruthless purges of the ranks of the town watch, along with the highly visible patrols of orcs with the few watchmen who had proven reliable, had not gone without incident. Men and women initially were terrified of the large, scowling orcs, and the harsh orcish justice dealt on the traitors in the ranks of the watch reinforced the fears of the townsfolk. It was only with great effort that Baronet del Cartach was able to regain control of his town.

Now, three years later, the townsfolk prospered. Orcs were accepted as fellow citizens, and the men on the watch competed to earn the opportunity to patrol with the orcs. The woodland skills of the Tree Eaters Tribe were already legendary amongst the people of Portsdale, and the men of the watch eagerly wanted to learn from the Tree Eaters orcs. Sultz, an adopted member of the Tree Eaters, was impressed with the skills of the forest-dwelling orcs. Even the elves, when drunk, admitted that the Tree Eaters were formidable in the forests. For a fey to admit such a thing indicated just how good the Tree Eaters were.

The competitions that gradually began between orc and elf had grown over the last year, and man, orc, and elf all participated enthusiastically. Archery, tracking, and stalking were all favorite games. All enjoyed the friendly competition, and the chances to learn skills from vastly different philosophies were not to be missed.

Sultz soon reached the Baronet's mansion. The former family home of Baronetess del Cartach, when she was still a del Quintin, the del Cartach manor house had fared well during the del Cartach's absence. Fire damage was still visible on some of the stones on the front face of the building only because the Baronet wanted a reminder of how poorly things once had gone in town, but no permanent damage had been done, despite multiple attempts by troublemakers to burn down the house.

As Sultz strode up to the two large front doors of the house, one of them opened to let a small girl run out. The toddler raced towards the towering orc.

"Sultz! Sultz! You're here!," the girl yelled gleefully in orcish.

"Now, Skaratei, you speak in Kelltic," Sultz gently growled in his native orcish tongue as he tousled her black hair.

"Why?" she protested as she pounded the tall orc's thigh with a fist. She pouted cutely as she looked skywards towards Sultz's face.

"Men-kind do not speak orcish."

"Daddy does," she argued. "I have to tell him!" With that pronouncement, the girl ran back into the house.

Inside, Baronet Bilbus del Cartach sat at the desk in his study, scowling at a sheaf of papers in front of him. As the baronet of Portsdale, he felt obligated to know what was going on in town, but the nobles' way of finding such things out involved reading reports.

It was much easier when I was just a thief, Bilbus groused to himself. If I wanted to know what was going on in Londoun, I could just go out and see for myself. Now, if I go out to see what's happening, I can never be sure I get an honest answer. Everyone is obssessed with making sure I know how great I am that I can't get a straight answer. Maybe I need to start going out in disguise to see for myself.

The door to the study flew open, and in ran Bilbus's daughter.

Bilbus grinned and scratched his goatee. "Styx, can't you knock?"

The dark-haired girl ignored him. She stood stiffly and parroted one of the serving staff who presented visitors to her father, "The Young Baronetess Skaratei del Cartach announces the return of Guard Commander Sultz!"

At least she kept it in Kelltic this time, Bilbus thought to himself. "Wait... Skaratei? Where did you get this name?" He already knew the answer.

"Sultz," Styx replied.

"Do you even know what a skaratei is?"

Styx shrugged.

"It's a large black bird. It's very smart. The skaratei enjoys the battlefield. In Kelltic, it's called a 'raven'. Some people believe that the raven knows when a battle is coming, and that ravens gather before a battle to feast on the dead after the battle ends."

"Raven..." she repeated to herself. To her father, she pronounced, "That is my name. I am Raven."

Bilbus sighed. She had learned orcish almost as readily as Kelltic, and she spoke both of them far too well for a girl coming on three. She was already a handful, and Bilbus knew she would not get easier with age. She had already shown Adria's temper, and she relished breaking rules and pushing her boundaries almost as much as Bilbus did.

"Sturmelina! Where are you?" Adria called from somewhere in the hallway. "It's time for your lessons!"

Only Adria and the staff called her "Sturmelina". Bilbus started calling her Styx because he hated the sound of "Sturmelina". Adria named their daughter after Sir Sturm Sunblade, but couldn't Adria pick a better sounding name?

"I'm Raven", Sturmelina/Styx/Raven yelled into the hallway as she ran off towards her mother.

"I've had the dreams again, my wife," the man said quietly as he sat up. The curtains of his room were drawn, keeping it in near-total darkness. His wife disliked the sunlight, and he would not do something so foolish as to anger her.

She made a few quiet gurgles, shifting her bulk to face away from the thin sliver of light that marked the curtains.

"My faith to the Great One is paying off. The Great One has granted me visions. The Great Lord failed, and his prison has held. He failed the One Who Must Not Be Named, but I shall not." His quiet voice was feverish. "This disciple, me... I will be the one who releases the Great One from his death slumber. My name will be shrieked in horror by all as the Dead Dreamer devours the world." A smile crossed his face, unseen in the dark room. "My family has been faithful to the Great One for generations. I have taken one of his spawn as my wife, my dearest wife. Just as my father, and his father, and his before him have done. My own son shows the touch of the Great One, and at a far younger age than others of my lineage have. We have been truly blessed, for he will never be able to rule men as I have, once the Great One's touch consumes him. But there will be no need for a successor once I have freed the Great One."

His wife made a disquieting rumble, sounding like the croak of a large frog, as he got out of bed and shuffled towards his armoire to dress himself.

Mother Meridaun Byddir strolled through the dwarven refugee camp. It's a small city, she decided. Nearly fifty thousand dwarves gathered here, in the most inhospitable part of their kingdom. She corrected herself. Remains of their kingdom. Orcs had ravaged the dwarven kingdom of Clemendeev, razing cities, slaughtering innocents, and even breaching the legendary Citadel Altspire, the mountain-redoubt that had been countless dwarven kings' palace since time immemorial. The dwarven prophecies had said that Clemendeev would never fall as long as Altspire stood, and they had been proven. Altspire fell, along with the rest of the dwarven kingdom, to numerous Fists of orcs. The dwarves who were not butchered by the rampaging Fists, and who had not been captured by the orcs, had fled north, away from the invading armies, to Fool's Mine, a coastal town that marked the northernmost extent of the dwarven kingdom.

The land was barren, and there was no growing season. Fleets of fishing ships operated continuously, sailing out to catch fish and bringing the fish as close to shore as possible. The port of Fool's Mine was iced in for much of the year, and work crews had to haul fish over the ice on sleds to get it to the refugee city. Priests -- both from the Church of Kells and the dwarves' own church -- supplemented the fishing take with divine magicks to keep the refugees fed, but it was a challenge since the priests were also stretched to their limits keeping the refugees healthy as well.

The commander of the remnants of the dwarves, General Alyard Deepwell, walked next to Meridaun, his armor creaking underneath his heavy furs as he walked. The dark browns of the furs nearly matched the hair of the dwarf's beard, making it difficult to tell which was which. Behind those two towered Sir Kasey Bittrand, a retired Church Knight whom the dwarves had nicknamed "Storm Giant".

"Mother Byddir," Deepwell intoned, "the Elders are ready to evacuate our lands. There is much that still needs to be planned, of course."

Meridaun nodded. "No one has moved so many people by ship before." She looked southeast, towards the distant gray swells on the Vasmar, beyond a hundred paces of ice. "The first ships are due within the month, and they will carry supplies for the city. That will make it easier for those who don't leave on the first ships."

"If the ice has cleared. I do not think we will want so many dwarves crossing the ice. We have not had a truly hard freeze in several weeks, and the ice may be getting thin."

"The priests will clear the ice when the time comes. We can not dally long. Orcs will not leave a threat on their northern flanks forever. We want as many dwarves as possible out of the camps as soon as we can. Has the Council chose who will leave first?"

"We are still working out that detail," the dwarven commander admitted.

"The lands the Church offered is remote, and undeveloped. There are forests nearby, but stone quarries are distant. Some of your people can return to the Kelltic cities they left. We are also sending an emissary to a noble in the Middle Ranges who founded a trade town..."

"Eric?" Kasey interrupted. "I wonder how he is."

"Lady Breanna says he's doing well," Meridaun replied. To the dwarf: "My personal recommendation is to send people who can start building a town. The Church can help with crops the first year."

The dwarf looked over the encampment. "If only more had escaped. If I had more soldiers, we could rescue some of those the orcs still have."

"If more had escaped, the orcs would have marched here already," Meridaun pointed out.

"Fleeing our homes, leaving fellow dwarves in the clutches of those thrice-damned orcs. Slave labor... The escapees even said the orcs were eating dwarves."

A pained expression crossed Meridaun's face. "I've heard the same stories, and worse, General. There aren't enough dwarves left to face that many orc Fists. If you gather all of these refugees, arm them, and go after the Claw Fang Tribe, you will guarantee that the days of dwarves on Oerth will end."

"But your Church Knights..."

"Were decimated at the Battle of as-Tikat, fighting the Dark One. It will be years before we have enough trained knights to replace those losses. The knights we have here are the only ones the Church could spare during the winter, and they will need to return this spring to help train new knights."

"And I'm retired," Kasey added helpfully.

"Still..." the dwarf mumbled pensively.

Another armored dwarf scurried towards the two humans and the dwarf. "General!" the new arrival barked in dwarven before switching to Kelltic for the benefit of the priestess and the knight. "The southern outposts report signs of many orc scouts. The orcs have also launched probing raids. We believe some may have breached our pickets to probe the city's defenses."

"They will find out we have none," Deepwell snarled. "We can't stop them if they press us. And they can move faster than we can."

"They can't outrun warhorses," Kasey reminded the commander. "Orc scouts will be traveling in small numbers to avoid easy detection. Six knights can track them and make short work of them."

The commander looked at Kasey, then at Meridaun. "I will never turn down Church Knights. Can they help us track down the scouts?"

Meridaun nodded. She would not stop Kasey, even though she had unsettling dreams recently that involved Kasey leading knights into battle against the orcs. If he could keep the refugees safe for a while longer... "Kasey, take the knights and find the orc scouts. We can not afford to let any of them probe the town's defenses."

Kasey beamed. A chance to get out of the squallor of the refugee camp, a chance to ride with his fellow knights, was not a chance he would squander. "Farran!" the tall blond knight bellowed. He whistled, a shrill whistle that carried over the noises of the refugee city. "Knights! Make ready to ride!" He jogged away, heading towards the tents where his fellow Church Knights waited.

Lady Edralve adjusted the dark red dress she wore. It was a woolen dress, cut more to a Kelltic style than she liked, but its long sleeves kept her warm in the Baroness's ballroom. She had returned to Erelhei Cinlu a month before the spring equinox to personally escort the first of the drow-modified darkblades that Baroness Eclavdra's mages had endweomered.

Eclavdra swept into the ballroom, an entourage of female drow and one male following close on her heels. Her silver hair was braided in an intricate weave, and she wore a beep blue silken dress with a low cut. The drow loved flaunting their perfect figures, Edralve noted as she curtsied in deference to the dark elf.

"Lady Edralve, you have returned with a present, I understand," Eclavdra stated coolly. "The House Eilservs awaits this present."

Edralve nodded to her own servant, a nervous man who stepped towards the drow, holding an adamantine sword on a red silk pillow. The sword had the delicate markings of elven construction, with an elaborate swept hilt that protected the hand, and a too-thin blade of the incredibly strong, magickally-forged black metal. A leather wrap of deep crimson covered the grip, and the pommel had suggestions of silver inlay.

"Male," Eclavdra snapped, "take the blade."

Her male drow escort strode forward. He took the sword from Edralve's servant and stepped several paces away from the gathering. He swung the sword experimentally, feeling the movement of the blade as he went fluidly from ward position to ward.

"Excellent balance, as expected, my Baroness," he remarked.

"And the dweomer?" Eclavdra asked.

Edralve answered, "Your mages were able to duplicate some of the magicks of the Shadow Kindred falchion, my Baroness. They also said they had used some weaves from something they called 'Gas Bulg'."

Eclavdra smiled. "Let us see what weaves they used. Male!"

The male soldier turned quickly towards the humans. With a rapid cut, he sliced the abdomen of Edralve's servant open. The servant gasped and screamed, staggering back as blood poured from the wound. He fell to his knees as he looked at Edralve with shock and disbelief, his mouth opening and closing, but no coherent sounds forming.

Edralve ignored the dying man. She had expected such a test of the sword, and she had intentionally chosen a servant who had displeased her. The servant collapsed to the ground, pale with blue lips, as the drow male stood over him, a cruel smile twisting black lips into a sneer.

"Interesting," Eclavdra muttered. "Shadow Kindred darkblades drained the soul of its wielder, even just holding the sword. Will this man-drow be drained?"

"Not just from carrying the sword. The magicks were difficult to alter, but your mages were able to alter that part of the rituals of creation," Edralve explained. "It will still affect the soul of the wielder when it takes a life, but not as substantially as a darkblade did. And, unless the sword is used continually in a large battle, it will not have permanent effects." Edralve glanced at the drow swordsman. "The slow wasting of a darkblade wound has been changed, as well. It is much quicker. Most importantly, the rituals do not turn the smiths into zombies."

"Excellent. When will I have more for my drow?"

"Your mages and the smiths work as fast as possible..."

"Send some to the Claw Fang Tribe, as well."

"Of course, my Baroness. If I may...?"

"What?" Eclavdra growled.

"Josacal the Younger wishes to contact others who may be helpful. His intrigues with the Kellts were some of the first signs we had of problems with the Great Lord's machinations..."

"Your man has plans? Let him have his plots."

"Of course, my Baroness. I will let him know."

"Now return to your city, Lady Edralve. I want more of these new darkblades as quickly as possible." With that pronouncement, the drow baroness left the ballroom. Her entourage followed her wordlessly.

Edralve stepped over her dead servant to gather the rest of her staff in their guest quarters for the return to Suderpol.

The dragon stretched luxuriously within his immense cave. It had been a quiet year, and the mortal who served as his voice in the village had visited only twice since the winter solstice. The village of Twin Saddles had been running smoothly since the orc tribe of the Middle Ranges had been destroyed by the other tribe three years ago. The "Lord Anmae Nighvass" had little reason to disturb the dragon, since no crises had developed and the town slumbered through winter. The last time "Lord Nighvass" had visited the dragon's cavern, he bore a strange, wrapped package. "Lord Nighvass" said it had been delivered by a courier, along with a letter.

Anmanivas pulled the letter closer, using one of his enormous claws to drag the sheet of paper across the cavern floor. The letter writer used a large sheet of paper, by human standards, and he had written in large letters. Anmanivas had been amused by that touch. A dragon may be a hundred or more human paces long, with eyes as big as a man's head, but he had eyesight at least as good as a man's. The dragon smiled to himself, baring teeth over a foot long.

Anmanivas read the letter once more. "Lord Anmanivas, please find enclosed the first copy of my manuscript detailing our journeys to stop the Dark One and to reinforce his prison, as promised. I hope you enjoy reading of our travels. With regards, Father Rishala of Orkney."

Anmanivas slid the paper away and opened the thick tome that had accompanied the letter. The story included details of Rishala's travels, from Caledonia to Londoun, his meeting Bilbus the Great, and onwards to locales to the south with Bilbus, Adria, Kasey, Sturm, Eric, and Breanna. Battles with highwaymen, orcs, Shadow Kindred, drow. Sneaking into Anmanivas's caves to recover an ancient artifact, traveling to another world via a magickal tunnel, brazenly visiting the very drow baroness whom they were opposing. An epic tale, one that rivaled the tales of their legendary Sun King, it was a tale that Anmanivas did not believe was truly over. An Era never ended without a great upheaval, and the Dark One's prison did not fail. Something still had to happen to mark the changing of Eras. The Era that was ending would not end this quietly. No Era Anmanivas had witnessed had. Anmanivas stopped reading for a moment to contemplate what event would truly signal the end of this Era. He would spend a few days contemplating the thought before returning to his book.

"Cap'n Pegleg," the seaman blurted, "we are overtaking the ship."

Pete glanced back in time to notice the sailor glancing askance at Pete's two healthy legs. This new crew of the Aquasition had not known Pete long enough for Pete to explain his nickname. Pete had earned it, not for a disfiguring injury, but for his randy penchant towards women. His friends mockingly started calling him "Pegleg" due to his verbal responses to the more voluptuous and flirtatious barmaids that they had encountered in Brallian.

The sailor awaited orders. "Let's close with it," Pete instructed. "Do they fly a flag?"

The sailor shook his head. "No flag."

Pete nodded to himself.

"Lower our flag," Pete ordered. "Let's not tell them who we are. If they don't fly a flag, we don't."

"Cap'n?"

The sailor had not participated in less-than-legal sea actions, apparently. "You heard correctly. Lower our flag."

There had been several strange years for Pete. First, his friend Bilbus had been poisoned in Brallian by the Thieves' Guild. Pete and Twitchy helped Bilbus escape to Londoun, as far from Brallian as a Kellt could go without going to sea. Bilbus met Adria, the deadly noblewoman who had been hiding in Londoun. Those two disappeared for months, traveling with two knights, an Azirian, a Caledonian, and another noblewoman. By the time they returned, Bilbus was a Lord, and he had battled orcs in the Wasted Lands around the Dark One's Palace. Two years ago, he had insisted that Pete become the minister of trade and commander of the Portsdale Navy, and that Pete patrol the sea lanes near Portsdale. Twitchy had been sent to Londoun to keep Bilbus appraised of the goings-on in that city. Now, Bilbus was a Baronet and a member of the Outer Circle of the Dales Council.

"Yes, cap'n," the sailor acknowledged. "One other thing. It looks like it's a sister ship to this one."

The Aquasition was an unusual ship, fairly small with a roomy cargo hold. Bilbus had never explained how he had obtained the Aquasition, but Pete could make some guesses. Bilbus named his horses Acquisition, in part because he never obtained them through normal legal means. How he stole a ship was a mystery that had not been answered. Pete had never seen another like it on the Vasmar, but he was now overtaking an identical ship. Whoever used to own the Aquasition may not be too happy about seeing it return under new ownership.

The other ship evaded the Aquasition for the entire afternoon, but Pete's crew was better, and they were able to gradually overtake her. The other ship bore a name on its stern in a language that Pete did not recognize, but her crew made ready to fight, lobbing arrows at the Aquasition as soon as Pete's ship was in range.

"Close distance! Make ready to board!" Pete commanded.

The archery fight was sporadic from the rolling decks of the ships. Neither ship had a large enough crew to launch an effective volley fire at the other, so the Aquasition closed until it was alongside the other. Grapples flew, and Pete's crew hauled the ships nearly to contact. Sailors from Pete's ship crossed to the other one, and a vicious fight ensued. The other ship was short-crewed, and Pete's sailors fought well. With a handful of injuries, Pete's crew was able to take the other ship.

Pete boarded it to help in the search of the ship. He was not sure he could spare a prize crew, but he also was unsure about whether he could take the time to move any cargo over from the ship. As it turned out, the only cargo aboard the ship was in a hidden compartment -- located in the captain's quarters, just like it was on the Aquasition. There was a single crate that weighed forty pounds and a folded, sealed letter.

"Take this crate onto the deck, where we can get better light," he commanded as he looked at the letter. It was addressed to a "Lord Duran del Quintin, Portsdale". Bilbus's wife, Adria, had been a del Quintin. Pete was sure Bilbus had said that Adria had killed her father in an honor duel.

He followed his men onto the deck. "Open the crate," he ordered.

One of his sailors pried open the crate. The crate had been stuffed with straw. Pete stepped forward and kneeled next to the crate. He scooped straw out until he found the contents of the crate. A sword of black metal, with red leather wrappings on the grip, was in the crate. A little more probing in the crate revealed nine other swords, each nearly identical. Pete whistled quietly. He had seen black swords on only a few people -- Bilbus and his friends.

"Scuttle this ship. Take the crate back to the Aquasition. We need to head for Portsdale immediately. Baronet del Cartach needs to see this."

The Southern Zephyr approached Ithell's Town from the south. The captain stood on the bow, watching the rolling hills beneath him. Trees grew in irregular patches for as far as the eye could see across the rolling hills of this western extent of the Middle Ranges. Patches of snow huddled in the northern shadows of those trees, still clinging to the chill air. The captain pulled his furs closer around him. The air was much colder up here, just a hundred paces above the hills, and the wind cut through warm clothing far too easily.

The captain gazed east. A few dozen miles away, the rugged, taller mountains of the central Middle Ranges jutted up past the foothills. Snow and clouds covered them, reminding the captain of just how cold it was here in the middle of the Kelltic lands of Avillonia. Back home, the desert sands of al-Rhayidh never got this cold, even at night. And the mountains of Vulcan's Furnace were hot, with many that spewed molten rock. Snow never covered the mountains of home.

"Captain, I see the green flag!" a lookout on the topmast called out.

The captain looked back at his ship. "Start bringing us down. Furl the lower sails, and bring the masts up. Rig for landing."

The crew quickly complied, with riggers crawling out on the two masts that hung out to the sides of the Southern Zephyr. The riggers helped pull up the low sails to ensure that the sails did not snag or fold improperly. Once the low sails were up, the riggers crawled back onto the deck, and the two low masts were detached from the hull and brought up to the deck. The low masts gave the ship stability in the wind. The first flying ship, with only a mast on the deck like an ocean-sailing ship, had discovered that flaw catastrophically, when wind caught the lone sail overhead and blew the ship onto its side. However, it was impossible to bring the ship close to the ground without the low masts hitting something, or breaking if the ship rocked too far.

As the crew rushed to prepare the Southern Zephyr for landing, the captain surveyed Ithell's Town. It had changed in the three months since his last visit. The roads north and south were well defined, and new construction in the town continued nearly year-round. The winters in Ithell's Town were mild compared to Arabel Cinlu, the trade city nested in a mountain valley to the east. Now that the orcs of the Middle Ranges were no more, merchants were willing to cross the low hills, instead of risking the mountain pass of Arabel Cinlu and the hazards of the city itself. Nearly all of al-Rhayidh's merchants took the new route, and from his elevated vantage point, the captain could see some of their familiar tents on the large marketfields that dominated the center of town, near the green flag on its tall pole that marked his ship's designated landing field. One of the marketfields had been paved with stone since the captain's last visit, and laborers worked to pave another of the fields.

One of the taller hills in town held the lord's manor house. It looked typical of the northern Kelltic manors, with none of the garish colors of an Eiresudian home. The captain carried a merchant and his goods, but he also had a delegation here to speak to the lord of Ithell's Town to discuss building some permanent trade buildings on the market fields and to negotiate for a permanent al-Rhayidhian enclave in town.

The ship was low, moving slowly towards the tall pole with its green flag. The flag was already above the deck of the Southern Zephyr, and crewmen were throwing anchoring lines to the ground crew down below.

The captain glanced back across the deck of his ship. The trade delegation had gathered already, watching the preparations as the Southern Zephyr landed.

"Landfall!" one of the crew shouted just before a thump denoted contact with the earth.

"Welcome to Ithell's Town, free city of the Middle Ranges," the captain greeted his passengers. "We will have a gangplank in position in just a couple of minutes."

Back to the previous chapter: Book IV: Reflections

Continue to the next chapter: Petitions

Back to the Book V Index.

Back to the Dark Mysteries Campaign Chapter Index.

Original Draft 19 March 2005

Contact for this page: JourneyMaster@BabylonByCandlelight.com

Legal Notices