Hello once again. I'm back, and hopefully for a good while. Hard to imagine that I last updated almost two years ago. As I might've mentioned earlier, I consider this story to have got off to a bad start, and my attempt to finish it haven't gone well. But I'm going to make the effort anyway, and in my spare time, I've been compiling my work on Zak Crimsonleaf and company. However, I'm just interested in finishing this story so I can move on to another one, and do that one right. So if situations seem contrived, that's because they are, I'm saying it up front. But on the upside, it does have some nifty fight scenes. I can't promise regular updates, but I do promise updates until this thing gets done. I still welcome reviews, and of course, I don't own anything herein except my characters, dysfunctional though they are. The journey continues.
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Arakanzar Z'tran moved through the caverns of the Underdark in absolute silence. The air was hot and stagnant, thick with the endless heat from deep within the earth. The darkness was absolute, save for whatever radiance was provided by the sparse plant growth, or if one was unlucky, the hunting animal. The half-drow's keen darkvision, which he had laborously trained to perform to the exacting standards of a full dark elf, guided him unerringly forward. He had not taken Devlar along on his trip. The thief recognized instinctively that he did not belong here, and it showed in his anxiety. He and Arakanzar both agreed that it was best for him to confine himself to the wizard's den until they moved back to the surface. To know where you belong, he mused, is always valuable. But it was not only because of that that Devlar stayed. Arakanzar had been asked by his contacts with the dark elves to 'question' their euphemism for 'ruthlessly interrogate' a surfacer prisoner who had recently been captured blundering around where by all rights she shouldn't have been without being spotted.
The wizard was quite sure he knew who this surfacer was, and just as sure that Devlar would not react well to his 'questioning' her. Whatever might be said for the thief's merits, he preferred a quick kill, if he had to kill. Admittedly not a bad philosophy for a thief, but Arakanzar had to consider all options. As he approached the interrogation room, he strained his eyes to see if he could spot the two guards he knew were there. They wore the ubiqtious drow piwafi cloaks that let them blend into the rocky walls with ease, but if the wizard concentrated all his willpower on piercing their magical veil, he could tell exactly where they were. In this case, he was able to see them when he was ten feet away-a personal best. However, he was careful to move as if he was unable to. The appearance of weakness could be useful as the appearance of strength. Neither of the guards moved as he opened the heavy iron door and entered what he had mentally labeled the torture chamber. His hearing and vision flickered for a split second as he crossed the threshhold. The door frame was enspelled so neither light nor sound could go through it, either way. It would not do to have any screams be audible.
The room had obviously been made and not just outfitted, the corners were sharp and square, and the walls were mostly smooth. It reached about thirty feet from end to end and perhaps twenty from side to side. The ceiling was high, and was the one part of the room that had not been worked, adorned with many stalactites. All around were racks holding many specialized instruments of pain, the finest the dark elves and their twisted minds could make. Knives, whips, even more exotic equipment such as acid, alchemist's fire, and poisons. The pride of the lot was the crown of nightmares that sat on its own soft cushion at the far end of the room. With that item, a questioner could inflict soul-searing torment on his prisoner even when they were asleep, or simply read their thoughts, stealing knowledge right out of their mind. Arakanzar, however, did not plan to use any of them...at least more than necessary. In the center of the room was a large wooden table upon which Jemic, stripped to her undergarments, was tied to. Her clothes and equipment were neatly arranged off to one side.
As she saw him enter the room, her expression twisted with surprise and anger.
"You!" she spat, straining against her bonds to try and get at him. "You left us to die! Damn you to the ninth hell, you and your bloody hands, you cursed whoreson! You and your drow friends!" She continued on in this vein for some time. He was reluctantly impressed with the ranger's vocabulary, the more so because she had not, until that point, exercised it this thoroughly. He supposed were he in her place, he would feel he had little to lose. And he would be right. Arakanzar let her struggle for a moment, then, when he felt the pointlessness of attempting to escape had been made clear, replied with a deliberately careless air meant to incite even greater anger.
"Did I? I recall something to that effect, but the list of people I've had killed is a long one, and my memory is not perfect." The ranger did not take the bait, and lay still, glaring at him. He met her smoldering gaze with quiet resolve. So, she intends to make this difficult for me. Striding over to the nearest equipment rack, he lifted a thin-bladed dagger of dark metal off its pegs, and tested the edge with his thumb. Letting a slight smile that he knew from experience to be unpleasant spread across his face, he returned to Jemic's side and casually stuck the weapon into the wood close by her neck. She remained silently defiant. He waited patiently. Anticipation could be one of the most effective interrogation methods. Nothing that you could threaten a person with would be equal to what their own imagination could conjure.
"So," he finally said, breaking the silence, "Will you tell me what you know, or will I have to hurt you?" Slowly and with great relish, Jemic answered,
"Don't even. Don't even think that act scares me. You think I'm intimidated by all this? You've never been through a northern winter in the Spine of the World, or been half torn to shreds by a dire wolf. I'm not going to make this easy for you." He sighed, shaking his head.
"You're making this much harder than it has to be. You haven't been tortured until you've been tortured by the drow. Do you know, in some of the more refined dark elven circles, torture is considered an art form? There are those who spend their lives perfecting the technique. While I admit I'm not one of them, I've seen it many times and what they have done is unspeakable. But they will do it and enjoy it...providing they are unsatisfied with my results. Back home, as a devotee of Loviatar, I was expected to be conversant in the ways of pain, both receiving it and administering it. But that was a long time ago. I may have gotten rusty. I'd not mind the chance to see if I still have my skills. Do you feel like answering my questions now?" The ranger was looking more uneasy, but her voice did not quaver.
"You'll have to get your information the hard way." He nodded.
"I could do that...or I could just use magic." His fingers began to move. She closed her eyes and tensed in anticipation of pain. But nothing happened. Opening her eyes, she saw Arakanzar still in the same position with the same smile on his face.
"Not what you expected, I would think," he remarked. "But not all magic has to be visible. Allow me to demonstrate." He made a peculiar gesture with one hand. Then, in her head, she heard his voice. Play along. Scream at me now! She immediately howled in agony, twisting and tossing as though wracked by inner torment.
All right. That's enough, the wizard said. Good work. She went limp, breathing hard and doing her best to look suitably afraid. The half-drow continued to speak silently. The spell I just cast was only an enchantment of telepathy between the two of us. Took me enough effort to find it, but I find it most useful. You can speak to me as well.
Why use telepathy? Are we being watched? Jemic thought back.
Yes. My masters don't trust me any more than they do anyone else. I need to speak privately with you. I know you haven't got any information they would consider valuable, but they have to believe I interrogated you to discover that. Before she could respond, he added, Scream again, and gestured with his right hand. Again, a long, despairing wail rent the air, while Jemic furiously thought, So what do you want to get me out of here?
Information. I want the names of anyone you know in the north that would be willing to deal with me, places you know of where items of power can be found or there is some manner of trouble that can be exploited, general news of the north when you last were there, and any corrections to my atlas of the northlands that you can make. Oh yes, and your service for say…a year and a day.
What?
It's either that or slow, painful death. You have my word I won't ask you to do anything you would consider evil. I do not use my people for tasks they are not suited for. Yes or no? Arakanzar took up the dagger again and mused out loud,
"People's minds are much the same. You can't hold out forever, not when I know all your greatest fears. Everybody has a weak point, Jemic, and I know yours." She could hear the smirk in his voice as he continued in her head.
Indeed, I am well aware that you care very little for yourself. But you do care about the lives of others. I'll offer you an incentive. Agree to my offer, and I will spare one person that I would normally have had killed for every two weeks you are in my service. In point of fact, he rarely had people killed, though naturally, he had no intention of informing the ranger of that.
…damn you. How can you do this?
Easily. One more scream, please, that will be sufficient for my purposes. Jemic poured her hatred into a snarling roar that made the room echo. The wizard's smile grew wider.
"Excellent. That will be all."
Yes or no? You are out of time. Closing her eyes, Jemic prayed that the year passed quickly. May the gods forgive me for what I am about to do.
Yes. The half-drow stood up, taking the dagger with him, and turned as if to go. Then, almost as an afterthought, he murmured,
"Oh yes, just so you don't get any foolish ideas about escape..."
Please accept my sincere apologies. Before the ranger could reply, he stabbed her through the stomach. This time Jemic didn't have to fake a scream.
Under the hot southern sun, the nation of Amn baked in the summer heat. The rolling hills were parched and thirsty, covered in dead, brown grass and dried-out trees, leaves hanging limply in the still air. Occasionally, a breeze would drift by, but it only succeeded in moving the air around without cooling anything. On the lone dirt road that wound its way through the hills and plains, hardly anything moved. Any traveler with sense journeyed with caravans or only traveled in the later half of the day. It was high noon just now, and shadows were only wisps of darkness. To Tyra Blackmorn, cleric of Cyric, born near the Moonsea, where the weather tended towards cool and wet, it was the closest thing to hell on Faerun she could concieve of. The remnants of her old black studded leather armor were, she had discovered, the worst possible kind of protection to have in the southlands. Her fearsome dire mace felt as though its weight had increased tenfold, and she was reduced to dragging it along by one arm, leaving an erratic trail in the dust. All in all, things weren't going so well. But the equally heavy sword slung on her back made things a little easier to bear. Though plain-looking, it carried a powerful enchantment of fire, and had until recently belonged to the last man to cross her, Zak Crimsonleaf. Mercenary, opportunist, and first-rate pain in the ass for those who he took exception to. The priestess was well rid of him. Absorbed in her lonely journey, Tyra failed to notice the pair of riders coming up behind her.
Armand Lennox was considerably more comfortable than Tyra. Having more experience with travel in the southlands, he was well aware of the potential for soul-searing weather during the day, and chose his method of travel and clothes accordingly. Both he and Dram were on horseback, and the blackguard had opted for a loose Tethyrian traveling outfit and a shady straw hat he'd obtained back in the city of Memnon. However, his sword was hung from his saddle, with easy reach, and his black full plate was carefully stowed in his saddlebags. Armand was a cautious person. Dram still bore his own heavy armor, even though he had to be roasting inside it. The orc didn't care much about such things. Upon sighting Tyra struggling on eastward, Armand took care to judge her from a distance. He could easily see that she was not native, even from afar her light complexion made it clear she was no southerner. However, even a visitor would have been told how to handle the weather, and she obviously did not know how. The blackguard was interested. Urging his mount forward at a faster pace, he began to consider possible ways for such a person to have gotten here, idly wondering if any of them would be as strange as the truth. Rarely was that the case.
Tyra's foul mood descended to new depths of hatred as she heard hoofbeats coming up fast behind her. The priestess was ready to kill out of pure spite, and she resolved to slay whatever fools approached. After all the setbacks and delays she had endured, this looked like a blessing straight from Cyric himself. Wiping sweaty hands on her shirt and taking a firm grip on her weapon, she turned around to see who it was that would die. Her eyes widened.
Dram alone would have been cause for celebration. Tyra had met her share of orcs in the Zhentarim, most of them were stupid brutes whose only concern was battle and loot. Some, however, were the dangerous ones, who were smart enough to cause real trouble. This was undeniably one of them. Where other orcs would have been either raging or bored, this one was sizing her up. Not to mention his armor was well cared for, and he was riding a horse, rather than eating it. He would have been tough, maybe even a challenge, but in the end, defeated.
Armand, however, was another matter. His straw hat and loose, dusty clothes failed to hide thick arms and a penetrating gaze. The sword hanging close by his side and the gleam of armor peeking out of his saddlebags spoke of a warrior that wished to remain hidden. Anyone that wanted to be underestimated was automatically dangerous. Aside from that, Tyra recognized all too well the prescence of dark power, akin to her own. This one was dangerous. He nodded in greeting, smiling pleasantly.
"Well met." As the silence was broken, so was the caution that had begun to weaken her resolve. Recovering her courage and her anger, and beginning to feel a savage joy at the prospect of battle, Tyra sneered and replied in tones of utmost contempt,
"What do you want?" Armand raised an eyebrow at the venom in her voice, but kept his calm. He was not someone to take offense easily. She might have to work a little harder than she'd thought to see some satisfactory results.
"Only to know if you've seen some friends of mine that may have passed this way." She spat off to the side, deliberately meeting Dram's gaze.
"Shouldn't have thought anyone who keeps company with an orc has any friends." Dram growled low in his throat, but surprisingly, did not reach for the enormous greatsword on his back. Armand's face darkened, and his next question was spoken with the grim surety of one who already knows the answer.
"Who are you?" Tyra took hold of her dire mace with both hands, grinning evilly. The heat was forgotten. Her weariness was as nothing. The infidels awaited.
"An emissary of the Lord of Murder. Let me show you his power!"
With that, matters passed beyond words. She began chanting prayers as unholy magics began to gather about her, darkening the midday sun. Her dire mace began to emit a dim reddish light that illuminated nothing as the spell gathered to a climax. Faster than seemed possible, Armand and Dram unsheathed their swords. Dram was ready to charge, his eyes shining with bloodlust, but he stopped when the blackguard raised a hand and shouted at him to stay where he was. The horses nickered nervously, tossing their heads. With a echoing shout and a terrible shrieking noise, Tyra pulled her spell into being. A circle of blackened blades tore their way into being, forming an impenetrable circle around her as they whirled and spun. She was surrounded by a tempest of iron that promised a swift death to any who dared enter. Laughing, a malicious sound full of vicious joy, Tyra regarded her opponents with murder in her eyes.
"If you surrender, I promise your death will be quick." Yet though he faced a mighty priestess, Armand only matched her fiery gaze with confidence and grim promise. Casually lifting his blade in a warrior's salute, he called across the sound of whistling steel,
"Prepare yourself, my lady! I deal in death as well!" She felt his own power begin to reach out as he raised his sword high and called upon his patron to aid him. Anger and battle fury had not overwhelmed all her wisdom. Tyra was not so mighty that she was above caution. She recognized him as working a summoning spell, one of great strength for such as he, but not a match for her own such spells. She spat off to the side, and began twisting her own summoning call. Casting her mind to a plane of inifinite cruelty and pain, she found a creature to her liking. On the ground before her, outside her blade barrier, a pentagram drew itself in wet red strokes that steamed and blackened with the power that flowed through them. As the last line was laid, there was a burst of smoke that smelled of brimstone, and the crackle of infernal fires could be heard as a creature of the depths was made manifest. It stood above even the tallest of men, and its gaunt, skeletal frame did not at all give the appearance of weakness, only wiry strength. Its thick gray hide was ridged and furrowed from many scars and old wounds, and a barbed tail, like to that of a scorpion, curved up from its backside. The thing's face was a ghastly mask that seemed carved from marble. A hideous bone devil, one of the tyrants of the Nine Hells, stood before her.
Yet, even as the priestess called upon her most fearsome servitor, Armand split the air with his sword, upon which had accumulated a black light tinged with purple, and tore a gash in the weave of Faerun. Out of the swatch of shadow, a giant wasp emerged. The vicious-looking creature was colored crimson and black, with a serrated stinger that promised great pain. The drone of its wings rose over the clacking of the devil's jaws. In unison, blackguard and cleric pointed at each other and ordered,
"Kill them!"
The bone devil spat a challenge in its gutteral, grinding language, showing long, blackened teeth, and flexed curved, wickedly sharp claws in anticipation of flesh to rend. The wasp rose into the air slowly, obeying Armand's mental command to wait for his order to attack. His vocal order had only been a feint in hopes of baiting Tyra's servitor.
"Slay the human first, and be careful!" Tyra warned. The devil laughed, a wholly repulsive sound, and waved dismissively at the cleric's words. Armand and Dram looked at each other. The blackguard only said,
"It's serious enough. Take it down fast and join up with me." He looked at Tyra with grim purpose in his gaze. "I'll handle the priestess. Hyah!" He spurred his mount forward, his sword beginning to resonate with a cold red light. His straw hat tumbled from his head as he raised the blade high, ready to bring it down upon anything that got in his way. Dram looked sullen, grinding his teeth in frustration, but dismounted skillfully, and slapped the horse on the rear to send it off. It needed no encouragement, and made for safety with all the strength left in it. The orc began intoning words of power that were nothing like Tyra or Armand's spells. He worked with entirely more wholesome power, feeling the Weave shift around him to acommodate his will. His slight wizardly skill was a relic of his time with the mage who had made him what he was. Though he hated using it, there were times when only a little spellcraft could save him, and he was smart enough to know it. As he concluded his casting, he felt incredible power flow into him, and began to grow in size. The land fell away beneath him as his height became thrice what it had been, and his weapon had turned into a slab of steel that it would take three ordinary men to lift. Grinning savagely, the giant-sized orc sprinted forward, shaking the ground as he ran, and leaving deep footprints in the earth. Who's smaller now, devil?
The scent of death was on the wind as Armand flew towards battle. In his long service, the blackguard had faced many foes, and more than once come near enough to death that he knew it as an old friend, always waiting for you. This fight was no exception, for his only chance to defeat Tyra was to force a straight fight, skill against skill, something she would avoid like the Chondathan plague. He had to get across her blade barrier somehow. His agile mind had already produced a difficult and dangerous tactic, and he urged his mount onwards to its greatest speed.
Moving fast, he clamped his heavy sword between his teeth, the steel feeling bitterly cold to the touch, and, displaying a breathtaking command of horsemanship, stood up in the saddle. Raising his arms above his head, he issued a silent command to the giant wasp, which came flying down close enough to touch, swifter than an arrow. Catching hold of two of its hairy legs, he had a single second to reflect. The bone devil waited for him patiently, its face alight with the expected carnage to come. Its curved stinger was poised and ready, and it was crouched low to absorb impacts. Offering a murmured prayer that was lost to the whistling wind, he pushed off the saddle, launching himself into the air. The blare of the wasps's wings rose to deafening intensity as it strained to lift him upwards, and he rose slower than he had hoped. The devil cursed, realizing its error too late, and the stinger arced through the air, hoping to find purchase in his hide. But he pulled up his legs fast enough, and the envenomed tip of the barb only nicked his boot. His momentum carried him over the blade barrier, and looking down he saw Tyra, surprised at his ascent, hastily shaping a spell of skill and strength. He smiled grimly. She would have done better to attempt a spell of slaying, but had panicked and was now committed to facing him with earthly weapons. As her frenzied chanting rose to its finishing note, shouted out in a voice in which a thread of fear was audible, he let go of the wasp, falling from the sky as like to some demon of vengeance. The earth rushed up at him faster than seemed possible, but he had time to take his sword out of his mouth, gripping it firmly with his good right arm. As he slammed into the ground, Armand rolled with the impact and came up onto one knee, knowing that he would have bruises to show for his little stunt. Assuming he survived, of course, for Tyra's dire mace had already begun a downward sweep that would split his skull like a ripe melon.
"Die!" she snarled. In the heartbeat before her stroke connected, Armand considered his options. His sword would shatter if he tried to block such a blow, enchanted as it was, and he had no armor, nor could he dodge in time. That left the path of sacrifice. The blackguard leaned to the right just enough that the mace head buried itself in his shoulder. Tyra's god-granted strength drove the black iron spikes deep, shattering bones and ripping flesh. A red tide of agony nearly drowned him. But if death was an old friend to him, than pain was a childhood playmate. He withstood the blow, and put all his rapidly fading might into a slash. Tyra had struck a telling blow, it was true, but she had meant to kill with one hit, and so had left herself open. He lashed out at her hand where it gripped the haft, and felt his sword cut deep. The tang of dull iron filled the air, and the dust of the road ran crimson as the priestess howled like the damned, dropping her weapon. Armand's sword fell from his hand as the mace twisted in the wound, further carving into his shoulder and wringing a groan from his battered frame. His left arm hung uselessly. But he was still alive, which was probably more than could be said for Tyra in a short while. She was struggling to deal with the stump where her left hand used to be. As they gazed at each other, each one seeing mingled dread and defiance, a death scream split the air behind Armand, and hot black blood sprayed across them both.
Dram, his mind on fire with the chance to bloody his sword, had not wasted any time after Armand began his charge. Even as he had finished his spell of growth, he was in a flat-out sprint towards the bone devil, holding the massive greatsword at a low carry. His quick stride, honed from years of raiding and skirmishes among the treacherous northern mountains, carried him forward only a little behind the blackguard, despite his heavy armor. A savage smile was on his face, revealing rows of sharpened teeth.
As Armand made his daring leap skyward, and the devil made a hasty stroke at him, Dram had the perfect opening. He was just barely outside his sword's reach, but that was no barrier to such as him. The orc swung one-handed in a rising slash, the sinews of his arm standing out like ropes as his muscles protested violently at the abuse. The devil had just realized that Dram was a lot closer than it had thought, and was starting to step back, but the blade's keen edge scored a shallow gash across its chest, and he caught the stench of its blood, smelling of ash and sulfur. The devil laughed contemptously at the scratch, and drew back its stinger for a killing stroke. Dram's grin stayed constant, and with a thought, he awoke the lethal magic that seethed within his weapon.
Pitch black flames crackled into life along the blade of the greatsword, then a thick jet of the strange fire licked out at the devil. It screeched horribly as the corrosive magic ate away at it, turning the simple scratch into a long, blackened wound from which blood ran like water. The orc's weapon could hold spells of all kinds, and Armand had empowered with one of slaying. That scratch was all that was necessary for it to work.
Once again taking his sword in both hands, Dram covered the last bit of distance between them in a split second, and struck with an upward thrust, driving the blade to the hilt through the devil's gut. He looked into its eyes as they stood face-to-face, and saw anger, hate, and pain. But most of all, he saw cold fear. It knew he had won.
"Go back to hell!" Dram roared as the devil staggered, its eyes losing focus. Giving the greatsword a brutal twist, he ripped it out through his foe's side and gave the creature a kick that sent it tumbling into the blade barrier. As it was torn to shreds by the maelstrom, he brought his sword around in a horizontal arc, moving so quickly that it turned into a blur of molten silver in the light of the midday sun. It connected at neck height, and seperated the devil's head from its shoulders.
Tyra no longer thought of victory. She no longer even thought of defeating the strangers that had stood against her mightiest magic. The priestess would settle for simple survival. Her mind was racing, but all she could think of was the severed hand that lay on the dust before her. This can't be happening! But the thick tide of red seeping through the clenched fingers of her other hand would not be wished away. With the determination and will that had driven her upwards into Cyric's favor and through the ranks of the Zhentarim, Tyra pulled herself together. Snatching up the hand, her skin crawling at its touch, she held it against her wrist, and scrabbled in her mind for a healing spell that could save her.
Armand saw Tyra's desperate gamble, and knew what had to be done. If he could not get back on his feet soon, he would be at the mercy of a vengeful Cyricist who would delight in making sure he died slowly and alone. Taking hold of the haft of her dire mace with his right hand, he steeled himself to pull it out of his shoulder. He would have to do it in one effort. He was not strong enough for the slow, torturous way where the iron spikes would grate on bone and saw through flesh, and if he failed, there would be no second chance. With a mighty heave, he tore the dire mace out of himself, bellowing in triumph. The bloodstained weapon fell at his feet. Darkness swirled at the edges of his vision, his duty drove him onward. Picking up his sword, he slowly rose to face Tyra, who, once again in possession of both hands, stared at him warily. She made no move to recover her weapon.
"So," she rasped wearily, "what happens now?" He grinned fiercely. Willing to bargain now, is she?
"Now, priestess," he replied, his voice strained, "you tell me everything." The silence hung heavy in the hot air as the blackguard waited for her reply.
