15th Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY
Suderham, The Pomarj
Damn, I'm glad we came here, thought Cygnus as he sipped his drink and smiled.
The Aardian wizard couldn't believe his good fortune. He and "Zelhile" had gone from being pariahs to enjoying a delightful conversation with a local mage in a convivial atmosphere.
The Magic Missile was much closer in appearance to the Brass Dragon than the White Knight had been. It was small and fairly dim inside, lit with several continual flames, each of a different color; red, green and blue. Soft music from an audible image of some type played in the background. Drinks seemingly floated from the bar to the tables, although both mages recognized the signs of an unseen servant spell. The room sported private circular tables, just like they had at home.
Cygnus and Zantac had quickly struck up a conversation with the Missile's only current occupant; a man in his late fifties in a dark red woolen jacket who had been sitting at a table studying what seemed to be a book filled with painting reproductions. The man had been eager to speak with outside arcanists, and had directed them to the bar first, where they had to prove to the wizard standing there that they were indeed spellcasters. A simple cantrip sufficed for each of them, and now they were chatting amiably with one Thellent, who had introduced himself as primarily a scholar, not a mage.
"Still," he had chuckled, "I've picked up a few scraps of arcane lore- enough to join the Guild, anyway. When you're as isolated as we are, beggars can't be choosers."
Cecil and Zelhile had insisted on paying for Thellent's next drink, which made the man even more talkative. The sage took an early command of the conversation though, nearly insisting upon the two newcomers telling him all about themselves. Zantac played it safe, stating that he hailed from Aerdy, which was the truth. Cygnus, however, would only state that he hailed from beyond the Flanaess, which set off an intense grilling session from Thellent, who found the topic of extra-Flanaess lands and people fascinating. Eventually, Cygnus was forced to beg off, stating that the subject was painful to him because of personal reasons. Thellent had reluctantly accepted this, and then the three launched into shop talk, and time had flown by.
Eventually, Zelhile had managed to steer the conversation around, so that he and Cecil were now asking the questions. If Thellent minded this or was even aware of it, he made no sign. In fact, he seemed delighted to act as a sedentary tour guide for his fellow magic-users.
He'd started with an overview. "The island itself is called The Aerie," the scholar explained, making a grand, encompassing gesture that nearly knocked over his third drink. "Many eagles make their nests on the slopes of Mount Flamenblut," he added by way of explanation.
"I can understand how this city might have survived when the rest of The Pomarj fell," Zantac asked, "but why has there been only this very limited contact with the outside world since then?"
"Even that is only fairly recently," Thellent had replied. "Fifty years ago, when the humanoid forces marched on Suderham after the death of the Mad King Olarek, the king's son Cedric wisely chose to fortify Suderham rather than trying to evacuate the populace. As I'm sure you've seen, a siege of this city would be almost impossible to employ effectively. Not that the orcs and such didn't try, of course, but eventually they gave up and let us alone. We knew they were still out there in the hills of course, so no one ever tried to leave. We just made ourselves as self-sufficient as possible. Then, about nine years ago, shortly after Cedric had passed on and his son Rodric assumed the throne, one man did leave; the High Priest of the Earth Dragon, Mordrammo."
"Tell me more about the Earth Dragon," Cecil ventured.
Thellent shrugged. "Reputable scholars, such as myself, believe it was one of many nature spirits that the Flan revered back when they were the only humans living here. They had hundreds if not thousands of local nature spirits that they worshipped. They were all supposedly offspring of Beory; the Oerth itself."
Interesting. Very similar to Tojo's description of Nipponese theology, thought Cygnus.
"Most of these spirits were displaced, or at least removed from prominence, when the Suloise, and later other settlers arrived. The Earth Dragon- the spirit of Mount Drachenkopf, the largest mountain in The Pomarj, which is some miles west of here- survived, and even assumed a larger stature; similar to a god as we know them today. The Dragon demands little in terms of daily activities from its worshippers- only that the proper offerings and prayers be made at the appointed times. Those communities who made obeisance to the Sacred Scaly One have survived, even prospered. Those who did not vanished in earthquakes or underneath avalanches."
"You were saying about Mordrammo?" Zelhile put in, anxious to hear about this and not knowing when their host might decide to stop talking.
Thellent nodded and took another deep drink of his wine. Cecil immediately made a motion to the bar for a refill.
"You're too kind," Thellent said with a smile. "Now, uh… where was I? Oh, yes- Mordrammo. Well, the High Priest was gone for several years, but when he returned with news of the outside world, he was hailed as a great hero, as well you might imagine. Yet the very next day, hours after a private meeting with King Rodric, the king had been assassinated, and Mordrammo claimed that he had committed unpardonable blasphemies against the Earth Dragon."
"And no one questioned this?' asked Zelhile incredulously.
Thellent's expression darkened.
"We had no reason to. We have always obeyed the will of the Earth Dragon, and Mordrammo is his chosen voice."
The sage's eyes lifted momentarily to the ceiling before settling down again. They were looking a little bleary now, but when the newest glass of wine floated over, Cecil grabbed it and put it down in front of Thellent, who took a sip and was soon all smiles again.
"So, let's see… ah. Rodric had no heir, so Mordrammo appointed Duke Etenwulf as the new ruler of Suderham, but he's such a figurehead he won't even go to the privy without getting Mordrammo's approval." Thellent chuckled to himself again. "The High Priest brought in allies from the outside and one day- about four years or so ago I think- announced that limited contact with the outside world would begin again, with the permission and protection of the Earth Dragon of course, and that slaves were going to become Suderham's greatest export."
Thellent took another sip and shrugged. "And so they have."
The sage fell silent; his eyes half-closed. Zelhile jostled the table, which caused them to blink open again, and the Willip wizard decided this would be the best time to try his boldest question yet.
"Tell us about the Nine."
Thellent smiled drunkenly. "The current Nine or the original?"
Cecil and Zelhile exchanged curious looks. "They're not the same?" the latter asked.
The scholar waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, for the most part, they are. But a few have died here and there- and been replaced."
"Who could possibly have been powerful enough to kill off any of the Slave Lords?" Cecil asked with the proper reverence.
Thellent favored them with a smug smile. "Why, themselves, of course. It's an open secret that the Nine are their own worst enemy. They have their cliques and infighting." Here, he leaned forward, forcing his audience of two to do likewise. "We're not supposed to know this of course," he whispered, "but everyone does."
"Say no more," Cygnus nodded with a smile and a wink, and leaned back, reflecting.
By all the fields of Valhalla- there but for grace of the Aesir go ourselves. I pray to the All-Father that we don't wind up like them someday.
"Well," Thellent began. "Let's see… there's Mordrammo, obviously. And then there's Theg Narlot. He's either an orc or a really ugly half-orc; I'm not sure which. He's the liaison to the orcish hordes in the Drachensgrabs. He keeps them away from Suderham's trade routes. Then there's Ajakstu."
His eyes again lifted to the ceiling and stayed there a little longer than last time before returning and eventually settling on Cecil's face.
"He's their security expert. In charge of scrying on the Nine's enemies; ferreting out traitors and so forth. He's no mean wizard, too."
"Is he the Guildmaster here?" Zelhile suddenly asked with some alarm.
Thellent shook his head. "No- that's a different Lord; another mage named Lamonsten- but a student of Ajakstu's recently rebelled. I don't know the particulars, but there was a spectacular chase through the city, which ended in a nasty fight at the White Knight. A number of people killed, as I recall." The sage's expression grew thoughtful before he glanced back over at his guests again. "That's why we're not particularly welcome there right now, but don't worry- it'll blow over eventually- although I never cared for that place anyway."
"Go on," urged Cecil.
The scholar took another sip of his wine and continued. "Then there's the ascetic from the Kingdom of Shar, Brother Milerjoi. Rumor has it he supplied the initial financing for the Nine's activities."
Cecil frowned. "Shar? I've never heard of it."
"Neither had I, to be honest. It's supposedly located on the Tilvanot peninsula far to the east, past the Vast Swamp.
Zelhile looked introspective. "Shar," he mused. "Isn't that Ancient Suloise for purity?"
Thellent smiled and pointed an unsteady finger at the Willip wizard. "Very good, my friend. That's entirely correct. They apparently espouse the old philosophy of the Suel Imperium; racial superiority and all that rubbish."
The scholar took a deep sigh.
"Then there's Ketta; Slippery Ketta, they call her. All the Slave Lords' contacts in other lands ultimately report to her. She helps the Nine to decide when and where to send their ships."
Zantac hoped Thellent wouldn't notice that he was in fact taking notes under the table, but the sage seemed to be focusing all of his energies on just staying conscious. "I'm rather tired, my friends," he suddenly said. We should be heading over to the Guild. You can stay there for only-"
"Just a minute more, good sir," Cecil injected a little obsequious pleading into his voice. "You should at least finish your wine," he added helpfully.
"That's true," Thellent agreed and drained his glass, belched loudly and then continued.
"Nerelas. He's a cold soul, that one. The Nine's assassin. If someone needs to be removed, Nerelas or one of his students does the job. He runs the Assassin's Guild here in town, you know."
"Really?" Cygnus and Zantac glanced at each other. That was not good news at all; they hadn't even been aware such a guild existed here.
Thellent was fading again. He propped one elbow on the table and leaned his cheek against the palm of his hand. His eyes half-closed, the two mages had to lean forward again just to catch his next words.
"And then there's Edralve. May the Dragon protect us; she's a fiend, that one. The worst of them all."
He suddenly bolted upright in his chair, trying to focus his eyes on the ceiling with little success. Fatigue soon returned him to his previous position.
Cygnus was suddenly struck by a realization. He's looking for a scrying sensor! Just like the innkeeper at the White Knight was! This Ajakstu must keep tabs on the populace to insure their loyalty.
"Why? What's so terrible about Edralve?" Zelhile pressed, still leaning forward.
Thellent's eyes were shut now, and not just from fatigue. It almost seemed as if the sage didn't want to see himself speaking his next whispered words.
"The cruelest, most sadistic example of elfdom you'll ever see."
"Worse than Markessa?" Zantac whispered in an aside to Cygnus, with an expression that made it clear he doubted the veracity of their host's words.
The Aardian mage didn't reply. He was so busy leaning forward to hear Thellent's last fading words that the two nearly bumped foreheads.
But he did catch them.
"A soul as black as her skin."
Cygnus, the stronger of the party's two mages, was doing the bulk of helping to keep the semi-conscious Thellent steady, but it still took both of them to continually prod the scholar into blearily pointing a finger towards the direction of the Suderham Wizard's Guild. The two magic-users spoke to each other as low as they could, but it seemed unlikely Thellent was going to remember any of this evening's conversations by tomorrow anyway.
"What in the Abyss did that mean- black skin?" wondered Zantac.
Cygnus shrugged as best he could while managing their load. "I don't know. Some kind of unique abjuration would be my guess. Perhaps a form of necromantic protection."
Zantac tossed that idea around in his mind, and then put it aside for another observation. "You do realize he only mentioned eight of the Slave Lords."
His peer nodded. "Yes, but we certainly can't complain. We landed a treasure trove of information tonight; more than we ever expected to and more than the others have, I'll wager. We should- damn it, Zantac! Hold your end up!"
"It's this blasted fly!" the older mage responded, trying frantically to shoo the buzzing insect away. "It won't leave me alone!"
"And you're lucky it doesn't," replied the figure who an instant earlier had been that self-same fly. "There's a guard patrol heading this way. It's not Blackthorn, but I'd just as soon avoid having to answer any questions. Speed the sot along."
Thellent partially roused; at least enough to notice that two wizards were holding him upright. He looked around, seemingly surprised by the large stone building that now stood before them.
"Oh," he blinked in surprise. "We're here." A sheepish expression appeared on his face. "I'm sorry; I've been told I don't hold drink very well."
"Really?" responded Zelhile with some surprise. "I wouldn't have guessed."
"Thellent," Cecil cut in while he had the chance. "This Slave Lord- the Guildmaster, Lamonsten- does he live here, too?"
Thellent gave as much of a derisive laugh as he could manage under the circumstances. "Lamonsten the Lazy? Hardly. He deigns to put in an appearance every now and then, but mostly you can find him at Drachen Keep with the others." He fumbled in his pockets for his key, but upon finding it and inserting it into the lock, suddenly turned his head around to address the person he just now realized was standing behind them. "Excuse me, good sir. Who might you be?"
Aslan gave a brief bow. "My name is Alomovar. I'm friend and employer of these two mages."
"They're generous people, Alomovar," Thellent praised. "You have good friends." He then frowned. "I am sorry though, Alomovar. Unless you're a wizard as well, and I don't think I'm that drunk to think so- you're not allowed inside."
Aslan smiled. "Not to worry, Thellent. I'm merely here to make sure you arrived safely. Cecil, why don't you go inside with our good host, while I speak to Zelhile for a moment?"
Zantac nodded and inserted Thellent's art book under Cygnus' armpit while the latter was struggling with the scholar, who had abruptly decided to try staggering on his own. Cecil glared daggers at the shorter mage as the door closed behind them. A faint sound of some type of furniture being knocked over came from within.
The merchant's smile vanished as he rounded on Zelhile. "Tell me anything of value you've found out."
Zantac did so, eliciting a raised eyebrow from the paladin at the sheets of paper the mage pulled from his cloak pocket and consulted. When Zantac was finished, Aslan gave an approving nod.
"Good work, Zelhile. I like to have at least some idea who we're up against."
In a low voice, the Willip wizard gave voice to the question he'd been thinking of for the past hour.
"Aslan, these Slave Lords- do you think we can take them?"
The paladin looked grim. "Not on their terms." He looked off towards the southeast and pointed. "That Drachen Keep your friend mentioned is the citadel of the Slave Lords. It's located outside of Suderham, on a small plateau about half a mile in that direction." He looked back at Zantac. "I scouted it around but didn't try to enter; I'm sure they've got magical wards active, and I want all of us to be together when we make our move."
"What is our next move?"
The merchant scratched at his bushy beard. "We'll continue our information gathering activities tomorrow while continuing to keep a low profile. Tomorrow night, when the brothels open, we'll be there. I'm hoping whatever we can find out there will help us make a battle plan for how we're going to take on the Nine."
"I wonder which brothel is the one the big man was referring to," Zelhile mused.
"Don't know," Alomovar said. "There are three, all on the same street. The Drunken Mermaid, the Rose, and the Alley Cat."
"Don't worry, Alomovar." Zantac puffed himself up with a big grin. "I'll meet with every girl in all three houses if I have to! I have experience with houses of ill repute, you know."
The paladin stared at him, and then shook his head. "And you're bragging about it, aren't you?"
Zelhile shrugged but kept a sly smile.
"It's all for a worthy cause, Alomovar. The right man for the right job. Besides, it's high time I made some sacrifices for the team."
Try as he might, a small smile leaked through Aslan's disapproving glare.
"You're a real martyr, Zelhile. Go on, get some sleep. I'm heading back to the White Knight myself. I suspect tomorrow's going to be an eventful day."
Zantac nodded and disappeared into the Wizard's Guild. Aslan looked around. There were still a few people on the street, so he decided to walk back to the inn. As he did, an odd image kept appearing in his head.
An elf with skin as black as night.
Elrohir knows more about elves than any of us, he thought. I'll ask him about that tomorrow.