21st Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY
Underneath Drachen Keep, The Aerie, The Pomarj
"Scurvy John."
Nesco Cynewine had of course never met in the infamous pirate, or even heard a description of him. She had made the inference solely from her fellow ranger Argo Bigfellow's reaction.
Scurvy John turned his attention towards Nesco even as he took a step forward, his coal-black eyes filled with an undisguised lechery that even Davis couldn't have matched.
The pirate- perhaps in his late forties; was a swarthy mix of Baklunish and Flan. His skin tone was an intriguing reddish-tan, with an almost burnished look about it. Each cheek had a deep blue chevron painted on it- face paintings were common amongst the Flan- although the one on his right was bisected by a long scar.
John actually had a rugged charisma and might be considered very handsome except for one detail. It was immediately apparent how Scurvy John had acquired that moniker.
There was a sallow cast to John's face, and his eyes were slightly sunken. As he leered at Lady Cynewine, she could see his gums were swollen purple, and his teeth were yellow and crooked. There were small black and blue lesions on his hands- including the one slowly moving towards the cutlass against his hip- and Nesco was certain if John were to remove his turban, she'd see that his hair was thinning more than mere age should allow.
"So, John," Argo began, diverting Scurvy's attention, "still denying fruit to your crew, are you?"
The newest Slave Lord waved a dismissing hand. "I hate fruit."
Tojo raised his eyebrows.
"Seems rike strange target for hatred. Fruit dishonor you in some way?"
"And what have we here?" inquired the pirate, ignoring the samurai. "Where is your child-bride, Pigfellow? Has this ranger moved on to other game?" John turned his gaze back towards Nesco, who was fighting a rising mix of anger and revulsion.
Argo crossed his arms, but his eyes never left Scurvy's face. "Caroline is just fine and dandy, John. Unlike you, I don't need magic to attract a mate."
Scurvy laughed. "How little you know, Argo, if the only legends you know of me concern my seamanship." He smiled confidently at Bigfellow. "I need no charm spell to obtain a woman."
"I was referring to animate dead."
John's smile froze on his face.
Despite himself, Elrohir couldn't help but chuckle- but he wasn't the only one.
Scurvy snapped his head around to glare at Mordrammo.
The High Priest shrugged. "I offer no apology. What can I say? The man has wit, John- more so than you implied."
"You need to socialize more if you think Pigfellow's ramblings pass for wit," Scurvy snapped at his fellow Slave Lord.
"So sorry," Sir Menn spoke up. "Don't believe I've had the pleasure."
"If it's pleasure you're after, keep waiting," Argo responded. "However, this is-"
"I can speak for myself, you oaf." John interrupted. "You must be from lands far away indeed, sir knight, if you have not heard tell of Scurvy John, Scourge of the Seas from Wooly Bay to the Sea of Gaernet."
Sir Menn hesitated a moment, and then nodded. "This is true."
Good, Elrohir thought. The Nine don't know about the Three Worlds. They haven't been scrying on us forever.
John seemed to relax slightly. His hand moved from the hilt of his cutlass to hang loosely on his belt. "Has Argo told you of our great battles?" The pirate's face became more animated as his eyes swept over his entire audience, and he mimed a sword duel as he spoke.
"That one off the coast of Keoland- you should have seen it! While Argo's companions battled Alabin and my crew, Pigfellow and I squared off on the deck of the Bygone Lich! Ah, the quips flew fast as our swords clashed!"
"But not as fast as your feet ran when you lost," Argo cut in, still without even a trace of a smile.
This time, almost half of Elrohir's group chuckled- as did Mordrammo again.
Nesco was trying to understand all this. She knew that a great animosity existed between John and Bigfellow, if not the reason for it. Perhaps Argo had simply rubbed the egotistical Scurvy the wrong way- the big ranger did that with a lot of people. It seemed though as if John took some kind of secret pleasure in their mutual hatred. She had thought Argo felt the same way, but despite his cutting remarks, Argo still looked deadly serious.
If Scurvy's black eyes could have blazed with fury any brighter, they'd have glowed red, but then the pirate gave a false laugh.
"Once again, we are treated to the renowned Pigfellow wit! I suppose even the lowliest swine must have his day," John managed an air of forced conviviality. "Tell me, Argo, after I've slowly flayed the skin off your body and laughed myself silly at your pleas for a merciful death, where oh where shall I then find my closest intellectual equal?"
Argo's expression didn't change. "Look under any rock."
"Priceless, these people," the High Priest muttered while chuckling and shaking his head.
Scurvy looked ready to about ready to explode, but for whatever reason kept his anger in check, although not without an obvious effort. "I gave up everything for you, Pigfellow," he seethed.
Argo tilted his head. "What?"
"Tovag Baragu; do you know what the cost was to utilize it? You and your ilk had settled down in that inn, far from where I could reach you. It was the only chance I'd ever have to confront you again, so I gave up my ship and crew and travelled far to the west with every copper I could lay my hands on. It would be worth it, I thought, to have that one last meeting with you. There, at last, we could duel to the death, with no distractions. As legendary as I am, Pigfellow, I'm still but a mortal, and age wears on a man. I wanted to give you the opportunity to battle me in honorable fashion while I was still at my peak."
"And what did you do?" Scurvy suddenly roared. "You turned coward and refused to fight! All of a sudden, the great ranger and warrior Argo Pigfellow refuses to lift his blade in battle! Oh, how I wish I had gone ahead and just slain you anyway, right there and then! But don't worry, Argo- you can refuse to fight me all you like this time; I'll run you through, you honorless swine, and laugh myself to sleep every night for years!"
Argo shook his head in astonishment, a scowl appearing on his face.
"I don't believe this. What you're really saying is you gave up everything for a chance to kill me! You expect me to be grateful for that? Of course I wouldn't fight you then- I wasn't going to validate your sick dreams for you, you walking turd! And I'm surprised you can even say the word 'honor' without your lips falling off; how many prisoners have you pushed off the plank to fill a shark's belly, you bastard? You're a loser, John, and you always throw your lot in with losers. You did it the last time, and now you've done it again!"
Behind and to Argo's left, Nesco Cynewine looked to her left at Talass. "What does he mean, the last time?"
Talss frowned.
"Scurvy John was the chief lieutenant to the worst villain we ever faced," the priestess said quietly.
Scurvy was grinning now. "My, my. So Pigfellow finally raises his hackles! Could this be the start of-"
"John," Argo interrupted, the big ranger's face going solemn again, "you've got it coming."
Modrammo turned his attention towards this argument.
"This Bigfellow seems to control his emotions better than you can, Scurvy. Perhaps we should have hired him instead of you."
"You're a true fool if you think this pig would ever work for you!"
"Perhaps he already is," Mordrammo commented, leaning forward in his chair and looking out over the room. "Perhaps they all are."
The room went silent again.
Nerelas folded his fingertips together and regarded the cleric. "What are you getting at, Mordrammo?" he asked, saving Argo the trouble of doing it.
The High Priest leaned back in his chair. "Perhaps I misspoke," he stated with a smug air. "Not working for me, perhaps- but for another one of us?"
Nerelas nodded slowly. "This concerns what you were talking about earlier, then."
"Indeed it does." Mordrammo returned his attention to Elrohir. "Let us find out once and for all. Answer me this one question truthfully, Elrohir of Furyondy, and you may- just may, mind you- be able to avoid surrender after all."
Now it was Scurvy John who clenched his fists in anger, but the pirate remained silent.
"Tell me, Elrohir," Mordrammo continued, "why are you here?"
The party leader blinked in surprise. He didn't know what kind of question the Slave Lord leader was going to throw at him, but that certainly wasn't it.
"You surely must know," the ranger replied, unable to help feeling a little awkward for having to put it into words. "We came here to stop you."
"Yes, I know- but who are you working for?"
"Belvor IV. The King of Furyondy."
Mordrammo slowly shook his head. Even in the shadows of his helm, it was apparent he was smiling.
"No, Elrohir- I don't think so."
Elrohir foundered for a moment- unsure of his footing, but Zantac-as-Aslan spoke up first.
"Your message to the crowd. Aid given to the enemy by traitors from within."
"Quite correct, paladin. You see, while I'm sure a pious twit like Belvor would be happy to see us wiped out, the notion of a sovereign sending three expeditions hundreds of leagues for a purpose completely unrelated to the health, welfare or profit of his own kingdom seems unlikely to me. I dislike paladins in general, but you don't see me having Neralas send out assassins to Chendl, do you? Why waste resources like that? Belvor is of no concern to us just as our operations here are no concern to him." The cleric finished his speech by looking directly at Elrohir again. "Nor to you."
"I can't follow your reasoning," the party leader exclaimed in frustration. "Who do you think we're working for?"
"Who indeed?" Mordrammo repeated, standing up and growing more animated by the minute. "Who could have helped you survive Markessa's clutches- not just once but twice, and given you the clues that led you all the way to our Aerie? And please don't boast it was all by your own effort; see how easily you were snared once we realized you were here. You're not nearly as powerful as you make yourselves out to be."
Elrohir shook his head in exasperation. "You're fooling yourself, Mordrammo. King Belvor sent us, and the previous expeditions, here to The Pomarj purely on moral grounds. It seems inconceivable to you because-"
The ranger hesitated. He'd backed himself into a verbal corner and there way no way out of it without insulting the High Priest.
Oh well.
"Because you have none," Elrohir continued as casually as he could. "Doing what's right isn't always practical."
"Often it's not even feasible," added Sir Menn.
"Hell, sometimes it's damn near impossible,"chipped in Hengist from the rear.
"But you know what, Mordrammo?" Elrohir finished, confidence returning to his frame as he locked gazes with the High Priest.
"What?" snapped Mordrammo when the ranger said nothing else.
Elrohir smiled.
"We do it anyway."
Cygnus was getting more worried every second.
In fact, if not for the immediate proximity of Aslan-as-Zantac to his right, he might already be in a complete panic. Cygnus thanked Odin for the paladin's innate ability to tamp down on the anxiety of those near him.
Still, the news was all bad. Every single weapon, bracer and armor the mage had scanned had registered as magical. In addition, the Slave Lords were practically bathing in ongoing spells. Although he wasn't able to determine the exact ones involved, from experience Cygnus would have guessed shield, protection from good and mage armor. Doubtless there were others involved, as well.
Worse, Mordrammo, Nerelas and Scurvy John showed signs of transmutative magic- indicating possible enhancing spells upon them- spells that could increase an individual's physical and/or mental abilities, making them even more deadly in combat.
Aside from arms and armor, the situation wasn't quite as bad. One of the High Priest's two magical rings was surely protective, but the other carried a moderate evocation that could signify anything.
Oddly enough, the rope belt of Brother Milerjoi's robes carried an aura of moderate transmutation, but Cygnus couldn't even make a guess at what it might do.
The biggest problem, the wizard thought, is how can I communicate this information to the others?
Cygnus sighed and turned the spell towards Ajakstu- the only Slave Lord he hadn't scanned yet.
And as he did so, Ajakstu, who had been staring at Argo on Cygnus' left, suddenly shifted his gaze right to Cygnus, and the Aardian wizard realized with a jolt that his brilliant idea of scanning the enemy for magic before a battle might be a double-edged sword.
Because the enemy was doing the exact same thing.
As their detects washed over each other, the two wizards locked eyes.
"Enough of this moralistic nonsense," stated Mordrammo, standing up again. "I'd hoped to hear the truth from you, Elrohir, but apparently such is not to be the case. No matter; perhaps the proof of my theory can be found someone on your persons. Parley is over, Furyondans! Disarm yourselves now and surrender!"
"Wait!" Elrohir shouted.
"We've indulged you long enough," Mordrammo glared at the party leader. "No more de-"
"Hear me out!" the ranger continued. "I have a business proposition for you!"
For the third time, the room went silent.
It was hard to tell who was more astonished- the Slave Lords or their opponents.
"All right," Elrohir conceeded. "Let us suppose- just suppose, mind you, Mordrammo- that some of what you said might be true."
The Voice of the Sacred Scaly One stared at Elrohir for a moment, and then sat back down in his chair again. "I'm listening," he said quietly. "After all, as ruler of Suderham I am foremost a businessman."
"That's funny," came the smirking voice of Scurvy John. "I thought you were supposed to be foremost a servant of your god."
Mordrammo's dragon helm turned to regard the pirate.
"Be careful with that tongue, John; lest it land you in the same waters as your predecessor."
The priest returned his attention to Elrohir. "Go on."
"If this is the case, it would not be prudent for me to reveal the name of our true employer," the ranger sated, "nor would it- your supposition to the contrary- be wise for any of to carry any clue as to his or her identity anywhere on our persons. However, this would not preclude us from entering into a more profitable arrangement. This is what I suggest…"
And Elrohir proceeded to lay out his plan for the future of Suderham.
Nesco couldn't believe her ears. She could only half-listen to the details of what her fellow ranger was suggesting; something about joint rulership of Suderham while slowly steering the city's economy away from slave exports and re-establishing full diplomatic relations with the outside world. Her brain was pounding that Elrohir could even think of such a thing.
A man who looked like Unru was standing in front of her, although she knew it was really Aslan. Still, it felt odd walking forward to tap him on the shoulder. Before she connected though, Aslan-as-Unru responded without turning around.
"Stay in position, Nesco."
"As-, um, Unru," she grimaced, "what is Elrohir doing? Has he gone mad?"
"No, Nesco," the paladin spoke out of ther corner of his mouth, turning his head just a fraction in her direction. "Elrohir is doing what he always does- giving us a miracle- tiny though it may be."
Nesco frowned. "I don't understand."
"There are only five of The Nine present here, Lady Cynewine. We outnumber them three to one. Now, it may well be true what Mordrammo said about them being able to defeat us handily. However there's always a small chance that he may be bluffing. In either case, even our slimmest hope of survival involves taking this battle on our terms, not theirs."
She still didn't understand. "But what does this scenario he's concocting have to do with-"
"Nesco," Aslan-as-Unru said so quietly she had to strain to hear it, "don't listen to Elrohir's words. Look at his hand. Look at his left hand."
Nesco peered at their group leader. Elrohir was gesturing animatedly with his right hand as he spoke to Mordrammo, but he kept his left close to his body- and at irregular intervals, it was flashing a brief gesture.
She recognized it as one of Elrohir's hand signals that the ranger had insisted to the point of universal annoyance that everyone learn. Nesco never had learned more than about half of them.
But she knew this one all too well.
Prepare to attack.
Despite Aslan's proximity, Cygnus' concentration was threatening to break as he became more and more agitated.
He managed to concentrate on Ajakstu's staff and received a strong aura that he was able to recognize as one of evocation; the same aura, he reflected ironically, that Ajakstu was probably receiving right now from Cygnus' ring of shooting stars.
Nothing subtle about that staff, Cygnus thought. A weapon designed to blast enemies to pieces. And powerful enough to do just that to all of us.
The corners of Ajakstu's mouth turned up ever-so-slightly.
Reading my shine now are you, you smug bastard? Well, you're not going to take me down without a-
The Slave Lord broke off his stare at Cygnus and moved on to the tall mage's right.
Well, Cygnus thought with some surprise, maybe I was wrong. Maybe he wasn't-
Ajakstu's eyes went wide.
What is he-
The Slave Lord jumped to his feet. The rat squealed and leapt off the table. It hit the floor with feet running and dashed off to a far corner of the chamber.
It took Cygnus only a fraction of a second to realize that Zantac-as-Aslan was standing to his right.
A fraction of a second too late.
"Illusion!" Ajakstu yelled. "Treachery! Mordrammo, we are deceived!"
"NOW!" screamed Elrohir.
Weapons were drawn.
Hands gestured and incantations uttered as the process for casting spells was initiated.
Hands gripped holy and unholy symbols tightly. Prayers were sent towards deities.
Every one of nineteen people reacted as fast as they possibly could in a life-or-death struggle to be the first one to take action.
And Mordrammo won.
The Voice of the Sacred Scaly One sent forth a prayer that sounded like it tore from the throat of a dragon.
"ELROHIR- LOOK OUT!" screamed Aslan-as-Unru.
The ranger looked up. Above him and Aslan, the ceiling had turned into a roaring circle of fire.
Then the ceiling came down upon them.