Previously…

At last, they reached an end where a very short tunnel connected to another open chamber. Light flickered from within, bright torch light. And faintly drifting outward was a strange cadence that resembled the drone of ocean waves mingled with a swarm of stinging insects. This was not a mere sound. It was language!

The speech of the lower planes was understood by none of the adventurers but Kazimir. His eyes widened as he internally translated some of the words. The tiefling then extinguished his dancing lights and signaled for the party to halt.

They were not alone.

Chapter Nineteen

A Knife in the Back

1485 DR / Day 31

Derro Rebellion Site

Near Gracklstugh

Kazimir whirled around, his frantic gaze seeking out Stool. The tiefling made a mock gesture of an explosion with his hands and prayed that the little myconid would remember the silent code. To his relief, Stool did and promptly released a plume of yellow rapport spores large enough to engulf the entire party. They were now telepathically linked and could safely discuss the situation without alerting the mysterious speaker in the other room.

"Why are we stopping?" Prince Derendil asked.

Kazimir jumped straight to the point. "Fraeya, Sarith—do either of you recognize the sound coming from the other room? Think very closely about your answer," he prompted. "I'm sure a drow would be quite familiar with this…."

Fraeya and Sarith both strained their ears and instantly felt like fools for not making the connection sooner. They might not speak or understand Abyssal, but no drow could forget the alien cadence of the demon tongue. After all, Lolth's priestesses frequently called upon the service of inhabitants from the Abyss.

"What are they saying?" Sarith asked the tiefling.

Kazimir grimaced and said, "Most of it is too quiet for me to make out, but I believe it's a ritual. And if it's in Abyssal, that especially doesn't bode well! We might've just stumbled upon our murderer—or one of his friends." He used the term 'friend' loosely.

A mass eruption of telepathic speech followed as the others caught on to Kazimir's implication. The backlash of so many overlapping voices had them all clutching at their temples as their minds scrambled to sort it all out.

"Okay. Mind-speak one at a time, please," Fraeya pleaded.

Dawnbringer took the lead with, "Whatever it is, we stop it."

"You're part of the link too?" Kazimir asked in disbelief.

The sun sword was held aloft in Balasar's hand and seemed to pulse on her own accord. Not with a blinding light as before, but just the faintest hint of radiant energy to better resemble the red glow of a sunrise on the cusp of the horizon. The effect of the spores had passed from Balasar to Dawnbringer by extension. Thus, the sentient sword could now effortlessly communicate with the party instead of diverting energy to do so.

"If all is as you claim and even one demon prince has been summoned from the Abyss, we cannot sit idle," Dawnbringer continued. "Any cult activity must be stopped, no matter how small."

Once more, the intelligent sword's conviction was a conduit, acting as an unbiased source to unite and center the party. And this would not be the first, nor the last time, the sword knew. Shortly after Balasar had attuned to her, Dawnbringer sensed turmoil between them. She had decided then and there that she would do well to fix that. The group showed great promise. They just needed a nudge in the right direction.

"Dawnbringer is right," Balasar said as he hefted the sun sword over his shoulder. "Whatever that ritual is, we end it now."

"I'll sneak in and see what we're up against," Fraeya offered.

"And I'll go with you," Fargas said.

The rogue initially thought to decline his help, but to have backup was far better than finding herself cornered alone. Though she would have much preferred Sarith as a scouting partner over Fargas. Because Fraeya knew what to expect from a fellow drow and could pre-plan most of her actions accordingly. Fargas was a wild card.

"Fine! But I better not hear one peep out of you," Fraeya eventually said.

Fargas smiled roguishly. "I can be quiet when I wish."

"From past experience, that is not very often," the drow countered.

"I can cloak your steps," Zelyra told them. "It won't reach far, but you'll be shrouded for your entrance at least."

When her companions agreed, the druid closed her eyes and called to her magic. A veil of inky shadow and silence slowly seeped from her person to magically shield all those around her. Zelyra then moved to the edge of the doorway to extend its reach as far as possible. And as the stealthy pair slunk into the next chamber, the druid curiously noted that Fargas no longer wielded Glimmer. Instead, the Netherese sword was tucked away, as it had been since they left the tomb, and a black-handled dagger took its place. The halfling expertly spun the blade in hand, and it was clear with that one simple motion that this was not his first time handling it. The dagger was, in fact, his weapon of choice—just as the party initially suspected.

The next room was a vast, open chamber with an artful array of jagged stalactites hanging from its ceiling. Fraeya and Fargas quickly and quietly inched inside to survey the space. Though complete skeletons were less frequent, the bone collection continued even here. Piles upon piles of scattered bones littered the room, trailing all the way to the far wall, where a stone altar ominously sat. Above it, a frighteningly familiar symbol was carved into the wall.

The four-horned goat head.

Orcus's mark.

The symbol pulsed rhythmically with sickly green energy. Because laying splayed and bleeding out on the altar with numerous slashing marks was an abomination of the deep dark, more commonly known as an umber hulk.

Standing before the altar were three cloaked individuals. Two flanked either side of the rise while the third stood at the top with their arms raised to the ceiling as they shouted blasphemous words in Abyssal. All three were slim-figured and relatively short, standing slightly taller than Fargas. It was not hard then to suppose that these cultists might be derro.

The leader's chanting grew louder. Orcus's symbol flared portentously, and the body of the umber hulk began to convulse. Fargas threw out his arm and motioned for Fraeya to stop. Then, with just a few cues and hand gestures that the rogue would later realize Fargas should have no business knowing, the halfling expressed his worry. Stool's rapport spores could not touch them here. They had no way to convey what they'd found to their companions. And worse still, the pair were now on the cusp of Zelyra's cloaking spell. If they moved any further forward, it would be at their own peril.

The rogue assumed then that they were going to turn back then.

But Fargas caught her eye and smirked as he skillfully spun his dagger in hand. "What are you waiting for?" he murmured. "Let 'em know they've got company."

Fraeya shook her head as she wordlessly drew her shortbow. How could one so small be a source of such constant surprise? So far, the halfling was a better scout than she would have ever believed. They would fight. And could only hope that their companions would hear the commotion and come to their aid.

The drow let loose her arrow. It whizzed through the air to pierce the leader's left shoulder. Not a mortal wound by any means, but neither was it a wasted shot.

The cultist's chanting came to an abrupt halt. They chittered furiously as they looked at the offending arrow before casting a suspicious eye about the room. Then, they called for their underlings to seek its source.

Fraeya and Fargas patiently waited under cover of Zelyra's spell until the hooded and cloaked underlings drew near. Fargas then sprung from the shadows, his dagger raised and at the ready. There was no turning back from that point on. Fraeya stored her bow and drew her rapier as she came to the halfling's aid. But the drow found that Fargas could more than hold his own. It was the first time she'd seen him in action. And the rogue could only then wonder why it had taken so long to reveal his true colors. A timid and cowering halfling Fargas was not. On the contrary, he was a shrewd combatant.

Fraeya's opponent dropped to a brutal stab of her rapier, and as they did, the face beneath the cloak was revealed. This was not a derro but a severely malnourished and bruised male duergar. Also, undead. The rogue's expression scrunched in confusion, for she could have sworn she recognized him…

But a greater danger arose before Fraeya could wrap her head around it.

As the rogue pair quickly and quietly took down the underlings, the leader, a warlock sanctified by Orcus, used the distraction to complete their experimental ritual. At their patron's blessing, the umber hulk was animated to become a lethal undead servant. The warlock was pleased, very pleased. Now that they knew it could be done, what endless havoc they could wreak on their enemies!

An umber hulk was truly a deadly opponent. Weighting over a thousand pounds, they resembled something between a gorilla and an enormous beetle. Their giant claws could easily cut through rock, and their thick natural armor was as strong as full plate. As was suggested by their name, their chitinous body was primarily black, while their underbelly was burnt brown or yellowish gray. They featured four eyes; two lay compound eyes lay on the sides of their head while the smaller pair on their forehead appeared more ape-like.

When Fargas saw the undead brute rise from the altar, he cried, "Damn, not again!"

Fraeya's expression was equally horrified. They could not possibly take on such a monstrosity alone! Fortunately, they were not alone. The commotion had alerted their companions. Zelyra, Prince Derendil, Kazimir, Balasar, Eldeth, Nine, and Sarith streamed into the chamber and took defensive positions. Only Stool remained in the other room, safely hidden among bones, for Kazimir had intimidated the defenseless myconid sprout into staying behind. The tiefling regretted having to do so, but the alternative could get the myconid killed.

From the altar, the warlock smiled wickedly beneath their hood as they looked out at the assembled group. This was a welcomed surprise! And precisely what they needed, for the party was presently clustered and clumped at the mouth of the cavern.

The warlock cackled as a terrible plot began to take shape. What a great sacrifice the group would make. They reached into their satchel, pulled out a spell scroll, and began to recite its deadly incantation as it unfurled in their hand. A mote of flame burned into existence and then streaked across the room, building in heat and intensity to dwarf anything the adventurers had ever seen Kazimir cast. The blinding ball of fire forced the party to scatter as the flames descended.

"Fraeya! Return fire!" Kazimir commanded as he wrestled with the flames scorching his favorite robes. Around him, his companions fought to do the same.

But instead, the rogue stubbornly shouted, "Don't tell me what to do!"

"Really? You're going to have a spat now?" Zelyra cried exasperatedly. "In case you hadn't noticed—we're all on fire!"

Justly chastised and knowing the druid was right, Fraeya absently toyed with the strand of magical red beads inconspicuously tucked into a pocket of her leathers. Inwardly, the rogue acknowledged the brilliance of Kazimir's idea. She was just irritated by the tone he used when it was said.

Fortunately, the wizard had examined the magic item in the tomb and explained how the item would work. Fraeya wasn't typically one for magic—she instead preferred to do things by her own hand—but this could be fun. She plucked off a single red bead and experimentally tossed it forward.

The warlock's maniacal grin melded to horror when they saw their powerful spell unexpectedly mirrored at them and their precious new creation. They dove off the altar steps and rolled across the stone floor to bat out the flames. Yet, even in that chaos, the cultist was mindful to keep their hood up to shield their face.

The umber hulk was not so lucky and took the brunt of the damage.

Fraeya was pleased with how much destruction one little bead could wreak. But when she started to throw another, Fargas cried out, "Don't waste them all!"

The rogue sighed irritably. "Why does everyone keep telling me what to do—"

In that little distraction, Fraeya missed that the undead umber hulk was now charging in her and Fargas's direction. There was no time to avert her gaze. The creature's innate mind-altering magic took hold of her, and Fraeya's thoughts became scrambled. Against her will, her arm shot out to strike Fargas.

As her blade sliced violently across his torso, Fargas could only look up at Fraeya in disorientation. Then the pain set in. And the blood began to pour.

"Why?" was all he could say.

Fraeya came back to her senses as Fargas collapsed.

The drow was outright horrified by what she had unconsciously done. So much so that her rapier clattered from her hand. As Fraeya scurried to her companion and began to put pressure on his wound, the rampaging umber hulk reached them. Three brutal strikes came at Fraeya's back to reopen the scars left by Ilvara's scourge. The rogue grit her teeth at the pain but held firm, using her body to shield Fargas from the umber hulk's attacks. The injured halfling shuttered and coughed beneath her. And her pain was well worth it, for the drow knew then that she hadn't unwittingly killed him.

A crossbow bolt whizzed across the room to strike the creature square in the chest but did not deter it. Balasar drew Dawnbringer then with a battle cry and charged. Eldeth followed his lead with her deadly battle axe in hand.

"Don't look at it!" Fraeya warned them. "Its gaze will scramble your head and take control! I didn't mean to hurt Fargas!"

"Thank heavens! I thought I'd finally annoyed you to death," the halfling wheezed.

The drow shook her head and rasped, "I thought I killed you…."

Fraeya's warning allowed Balasar and Eldeth to avert their gazes and negate the creature's dangerous mind-altering ability. Dawnbringer flared as the dragonborn swung her in a two-handed strike against the undead creature. Eldeth flanked the umber hulk on the opposite side and simultaneously cleaved through its chitinous natural armor.

Zelyra, Kazimir, Nine, Prince Derendil, and Sarith soon found themselves under siege near the cavern's opening, for the umber hulk was not the only thing that had been awakened by the warlock's ritual. The bone piles in the room began to shudder and quake. Skeletal corpses of derro and duergar alike rose at their master's command. The warlock cackled madly from their secure spot behind the altar as their undead servants split the party's attention. Leaving the remaining cultist primarily free from fire.

Combat was too close quartered for moonfire. Thus, Zelyra drew Flameruin, and the scimitar ignited like its name. Sarith stored his crossbow and drew his twin swords. Nine followed suit with a pair of long knives she had yet to use, while Prince Derendil struck out with the only thing he had, teeth and claws. Kazimir was forced to draw Sarith's dagger and now fully appreciated Balasar and Eldeth's lessons. He parried the corpse's attacks until he was in a better position to pull back and switch back to his favored spellcasting.

And that's when things turned from bad to worse. From behind the altar, the warlock produced another spell scroll. Then, as they completed the deadly incantation, a bolt of lightning, forming a line 100 feet long and five feet wide, tore through the adventurers.

One by one, they dropped.

Kazimir. Zelyra. Balasar. Sarith. Fraeya. Derendil.

Only Fargas, Eldeth, and Nine came out unscathed.

Nine dispatched her undead foe and rushed to Zelyra's side. As her hand pressed against her fellow half-elf's head and a vine of borage curled around her face, Zelyra returned to consciousness with a shuddering gasp. And when the ranger informed her of how many of their companions had been devastated by the bolt of lightning, the druid felt helpless. She couldn't heal them all!

Fortunately, Zelyra didn't have to.

Fargas squirmed his way out from under Fraeya's unconscious form and weakly crawled to Balasar. They needed Dawnbringer and her light! The halfling's shaking hands reached for the healing potion they'd recovered from Brysis's horde and dumped it in the dragonborn's mouth. Balasar came to with an angry roar as Dawnbringer's panicked thoughts filled his head. Their connection had been temporarily severed.

"Go for the cultist," Fargas urged the dragonborn. "He's controlling them all!"

But Balasar looked first to Eldeth, who now valiantly battled the umber hulk alone.

As if the shield dwarf could read his thoughts, she shouted, "Do as he says! This one's mine, champion!"

"I'm with you, Balasar," Dawnbringer simultaneously sang in his head.

The dragonborn didn't think twice. Balasar stormed up the broad steps of the lifted altar and found the sniveling coward's hiding place. But as he swung Dawnbringer, the warlock countered his attack with a blood-soaked knife that Balasar had not previously noticed. It seemingly appeared from thin air! For many breathless moments, they battled with neither giving ground. Balasar had fought many a fight and remained to this day, undefeated. Bunrick's champion did not lose. How could such a small opponent match him?

Balasar was weakening, but it was by no fault of his own. The dragonborn could not have known that the warlock regained the tiniest bit of strength with every strike, every cut made with this long knife. [1]

After choosing to revive her wizard companion, Zelyra unleashed the wrath of her moonfire. The ghostly flames of her spell burned away many of the animated bones. Kazimir fired off destructive attacks of his own to counter her, sending bolts of flame and orbs of acid at any undead untouched by the druid's moonfire. The pair, alongside Nine, shielded Prince Derendil and Sarith's unconscious bodies as best they could. Unfortunately, there was no time to revive them.

Eldeth then scored a brutal victory against her foe. Fargas rolled and sank his dagger into umber hulk's heel, giving the dwarf a clean opening. She brought down her battle axe with a battle cry, and the undead umber hulk crumpled to the ground, dead. Soon, the only enemy who remained was the warlock of Orcus.

The warlock surveyed their options and concluded that there was only one. They desperately needed more time. More scrolls! They would not be outwitted by these lesser beings. With a snap of their fingers, the warlock disengaged and faded back into the shadows of the room.

The dragonborn swung around confusedly, breathing heavily and searching for his foe for a heartbeat before Dawnbringer's panicked voice shouted in his head.

"Behind you!"

But it was too late. The wicked knife sank into Balasar's lower back and twisted.

"Bunrick's been looking for you," a chillingly familiar voice said.

The hood fell away then, revealing a male derro. He was thin as a rail with nearly translucent skin stretched over bone, a shock of white hair, and eyes that lacked an iris and pupil. And yet, it was not the confirmation of race that shocked the adventurers. Instead, it was the fact that this individual was known to them.

The chittering derro who had escaped Velkynvelve.

Their former companion.

Buppido.

They had been completely and utterly deceived. A bumbling and harmless creature Buppido was not. There was a cunning intelligence in the derro's milky white eyes that had been so carefully and intentionally hidden away.

Fraeya knew then why she had thought she recognized the undead underling. It was the male duergar prisoner who had been set to be sacrificed alongside the party. What a horrible end! To have somehow escaped the wreckage of Sloobludop, only to find himself murdered and used to further a mad derro's experiments. The rogue had no regrets about killing him then. To release him from his suffering was well worth the blood on her hands.

The derro smiled down at his baffled former companions, cold and calculatedly. Then, he met Kazimir's gaze—specifically—and in Abyssal, said, "Next time we meet, it will be to His glory. Gracklstugh will be His."

Buppido pulled out yet another scroll. And this time, both he and Balasar vanished.

Eldeth was the first to break from her stupor. The shield dwarf bellowed in outrage and thundered towards the unholy altar, but the traitor and Balasar were nowhere to be found. Still, she searched desperately for any sign of them. There was nothing. No tracks, no rustle of movement. The only thing the dwarf found was a piece of burnt parchment with a single word written on it.

Qualax.

…

In the wake of the disastrous battle, Kazimir retrieved an unharmed Stool from the other chamber. And between the efforts of Nine and Zelyra, their unconscious party members were restored and informed of Buppido's betrayal.

It was a grim moment for all. But none was more affected than Eldeth.

It took a great deal of persuasion to convince the shield dwarf to leave the altar room. She was dead set that the party could not possibly move on until Balasar was located. And yet, what more could be done? There was no sign of Buppido or their dragonborn companion. Even Zelyra's magic could not place them. The druid centered her spell on their companion's sentient sword, Dawnbringer, and reached out with her sight. When Zelyra woefully confirmed that Dawnbringer was not within a thousand feet of them, Eldeth lost all control. She punched the stone altar, fracturing the knuckles in her dominant hand. The dwarf then furiously demanded that Zelyra try again.

Kazimir recognized the look of fatigue on the druid's features, however, and sharply said, "Our magic is not endless, Eldeth. Don't force her into a burnout."

Eldeth slumped against the stone stairs. "I'm sorry. I just—"

"We know," Zelyra said as she tiredly came to sit beside the distraught dwarf. "I know. You know that I know. We will not give up on Balasar."

"Yer father," the dwarf guessed quietly.

The druid nodded. Of all her companions, only Eldeth knew the true reason behind Zelyra's quest to find Laucian. If Zelyra would go through such dangerous lengths to find her father, why would she not do the same for a friend in certain peril?

Eldeth steeled herself and clamored to her feet. "Aye, yer right. No use lingering if he's not here," she said.

Kazimir scratched at his chin. "Buppido said something to me in Abyssal just before he and Balasar disappeared. He said, 'Next time we meet, it will be to His glory. Gracklstugh will be His.' I think he's planning something in the city, or someone else is, at the very least," the wizard said.

"Then we should make haste to Gracklstugh," Fargas said.

Zelyra eyed him warily. "Are you sure you're fit to travel?"

The halfling waved away her concern and said, "I've survived far worse than a surprise slash of a rapier."

Fraeya cringed and said, "Again, I'm sorry—"

"Are you apologizing?" the halfling interrupted.

"I am not too proud to admit when I am in the wrong," the rogue said indignantly.

Nearby, Sarith coughed pointedly.

Kazimir turned to the drow reluctantly as he connected many threads and said, "Fraeya makes a good point. I suppose we owe you an apology, Sarith. You were not responsible for the murders. It's been Buppido all along."

The drow accepted the apology with his usual stoicism, a brief nod, and nothing else.

But Fraeya was not entirely satisfied with Kazimir's theory. Perhaps Sarith was not responsible for the murders of the captain's son or the drow scout—maybe it really was Buppido—but there was still the matter of the accusation of murder that had placed Sarith in the prisons of Velkynvelve in the first place. And yet, she voiced none of her suspicions. She'd wait until Gracklstugh when they could speak in private, as the warrior had previously asked.

The party left the boneyard and the disturbing altar to Orcus behind them and continued towards Gracklstugh, the City of Blades, as it was infamously known. As the travelers slogged through narrow tunnels—pathways so tight that all except Fargas were forced to hunch as they walked, these were clearly made for smaller folk to traverse—their morale strengthened. Now, there was a sense of shared resolve. They had common goals. Revenge. Rescue. The adventurers could only hope they found Balasar before it was too late.

The weary group walked for several more hours before the ground beneath their feet gradually flattened. This was a much-welcomed reprieve from the uneven terrain they had trekked across nearly nonstop since Sloobludop. Stone tiles became more frequent, and before long, the adventurers realized they were, in fact, walking on a road. Light faintly glimmered in the distance, pale blue in color and too regularly spaced to be phosphorescent fungi.

As they came closer, they saw that the lights were lanterns on either side of a massive stone gate. A hellish red glow illuminated the stalactite-filled ceiling beyond, and the din of infinite forges could be heard. They had, at long last, arrived at Gracklstugh.

"We shouldn't enter by the main gate," Sarith voiced from the back of the line, bringing the party to a temporary halt.

"Why not?" Fraeya asked.

Sarith's brow furrowed as if he could not understand why his fellow drow would question such a thing. "Have you been to Gracklstugh before?" he asked. Then, when Fraeya shook her head, he hissed, "Entering so openly and without an order of official business is a guaranteed way to find ourselves enslaved—again."

Fraeya eyed the warrior pointedly for yet another bold slip of the tongue, but fortunately, Fargas glossed right over it. "But we do have business in the city," the halfling argued. "Just leave the talking to me!"

Sarith rubbed at his temples to ease his pounding head and irritation at the carefree way a legitimate concern was dismissed. The others ignored the warning as well and trailed after Fargas.

Intricate carvings and runes decorated the mighty stone gate. But before the adventurers could examine them, a harsh voice called to them. It came through a slit in the wall that the party was almost certain had not been there before. "State your full names and business!" the mysterious voice shouted in Dwarvish.

Of the party, only Prince Derendil, Fargas, and Nine understood them. The others exchanged helpless glances and shrugs.

Fargas stepped forward and gave a little flourish before stating, "The name's Fargas Rumblefoot, and these fine fellows behind me were hired for my protection as I traverse the deep dark. I have urgent business in the city!" He reached into his satchel, pulled out a sealed envelope containing a wax seal, and said, "I come on behalf of my most gracious employer. I think you'll want to hear me out."

A door in the side wall suddenly pushed open to reveal a heavily armored male duergar. The male removed his helmet, stoked at his fluffy white beard, and said, "You're obviously lying. I ought to send you straight to the slave pens, but…you amuse me, small one. What do you have that is worth your freedom?"

Fargas immediately decided he didn't like the disconcerting glint in the duergar's eyes nor the false grin which graced his lips. "You haven't even read my letter yet! So how do you know I am lying?" the halfling said huffily. As he said this, Fargas discreetly flashed the black and tan underside of his dark cloak, revealing the notorious symbol concealed beneath it—a marking that the duergar begrudgingly recognized.

"Where'd you get that?" he furiously demanded. "What kind of ruse is this?"

The halfling once again held the letter out to the guard. "It's mine," Fargas said with a roguish wink. "And it is no ruse. I really must insist that you read this before casting unfair judgement! You'll find it will tell you everything you need to know."

The guard snatched the offending envelope from Fargas's proffered hand and rapidly read the contents. He then crumpled said letter before tossing it back at the halfling. Fargas nimbly caught it, but not before shooting the duergar an incensed glare that was partially lost behind the lenses of his darkvision goggles. Oh, how he hated dealing with duergar! They were more even obstinate and ill-mannered than surface dwarves!

"Let me see it then," the duergar then demanded. "Prove that you are who you say!"

Fargas motioned for Nine to step forward, and that's when the other adventurers' confusion and suspicion truly sat in. Never mind that most could not understand what was being said! The behavior Fargas and his ranger companion were displaying was far stranger. Nine's face was a mask of marble as she lifted her sleeve to reveal her brand to the guard and the guard alone. Fargas then made the same sly gesture.

"So, you have proper business in the Blade Bazaar," the duergar reluctantly admitted. "But that still doesn't excuse you from the toll!"

This time, Fargas's jaw dropped in both outrage and surprise. It was highly unusual for a duergar to be so open and blatantly corrupt. There had never been a toll before! He had half a mind to report this guard to his superiors! But the halfling was also keenly aware that the duergar was not alone. He was just the only one visible, meaning the corruption likely ran far deeper.

"And what is the toll?" Fargas asked dryly.

The guard eyed the hilt of the Netherese sword tucked in Fargas's sword belt before his gaze flittered over the rest of the party. He seemed to be purposely searching for something. His gaze lingered on Fraeya and Sarith for a while before eventually falling on Zelyra. More pointedly, on that of Flameruin, sheathed at her side.

"Again, I ask, what is your freedom worth?" the guard shrewdly asked.

"Please excuse me while I confer with my compatriots." Then, Fargas turned back to his companions and very cantankerously grumbled in Common, "Gracklstugh apparently has an entry fee now!"

"How steep of a fee?" Fraeya asked sharply.

"Stubborn fool won't say. He just said, 'whatever our freedom is worth,'" the halfling answered. "But if I had to hazard a guess, he's interested in fancy weapons."

"He was eyeing your sword specifically, Zelyra," Prince Derendil told the druid.

"Not a chance!" Zelyra replied firmly. Flameruin was a gift from the Circle's swordmaster, Artana, and truly one of a kind. Artana had personally crafted it as a reward for Zelyra's progression in training, just as the swordmaster did for all the Circle's druids and rangers. Zelyra would not easily part with it.

"I don't have any particular attachment towards my rapier," Fraeya drawled.

To everyone's surprise, Sarith stepped forward and confidently addressed the guard in Undercommon. "200 gold pieces, the female drow's rapier, and my own dagger in exchange for safe passage into the city—and anonymity," the warrior bartered. Sarith then revealed a second spider-hilt dagger, nigh identical to the one he'd oh-so-kindly given Kazimir. And when the guard eyed the drow weapon with obvious covetousness, Sarith knew his gut instinct had served him well. So, he asked, "Will you accept my offer as a proper payment?"

The guard scoffed, "Of course not! Duergar don't accept bribes!"

Sarith scowled. The urge to shoot a crossbow bolt straight between the duergar's eyes and simply eliminate the problem was all too tempting. But before the warrior was forced to result to such violence, the guard quietly hissed, "Take your payment to the Darklake Docks and find one Werz Saltbaron. You have until the end of my shift—twelve hours—to find Werz and give him what you have promised. If I find out that you have gone back on your word or slighted me even one copper piece, the whole lot of you will be arrested and sold to the highest bidder."

The duergar shoved his helmet back on his head and disappeared through the hidden door before Sarith could respond. A moment later, a dull groan sounded as the guard activated a lever on the other side of the wall. Then, the gate rose, revealing Gracklstugh's bustling Darklake District to the party.

Like all places in the Underdark, the denizens of Gracklstugh had no concept of day and night. Thus, the City of Blades never truly went to sleep. So even at this late hour, when the adventurers longed for a suitable place to bed down, the streets of Darklake District were lively, and the metallic din of the forges was impossibly loud. So too, did the fires burn at all hours. A solid wall of heat struck the travelers as acrid smog swirled around them, choking the air straight from their lungs.

As the party passed under the gate, Sarith spoke up for a third time, stating that their first order of business should be to secure lodgings. And when the question was raised about where they might find that, the drow flatly told his companions that there would be very few places they would be welcome. In Gracklstugh, only one such establishment catered to non-duergar. Ghohlbrorn's Lair, as it was called, was located near the northern end of the Darklake District.

This time, no one argued with Sarith's logic. They were too exhausted after the unexpected battle with Buppido and thus allowed the warrior to take the lead.

As Sarith led the party through Gracklstugh's renowned marketplace, the Blade Bazaar, the adventurers saw that they were not the only outsiders. There were several dark elves, svirfneblin, derro, and orcs. Kazimir thought he even spotted the horned head of a fellow tiefling amongst the throngs of buyers, merchants, and slaves. But the sight of several drow forced the escaped prisoners to throw up the hoods of their cloaks and shield their faces.

And they were wise to do so. Xalith Masq'il'yr slunk through the Blade Bazaar at present. The female drow scout had been warned that Ilvara's escaped prisoners might seek refuge in Gracklstugh and had been mindful to keep a sharp eye for a group fitting their description. It would not bode well to ignore a direct order from a High Priestess of Lolth, after all. And even less so to fail. Thus, the scout made her rounds every day without fail. Xalith had gone as far as sharing the information given to her by Ilvara with other drow emissaries in the city. Specifically, those belonging to House Baenre and House Xorlarrin as both houses were current allies of House Mizzrym.

Just as Sarith began quietly ushering his companions into a small cavern complex beneath the Blade Bazaar's northern end, a fearsome creature flew overhead. The entire party halted just outside Ghohlbrorn's Lair's entrance. Fortunately, the massive red dragon passed on without incident after giving them just the slightest bit of a glance. And yet, the knowledge that a dragon was in the city made those unfamiliar with the inner workings of Gracklstugh wholly uneasy.

"Uh, is that normal?" Kazimir asked fretfully.

"Themberchaud, the city's wyrmsmith," Sarith replied shortly.

Zelyra shuddered, "A red dragon? How do they keep it under control? I've heard the awful legends of entire cities razed in minutes by one's mighty breath!"

Sarith shrugged. "All I can say is that it's never been a problem when I've been in Gracklstugh in the past."

"And how many times has that been?" Fraeya asked curiously.

For a moment, Sarith thought not to answer, but eventually, he replied, "More than I can count. And I'll tell you something else—there's never been a 'fee' to get inside. There was something off about that duergar."

"That's what I thought!" Fargas exclaimed.

"Do you really have 200 gold to spare?" Fraeya asked Sarith.

Kazimir's brow furrowed. "200 gold! Why is Sarith giving up 200 gold?"

"Because that's what he so generously offered up as our supposed entry fee," the rogue revealed.

"I thought it reasonable, given I also asked for our anonymity," Sarith shot back and neither confirmed nor denied that he had enough coin to cover the fee.

"There's no way we can be certain that slimy guard will stick to that," Fraeya argued.

The warrior irritably turned his back to her and descended into Ghohlbrorn's Lair. His companions had no choice but to follow. And as they entered the establishment, the travelers found it a welcomed respite from the city's sweltering heat above. Here, the halls were cold, damp, and dark.

A large central chamber served as a dining hall, while various winding tunnels led to excavated lodgings. The lodgings were on the shoddier side, containing no more than essentials with three to four cots allotted per room, though more could be rented for an additional fee. There were no luxurious baths, just two private chambers with metal basins and barely lukewarm water. But at least the party could bathe, which was something they had not had the luxury of in tendays. Their privation of hygiene was something that went unsaid among them, for they were all quite foul. Zelyra had struggled with it the most as her acute sense of smell made her keenly aware of how filthy they really were.

The front desk of Ghohlbrorn's Lair was run by a cranky female duergar named Lizva. A younger male duergar, Vanum, attended to her. The youth was skittish and shy, seemingly terrified of incurring the wrath of the Lair's mistress. He was thus careful not to look any of them, particularly the drow, in the eye.

Sarith secured three rooms for the party: one for Fargas, Derendil, and Kazimir, one for Zelyra, Eldeth, and Nine, and a third for himself and Fraeya. Stool expressed they wanted to room with Kazimir, adding a fourth to the 'boys' room. The party paid for a tenday's stay out front for a modest discount of 2SP per day instead of 3SP. They then claimed a table in the dining hall to share a proper meal, put their feet up, and partake in well-deserved ale.

Vanum shyly delivered their modest meal of a sizeable charcuterie-board-like spread of spore bread, fruits, dried meats, and various slices of cheese. The party tucked in with vigor, having not eaten much more than roasted ripplebark and harvested barrelstalk for nearly a month. And when Lizva dropped off a round of cheap, light-colored ale, Fargas heartily told her in Dwarvish to keep it coming. This eve, they would celebrate just how far they had come and what all they'd survived! This was the first night since Ploopploopeen's hovel that the adventurers could sleep in security. Tonight, there would be no watches. For here in Ghohlbrorn's Lair, they were the safest they'd ever been. [2]

"So, you two are to share lodgings? Just you two—alone?" Zelyra put out to Fraeya and Sarith as she held her flagon to her lips to conceal her impish grin.

"Why is that weird?" Fraeya asked, genuinely not catching on to the druid's implication. Zelyra lost all will to hide her amusement then and collapsed into a fit of giggles before making a series of expressive kissing noises.

Kazimir tossed his empty tankard at the druid and said, "No, no, no! There will be no fraternizing amongst the party!"

"She's not my type," Sarith drawled to Fraeya's instant outrage.

"Excuse me? What do you mean I'm not your type!" the rogue said.

The warrior shrugged. It was not entirely the truth, but neither was it an outright lie. Fraeya was an attractive drow female. She was nothing like the matron mothers of their home city that he despised. Never once had she looked down on him or thought him lesser. No, she treated him no differently than Kazimir, Fargas, or anyone else. And something was striking, altogether alluring, about her strange silver-colored eyes. Many years had passed since Sarith last saw the starry sky of the surface lands above. But he had seen it; on a night of bloody memory that he would sooner forget.

But none of that excused the fact that Fraeya was a century younger than him, inexperienced, and had the same stubborn, volatile temper of most drow females. Perhaps if things were different—no.

Sarith stopped that traitorous wayward thought before it could fully form.

He could see her value and how she might make a choice partner—for someone else.

"Your temperament is less to be desired," the warrior brazenly said instead, for he knew that Fraeya would not truly take offense. He'd come to realize her bark was far worse than her bite.

Kazimir howled with laughter and said, "Careful, buddy! Don't forget you're the one sleeping with her tonight!" He and Fargas then shared a conspiratorial high-five.

"Yes. For once, I agree with the wizard," Fraeya said.

"I think that might be a first," Derendil muttered into his tankard.

Zelyra playfully nudged him for the well-timed and hilariously accurate joke.

"Perhaps you should invite Kazimir into your bed instead," Sarith added dryly.

And when Fraeya and Kazimir's faces scrunched up in identical expressions of horror, nearly the entire table lost themselves to the hilarity, causing more than a few heads to turn in their direction. One irritable hill dwarf even went as far as to throw a piece of bread at them.

"Oi! Keep it down! Some people are trying to sleep in this establishment!" they reprimanded the rowdy group in Common.

Fargas leaned in and whispered conspiratorially to his companions, "Tomorrow, we should take our meal in the Shattered Spire. They have a delicious blue cap stew, and the ale isn't half bad, either. Because if I can't have a little fun with my nightcap, I'd sooner take my business elsewhere."

But not all joined in the frivolity. Eldeth remained sullen and strangely quiet. The shield dwarf had hardly uttered a word and barely touched her drink or food. Of course, she knew that her companions were not ignorant of that, for Eldeth had caught Nine looking in her direction multiple times. But while she appreciated the ranger's concern and the other's attempts to lighten the mood—the addition of ale had certainly exacerbated that—Eldeth simply could not move past her grief and fear.

How could the others celebrate when one of their own was missing?

Do as he says! This one's mine, champion!

She had told him to go. Round and round, the same questions rattled her thoughts. Where was Balasar? And what fell deeds did Buppido have planned for him?

[1] This is not a RAW ability of pact weapons, but I thought it made for a good descriptive element. If you want to be technical, you could say it functions somewhat like a Shortsword of Life Stealing.

I made several fundamental changes in this chapter from our gameplay. I've stayed faithful thus far, but there were key opportunities here to thicken the plot!

1) The boneyard scene happened pretty much how it was written in this chapter...except we were fighting a random derro necromancer. The necromancer did raise an undead umber hulk, but the skeletons were undead minotaurs in our gameplay. Since I had described the boneyard as a duergar vs. derro battle, the minotaurs no longer fit. If it sounds like a deadly encounter, that's because it was! DM/husband always upped the challenge ratings because of the added help from the NPCs.

Balasar really was kidnapped at the end of the battle! Around this time, his player moved to another city in a different time zone. Since we played our games in person, the kidnapping was DM/husband's way of making it fit the storyline that Balasar wouldn't be around all the time…sort of like Ashley Johnson's characters Pike and Yasha on Critical Roll.

So why did I swap the necromancer for Buppido? To give the party even more of a reason to hate him! He kidnapped their friend! When I threw the idea out to DM/husband, he said, "Why didn't I think of that?" because it oddly fit changes that DM/husband had already made to Buppido.

2) In our gameplay, Buppido never abandoned the party in Sloobludop (Sarith didn't either, fun fact). DM/husband is infamous for adding unexpected twists (the last session of our campaign was a doozy). I toyed with the idea of making Sarith look like the villain when it was actually Buppido. (I think/hope it worked?) Originally, Buppido and Hemeth, the duergar prisoner from Sloobludop, traveled with us to Gracklestugh. Only to abandon us after the first night and we went through almost two sessions, not realizing they were missing, lol! It's hard to keep track of all the NPCs sometimes!

3) To gain entrance into Gracklestugh, Fraeya and Sarith posed as a newly married couple looking to 'upgrade' their slaves (aka the party, lol). Sarith had a rare display of high charisma! And while it was genuinely hilarious RP that I would have loved to share with you all, I better liked the idea of digging into the mystery of Fargas and Nine's employer. Knowing what I know now about their characters, it was an opportunity I simply couldn't pass up.

4) We took our meal in the Shattered Spire that evening because, for some reason, DM/husband decided that Ghohlbrorn's Lair didn't serve food. We proceeded to get extremely drunk on Darklake Stout, Fargas nearly started a brawl, bread was thrown(!), and shenanigans ensued. But this chapter is already very long, so we'll visit the Shattered Spire another day. Regardless, I was so excited to finally write a tavern scene, short as it was. It always seemed like our best (and most outrageous) RP came out in those situations.