First Interlude – Death's Favored Son
The winds that rolled in off the Sea of Swords were dashing rain against whatever they could, but the east side of the rock stayed dry enough. From time to time there would be a shift in the wind and a few droplets would splatter across the camp, dampening the cloaks and armor of the four companions or hitting their campfire with a hiss. The woman in smooth black platemail never seemed to notice as she sat before the flames. Her eyes were rolled back in her head, empty whites unblinking as the firelight danced in them.
Two other men sat at the fire opposite the woman. One was old, his body hunched and bone-thin. A trimmed, white-streaked beard hung from his sallow face and he wore ragged traveler's robes and a broad hat. The other man was younger, healthier, with Calishite features and long brown hair. His clothing was sturdy but colorful and elegant. Both men warmed their hands close to the fire.
Somewhat away from the shelter of the rock a man in spiked armor paced. He ignored the rain as it pattered against the horned helmet that covered most of his head and face, and each time he turned the massive greatsword at his back clinked against his armor. With every circuit he made at the edge of the camp his eyes briefly fell on the woman.
He glanced at her, turned and impatiently stomped along his path. Then did it again. And again.
Then the woman's eyes rolled forward, the whites replaced by dark brown irises. The man in spiked armor stopped and a slight smile appeared on his face, hidden behind the jawguard of his helmet. "Tamoko, you've returned," he said in greeting. His voice was deep and resonant.
The woman in black armor nodded, her eyes still fixed on the flames. Her face was round, with the almond-shaped eyes and dark hair of an easterner from Kara-Tur or beyond. When she spoke her voice was low and soft. "Kossuth's flames have led us true. Ghostwalker shelters in a cave along the coast to our north. Perhaps four miles travel and deep within a cove."
"Good," said the man in spiked armor as he turned from the campfire. "Then we will overtake him this night. Come." He gestured for his companions to rise and follow.
"I could not mask my presence from him," Tamoko apologized. "He will be preparing for us as we travel."
"That was to be expected," the armored man said dismissively.
The Calishite shot to his feet and smoothed out his cloak, then helped the old man up. With a wave of Tamoko's hand the fire hissed and died and they set out into the rain.
It had taken the combined magics of Tamoko, Winski and Semaj to pierce the layers of protection Ghostwalker used to cloak himself from scrying. Doing so had warned their quarry that he was being hunted, and they had been harried constantly on their journey along the coast by odd weather, enraged animals and supernatural creatures. This final leg of the hunt was relatively quiet though, and they met nothing in the last hours walking the coast beyond rain and wind. No doubt Ghostwalker was saving whatever defenses he had left for when it really counted.
As they approached the cove they found it covered by unnatural mists; a thick wall of pure white that reached from the lapping water to the sky. Winski – the old man in ragged clothes – raised his gnarled hands and carefully enunciated a few arcane words. A silent gust swept in, turning the wall into a series of sputtering whirlwinds and pushing them aside, parting the mist.
As the air cleared nearly a dozen shimmering forms were revealed, their softly glowing bodies rising from the sand. They were barely more substantial than the mists: blue-white ethereal creatures in the shape of wolves. Their fur flowed and shifted like billowing clouds and their eyes were sharp gleaming pinpricks of light. One by one they threw back their heads and howled.
The greatsword slid from its place at the armored man's back and into his hands with practiced ease. He stared the ghostly wolves down as they fanned out, shifting his sword slowly from side to side, and as he did a bright yellow glow began to emanate from his eyes. At either side of the armored man Winski and Semaj began to chant the words of separate spells, palms extending as they lit the night with tongues of lightning and streaking bolts of eldritch energy.
When they were struck by the magical attacks the spirit-wolves yelped just like any other hound. However when they closed and attacked they did so like no natural beast. They seemed to waver and flow, constantly shifting in and out of existence. Paws and bared teeth would rush towards the armored man then turn into a puff of ethereal smoke. A heartbeat later that puff would reform behead him and leap as the wolf tried to flank and bring him down.
The man in spiked armor whirled and moved just as quickly as the wolves could ghost in and out of existence, his sword a blur. Sharp as their supernatural teeth were they could not dent his armor. Heavy as their bodies became when they materialized and collided with their prey the man never lost his footing. He shrugged the shaggy bodies off, sending some back with wounds from his jagged armor.
His sword mostly struck empty air as it sliced at the ghosting wolves, but here and there the blade would hit something satisfyingly solid. When struck the beasts bled a white glowing substance that rose into the air and faded rather than spilling out like blood. With enough slices whatever magic held the spirit wolves together would waver and they would evaporate like mist.
Close by Tamoko raised a mace in one hand and a red ball of fire in the other. With a word she lit the night with a pillar of flames that descended from the darkness and struck one of the wolves, dissolving its body with a hiss and a puff.
Tamoko continued to hold her hand aloft as she sang out a second prayer in the tongue of Kozakura. As two more spirit wolves closed in on her flames once again bust into existence, wreathing her body and making the polished surface of her armor shine. A wolf that dared ghost close to her and snap its jaws was rebuked by the fire, shifting away. She advanced on the creature and its companion, pressing them with her mace and the tongues of flame that encircled her.
Moments later there was nothing of the spirit-wolves save dissipating mists. Hoisting his sword the man in spiked armor began to stomp towards the nearby cave that had been at the heart of the fog, the others falling in behind him. The glow had faded some from his eyes, revealing black war paint. The opening was narrow and carved into an eroded wall of sandstone. Tall sea oats waved along the ridge above.
In the sand at the mouth of the cave were several sets of footprints, all leading out and away. Two sets were more or less the size of a humanoid adult, and the rest – perhaps three others – were quite small. Ghostwalker's wife and children, the armored man guessed. That could be a problem later, if they are allowed to grow and seek revenge. But that was at the bottom of his concerns tonight. Bending a bit the armored man shrugged his way into the sea cave.
The chamber inside was round and wide, sloping to a central point where a large fire danced. Furs were laid out everywhere, along with clay pots and painted pieces of wood and gourd and bone. The smell of smoke hit the armored man's nostrils as he slowly stepped forward. It was thick and rich: burning wood mixed with cherry bark and the stronger smell of various herbs. Trails of white smoke rose and swirled from the flames to form shifting patterns that could not have been random.
Before the fire sat a broad, muscular figure, his back turned. His voice was deep but dry and raspy. As he spoke trails of smoke rose from his lips to join the whirling patterns above. "Young Lord Anchev," he said by way of greeting.
"You insult me, Ghostwalker," the armored man said coldly. "You of all people should know the true name of my father. Of our father."
"We are all formed by where we grew as much by the blood," Ghostwalker said. "Just as the Shattered Bone Clan made me what I am the Anchev clan made you. And I believe I am entitled to insult the man who has come here to murder me this night, am I not?" Ghostwalker asked that question mockingly as he rose to his feet and turned to reveal the flat face of a youthful orc framed by long, dreadlocked hair. His chest was bare, his loins covered by an assortment of cured hides woven together into a skirt. There was a strip with the pattern of a cheetah, another with the fur of a bear. Others had the texture and hue of humanoid flesh. As he spoke the whirling patterns of smoke had expanded above Ghostwalker's head. Bodies seemed to dance in the mist. Faces turned and spoke and screamed.
The armored man's companions had spread out, a bit behind him and near the cave wall. Their hands were out and ready to begin flinging magic.
"I do what must be done," the armored man stated coldly as he raised his sword to a ready position.
The orc shook his head. "You study some moldy books and think you know how this must play out."
"Alaundo's prophesy-"
"You studied some moldy books," Ghostwalker interrupted, his voice rising, "while I have stared into the ether just as Alaundo did. And I know that your quest is futile."
"Ha. If you really can do that by looking into flames and inhaling burning resins then surely you saw your own death. Here. Tonight."
The statement was meant to be baiting, but Ghostwalker answered without hesitation. "I did. I saw my death and thus I will not ask you to stay your hand. I saw my own death and I saw many deaths beyond that. Death on a titanic scale, leading to the final struggle for our father's throne."
"It is just as I-"
"It is and it is not." The smoky images had grown more sharp and resolved. In it the armored man could see an otherworldly vista made of writhing forms melted together to form strange statues. Some sort of massive structure rose from the twisted landscape, and atop it figures struggled. Ghostwalker inclined his head slightly, also watching the misty scene unfold. "Do you see it? A cosmic battle atop the Throne, years from now. There are many combatants but only three appear clearly, illuminated by our father's power." It appeared as he said: there were three forms that seemed truly solid while the rest were vague and ghostly. "You see them too don't you? Three women."
"All I see is smoke."
With a shimmer a long spear appeared in Ghostwalker's hands. It was oaken and tipped with obsidian, marked by swirling patterns of glowing red and green. Winski and Semaj aimed their fingers, spells ready on their lips. "See what you like," Ghostwalker said. "I have tried but I cannot see beyond this point to who wins the battle atop the Throne. Regardless it's clear that it will end with the ascension of a Lady of Murder. We are irrelevant."
The armored man shook his head slightly. "You of all people should know the mutability of fate. Especially for those such as us."
"Then test that mutability. We all have our parts to play this night. Zrrak kurm!" With that guttural bark there was a sound like the ripping of grass and long, tall lines of thorn-bearing plants wavered into being between the armored man and his companions. There was a crackling sound as the three others flung their spells against the wall of thorns.
Ghostwalker twirled his spear and grinned at the man in spiked armor. In response the man raised his sword and the intense glow returned to his eyes and spilled out from the maw of his helmet, burning like the fires of Gehenna.
The smoky vista continued to hang in the air behind Ghostwalker, the scene from across time and space and possibility playing out. The man in spiked armor averted his eyes, focusing only on the duel before him. But before he pushed all else from his mind and leapt forward to attack an uneasy feeling came over him.
The feeling that he recognized one of the faces in the smoke.