From the author: A short chapter to tide people over until I pick up where I left off. The conclusion approaches rapidly, but I never really finished it, which means I'll need to start from scratch. I fear the summary has become misleading, for I must admit the dwarves play a very small role, and really, the entire story has taken some twists I never intended. Anyway, I mean to bring everything together, somehow, and round it off as well as I can. As I said earlier, I can't promise satisfaction, only resolution. Enjoy the show.
Jemic stumbled on through the trackless wastes of the Underdark, the rough tunnel floor seeming to pierce her leather boots as though they were parchment. Each step brought another curse to her lips, though she dared not speak. Arakanzar had warned her before they set out that the sound of a voice or the scrape of a footstep could be heard for miles once it was caught by the jagged cavern walls. Light would be even worse, attracting the truly dangerous creatures that dwelt in the depths. Gray dwarves, rogue drow gone feral, and horrors best left unmentioned. So they journeyed in darkness, the ranger's only hope of safety the rope that was tied about her wrist, binding her to the wizard that was now her master.
The wound in her belly hurt with each jolting stride, and she was in no way appreciative of Arakanzar's dubious logic. Pinning someone to the table with a dagger to prove your worth was not, in her opinion, a sign of a particularly impressive person. Beyond that, he had given her only a weak healing potion once they had passed beyond the ring of drow watchers and scouts. His caution was absolute, even extending to denying the ranger her weapons. The ranger's fencing saber and recurved longbow rested upon his shoulders. She still had a tiny knife hidden in her hair, but it was meant only for escape from rope bonds. Offering a prayer to Mielikki, Jemic trudged on, hoping with all her being that they reached safety soon.
Devlar Sorentann wrestled with demons of his own as he waited for Arakanzar's return. The thief disliked the Underdark intensely, but he could stand it, after a fashion. The fear that welled up within him was due to one simple fact: He was alone. And to be alone in the Underdark gnawed at a man's soul. Every sound was a drow hiding in the shadows, every flash of movement a killing blow approaching. It was fear that was slowly reducing him to nothing, and fear that kept him imprisoned in the wizard's study. As much as he had ever wanted wealth, Devlar wanted somebody to be afraid with him. He heard the soft chime that meant someone had passed the outer wards that defended the wizard's study, and sprang to his feet, his hand reaching for a throwing knife. He had been through this many times, but it never got any easier, and despite the fact that he knew the door could only be opened by Arakanzar, he was ready to put a dagger through the throat of anybody that opened that door and meant ill to him. Gods above, but I hate this place.
Arakanzar Z'tran had been afraid once. But the half-drow had learned well from his dark cousins, and now, as he approached the door of his little study, he remained calm and collected. He disliked these little excursions nearly as much as Devlar. He had an agreement with the dark elves, but, truth be told, he disliked dealing with them more than necessary. Everything he wanted to be, but was denied because of his half-breed status, they were, and took great pleasure in mocking him. A smile played about his lips at the thought. He gave as good as he got, and had little difficulty enraging the drow whose task it was to negotiate with him. Kraya was at best a minor player in the politics of the dark elves, and knew that she had been appointed to her post as a gesture of contempt. Angry people were easy to work with. He laid his hand on the door handle, which would only open for him, and turned it the opposite direction from what would have worked on a normal door. The lock clicked, and he pushed open the door, murmuring to Jemic,
"Welcome to my home, little ranger."
Devlar, seeing that it was, in fact, his master that entered, lowered his knife, his fears finally abating. He felt his usual lazy manner returning, and, sheathing the dagger with a flourish, bowed low to say,
"Ah, good to see you again. I slew a few dozen duergar, drow and other beasts that I didn't really take a close look at. Nothing to trouble over, but I was starting to worry that I wouldn't be able to clear out the bodies before you got here. As you can see, I managed it somehow." When he straightened up, a disarming smile on his face, the thief was delighted to see Jemic enter behind the half-drow. He had liked the ranger, if only because she had absolutely no interest in the underworld of Faerun or the arts of intrigue. It was good to be reminded how important it was to be aware of such things.
"Well met once again, m'lady. How did you enjoy your stay among the drow?" He recieved a withering glare, but took it in good humor.
"Well, you can't expect a species that lives in these dark holes to have much of a sense of hospitality, I suppose." Turning to Arakanzar, he asked,
"How did you come by her? I'd thought she and that mercenary would've blundered into something sufficiently lethal to finish them." The wizard smiled slightly, untying a rope that had held him and Jemic together.
"The dark elves were pleased enough with my information that they sold her to me for a bargain price." Devlar snorted derisively. The price had mostly likely been, if anything, deliberately high, but it was still an improvement over what they might have asked. Yet there was one obvious question.
"Why'd you buy her? We don't need a tracker, guide, or archer, and she's really not the type that'd be interested in your sort of work." Arakanzar strode over to a tall bookshelf of some black stone and retrieved two volumes, answering,
"She's useful enough for now. There's no harm in having a little extra help, and there's plenty of tasks that wouldn't go against her beliefs, however foolish they are. And I'd like to see what it takes to get her to change them. These things can be a little amusing." Jemic spoke for the first time, obviously resentful at the wizard's patronizing attitude.
"If my beliefs are so foolish, why has most of Faerun managed to live according to them?"
"You delude yourself, Jemic. There is much you could learn if you had eyes to see. The world is a dark and cruel place, much like the Underdark, for the most part, and those who deny that deny that evil exists at all, which even you cannot be so idiotic as to believe." Slipping the chosen books into a satchel, the wizard looked at the ranger, his expression serious and all traces of sarcasm fled from his voice.
"You call me evil because I kill people and manipulate events from the shadows-fine. Then why do they call people like Azoun IV or the Lords of Waterdeep just and benovolent rulers? Do not they kill people? Do not they have to make their share of deals to keep their realms safe and secure? We are all evil if we live long enough, Jemic, and with any luck, one day you'll find out for yourself. Now get your things together. We're leaving."
Zak Crimsonleaf lay with his back to the cold stone wall of his cell, his brown eyes burning into the door. Since that dark day he left Scardale Town, he had suffered nobody to even so much as insult him without retribution. Now he was a prisoner until the gold dwarves saw fit to release him, and they were in no hurry. He had lain in their dungeons for days, at least, though without the sun he no longer had any sense of time. His left hand constantly strayed over his shoulder, searching for a sword that was not there. Once again he cursed his gaolers for their vigilance. He had not even so much as a table knife to his name, every last scrap of equipment he possessed had been taken from him. A hint of a smile quirked at his lips, and he reached into his thick reddish-brown hair to feel a keen bit of steel nestled there. Well, perhaps they hadn't gotten everything. He'd learned a thing or two from Jemic. Still, it would be useless in a straight fight, and he had no skill at lockpicking, so it availed him nothing.
"Talona's festering toenails!" he swore softly, standing up and pacing restlessly. The small room that he prowled about was really meant as a storeroom. The iron door was thick, and it allowed not even the faintest hint of light inside. His sight was keen, one effect of his cursed heritage, but he saw only darkness. He had come to learn the dimensions of the room by touch. Sitting down again, already weary of his circling, he ruminated on what he would do if he ever got out. Jemic he had liked, the ranger was one of the few who could tolerate his fiery temper and blunt speech, but there was little hope for her, lost in the Underdark. He prayed that she was fortunate enough to die quickly. Arakanzar he would like to kill, but the wizard was too powerful to attack directly, and could easily remain hidden from sight. That left the main object of his vengeance, Tyra Blackmorn. His hands tightened into fists at the mere thought of her name. The cursed woman had stolen his sword, and he meant to get it back. This thought sustained him, gave him the will to defy the silent darkness that surrounded him.
Footsteps echoed faintly in the corridor outside. His hearing, at least, did not need light to serve him. He picked out two distinct patterns, one the heavy, regular tread of a soldier, the other a lighter, quick step. The bar of his door was thrown back with a faint rasp, and it was flung open, the sudden flood of light blinding him. Throwing an arm up to shield his eyes, the half-elf spat,
"By the pits of hell, but you had better be here to set me free, or I'll find a way to make your life miserable!"
"Ye've already done that. They're holding me responsible for not pressing the attack on the gray scum because of ye," a dwarven baritone replied resentfully. Blinking as his eyes adjusted, Zak saw three dwarves standing outside waiting for him. One was the captain that he had spoken to before, the leader of the dwarven band that had saved his life. He was still armored in his gold-trimmed full plate, and his greataxe was on his back. In his hands, though, he held a set of manacles. The dwarf on his left was the prison guard, a silent, stern man who looked to have the patience of stone. His scarred hands rested easy upon the haft of a two-handed warhammer, and his brown beard was tucked neatly into his belt. The third Zak hadn't seen before. He had a weary, resigned look to him, and his eyes were downcast. A heavy mace was thrust through his belt, and a steel roundshield was carried on his back. He was armored in adamatine half-plate, the dark metal gleaming dully in the torchlight, and around his neck was an amulet engraved with two crosssed battleaxes. The half-elf recognized the symbol of Clanggedin Silverbeard, dwarven god of battle. Had to be a priest, then.
"Well," Zak grumbled, "I don't often say this, but...thanks." The last word seemed to be dragged out of him, but the dwarf nodded in acceptance, motioning for him to come forward. The mercenary held out his hands while the manacles were made fast about his wrists, the cold metal burning like ice.
"Ye're to be judged, Crimsonleaf. Speak well and ye'll be set free with yer goods, and given a map out of here. Speak badly, and we'll show ye out as ye are. But ye'll be set free, that I promise ye. We can't spare the men to guard ye, times as they are." With that, they set off down the corridor. Despite his shackles, there was a new resolve in Zak's step. The knowledge of his freedom burned in his mind, and his thoughts turned dark with the promise of vengeance. At that moment, no one could have stopped him.
They marched for a long time along the dim hallways of the dwarven outpost, with the half-elf setting a fast pace, forcing his guards to work hard to keep up. His legs protested at the sudden activity, but he refused to feel weakness now, on the edge of liberation. He ignored his guards, and they in turn spoke little, and only to give directions. Eventually, they came to an iron and steel door, engraved with runes of power, and set into the rock with such skill that not even a knife blade would fit beneath it. The captain stepped foward rapped his mailed fist in a specific pattern. One, two, and one again. Metal scraped as a peephole was slid open, and they were confronted by a pair of suspicious eyes. A voice like millstones turning rasped,
"Who goes there?" The captain saluted, and replied,
"Captain Maredok Broadshoulder, escorting a prisoner. And before ye ask, today's password is copper bit." Without further reply, the eyes vanished, and Zak's sensitive ears heard the muffled sound of bolts being thrown back and locks being unlatched. The door swung open on silent, well-oiled hinges, revealing a vast chamber beyond. Stepping through the door, the mercenary's eyes widened as he beheld the beating heart of the outpost.
The first thing he noticed was the light. He caught a glimpse of burning torches and magical fires that glowed with a constant white illumination before his eyes, blinded once again by the sudden brilliance, clamped shut, tears welling up from the pain. The second thing he noticed was the noise. The distinct, jaw-cracking dwarven language assailed his ears, hundreds of voices raised in joy or anger. The deep chanting of working songs echoed across the cavern. He could feel the rock beneath his feet resonate with that rythym. There were a million other sounds, the ring of hammer and anvil, the grinding of whetstones on blades, the crackling of forge fires, that he nearly staggered. After days, maybe weeks, in that dark cell with his voice his only companion, Zak Crimsonleaf was well and truly dazzled.
"Either in or out, surfacer, the door hain't a place to stand," Maredok said from behind, nudging him forward with his axe haft. The mercenary stumbled forward a short ways, cursing softly. His sight began to return to him slowly, and as he wiped away the tears on his sleeve, he took in the sight of a dwarven clan on a war footing.
The sight was truly impressive. The cavern was at least two hundred paces long and about half that wide, with the ceiling so high that it was lost in dancing shadows, and all of it was filled with preparations for battle, the same scene he'd seen again and again in the Scardale militia. Forges belched clouds of smoke into the air as weapons and armor were hammered into shape, steel screeched on the grindstone as blades were honed, and crossbows cracked as soldiers practiced their archery. The dwarves went about their work with a will, and he saw none of them idle, though he could feel a great many eyes watching him. Zak knew he could not have been under greater vigilance had he entered with bloody blade in hand. Maredok nudged him again, and pointed towards a cleared spot in the center of the hall.
"Come on, then. The elders don't like to be kept waiting."
"They kept me waiting long enough. I'm in no hurry," he replied, some of his temper returning, now that he was back on familiar ground. But he followed his guards over, seeing three dwarves seated behind a massive slab of rock that served as a table, though it barely came above his knees. Its circular shape suggested that it was the stump of a stalagmite that had been hewn down to clear the cavern. All of his judges were of the same cut, gray beards, gnarled hands, and eyes that could flay a man alive with a look. He stood in silence, crossing his arms and adopting an attitude of deliberate arrogance. Eventually, one of them nodded in greeting.
"Varredon Stonesong I be. These be Karus Greenstone and Rexx Graybane. Maredok there," he indicated the captain, who was standing to one side with a slightly nervous look on his face, "says he held off on pressing his attack on the duergar to rescue ye. Ye have anything to say on that?" Zak looked over to the dwarf in question and nodded once, slowly.
"My thanks," he said. That was as much gratitude as he was liable to get from the mercenary. Zak was extremely spare with his goodwill, but he truly did owe Maredok his life, and only a fool would fail to reward that. The dwarf shrugged armored shoulders.
"Least I could do." Karus snorted, steepling his fingers in thought.
"Looks like ye don't value yer own life a great deal. But that's yer business. Dantainforunn, cast your spell." The priest put one hand to his holy symbol, and did as he was ordered. There was a brief flare of light, then nothing. Karus explained to Zak, who was looking confused,
"A truth-telling spell that was. Can't be too careful. How did ye get down here? Any fool knows not to travel alone in the depths." Zak bristled at the memory, his eyes flashing fire.
"I grabbed hold of a cursed wizard as he teleported himself away from an attacker, and it turned out that this was his destination. He left me to die, and I pray the gods that one day I can show him how well that worked out." The slightest of smiles was visible on Karus' face.
"Perhaps ye'll get that chance. But, laying aside how ye got here, what be yer name and trade?"
The questioning continued for a long time. Zak found himself practically reciting his life history for the dwarves, and it was nothing spectacular. He'd been a mercenary for seven years, since he was 20, and before that a soldier in the Scardale militia. Before that…well, that was his business. His voice grew hoarse from talking, but he doggedly kept on, determined to end this inquiry in one session. After what seemed an eternity, his interrogators fell silent. Zak waited, his temper mounting by the moment, and struggling to restrain himself from throwing a punch at the nearest dwarf. After a fair bit of time, Varredon spoke up again.
"I'll not say that Maredok was wrong to pull yer arse out of the fire, but I won't say he was right, either. Still, I've heard nothin' to prove yer a threat. I'll not be offering ye a job, but I say that ye go free." Karus nodded slowly.
"Aye, I figure ye may as well take whate'er trouble ye bring back to the surface. I'll find for ye, and that means this judgment is ended, and it's decided that Zak Crimsonleaf is to be set free, and given back what is his." He finally smiled in full. "If ye find yer wizard, give'im a sword stroke or two for us." The mercenary's thoughts turned to red revenge, and a savage joy was rising in him. Faerun had better watch out, because I'm back, and I have lost time to make up for.
Author's Notes:
Due to a request from one of my readers, I post here a brief listing of the main characters D&D stats. This is not intended to be totally accurate, merely a rough representation meant to show what they would be like in an actual game. By the way, this is them as they would be a couple months after the story.
Zak Crimsonleaf (Chaotic Neutral male half-elf Fighter9/Rogue1)
Trade: Mercenary
Born In: The Moonsea, moved to Scardale Town when little.
Notable Possessions: +1 flaming burst bastard sword
Tyra Blackmorn (Neutral Evil female human Cleric11 of Cyric)
Trade: Zhentarim operative.
Born In: Zhentil Keep
Notable Possessions: +1 unholy dire mace.
Arakanzar Venthelio Z'tran (Lawful Evil male half-drow Wizard12)
Trade: Exiled noble.
Born In: Dambrath
Notable Possessions: Obsidian Staff (heirloom of House Z'tran, capable of casting the spells spider climb, blacklight, and, mage hand.), Ring of Mind Shielding
Devlar Sorentann (Neutral Evil male human Rogue8)
Trade: Thief
Born In: Iriabor
Notable Possessions: Defending Keen Rapier
Jemic (Neutral Good female human Ranger9)
Trade: Tracker, Guide, Adventurer
Born In: Silverymoon
Notable Possessions: None.
Armand Lennox (Lawful Evil male human Fighter6/Blackguard8)
Trade: Miscelleneous Evil, bounty hunter, underground contact, advisor.
Born In: Westgate
Notable Possessions: Various.