A Servant of Two Masters

It’s the third night out from Scarborough toward Cottis, and despite spending the night under the sloping thatched roof of the huge, outlying; Clark & Sons farmyard barn, the added security of their three new Lord Urdurel guards and the comfort of Cookie’s large, covered wagon, the perpetually angry Fortu has another of his hyper-vivid dreams. Or perhaps, this time, it’s just a nightmare bound to the recent loss/theft of the three Briefadel mercenaries they’d saved months ago, combined with two distorted and disturbing memories…

After mercilessly cutting down the runaway soldier during Spider Murphy’s forest ambush, Fortu suddenly and inexplicably finds himself in a warm, sunlit glade, facing the beautiful Fey goddess; Estrid. They stand, face to face, eye to eye, mouths… lips just inches apart, close enough to kiss, yet her expression reveals a combination of consternation and confusion. 

"You slaughtered that defenceless human! He’d dropped his sword and surrendered. Surrendered! I don't see how a good person could do such a thing?"

Over Estrid’s pale shoulder, Fortu recognises a couple of armoured figures standing silently in the distance. The larger of them is male, beastial and warlike, while the other is feminine, refined but, perversely, also warlike. Of the two though, only the beast-like one is smiling with approval.

Eyes snapping open, Fortu hears those words echoing in his mind. But in truth, she hadn’t said them. She’d never said them. He had. They were his words, said months ago, to the eighth-Elf; Rifkin, when the goddess Estrid had ordered the merciless execution of four of the surrendered Human invaders of her glade.

Why then, had he murdered that unarmed and cowering soldier? What was the difference? What was his defence? Was it somehow morally justifiable when he did it but not when she had? Was it true for the beaten, bound and broken Wizard Moody too?

Glancing around the large, lantern-lit barn and his sleeping teammates, he becomes uncomfortably aware that he’d been far out of sight of the others when he’d caught up to that soldier and they’d never really questioned him on what’d happened. 

Fortu guessed that his teammates had assumed it was just a desperate encounter, man verses man, sword against sword but, for whatever reason, he’d not expanded upon that presumed falsehood or revealed the actual truth.

But what was the truth?

The truth was that soldier had laid in wait, with dozens of his sword-mates and crossbowmen, to ambush and kill him and his companions.

A greater truth was that the outclassed soldier had fled too late and raised his hands, only when cornered.

The absolute truth though, was that he’d butchered a defenceless young man after he’d dropped his sword in terror and unconditionally surrendered.

Wiping away the patina of sweat from his furrowed brow, Fortu silently asks himself the obvious question:

‘Was Estrid right to execute the surrendered men who’d invaded her glade and slaughtered her people, or was he just a hypocrite for doing the exact same thing, not just once now, but twice?!’

Then, the deeper and more profound one:

‘After all his of protestations, all his claims of honour and righteousness, despite his brutal, loveless upbringing; did he actually crave violence? Did he seek it out? Was he, in fact… an evil man?”

Bastard vs Wankel

During the first four days of the long camel-trek back through the desert and despite the Hag’s unscheduled and unwelcome visits, everyone tries to make good use of the blisteringly hot but idle ‘daytime’ rest periods. Rifkin continues, somewhat pointlessly now, to study Grimcrack Thin-Needle’s diary, while Liga Bur, Fortu and Arowe are mostly occupied with their own thoughts and concerns.

Thanks to the recent-ish execution of their prisoner; the Wizard Moody though and the mid-journey discovery of the rocky oasis, the Party now have more than enough water to spare for brief outdoor exertions beneath the hot suns and Henshaw and (the recently cured) Doberman use some of their free time to spar, using their newly acquired Bastard sword and Wankel shield.

Blond Henshaw, considering his profession, is an oddly cautious man by nature, but reckless Doberman’s enthusiasm for violence necessitates Barbella’s presence as referee/murder preventer. This time though, Liga Bur sits beside the bearded stabber-for-hire, just to make his own personal assessment of how much recent experiences have sharpened their combat skills. He’s been suspicious of them ever since Rifkin (out of concern for Fortu) pleaded with Estrid for their lives. They have appeared loyal since then, but the Halfling’s very aware, that if they ever did decide to cross them, it’d be three verses three, as he’s yet to see the Bard even draw a weapon. Although confident in Arowe and Fortu’s combat prowess, Liga Bur has lamented his own limitations of late. Next to the Elf’s remarkable bowmanship and the Human’s phenomenal one-handed skill with, what should definitely be a two-handed sword, he finds himself noticeably overshadowed.

Henshaw and Doberman have practiced this duel many times now with both combatants using their blades wrapped to prevent serious injury but Doberman has a lifetime habit of getting carried away and forgetting that one condition. This particular clash follows their now established pattern, with the bulky Doberman using Fortu’s generously donated hand-and-a-half bastard sword, two-handedly, as if it were a lumberjack’s axe, to rain down shuddering blows onto Henshaw’s magical wankel shield.

Although only minor magical items in the grand scheme of things, both of the men are amazed at their power and resilience. Despite being battered by Doberman’s near monstrous blows, Henshaw’s large, heavy shield remains without a ding. As is Doberman’s sword. Though not forged of the same indestructible metal of Fortu’s new flamberge, it’s enchantment still protects and maintains the blade’s sharp edge.

This time though, while still holding his awkward looking, crablike defensive stance, Henshaw manages to jab his Masterwork cold-iron longsword into Doberman’s large and exposed belly. There’s no real force behind the thrust and Doberman’s chainmail armour protects him from any potential harm, but the laughing Barbella calls the fight in Henshaw’s favour.

The lanky, straw mopped Henshaw, although surprised, grins in response and caws.

"Hah; that'll teach you Doberman! Nobody beats a Henshaw seventeen times in a row!"

Tales from the Ledge: Moody’s Warning

Leaving the distracted and recently deafened Rifkin to tend to the, still weirdly wounded Doberman, Barbella walks over to Henshaw, who remains staring over the toothy ledge.

Casting a slightly too casual look over his shoulder, the swarthy stabber-for-hire, loudly asks.

“Any sight of them?”

Before sneakily whispering into Henshaw’s oversized, pink and sticky-out ear.

“I was finking about what that Wizard Moody said before Fortu slit his throat. He told us that the adventurers didn’t really care about me, you and Doberman and that they’d sacrifice us as soon as it was advantageous to them.”

Henshaw furtively glances at the apparently deaf Rifkin before whispering back.

“I can’t say I appreciated the way Arowe shouted at me when I questioned why he was sending Doberman out first…”

Barbella interrupts his lanky friend.

“As Canon fodder!”

Henshaw sighs.

“The Elf was frustrated and under pressure though… And he did offer us a larger share of the loot from now on.”

Barbella sneers.

“Look around you; this tower was a prison, not a treasury. A half share of nothin’ ain’t no more than a third share of nothin’. It was just a costless bribe, just in case we was thinking of betraying them and they was definitely willing to ‘sacrifice’  Doberman to gain that ‘advantage' Moody was talking about.”

The blond-haired Henshaw sneaks another crafty peek over his shoulder.

“In fairness though, I’m surprised Doberman’s still alive anyway. He stupidly barrels into every skirmish with no concern for his own safety. He just chops away with whatever weapon he happens to have to hand. He's got no finesse whatsoever!”

Barbella smiles.

“That’s true. In Doberman’s stubby fingers, everythink’s an axe. Frankly, I’m surprised he’s not been killed just by all the foul crap he mindlessly stuffs down his cake-hole!”

Henshaw laughs out-loud but Rifkin still doesn't seem to notice their conversation.

“Doberman’s so fat, he can surround a group of enemies all by himself!”

It’s Barbella’s turn to choke with laughter.

“Doberman’s so stupid, he could pick a fight wiv himself in an empty room!”

After a while their shared mirth subsides and they gaze back at Rifkin and Doberman, who are both sitting upright now. Then, Henshaw, with a serious expression falling again across his face, finishes their conversation.

“Doberman may be a fat idiot but he’s our fat idiot. It ain’t right that they treated him like he was just expendable.”

Death Spiral

Watching the tens of thousands of vermillion coloured scorpions, break their circular formation and scatter from the flaming oil, Liga Bur wonders how long these creatures have been circling the hidden tower… Could it really be for a hundred years? Have these wretched creatures bred, lived and died ad infinitum in this never-ending loop?!

Assuming that Moody hadn’t lied about it, why would they? Arachnids can’t be trained, they rely on basic instinct to survive. The continuous dark, inky red stain on the sand tasted like dried blood but bitterer... Eviler! Have these vermin been surviving on this near black ichor and each-other for generation after generation?

Did the Human and Gnomish builders somehow plan this? 

Looking back up at the now visible, and oddly rotating statue/tower, the little beast-master considers that spindly pipe again. Projecting from near the top of the building, at fifty feet, it’s long enough to reach that scorpion covered point and angled slightly so to act as a downward spout…

But what could constantly provide a trail of that much blood over a century and still not die?

Despite his trauma hardened, halfling heart, Liga Bur shudders inwardly, suddenly unsure of who's evil is the greater; the tower's seemingly immortal prisoner or their vengeful jailer?!

Going Underground!

Just a short reminder (after our loooong recess) of the Party's current situation.

With the timely assistance of Rifkin, the Party managed to evade the (certain death by Tyrannosaurus Rex) third and final bout in the gladiatorial arena of Valdez and (with seven camels, tents and supplies) escape into the desert.

The Party had also (conveniently) encountered the blue-clad Moody. The self-same Wizard who had previously captured them and bribed the Odds-master to ensure Arowe's death. He is now a bound and gagged prisoner, without hawk familiar, hope or his spell book.

After several night's successful navigation though, Liga Bur was psychically attacked by a withered, hunchbacked old woman during his dreams. His fevered rants though were proven real  by the sudden reawakening of the magical mummified hand, still carried deep within Rifkin's knapsack. Coming back to ‘life’, it literally crawled out and pointed out the vile, ethereal creature before conferring 'sight-beyond-sight' to Arowe. 

Weakened and struggling to stay awake, Liga Bur still managed to lead the Party toward the mythical tower. On day six the Party came across an unlikely but tall rocky crag, offering fresh water, shade and potentially edible vegetation. In the darkest of the multiple shadows cast by the three suns in the sky, three bodies lay sprawled in the sand. They looked decades old; skeletal, but some items, glinting in the light, seemed to have survived.

Guessing them to be either valuable or magical, Barbella licked his parched lips and offered to 'check ‘em awt'. 

Unfortunately, after sifting through some of the items, the swarthy soldier looked momentarily confused but before he could convey his findings, the sand erupted beneath him! A huge insectoid creature burst from below the corpse and snatched the screaming Barbella up in its mandibles. With clever forethought by the pragmatic Fortu though, Barbella had been tethered by rope to the stout Doberman.

Something's wrong though. Barbella's thrashing and screaming like he's burning and the should-be-sturdy rope looks like it's already shredding. The rest of the party stare in horror from about thirty feet back.

Except the ever-ready archer elf; Arowe, who releases a readied feathered shaft, despite the exploding sand and the flailing Barbella, direct into the insectoid creatures face from thirty feet away…

INITIATIVE!

Supplies, Supplies!

Rifkin gives a brief black look as he takes a stock-check and sees, with a sinking feeling, that he’d indeed under-estimated their food and water supply requirements. He’d purchased enough for exactly sixteen days (Including what he could provide with his magic porridge spoon). That should’ve been enough to last them from Valdez city to the mythical tower and then either to the dimensional portal/well oasis or, worst case scenario, back to the recently fled Valdez.

It wasn’t due to poor mathematics though. He just hadn’t accounted for his Elven companion Arowe finding, beating and taking the Wizard Moody captive. Even accounting for Fortu’s surprising abusive treatment of him, Rifkin couldn’t bring himself to starve the man. 

Unless they find water along the way or at the tower, they are going to run out about two days before they should have. Two days before they can get back to either the oasis or the city.

Realisation hits him right between the eyes. For all his efforts in saving them, he might have accidentally done to his friends what’d almost happened to him. After everything they’d seen, all they’d been through, all the monsters they’d faced, they might all just die of basic thirst!

Glancing over to the sagging, barely awake and bloodshot eyed Liga Bur, the Bard wonders to himself, if the Halfling tracker, in his current state, is capable of finding any food or water in this inhospitable desert?

All seven of their lives may depend upon it… 

Eight including Mir Hundur! 

Nine including the bound Wizard Moody!!

Hypocritic Oaths

Watching their abused prisoner moan in his fitful, broken sleep, Rifkin wrestles with his conscience. It's been five days since they captured the Wizard Moody and during that time he's been horribly abused. Beaten, half-starved and sleep deprived. This man though was a slaver. An obviously self-centred and evil man who frankly, absolutely deserved to die... And yet.

It disturbed him who was the most vocal about it. The most vicious. He understood some of Fortu's reasons; a former slave sold back into the arena but his vengeful change in attitude was alarming. Perhaps he couldn’t help himself? Perhaps his pacifistic leanings were just a plaster veneer concealing the bedrock of his arena bred violent nature?

Arowe's contempt was more understandable. The grudge Moody held for him over the death of his hawk had almost got them all killed and despite Arowe's privileged elven upbringing, his instincts always veer dangerously toward the psychopathic.

Poor, haunted Liga Bur had initially seemed mostly indifferent and now, considering his current weakened state, he's barely able to pay attention to anything beyond the map and their path.

The Demi-Demi-Elf is torn. His weird compulsion to help people is completely at odds with his feelings for the wheedling Wizard. Several times during feeding or interrogating, Moody's desperately tried to create conflict and friction within the group. The three Human guards though, know where their loyalties lie... He hopes.

Still, Rifkin's mind drifts back to just a few weeks ago at the hidden magical pool. Fortu's surprising incomprehension of the goddess Estrid's fury and her butchering the captured/surrendered soldiers. His barely restrained anger at her slaughter of the bound men. Now though, by the mutterings of his troubled dreams, he's considering the same actions. Worse; days of inhuman treatment and torture followed by murder. The execution of a defenceless, bound and gagged man.

Briefly considering freeing Moody during his next watch, Rifkin dismisses the thought. The slaver held a grudge before, it'd be unlikely, given the opportunity, that he’d let this indignity pass.

Still, perhaps a compromise could be reached? If he continues to co-operate and gives useful information, they could part as... Well, perhaps not as friends but maybe enemies that hope never to set eyes upon each-other ever again?

Whispering Wizards

Although deprived of his coin purse, serrated dagger, possibly magical jewelled turban and without his vital spell book, the captive Wizard Moody is still tied up and tethered at all times. He is however, often left ungagged during feeding, drinking and interrogations.

In the last four days he's tried begging and bribery to no avail and has finally accepted that his only chance is to be of as much assistance as he can.

Still, the 'Singing Tower' is just a century old myth. No-one's even ever seen it; it's merely a children's story to scare toddlers back into bed. He can perhaps guide them to the vague area it's meant to be, but there's nothing really out there beyond dying of thirst or heatstroke.

The situation seems bleak for him. Especially considering the hatred emanating from the heavily armoured Fortu. If looks could kill, he’d’ve been dead before they’d fled Valdez!

The shrewd Moody has noticed a slight divide between the men though. Although initially appearing unified, there are two specific factions within this Party. Four on one side and three on the other and whenever he gets the opportunity, he tries to sew discord and whisper poison into the ears of the Human soldiers.

"You know you're just fodder to them. They'll sacrifice you as soon as they consider it expedient."

"How much gold are they giving you? Not even a half-share I'll bet!"

"Notice how much magic they have. What have you got? That hardly seems fair."

To See or not to See

Momentarily distracted by what'd just happened, Jaspir; the young guardian of the main gate, watches the odd group ride awkwardly but hurriedly away from the walled city. Strange, pink-skinned foreigners who were, most likely, wanted criminals.

Should he have stopped them?

Was he wrong to look the other way?
Looking down at his right hand, he roughly approximates the gold in the heavy coin-bag. Judging by weight alone, it certainly feels like fifty gold. A nice bribe, even when spread between himself and his five subordinates. Seven gold for each of them, leaving a sweet fifteen left over for him.
But then, there was the matter of that bound and gagged Wizard...
Screw him though, Wizards were generally arrogant pricks who sneered down their long, thin noses at working men like him.
Also, Valdez city was burning, both literally and figuratively with the flames of rebellion blazing through the streets.

Looking around at the ongoing scuffles between the loyalists and the red-wearing insurgents, he'd soon need to pick a side.

Though secretly routing for Najam's forces, perhaps he'd bide his time just a little while longer...

Knights in White Satin

Still breathing deeply after the exertion of the battle, Khalil; leader of the eight desert horsemen, leans across on his finely decorated, traditional, tribal saddle and gently admonishes the adjacent Wizard Moody.

"You said that they didn't have any Magicians but the one that got away was clearly a Bard."

Moody sneers.

"Bards don't count."

Nostrils' flaring slightly, Khalil risks annoying his employer.

"He summoned a Centaur!"

The seasoned Khalil had cautioned Moody against this attack. He'd considered the Party of adventurers too big. Nine men against seven wasn't good enough odds, even with their well trained horses and home/desert advantage. The flint-eyed Enchanter had insisted though. He'd been furious about the death of his falcon and was going to take his revenge on the Elf regardless.

Fortune though, had smiled upon them. Only three of their opponents had attacked at range and all of them had targeted the magically protected Moody, rather than his riders. All but the Bard and the Halfling had arranged themselves in a single spread out line and, with the exception of the Halfling Dog-rider, they'd just waited to be attacked. They didn't organise themselves into human barriers to prevent horse barges or jumps. They even failed to exploit the three large, dozing camels to break up direct charges.

Only one of the group surprised them. The Halfling, riding the big dog, broke to the side and rushed up their flank, avoiding his men and horses and taking the fight direct to the Wizard. It was fortunate for Moody that he came alone and chose arrows rather than sword.

Ultimately though, their well practiced tactics had been successful, with Moody's charms sending all but the Elves to sleep. The Bard conjured a very powerful looking Centaur and managed to escape over the dunes but the Archer was snared in a net, dragged across the sand and hoof-stomped to unconsciousness.

Khalil had considered giving chase to the Bard but ironically, for their intended entertainment, his type weren't much in demand.

Looking down at the beaten and bloody Elf who'd killed his falcon, Moody considers taking his revenge there and then, but after a brief moment, shakes his head.

"You're worth nothing to me dead and I doubt you'll survive three bouts in the arena."

Moody's Blues

The azure clad Wizard's scream is a cry of rage rather than pain. Moody's falcon spirit familiar has been brought down while spying upon her potential targets.

"By the gods of all three suns, I swear to you Tan-hew-mon, we shall have our revenge!"

Having initially been summoned by the indigenous desert nomads, their magical red mist flare, streaming back to the Slaver's guild in Valdez, they'd encountered a lone camel rider in the desert, who pointed him in the right direction. A strange, armoured man who possessed a hawk similar to his own.

Finally, after four days hunting, Tan-hew-mon found them enjoying the hospitality of a travelling merchant in an oasis a mere two days from the city. No need to risk an unnecessary confrontation with the vendor and his guards though.

Unfortunately, early next morning, the Elven archer in the group, spotted the predatory bird circling high above them. High but not high enough. Moody, while gazing through the eyes of his falcon, saw the arrow fly straight towards him/Tan-hew-mon. He felt his familiar bank to the left in panic but it was too late!

Pierced through its heart, the dead raptor spiralled down and, even as their spirit connection was severed, Moody felt a pang in the centre of his very being. Much worse than mere grief, a sliver of his soul was lost. But that pain quickly transformed into anger.

Leaving the caged wagon and its riders behind, the dark eyed Wizard leads his eight horsemen on an intercept course with the accursed group. They travel at speed now atop their beautiful desert horses, making no attempt at stealth, with the hot sand kicked up high in the arid air behind them.

As soon as they're within sight however, Moody signals the leader of his riders to slow down.

"Khalil, you know the drill. I'll prepare our defences and when you're ready, take out the elven archer and the armoured man first... Prioritise the peacock Elf!"

At about a hundred feet distant, standing on opposing rising dunes, the two groups stop and a whisper floats over into Fortu's ear.

"Greetings stranger. Are there any Wizards in your group? Any Priests? Any Elves?"

Initially confused by the subtle murmur, the tall Human looks around to see where the voice is coming from but on realising that he's alone in hearing it, tentatively responds.

"No, no and yes. What's it got to do with you though?"

Moody doesn't bother responding. He already knew the answers, he was just wasting time while he prepares his second spell and Khalil marshals his highly trained horsemen.

Conjuring up a powerful wind to whip up the sand in front of them, Moody's unsurprised when the Elf fires an arrow directly at him. It's a perfect shot but rather than flinch, the Wizard smiles bitterly. Every Wizard knows that a clever archer will always target them and therefore every Wizard quickly learns to defend against them. His 'Wall of wind' is a simple but effective defence from this vantage point.

Moody smiles again as he watches his eight mounted guards race down the gentle slope before charging up the sandy incline. Their exquisite, small horses bred for this very purpose, split up and race in two perfectly spaced lines, thundering toward their designated targets...