Story [D&D: Eberron] Game of the Ancients, Book 1 (Complete 3/17/2017)

Title: Game of the Ancients Part I: Khorvaire
Author: MasterGhandalf
Fandom: Eberron (Dungeons and Dragons)
Genre: action/adventure, drama, epic
Characters: OCs
Timeframe: Canonical timeline, some six years after the end of the Last War
Summary: A young woman with a dark secret. The mercenary team she employs for a mission that makes little sense. The followers of two ancient faiths that stand in their way. The dark forces that wait on the sidelines, using them all as pawns in an ancient game that may decide the fate of a world. From such as these are legends made This is a repost of an aborted story from several years ago that I recently felt inspired to start working on again; prologue and chapter one have been edited and revised, everything else is new.

Note: This fic assumes a basic knowledge of the Eberron D&D campaign setting. The plot and protagonists, however, are all my creations.


Dramatis Personae

Thyra Entarro: Student (female human)

Valyria Entarro: Inquisitor of the Silver Flame (female human)

Yhani Eshenhali: Priestess of the Undying Court and Wandering Blades medic and second-in-command (female elf)

Ghazaan: Fighter, Wandering Blades (male hobgoblin)

Harsk: Scout, Wandering Blades (male shifter)

Havaktri: Battle psion, Wandering Blades (female kalashtar)

Irinali: Emerald Claw necromancer (female elf)

Len: Captain, Wandering Blades (female human)

Kharvin ir’Sarrin: Karrnathi Warlord and Emerald Claw operative (male human)

Rinnean: Stealth expert, Wandering Blades (male elf)

Pitar Tallano: Paladin of the Silver Flame (male half-elf)

Taras Zanthan: Professor of Mythology, Morgrave University (male human)



Prologue: In Darkness

Red-tinged sunlight streamed through the window of the tower chamber, casting its sullen glow on the opulent furnishings within. The walls were hung with tapestries and paintings, some modern, others stretching back to the days of Dhakaan or far beyond. All were sterling examples of the craftsmanship of humans and elves, orcs and goblinoids and dozens of other mortal races, and all depicted scenes of war and strife from across the millennia. They were here as proof of the influence of the room’s owner, that he might acquire such things, and as constant reminders to him of the ultimate fruits of his long labors.

That owner stood in the center of the room, head bowed and hands folded before him. He was all and powerfully built, clad in rich robes of violet and gold, and he bore a more-than-passing resemblance to a human in many respects – many, but not all. His hands were attached differently to his wrists, facing opposite of how a true human’s would and his head… his head was not the head of a man, but the head of a tiger.

The figure that stood in the center of the tower room was not human, nor was he of any other mortal breed. He was a demon, an ancient fiend of that kindred known as the rakshasas, and here at the heart of his stronghold in what the mortals called the Demon Wastes, not far from the ancient city of Ashtakala, he prepared the next moves in a game which had been in progress since the world was young.

The demon began to stroll languidly across the chamber, his gaze fixed on the floor beneath his feet, which was patterned with an exquisitely detailed map of the continent of Khorvaire. It was yet another example of the sterling craftsmanship that characterized the room’s contents- save, that is, for a magically-blackened scar at its heart that symbolized what had once been a great nation- and small figurines were placed at various locations across it. These were the symbols of the many, many individuals who crawled across the continent like ants, who were born, lived, and died in an eyeblink while imagining themselves the center of the universe. Certain of those ants, however, were useful indeed to those who might care to make use of them. The demon who stood alone in the high chamber was one, as were his allies and rivals among the Lords of Dust. Around the edges of the map stood statues of other such forces- a regal human figure with a formless shadow hovering behind it, a cadaverous elf woman with dragon wings sprouting from her back, a warforged bedecked with jagged blades, and an androgynous humanoid too graceful to be truly of this world, wearing a smile that even the demon found disquieting. These, however, were not the chief foes. A dragon coiled in a pose of watchful relaxation, an ancient elf who was mummified and yet deathless, a formless fire- the Chamber, the Undying Court, the Silver Flame. These were the ones the demon hated, feared, and respected the most of all his enemies, and he kept their statues especially pristine, as a reminder that he must never let himself forget or underestimate such persistent foes.

His robe rustling, the demon reached the map’s depiction of the land that was now called Thrane. A great work had been done their once, and would be done again. Bending down, he lifted one small figure from that land and held it in his hand for a moment, regarding it carefully before placing it down again near the city of Sharn. A small piece to be sure, yet unnoticed in the grand scheme of the world, but if events proceeded as the demon intended, it would be the falling pebble that would start an avalanche. Already orders had been given, words whispered in the right ears. It had begun.

The demon stood and straightened his robes as he faced the image of the deathless elf who stood in here for the entire might of Aerenal’s undying, one of the only powers in the world whose insight into the Prophecy rivaled the demons’ own. Baring his fangs in a smile, he gave a mocking bow to the statue. “Well, old friends,” he said in his smooth voice that was devoid of warmth or affection, “it is your move.”

--------------------------------------------------

I’ve long had a certain fondness for the Eberron DnD setting; though I’ve never managed to join an Eberron campaign, I followed the novel line from its first release in early ’05 (almost twelve years ago now!) until a few years ago when the last novel was published, and I still follow Keith Baker’s online articles about the setting and his thoughts on it. Part of what attracts me to Eberron, I think, is the fact that it is clearly evocative of the classic fantasy setting while also having its own striking identity deriving in many (though not all) aspects from the thesis of “the industrial revolution, except with magic”; too, the setting supports such a wide variety of types of stories- action or intrigue, good and evil, moral ambiguity, or a combination thereof, all have room here. Of course, I seem to be drawn to elements of the setting that are different from those that a lot of people often talk about (just looking at the setting’s original races, for example, I’m much more fond of kalashtar and changelings than the seemingly more popular warforged and shifters- I’m particularly dissatisfied that the novel line petered out before it produced a kalashtar character I really liked).

About five years ago, I started an Eberron fanfic, and ended up scrapping it after two chapters or so- I simply ended up not liking where it was going, and the main character fell flat, especially since I ultimately decided her backstory was too contrived. This fic is something entirely different, drawing a variety of character concepts I’d been toying around with into a single ensemble with dynamics that I really liked. Ideally, this fic will be the first of a series, taking the characters across the world of Eberron and running afoul of the plots of various powerful groups, with the shadowy threat of the Lords of Dust hanging behind everything. I might also end up doing a smaller, Khorvaire-focused fic to contrast this globe-trotting one. But for the moment, I’d be happy to just finish this first story.

Note: I have rough game stats for my main characters (and significant supporting characters)- I’m not locking myself down terribly as to what they can do, but I did want to give myself a good grounding in their abilities (one of the other problems with my first attempt at a fic was that it suffered from a bad case of “making stuff up” in terms of character abilities). Also note that I’m using Pathfinder rules rather than a D and D edition largely because I like the degree of options it gives me for both power level and story purposes (especially for this fic, that would be the magus class and the concept of sorcerer bloodlines). It should be fairly obvious what classes my characters are intended to belong to in game terms, though I’ll usually indicate it in an AN for anyone important enough for me to have actually statted them.

Thank you for reading, and wish me luck!

-MasterGhandalf

 

Chapter 1: The Sorceress and the Mercenary

Thyra Entarro steeled herself and squared her shoulders as she regarded the building that stood across the bustling street from where she sat. It wasn’t much to look at, being to all appearances an utterly unremarkable inn, neither particularly fine nor particularly run down. It was, in all outward aspects, in no way distinct from the dozens of other establishments like it in this part of Sharn alone.

There was nothing at all to suggest that this was the place where, hopefully, Thyra would take the first steps towards her salvation.

Breathing deeply, the young woman stood, brushed down her plain skirt almost reflexively, and crossed the street. It was now or never. The building might not look like much, and she had no direct knowledge of the people she was going to meet, but Taras had told her that they would be perfectly suited to the job she needed done, and if there was one thing she had learned in the last two years, it was that Taras Zanthan was seldom wrong.

The interior of the inn’s common room was as nondescript as its outside. True, the clientele was a diverse lot, as to be expected from a city that saw as many travelers as Sharn – Thyra was certain that the man in one corner dressed in plain but well-made clothes and a vaguely disapproving expression had to be Riedran, of all nationalities – but as it was only mid-afternoon, the crowd was relatively sparse and fairly calm. Picking her way through the room, she slowly made her way to the back, towards the usual table of the person whom she had come here to meet.

Suddenly, Thyra stopped cold, a slight prickling sensation running up the back of her neck, as though she was being watched. Brushing a lock of golden-brown hair away from her face, trying to look nonchalant, the young woman slowly turned to see an out-of-the-way table where sat a pale, slender elf woman in unadorned white, who seemed to be regarding her intently over the hands she held clasped before her. She had silvery-blonde hair that glinted in the afternoon sun, and that ageless elven beauty that made her look like she could be anywhere from eighteen to forty, if she was human, but was probably over a century in truth. Thyra didn’t know why the elf’s scrutiny bothered her so much, save perhaps that it seemed so… intense, as if the elf knew more about her than a stranger by all rights should. Thyra realized her mouth was open and steeled herself to ask what, exactly, was so interesting, but before she could do so, she was interrupted.

“Is something the matter, girl, or did you simply never bother to learn manners?” a sharp voice asked suddenly from nearby; female, but not the elf’s. Thyra turned back towards the direction in which she’d originally been going and saw the speaker, a tall, lean human who relaxed casually at one of the other tables, mug in front of her. She had black hair pulled back in a braid, wore a heavy black coat over travel-worn shirt and pants, and had a burly hobgoblin hovering protectively behind her, arms crossed.

Thyra relaxed; the scene was exactly as she’d been told it would probably be. Time to take the plunge “Captain Len of the Wandering Blades?” she asked.

“And what business is it of yours if I am?” the woman asked her, taking a slow drink from her mug. Despite the sharp tone, there was an interested glint in Len’s eyes, and Thyra had the sudden feeling she was playing the same part she did with anyone who looked like they might be a client, gauging their resolve.

“My name is Thyra,” she said finally. “And I’d like to hire you.”

Len raised an eyebrow and shot a skeptical glance at the hobgoblin, who shrugged. “You look a little young to be hiring mercenaries, kid, but if you’ve got the gold I’m willing to listen. So go ahead,” she said lightly, “take a seat. Let’s hear your offer.”

Thyra did so smoothly, folding her hands in front of her and regarding the older woman who sat across from her. Len looked to be about ten years her senior – making her probably about twenty-nine or thirty – and had a general air of tough competence about her. Not surprising, considering Taras’s informants had assured them that she’d served in Breland’s army for years before the war ended, and had an exemplary record. Yes, Thyra found herself thinking, this might well be the person for the job. The captain looked to be sizing her up as well. “So, you’re name’s Thyra,” she said casually. “That’s a form of “Tira”, if I’m not mistaken, as in Tira Miron, founder of the Church of the Silver Flame. Going by that and the accent, I’d hazard a guess that you’re Thranish, and probably a follower of the Flame too, or at least your parents are, am I right?”

“You’d be right,” Thyra said, rather more stiffly than she’d intended. “I trust that won’t be a problem? The War is over, after all.”

Len shrugged. “Probably not news to you that I fought for Breland and so did most of my team, but… well, we all did things we’re not proud of during the War, and I’m not terribly interested in carrying out old grudges if it gets in the way of my business. Besides, I mostly saw action against Karrnath, and I’ve got no hard feelings against Thrane or the Flame. Now, with the introductions out of the way, what exactly is the nature of the job for which you intend to hire me? I must confess, I’m a bit curious as to what a nice Flame girl like you wants with a scruffy soldier like me.”

“I am a student at Morgrave University,” Thyra said, “but my family are merchants back in Thrane. Not hugely wealthy, but we’ve been decently successful. About a week ago, I received a letter from home saying that some valuable property had been stolen from us. We believe that the thief fled Thrane immediately upon having completed the job. I would like to hire you and your team to assist me in recovering the stolen property.” The lie came easily to her lips, now; the Flame knew she’d practiced it enough.

“Ah,” Len said, folding her hands. “I believe you have me confused with an inquisitive, or perhaps a Sentinel Marshal. I’m a mercenary. Hunting down an unknown thief across Khorvaire is not exactly my area of expertise, nor is solving mysteries. Get back to me when you have someone you want a sword stuck in, and we’ll talk.”

“You don’t need to hunt him, and he’s not unknown,” Thyra said. “We know who is behind the theft, and he’s rather… more than what my father is willing to tangle with through strictly legal channels. His name is Kharvin ir’Sarrin, and he’s a Karrnathi warlord.”

“Hmmm,” the big hobgoblin said, speaking for the first time; his voice was deep and surprisingly smooth. “So it’s not an investigation, then. Sounds more like a raid.”

“Yes,” Thyra said. “That’s exactly right. I need you and your team to help me break into ir’Sarrin’s manor, find the property in question, and get out without causing an incident between a Karrnathi aristocrat and a family of Thranish merchants. I was told that your team specialized in odd jobs and daring escapades. Are you interested?”

“That depends,” Len said. “First off, what exactly is the “property” in question? I’m not terribly interested in risking my neck for family jewelry or your grandfather’s favorite hunting trophies.”

“It’s a map,” Thyra said. “A map which depicts the location of a treasure buried since the Age of Demons. My father had intended to sponsor a mission to excavate the ruins and sell the findings to whatever museums, institutions, or aristocrats across Khorvaire might be interested.” She chewed her lip for a moment, then began to improvise. “I’ll be frank – some of father’s most recent business dealings have fallen through, and his competitors are sniffing around. If he doesn’t strike something big, things could bode ill for my family. If he does, then trust me when I say he’ll be very grateful to anyone who helped him.”

“And presumably, his gratitude will have a monetary nature,” Len added. “Which leads me to my next question – how much, exactly, are you going to be paying us?”

“Fifty galifars a piece, up front, for each member of your team,” Thyra said. “At least as much upon the successful completion of the mission, as per the amount of difficulty endured. If the map does lead to a valuable find, you’ll also receive a cut of the profits – say, ten percent?”

“Not bad, not bad at all,” Len muttered, rubbing her chin. “You have any input, Ghazaan?”

“Well,” the hobgoblin said, focusing on Thyra intently, “I do have one big question. Kid says she wants us to help her break in. I’m wondering why she wants to go along, and why we should put up with it?” Both he and Len fixed her with equal cold gazes, and Thyra suddenly had the feeling that the captain had known exactly what Ghazaan would ask her.

The young woman ignored their stares. “This task is important to my family. I want to make certain it is carried out properly. And while I told you I was a student, I didn’t specify that I was a student of the arcane. If you need another spellcaster, I can fill the role.” Thyra was not, of course, a student of magic; she was a student of comparative mythology. Her magic was in her blood, and it ultimately came from … unusual sources.

Len shook her head. “I can’t tell if you’re brave, paranoid, or just plain stupid, kid. You’ve got guts, anyway. Most of the time, when someone hires mercenaries they sit back on the sidelines and let us do the work. In any case, I’m still not certain having you along is the best idea. People like me tend not to get paid – or hired again – when we let our employers get killed on us.”

“Trust me,” Thyra said, “I’ll be worth it. Just give me a chance.” As she spoke, she reached deep inside herself – into that part of herself she’d sworn by her namesake and the Silver Flame to never use unless she needed it – and wove magic into her words, just enough to give them a slight edge of persuasiveness.

Ghazaan smiled and nodded, but Len’s eyes suddenly opened wide. Grabbing the hobgoblin by the arm, the captain leapt to her feet and stalked off towards the hallway behind the common room, dragging her companion behind her. Thyra stared speechlessly behind her, uncertain how to reach – or indeed, how her magic had provoked that reaction. A moment later, the elf woman who’d been watching her earlier slipped off to join the mercenaries.

/ / /

“What was that about, Boss?” Ghazaan demanded once he and Len were in the empty hallway. “The girl made a good point. And why do I always have to be the ominous, looming one?”

“You get to be ominous because you’re seven feet tall and have fangs,” Len hissed, poking him in the chest “and the girl’s argument wasn’t what was convincing. She was using magic to make herself more persuasive.”

“That wasn’t like any spell I’ve ever seen,” Ghazaan retorted.

“I don’t think it was a spell, and certainly not a potion,” Len muttered. “I think it was some natural ability. Trust me on this one, big man. You know I know what I’m talking about. Now, on the one hand, the girl did just make a better argument for her competence than anything else she’s done so far. On the other, she’s just proven herself extremely untrustworthy. By the Traveler, I’m honestly tempted to throw her job offer back in her face right now, cut of her profits or no.”

The door to the hallway opened again and Yhani stepped inside, the elf managing, as always, to look poised and elegant despite her plain attire. “Care to explain what that was about?” she asked in her lilting, musical Aereni accent. “Blood of my ancestors, Len, if that girl had slapped you I don’t think you would have reacted like you did.”

“I don’t like it when people try to mess with my head, and you know it,” Len said. Then she sighed. “I need your advice, Yhani. On the one hand, this job could be exactly what we need right now, after the last one went… well, you know. On the other, after what that girl – Thyra, if “Thyra” is even her real name – tried to pull, I don’t trust a word out of her mouth. I’m half convinced that she’ll try to backstab us once the job is done and we’ll never see a crown. Or worse, she’ll get us all killed.”

Yhani paused quietly for several moments. “I cannot make this decision for you, Len. My head tells me that this is dangerous and we should walk away. My heart… my heart says, this is important, and it is about more than one human girl and her map. This… may be where we are needed.”

Len groaned. “Oh, ‘Hani. Mysticism isn’t my area, and you know it. But I do trust your instincts, which are right more often than is damn good for them. If you think it’s important, then it probably is. We’ll take the damn job.” The captain looked down at her booted feet and sighed. “This had better not get us all killed.”

/ / /

Thyra looked up from her seat to see Captain Len approaching, flanked by Ghazaan on one side and the elf woman on the other. “I accept your offer,” Len said, “on one condition.” She bent down in Thyra’s face and hissed into her ear. “Don’t use magic on me or mine again without my express permission ever again. You see, I know a little myself, and if you try, don’t think I won’t recognize what you’re up to – and if I don’t, Yhani here will. Keep that in mind, and I think we can have a good working relationship. Agree?”

“Agree,” Thyra said, torn between guilt at having been caught, and elation that the captain had listened anyway. “In that case, you’re hired.”

“Glad to hear it,” Len said, and though she smiled, there was a faint undercurrent of danger to her voice nonetheless. “So, what say I’ll buy you a drink, and then we’ll talk about further details of this job you want us to do.”

“Well, there is one thing,” Thyra said slowly. This would have to come up sooner or later; better that it was sooner, and at her initiative. “Lord ir’Sarrin? Is suspected of being a member of the Order of the Emerald Claw.”

/ / /

And so it begins. This chapter was mostly an introduction to two of our main characters – Thyra and Len (with a bit of Yhani and Ghazaan, too). Why did I make my two most important leads both women? One, because the stereotypical adventuring party is male-heavy enough that I wanted to shake things up a bit. Two, because even though I’m a guy, I generally prefer writing female protagonists. Thyra, you’ve probably noticed, is a bit of a chronic liar, but it’ll be a while before we find out the whole truth. That’s not to say Len doesn’t have her secrets too…

Mechanically speaking, Thyra’s a sorcerer (probably pretty obvious) and Len’s a magus (for those not familiar with Pathfinder rules, the magus class blends element of fighter and wizard, and seemed fitting for the relatively common state of magic in Eberron). Also keep in mind that Thyra’s decidedly uncomfortable with her powers. There’s a reason…

-MasterGhandalf

 

Chapter 2: Plans and Complications

Thyra knocked once and then hurried into the small office without waiting for a response. The inside was cluttered, with scrolls, papers, and books scattered about (and in some cases weighted down by various historical artifacts), though Taras insisted he had a system and everything was exactly where he wanted it. Thyra wasn’t certain she believed that, though in her two years of studying under him, she’d never known him to actually lose any of his research materials.

Taras himself was seated behind his desk, deeply engrossed in a translation of some giant manuscript he’d unearthed several months ago on an expedition to Xen’drik. Taras – or, more precisely, Professor Taras Zanthan of Morgrave University – was an older man with a fatherly bearing. Though his hair and short beard had largely gone to grey, he remained fit and active and the dark eyes behind his spectacles were sharp. Thyra had met him after she’d first enrolled, and had taken him for just another benevolently stuffy faculty member – at least, until they day when he’d pulled her aside after lecture, regarded her solemnly with those piercing eyes of hers, and told her quietly that he knew the real reason why she was here, and that, wonder of all wonders, he wanted to help her.

They’d been conspiring together ever since.

Taras made no response when Thyra entered his office, being so deeply engrossed in his work. Finally, she shook her head, made up her mind, and cleared her throat loudly. The professor started, looked up at the young woman who was seating herself across from his desk, and smiled broadly.

“Ah, hello, child,” he said, adjusting his spectacles. “So, how did your meeting with the mercenary go? I take it from the fact that you’re not utterly distraught that she didn’t have you thrown out on the street, so that’s at least a start.”

“I think she considered it,” Thyra said ruefully. “I made the mistake of trying to use magic to persuade her, and it turns out Captain Len’s a bit of a dabbler; enough to recognize what I was doing, anyway. But I guess she needed the money pretty bad, because she ended up taking the job.”

“Wonderful news!” Taras said, smiling again and taking Thyra’s hand in both of his. “So, tell me, when do you leave?”

“I managed to talk her into leaving tomorrow,” Thyra said. “Though she wants me to meet her whole team before we set out. I think she just wants to make sure they’re all watching me – I’m pretty sure she didn’t believe me about my father and ir’Sarrin.” She shook her head. “I still can’t believe you’re funding this out of your own pockets. I’m not sure I deserve that kind of favor.”

“No favor is too large for a favorite student,” Taras said with a twinkle in his eye. “Besides, after some of my discoveries, I’m a man of no small means, and hiring the captain and her team is hardly going to ruin me. And it’s not every day that a Karrnathi brute stumbles onto a map from the depths of history – or that someone with your, ah, particular condition needs my help.”

“Thank you anyway,” Thyra said. “I don’t know what I’d do if you hadn’t decided to help me. But if this works out and I do manage to cure myself, well, the Flame only knows if I’ll ever be able to pay you back.”

Taras flinched slightly at that – he didn’t entirely approve of the Silver Flame, for reasons he’d never fully explained – but then he smiled again. “Don’t worry, child,” he said. “If I’m correct in my research – and, to be fair, I usually am – this artifact should be able to cure your condition. It’s lucky I was able to stumble onto a team who might be willing to take this job on. Tell me, did the captain seem suitable?”

Thyra shrugged. “Len’s irritable, sarcastic, and I don’t think she likes me that much, but she certainly seemed like she knew what she was doing, and I bet that hobgoblin of hers could break a warforged in half with his bare hands. The elf – Yhani, I think was her name – she creeped me out, I have to admit.”

“Elf?” Taras asked, suddenly intent. “A Valenar, or a Phiarlan or Thuranni?”

“Aereni, I think,” Thyra said, shaking her head. “I think she may have been some sort of priestess of their ancestors, from the way she talked.”

“Hmmm.” Taras pursed his lips thoughtfully. “You have to be careful around that one, child. The Undying Court doesn’t have the same motives as we brief mortals do, and they certainly have an interest in ancient history – not unsurprising, as many of them are ancient history. You don’t see their priests in Khorvaire often, especially not outside Aereni communities. I wonder what this one is up to? It probably has nothing to do with you, but still, be wary with her. You’ve come too far to fail now.”

“I know,” Thyra said quietly, making a fist so tight that her nails felt like they would soon draw blood. “This is what I have to do to save myself, Taras. Believe me when I say that I have every intention of seeing it through to the end.”

///

The lightning rail pulled into its stop at the Sharn station, electricity from its bound elemental crackling across its prow and then going still. Doors opened along its sides and passengers from across Khorvaire began to disembark, while those on the platform waited for them to pass so they could board themselves.

Two of the last passengers to leave the train were young man with dark hair and slightly pointed ears that indicated elvish ancestry and who carried a heavy pack, and a lean woman in a white hooded cloak. The two of them made their way through the crowd carefully, the woman drawing some stares from her choice of attire, but not as many as she might have in other places; this was Sharn, after all, and she was far from the strangest person most of them would have seen that day. The two travelers exited the station and stepped out into the twilit street. They came to a stop beside a nearby building, keeping well away from the walkway’s edge and the drop that lay beyond; there the woman pulled back her hood, revealing a stern, handsome face and blonde hair cut short.

“Well,” the half-elf said, glancing about. “Sharn. We’re finally here. I wish it could have been for a happier reason.”

“Believe me, Pitar, I know,” the woman said, pulling a map from her pouch and examining it carefully. “By the Flame, do you think I’m going to enjoy this? What sort of monster do you take me for? But it has to be done, and hopefully, done quickly.”

Pitar raised his hands in surrender. “I understand, Valyria.” He looked up at the sky. “Looks like it’ll be getting dark soon. I’d rather not go prowling around this place at night. What’s our next move?”

“We’ll find ourselves a place to stay for tonight,” Valyria said, “and then tomorrow, we start hunting. We’ll go to the university first; the man who gave me the tip said she’d been taking classes there. There’s one professor in particular she’s been hanging around; we’ll interrogate him, find out what she’s after, and then,” the woman’s fist clenched, “then we’ll catch her.”

“And hopefully,” Pitar added under his breath, “before it’s too late.”

Valyria fixed him with a cold look. “The Flame is with us; don’t worry about that. We will stop her before she can finish whatever evil she plans, no matter what it takes. I swear it.”

“So do I,” Pitar replied, and his companion turned her head away and pulled up her hood. But just before he did, he noticed that Valyria Entarro, Inquisitor of the Silver Flame, had the faintly shining line of a tear streaked along her cheek.

///

Len stood at the bedroom window of her small apartment, looking up at the moons that shown down from the night sky above Sharn. Sighing, she shifted her gaze downward, taking in the great towers and walkways, not as busy as during the day but still filled with people bustling about their business even at this late hour. The mercenary, still clad in her shirt and trousers but having taken off her cloak and unbraided her dark hair, crossed her arms as she regarded the scene intently, as though seeking for something that no one else could find.

A pair of slender arms wrapped themselves around Len’s waist from behind and she felt a familiar face resting itself against the side of her head and a body pressing itself against her own. “Is something troubling you?” Yhani whispered in her ear, before kissing her lightly on the cheek.

Len pulled away and turned to regard the elf; Yhani was wearing a thin, white nightgown that, when combined with her ivory skin and silvery-blonde hair, made her look like a sculpture carved from alabaster. There was always something otherworldly about the Aereni priestess, but standing here now, in the moonlight, seemingly washed of all color, that quality was magnified many times over. Len had known Yhani for nearly seven years, and still thought she was the most beautiful person she had ever seen.

“Normally,” Yhani said, a faint note of irritation creeping into her serene voice, “the sight of me dressed like this is rather more effective at getting your attention. Would you care explaining what exactly is on your mind?”

Len walked over to the bed and dropped down onto it; a moment later, Yhani slipped down beside her. “Oh, ‘Hani,” the captain muttered, “you always have my attention, believe me. It’s not you, it’s this job. That girl rubs me wrong, and it’s not just her magic. It’s not even the damned Emerald Claw, though that’s bad enough. There’s things she’s not telling us, I know it.” She shook her head. “Far be it for me to complain about other people keeping secrets, but… gods. I wish I’d told her to take her money and get out.”

“Len,” Yhani said, regarding her with serious eye, “do you remember the day we met?”

Len snorted. “I’m pretty sure I punched you in the face. In my defense, I was tired and not seeing straight and in that creepy mask of yours I thought you were one of the Karrnathi’s abominations. Honest mistake.”

“And yet I love you anyway,” Yhani said, a faint smile playing on her lips. “Even if you cannot tell the difference between an undead Karrnathi warrior and a priestess in her ceremonial death mask. But my point is, you should not always judge someone by your first impression. I was watching that girl through the entire interview, and one thing was clear to me – she is afraid.”

“Yeah, she wants to go along on a mission to rob a Karrnathi nobleman who belongs to an organization of bloodthirsty fanatic,” Len said. “’Course she’s scared.”

“Oddly enough, she seemed to me to be least frightened when talking about ir’Sarrin and the Emerald Claw,” Yhani said. “No, she seemed most nervous to me right before she tried to use her magic on you.”

Len arched her brow. “What, you think she was scared of being found out?”

“Possibly,” Yhani admitted, “but I do not think she was frightened of you. I think she was afraid of the magic itself.”

“That’s insane,” Len said after a moment. “Magic’s everywhere, and it’s only as dangerous as the person wielding it. Kid’s in over her head and probably a liar, but she’s not some crazed wizard. In fact, I’d lay odds she’s not any kind of wizard; I think she’s a sorceress, though I’d need to go through her stuff and check for spellbooks to be sure. A sorcerer’s magic is just an extension of who they are – why would someone be afraid of that? It’s like being afraid of your arm!”

“I do not know,” Yhani replied, her tone thoughtful. “But whatever her motivation for lying to us, I think Thyra needs help.”

“’Hani, we’re mercenaries, not a charity,” Len grumbled. When Yhani fixed her with a sharp glare, the captain shrugged. “Okay, I’m a mercenary, you’re… you, something I don’t understand but am eternally grateful to have in my life. But my point is, my job is to get paid and make sure we all get out alive, not run around helping everyone who shows up at our door. I still can’t believe I let you talk me into keeping Havaktri, by the way.” She looked down at her hands. “I just don’t know what I should do.”

“Len, dear, I have known you for years and I know this – you are a better person by far than you pretend to be,” Yhani said. “And you never could resist a mystery. You will not be able to let this go, and my heart tells me that you will be glad you did not.” She leaned over and cupped Len’s face in her hands. “Now, then, my love, are you finally able to turn your thoughts towards more pleasant directions.” Leaning in, she planted a kiss firmly on Len’s lips.

Neither woman thought much more about their mysterious new client for some time.

///

So we learn about more about Thyra this chapter, specifically that she has patron (who was mentioned in passing last time) and that she’s trying to find a cure for… something. Her pitch to Len last chapter was largely a smokescreen, but we don’t know yet for what. She does want to get into ir’Sarrin’s fortress, but I think it’s fairly obvious by this point that recovering stolen property is not what’s on her mind.

We also meet some new players in this chapter in the form of Valyria and Pitar. Valyria’s an inquisitor, as in the Pathfinder class (and Pitar’s a paladin, not that he makes that obvious in this scene) and she’s going to be a secondary antagonist for this fic – note that I specify antagonist and not villain, because Valyria’s honestly trying to do that right thing as she perceives it, and however she tries to hide it, it should be obvious that she’s not happy about what she’s getting involved in. It’s probably no spoiler to say she’s after Thyra, but it’ll be awhile before we find out why.

Len and Yhani are lovers, obviously. When first planning out this story I’d envisioned them as having a close platonic friendship, but I quickly came to realize their arc was hitting all the emotional beats of a love story and decided to just go all in and make it one. They’ve been together for several years now, and though they don’t go out of their way to advertise it publicly, neither do they particularly bother to hide it, and everyone on their team is fully in the loop. The Len/Yhani relationship is really the emotional backbone of this fic series, should I ever manage to complete it, and I decided to go ahead and make it explicit right away. It’s not the only thing that defines them, though; they’ve both got secrets that are hinted at here, and which will be revealed down the line.

-MasterGhandalf

 

Chapter 3: The Departure

The old fortress of Sarrin stood several days to the south of Korth, the capital of Karrnath, and though it possessed a brooding, ominous air, in most respects it was unremarkable. It didn’t sit on any major road or lightning rail track; the family who owned it was noble, but none of its members otherwise held significant positions in King Kaius’s government. It wasn’t the site of any significant battles in the Last War, though its current lord had performed with distinction during the conflict. The fact that it sat across the Cyre River from what had once been a prosperous nation but was now a waste given the all-too-apt name of the Mournland did little to add to Sarrin’s appeal. So far as the majority of Khorvaire was concerned, it might as well have not existed at all.

Of course, Irinali thought as she walked through the castle’s corridors with her cloak billowing out behind her, if all went as planned, that might soon change; she allowed herself a faint smile in the shadows of her hood. She walked with confidence as she made her way through the hall, and the handful of servants she passed inclined their heads with respect, for though she wasn’t nobility herself – wasn’t even Karrn, for that matter – they all knew that she had the confidence of their lord. She was a short, slight figure, but her red cloak with its cowl pulled low made her seem more imposing, as did the sleek, military-style uniform she wore beneath it and the long black staff that tapped the flagstones beside her as she walked.

As she made her way to her destination, she passed several suits of antiquated armor, as well as tapestries and paintings depicting the exploits of Karrn the Conqueror, Galifar I, and other such Karrnathi notables; her host’s tastes, Irinali thought, ran towards the martial, gloomy and predictable. Then again, it wasn’t his discerning eye for art that had brought him to the attention of their mutual organization; whatever he lacked in that area, he more than made up for in other talents.

Reaching the end of the corridor, Irinali opened a heavy wooden door and entered a curving stairwell. She made her way to the top, staff tapping on the stone stairs as she went, and finally emerged atop the keep’s wall, where Kharvin ir’Sarrin, master of the house, warlord, Emerald Claw operative, and Irinali’s patron and ally awaited her.

Even from behind, ir’Sarrin was an impressive sight. A tall and powerfully built man, he was in his sixth decade of life but in Irinali’s opinion wore that age better than most humans did. His hair was largely gone to grey, but was still long and thick and worn in a tail; though he currently wasn’t wearing his battle armor, his clothing was rich and red, his hands clasped behind his back. He stood in a position Irinali had seen him take many times before, staring out away from his family’s ancestral home and towards the distant, shifting mists of the Mournland on the horizon; what he was looking for even Irinali, who knew him better than most, couldn’t say.

Some of the keep’s servants whispered that their lord and his “guest” who had taken up residence two years ago were lovers, but there was no truth to that in the slightest. Not only did Irinali prefer her men rather younger, but those servants who’d been with ir’Sarrin the longest knew that such a relationship was entirely outside his character. The lord had loved his late wife dearly, and after her death more than a decade ago, it now seemed that only two things could stir his passion – his country, and his chosen religion, the Blood of Vol.

It was therefore unsurprising that, in the year the Treaty of Thronehold was signed and the Last War finally ended with an uneasy peace, he had found his way to the Emerald Claw, and they had welcomed him.

Irinali was silent for a moment longer, and then cleared her throat loudly. “You summoned me, my lord?” she asked.

“Ah, good,” ir’Sarrin said; he turned to face his ally, revealing his aristocratic face, short, neat beard, and piercing eyes. He gestured towards the wall. “Come, stand with me. There are things we must discuss.”

Irinali swept forward to stand beside ir’Sarrin; she then leaned her staff against the battlements and reached up to lower her hood with red-gloved hands. The features revealed were those of an elf with jet-black hair and deathly pale skin that sharply contrasted her brilliantly red lips, though in truth, she used makeup to achieve the effect. Still, Irinali had learned long ago that first impressions mattered, and there was certainly something fitting in painting herself to resemble one of the living dead, for she was a necromancer of no small talent.

Despite his words, ir’Sarrin fell silent again and the two of them stood side by side, staring out at the river near the horizon and the misty desolation beyond it. Finally, ir’Sarrin spoke. “Everything is in readiness, Irinali,” he said. “The expedition leaves tomorrow to find the location marked on the map. If all goes well, they should reach the site within the week and have begun excavation. If this relic is what you say it is, it could change Karrnath’s fortunes and make all of Khorvaire tremble.” He fixed Irinali with his bright gaze. “I don’t mean to doubt your competence, my friend, but I have to ask you one more time – you’re certain the map says what you think it says?”

“You wound me, my lord,” Irinali said in mock outrage. “I translated the text myself and arranged for several historians to check my findings. The map either is what it purports to be, or it’s a brilliant forgery. And I don’t think the latter is very likely.”

The map purported to show the location of an ancient sepulcher buried deep beneath eastern Cyre which housed a powerful artifact from the Age of Demons. An Emerald Claw spy had unearthed it from where it had been gathering dust in some university library, and the Order had sent it to ir’Sarrin, the closest of their operatives to the location the map depicted. The map’s text was written in an archaic form of Irinali’s native Elvish, and translating it had been difficult even for someone of her education, but what she’d discovered only confirmed their suspicion that whatever was buried in the Mournland, it was a weapon of tremendous potency. Orders had come down from the Crimson Covenant that ir’Sarrin was to excavate the artifact and, if it proved to be a device as potent as the warnings and intimations on the map suggested, to see to it personally delivered to the Queen who commanded them all.

“I believe you, Irinali; I just felt I should check one last time. So much is riding on this.” He shook his head. “Think of it. Karrnath is the land that birthed Karrn the Conqueror, Galifar himself, and yet we were reduced to slinking to the negotiating table after the war ended by some magical catastrophe we had nothing to do with. Now we all circle each other like vultures waiting for it all to start up again. Madness!” He slammed his fist into the battlement. “But we have a chance, Irinali, and chance to acquire the kind of power we need to make Karrnath a force again, to conquer Khorvaire and then, when that is done, to follow the Queen and conquer death itself. Isn’t that worth fighting for?”

“It is, Kharvin,” Irinali said softly, using her host’s given name for the first time that evening. She wasn’t a particularly devout believer in the Blood of Vol herself, caring more for the galifars the Order was willing to handsomely pay her for her necromantic services, but ir’Sarrin? He was a believer. Sometimes he almost managed to make her want to be one, too.

“The expedition will establish a secured camp and begin digging,” he said. “When they unearth the sepulcher, we will join them and make sure the artifact is brought safely back to Karrnath. From there… to the Queen. We can’t fail, Irinali. Everything is riding on this. Everything.”

“Don’t worry, my lord,” Irinali said. “I understand. And tell me – when have I ever let you down?”

///

It was early the next morning when Thyra approached the lightning rail station, her pack slung over one shoulder. She was dressed in clothes fit for travelling but were simple enough not to stand out – blue blouse and sturdy brown skirt, with a scarf wrapped around her neck and a determined glint in her eyes. She knew that, among the teeming crowds of Sharn where people and creatures from across Khorvaire – and, indeed, Eberron itself – could be found, she wouldn’t stand out much. Just one young woman from the most common race on the continent, meeting up with some acquaintances to take a trip by the rail. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that eyes were following her.

“Hey, kid!” a voice called from nearby. “Over here!” Thyra shook herself out of her reverie and turned towards its source, where she saw Captain Len waving her over from the mouth of a nearby alley. The mercenary looked much as she had yesterday, all dark, functional clothes and suspicious looks, but today she wore a sword girt at her side. Clustered around her was a small group of figures, some of whom Thyra had met yesterday and some of whom she hadn’t.

“Hello, Captain,” Thyra said after she hurried over. “Are you ready to head out? I’d prefer not to wait a minute longer than I have to.” That, at least, was the plain truth.

Len held up her hands. “Hold on a minute, kid,” she said. “If you’re still determined to come with us, I’m going to lay down some ground rules. First off, the job’s yours and the goals are yours, so I’ll do what you say on the way, but once the action starts, I’m in charge. It’s my business and I know it. So if I tell you to do something and I don’t have time to ask nicely, you do it. Second, before we get on that train we’re going to have some introductions; I want you to know who everyone is and what they can do in case you need to know later and don’t have time to ask. And finally, like I said yesterday, none of your magic is to be used on anyone here, under any circumstances. Now, does that all work for you? If it doesn’t, either you stay here, or you find yourself another team.”

“It works for me,” Thyra said with finality in her voice. “I just want this over with.”

“Good,” Len said. “Now, for some introductions.” She glanced to her side, where the elf-woman from the inn stood, clad in white robes with faint gold accents, stood next to the also-familiar hobgoblin who was giving what was probably supposed to be a reassuring smile. “This is Yhani and Ghazaan; you met them yesterday. ‘Hani’s the one who’ll patch you up if things go wrong, and Ghazaan’s the one who’ll probably be hitting the one who did it.”

“Well met,” Thyra said, bowing her head slightly. Yhani’s expression was unreadable, but Ghazaan seemed to grin wider.

“Harsk here is our scout and tracker, and you probably won’t get more than two words out of him at a time unless you make the mistake of bringing up druids, in which case he’ll talk your ears off,” Len continued, gesturing to a shifter who was leaning against a nearby wall; true to her description, he nodded in Thyra’s direction and grunted, but didn’t speak. From him, Thyra’s gaze wandered to the last two members of the team – a rakishly handsome elf in a black shirt and pants who winked in her direction, and a dark-skinned human girl who looked to be no older than Thyra herself who stood beside him. Or was she human? Though her clothing consisted a plain brown tunic and pants, there was nonetheless an arresting quality to her, an alien beauty that made her seem more a work of art than a person. Thyra couldn’t put her finger on why, but there was just something faintly off about her.

“That’s Havaktri,” Len said, nodding in the strange girl’s direction. “She’s completely mental, but she can read minds, so we keep her around. She’s a kalashtar,” she added, noting Thyra’s confused expression. Thyra flushed, realizing she’d been staring; she’d met a few kalashtar in passing, but had never spent long in one’s company and wasn’t sure what it was about them that set them apart from any other humans. Havaktri, noting her attention, suddenly smiled broadly, but even that expression seemed off, as if she’d practiced it in front of a mirror every day but hadn’t quite gotten it right.

Well, Thyra thought, I don’t exactly have any leg to stand on when it comes to criticizing someone for being strange. She turned her attention back to the elf, who was now glancing around with an obviously affected air of great disinterest.

“And that,” Len finished, a faint note of distaste in her voice “is Rinnean, who is far too good at getting into places he shouldn’t. He also fancies himself a ladies’ man, but at least he knows how to take rejection. If he starts flirting with you, just ignore him and he’ll take the hint.”

“Oh, come on, boss,” the elf in question said, “you can do better than that! From the sound of it, this job’ll be needing my skills more than anyone’s, so I think you could stand to give me a better introduction. Especially towards a client as lovely as this one.” He winked at Thyra again; she flushed even deeper and glared at him.

“Anyway,” Len grated, “with that out of the way, let’s get started. Thyra, this is your operation, so what do we do?”

For a moment, Thyra was speechless, but she quickly recovered herself. Drawing in a deep breath, she wove a little magic into her words – not to cast a spell on another person this time, but to make herself sound more impressive and convincing. “In just a few minutes we’ll be boarding the lightning rail,” she said, “for which I’ll buy the tickets, and we’ll be travelling to Korth. From there, we’ll be heading south to a fortress called Sarrin, which is owned by a man who has stolen something from my family. I’d very much like to get it back, and that’s where you come in.” She looked over at Len. “Captain, are we ready?”

“We’re ready,” Len replied with a brief glance at Yhani, who nodded once. “All right, then, let’s move it, people. We’ve got a train to catch.”

///

We meet the main antagonists of this fic for the first time in this chapter. The Lords of Dust are sniffing around in the background, as the prologue (and, likely, the title) made clear, but even though they’re probably the most powerful villains in the Eberron setting, they’re more a subtle threat than an overt one (and far beyond the abilities of our characters here in any case). The Emerald Claw, here represented by ir’Sarrin and Irinali, are a much more obvious, human-scale enemy.

Ir’Sarrin has a bit in common with General Azun, the villain of my Avatar: the Last Airbender fic “Heart of Fire”, in that he’s an older military man who shows how good and even heroic qualities can become twisted when wedded to a bad cause. Irinali is something of a shadow archetype to both Len and Yhani, which will be covered in more detail when they actually start interacting. And no, they’re not just acting coy about the artifact to hide its nature from the reader – they don’t know what it is either, just that the documents Irinali translated point towards it being a powerful weapon.

Finally, we end up meeting the rest of Len’s team in this chapter, characters we’ll be seeing a lot of as the fic progresses; here we meet them through Thyra’s eyes. Class-wise, Harsk’s a ranger, Rinnean’s a rogue, and Havaktri’s a psion. Speaking of classes, Thyra uses one of her sorcerer bloodline powers in this chapter. A careful reader might be able to start guessing as to what her secret is…

-MasterGhandalf

 

Chapter 4: Sins Past and Sins to Come

Taras Zanthan opened the door to his office and stepped inside, barely noticing the familiar surroundings as he placed his satchel on his desk. Opening it, he began to rummage through, looking for the notes he intended to review for a lecture later that day – and then he stopped, pausing to listen to the sound of footsteps that approached from behind.

“Who is it?” the professor asked without turning. “My office hours are posted beside my door, if you please. I would appreciate if you returned later, at the appointed time; I’m a bit busy at the moment.”

“We’re not students, Professor Zanthan,” a clipped female voice said. “But we’re here to ask you about one. Do you have a moment?”

“Perhaps,” Taras replied, turning slowly to face the speaker while surreptitiously brushing the wand he kept concealed in his coat pocket with one hand. He regarded his visitors for a moment – a young half-elf man whose plain clothing couldn’t entirely hide his military bearing, and a hard-looking woman whose features reminded him strongly of someone else he knew, even if her clothing and attitude were quite different. Taras recognized her, though of course, she didn’t know him. “Who do you want to know about? And why?”

“My name is Valyria,” the woman said. “This is my associate, Pitar. We’re looking for a girl named Thyra Entarro. I’m told she’s taken some classes with you and that you’ve taken her under your wing. Does she look familiar?” Pitar handed a small scroll to Valyria, who in turn passed it to Taras; he unrolled it to reveal a sketch he recognized immediately.

“This would appear to be the same Thyra I know,” Taras said. “But I’m afraid you just missed her. She was planning to leave Sharn this morning on a journey of a rather personal nature. Assuming the lightning rail left on time, she should be well on her way to Karrnath by now.”

“Karrnath?” Pitar mouthed. “Why in the name of the Flame is she going there?”

“That’s what I’m curious about as well,” Valyria said, narrowing her eyes. “Tell me, professor, what exactly do you know about Thyra Entarro?”

Taras shrugged. “She enrolled at the University a year and a half ago; I was teaching a course on myth and legend from the Age of Demons and she was in it. She impressed me with her mind and dedication and I offered her a position as my assistant. She’s a charming girl and very bright. What else is there to tell?”

“And what would you do,” Valyria said, “if I told you that Thyra Entarro is a thief who stole the money she used to pay her tuition and that she’s wanted for questioning in connection with the murder of a priest of the Silver Flame.”

“I’d say that was preposterous,” Taras replied, a note of anger entering his voice. “I can’t imagine the Thyra I know having any involvement in such things – she’s scandalized when her fellow students stay out too late drinking, for Aureon’s sake! I’d also be curious as to who, exactly, you are to be involved in this matter even if those crimes did take place?”

Valyria drew herself up, eyes blazing. “I am Sister Valyria Entarro, Inquisitor of the Silver Flame,” she said, her voice cold and hard. “And I’ve been sent from Flamekeep to capture Thyra and see to it that justice is done. If you would be a friend to the Flame, you will tell me everything you know about this girl, including why she is going to Karrnath.”

“Ah, but I don’t hold to the Flame,” Taras said mildly, “and we’re not in Thrane. I don’t suppose you have a warrant from the government of Breland for Thyra’s arrest? No? Then I’m afraid I don’t feel particularly inclined to help you.” He paused. “Something curious I noticed. You and Thyra have the same last name. Also the same hair color and general shape of the face. Are you sure, Sister, that you’re really here on behalf of the Silver Flame? Or is this some… family squabble… that’s gotten out of hand? So disappointing to see one’s holy mission compromised by personal sentiment, isn’t it?” He shook his head sadly.

Valyria snarled and looked like she was about to lunge at Taras, but Pitar put a restraining hand on her shoulder. Even as he did so, Taras slid the wand from his pocket and levelled it at his visitors.

“Are you threatening us?” Valyria asked, incredulous.

“As I recall, you threatened me first and made baseless accusations at one of my students,” Taras said. “I think I have a right to defend myself.”

“You’re a wizard, then,” Valyria said, nodding at the wand.

Taras shrugged. “Of sorts. You pick up a lot of odd skills in my line of work, and you never know when you’ll be on a dig and someone or something decides to object to your being there. Now, Sister, unless you have an actual warrant for Thyra or something new to bring to the conversation, I suggest you leave.”

Valyria glared at him another long moment, then finally nodded. “Very well. But someday, I think you’ll wind up realizing the mistake you made here today.” With a swirl of her white cape she turned and stalked from the office, Pitar following close behind; he shot Taras an apologetic look and shut the door behind him.

“On the contrary,” Taras muttered as he stowed his wand back in his coat, “I thought that went rather well.”

///

Valyria and Pitar had reached the end of the sparse university hallway when the half-elf turned to his companion. “Well, you could have handled that a little more diplomatically,” he said.

“I know,” Valyria muttered, “but there was something about that man that got under my skin. As far as I can tell he was telling the truth, but I don’t think he was telling everything he knows. It almost felt like he was actually trying to be unhelpful, and the crack about my family especially…” she shook her head. “It’s been almost two years since I’ve seen her, but it still hurts.”

“I know, Val,” Pitar said. “But it wasn’t entirely a waste, at least. He didn’t mean to, but he told us where Thyra’s going, and how she’s getting there.”

“Karrnath, by the lightning rail,” Valyria said. “Which means she’ll have to go through Thaliost, if true. But why Karrnath? What’s there for her, what connection does she have? Whatever it is, it smells wrong to me, and whatever she’s after can’t be good.” She looked Pitar in the eye. “We’re going down to the station to make sure she really did leave from there, and if it’s true, we’re going after her. We don’t have a choice.”

///

Thyra sat by the window in the lightning rail carriage and watched the Brelish countryside as it flew by. She had a certain amount of affection for the country now, having lived in it for more than a year, but still, her heart would always belong to Thrane. She would see her homeland again during this trip, even set foot in it for a brief time. The rail would take them as far as Thaliost, a Thranish city on the border with Karrnath, but the bridge connecting the two nations had been severed during the War and had never been rebuilt. It would take several days to reach Thaliost, but from there they would need to purchase some other passage across the Scions Sound and into the Karrn city of Rekkenmark, from which the capital of Korth would be only a few hours of journey by rail away.

And from Korth, it wouldn’t be far at all to ir’Sarrin’s fortress and the map to her salvation.

Thyra looked away from the window and glanced around at her surroundings. She’d purchased tickets to one of the standard passenger cars, using the generous sum of coin Taras had loaned her, and most of the team had managed to get seats reasonably close by. Len herself sat directly across from Thyra, apparently asleep, though every so often her eye would flicker open and seem to scan the car for trouble. Yhani sat in the seat next to her, the elf apparently engrossed in an extremely thick book with silvery binding, its title written in a language Thyra couldn’t read. Rinnean, Harsk, and Ghazaan weren’t far away, and she could hear the hobgoblin’s voice over the general low-level conversation that surrounded them, seemingly deep in the telling of some narrow escape from undead warriors he and Len had had during the Last War.

That left Havaktri, who was sitting in the seat immediately on Thyra’s left, away from the window. The kalashtar girl seemed perfectly content to sit quietly and watch the people around her with a bright eyed curiosity, occasionally humming a snatch of melody under her breath that sounded, to Thyra’s ears, subtly but undeniably alien in the same way Havaktri herself did.

“You’re wondering what sort of music that is,” Havaktri said suddenly, without looking at her. Thyra started.

“How did?” she asked, then shook her head. “Right. You’re a mind-reader, aren’t you?” Her breath caught suddenly – what else did Havaktri know? Was she privy to the secrets she’d been keeping about this mission, or worse, the sins that lay hidden beneath her skin?

Havaktri laughed softly, with a strangely hissing quality. “I am, but the ability is more limited than you might think. I can know what you’re thinking at the moment, but while digging deeper is possible for some psions, it’s somewhat beyond my current level of skill.” She seemed to find this funny for some reason, as she gave another of those odd quiet laughs. Thyra gave her a rather cross look, and the kalashtar’s humor subsided. “But to answer your curiosity, I was humming a refrain from an old children’s song from my people. It’s familiar, and it helps me calm my mind. But our music must sound strange to you – we’re not entirely of this world, after all.”

“Excuse me?” Thyra asked, quickly losing the thread of this conversation. “I’d always been under the impression that the kalashtar were just a human culture – from Sarlona, right? But you’re making it sound like you’re a whole different race.”

Havaktri smiled broadly, though it still seemed that the expression was something she worked at rather than something that came naturally. “We’re completely human,” she said. “And we’re nothing like humans. It’s hard to explain. But we are from Sarlona. At least, our ancestors were. I was born in Khorvaire, in a… monastery, would you say? - out in the country. Honestly, I haven’t been out in ‘the world’, as the Captain says it, for very long.”

Raised by monks, Thyra thought. Well, that probably explains some of what she’s like. “I don’t mean to be rude, but you do seem to be a little young to be a mercenary,” she said. “What are you, eighteen?”

“Seventeen!” Havaktri said brightly; that put her at about two years younger than Thyra herself. “But kalashtar grow up quickly. And I’ve only been with the company for a few months, shorter than anyone. I left my home looking to do good in the world, to fight monsters like the Insp- like the enemies from the old stories. I thought I needed some actual experience, so when I found the captain, I asked her to take me on.” She gave a sinuous shrug. “I don’t think the Captain liked me very much; I annoy people sometimes. But she didn’t have a psion and Yhani spoke up for me, so I was hired.”

Yhani snorted softly from behind her book.

So Len does what Yhani says, at least sometimes, Thyra thought, glancing from the reading elf to the sleeping human and back again. Interesting. I wonder if… she shook her head. It didn’t matter. These people were going to help her get what she needed, and then they’d part ways and she’d probably never see them again. There was no point in getting attached.

“Thyra,” Havaktri said, drawing her attention back. “Or should I call you something else? Lady Thyra? Miss Thyra? Human etiquette still confuses me sometimes…”

“Thyra’s fine,” the sorceress said, and Havaktri nodded, absorbing that information.

“The Captain says you follow the Silver Flame. I’ve never actually sat down and talked to someone who follows the Flame before. Some people say such terrible things about your religion, that you’re all intolerant and self-righteous, but you don’t seem like that to me. From what I’ve heard, I think that the Silver Flame and the Path of Light that my people follow must have some things in common. Do you believe in perfecting the self, fighting evil, doing good in the world?” Havaktri stopped and gave a short laugh. “And listen to me prying again. Yhani says I have to learn to be more discreet, you know.”

“It’s okay,” Thyra said. “I’ve never had the chance to sit down and talk with a kalashtar either. But about what you asked – I don’t know if all of us believe that, but the best of us do, or try to.”

Havaktri beamed. “I knew we must have something in common.” Unexpectedly, she reached out and grasped Thyra’s hand. “I think we’re going to be wonderful friends.”

Thyra’s heart sank in her chest, and she resisted the urge to pull away. If Havaktri knew what she was really like, the kalashtar girl wouldn’t be so quick to offer friendship. None of them would. No, it would be best if she could just get this job over with, free herself from her curse, and then try to pick up the pieces of the life she’d left behind. Sighing, she pulled away from the confused kalashtar and stared back out the window.

She didn’t notice the way Yhani’s eyes were watching her intently over the top of her book.

///

Valyria meets Taras in this chapter, and we get some more information about both of their relationships with Thyra as well as their own goals. We won’t be seeing much from Taras’s pov in this fic, by the way – the main povs for this fic are Thyra, Len, Valyria, and Irinali – but the way I wanted to set this scene up, it made more sense to write from Taras’s perspective. Also note that Pitar calls Valyria “Val” – not something she’d allow from just anyone! Harsh as she can be while “working”, Valyria does genuinely have friends, and Pitar’s one of them.

What exactly happened with that priest Thyra is accused of killing isn’t something that’ll be revealed for a while, I’m afraid. Sorry!

Having Thyra talk to and befriend (sort of) Havaktri was another important bit of character building. As I’ve mentioned previously, I like kalashtar, and here we see a somewhat naïve one who grew up isolated and is still trying to get the hang of this whole “mainstream society” thing. Though the temptation is to write kalashtar as being like Vulcans, what with their intense mental discipline and lack of outward expression, I decided to go the opposite direction with Havaktri. Having grown up most of her life using telepathy to express emotions, she still has a hard time wrapping her mind around when and how much it’s appropriate to show emotions outwardly in public, and sometimes (well, a lot of the time) she overdoes it.

-MasterGhandalf

 

Chapter 5: Of Dreams and Demons

Thyra stood upon a plain of bare and broken rock beneath an overcast, sullen sky. A hot wind whipped her hair behind her, howling across the flats to eventually crash against the great mountains that loomed behind her. Smoke rose from the mountains and the distant plains as if it had been belched forth from within the earth, where it spiraled into the sky and joined the vapors that kept all of this land locked in perpetual twilight. From behind the clouds the sun’s dim light seemed to take a reddish cast, which in turn gave a bloody look to all that it touched.

Shadowy figures approached from the distance, and slowly resolved themselves into human shapes in ragged clothing, crude weapons clutched in their hands and the light of madness dancing in their eyes. Thyra stepped backwards and raised her hands as if to ward them away, but the barbarians did not attack her; instead they fell to their knees and placed the foreheads firmly against the stone, bowing before her in a posture of submission and worship…

And then she was gone from that place and stood in a great tower that overlooked the wastelands below. She stood in a great hall lit by the bloody sun through a series of vast windows, and in its center there stood a great table lined with thronelike chairs. At the head of the table sat a being that might, from a distance, be mistaken for a man but could never be taken for such when viewed clearly, for tough he walked on two legs and was richly clad his head was that of a great white tiger; the wisdom of ages was in his eyes, but with it there burned a terrible, unholy power.

He looked up from where he had been studying the talons on his backward-facing hands a saw Thyra, his burning gaze seeming to penetrate the very depths of her soul, but he made no aggressive move; instead, he seemed to smile. “Ah, you have come,” he said, his voice a purr yet underlain with greater danger that he didn’t yet feel the need to unleash. “Good. Take a seat. We have much to discuss.”

“No!” Thyra shouted. “This isn’t where I belong. I want to go home!”

The tiger face’s smile seemed to broaden. “But you are home,” he said. “This is where you belong.” Suddenly the fiend was standing at her side; he took Thyra gently by her arm and turned her to face the chamber’s obsidian wall, where suddenly a mirror hung that hadn’t hung there before. In it, Thyra saw herself reflected, but not the reflection she knew.

She saw herself golden-furred and tiger-headed, clad as richly as any queen; a power was in her only slightly less than the creature that stood beside her. “You see?” the fiend whispered in her ear. “We are the same!”

She pulled away from the mirror and the creature at her side and turned to flee, but the floor crumpled away beneath her feet and she found herself falling, falling, into an infinite dark…

///

Thyra awoke with a sudden scream that tore its way out of her throat and sat up, breathing heavily. The tower, the wasteland, the fiendish lord – all were gone. She was back in the lightning rail’s sleeping car, its walls lined with the bunked beds where other travelers lay. She could hear several of them tossing and turning, and not a few of them muttering curses at her for waking them up. Thyra sighed, mouthed an apology that no one could see or hear, and then finally steeled herself for what she knew she must do. Slowly, she lifted her trembling hands and held them before her, and took a long look at them.

They were human, forward facing and bare of fur and talons. It had just been a dream. Thyra let out a long, slow breath she hadn’t even been aware she was holding and lay back in her bed, wrapping the sheets around her and rolling over to face the rail car’s blank wall. Just a dream. She was safe, and still human, at least for now.

Silver Flame, she prayed softly, font of righteousness, binder of the wicked, be with your daughter now. Tira Miron, Voice of the Flame, watch over me. Give me the strength I need to see this through, and I promise you that I will serve your cause for all of my life.

I promise you.

///

Len lay on her back on the top bed, staring at the rail car’s ceiling. She’d heard Thyra’s scream and had surreptitiously watched the girl’s panic and gradual return to fitful sleep out of the corner of her eye, and now lay awake pondering what it meant. Maybe it was just a normal nightmare, a part of her muttered in her subconscious, but Len didn’t buy that. No, the larger part of her whispered, this might have been just a dream by itself, but taken into consideration with Thyra’s previous behavior, her evasiveness on the importance of this mission and why she wanted to come herself, and the fear that Yhani had noticed related to her magic, it was all adding up to something very clear. The girl was terrified of something. Len didn’t know what and she didn’t know why, but she was more certain than ever that there were important things about this job that Thyra wasn’t telling them.

Len didn’t disapprove of keeping secrets; lies and deception were something that she and people like her learned from a very early age. But she did object to the keeping of secrets when there was a very good chance not knowing them could get her team killed, and if her suspicions were at all based in reality, it was starting to look very likely that this was one of those times.

Rolling over onto her side, Len stuck her head over the edge of the bed and looked down at the bunk below her, where Yhani lay. The elf was awake – not that her race ever needed to sleep the same way everyone else did – and she met Len’s eyes and nodded once. The two of them had been together for years, first as friends and then as lovers, and they could understand each other without much needing to be spoken aloud. It was clear from Yhani’s expression that she shared the captain’s suspicions.

Len glanced across the aisle to Thyra’s bunk and then back to Yhani, and nodded again. Yhani’s eye’s narrowed, and she nodded once sharply. Good; she’d be on the watch as well.

Whatever was going on, they were going to get to the bottom of it. Maybe Yhani was right and Thyra needed their help. Or maybe she would turn out to be a bigger threat than ir’Sarrin. Either way, Len had no intention of walking into this blind.

///

Numerous races share our world, Irinali read, and among them they have produced countless religions and creeds, nations and histories. And yet one motif which has recurred time and again is that of the progenitor dragons.

It is said that in the beginning of time the three dragons existed – Siberys, the Dragon Above, Eberron, the Dragon Between, and Khyber, the Dragon Below. Khyber slew Siberys and scattered his corpse across the sky, but was herself overpowered by Eberron, who sealed the Dragon Below away within her body. Thus the three dragons became the three divisions of the cosmos – Siberys, the heavens, Eberron, the earth, and Khyber, the underworld. And so has it been ever since. Yet while the history of the progenitors may seem to some as little more than a fairy tale for children, it is necessary to understand the history of what has been known as the Age of Demons.

For in the beginning of time Khyber’s wrath burned hot, and she desired vengeance upon her sister who had imprisoned her. And so she gave birth to a legion of fiends, and they burst forth from their underground realms and overran the world. Greatest among them were the Overlords, terrible titans who each embodied a different form of destruction – these were beings of immeasurable strength, the gods of their day. Chief among the servants of the Overlords were the tiger-headed rakshasa; it is for this reason that the Overlords have sometimes been called the Rakshasa Rajahs, though in truth they are no more rakshasa than the deities of the Sovereign Host are human.

Under the rule of the Overlords, Eberron became a living hell. Thus it endured for uncounted millennia, until at last the dragons banded together and rose up against the Overlords and their servants. The war raged for centuries, but at the last the dragons found the power to force the Overlords back into Khyber and imprison them there for all time. So ended in fire the Age of Demons, and began the Age of Giants after the mortal race that would come to dominate it, though their story lies beyond the scope of this writing.

Though their masters were defeated, the rakshasa remained. Scattered and leaderless, they dreamed of a return to the time when their Rajahs reigned unchecked and they themselves stood as lords above all other creatures. Some among their number determined to find the Overlords and release them, though the process of unmaking their prisons was certain to take time beyond measure. The name of this alliance has been whispered among those who study the deepest secrets of our world – the Lords of Dust. Here shall follow what is known of these beings, their names and goals, and the dark masters whom they still serve.

Greatest among the Lords of Dust who have names in the tongues of mortals is the rakshasa Durastoran, called the Wyrmbreaker. It is said that he earned his name for his undying hatred for the dragons, and that he has clashed with them many times since the Overlords fell. Here follows what I have managed to ascertain of the history of this conflict, though sources are sparse, for dragons seldom deign to speak with common mortals, and few of those who would pry into a rakshasa’s secrets live to tell what they found…

The sound of a hand rapping on wood tore Irinali’s attention from the tome that lay open on the desk in front of her. Histories of the Age of Demons were hard to come by, for it lay so deep in the distant past, but she had made a point to study them since ir’Sarrin had determined to embark on his search for the buried sepulcher. Even the little that most texts contained – and it was rare to find one that gave more than the cursory overview found in the book she was currently perusing – was enough to give some idea of what they might find.

The knock came again, and this time Irinali responded. “Enter,” she said; the door creaked open and one of her apprentice stepped inside, head bowed and face hidden under his hood.

“I’m sorry to disturb you at this late hour, mistress,” he said, “but Lord ir’Sarrin is here and wishes to speak.”

“So, Kharvin couldn’t sleep either,” Irinali said under her breath; technically she, being an elf, didn’t sleep at all, but her thoughts had proven too jumbled for the meditation that served the same function for her kind and she’d found herself drawn back to her study. “You can send him in; his lordship is always welcome. It’s his house, after all.”

The apprentice bowed his head and withdrew; a moment later, ir’Sarrin strode into the room, clad in a loose dark robe he sometimes wore in the late evening. He glanced around himself at Irinali’s study, taking in the rows of bookshelves, the window that currently looked out on the Karrnathi night, and in front of it the heavy desk where the necromancer herself sat, now carefully marking her place in her book. Ir’Sarrin smiled and seated himself in front of the desk.

“Reading late, I see,” he said, nodding at Irinali’s tome. “Anything of interest?”

“Not much, sadly,” she replied. “I’ve been researching the Age of Demons to try and get a better idea of what it is that we’re looking for in that sepulcher, but every text I find repeats essentially the same garbled stories about the progenitor dragons and demon gods, mixed with the author’s own speculation about what the so-called Lords of Dust are up to. Well, some of the names show up a lot, but otherwise they all contradict each other, so I’m afraid to say most of the authors seem to be just making things up.” She shook her head. “I’d hoped this one would be more useful – I had it shipped from home, and my people have long memories – but no such luck. Apparently this history is too stuffy even for the Aereni.”

“A pity those ancestors of yours don’t seem to actually do anything useful with their immortality,” ir’Sarrin observed. “Almost as much a pity as their hoarding the secrets of life beyond death only for those they deem worthy instead of sharing it with the world. Can you imagine, Irinali, what an entire civilization of immortals might accomplish?”

“Oh, I can imagine,” Irinali said with a short laugh. “Why do you think I left? The Aereni people are a proud race of raging hypocrites who condemn me for practicing necromancy on one hand, and venerate an assembly of reanimated corpses on the other. Well, when my family denounced me I denounced them back and set off to find those who would be more appreciative of my talents.” She spread her hands. “And so, my lord, here we are.”

“I think you sell your people too short, my friend,” ir’Sarrin said. “You’re proof that not all elves are so intractable. And after all, the Queen herself is an elf, or was when she lived. But I think all races have their flawed leaders. Just look at my own king, a coward who sued for peace when all of Khorvaire should have been in our grasp!” He slammed a fist down on the desk, causing several scrolls Irinali had carefully stacked by one of the corners to fall to the floor; the elf shot him a disapproving look, and ir’Sarrin breathed deeply and seemed to master his temper.

“But we can make it right,” he finally said. “We will find this buried weapon, we will use it to place this continent back in the hands of its rightful rulers, and in the end, King Kaius and the Undying Court and all the others will have to see that we were right.” He shook his head. “I just wish I was out there myself.”

Irinali suddenly understood why ir’Sarrin couldn’t sleep. He was a man of action, but the Crimson Covenant’s orders had been clear – he was not to travel to the dig site until the expedition confirmed that whatever was buried there was valuable. The Order’s leadership was unwilling to risk a noble-born agent in the Mournland on a mere chance of an important find.

“I won’t be long, my lord,” Irinali said. “Soon, we will recover the weapon, and then we can put our true plans in motion. And I will be there at your side.”

///

Thyra’s dream is just a dream, not any sort of magical vision or sending (there is, of course, an evil power in the Eberron setting that can control dreams, but they’re not involved in this fic). However, it certainly is based on things she fears and represents a further piece in the puzzle of what exactly is going on with her. But there’s a reason for all of it, I promise you.

We also get a bit more of a hint about Len’s secrets as well (and no, it’s not about her sexuality, if you thought I was going in that direction – she’s never particularly bothered to conceal that she’s bisexual, and only downplays her relationship with Yhani to the limited extent she does because she thinks it might look unprofessional for her to be sleeping with her second-in-command). Her secrets aren’t as plot-shaking as Thyra’s, but are still very important to who Len is as a person.

Irinali’s choice of reading material is mostly a means of providing intel on setting backstory that will prove important to the fic. Things that are general knowledge in the setting (ie, what are the Five Nations and the Last War, what’s Sharn, what’s a warforged, etc.) I’m mostly not going to bother to explain, but for more obscure information that the average person (and most of the characters) would know little about I’ll go into more detail about, especially when it’s central to what’s going on in the story.

-MasterGhandalf

 

Chapter 6: Thaliost

Thyra sat in her seat on the lightning rail, staring at the countryside passing by outside. This was the evening of the third day out from Sharn; they’d be arriving at Thaliost early tomorrow morning. They’d left Breland and Aundair behind, and now they were passing through Thrane; Thyra had her face pressed to the window as if drinking the scenery in. This wasn’t a part of Thrane she was particularly familiar with – she was from farther south than this rail line – but still, it was Thrane. Home, even if she hadn’t lived there for the better part of two years. And hopefully, if all went well, someday it would be home again. She let loose a sigh heavy with longing.

“You seem troubled,” a voice said over her shoulder; Thyra turned to the seat next to her. Today, Yhani sat there; the elf was watching her with concerned eyes. Thyra glanced over to where Len and Ghazaan sat across from them, but the captain and the hobgoblin were engaged in some whispered conversation and didn’t seem to be paying their fellow passengers any mind. She looked back at Yhani and nodded.

“More homesick than anything,” she said, “but I guess you could say that I’m troubled.”

“I understand that feeling,” Yhani said. “It has been almost two decades since I last set foot on Aerenal; my calling has kept me away. But I take comfort knowing that it is there, that it has endured for so long and will endure, and will be there to receive me when I return. Until then, I will go where Len goes, and her company is always a comfort to me.” She glanced over at the captain, who was now gesturing animatedly at Ghazaan, and gave a small, affectionate smile.

“I don’t know when I’ll be able to go home,” Thyra said softly, looking down at her hands. “I had it all planned out, you know. I grew up in Flamekeep, I’m named for Tira Miron, and all I ever wanted to do with my life was be a cleric of the Flame, like my par… like my mother. And then everything fell apart.”

“Because your father’s business dealings fell through?” Yhani asked, her gaze suddenly sharp.

“Yes, of course,” Thyra said quickly, remembering the lie she’d told Len about her reason for hiring them. “Anyway, that’s why this job is so important. It may be the last chance my family has.”

Yhani looked thoughtful for a long moment before speaking again. “You say your mother is a cleric?” she asked; when Thyra nodded, she continued. “Your faith is not my faith, but I think we have some things in common. We both reject the notion that distant, uncaring gods are worthy of worship and choose to put our trust in powers within this world. In Aerenal we venerate our ancestors, whose actions shaped the world we know and continue to guide our people from the Undying Court, while you place your faith in the Silver Flame, the power that binds evil and protects Eberron from dark powers, and in Tira Miron who channeled the Flame and gave her life to defeat a terrible demon. We both look to the heroes of the past as exemplars to guide us into the future.

“But my people also believe that the fate of Eberron is guided by a great Prophecy – the Draconic Prophecy, some call it, for it was the dragons who first discovered it, though the Undying Court have great skill in interpreting it as well. This Prophecy is written in every stone and tree, every moon and star. And yet it is not fixed, for it defines not only what must be but all the things that possibly might be, and so for every event that fails to come to pass, there are more possibilities that are yet brought into being.” Yhani looked directly at Thyra now, her pale blue eyes boring into the young woman’s face. “And so my advice to you is this – if the path you thought your life would take has failed you, have you taken time to consider what new possibilities now stand open?”

There was something pointed in Yhani’s words, something that shook Thyra to her core. Barely managing to stammer out an incoherent reply, she turned back to the window, wondering. How much did Yhani know, really? How much had she guessed? And was Thyra imagining it, or had the priestess of the Undying Court managed to stir some long-buried hope in her heart. The future is not fixed. My future is not fixed…

It was too much to take in for now. And so Thyra turned her attention back to the scenery of Thrane, watching her home as it sped quickly by. Mother, Father, Val, she thought, wherever you are, I pray that you’re well. And maybe, if the Flame is merciful, we’ll be able to see each other again one day.

///

“I hate cities,” Harsk muttered as the company and their client made their way out of the Thaliost lightning rail station. The shifter’s voice was surprisingly soft to those who didn’t know him well, though it had the rough quality of someone who didn’t speak very often.

“Oh, come now!” Rinnean replied, draping one arm around Harsk’s shoulders; the shifter glared at him but made no move to force it away. “It’s no Sharn, but still, adventure, excitement, people everywhere. What’s not to love, my friend?”

“I hate Sharn too,” Harsk shot back. “Besides, we’re not staying here long – right, boss?”

“Right,” Len said sternly, shooting her scout and thief – Rinnean preferred “stealth expert”, but Len knew a thief when she saw one and had pegged the elf from the first time she laid eyes on him – a look that told them in no uncertain terms to knock it off. She gestured towards the east, where the cliffs upon which perched the city of Rekkenmark rose in gloomy bulk. Maybe it was just her bad experiences with Karrn troops during the war, but she didn’t like the look of that place one bit. “Lightning rail used to run out that way, over the Sound – there was a big bridge, you can still see part of it if you look – but it got wrecked. So we need to find another way across. As you can see, Rekkenmark’s up high, so there’s not a lot of boat traffic going out that way, but I bet we can find someone who’ll take us across and show us how to get up there, for the right price.”

“Smugglers, you mean,” Ghazaan said, crossing his arms and scowling.

“Come now, my good hobgoblin,” Rinnean put in, grinning. “Don’t talk that way. You never know when a good smuggler might come in handy.” He looked over at Len. “Might I be able to track down the right person for us? It’s my specialty, after all, and the rest of you lot, no offense, would just slow me down – and I’d rather not have Yhani giving me that look every time I try to do something vaguely interesting.” The priestess in question shot him a very dry, disapproving expression, and Rinnean’s grin broadened. “That’s the one!”

“Fine, get on it,” Len said. She glanced up at the sky. “Be back here by noon – that’ll give you about four hours. If you haven’t found anything by then, we’ll work that out at the time.”

“Oh, you wound me to think it would take that long,” Rinnean said. The elf winked at his captain and then turned and sauntered off.

“By the Traveler,” Len groaned when he was out of earshot, “I swear I’d fire that man if he wasn’t every bit as good as he thinks he is.”

“Do not worry about Rinnean,” Yhani said, putting an arm around Len’s shoulders. “He enjoys irritating people, which is why I allow him to irritate me. He would feel unappreciated if I did not.”

“Well, so long as he gets us a boat I don’t care if he earns the wrath of the Keeper of the Flame,” Len said. She looked over at Thyra, who had been very quiet ever since they got off the rail and kept glancing nervously towards the center of the city, where the Citadel of the Flame, the local administrative center-meets-cathedral, stood. “Is all of this all right with you? It’s your money, after all.”

“Technically, it’s my mentor’s money,” Thyra said absently; Len filed that bit of information away for further scrutiny. “I’m just nervous being back so close to home; I feel like I should keep a low profile. Actually, with that in mind…” she raised her hands in front of her and mouthed a short incantation Len couldn’t catch; a moment later she shimmered and her appearance changed from a deceptively-innocent looking girl to a woman about ten years older in leather armor, with a mane of dark hair and a hard face with a small scar over one eye. “There. Now, no one will recognize me, at least.”

Ghazaan whistled, seemingly impressed at the change, and Len found herself nodding somewhat approvingly. “Well,” she said, “at least you’ve got some useful magic there that doesn’t involve playing with people’s minds. Hope there’s more where that came from.”

“Oh, you haven’t seen all I can do, Captain,” Thyra said, grinning. “Not by a long shot. I do seem to fit in better with the rest of you looking like this, though.”

“Don’t go too far with that, kid,” Ghazaan said, laughing, and even Harsk cracked a grin. Havaktri, on the other hand, seemed far too preoccupied with staring at Thaliost’s architecture; if she’d even noticed Thyra’s change, she made no sign.

Len chewed her lip for a moment, then pulled Yhani to one side. “Well, the plot thickens,” she whispered. “If our merchant’s daughter is this worried about being seen in public in her own homeland, that says some very interesting things about her, don’t you think, ‘Hani?”

“I do not think she is a merchant’s daughter at all,” Yhani whispered back. “She said some things on the rail yesterday that roused my suspicions. I am not looking forward to this, but I think that for the sake of our company and this mission we need to get the real story from her, and soon.”

///

Rinnean returned shortly before noon, bowing with a flourish and proudly informing Len that he’d found someone who ought to fit their needs perfectly. The captain studied him intently for a long moment, then nodded once and gestured for the others to follow her; now they made their way through Thaliost’s streets, headed towards the harbor.

Thyra walked near the back of the party, still wrapped in the illusion she’d conjured. A part of her hated using the magic, wanted nothing more than for it to be gone, but another part found itself enjoying the ability, wondering what she might be capable of if she truly pushed herself to her limits. Shaking the thought away, she focused instead on trying to walk and carry herself like the mercenary she pretended to be rather than the somewhat overwhelmed girl she actually was; unconsciously, she found herself copying Len’s purposeful stride and casual bearing that nonetheless held a bit of threat as well.

Someone fell back to walk beside her; turning, she saw that it was Havaktri. “Thyra,” the kalashtar said, “there’s something I’m curious about. Looking around this city, there seem to be two distinct styles of architecture; most of it is these tall spires, but mixed in I see shorter buildings with a lot of white marble. You’re from this country – is there a reason for all of this? Or do humans just like being contrary?”

Thyra laughed. “Yes,” she said, “but there is a reason for the difference. I’m from Flamekeep, which is quite a bit further south, but I know my history. This city used to belong to Aundair, then during the War it changed hands several times before Thrane finally managed to hold it. See, the white marble buildings are probably newer, and Thranish – the towers are older, and Aundairan. Make sense?”

Havaktri chewed her lip for a moment, an oddly mundane action on someone so otherworldly. “I think so, yes,” she said. “And the city’s inhabitants, they are content with this?”

“Well, I’ve heard stories about riots and things,” Thyra said quietly, glancing around. “People who want the city to go back to Aundair, and loyalists who want to keep it Thranish no matter the cost. But we’re not staying here long and hopefully we’ll be able to avoid any of that.”

“I see,” Havaktri said, but she looked troubled. “So much strife and conflict in the world. They must love this.”

“Who are ‘they’?” Thyra asked, curious, but Havaktri suddenly seemed very interested in looking at the surrounding buildings and didn’t answer.

///

The group made their way through the city, following Rinnean’s guidance, until at last they came to the docks that lay spread out before them, boats and ships of all sizes and descriptions moored along the Scions’ Sound, or casting off or pulling into port. The Sound was wide and strong, but in the distance the dark cliffs of Karrnath could be seen closer now, the city of Rekkenmark perched atop them. The broken span of the bridge that had once connected the two cities could still be seen rising out of the water; it remained an imposing site, though a large piece of its middle was visibly missing, leaving it impassable.

The area around the docks was even more crowded than the main city, if anything, filled with shouting sailors and merchants hawking their wares; Ghazaan moved up to walk beside Rinnean, the burly hobgoblin expertly shoving his way through the crowd and making way for the rest of them, though Thyra could see he was smiling and waving affably as he did so. Finally they came to the end of the dock, where a single small boat was tied up at pier where a cloaked figure sat waiting for them.

Rinnean waved as they approached. “Hey, Pok!” he called. “Here they are, just like I promised – my boss, my team, and our client. Ready to cast off?”

“Always,” Pok said in a soft, smooth voice as he stood. Reaching up, the smuggler – for that was what Thyra assumed he was – pulled back his hood, and the young woman gasped at the face that was revealed. His hair was long, white, and lank, and his eyes were blank and milky, and his skin was a pale grey, and yet his face were oddly blurred or distorted, more suggestions of a nose and mouth than the actual features.

“Oh!” Havaktri said softly. “He’s a changeling, like – “

“Stow it,” Len snapped. Stepping forward, she sized Pok up; if she was bothered by his appearance, it didn’t show at all. “So, you’re the one Rinnean found who can get us across the Sound and into Karrnath discretely? I’m Captain Len, and these are my team. Rinnean says you’ll take us across for five Galifars. That deal still on?”

“Of course it is,” Pok said. “I never back out on a business deal, Captain Len.” He emphasized the name oddly, looked the captain up and down, then oddly, he winked. Len didn’t react at all.

Thyra suppressed a slight shudder. She knew it was unfair and irrational, but changelings made her uncomfortable; a part of her recognized how ridiculous it was for someone who was currently wearing a false face to be distrustful of shapeshifters, but some primal part of her couldn’t help it. All she could do was shake herself, tell herself she was being stupid, and get ready to pay the requested amount when they reached the other side.

“All right, then,” Len called. “Let’s get to this. Get on, people!” Minutes later, they had all boarded the small boat, and Pok cast off to begin their journey across the Scions’ Sound and into the grim nation of Karrnath, where their goal lay.

///

This chapter is mostly there to use a largely uneventful part of the journey to help flesh out some things a bit more, getting a bit into Thyra’s backstory, Yhani’s beliefs, and some general info on Thaliost. I never intended for our main crew to stick around in the city for very long, but this isn’t the last we’ll be seeing of if – after all, Valyria and Pitar are still trailing Thyra, even if we haven’t been keeping up with them. That should change soon…

-MasterGhandalf

 

Chapter 7: Fury of the Flame

Len pulled her cloak tightly around her body as a cold wind blew down from the north across the Scions’ Sound and around Pok’s small boat. The cliffs were looming high above them now; the city atop them could no longer be seen, and it felt as if they’d fallen into a cool shadow. Len craned her neck, looking up at the oncoming wall of rock, feeling her body tense instinctively, and then someone placed a comforting hand on one shoulder. Turning, she saw Yhani standing at her side, silver-blonde hair streaming in the wind, and she smiled.

“Ah, Pok,” Rinnean’s voice said from behind, “I’m sure that a respectable man like yourself knows your business, but to my amateur eyes it looks very much like we’re going to hit that cliff.”

Pok laughed. “No, we’re not. But you might want to hold onto something, friend!” Len grabbed a hold of the boat’s railing, as did Yhani a short second later, and then they were both nearly rocked off their feet as the boat turned sharply, passing through a narrow cleft in the rock that had been all-but-invisible a few moments ago, before finally emerging into a small, protected cove surrounded by cliff faces on all sides. Len’s eyes narrowed as she studied the rock, and she thought she noticed a cut winding its way towards the top where a stairway might be located.

Pok pulled his boat up to the narrow shore and dropped anchor; Len, her team, and Thyra jumped out and waded ashore. Pok followed a moment later. “That will take you up and into Rekkenmark,” he said, gesturing towards the cleft that Len had thought concealed a stair. “It’ll go into a tunnel near the top, and then you’ll come out in a back alley in the city. Not far from the rail station, which your friend here,” he nodded at Rinnean, “indicated was where you wanted to be going in the first place. Now then, I believe I was promised some money.”

Thyra stepped forward, counted out five galifars from her bag and passed them to Len, who in turn handed them over to Pok. The smuggler regarded each of the coins critically for a moment, then smile. “Excellent; everything seems to be in order,” he said, and then a rather unpleasant smile crossed his thin lips. “However, it seems to me that you lot didn’t want to have to deal with the Karrnathi authorities; I don’t know why and I don’t care, though I understand the feeling completely. But I’m a busy man, and who knows, my mouth might just slip sometime in the next few days and put some information and the wrong ears, and who knows, that might not end too well for you.” His smile broadened. “So I think I’ll be taking a few more galifars to make certain my lips stay sealed, if you catch my drift.”

“I’d think,” Ghazaan rumbled, coming to stand on Len’s left side while Yhani took up her position on the captain’s right “that would be included in the fee flat out, smuggler.”

Pok spread his hands. “Well, I do have to eat, and it occurred to me halfway across the Sound that I could probably get more from you than I’d worked out with Master Rinnean. So what do you say?”

Len’s sword was out of its sheath in a moment, the flat of the blade held close to Pok’s neck. The captain breathed deeply and let a little magic flow into the weapon, and the blade suddenly burst into flame. Pok’s eyes widened and he jumped back slightly. “I say,” she said in a quiet, dangerous voice, “that I’m a very dangerous person, and I are my friends. I also say that I’m a reasonable woman and don’t think killing someone for trying to cheat me would be justified, so I’d rather we just walk away and all forget we had this conversation. But I don’t like it when people try to sell me out, so if you do, I’ll find you, and we’ll have a very nice, long talk. You understand me?” She flicked her sword, sending sparks showering from the end.

“Inescapably,” Pok said, gulping. “Should have realized you wouldn’t be an easy mark; what I get for being greedy. Well, with that settled, let’s all be on our way, shall we? Things to do and all that.”

“I agree,” Len said; Ghazaan nodded vigorously and Yhani fixed the changeling with a flat, inscrutable stair. The captain dismissed the flames on her sword and sheathed the weapon at her side. “So glad you were willing to be reasonable. Let’s get going, everyone!”

The rest of the team turned and began to make their way towards the hidden stairs, with Len, Ghazaan, and Yhani taking up the rear. Just as they reached the base, however, Len turned at looked back at Pok, who stood still beside his boat. She nodded at him once, and he returned the gesture. Then he looked back up, met her gaze with a steely, appraising look, and gave a quick, conspiratorial wink before turning to the boat and climbing on board.

Scowling, Len ignored him and turned to climb the stairs.

///

Valyria shaded her eyes with one hand and watched a Lyrandar airship as it swooped low over Thaliost and prepared to land at one of the city’s docking towers. She and Pitar had taken the lightning rail from Sharn after leaving that damnably smug professor and questioning several ticket workers at the rail station to make certain that Thyra and her companions had indeed bought tickets and boarded for Karrnath, as well as getting descriptions of them. Unfortunately, the nature of rail travel had prevented them from catching up, and now they’d hid a dead end.

“With the bridge out, Thyra must have taken a boat to Karrnath,” Pitar said, drawing Valyria’s attention back to him. “We could question the local dockworkers and captains to see if they’ve seen her or know where she went. Maybe she’s still here.”

“I doubt it,” Valyria said, lowering her hand. “She’s hours ahead of us, and seems to be in a hurry; she’s probably long gone by now. And her lead would only grow if we took the time to question everyone in the harbor, which is so busy that it’s doubtful anyone would remember her even if they did see her.”

“So what do we do, then?” Pitar asked. “You’re in charge, not me. We know where Thyra’s going, but how do we catch up?”

“The Flame will provide a way for those whose cause is righteous,” Valyria said, then scowled. “I just wish it would be a little faster about it.”

Lacking any other leads, she turned and began to stalk towards the docks, white cape flowing behind her; Pitar followed closely by her side. Many of the passerby gave her polite bows as she passed, recognizing from her clothing that she was a Church agent of no minor rank; the Silver Flame was held with great respect in Thrane, where the Church reigned supreme. But there were others who regarded her with suspicion and outright hostility, a reminder that this city hadn’t always been Thranish.

“Val,” Pitar whispered in her ear, “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re being followed. There’s some rather nasty looking characters shadowing us, and at least some of them are armed.”

Without breaking a step, Valyria glanced out of the corner of her eye and saw several rough looking humans and one half-orc surreptitiously keeping pace with them, hands on daggers or swords. They were dressed plainly, but there was obvious coordination to their movements, and passerby were giving them dark looks and pulling away while merchants were quietly shuttering their stalls. “I don’t think these are simple muggers,” she whispered back. “Aundairan partisans is my guess. We’re dressed as Church officials but obviously aren’t local; I bet they think that they can kill us or take us hostage without raising too much of a scene.”

“Well, then, they’re wrong,” Pitar said, a note of steel entering his voice. He rested his hand on the hilt of his sword, and Valyria surreptitiously drew one of her daggers; unfortunately, her bow was stowed in her supplies and she didn’t have time to get it out and string it. A dagger would have to do.

The partisans apparently realized their quarry was alerted, and made their move. “Down with the Silver Flame! Long live Aundair!” one of them cried, and then a loose rock came shooting through the air straight towards Valyria’s head. The inquisitor ducked lightly aside and sent her dagger hurtling back towards the assailant; a moment later he was screaming, clutching his hand where the blade had struck.

“For Aundair!” the half-orc shouted, drawing his sword and lunging forward, four more partisans following close behind. The crowd screamed and scattered, leaving the street mostly deserted; Valyria drew another dagger and shot the half-orc a wintery grin.

“With the Silver Flame at my side, I cannot fail,” she said. “Do you still like your odds, big man?”

The half-orc shouted again and his men charged, two focusing on Pitar while the remaining two and their leader faced Valyria. All three struck with their swords but the inquisitor was too fast for them, ducking under their blows with practiced ease; she then stiffened two of her fingers and jabbed them into the nearest human’s throat; the man collapsed, choking.

“What’s all this about?” a voice suddenly shouted. “Break it up! City watch!” A small group of armed men in the uniforms of the Thaliost constabulary rounded a street corner, swords and bows at the ready. Before they could join the fray, however, another group of partisans emerged from an alley and struck them from behind; the watch patrol collapsed in general anarchy. One guard fell with a bloody forehead, his bow slipping from his hands to lie on the cobblestones.

Valyria grinned coldly, then dropped to the ground and rolled under a startled partisan’s legs. Grabbing the bow and pulling several arrows from the guard’s quiver, she jumped back to her feet and in a single fluid motion set an arrow to the string and let fly. The partisan collapsed with the shaft in his side, a look of utter bewilderment crossing his face. Glancing to her side, Valyria saw Pitar disarm one of his opponents and knock the man cold with the flat of his sword, then shoot the other a cool, level stare. The partisan regarded him for a long moment, then dropped his sword and fled.

The half-orc leader looked back and forth from inquisitor to paladin and back again, and then he suddenly ducked behind one of the abandoned merchant stalls, clutching a small girl close to him. “Let me go,” he rumbled, “and she lives. Am I clear?”

“Damn you,” Pitar hissed, lowering his sword slowly. Valyria, never taking her eyes from this last enemy, nocked another arrow to her borrowed bow and took careful aim over the child’s head and at the half-orc’s shoulder.

“Go ahead, take the shot,” he taunted. “And risk an innocent life? You wouldn’t dare, Flamey.”

“I’m an inquisitor of the Silver Flame, big man,” she whispered back, “and I’ve been training with the bow since I was six years old. You have no idea what I’d dare.” She left the arrow fly; it shot harmlessly over the girl’s head and buried itself deep in the half-orc’s shoulder. He collapsed with a curse and a cry of pain, and the girl tore herself free of his arms and ran.

“That was risky,” Pitar said, looking at Valyria with a disapproving glance. “You could have hit that child, Val.”

“But I didn’t,” she said, “and I knew I wouldn’t. I know exactly how good I am, and I wouldn’t have taken the shoot if I didn’t think I could make it.” She turned back towards where the city guards were handcuffing the last of the partisans. Walking over to their officer, she proffered the bow back to him. “Give my thanks to your man for the use of this when he wakes up,” she said. “It’s a fine bow.”

The captain glanced over her shoulder at the wounded half-orc and then gestured for two of his watchmen to restrain him. “I feel like I should be thanking you; we’ve been after this crew for a while,” he said. “And I have to apologize for your being attacked in our city. Is there anything I can do for you, Sister…?”

“Entarro,” Valyria replied. “Valyria Entarro, inquisitor. My companion is Pitar. And I thank you for your offer, but I’m afraid that unless you or your men could transport me to Korth in an instant, there’s nothing you could…” her gaze slid past the captain’s head, and came to rest on the tower where the Lyrandar airship was docked. A smile slowly slid across her face. “Unless,” she said slowly, “you could tell me if it would be possible for me to get to that airship before it leaves?”

///

Captain Balan d’Lyrandar relaxed as he leaned against the railing of his airship, Lhazaar’s Pride. Between wealthy passengers and expensive cargo he’d had a profitable voyage, and he was certain his superiors in House Lyrandar would be equally pleased with his results. Perhaps pleased enough to give a certain talented, ambitious young captain the promotion he’d long desired. He loved flying, of course, but at a higher position within the house he’d still have time for that, to say nothing of seeing a much higher percentage of the gold his voyages earned…

Lost in his happy thoughts, the captain didn’t notice the two people who’d come aboard until they were standing right beside him; he stumbled backwards with startled realization as he took both of them in. A half-elf man like himself, accompanied by an intense looking human woman, both of them armed and attired like holy warriors of the Silver Flame. Balan scowled slightly – they were a preachy, self-righteous lot, those Flameites, not that you could avoid them for long in Thrane – but at least they were extremely unlikely to be would-be thieves or hijackers.

“Well?” he asked, rather more irritably than he’d intended. “I don’t have all day, and I presume you’re not here for the view. Who are you and what can House Lyrandar do for you today?”

“I’m Valyria; this is Pitar,” the human said. “Would you, by chance, be going to Korth?”

“Well, we are bound for Karrnath,” Balan said, “but we’re going to be stopping at Karrlakton, rather than the capital.” He leaned in close. “We’re ferrying some Deneith mercenaries from there back to Sharn; touchy lot. Big swords too.” He looked Valyria up and down. “Your kind of folks, probably.”

Before he could draw back, Valyria had placed a back heavily weighted with coin into his hands. “How much would it take for you to consider a detour, Captain?” she asked. “I need to get to Korth ahead of someone, and I assure you, the Church can be a very generous patron.”

Balan shook the bag, listened to the sound of the coins, and smiled. “I think we can work something out,” he said.

///

Well, this is definitely a transition chapter, but we get a chance to see what some of our characters can do. Len got a chance to show off some of her magus abilities when Pok tried to cheat her; a Pathfinder magus can channel magic through their weapon for a variety of effects, like, say, causing it to burst into flames. We also get to see Valyria and Pitar take on some Aundairan extremists, which I think gives some insight into Valyria’s character. On the one hand, she’s got some essential nobility of character, trying to subdue her enemies non-lethally and being unwilling to shoot through a hostage, but she’s a bit cocky about her abilities and is sometimes willing to let things slide a bit too close for comfort in her pursuit of justice.

I’m not doing much with the Dragonmarked houses in this fic (one of Len’s team has a history with a House, though; I’ll let you guess who and which one for now) but I did manage to work in a Lyrandar here. Thyra and co. have been staying ahead (unwittingly) of Valyria so far, but she’s about to narrow that lead…

-MsterGhandalf

 

Chapter 8: Conflicts of Interest

Irinali regarded the wineglass in her hand for a long moment, swirling the liquid within it around several times before looking up. She sat at the table in Sarrin’s main hall, a brooding, dark chamber lined with stained glass windows and banners depicting the red wolf of Karrnath. She was in her customary place at the lord’s right hand; ir’Sarrin himself sat in his great chair at the head of the table, hands folded before him as he regarded their visitor.

Taneth ir’Dennin was a man on the younger side, his clothing fine and his dark hair slicked back; he obviously considered himself handsome, though in Irinali’s opinion he wasn’t much to look at even so far as humans went, which wasn’t saying much. He was of noble blood, as the “ir” in his surname attested, but his family had little wealth or influence; nonetheless, he’d managed to connive his way into a position as a mid-level functionary in the court at Korth, a fact which he wore with no small measure of pride. He now sat at the table opposite ir’Sarrin, a wineglass held lightly in one hand; a pair of warforged bodyguards loomed behind him. Irinali scowled when she saw them. Perhaps it was mere professional disdain, but she had never cared much for the creatures – imbued with full sentience they might be, but still, their bodies were crude constructions of metal and wood. Dead flesh vivified – now there was an artistry in that, albeit one that the Cannith artificers who had first birthed the warforged in their workshops were unlikely to ever appreciate.

“So, Lord ir’Dennin,” Kharvin finally said, “now that you’ve eaten my food and are enjoying my family’s vintage, would you care to explain exactly what it is you’re doing out here?”

“Nothing terribly exciting, I’m afraid,” Taneth replied, taking a sip from his glass. “I’m merely on a tour of some of the outlying households in the capital’s vicinity, observing how the warlords and ladies of Karrnath are comporting themselves now that the war’s been over for several years and making sure that everything’s being run per the king’s expectations.” He gave a self-satisfied grin, which made Irinali scowl again. No doubt this self-important toady would be inordinately pleased for months, if not years, that reports he’d written had ended up on King Kaius’s desk.

“And?” ir’Sarrin asked, raising an eyebrow. “Are my efforts satisfactory?”

“Oh, quite,” Taneth replied. “From what I’ve seen, your guards are well-trained, your manor well-maintained, and according to our records you’ve never missed or stinted on paying your taxes. Got quite a war record too, ir’Sarrin. Very impressive.” He let his words trail off, and Irinali regarded him flatly. It sounded like there was a catch in there somewhere.

Taneth noticed her regard. “Ah, but it seems your… consort? Mistress? Priestess?... whatever her role may be, has noticed that I have more yet to say.”

“His necromancer, actually,” Irinali said; she was pleased to see Taneth flinch and squirm at that realization. In Karrnath, necromancy was held in higher regard than in most of the other nations of Khorvaire; that didn’t mean most people took well to suddenly finding out that they’d been sharing a table with a death wizard.

Taneth gulped and looked back to Kharvin. “The issue is, my lord,” he said, “is that there are certain… rumors about you, and I’d like to be able to put them to rest.”

“And they are?” ir’Sarrin prompted, his gaze suddenly steely.

“Well,” Taneth leaned in, “to put it bluntly, there’s nothing concrete, but there are certain stories going around that put you in connection with a certain organization which I don’t think I will have to name, but which has been outlawed by the Crown. Like I said, you’ve never disappointed our king before, and your war record is exemplary, and so you’ve been given an opportunity to defend yourself against these… accusation.”

“So you want me to swear that I’ve nothing to do with the Emerald Claw, is that it?” Kharvin asked; both he and Irinali noted that Taneth flinched again at the mention of the Order’s name. “Will that satisfy you?”

“It would put certain minds at ease in Korth, yes,” the noble said. “Would you be willing to swear on the Sovereigns that you have no contact with this… organization?”

“The Sovereigns?” Kharvin asked, voice low and suddenly deadly. He stood slowly, regarding Taneth with a glare darker than any he’d used all evening. “Don’t cite the gods at me, boy. Look around you. Pain, suffering, death. We’ve just come off of a hundred year war! If the gods were just, do you think they’d allow a world like this? Therefore, if they exist they must be unjust, and I will not debase myself by worshipping them. Am I clear?”

“Forgive me, my lord,” Taneth said; Irinali was pleased to note that he was shaking slightly. “You still hold to the Blood of Vol; I had forgotten.” The Blood of Vol held that the ultimate goal of existence was to transcend beyond death; as the gods had proven they were either unable or unwilling to help mortals in this quest, they were considered unworthy of veneration. Ir’Sarrin, whose family was long dead, held to these convictions with a particular fervor. Irinali wondered if Taneth was ignorant of her patron’s beliefs and history to ask such an oath of him, or was just stupid. “You may, of course, swear however you see fit, but the king has requested that you do so swear.”

There was a ringing sound as ir’Sarrin drew his sword; Taneth rose from his chair and took a step back, his bodyguards falling in at his side, but the weapon was not intended for him. Kharvin drew the blade across his palm, then squeezed his fist to make the blood flow. “I, Kharvin ir’Sarrin,” he said, “swear on the blood that is within me and the love I bear for my homeland that Karrnath is my beloved nation and Kaius ir’Wynarn, third of his name, is my king, and that I would never take action against them, or willingly associate myself with those who would do the same.” He fixed Taneth with his stare. “Does that satisfy you, boy?”

“Yes, my lord,” Taneth said. “Thank you for your cooperation. Assuming that no further rumors are attached to your name, I wish you good fortune. Well, it is getting late and I have far to go, so with that settled I think I shall take my leave. Long live Karrnath, long live Kaius III.” He turned and swept from the chamber, the two warforged following close behind; the doors slammed shut behind them.

When he was gone, Kharvin turned to Irinali. “It appears that our king has begun to suspect me,” he said. “Not very strongly, or he’d have sent someone more important and competent than that buffoon, but still, it’s worrying.” He paused for a moment, regarding the blood welling from his hand, then looked back at the necromancer. “Well, I may have to bow and scrape before Kaius for now, but my true loyalty is to a Queen, not a king. Contact the Order; appraise them of the situation, and tell them that we may have to move up our timetable.”

Irinali gave a quick, sharp bow. “As you wish, my lord.”

///

Len stifled a yawn as she poked with her fork at the surprisingly well-made slice of ham that lay on a plate in front of her. She and her companions had caught the first lightning rail out of Rekkenmark, but it was still a ride of several hours and it had been late at night by the time they’d finally arrived at Korth and rented rooms at The King’s Blades, an inn near the station whose rather martial name had thankfully reflected the Karrnathi national character rather than the quality of the sleeping arrangements. Len had been grateful to finally have some privacy after several days on the rail, but even with a room she and Yhani had to themselves, she’d still only managed a quick kiss before falling asleep fully clothed on her bed.

She was still tired this morning as she sat at a table with Yhani on one side and Ghazaan on the other, eating breakfast in the inn’s sparsely-populated common room; none of the others were awake yet. “You know, boss,” Ghazaan said as he speared a slice of ham on his fork – his fourth such this meal, hobgoblin appetites being what they were, “I’d never heard good things about Karrnathi food, but this really isn’t bad. Could do with a bit more salt, but nothing’s perfect.” He shoved the meat into his mouth and began chewing happily.

“I’ll be sure to pass your compliments on to the management,” Len said as she began cutting off a smaller piece of her own slice. Just as she was about to raise it to her mouth, however, Yhani’s hand brushed her arm.

“I think,” the elf said quietly, “that we are about to have company.” Looking up, Len saw what she meant; a human woman in a white cape and a half-elf man with a sword slung over one shoulder were making their way directly towards their table. Len set her fork down slowly and regarded them levelly as they approached.

“Do you mind if we join you?” the woman asked as she came to stand beside the table.

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Len replied. “My friends and I are tired, and as you can see, we’re in the middle of something, namely breakfast.”

“I’m afraid I must insist,” the woman said, helping herself to a chair; her companion sat beside her. Len glared at the newcomer and saw that Ghazaan was doing the same, but Yhani simply watched them with a veiled curiosity. “My name is Valyria; my companion is Pitar. We’re here to warn you about someone you’re travelling with; I don’t think you realize it, but you’re in terrible danger.”

“How so?” Len asked, her tone neutral, but her curiosity piqued.

Valyria leaned across the table and looked Len directly in the eye. “I’m an inquisitor of the Silver Flame,” she said quietly. “I’ve been hunting for someone for a year now, and I’ve finally found her. You and your friends match the description of a mercenary company this person hired in Sharn, and I saw you in her company last night leaving the rail station. So tell me – how much do you really know about Thyra Entarro?”

///

Thyra yawned and stretched her arms as she made her way down the stairs towards the common room. After all those long days on the rail, she finally felt somewhat rested, and now breakfast seemed like an extremely appealing prospect. About halfway down the stairs, she turned to look into the common room and froze. It took her a moment to process what she was seeing, but sure enough, that was Val, seated across a table from Len and talking quietly with her – and Pitar was with her. Oh, damn, damn, damn. Of all the hunters who could have pursued Thyra, why did it have to be her sister? And why did she have to find her now?

Fortunately, it didn’t look like Val had noticed her. Thyra dropped to her knees on the step and quickly muttered a spell under her breath. By the time she’d hit the wood, she’d vanished completely from sight.

///

“Not as much as I’d like,” Len said; she thought she saw a flash of movement out of the corner of her eye, but when she glanced over at the stairs, they were empty. “What do you know?”

Valyria drew a deep breath, as if what she was about to say was extremely painful, and then she began to speak. “Thyra is my younger sister,” she began. “Or at least, she was. I’m not sure what she is now, but I fear the worst. I fear that she is a danger to anyone who comes in contact with her.

“Growing up, Thyra and I were never particularly close – I’m seven years older than she is – but she always admired me and I looked after her. Our family is from Flamekeep, and both of our parents are clerics of the Silver Flame. That both of us would feel a religious calling wasn’t unusual; the Church was pervasive in every aspect of our lives. I trained as a warrior – that’s where I met Pitar, here – and eventually I became an inquisitor. Thyra, though, she always had her heard set on being a priestess. She was bright, beautiful, devout, talented – everyone always expected she’d succeed at that, that there was a brilliant future ahead of her.

“All of that changed when she turned sixteen. She started developing strange magical abilities and became secretive and withdrawn. That in and of itself wasn’t particularly disturbing – teenagers are prone to odd behavior, after all, and our family had produced sorcerers before. She stopped attending services, holed herself up in her room with obscure spellbooks and historical texts, and then, one day, she vanished. A significant portion of the Entarro family savings vanished with her, and it was shortly afterwards that a priest was found dead.”

“Are you suggesting that your sister is a murderer?” Yhani asked. “The child certainly keeps her secrets, but I find that difficult to credit.”

“We don’t know what happened,” Valyria said. “The priest’s name was Brother Nalin, and he was a close friend of our father’s – and a very learned man. We questioned his corpse magically, and he couldn’t remember how he died – but the last thing he remembered seeing was Thyra’s face. I went through his notes, and what I found was… disturbing.”

“Disturbing in what way?” Len asked carefully, a pit of dread forming in her stomach.

“Do you know what a rakshasa is, captain?” Valyria asked. Len frowned – she’d heard that term before somewhere, but she couldn’t place it – and Ghazaan looked equally confused, but Yhani gave a short, horrified gasp. Looking around at the three of them, Valyria continued. “Rakshasas are a race of immortal fiendish creatures; unlike most such beings, like the Daelkyr, who come from other realms, the rakshasa are native to Eberron itself. Legend holds that they ruled this world in ancient times, and that their leaders were beings of such power as to rival the gods. They were overthrown long ago, and imprisoned – some say that this was the origin of the Silver Flame, that it came into being to bind these dark titans – but some rakshasas that were lesser in power escaped. I say lesser, but that is only comparative – they are shapeshifters, illusionists, sorcerers of awesome power, and they want to take back what they believe is theirs, which is to say, everything.

“Brother Nalin’s notes indicated that he had begun to suspect that Thyra might be possessed by such a creature – he’d observed her powers, and they matched a rakshasa’s uncomfortably closely. I won’t bore you with the details of his research, but he must have become certain enough to confront Thyra about it, and that’s where the notes end. I believe his suspicions were correct, and so do my superiors in the Church. An evil creature has stolen my sister’s body and is using it for some unknown but doubtless terrible purpose, and it murdered a good man who found it out. For more than a year we couldn’t find her, but at last we received an anonymous tip that she was in Sharn, working closely with a professor at Morgrave. Pitar and I were dispatched to capture her and bring her back to Flamekeep for exorcism.” Faint tears shone at the edges of Valyria’s eyes. “I don’t know if there is anything left of my sister inside that creature or if there’s any way for me to get her back, but at the very least I promise to destroy the thing that’s desecrating her body. Will you help me?”

“I am curious,” Yhani said slowly. “What exactly do you think this rakshasa’s goal is? So far, if what you say is true, it – or she – has done an excellent job of portraying a frightened girl in over her head and a very poor one portraying an evil from the Age of Demons. What is the purpose of this deception?”

“I don’t know!” Valyria shouted, slamming a fist into the table. “Do you think I’m lying to you? Do you think I want to kill this demon, knowing that doing so might also rob me of ever seeing my sister again? Or do you just not care that your client is a monster that stole a girl’s life, as long as it pays you?”

Len stood partway up, keeping her gaze level with Valyria’s. “I would never voluntarily work for a demon,” she hissed. “But my experience has been that the Church of the Silver Flame has been known to attack first and confirm that their target really was what they thought later, if at all. I don’t think you’re lying, but I think there’s more to this story, and I’d rather not help you kill an innocent if you’re wrong. Let me discuss things with my team, and if we decide to help you, we’ll let you know. Does that sound acceptable, inquisitor?”

Valyria breathed out slowly. “That’s fair, and as much as I could hope for,” she said. She stood, Pitar at her side. “I’m staying at Aureon’s Scroll, down the street. You can find me there if you decide you believe me. If you don’t, but I turn out to be right – I warn you, a rakshasa is a very dangerous thing.”

“So am I,” Len said softly. Valyria nodded once, then turned and swept from the inn, Pitar at her heel.

Len set her hands on the table and breathed deeply, her appetite gone. Glancing up at her companions, she saw that Ghazaan looked concerned, and Yhani lost in thought. Sighing, she looked over towards the stairs, and saw Thyra crouched there, staring at her through the railing, a look of absolute terror written across her face.

“Get over here, girl, now,” Len called, her words cold as ice. “You have some explaining to do.”

///

Well, some significant revelations here! Valyria and Thyra are sisters – probably easy enough to have guessed – and we learn the reason why one of the sisters has been pursuing the other. Valyria is telling the truth as she knows it here, but of course, it’s not the full story. Next chapter we hear Thyra’s side of things.

King Kaius of Karrnath is one of the more interesting “bad guys” in Eberron, not the least because he’s fairly reasonable and dedicated to peace and stability, despite also being a dictator whose official alignment is a big Lawful Evil. Doing much with him is beyond the scope of this fic, but I wanted to show he’s not ignorant of what ir’Sarrin’s up to. He’s not terribly suspicious, yet – if he was he would have sent someone smarter and less easy to intimidate to sniff things out – but it’s only a matter of time, and Kharvin knows he can only get away with so much before the king catches on and ends things rather decisively. This was more of a warning to get his act together than anything. I also managed to work in some warforged extras here. I’ve never been as enamored of them as a lot of Eberron fans are, hence why I don’t have any among my main cast, but they’re iconic enough that not having any show up at all felt wrong.

-MasterGhandalf

 

Chapter 9: Thyra’s Story

“Are you sure about this?” Pitar asked Valyria as the two of them left The King’s Blades and made their way across the street. “We’ve been hunting down Thyra for the better part of a year, and now that we’ve found her we’re just walking away? And leaving those people with her? By the Flame, do you really think they can handle it?”

They reached the sidewalk across from the inn and Valyria seated herself on a bench, gesturing for Pitar to take a seat beside her. “I didn’t see any point in making a scene in public,” she said. “We don’t have any jurisdiction here, and if we tried to force the issue we’d most likely end up in King Kaius’s dungeons, where we’d be no good to anyone. The captain obviously didn’t trust us, but I think some of what I said got to her, and she seemed too smart to let a potential danger go free. And luckily for us, the elf-woman seemed to have a pretty good idea of what kind of threat a rakshasa represents, and what it might take to deal with it. If everything works out, she’ll manage to convince the captain to help us take Thyra.” She frowned, and closed her eyes. “Excuse me, the thing in Thyra’s body. Let’s not call it by my sister’s name anymore, all right?”

“And what are we going to do if the elf doesn’t come through, Val?” Pitar asked. “What if the mercenaries try to take on the rakshsasa by themselves and all get killed? They looked like they’d been around a few times, especially that hobgoblin, but I don’t think they have any idea what they’re up against. And worse, what if they decide they don’t believe us at all?”

“Then we’ll have to find another plan,” Valyria said. “Pitar, I want you to go back to the Scroll and wait; if the captain or any of her people come looking for us, I want you there. I’ll watch The King’s Blades, and if they try to leave without contacting us, or the rakshasa tries to slip away, I’ll know and send a message for you. If it comes to the worst, we can always tell the city guards what’s going on and try to get Kaius’s support.”

Pitar looked dubious. “I don’t know, Val,” he said. “We’re Thranish, and Flameites; I don’t think the city guards would care much for us. And from everything I’ve heard about Kaius III, his government isn’t something I’d want involved. He’s supposed to be a very dangerous man, and none too scrupulous.”

“Like I said, it’s a last resort,” Valyria replied. “But I doubt the Karrns want a rakshasa sniffing around their turf any more than we do. And the king may be a dangerous man, but he is just a man. I’d rather he get some sort of advantage out of this than the rakshasa be left free to pursue its agenda.”

“All right,” Pitar said, standing. “Good luck, then. I’ll see you later.” The paladin nodded sharply once, then turned and began to head up the street towards Aureon’s Scroll.

Valyria bought a flatbread from a nearby foods stall and returned to her bench, chewing thoughtfully as she watched the inn. Don’t worry, Thyra, she thought. I’ll save you if I can, but I’m afraid I’ll have to settle for avenging you.

///

“In. Now.”

Thyra stepped silently into Len and Yhani’s rented room, following the captain’s cold glare and sharply pointed finger. Technically, Thyra was still supposed to be in charge, but at the moment, she’d never felt less in charge of anything in her entire life. The shock of seeing Val and Pitar here still left her shaking, all the more because she had no idea what her sister and her partner had talked about with Len; she’d been too far away to hear much of their actual words. All she knew, from Len’s expression, was that her lies were up, but she was still too frozen from fear to do anything about it. If the mercenaries knew, then what would they do with her?

Thyra took a seat on one of the beds, feeling for all the world like a small child about to be scolded by her parents; Len and Yhani took their seats opposite her, while the rest of the company filed around the edges of the room, suspicion clouding their faces. The captain had made sure the whole team was in attendance, having even pulled Rinnean and Havaktri from their rooms, where the elf had still been resting, and the kalashtar meditating. Looking around at those who hadn’t been in the common room, Thyra saw that Harsk’s expression was carefully neutral, Rinnean’s thoughtful, and Havaktri’s entirely alien and unreadable – whatever in the kalashtar girl was human, it wasn’t at all evident at the moment.

“Now that we’re away from prying ears,” Len said, “our client has some explaining to do, and for her sake she had better do it quickly and be very convincing.” Her eyes hardened even further, if possible. “Well, girl? What do you have to say for yourself?”

“What did Valyria tell you?” Thyra said in a soft voice; it was all that managed to get out.

“Your sister,” Yhani said, carefully emphasizing the relationship, “informed us that you were a demonic creature that had taken over Thyra Entarro’s body and was using us in part of some scheme to bring chaos to Khorvaire.”

Thyra’s heart skipped a beat, but Rinnean whistled loudly. “Well,” he said, “I had a feeling she wasn’t telling us everything, but that’s a twist I didn’t see coming. She doesn’t look like a demon, but then, Harsk doesn’t look like a sanctimonious would-be druid either, so appearances can be deceiving.”

Harsk merely gave a derisive snort, but Yhani held up her hand. “Quiet, both of you,” she said. “I do not believe Thyra is a demon; I have been watching her carefully ever since Sharn, and I think a true demon would be rather more skilled at hiding its secrets.” Thyra was uncertain whether to be relieved or offended at that statement, but before she could decide, Yhani continued. “However, Sister Valyria seemed entirely convinced of her belief, and her distress appeared all too genuine. And Miss Thyra has certainly been keeping secrets from us about herself and why she hired us.”

“So,” Len said, “we’re going to give you a chance to come clean. Tell us what in Dolurrh is really going on, and it had better be true. I’m going to be watching you; I’m a pretty good liar myself, and I think I can tell if you’re lying. If I can’t, then Havaktri will be reading you through the whole conversation, and your thoughts had better, for your sake, match up with what you’re telling us. If they don’t, if we have any hint of you being this rakshasa thing Valyria says you are, then we’re delivering you straight to her.”

Thyra arched an eyebrow. “And what if I am a rakshasa and decide I’d be better off killing you all and finding another bunch of sellswords to dupe?”

Len’s smile was wintry. “None of us are easy pickings, kid. We know what we’re doing, and maybe we couldn’t kill you, but we’d force you to reveal yourself and make a public spectacle in the middle of the capital city of one of the most militarized nations in Khorvaire. If we don’t get you, and Valyria doesn’t get you, you’ll still find yourself having to explain things to King Kaius, and I doubt he’ll be a very kind audience. But if you are what you look like, you don’t have to worry about any of that.” She glanced over at Havaktri. “Are you ready?”

Havaktri closed her eyes and nodded once. “I can feel her thoughts. Thyra, you may begin at any time.”

Thyra closed her eyes, breathed in steadily, then began speaking. “I was born in Flamekeep and my parents are both clerics of the Silver Flame. Ever since I was a small child, I always felt like I was being… called. That I’d been set apart, that I was meant for great things. Everyone else seemed to think that too, my parents especially, and even Val. She was always so serious even then, but I looked up to her and trusted her completely. From as early as I could think about the future, I had my life all planned out. I was going to be a great priestess of the Flame, greater than anyone I knew, and I was going to go out and banish darkness from the world, just like my namesake, Tira Miron.

“But after my sixteenth birthday, things started happening. I never studied arcane magic, but I was developing magical abilities. I wasn’t surprised, not at first. Some of my ancestors were sorcerers, and there’s no reason you can’t be a sorcerer and a cleric. But the powers I had, the spells I found myself learning intuitively, they… weren’t nice. They let me do things like manipulate and deceive, bend others to my will and hurt them if they refused. I was afraid. What sort of creature was I? I tried to hide it from my family, but Val was already an inquisitor at this point, trained to find things out, and I knew she’d get it out of me sooner or later. I had to figure out what was wrong with me, so I went to my father’s friend Brother Nalin, who was a noted magical scholar.

“Brother Nalin told me a story. He spoke of ancient demons that once ruled the world, called rakshasas. He said they had powers like mine, that they were shapeshifters, illusionists, deceivers.” Thyra shuddered, drawing a deep breath before continuing. “He said that sometimes these rakshasas had children with mortals, and these children had children, and so on down the line, blending seamlessly among humans until they forgot their own heritage, but that the power was always there, slumbering, until after countless generations it might awaken again.” She looked up at Len, and was shamed to feel tears in the edges of her eyes. “That’s what I am, Captain. Somewhere in my family’s distant history a rakshasa disguised itself and laid down with one of my ancestors, and I… I’m the result. That’s why I’m a sorcerer, because my ancestors’ power moves through me.”

“True,” Havaktri said, breaking the silence that had fallen after Thyra finished speaking. “All true so far, at least as I can tell. And fascinating! I wonder – “

“Not no,” Yhani said, quietly but firmly; Havaktri looked guilty. “Please continue, Thyra.”

“All right,” the young woman said, taking another deep breath. “Nalin told me that there were records of other people like me, and he said that sometimes, when they grew powerful enough, their magic overtook them and they… changed, becoming rakshasas themselves. He warned me that… that if the Church hierarchy found out, they’d try to exorcise me, and when I couldn’t be exorcised, they’d kill me, to be on the safe side. He told me to get out of Flamekeep, to go to Sharn and find a professor at Morgrave University he knew who could help me. I used my powers to disguise myself as my mother, stole money from my family’s savings, and fled that night.”

“That all still true?” Ghazaan asked Havaktri, who nodded. “But then what happened to the priest? That Flame girl said he was dead, and it was Thyra who did it.”

“Brother Nalin? Dead?” Thyra doubled over; Nalin had been like a brother to her father, and his death was like a punch to the gut. “When? How?” She looked up, eyes wild. “It wasn’t me, I promise! I would never, how could Val think…” she shook her head. “Val. No wonder she thinks I’m a monster.” Thyra doubled over again, tears streaming from her eyes.

“Would you like a moment?” Yhani asked, but Thyra shook her head.

“No. Best to get it over with,” she said. “I did what Nalin asked. I went to Sharn, enrolled at Morgrave using the money I stole to pay admissions and my… abilities to help move the process along. I met Taras Zanthan, the professor Nalin had spoken of. He knew who I was, and why I was there, because Nalin had sent him a letter – apparently, before… before he died – and he promised he’d find some way to help me get rid of this taint. Then, about a month ago, he told me he’d heard rumors of a map that had been found, dating back to the Age of Demons, that showed a vault where an artifact was kept – something that might be powerful enough to get rid of my rakshasa blood, to make me me again. The only problem was, the map had been bought by a powerful man in Karrnath – ir’Sarrin. He wasn’t about to give it up, so Taras suggested we steal it.” She looked at Len. “And that’s where you come in.”

“So far as I can tell, all true,” Havaktri said. “At least, the thoughts in her mind matched the ones she was voicing, and I don’t think she’s skilled enough to deceive me.”

“Hmmm,” Harsk said. “That’s quite a story. Especially if it’s true. But I’ve never heard of any magic that could make a sorcerer into a normal person, and I spent some time with the Ashbound Druids when I was her age. They hate arcane magic, and if it was possible to take that magic away for good, I think they’d know it and use it.”

“It is possible the ancients developed powers we simply do not know about,” Yhani said slowly. “Whether the demons themselves, or the dragons who warred against them, trying to counteract each other’s abilities. If there is one thing I have learned in my own studies, it is that we should never assume that simply because we have lightning rails and airships and warforged, that we know better than those who came before.”

“Well, maybe I’m stupid, but Thyra, I believe you,” Len said. “That doesn’t mean I’m happy with you for lying to us, though I get why you did it. You could have just told us you were representing this Taras Zanthan and it would’ve saved us all a lot of grief. But now I’ve got half a mind to go see if we could talk some sense into your sister about this, convince her that you’re not actually an evil prehistoric monster.”

“No!” Thyra said, more sharply than she’d intended; everyone regarded her with surprised expressions. “Listen, Captain, when you were talking to Valyria, how did she talk about me?”

Len shrugged. “Mostly like Thyra Entarro was dead and you were something driving her corpse around. I think it’d do her good to realize that you were still alive and innocent of the murder she thinks you committed.”

“Exactly,” Thyra said. “Valyria thinks I’ve been… possessed, or replaced, or something, and that’s going to affect her judgment. I know my sister, and she’s hard, unyielding, stubborn. You don’t get to be an inquisitor by being soft and sentimental. She’d probably kill me as soon as she saw me, thinking she was avenging her sister’s death and only figure out her mistake afterwards.” She looked down at her hands. “When I face her, I want it to be with this taint gone, so I can prove to her that it’s really me and she doesn’t have to fight.” And I can’t face my family with the shame of what I am hanging over me, she thought. This didn’t come from nowhere. If it’s in me, it must have been in one of my parents, too – and even Val. If I tell them about our heritage, I have to give us all a way out.

And both Nalin and Taras told me I shouldn’t risk facing servants of the Flame without proof I could be saved…

“Suit yourself,” Len said, shrugging again. “You’re still our client, Thyra, at least for now. Since you apparently aren’t an ancient demon, our contract still stands until that map is out of ir’Sarrin’s manor and in your hands.” Her eyes hardened sharply. “But don’t you ever. Lie. To me. Again. We need this money, badly, but one more sudden revelation or hidden agenda and we’re through, contract or no contract. Got it, kid?”

“Completely,” Thyra said, her voice absolutely sincere.

“Then tell us what you know about ir’Sarrin,” Len said, “leaving nothing out. I bet your sister’s still watching the inn, so let’s give her time to get nice and bored while we make plans.

///

Thyra’s secret is revealed. It should have been obvious from her pov sections that she wasn’t a real rakshasa, but she is a rakshasa-blooded sorcerer (see why I used Pathfinder rules?) Indeed, her whole concept as a character arose from the idea of a devout follower of the Silver Flame discovering she is, in part, one of the very creatures the Flame came into existence to bind. And it’s probably unsurprising that she’s turned out completely paranoid of other members of her faith, even her own family, and just wants her powers gone.

Also, if you’ve read any of my fics in other fandoms, Thyra is yet another example of me writing a young woman with supernatural powers and identity issues (Azula, Tahiri, Raven…). I have no idea why these kinds of character click for me so strongly, but I suspect a psychologist would have a field day with it.

Len would normally be more suspicious, but for reasons that will become clear before too long she’s sympathetic to Thyra’s position here – and having Havaktri scan Thyra’s mind helped in that regard. Of course, the question remains – if Thyra didn’t kill Brother Nalin, who did, and why? And why don’t Thyra and Valyria’s accounts of that murder line up? Needless to say, there are questions here that the characters will absolutely not be letting go, even if Len was convinced enough by Thyra’s story not to break off the contract.

Of course, Valyria’s not going to just let this slide either. A confrontation between sisters may be imminent, one way or another…

-MasterGhandalf

 

Chapter 10: Lost Dreams

After Thyra finished explaining what her mentor had told her about ir’Sarrin – which, unfortunately, wasn’t much more than what she’d described back in Sharn – the company returned to their rooms to try and wait out Valyria. Thyra and Havaktri had been in one room, and the three men in another, leaving the last for Len and Yhani. Once everyone was gone, Len sat on her bed heavily, while Yhani sat beside her.

“Sovereigns and Six, ‘Hani,” the captain said finally. “Well, we were right about the girl hiding something, weren’t we? It just came with a twist I never saw coming. Who’d have thought the kid’s got the blood of some ancient demon in her veins, or at least she thinks she does? I just figured she was using us as a quick way to get rich or something.”

“I did not anticipate the rakshasa situation,” Yhani admitted, “but I had a feeling it was something more than what you suggested. When we were talking on the rail, I made some rather pointed comments about the Prophecy, and it seemed to unsettle her. Now I have some idea why.”

“’Course, this also means she’s got us stealing something she has no right to in the first place, if ir’Sarrin really didn’t steal it from her family first.” Len shook her head. “Kid better be thanking the Flame and every saint she prays to that I’ve got no love for the Karrns, and that we desperately need her money, or I might’ve gone ahead and turned her in just for that.”

“If ir’Sarrin is connected with the Emerald Claw, it is doubtful his hands are clean,” Yhani said, and there was venom in her voice, something Len heard from her only very rarely. “Whatever he has planned for this map and the artifact it leads to, I think it best for all Khorvaire that it stays out of his hands.” The Aereni priestess typically didn’t judge other religions or beliefs, finding value in them all – all, that is, save for the Blood of Vol and especially that faith’s militant wing, the Emerald Claw. Len had asked her about that once and gotten what felt like a whole book’s worth of elven history dumped on her, but the important thing she’d taken away was that this was a very old, very personal grudge on the part of the entire Aereni priesthood. Apparently the Undying Court and the Blood of Vol had sprung from the same root, and as always, the bitterest feuds were between family.

Len leaned over and kissed Yhani on the cheek. “Don’t worry about it,” she whispered. “I don’t care how scary this guy is. We’ve been through worse together, and we’ll pull through this one too.”

Yhani smiled faintly. “I do admire your confidence, my love.” Then she paused, a distant look in her eyes. “There is one thing that bothers me, and that is the fate of this Silver Flame priest. Valyria assured us he was murdered, and that her divinations had revealed Thyra’s involvement. But Thyra claims Brother Nalin was alive the last time she saw him, and Havaktri said her shock and grief were genuine. So how, then, did the good Brother die?”

Len whistled. “That is a very good question. I suppose we couldn’t rule out a sudden heart attack, but from the look on your face, that’s not what you’re think.”

Yhani shook her head. “No. I have been considering both Entarro sisters’ stories, and one thing that is clear to me is that they both contain truth, but slanted towards very particular ends. I think Valyria was made to think her sister had been overtaken by a monster she had no choice but to destroy, and that Thyra was similar made to fear her heritage and flee from it. The one sister is placed as a goad to move the other forward.”

“What are you saying?” Len asked slowly.

“I am saying that there is another party involved in this matter, one whose hand has, until now been hidden. Thyra and Valyria are both caught in a web of this person’s devising, and now, so are we.”

“Well, what are we supposed to do about it?” Len demanded. “Just let this… whoever have their way with us? I don’t think so. By the Traveler, whoever this person is, they’d better be praying I never get my hands on them.”

“I doubt they are particularly frightened of us,” Yhani said. “I fear that we have stumbled upon a long-laid plan. But now that we know of that plan, we have a key advantage – we are not walking into it blindly. We must go forward with our eyes open, and perhaps we can unmask our adversary before it’s too late.”

“You’re damn right we will,” Len muttered. “I don’t suppose you have any idea who might be behind this?”

“I have many, each more outlandish than the last,” Yhani said. “My instinct is to suspect a rakshasa, but that may well be no more than misdirection. Eberron is an old world, and there are many forces in it capable of playing such a game.” She hung her head. “I can say no more. Do you remember the promises we made to each other, that first night you told me you loved me?”

“I do,” Len said quietly. “I promised you that I wouldn’t pry into the sacred mysteries of the Undying Court, and you promised that you wouldn’t make me talk about my past. I guess this touches on the “sacred mysteries” part, right?”

“Yes,” Yhani said. “I am sorry, my love. I hate keeping secrets from you, but I have made promises I should not break, for anyone.”

“I understand.” Len leaned against Yhani’s side, resting her head on the elf’s shoulder. “Hold me, ‘Hani. If we can’t talk, maybe we can at least do that.”

“I can.” Yhani wrapped her arm around Len’s shoulder and leaned her head against the captain’s; their hair, silver-blonde and black, mingled together in a single tide. They sat there together as the sun slowly shifted outside their window, taking silent comfort in one another’s company.

///

Ghazaan lay back on his bed with hands folded behind his head and feet dangling off the end, staring at the ceiling. Most things in Khorvaire, were made with humans or elves in mind and were ever-so-slightly too small for him, a problem he’d long ago made peace with. Last night he’d slept on the floor where he could spread out, precisely to avoid this situation, but at the moment that wasn’t an option, as Rinnean was pacing back and forth across it with a vengeance, seemingly determined to wear a hole through it and down into the common room.

“Would you stop that?” the hobgoblin finally said. “That noise is getting on my nerves, and you’re starting to make me dizzy.”

“Dizzy?” Rinnean asked. “That doesn’t make any sense. You’re not even watching me!”

“No, but I’m imagining it,” Ghazaan shot back. “And I’m going to keep imagining it as long as you’re at it.”

“Fine.” Rinnean dropped into the plain wooden chair that sat in the room’s corner. “Forgive me for being slightly agitated over the fact that our client turned out to be some sort of fiendish creature who’s been lying to us all week and hired us under false pretenses and apparently has the Church of the Silver Flame out for her blood. It’s the sort of thing that tends to get under a man’s skin a little.”

“She’s not a ‘fiendish creature’,” Harsk said from the other bed, where he was oiling one of his daggers. “My ancestors turned into wolves and bayed at the moon; that doesn’t make me a werewolf. And she’s less a rakshasa than I’m a lycanthrope. I know some druids back home who wouldn’t like her, but that’s because she’s got magic; from the sound of it, she’s almost entirely human.”

“So she says,” Rinnean muttered.

“And so Havaktri says,” Ghazaan put in. “I don’t like that the kid lied to us any more than you did, but if Havaktri’s right she’s probably not going to kill us all in our beds or anything. Besides, she hired us; she doesn’t have to be our friend, just to pay us when the job’s done.”

“Havaktri’s moon-mad and you know it,” Rinnean said, but didn’t follow up on it. He sat in silence for several long minutes before speaking again. “Well, if there’s one thing I can’t fault her for, it’s wanting to avoid getting entangled with family. By Dolurrh, if it was my family in the common room, Sovereigns know I’d be running as fast as I could in the other direction. That’s just common sense.”

“Well, I don’t like being stuck in here,” Harsk said. “I’m glad that this stop will be our last city on this trip. I’m looking forward to being back in the countryside.”

“That’s because you’re an unsophisticated barbarian,” Rinnean replied, though there was no malice in his voice. Ghazaan knew he teased Harsk simply because the shifter was so different from himself, and Harsk would, on occasion, respond in kind, but when push came to shove, the two of them would have each other’s backs. Harsk was one of the original members of their team, and Rinnean a relative newcomer, but they’d quickly managed to find a rapport when there were enemies to fight.

Ghazaan himself had been with the captain back during the War, when she’d been a young officer thrust into a command position by the death of her superiors, and he’d been a mercenary fighting for Breland. He’d known her longer than anyone, though probably not better – Yhani, who’d been attached to their unit as a medic not long after, had that distinction. After the war ended and they’d been politely but definitively discharged, Len had decided to start her mercenary business – Ghazaan, Yhani, and Harsk, who’d been a scout with their army unit, had been with her. Rinnean and Havaktri had joined later, when the captain had decided to diversify their skills.

Ghazaan trusted Len with his life, both to lead with a clear and level head and have his back when the fighting started. He knew her well enough to tell that she was still uncomfortable with the situation, but determined to see it through. Well, then, he’d help her see it through – and he’d keep both eyes open in case any more unexpected wrinkles got thrown into things before the end. Somehow, he had a feeling they hadn’t seen the last of those.

His ears twitching in annoyance, the hobgoblin did his best to block out Rinnean’s increasingly emphatic rambling about the wonders of city life. If they weren’t going to leave the inn until the night, the least he could do was get some more rest. Ghazaan was heir to a race of disciplined soldiers who had once conquered an empire; that nation was dust, but its heritage remained in his veins. When his team needed him, he’d be ready to give his all.

///

Thyra lay on her bed with the sheet wrapped tightly around herself, staring at the wall. She might have thought that finally telling the truth about what she was and why she’d hired Len’s team would have lifted some of the weight from her shoulders, but somehow it had just made things worse, more real. Admitting it out loud made the fact that she had fiend’s blood in her veins a much more tangible thing, and that wasn’t even considering the fact that she half-expected Val to come bursting through the door at any moment, eyes hard and an arrow nocked.

Rolling over, she regarded Havaktri, who sat cross-legged on the other bed. The kalashtar girl was meditating, and occasionally quick snatches of what sounded like a mantra in some alien language escaped her lips, though this was overshadowed in strangeness by the group of small objects – including a comb, a small case of some sort, and, inexplicably, an advertisement for last year’s Race of Eight Winds in Sharn – that were hovering in a circle around her head.

Apparently, Captain Len roomed with and only with Yhani, and Thyra had no desire to share with any of the men or waste any more of Taras’s money on a private room, so she’d been stuck with Havaktri. A part of her still wished she’d managed to find someone – anyone – even slightly more normal to share with.

“You seem troubled, Thyra,” Havaktri said suddenly; she opened her eyes, and her halo of small objects drifted down to the bed. “Would you like to talk about it?”

“Not really,” Thyra snapped. “Forgive me if I’m a little on edge, but we’re getting ready to assault a warlord’s fortress to steal a map so I can hopefully get rid of my sorcerer powers before they turn me into a monster, and my sister is probably marching up the stairs right now to haul me off for probable execution. I’m not really in the best of moods.”

Havaktri appeared thoughtful. “But aren’t you at least pleased to see Valyria after all this time? I have two sisters myself, and sometimes I miss them terribly.”

Thyra shot the kalashtar a flat look. “I take it neither of your sisters have ever tried to kill you,” she said. “My situation’s not exactly normal.”

“Oh,” Havaktri said. “That would be a problem. And no, my sisters and I usually get along quite well, although there was this one time Kirvaktri and I were sparring and she got mad and threw me across the room with a mind blast. I thought it was very rude.”

Thyra rolled her eyes. “I don’t think this conversation is going anywhere useful,” she muttered. “So if you don’t mind, would you please leave me alone?” She rolled back over, and for a long moment Havaktri was silent. Then the kalashtar spoke again.

“I’m sorry if I’ve been bothering you,” she said. “I’m not very good with human emotions, sometimes. My people communicate mind-to-mind in most cases, and without that bond, it’s difficult for me to tell what’s appropriate and what isn’t. I’ll try to do better. But I think I understand why you are so ashamed of what you are, why you kept it a secret and why you want to change this about yourself. You think that because you are, however distantly, descended from a monster, that you are doomed to become one yourself unless you act. But I don’t think that’s true.”

Thyra sat up and turned to face Havaktri, glaring viciously at her. “You don’t know anything about what that’s like,” she spat. “How could you?”

Havaktri merely looked sad, and then she sighed. “Maybe it would help if I told you a story,” she said. “This isn’t something we typically tell to outsiders, but I think you would benefit from hearing it. Long ago, there was a realm of pure dream, inhabited by creatures of thought and memory and passion. This realm is called Dal Quor, and its inhabitants are the quori. But the realm of Dal Quor is a nightmare, and the quori are terrible monsters who feed on the darker emotions of mortals. But, in this long-ago time, there was a quori who realized that this need not be, that Dal Quor could become a realm of beauty and light. Her name was Taratai, and she gathered followers about her who shared her beliefs.

“The followers of the nightmare hated Taratai and her people, and sought to destroy them. And so Taratai fled into mortal dreams, where she met a man, a monk from the land of Adar in Sarlona. He offered the rebel quori safe haven, and so to escape Dal Quor they mingled their essence with that of the human monks, giving rise to a new race – human in body, but here,” she gestured to her head, “something that was a little bit of both. That was the origin of the kalashtar. We are each descended from one of the original quori rebels and the human who sheltered them, and though we cannot dream – for we remain exiled from the realm of dreams – instead we share in the memories of our ancestors. I am Havaktri, of the line of the quori spirit Vaktri, and her presence moves in me and in all of my family until our line perishes from the world.”

Havaktri smiled sadly. “So you see, Thyra, we’re more alike than you think. I, too, am descended from both humans and from terrible, immortal monsters. And because of that, I know that even immortals can change. Angels can fall, they say – but demons can also rise. I am not bound to be a servant of the Great Darkness that Dreams, and I don’t think you are bound to the rakshasa’s fate either.”

Thyra rocked back on the bed, uncertain of what to think. Was Havaktri right? Was it possible for her to change her destiny, even without finding a way to remove her fiendish heritage? Then she shook her head. “No, Havaktri,” she finally said. “”From your story, the human monks and the quori rebels merged together to make something new. I don’t want to be something new – I want to be me, human, like I was before this madness started. Your path can’t be mine.” She sighed. “But… thank you anyway, for at least trying to help.”

Havaktri shrugged. “That’s all I could hope to do,” she said, rather wistfully. “I can’t solve your problems for you – only you can do that.”

“I hope so,” Thyra said, laying back down on the bed and staring up at the ceiling. Something was tickling at the edge of her mind, and finally she looked back over at the kalashtar. “There’s something bothering me about your story,” she said. “The other quori, the ones who didn’t rebel. What happened to them?”

“That,” Havaktri said carefully, her eyes suddenly guarded, “is a story for another time.”

///

Not a lot going on in terms of action this chapter, but it did give me a chance to have some more character interaction between the team, including our first Ghazaan pov (he hasn’t had much to do so far besides supporting Len, but I like him and this won’t be the last we’ll be getting of his thoughts and character). I did enjoy having Havaktri tell an abbreviated version of kalashtar history (its parallel to Thyra’s story suggested itself) and we learn a bit more about Len and Yhani’s relationship. They’ve both agreed to respect one another’s privacy, but for somewhat different reasons- Yhani has things she’s literally not supposed to talk about with laypeople, and especially non-Aereni, while Len has parts of her past she’s ashamed of and doesn’t want to talk about with anyone. Both of those are going to be significant down the line (and Havaktri’s allusions to the Dreaming Dark will bear fruit in the next fic in this series, assuming I ever get there).

-MasterGhandalf

 

Chapter 11: Unwelcome Discoveries

The sound of knocking roused Thyra from a state halfway between slumber and waking. Sitting up in her bed, she glanced over to see Havaktri sitting upright with her legs crossed and eyes closed – whether sleeping or meditating, she couldn’t say – and then turned her attention to the door. “I’m awake!” she called.

The door opened and Len stuck her head in. “It’s about an hour until dawn,” the captain said. “Get your things together and meet me out in the hall as soon as you can.”

“Understood,” Thyra replied; Len nodded once and pulled the door shut. Thyra stood and turned to Havaktri, but the kalashtar’s eyes were already open and were regarding her steadily.

“I heard,” she said. Gathering the few possessions they had with them into their travelling bags, the two young women soon exited the room and found Len and the other members of her team waiting for them outside.

“I trust there’s a very good reason you got us up at this ungodly hour,” Rinnean said, leaning against the wall; his dark hair looked significantly less sleek than usual.

“Why do you care?” Harsk asked, elbowing him in the side. “You’re probably used to skulking at all hours of the night. Besides, elves don’t even sleep, and it doesn’t look like it bothered Yhani at all.” Indeed, the priestess looked as composed as ever in her white robes and was regarding her fellow elf with a coolly disapproving expression.

Rinnean threw up his hands. “Fine, so I don’t technically sleep,” he said. “I still need rest, and my question still stands. Why couldn’t we wait to leave until morning like respectable people? I prefer to stay out late rather than wake up early, if you take my meaning.”

“If you’re through complaining,” Len said through gritted teeth, “we’re here because I wanted to make sure we weren’t being watched while we left. I snuck out a bit ago and saw Thyra’s sister sitting on a bench on the other side of the street, still watching the inn. That woman has commitment, I’ll give her that. But apparently even the holy warriors of the Silver Flame don’t have infinite patience, and she was looking pretty worn out. So I hit her with a spell to make her sleep. Doubt it would have worked on her while she was paying attention – she struck me as the type with a pretty strong will – but when she was half asleep already, well…” the captain’s words trailed off.

“And you want us to leave while she’s still out,” Ghazaan said, nodding. “Makes sense. What about the other one, the half-elf. Was he with her?”

“Didn’t see him” Len said, shaking her head. “Bet they were watching us in shifts, and he was back at their inn. He didn’t really strike me as the sneaking around in alleyways after dark type, either. “

“He’s not,” Thyra volunteered. “Val and Pitar trained at the same monastery, and he’s one of her closest friends; I knew him fairly well before… what happened. He’s a paladin, and fighting fair is important to him. I think I can be reasonably certain he’s not waiting in an alley to ambush us.”

“Good to know,” Len said. “Still, let’s not all leave up once; go a few at a time, and I’ll go last and leave money and a note on the host’s desk. We’ll meet up at the south gate and head from there down to ir’Sarrin’s manor. If we’re lucky, we’ll lose our Flameite friends in the bargain, or at least buy some time. Clear?”

After a chorus of “yes”, Len gestured for Ghazaan and Harsk, who nodded and headed down the hall towards the common room. As they began to head down the stairs, Thyra turned back to Len, a question gnawing at her mind. “Val’s an inquisitor; she’s trained to notice things,” she said. “Are you absolutely sure she didn’t see or recognize you before you put the spell on her? If she did, she’ll probably put two and two together and decide you’re her enemy.”

“I’m positive,” Len said with conviction in her voice that brooked no further argument. “Now, you get going next, with Havaktri. See you in a bit.”

“All right,” Thyra said, nodding. Together, she and Havaktri made their way through the hall, down the stairs, and out of the inn. Thyra took a moment as they stepped outside to look across the street, where she saw Val slumped on a bench; a part of her wanted to run over to her, shake her awake, and explain everything, but the stronger part of her feared where that would lead. I’m sorry, big sister, she thought. Someday, I hope I can make you understand. Just not today.

An hour later, as the sun’s first light crept over Korth, six mercenaries and one young woman from Thrane departed the city, heading south towards what Thyra hoped would be the final stage of their journey.

///

Valyria awoke to the feel of something being pressed into her hands. Opening her eyes blearily, she saw that it was a cup of some steaming, dark liquid, and raising her gaze from it she met the eyes of Pitar, who was looking at her with some concern. “Are you all right?” the paladin asked. “I found you asleep like this a little bit ago. I got the drink from a merchant stand nearby; it’s supposed to help you wake up.”

Valyria took a long sip of the hot drink, taking a moment to adjust to the strong and unfamiliar taste, but she realized with a start that it was making her feel more alert. Glancing around, she saw that it was morning and that people had already begun to fill the streets. “I can’t believe I fell asleep,” she muttered angrily, more to herself than Pitar. “By the Flame, it’s a miracle I wasn’t robbed!”

“I’ll say this for the Karrn government,” Pitar said as Valyria took another long drink, “they run a well-ordered capital. There probably aren’t too many people willing to risk Kaius’s dungeons just for a few crowns.”

“You’re probably right,” said Valyria, “but Karrnath’s law enforcement aren’t the real problem here. I have no idea how long I was asleep, or what I might have missed. Thyra could very well have given us the slip again.”

“I know,” Pitar said. “Neither the captain nor any of her people came to see me at the Scroll, which makes me think they either ended up not believing us, or Thyra – the rakshsasa – has them under some sort of control.”

Valyria swore under her breath. Quickly finishing her drink, she stood and began to stride across the street, Pitar following close behind. When she came to the inn, she thrust the doors open and marched inside, stopping at the desk where the host – a motherly-looking Halfling woman – was seated on a tall stool.

“Can I help you, young lady?” she asked, regarding the inquisitor with blue eyes made larger by the outsized spectacles she wore.

Valyria pulled out her picture of Thyra and placed it on the desk. “This girl and her friends were staying here yesterday. I want to know if they’re still here. The matter is urgent.” When the Halfling woman looked uncomprehending, she added, “family business.”

The hostess leaned over the picture and regarded it intently through her spectacles, then shook her head. “I’m sorry, dear,” she said, “but the person you’re looking for left early this morning, even before I was up; they left the pay for their rooms and meals on my desk and a very polite note, but I have no idea where they went. I can’t help you.”

“Dammit!” Valyria swore, snatching the picture back; the Halfling looked scandalized. Pitar shot her an apologetic look as Valyria spun on her heel and began to march back towards the door. Before she reached it, however, she felt a hand on her shoulder. Spinning, she saw that it belonged to a rather rough-looking human who she’d previously noticed out of the corner of her eye eating breakfast at one of the tables.

“Excuse me,” he said, “but I couldn’t help overhearing that you’re looking for someone who left earlier. I think I might be able to help you.”

“Really?” Valyria asked, her tone dubious. “How?”

“Well,” he said, “I was up early, using the, er, necessary when I heard some people talking in the hall outside my room. It sounded like they were interested in getting out before dawn and giving someone the slip. I think that’s probably the same people you’re after.”

Valyria grabbed the man by both shoulders and pulled his face within inches of her own; his eyes widened in shock. “Where did they go?” she hissed. “Did they say where they were going?”

“I’m not sure,” the man said, looking nervous. “But I definitely heard a woman’s voice say that they were going south, and something about Lord ir’Sarrin.”

“Ir’Sarrin,” Valyria mused, “I’ve heard that name before, but I can’t place it.”

“Some bigshot nobleman, war hero or the like,” the man said. “I think his family’s got some old manor a day or two south of the city. But I don’t know what your friends want with him, I promise! It’s not my business.”

“Well, you’ve been a great help to us anyway,” Valyria said; she let the man go and pulled a couple of galifars from her pouch, then thrust them into his hand. “The Church of the Silver Flame is generous. Pitar, come on! We’re heading south to see a local lord.”

///

The sound of clashing swords echoed through the courtyard at Sarrin. A number of the fortress’s guards and servants stood in a loose circle on the cobblestones, watching the two figures who circled each other in the center with their weapons at the ready. One of them was Lord ir’Sarrin himself, stripped to the waist to reveal a torso that was still fit and heavily muscled despite the fact that he had entered late middle age; the warlord was not one to let the fact that he had left his youth behind years ago slow him down in the slightest. Opposite him was an officer of his guard who had served him through the Last War and after; now the two men were sparring, blades clashing in a fierce contest of skill.

Some lords would expect that their station gave them the right to always win at everything they did and would order their sparring partners to throw the match; Irinali, who was leaning against the battlements atop the outer wall as she watched ir’Sarrin spar, knew that was not the case here. Kharvin was not one to expect his servants to give less than their all purely to pander to his ego; he expected perfection from them, and from himself. If that meant he lost a duel, so be it; it would teach him lessons to apply to future conflicts.

Something in the sky caught Irinali’s attention; she glanced up, away from the match, and saw a small shape descending towards her. Her eyes widened as it resolved into a large, ragged bird – one of the undead hawks she and her apprentices kept for communications that were too important to trust to living couriers or an outsider’s magic. The necromancer raised her right arm and the hawk landed on her gloved wrist, sitting with a stillness that no living creature could match; a small scroll case was tied to one of its legs.

Carefully, Irinali opened the case and removed the scroll from inside. She recognized the handwriting of one of her two apprentices – Ashlinn, the girl she’d sent with the expedition to the Mournland, rather than Dal, the young man who remained here at the fortress. Unrolling the scroll, she read:

Mistress Irinali,

It is my pleasure to inform you that the map was accurate. We reached the location marked on it with minimal difficulty – though I am thankful we didn’t have to go any deeper into this awful place – and with the help of the skeleton workers you provided, we were able to quickly begin excavation. It didn’t take long before we were able to cut through the soil and rock, and found the door to the sepulcher underneath. It was all very easy – too easy, I realized.

There is a reason this vault has remained undisturbed throughout the millennia, Mistress, and it isn’t because it’s difficult to find. The doors are made of some metal I can’t identify, and they are sealed shut by an ancient and powerful magic. They bear no latch or keyhole, and only a thin line down the center proves that they are anything more than a solid wall. Neither the strength of our skeletons or of our lord’s soldiers proved capable of so much as scratching the metal; the spells I tried to cast on it proved equally ineffective.

The fact that this place is so well secured only makes me more certain that something valuable is contained within. However, I find myself at a loss how to reach it. Perhaps your greater skills my serve where mine have failed, or either you or our lord possess some knowledge of how the doors may be opened. I will await your future instructions, Mistress, and I hope to receive your reply soon.

Long live Karrnath.

Ashlinn

Irinali read the message twice over, a scowl growing on her features. Finally she swept from the wall and entered the courtyard, parting the crowd and approaching the combatants. Ir’Sarrin, it appeared, had won, as he was standing to the side of the ring and drinking water from a glass a servant had brought him while his opponent stood on the other side, nursing an aching hand. Irinali passed him the letter quietly; ir’Sarrin’s expression grew darker as he read through it, and when he was done he snarled and threw it aside.

“Dammit!” he snarled, and the servants all took a few steps back; ir’Sarrin didn’t lose his temper often, but when he did it was usually best to keep a distance. “The treasure of the Age of Demons is at our fingertips, and now we find that when we’re within striking distance of the prize we can’t get it! Damn whoever made that vault to the depths of Dolurrh!”

Kharvin’s anger, Irinali knew, wasn’t only because he’d failed in sight of his goal, though that surely rankled him. But the Queen of Death had entrusted this mission to him, and she was mercurial and had little tolerance for servants who failed to deliver. And if word somehow got out that he had sent an expedition into the Mournland for no apparent gain, he might find himself forced to answer some very awkward questions in court. Kaius had sent that fool earlier as a warning; his next would be rather more severe.

Irinali watched ir’Sarrin simmer for a few minutes before she approached. “My lord,” she said, “this isn’t necessarily the end. Ashlinn is a talented apprentice, but I’m much more skilled and experienced than she is. I will search my library here and I will find a way to penetrate the sepulchure, even if it means we have to blast it apart. All it will take is a little more patience.”

“Patience, yes,” Kharvin muttered, clenching and unclenching his fists. He turned to Irinali with dark eyes. “But you had better be able to deliver, my good necromancer. Work as if your life depends on it. Because if you fail, it will very likely be both our heads on the line.”

///

Not a whole lot to say here. The pieces of our plot are slowly moving together, though I estimate we’re about halfway through the fic. Everyone has had to deal with some setbacks in their plans, and all three of our main factions – Thyra and the mercenaries, Valyria and Pitar, and ir’Sarrin and his people – are going to converge sooner rather than later.

-MasterGhandalf

 

Chapter 12: War Stories

The sun was creeping down past the horizon when Len called for a halt. Halfway between Korth and Sarrin there were no towns nearby, and the Captain had decided that even if there were, she didn’t want to risk running into any of ir’Sarrin’s people so close to his home. Therefore, the company made their way off the road and found a small clearing where they could put up a camp for the night.

Harsk began the task of gathering wood for a fire, while Ghazaan laid out several bedrolls he’d apparently been carrying in his overlarge pack; the price, it seemed, of being the largest and strongest of the team. Soon they were arranged around a merrily roaring fire while Harsk sat beside it, the shifter intent on the boiling pot – something else from Ghazaan’s supplies – he’d suspended over it. Thyra didn’t know what the shifter was cooking, but it smelled delicious.

As they waited for the meal to be finished, the mercenaries fell to various activities. Rinnean seated against a tree, engrossed in cleaning a collection of daggers far more impressive than what Thyra had imagined he could have hidden on his person. Havaktri stood apart from the others and seemed to be engaged in some sort of elaborate dance, flowing from one pose to another with a serene expression on her face. Len and Yhani regarded everyone else with sharp looks, apparently satisfying themselves that everyone was present and unlikely to get themselves involved in too much trouble, and then they stepped backwards before sharply turning to face one another. They bowed once, and then each drew her sword – Len’s a straight-bladed longsword, Yhani’s an elvish scimitar – and held it before her in a salute. Then they struck.

Thyra, like most Thranes, could shoot a bow, but she had little knowledge of swordsmanship. Still, as Len and Yhani sparred, she could tell that they were both incredibly skilled, their blades darting and meeting in what seemed more dance than fight; it was obvious that they knew one another’s moves intimately, with the result seeming less a form of exercise and more a graceful, sharp-edged duet.

“Something, isn’t it?” Ghazaan asked suddenly, the big hobgoblin sitting at the base of the tree beside Thyra. “They do this every time we’re on the road and they’ve got the space, but it’s always worth watching. Those girls know how to handle a blade.”

Thyra started instinctively at the hobgoblin’s presence, then forced herself to calm down, knowing that she was being ridiculous. Ghazaan was imposing, but so far as she’d seen, he was good-natured and not nearly as threatening as he looked. “You know them both well, then?” she asked.

“Yep,” Ghazaan said, leaning back against the tree. “I’ve been with the Captain since the beginning, and I know her better than anyone except Yhani. We were all in the same company during the War, you know, the three of us and Harsk. Rinnean and Havaktri came later.” He looked over at Thyra and winked. “No need to change the subject, though. I saw that I startled you, and it’s okay. I get that a lot.”

“I’m sorry,” Thyra said, hanging her head and feeling an embarrassed blush creep up her cheeks. “It was stupid.”

Ghazaan chuckled and his long ears twitched. “I’m seven feet tall and I have fangs. I’ve been around long enough that I know I set off every human’s instincts about big, scary predators. Which, I’ll admit, I’ve taken advantage of a time or two in my line of work. There’s a lot humans have done to my people that I don’t understand and won’t forgive; being startled when I show up suddenly isn’t one of them.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Thyra said, letting her gaze drift back to Len and Yhani sparring. “So, you fought for Breland, then?”

“Yeah, I was a mercenary then too,” Ghazaan said, “but on my own, not part of a company. Got assigned to a fortress along the border with Cyre – that was back before the Mourning, of course. At that time, Cyre was mostly concentrating on you lot up in Thrane, so we all thought we had a pretty cushy assignment. That is, until the Karrns decided to pull a major offensive. They cut straight through south Cyre and headed right for us; I think they were trying to cut Cyre in half, and we just happened to be in their way. The fort’s commander and most of his staff were killed or put out of commission in the first assault, and we all thought we were done for.

“That’s when I saw her. Len was barely into her twenties at the time, just a skinny girl who’d enlisted to get away from a past she never talked about, not even an officer. But she rallied us, and by Dorn, we stood. Seemed like she was everywhere along the wall that night, her sword blazing like fire, and by the time the dawn came, we’d held, and the Karrns were pulling back. She stood there on the wall, battered, bruised, but on her feet, and then this Karrn officer came riding out from their ranks in full armor. Thought he was going to launch another attack, but instead, he just saluted us; Len saluted him back. We couldn’t hold out another night, and we all knew it, but later that afternoon we were relieved and the Karrns decided to go look for an easier target. Well, the commander of the reinforcements took credit for it, of course; Len got promoted, but nobody in the top brass ever really cared what she’d done. But I knew from that day on that there was a soldier I’d follow, and I’ve followed her ever since.” Ghazaan shrugged. “And I couldn’t tell you for sure, but I think that was probably when Yhani started to fall in love with her, too.”

“Wait, you mean the Captain and Yhani are… oh… oh,” Thyra said, closing her mouth and feeling stupid. The quiet glances the two seemed to share, as if they could communicate on a level without words… their insistence on only rooming with each other… even their current sparring, which Thyra had already thought seemed more like a dance than a fight. “Well, that explains quite a few things,” she finally managed.

Ghazaan grinned. “Yeah, they don’t make a big deal about it in public – Captain wants to make sure people think she’s professional and announcing to everyone that she’s sleeping with her second-in-command wouldn’t fit with that, and I don’t think Yhani’s people really go for public affection anyway – but it’s no real secret that they’ve been together for years.” He gave a short laugh. “Growing up, I’d always heard elves were snooty and kept to their own kind, so I’d never have thought one’d end up with a – well, with someone like Len. But Yhani’s not as stuck up as some, and like I said, I think the Captain impressed her.”

“What do you know about Yhani?” Thyra asked, her mind flashing back to their disconcerting conversation on the lightning rail. “I know she’s Aereni, but do you know anything else about where she came from or why she came to Breland?”

“Can’t help much there,” Ghazaan said. “The Aereni don’t exactly advertise about their culture, and there’s some bad blood between Yhani’s ancestors and mine, going way back before the first humans ever showed up from Sarlona, so it’s not like I heard a lot good about them growing up. But Yhani joined up shortly after I did, just saying she knew healing magic and could serve as a medic. I thought it was strange at the time – since when do elf priestesses deign to mingle with the rest of us? – but as it turns out she’s quite a bit more open-minded than I expected. Definitely someone I’d trust with my life any time. She never did talk much about her home life, but I’m pretty sure she’s noble born, and I remember one time she casually mentioned having tea with her great-great-grandmother, a woman who’s been dead for more than a thousand years. I don’t know if elf priests have ranks, but if they do, I think Yhani’s probably a fair bit higher on the ladder than she lets on. But any time the Captain or I’ve needed her, she’s always been there for us – always. So long as she keeps that up, I say she can have her secrets.”

The hobgoblin suddenly chuckled. “And of course, she’s got that mask – you haven’t seen it, she only wears it for battle or holy days – that looks like a gilded skull. Night we met, there’d just been a skirmish with some of the Karrns’ undead, and she was wearing it during the fight, and didn’t bother to take it off before treating the wounded. Len took a good knock to the head, and when she woke up and saw Yhani bending over her with that thing on – well, let’s just say she hit Yhani so hard it knocked her flat on her rear in the dirt.”

“Seriously?” Thyra asked, struggling not to laugh. “And they still ended up falling in love?”

“Well, I grabbed the Captain and told her everything was going to be all right, and then Yhani stood up and pulled her mask off and Len got a good look at her face. I think she fell for her right then and there. As for Yhani, it took a little longer, but still, they were together before the year was out.” He shook his head. “Damn lucky, both of them. My mate’s a storyteller, lives down in Darguun. I send her part of my pay every month, but I still don’t get to see her as often as I’d like. And here these two get to spend every day together.”

Thyra boggled as she struggled to absorb this latest revelation. “You’re married?” she finally managed for force out. She hadn’t really thought of Ghazaan in that sort of light at all, but looking at him again, she supposed that he might be handsome, in a rough sort of way, if one looked past his fangs, yellow eyes, and long, tufted ears. Then again, for a hobgoblin woman those features would probably count in his favor.

“Word of advice, kid,” he said, pointing at her, “nobody is quite what they seem at first. Thought you’d have figured that out, considering.”

That brought a faint chill to Thyra’s heart. “Yes,” she said softly, “I suppose you’re right.” She looked back to Ghazaan. “Why are you telling me all this? We’d barely exchanged ten words before today.”

He shrugged. “Remember what I said earlier about how humans react to me?” he said. “Well, I know something about being a monster. And from the sound of things, you’re afraid that you’re one too. Far as I’m concerned, sometimes we monsters need to have each other’s’ backs.” He grinned. “And kid? You lied to us earlier, and that’s not always something that’s easy to get over. But you came clean, and your money’s good. For as long as you’re the client, we’ve got your back. The Captain doesn’t go back on her word, and neither do I. So just keep in mind that while this business is going down, whatever you might think, you’re not alone.”

///

Later that night, Len lay awake on her bedroll, staring up at the stars. She tried to pick out the distinct constellations, supposedly named after old draconic gods, but wasn’t having much luck; ‘Hani had always been better at that sort of thing than she was. At that thought, the captain rolled over to look at where the elf lay in the next bedroll over; her hair was spread out across the ground, and her eyes were open but unseeing as she walked the paths of elven dreams. Len smiled faintly, and resisted the urge to brush a silvery lock away from Yhani’s face.

The sound of soft footsteps echoed through the clearing, and Len tensed, preparing for a sudden fight, but it was only Harsk, who was currently standing watch. The shifter approached slowly and then bent down by his captain’s side, dark eyes serious.

“What’s the matter?” Len whispered.

“Thought I heart someone out there,” he said. “Off the road, near us. Thought it sounded like a man and a woman talking, then they went off. I didn’t bother following them, but I’d swear by the Tree they knew we were here.”

Harsk was an expert tracker and had sat with druids in his youth on some quest for personal enlightenment that had failed and led him to seek out different experiences in other lands; he knew woods well, even ones he hadn’t personally spent much time in. If he said there were people out there, Len believed him. And a man and a woman… “Probably our Flameite friends, still following us,” she said quietly, mulling it over. “Doubt they wanted to attack us like this – when we woke up, it would be two on seven – but I’m still worried about what they might do.”

She pulled herself out of her bedroll and stood up. “You look tired, and I can’t sleep,” she said. “Get some rest, I’ll take the rest of your watch.”

Harsk bobbed his head in thanks and quickly headed over towards his own bedroll. Len took up a seat at the base of a tree, her unsheathed sword laying across her lap as she ran over a handful of combat spells in her mind. Her eyes stared off into the darkness between the trees, watching vigilantly for any sign of an attack.

///

This chapter is the first time we really get to chat (through Thyra) with Ghazaan. We’ve seen bits of his personality before, but something I really wanted to do was undercut the stereotypical image of the hobgoblin as a merciless soldier of evil (Eberron, which its rich goblinoid histories, being an ideal venue for that). Ghazaan is an affable, avuncular sort, and though he’s certainly a terror in a fight, he’s very laid back out of action. He’s also quite a bit smarter than he looks, and in addition to his stated reasons for talking to Thyra here he was also probing her a bit, watching her reactions to his stories; what he saw helped convince him further that whatever she is, she isn’t evil.

We also get a bit more information on Len and Yhani through the eyes of their oldest comrade, including some insight into their relationship that they probably wouldn’t have volunteered on their own. Ghazaan is right that Yhani has her own reasons for being here – which we’ll learn eventually – but her love for Len and her loyalty to their team are both very real as well.

-MasterGhandalf

 

Chapter 13: The Raid

Ir’Sarrin’s manor house had obviously been built as a military fort, and though generations of nobility had added their own mark to the place, that origin could still be plainly seen in its harsh, Spartan design. A low wall with a single gate enclosed an open courtyard, still largely bare despite some ir’Sarrin ancestor’s addition of a small garden to one side; armed guards patrolled along the top every so often. Not many, and since this was the heart of Karrnath they were probably there to protect ir’Sarrin’s privacy rather than repel a serious invasion, but Len figured there were more of them housed somewhere in the house, ready to leap to action at the first sign of actual danger. If there was one thing you could depend on Karrns for, in her experience, it was military precision. At the center of the compound was the house itself, a dark building with a brooding, gothic look; the only substantial windows were located high on its sides. All told, a less than appealing sight so far as the captain was concerned, though it did seem to fit the aesthetics of this strict, harsh country.

The fortress was located in woods, largely isolated from any substantial communities, though the trees had been cut back to provide a wide, open space before the walls and the path that led to the gate. Len was perched in one of the larger trees near the edge of the clearing, with Rinnean and Harsk by her side. It was the evening of their second day out from Korth, and they’d arrived not long ago, careful to avoid detection by the warlord’s servants, and were now almost ready to put their plan into motion. Rinnean gave an appreciative whistle as he regarded their target. “Well,” he said, “that’s not got a nice look to it. But I must say I’ve gotten into places worse than this. So, when do we start?”

“Now,” Len said, slipping off her branch and dropping lightly to the ground, Harsk and Rinnean following close behind. The others were waiting for them at the bottom. The captain glanced at each of her team in turn, receiving a grin from Ghazaan and an encouraging nod from Yhani, and then finally her gaze fell on Thyra. “Before we get started,” she said, “I just want to make absolutely sure that there’s nothing important left that you’ve been holding out on us. If ir’Sarrin’s actually some indestructible undead warrior from the Dhakaaani Empire cunningly disguised as a Karrnathi noble, I want to hear it now.”

It was supposed to be a joke, but Len found herself scowling when nobody laughed – though Thyra did manage a slight, guilty smile. “If he is, then it’s as much news to me as anyone,” she said. “Taras and I went over what we could find on ir’Sarrin after Taras heard he’d acquired the map. The estate is called Sarrin, and it’s been in his family for generations – that’s where their name comes from, one of his ancestors was a war hero who lived here and got raised to the nobility by the kind. Ir’Sarrin himself is supposed to be a very skilled warrior, and he keeps guards who are trained to the military level. He’s the last living member of his family, and apparently was a vocal critic of the Treaty of Thronehold. He quieted down when the king reprimanded him and has never openly criticized Kaius, but he’s apparently still upset that the war ended without a Karrn victory. Taras said he’d heard rumors that ir’Sarrin has been working with the extremist group called the Emerald Claw, but that there wasn’t any proof. Taras was able to talk to some people who’d been to Sarrin, and thinks the map is probably kept in ir’Sarrin’s study on the top floor.” Thyra spread her hands. “That’s all I know, I swear.”

It was essentially a retread of what they’d gone over at the inn, and Len nodded. “All right,” she said, “let’s get this plan started. Rinnean, sneaking into places is your specialty, so you’re up. Are you ready?”

Rinnean sketched a bow. “Of course,” he said. “Assuming that all of you are ready to keep those guards’ attention off my back.”

“We’ll do our part if you do yours,” Len growled, “and if you wind up getting caught because you just had to stop and flirt with a pretty serving girl, I’m not rescuing you. Are we clear?”

“As crystal, Captain,” he replied with a mocking salute. He turned to face the direction in which the dark bulk of Sarrin lay, but Thyra stepped forward and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Wait,” she said. “No matter how good you are, crossing that much open ground gives you a good chance of being spotted. I can help.” She shuffled her feet and looked nervous, and Len had a feeling that she was about to suggest something related to her magic. She was correct. “I can cast a spell of invisibility on you. It won’t last long, but it should help.”

“If you’re willing to, do it,” Len said. “We need every advantage we can get.” Thyra nodded and made a quick gesture with her free hand while muttering an incantation under her breath. Rinnean rippled at then vanished from sight.

“Don’t try to attack anyone,” Thyra warned. “Sudden violence can break the spell.”

“Got it,” Rinnean’s voice said from what seemed to be thin air. “I’m heading off. Don’t forget your part!” Len’s ears could barely pick up the soft sounds of his footsteps as he began to make his way towards Sarrin; they quickly faded entirely.

“Now, let’s give our clever elf a bit of cover,” Len said, gesturing for everyone to head around the fortress and towards the gate. “Hopefully ir’Sarrin’s having a late night, because if he’s asleep, he won’t be for long.”

She took up her position at the back of the group, and Yhani fell in beside her. The elf glanced at her lover and nodded once; Len nodded back. It was time.

///

Thyra fell to the back of the group as they approached the front wall of Sarrin, the fortress’s imposing looking gates looming in front of them; though they still stood within the shelter of the trees and it was unlikely the guards would have seen them, it still represented a visible threat. Still, the sorceress managed to fight down a shiver of anticipation. If everything went well, then by the time the sun rose, she’d have the key to her salvation in hand. If it worked as Taras speculated, she’d have her life back. If not… well, that didn’t bear thinking about.

Len took up her position at the front of the team and drew her sword, gesturing for the others to ready their own weapons. Thyra called the words of a spell she’d never used to mind, a spell to hurt, potentially to kill. She hoped that tonight wouldn’t come to that, but… she shook her head. All that mattered was that she be ready to defend herself. Len glanced over her shoulder to everyone else, nodded once, then leveled the finger of her free hand at the gate with a sharp gesture as she murmured words of power under her breath. Thyra could practically taste the magic as a small sphere of intense red light shot from the tip of Len’s finger and struck the ground directly before the gate, exploding into a great burst of fire.

At once one of the guards on the wall gave a great shout of alarm, and from somewhere inside the fortress a bell began to ring. Len gestured sharply to her team and they scattered into the woods, Thyra sticking close by the captain’s side.

No sooner had they begun to move than Sarrin’s gates opened and a heavily-armed company of guards came marching out. They had the warlord’s attention. Now it was up to Rinnean to make the best of it.

///

Lord Kharvin ir’Sarrin was seated in his private room, reading a biography of Karrn the Conqueror that was serving to distract him from the frustration of waiting for Irinali to find a way to get the damnable sepulcher open, when the alarm bell began furiously ringing. Barely taking time to mark his place, the warlord stormed to his door and threw it open, startling the two guards who waited just outside. They both fell in step as he made his way to the main hall, where he found his guard captain, Taran, giving orders to more of his men.

“What in Dolurrh is going on?” ir’Sarrin demanded as he approached the captain; Tarrin turned to see him and saluted crisply.

“We’re under attack, milord,” Taran said. “Someone threw a fireball at us, and there seem to be several people evading us in the woods; it could have come from any of them. Probably just bandits who got desperate, sir, nothing you need to worry about.”

Ir’Sarrin stroked his beard. Bandits? Possible, but unlikely. No gang powerful enough to take a nobleman’s fortress without fear of repercussions existed in Karrnath that he knew of, and anyone else would have to be a fool to try. More likely, it was some sort of rebellion against the crown – or someone who had discovered his Emerald Claw ties and sought to punish him for them. Maybe even the King himself, acting through intermediaries to avoid the appearance of turning on his own aristocracy…

“Fetch my armor and saddle my horse,” he ordered the guards. “And rouse the Queen’s troops. I think I’ll handle this matter personally.”

///

Rinnean crept towards the outer wall under a veil of invisibility, grinning slightly to himself when he heard the sound of the fireball exploding and the ringing bell. Yes, a loud bang and some pyrotechnics always did a good job of making people go running, and while they were busy chasing Len and the others around, they’d be too busy to notice the quiet elf sneaking in through the back.

Reaching the base of the wall, Rinnean reached into his pack and pulled out a thin, tightly coiled rope with a hook on one end. He gave it a few test swings and then launched it into the air, the hook catching atop the battlements. Grinning again, he seized hold of it and quickly climbed – an effortless feat for one who had climbed far higher and more dangerous walls than this – and then finally swung over the top and retrieved his rope. No one was around; good. They were all dealing with his colleagues. Jumping to the inside of the wall, he dropped and then landed with a roll before lightly coming to rest on his feet. Then he hurried off through the courtyard.

He reached the base of the main house without incident. Taking aim at one of the higher windows, he swung his rope again and latched the hook on the outside ledge. This was a higher climb, and harder, but still well within his capabilities. Rinnean pulled himself up to the ledge, kicked the window in, and dropped through into a hallway.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t alone. A single guard had been strolling along the corridor, and now stood staring at the window that had, to his eyes, suddenly burst open. Then his gaze narrowed as Rinnean felt a tingling sensation along his arms and legs, and the elf knew Thyra’s spell of invisibility had just worn off.

“I don’t suppose you know where a fellow might find a privy around here?” Rinnean asked, shooting the guard a disarming smile. The human was, unfortunately, not in the mood to help a needy traveler, or so it seemed, for he opened his mouth and drew in a deep breath for a shout. Rinnean scowled and lunged forward, kicking him in the chest and knocking the wind out of him, and then he punched the man hard in the side of his head. The guard collapsed, and Rinnean quickly pulled out a short rope – not the one with the hook, which he’d paid good money for – and bound his hands behind his back, then shoved one of the man’s gloves in his mouth for a gag. Then, grabbing the guard by his red cloak, he dragged him over to a nearby door and opened it to reveal a broom closet, which the elf shoved him into.

The closet door clicked shut behind him. Rinnean turned to walk away, then paused, scowling; he’d forgotten something. A moment later he’d shut the door again and now wore the guard’s cloak wrapped tightly around himself; not a disguise that would hold up to any scrutiny, but one that he hoped would keep him from discovery long enough to find Thyra’s map and get out.

///

Harsk crouched halfway to the top of one of the taller trees overlooking Sarrin, concealed in the foliage. His companions had scattered through the forest below, and were currently being hunted by about a dozen Karrn guards, which should be most of ir’Sarrin’s complement for a private home this size; the shifter had his bow at the ready to shoot any enemies who came in range, but his chief purpose here was to stand watch. So far, the others seemed to have done a successful job at evading pursuit, and Harsk allowed himself a small grin. The captain and Ghazaan were a match for any forces some noble could afford to field in his remote manor house.

The sound of the gates creaking open again drew his attention. Harsk turned to look, and he saw another force emerge and make their way across the scorched grounds. These soldiers looked more disciplined and better equipped, and their faces were concealed behind distinctive half-helms. The shifter recognized those helms – he’d seen them during the war. These were Emerald Claw troopers, not regular Karrnath military of ir’Sarrin’s private guard; it looked like the rumors were true.

At their head rode a tall man in full plate armor atop a black horse. His bearing was regal, a blood-red cloak flowed from his back, and his armor seemed to gleam in the moonlight – it could only be ir’Sarrin himself. The warlord drew his sword and gestured towards the trees; at once the Emerald Claw troops split into two groups and each made their way towards the forest on either side of the road. They were going to trap the Captain in a pincer. Four of them remained with their leader.

Harsk scowled, nocked an arrow to his bow and levelled it straight at ir’Sarrin; he’d probably hang for killing a titled noble if he was caught, but the shifter had his shot and intended to take it. He pulled the arrow back and let fly, but before it struck ir’Sarrin ducked suddenly to one side and the arrow harmlessly impacted the ground. The black warhorse snorted and tossed its head, but ir’Sarrin rested a hand along its neck to calm it and raised his gaze to the trees, where his eyes met Harsk’s in a direct line. Ir’Sarrin had seen.

Harsk swore as the warlord and his guards closed in.

///

Rinnean slowly turned the doorknob and stepped into the room that lay beyond. So far, the upper floor of ir’Sarrin’s manor had been largely deserted, and most of the rooms he’d investigated had proven to be guest chambers that looked like they hadn’t been used in some time. He was beginning to grow irritated, both with the lack of progress and with ir’Sarrin’s taste in art, which seemed to be entirely restricted to the patriotic Karrnathi pieces and military scenes that could be found everywhere in this gloomy place. Rinnean didn’t regret breaking ties with his family – far from it! – but at least when he worked with them, he’d been able to break into aesthetically pleasant places.

This current room, while no less gloomy, looked far more promising. Rinnean crept inside, quietly shutting the door behind him, and took stock of the situation. The center of the room was dominated by a large darkwood desk that stood in front of a window; the desk was topped with several books and scrolls, along with what was either a humanoid skull or a disconcertingly accurate replica of one. The walls were lined with shelves filled with further books, and in one corner there stood what appeared to be a human skeleton in full armor propped up on a display stand.

“Now, this is more like it,” Rinnean murmured to himself. Thyra had said that ir’Sarrin probably kept the map in his study, and that was certainly what this room appeared to be. Slipping behind the desk, he paused to flip through several of the books to make sure the map hadn’t been hidden between their pages; no luck. Out of curiosity, he glanced at the titles, but most of them were in languages he couldn’t make out; one was an ancient Elvish dialect that he could read a little bit of, but Rinnean had never been the most attentive of students when it came to purely academic pursuits, and he couldn’t recognize enough to get a good sense of the meaning.

Sighing, he put the book down and moved to the scrolls. The first he unrolled wasn’t a map and also wasn’t written in a language he understood, but something tingled in the back of his mind as he tried to read it. Magic, Rinnean thought. This scroll was a wizard’s device, and he had a feeling the others were as well. Thyra hadn’t said anything about ir’Sarrin being a wizard but he must have one on his staff, and as Rinnean glanced around at the room’s décor, he had a feeling he knew exactly what type of wizard this room belonged to.

He was snatched from his thoughts by the sound of the door handle turning. With nowhere else to flee, Rinnean dove under the desk, curling himself into a ball in an effort to be as unobtrusive as possible. If he was lucky, whoever was here was just going to drop something off, and then they would leave. If he wasn’t lucky, he might well have to fight his way out. Listening carefully, he heard the person’s footsteps approach – they were light, possibly a woman’s or an elf’s – and he tensed as they rounded the desk and stopped. He could see a pair of booted feet and slim legs in black trousers, along with the end of a black staff, but nothing else; their owner likely couldn’t see him, though, unless she – he thought those looked like a woman’s legs – were to bend down and stick her head underneath.

She stood there for several long moments, and then turned as if to leave. A soft sigh escaped Rinnean’s lips, and he cursed himself mentally for the lapse; for a moment, nothing happened, and then the end of the staff shot under the desk and struck him hard in the ribs.

Rinnean scrambled to his feet and drew one of his knives, turning to face his opponent – a professional-looking elf woman in a black uniform of military cut, a predatory look on her pale face. “Naughty, naughty,” she said. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you not to trespass where you don’t belong?”

Rinnean shrugged. “Probably,” he said, “but I never was much good at learning what I should have.” He lunged for her with his knife, but the woman darted lightly to the side and brushed his arm with one hand, the faint words of a spell on her lips. Sudden, unnatural terror coursed through Rinnean’s veins; he was able, barely, to stifled a scream and thereby preserve some measure of dignity, but still his stumbled back, body shaking and a cold sensation filling his insides. Scowling, he raised his knife hand again, only for it to be caught in a cold, vice-like grip.

The woman was grinning at him now, and craning his kneck back Rinnean saw that the skeleton he’d taken for mere decoration had come free from its stand and now held him caught fast. He tried to twist aside, but the skeleton’s grip was too strong to break, and suddenly it had caught his other hand as well and lifted him off his feet to hang suspended in midair in front of its mistress.

The woman – the necromancer – stepped forward, her eyes glinting coldly. “Coming here was a mistake, friend,” she said softly. “But you don’t need to worry about dying, not yet. My lord will want you alive for questioning. Sleep well.”

Speaking another incantation, she seized Rinnean’s face with one gloved hand. A sudden rush of cold and pain shot through him and then all went dark.

///

“Damn,” Len swore, straining her ears as she listened to the sound of ir’Sarrin’s guards smashing through the underbrush. Evading them at first hadn’t been difficult, but then the sounds had intensified – the warlord must have sent out further reinforcements, and these had a plan. They’d cut off her attempts at escaping, and now seemed to be herding them back in the general direction of the road.

Something came whizzing through the air and Len dropped to the ground, pulling Thyra down beside her as the arrow shot overhead and embedded itself in a tree. That had been too close. She waited quietly for a moment, then got back to her feet, pulling Thyra up alongside her and starting to run in the direction away from where she thought the guards were. That wasn’t what Len particularly wanted to do – she was now heading where the guards had been trying to herd her – but better that than running directly into their blades.

“We may have to make a fight of this after all, kid,” Len panted as she shoved a branch aside. “You got any spells that can do some damage?”

Thyra’s eyes were wide and frightened, but she nodded once. “A few,” she said. “I’ve never used them on someone before, but I think I can manage it.”

“Good,” Len said. “Get ready. We’re probably going to be forced to take a stand sooner rather than later.” Thyra nodded, her expression now serious.

A moment later, they stumbled out of the trees and onto the narrow road that led to Sarrin. Ghazaan was already there, his massive greatsword held easily in his hands as his eyes scanned the surroundings for enemies. He started briefly when he saw Len, then nodded. “Hey, boss!” he called. “I think ir’Sarrin’s got more people out here than we realized!”

“You think?” Len shot back, allowing a bit of irritation to creep into her voice. She gestured to Ghazaan and she and the hobgoblin took positions on opposite sides of Thyra; the captain drew her own sword and let her magic flow through it, causing flames to rush down the blade.

A moment later, Havaktri and Yhani stumbled onto the road as well; Len breathed a quiet sigh of relief to see that the elf was unharmed. “We were ambushed!” Havaktri called as she ran towards the rest of the group, taking up a position near Thyra. “Ir’Sarrin must have dozens of soldiers out there, as if he planted a dragon’s teeth and they all sprouted from the ground.”

Len ignored her – an ability to filter out the surreal was often necessary when talking to Havaktri – and turned to Yhani for confirmation. “It is true,” she said. “I caught a brief glimpse of some of them, and I recognized their helms. There is no doubt that ir’Sarrin was housing Emerald Claw forces in his manor, as well as his private guards. They attacked us, but seemed to be holding back. I think they want at least some of us alive.”

“Of course they do,” Len muttered. “And here they come! Ready!” A number of shapes burst out of the trees, a dozen or more. Some of them wore the plain uniforms one would expect from a noble’s hired guard, but others, as Yhani had observed, were plainly dressed as Emerald Claw troopers. They surrounded the mercenaries in a circle, fanning out around them. Len swore quietly. Even counting Thyra, they were still outnumbered more than two to one.

None of the enemy made any moves to attack, and then from Sarrin’s direction the sound of pounding hooves echoed up the road. An armored figure on horseback came riding up, with several more Emerald Claw soldiers on foot following short behind. The rider had something slung over the back of his saddle, and Len’s eyes widened in shock when she realized it was Harsk.

“What have you done to my scout?” she demanded, her voice snapping through the night air.

“He’s only unconscious,” the rider said, his accent rich and aristocratic and somehow familiar, though Len couldn’t place where she’d heard it before. “But he won’t be alive for much longer unless you do as I say.”

“Lord ir’Sarrin, I presume?” Len asked. “I’d curtsy, but as you may have noticed, we’re in the middle of something.” She gestured with her sword towards the warlord’s guards encircling them.

“I don’t know who you are or why you attacked my home,” ir’Sarrin said as if he hadn’t heard her, “but in Karrnath, we do not take such things lightly. I have one of your comrades captive, and you are surrounded and outnumbered. Surrender now, and I may be willing to show mercy to some of you, once I’ve questioned you to my satisfaction. Resist, and you will die, starting with the shifter. The choice is yours, but I warn you – my patience isn’t infinite.”

Len looked over her shoulder at her companions, saw Thyra’s wide, terrified eyes, Ghazaan’s determination, and finally Yhani’s calm, steady gaze. The elf met her eyes briefly, and then gave a slight inclination of her head; Len returned it and then shifted her gaze to wear Harsk lay unconscious across the back of the lord’s horse. Finally, after a long moment of silence she raised her hands, extinguished the flames on her sword, and let the weapon fall to the ground. Behind her, she heard her companions do the same.

Ir’Sarrin seemed to smile behind his helmet. “A wise choice,” he said. “I’m glad to see you’re not entirely unreasonable.” Riding forward, he passed between his guards and stopped in front of Len, regarding her for a long moment before drawing his sword.

Len tensed, but ir’Sarrin swung his blade back and struck her hard against the side of her head with the flat. There was a burst of pain, and all became blackness.

///

That wasn’t exactly how Len and Thyra intended this evening to go! Not only did ir’Sarrin have more troops than they were expecting, but in stat terms I made him and Irinali both several levels higher than our heroes, and while I’m certainly not running the action scenes using the game, it helps to establish that the bad guys have a leg up (ir’Sarrin’s class is cavalier, by the way). Even with the information Thyra had gotten from her mentor, they still went in underestimating the people the they were up against, with disastrous results. Nobody died here, if anyone was wondering, but everyone is now ir’Sarrin’s prisoner (except for Valyria and Pitar, obviously). Next time we’ll have some more revelations, and maybe see how everyone is going to get out of this…

-MasterGhandalf

 

Chapter 14: The Captain’s Face

Thyra awoke slowly, a throbbing pain echoing through her head. Her mind felt thick and heavy – where was she, what had happened – and then, slowly, she remembered. The night, the forest outside Sarrin, surrounded by the Emerald Claw soldiers and forced to surrender, and finally being struck on the back of the head and knocked down into blackness. Above all, however, there hovered the image of herself, frozen by doubt, knowing that the power was within her to burn ir’Sarrin off his horse but unable to bring herself to use it. She’d been too afraid, afraid of the warlord and his men, but also afraid of herself, and what tapping into that magic too deep might make her become to the extent that she couldn’t even use it to save herself and the people who helped her. All her life, Thyra had wanted to be a cleric of the Silver Flame, a warrior in the eternal struggle against evil, but when it came down to it, she had proven to be a coward.

Slowly, she opened her eyes and raised her head. She was in a dark chamber lit only by flickering torchlight, a barred gate blocking one end. Thyra herself was chained to a rough stone wall, manacles around her ankles and hands, which had been bound together behind her head. Whoever had been responsible for imprisoning her – ir’Sarrin or one of his minions – had taken no chances; most spells required hand motions as well as incantations, and bound like this, Thyra would be incapable of using her most powerful magic.

Turning her head, she glanced to her right and saw that the mercenaries were bound beside her, chained in identical fashion. Len was closest and still appeared to be unconscious, and beyond her were Ghazaan, Yhani, Harsk, Havaktri and Rinnean, whose part of the mission must have gone wrong as well or he wouldn’t be here. Only Ghazaan appeared to be awake and was struggling against his chains, which appeared to be stronger and thicker than anyone else’s; when he saw Thyra watching him, he nodded wearily.

“Hey, kid,” the hobgoblin said. “Looks like we’re in a tight spot. Sorry we messed this up and got caught.”

“It’s my fault,” she muttered angrily under her breath. “I didn’t know that ir’Sarrin had so many soldiers, and I have magic I didn’t use – I should have tried to fight!”

Ghazaan shook his head. “We all screwed up, and I don’t think we could’ve taken all of them even if we all gave it our best shot – and the Captain didn’t think so either, or she wouldn’t have surrendered. Now if you’d tried to get us caught, that would’ve been a different story.” He gave a short, hoarse laugh. “But I’ve been in worse fixes than this one and gotten out. ‘Couse, I was part of a whole damn army at the time, but…”

Thyra smiled faintly, but Ghazaan’s words did little to lift her spirits or relieve her guilt. She was thankful for the distraction when she heard a long sigh and turned to see Havaktri had woken up and was looking up and down the line of captives, dark eyes alert.

“This,” she said conversationally, “reminds me a bit of some of the exercises we did back at the monastery. However,” she wrinkled her nose, “the monastery certainly smelled better, and I assume we aren’t being initiated into some obscure ascetic order?”

Ghazaan snorted. “Nope,” he said, “this is a dungeon. You’ll probably see a few more in this line of work. At least this one doesn’t have rats, so it could be a lot worse.”

“I see,” Havaktri said, expression thoughtful as she absorbed this new information. “So, would the rats be part of the staff, or just – wait! I think I sense someone coming.”

No sooner had she finished speaking than Thyra could hear the sound of booted feet echoing on the stone floor of the corridor outside. A moment later a key jangled in a lock and the barred door swung open. Two of the Emerald claw soldiers stepped inside and took up positions on the outside walls, and then two more people followed them. One was a tall older man with a military bearing and the faintly imperious look of someone who had spent his life expecting to be obeyed; he had a short grey beard and long hair pulled back in a tail, and was dressed in rich clothing that nonetheless had a martial air. This, Thyra realized, must be ir’Sarrin without his armor. The other person was a slender elf-woman in a black uniform and cape who held a long, dark staff in one hand; her hair was jet black and her face was painted a deathly white with blood-red lips. She regarded the captives with a faint, mocking smile.

“So, looks like you’re the boss around here,” Ghazaan said. “Your facilities could use a bit of improvement, but I’ve seen worse prisons. I’d rate this place at about the middle of the road.”

Ir’Sarrin gave a wintry smile. “Amusing,” he said. “But if I’m not mistake you aren’t in charge, so talking with you won’t get me very far.” He gestured to his guards. “Wake the rest of them up.”

The guards stepped forward and backhanded each of the still unconscious captives until they came to, spluttering and cursing. Len blinked and focused her glare at ir’Sarrin’s face, while Rinnean looked at the elf-woman and winked. “Well, well,” he said. “Seems you just can’t get rid of me after all, eh?” The woman simply regarded him with the expression one might reserve for a particularly obnoxious insect.

“Now that everyone is paying attention,” ir’Sarrin said, “we can begin. My name is Lord Kharvin ir’Sarrin, as you have no doubt guessed. This,” he gestured to the elf-woman, “is my associate, Irinali. I don’t know why you attacked my home, but I intend to find out. If you cooperate with me, the process shouldn’t be a particularly unpleasant one. Fail to do so, and things may go poorly for you.”

“I’m Captain Len, and I’d tell you to go to Dolurrh,” Len snapped, “but judging by our surroundings, I think you did that a while back.”

A muscle twitched in ir’Sarrin’s face – it seemed Len’s comment had struck a nerve – but he managed to master himself without any outburst. Then he focused his gaze on the Captain and scrutinized her intently, and his eyes widened. The warlord raised his left hand, revealing a plain gold ring he wore on one finger. “This,” he said, “is an heirloom of my family. It is enchanted to allow the wearer to perceive the true nature of things behind illusion or deception. You, Captain, will revert to your true appearance immediately, or else one of your warriors will suffer for it. Irinali!”

The elf grinned and stepped forward, drawing a short knife from its sheath at her waist. She scrutinized each of the captives in turn, then approached Yhani, resting the blade along the priestess’s cheek. “You know,” she said, “I always did hate my own kind. I’d enjoy this.”

“Then you are even more lost than I had feared,” Yhani replied, expression unchanging. Irinali snarled and pressed the knife closer, but before she could draw blood, Len spoke.

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll give you what you want.”

Thyra had been watching this scene in some confusion – surely, if there was any deception to be uncovered here, it would be hers! – but then the Captain’s face suddenly… rippled. There was no other word for it. Then, it began to change. The color seemed to leach from her skin and hair, leaving her face a dull gray and her hair, which now hung lank, a slightly lighter color. The pupils vanished from her eyes, leaving them blank and white. Her lips thinned and her nose shrank, giving her face a waxy, half-formed look that was accentuated by her newly-hollow cheeks. Then it was done and she let out a heavy breath, then raised her gaze to meet ir’Sarrin’s once again, rage written plainly even across the newly-alien features.

Thyra could only stare in shock as her mind processed what she’d just seen take place. The Captain was a changeling!

“Well?” Len demanded, locking eyes with ir’Sarrin; her voice now was slightly raspier than it had been. Irinali had withdrawn her knife from Yhani’s face and was now sweeping back to the lord’s side. “Is that it? Have you humiliated me enough, Karrn?”

Thyra found she couldn’t take her eyes away, yet so far as she could tell, none of the other mercenaries seemed surprised. Had they known all along? She had a feeling they must have, Yhani especially. The expression of the elf’s face certainly wasn’t one of shock; it seemed, rather, to be of mingled sorrow for Len and outrage at their captors. Why? Thyra found herself wondering why it was that Len chose to conceal her true face, when it seemed obvious everyone close to her knew the truth…

And then Thyra remembered how Len had reacted when she had revealed her own secret; the captain had been angry, yes, but not as angry as might have been expected and it had seemed as if, somehow, she’d understood. A nauseous feeling twisted Thyra’s gut as she remembered the changeling Pok and her instinctive reaction to distrust him. Surely Len must have dealt with that suspicion all her life? Would it not be easier, if one was capable of wearing a different face, to do so, to conceal a true nature that too often sparked a reaction of distrust and fear from others? Yes, Thyra realized, surely no one but a changeling would understand better her own desire to escape her heritage and become something other than what she was, and a sudden wave of sympathy for the captain rose in her in turn.

She was torn for her thoughts as she realized ir’Sarrin was speaking. “Thank you for cooperating and confirming my suspicions,” he said. “Now, Captain… Len, was it?... would care to explain exactly what you were doing when you attacked Sarrin last night?”

“We’re mercenaries,” Len said. “It was a job.”

“Good,” ir’Sarrin said. “So it seems, then, that you aren’t my true enemy. Who hired you?”

“You think we’re just going to sell out our client?” Ghazaan asked with a rumbling laugh. “And here I was thinking you might actually be smart!”

“I think,” ir’Sarrin said, a harsh tone entering his voice, “that you are in no position to deny me anything, hobgoblin. One way or another, I will know the truth. Answer me, Captain – who hired you?”

“It was just a job,” Len said. Ir’Sarrin scowled and gestured for Irinali; the elf woman stepped forward and raised one hand, letting a cold light play along it; she paced back and forth across the line of prisoners, and finally stopped in front of Havaktri. The kalashtar’s eyes widened as Irinali leaned in; whatever spell she was about to use, it was no doubt something extremely unpleasant. Havaktri’s eyes closed and she turned her face away, and then Thyra’s voice broke the silence.

“It was me!” she said, barely believing the words that were coming out of her mouth. “I hired them, I’m the one you want! Leave them alone!”

“You?” Ir’Sarrin demanded, striding forward and seizing Thyra’s face in his hand; Irinali walked over to stand at his shoulder. “A child young enough to be my daughter is behind this? What could you possibly hope to gain?”

“You had something I needed,” Thyra said. Ir’Sarrin raised an eyebrow.

“And I suppose simply purchasing it from me would be out of the question?” he asked, glancing down at the other captives. “Plainly money was not an issue for you, if you were able to hire these.”

Thyra laughed. “I didn’t think you’d be likely to sell,” she said. “All I want is a map you acquired not long ago, to a treasure from the Age of Demons. Maybe I should have tried to buy it, but if you let us go and let me look at it, I swear by the Silver Flame I’ll pay damages for our attack.” That wasn’t how Taras had intended her to use his money, but Thyra hoped that, if it saved her life, he’d understand.

Kharvin’s eyes widened in surprise. “The map?” he demanded. “That’s what this is all about? The map is worthless!” He let Thyra’s face go and turned to stalk away, gesturing to his guards. “Clearly, our prisoners aren’t yet ready to tell the truth. Maybe leaving them hear for a while longer will make them more compliant.”

Thyra slumped, dejected – she’d been telling the truth, but he hadn’t believed her – and what did he mean by the map being worthless? Then, slowly, something Taras had said, a conversation she’d had months ago, swam to the surface of her mind. Could it be? It might be her only chance. “The sepulcher didn’t open, did it?” she called after ir’Sarrin.

The lord froze and then wheeled on her. “What do you know about that?” he demanded, a sudden, desperate light in his eyes.

Thyra forced as much magic as she could into her words; this was her last chance to free her companions and save herself, and she had to make it count. “I know that the map leads to an artifact of power, sealed in an underground vault,” she said. “I think you found it, and can’t open it. I can.”

“What?” Irinali demanded suddenly, pushing past ir’Sarrin to stand in front of Thyra. “I’ve been tearing through my books for days and haven’t found anything useful. What do you know that I don’t?”

Thyra smiled coolly. “It’s not about what you know,” she said, “but what you are. You’re a wizard, aren’t you? Your power comes from books and scrolls and devices. I’m a sorcerer, and I’ve got magic in my blood. My mentor taught me about sealed vaults he’d found from earlier ages, and how some respond to spells, some to special keys… and some, to blood.”

“And how can you be so sure your blood will work?” Ir’Sarrin asked, his tone neutral, but he couldn’t entirely hide that he was intrigued in spite of himself.

Thyra drew a deep breath, and turned over her shoulder to look at Len. The changeling raised her head slowly, met Thyra’s blue eyes with her blank white ones, and then nodded once, slowly in approval. Thyra turned back to ir’Sarrin and spoke. “Because I’m descended, through many generations, from the rakshasas of the Age of Demons,” she said. “That’s where the power in my blood comes from, and that’s how I know that blood will open the vault. Let my companions go, and I’ll go with you to the sepulcher, and I will open it for you.”

Ir’Sarrin now couldn’t hide the naked desire in his face, and even Irinali seemed impressed in spite of herself. Whether by the magic in her words, or just their desperation, it had worked. She had them! Ir’Sarrin opened his mouth to speak, but before he could a young man in dark, red-trimmed robes hurried into the cell.

“Dal,” Irinali snapped, “we’re in the middle of something. This had better be important.”

The young man bowed. “Mistress Irinali, My Lord, forgive me,” he said, “but two travelers just arrived demanding to speak with Lord Ir’Sarrin immediately.”

“Tell them I will see them later,” Ir’Sarrin snapped.

“My Lord,” Dal said nervously, “they were most insistent. They said that it was an urgent matter, and that it immediately concerned My Lord’s personal safety.”

Ir’Sarrin paused in thought for a long moment, then finally he sighed. “Very well; we will see them.” He turned to sweep from the cell, gesturing for his guards and Irinali to follow. Just as he was about to leave, he looked back over his shoulder at Thyra. “And when this matter is settled, we will continue our conversation and see just what it is that you can do for me.”

Then he was gone and the door slammed shut behind him, leaving the captives alone once more.

///

Len was always supposed to be a changeling, back to my earliest conception of the character. There’s quite a bit of foreshadowing I littered earlier – her monosyllabic, gender-neutral name, the allusions to some secret she was keeping, Pok’s reaction to her earlier, her sympathizing with Thyra despite her lying to the team repeatedly, etc. As Thyra suspected, all the mercenaries are aware of her true nature – Yhani, Ghazaan, and Harsk have all known since the War, Rinnean figured it out a few weeks after joining up, and Havaktri knew Len was a changeling from the moment she saw her and never quite grasped it was supposed to be a secret, hence nearly blurting it out earlier in the fic. However, to the world at large this is a secret, and Len typically only shows her true face rarely, and to people she trusts absolutely – hence why she’s so offended when ir’Sarrin (who has a ring of true seeing that’s been in his family for generations) forced her to reveal it to everyone.

On Thyra’s front, she’s figured out what she hopes will be a way to both save her new friends and get what she wants; unfortunately, the news of ir’Sarrin’s visitors (guess who!) seems to have thrown a wrench in things. We’ll see next time what ir’Sarrin learns, if Thyra manages to salvage the situation, and if our heroes will manage to find a way out of their situation.

-MasterGhandalf

 

Chapter 15: The Warlord’s Bargain

Valyria was seated at the table in Sarrin’s main hall, idly toying with one of the goblets that lined it in one hand. The morning sun was streaming through the high windows, illuminating the stark, militant decorations, most of which seemed to have a patriotic theme. Valyria didn’t much care for them – she’d never much cared for Karrn culture in general, though she respected its military order – but they reflected an owner who was a strict, loyal man. She hoped her assessment of ir’Sarrin’s character was true; he could potentially be a great help if so.

She glanced over at Pitar, who sat with his arms crossed, idly drumming his fingers while wearing an impatient look. They’d arrived not long ago and told the guards that they had urgent news for Lord ir’Sarrin; the soldiers seemed on edge, and it looked like the ground in front of the gate had been recently burned. Nonetheless they’d been invited inside, where a young man in robes had escorted them to the main hall and informed them that the lord was occupied at present, but would be with them shortly.

The doors at the far end of the hall suddenly opened, and Valyria turned her gaze sharply towards it. Two men in the same uniforms as the rest of ir’Sarrin’s guards entered, followed closely behind by a tall older man who could only be the lord himself and a strikingly pale elf-woman in black. “My apologies for keeping you waiting,” the man said, striding forward. “I had other matters that demanded my attention. I am Lord Kharvin ir’Sarrin, and this is my house wizard and personal advisor, Irinali. Welcome to my home.”

Valyria stood and gave a half bow, Pitar following her direction. Ir’Sarrin returned it, though Irinali only managed a curt nod of the head. The two Karrns took their seats, and Valyria and Pitar resumed theirs across the table. “Now, then,” Ir’Sarrin said, “I was told that you have news of some sort for me? Apparently, my personal safety is at stake?”

“Yes,” Valyria said. “I am Sister Valyria Entarro, an inquisitor of the Silver Flame; my companion is Sir Pitar Tallano, a paladin of the Flame. We are tracking a fugitive, and have reason to believe that she and her companions were coming here.” She removed the picture of Thyra from her pouch and held it up for ir’Sarrin and Irinali to see. “Have you seen this woman here within the last couple of days?”

The warlord and the elf both started faintly and traded glances; a minor reaction, but not one that escaped Valyria’s notice. “I’m afraid I haven’t,” ir’Sarrin said, his tone casual, but Valyria’s eyes narrowed. He was lying; she was certain of it. “She looks harmless enough, though. Who is she, and what sort of threat to me could she possibly be?”

“Looks can be deceiving,” Valyria warned. “Her name is Thyra Entarro, and she is… was… my sister. She is wanted in connection with the death of a priest, Brother Nalin of Flamekeep, and worse, we have reason to suspect that she is no longer truly human.”

Irinali leaned forward, suddenly interested. “Could you explain further?” she asked. “What exactly does ‘no longer human’ mean, in this case? Call it professional curiosity.”

“Have you heard of rakshasas?” Valyria asked; from the sudden dark expressions on both faces, she could tell that they had. “Based on Brother Nalin’s research and information gleaned from his corpse, we have reason to believe that Thyra is possessed by such a creature, or channeling it somehow. Using Thyra’s form, the creature fled to Sharn, where it hired a team of mercenaries that it then brought to Karrnath. Witnesses who overheard their conversations indicated they were coming here, to you. Do you have any idea why that might be, Lord ir’Sarrin?”

The warlord appeared genuinely mystified. “Honestly, I have no idea,” he said. “I served Karrnath in the Last War, but in that I am little different from dozens of nobles with holdings scattered around this country. I have no magical abilities myself and have never had dealings with fiends of any kind, and if the rakshasa wanted to kill or subvert me, there are any number of people much more influential than I who would make better targets.” He grinned. “Unless you’re suggesting that one of my political rivals has a monster from the depths of history on call, I can’t imagine what it might want.”

“Nor I,” said Irinali with a shrug. “I’ll admit, I’ve dabbled in magic you Flameites wouldn’t exactly approve of, but I’ve never dealt with fiends either, and I don’t have any artifacts or spellbooks in my collection worth crossing the Five Nations for. Are you certain your sources heard correctly?”

“Yes,” Valyria said, sighing. “This is unfortunate; I’d hoped we could help each other. I have no wish to impose on your hospitality any longer than necessary, so perhaps we’ll simply have to take our search elsewhere.”

Ir’Sarrin stood. “I’m sorry I don’t know anything about your quarry. I don’t agree with your Church theologically, and I’ll admit to having no love for Thrane, but I do respect the followers of the Flame for their convictions, and bringing a murderer to justice is something that I’d gladly help with. I’m sorry your stop here proved unfruitful. Would you permit me to escort you to the gate?”

Valyria stood and bowed her head. “We would be honored,” she said.

///

“Well, that was a waste of time,” Pitar said as he and Valyria strode down the road leading from Sarrin’s gate. “Now we’ve lost the trail. We’d have been better off trying something when we found their camp the other night.”

“They outnumbered us three to one and the rakshasa seems to have some sort of hold on them,” Valyria replied. “We’d have been killed before we even got to Thyra… what used to be Thyra. Besides, I wouldn’t call it a complete waste of time.” She leaned in close and whispered into Pitar’s ear. “I watched their reactions when I showed them the picture. They hid it quickly, but they recognized Thyra. I think she’s been here. I’d wager a platinum dragon she’s still in that fortress somewhere, in fact.”

“So, what do you want to do, then?” Pitar asked, looking dubious.

“We wait by the road,” Valyria said. “I don’t know if Thyra is ir’Sarrin’s prisoner or his guest, but either way, she can’t stay in their forever. Sooner or later she’ll leave, or escape, or the warlord will take her somewhere. We’ll watch, and when she does, we’ll have her.”

///

The sound of ir’Sarrin’s footsteps faded from the dungeon, and when he was gone, the prisoners hung in silence for a long while. Finally, Len turned to Yhani. “Are you all right?” she asked. “She didn’t actually manage to hurt you, did she?”

Yhani smiled wanly. “No, love, she did not. I am bruised and dirty and hanging from chains, but that puts me at no worse off than any of us.” Her expression darkened. “But that Irinali – there was such hate in her eyes when she threatened me. Most of the time she was here she merely seemed cold, but not then.”

“Do you know her?” Ghazaan asked. “Sounded kind of personal, from where I’m hanging.”

“Well, I know she was the one who caught me,” Rinnean said. “One would think I would have learned by now not to go poking around in a wizard’s study, but apparently not, and I thought Thyra’s map might be there. Judging by her choice in décor and reading materials – not to mention the fact that she sicced a damned skeleton on me – she’s probably a necromancer.”

“That would explain much,” Yhani said quietly. “She said she hated her own people, and I thought I heard an Aereni accent in her words – well hidden, but there. The practice of necromancy is not condoned in my homeland.”

“Really?” Thyra asked. “I’d always heard the Aereni worshipped their undead ancestors.”

Yhani sighed. “A common misconception,” she said. “The Undying Court are not undead. They are sustained by the reverence of their living descendants, given freely. The relationship is symbiotic; our worship keeps them on this plane and prevents their spirits from slipping away into Dolurrh, and they in turn preserve our history and wisdom, to guide our people in times of great need. The undead draw their power from darkness and decay; they are parasites that only take, a perversion of what ought to be. That is why their creation is forbidden. But there have always been those drawn to the dark arts, seeking a quick route to power and immortality without needing to be raised to the Court. I suspect Irinali is one such. She would not be the first.” Yhani’s voice trailed off, as if she was about to say something more and thought better of it.

When it became obvious she wasn’t going to say any more, Len turned to Thyra. “And you,” she said, “I’m not sure if you’re incredibly brave or phenomenally stupid. I’ll make up my mind when I see if it gets us out of here. In any case, were you making that up about being able to open the vault for him?”

“No,” Thyra said. “At least, not entirely. Taras said that my blood might be able to let me pass safeguards left by rakshasas, but he never said anything about this vault. I think it’s worth a shot, anyway.”

“When we get back to Sharn I’m going have a very long talk with this Taras Zanthan about putting us all up to this,” Len groused. “And I don’t suppose you could have mentioned earlier about this?”

“I wasn’t lying; I didn’t know the vault was sealed, or how,” Thyra shot back. “I didn’t even know where it was; that’s why I needed the map. And I’m not sure you’re one to complain about other people keeping secrets, Captain.”

Her words hit Len like a slap to the face. In the course of the conversation with ir’Sarrin, she’d almost forgotten she was still in her true form, but suddenly the knowledge of that fact was inescapable. She felt exposed, vulnerable, almost naked, and she hated herself for it. “I didn’t lie to you either,” she snapped. “You never asked if I was human, you just assumed it – that’s your mistake. What, now that you’ve seen my true face, do you think I’m going to sell you out? I’m still the same person I was. Or do you think I’m ashamed of being a changeling? I’m not, but I still don’t show this face to people I don’t know well if I have any choice in the matter. I don’t strip naked in front of strangers either. I’d think you of all people might understand that better, but apparently, I was wrong.”

Thyra’s eyes were wide; apparently Len had been yelling rather louder than she’d meant to. Finally, the girl lowered her head. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I think I do understand, at least a little bit. I shouldn’t have said that. I think that – “

“Wait!” Havaktri hissed. “I sense someone coming. I think ir’Sarrin is back, and Irinali too. There’s something else with them, but I can’t sense its thoughts.”

The sound of jangling keys echoed through the cell again, and then the door opened and ir’Sarrin strode back inside, with Irinali a pace behind and behind her a cadaverous figure in antique armor. It was something Len had hoped to never see again, and her skin crawled at the sight of it against her will. Ir’Sarrin had brought a skeleton warrior with him.

“Maybe it’s just the lighting,” Rinnean said, “but that thing looks even uglier down here than it did when it jumped me upstairs.”

“Quiet,” ir’Sarrin snapped. He focused his gaze on Thyra. “You, my dear, are fortunate. I just had a meeting with a young woman who claimed to be your sister. She corroborated your account that you have some manner of connection to the rakshasas, though the two of you differ on the details; and while the Flame and I have our differences, I’ve found that it’s followers are not typically liars. Perhaps against my better judgment, I find myself believing you.”

“So, what are you going to do with me?” Thyra asked. “Hand me over to Val for the Church’s hand in friendship?”

Ir’Sarrin shook his head. “Now, why would I do that?” he asked. “Throw away such a valuable resource as yourself? I think not. I require a success to please my… superior, and having no other options, I’ve decided to take you up on your offer. You will come with me to the vault in the Mournland, and we shall attempt to open it with your blood.” His eyes narrowed. “I don’t intend to bleed you dry, but girl, for your sake you had better pray that this works.”

He gestured to Irinali, who stepped forward with a key in one hand and unlocked Thyra’s shackles, first the ones on her ankles and then the ones on her hands. The young woman stepped forward, rubbing her wrists, and looked over at ir’Sarrin. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I want to find out what’s in that vault every bit as much as you do.”

“Glad to hear it,” Irinali said, “but just in case you do try to double-cross us, I brought this along.” She gestured at the skeleton, which lumbered forward and rested a hand on Thyra’s shoulder; the girl shuddered at the touch. “Attempt to attack any of us, or cast a spell of any kind without my permission, and my pet here will twist your pretty little head off your shoulders. No point in trying to charm or manipulate it, even if your self-righteous sister is right and you really are a rakshasa; it only obeys me. Am I clear?”

“As crystal,” Thyra said. She turned to look back at Len. “And the others? If I go with you, will you set them free?”

“Your friends are collateral,” ir’Sarrin said. “Open the vault for us, and when we return I’ll set them free and will make no attempt to punish them for their attack on my home. Fail to do so, and I’ll ship them to Korth to face the King’s justice. Betray us, and they die. I’m not a cruel man, but neither am I a merciful one, and as of this moment I’m on a rather tight schedule.”

“I understand,” Thyra said, her voice cold and even. “When do we leave?”

“It will take a little time to get ready for the trip,” ir’Sarrin said, “but I’m in a hurry and intend to leave within the hour. I will not let this prize slip away from me. Come, Irinali. We have preparations to make.”

The lord turned and swept from the dungeon, Irinali a pace behind. Thyra and the skeleton warrior took up the rear, and the girl looked back over her shoulder and gave an apologetic look at Len and her team. Then she was out of the cell, and the metal door slammed shut behind her.

///

And so the final act of this fic is set into motion. Ir’Sarrin is headed for the Mournland with Thyra in tow, while Valyria lies in wait to ambush her sister. Len and her team remain in the dungeons, though I did take the opportunity to deliver some further exposition about Yhani’s religion and Len’s thoughts about being a changeling (and yes, Yhani knows more about the Lich Queen and her origins than she let on here). Otherwise, not a whole lot to say, other than the fact that things are about to start heating up in a major way.

-MasterGhandalf

 

Chapter 16: Changeling

At the direction of Irinali, the skeleton warrior took Thyra by the wrist and led her to a small guest room on the main floor of the manor house that was largely bare save for a bed and a basin of water in one corner. The skeleton gestured at the basin and Thyra, hoping she was doing what was expected and not something that would cause the undead creature to rip her limb from limb, quickly splashed water on her face and hair, washing away some of the grime and sweat that had accumulated during her trip through the countryside and brief stay in the dungeons. No sooner had she completed the task than a servant girl entered with a bundle of clothes in her arms; it appeared to be a Karrn military uniform of some sort and a hooded red cloak. Thyra dressed quickly, doing her best to ignore the empty gaze of the skeleton warrior as she did so, and when she was ready, the creature led her out into the courtyard.

Ir’Sarrin was there already, mounted on his horse, with Irinali on a somewhat smaller one and a number of other mounts around them. Several of those horses bore riders, and other soldiers milled about them; they were dressed in Sarrin House uniforms, but Thyra had a feeling more than a few of them were Emerald Claw troopers. One soldier brushed past her as he headed towards one of the horses, and Thyra shivered when she saw the medallion he wore, which bore the imaged of a fanged maw open to strike. A priest of the Blood of Vol.

“Don’t be squeamish, girl,” Irinali said, regarding her disdainfully. “You’ll see worse than a priest you don’t agree with before we’re done in the Mournland. Count yourself lucky we’re not going far in; the stories I’ve heard from the inner regions would give a necromancer nightmares.” Her lips twitched in a mirthless smile. “I know that from personal experience.”

“Be still, Irinali; unless it should become obvious she is lying to us, this woman is our guest,” ir’Sarrin said. He gestured to a comparatively placid looking brown horse that a groom was holding beside his own. “I trust you can ride? It would make things somewhat more difficult otherwise, but not insurmountably so. Still, I’d rather not have to carry you slung over my saddle as if I was villain from a two-crown melodrama abducting the fair maiden.”

“I am quite capable of riding a horse,” Thyra snapped, not sure if ir’Sarrin was making a joke or not but refusing to rise to his bait. She placed her foot in the stirrup and swung up onto the horse’s back, the skeleton warrior taking up its place by the animal’s side; the horse must be very well trained, Thyra thought, to tolerate its presence so easily. “So,” she said, seating herself and turning to ir’Sarrin, “is there any particular reason you wanted me to dress like one of your lackeys?”

“Your sister may still be watching our road,” ir’Sarrin said. “Put your hood up before we depart, and you reduce her chances of recognizing you. I’d rather she didn’t decide to follow us, and based on some of the things she said, I don’t think you want her to either.”

“That we can agree on,” Thyra said quietly, and quickly pulled the hood up and cast her face in shadow. Turning to look back at the main building, she saw several more skeleton warriors approaching, led by the young man from earlier – Dal, she thought his name was. The skeletons fell in beside the Emerald Claw troops, and Dal himself mounted a horse beside Irinali’s. He must be her apprentice, Thyra thought with a slight shiver – a student of necromancy. Irinali, Dal, and the priest – those were the three who would be most dangerous to her if this went wrong.

Thyra pulled her gaze away from them and leaned in beside ir’Sarrin. “I promise you that I’m telling the truth,” she said. “I can’t tell you what’s in that vault because I don’t know, but if anything can open it, it’s the blood in my veins. Everything I told you about that was true. All I want in return is that when it’s done, you’ll let me and my friends go free.”

Ir’Sarrin nodded once. “You have my word as a Karrn, a disciple of Vol, and a man of honor that if you do this for me, you will all go free.” His voice lowered dangerously. “And if you are lying to me, then what you already experienced in my dungeon will be only the slightest taste of what lies in store for you.”

He pulled to the front of the group and gestured imperiously with one hand. The gates opened slowly, and then the warlord and his company road through, Thyra by their side.

///

Len hung in the chains in ir’Sarrin’s prison cell, apparently deep in thought; the other members of her team were silent around her. The warlord had wanted to leave within the hour, he said, and Len felt that trying anything before then would fail miserably. But when he was gone, his most powerful servants with him – well, even with the Emerald Claw troops, there was a limit to the number of armed men and women he could keep barracked in this place. And Len had no intention of simply waiting passively for ir’Sarrin to return and pronounce her fate.

That was why, though she appeared to be half-asleep, the captain was in fact counting her breaths, and had been since shortly after ir’Sarrin and his lackey had left with Thyra. It wasn’t a precise measure of time, but it would do well enough – and, if she was right, the warlord ought to have just left with his party. It was time. Len raised her head and glanced over at Rinnean, nodding once.

The elf returned the nod and twitched his bound hands. Something slid into his fingers from the cuff on his sleeve, a slender piece of metal, and he worked it into the lock on the shackles and began picking. He worked on it for what felt like several minutes and Len watched with baited breath as the scowl on Rinnean’s face grew. “What’s the matter?” Harsk finally asked. “Finally meet a lock better than you are?”

“If you must know, this is a very poor angle, and the only pick ir’Sarrin’s men missed isn’t one of my better ones,” Rinnean snapped back. “I can get it, just give me time!”

“Time we may not have,” Len hissed. “There’s still guards outside – keep your voices down or none of us will get out of here!” Harsk looked guilty and even Rinnean seemed slightly abashed; Havaktri, meanwhile, had tilted her head back and closed her eyes. Len scowled at all three of them – the men for being loud, and Havaktri for picking a Khyber of a time to meditate.

“If you’ll just be patient,” Rinnean said, more softly this time, “I can get it. Ir’Sarrin’s locksmith is good, but I’m better, and…”

“Got it!” Havaktri suddenly called. No sooner had she finished speaking than a ring of keys shot between the bars of the cell door and landed directly in the startled Rinnean’s hands.

“How-?” The elf managed to ask; Havaktri looked superior.

“A wizard’s spells are based on learning, a sorcerer’s on blood, and a priest’s on faith, but if they can’t pray or speak or move their hands, they can’t do anything.” The kalashtar smiled, and for the first time Len thought she could see the impression of an ancient dream spirit on that almost-human face. “But a psion needs only her mind. Clearly, ir’Sarrin didn’t know that. Now, hurry! The guards can’t have missed that!”

Sure enough, a pair of figures now stood outside the cell door, bickering with one another in low voices – trying to figure out what to do now that Havaktri had stolen their keys, Len presumed. Finally the bolder of the two gave the door a resounding kick and it burst inward; the guards rushed inside, weapons drawn.

Rinnean had been working frantically trying to find which key unlocked the manacles; just as the door burst open he freed his hands, and then his feet. The elf tossed the keys to Len and then dove towards the guards, swinging his legs underneath the man and knocking him to the floor. The other guard raised his sword, but Havaktri’s eyes suddenly flared with a brilliant blue light; the guard was slammed against the wall by an unseen force and lay still.

Len managed to free herself just as a third guard stepped in; this one was a woman and, judging by the gold clasp on her cloak and the stripes on her uniform’s sleeves, was probably an officer. She regarded her two prone guards and Rinnean for a moment, and then her eyes widened. Yelling a battle cry, she slammed into the elf, knocking him back to the floor, and then raised her sword. “My Lord wants you alive,” she said, “but I don’t think he’d mind if I took one of your hands for a lesson.”

“I mind,” Len said, slamming into the guard officer with her shoulder and kocking her back. The woman stumbled and raised her sword; Len ducked beneath her swings and then raised a hand. Calling magical energy into her fingers, she darted forward and seized the guard’s face, releasing the power as a surge of electricity. The guard screamed as the power coursed through her then stumbled back as Len released her grip before falling to the ground, unconscious.

“That was for trying to hurt my team,” Len said, giving the officer’s body a kick for good measure. Quickly she turned freed the rest of the mercenaries; when Yhani was free, Len wrapped her arms around her in a tight hug. The priestess stiffened for a moment at this entirely improper display of emotion, but then she gave in and hugged Len back, if anything even tighter.

Len pulled back and gave her a quick kiss on the lips. “Let’s not do all this again, shall we?”

“Of course not; I am not over fond of prisons,” Yhani said, looking around. “the question remains – what do we do now?”

“Well, I think that’s obvious,” Ghazaan said. “We find Thyra and get the kid back from that Karrn bastard.”

Havaktri nodded vigorously. “I agree,” she said. “Ir’Sarrin claims he will spare her if she helps him, but I don’t trust him. His mind is desperate, and a desperate man may not act with logic or consistency. And if she can’t do what she’s promised, he’ll kill her anyway. And I liked her.”

Rinnean shrugged. “I, for one, say we should put this whole mess behind us,” he said. “The girl is obviously where she wants to be, doing what she wants to do. I say we let her. I’m not interested in pursuing a Karrn fanatic into the Mournland for any money.”

“Oh, so you’d abandon her with the job half done?” Ghazaan demanded. “My old granny always said elves were sneaky and didn’t have honor; guess she was right.”

“Honor isn’t worth dying over, my tall, orange friend,” Rinnean snapped back. Ghazaan snarled, but before he could speak again Yhani interposed herself between them.

“Enough, both of you!” she said. “We need to leave before the guard shift changes; we have little time. Len,” she glanced over her shoulder at her lover, “I think this is your decision.”

“Captain’s in charge,” Harsk agreed. “I’ll follow her lead.”

Len paused for a long moment, staring down at her long-fingered grey hands. She remembered Thyra’s lies and hidden agendas, but there was the matter of the money she’d promised them – and, rising in the background of her thoughts, the memory of a young woman with a look of terror on her face, fleeing what she was, hiding her heritage, desperate for a chance to start over again. Not so different from another girl who had done much the same, years ago…

“We follow Thyra,” Len finally said. “Job’s not done, and Havaktri’s right; ir’Sarrin could very well kill her before things are through and she’ll need our help. Now, we’ve got to get out of here.”

“Oh, really?” Rinnean asked. “And how to we propose to do that? I can sneak, but some of us are rather conspicuous.”

Len smiled coolly. “Watch me.” She knelt beside the unconscious guard captain, regarding the woman’s feature’s carefully, and then she closed her eyes and fixed the image in her mind. She felt the familiar sensation of her flesh rippling and then she stood, now the spitting image of the officer on the floor.

“Rinnean, Harsk, grab their uniforms and put them on,” she said in another woman’s voice, gesturing to the two male guards. “We’re marching straight out the front door.”

///

Still wearing the guard’s face, Len lead her team up into Sarrin’s main level. Rinnean and Harsk followed immediately behind her in stolen uniforms, their helmets pulled down low to hide their faces; Yhani, Havaktri, and Ghazaan marched between them, their hands bound by cuffs that were not actually locked. So far they had encountered no one but a few servants who quickly got out of their way; it seemed like ir’Sarrin really had taken most of his remaining guards with him when he’d left. Len said a quiet prayer to the Traveler for that oversight, thanking the god for enemies who were in a rush.

Finally, as she crossed the main hall and headed towards the front doors, one of the guards who stood there stepped forward, gaze suspicious. “Captain Verin,” he said, meeting her gaze, “I have to ask you to go no farther unless you can explain where you are taking these prisoners.”

Len swaggered forward, wishing she’d had more time to study the captain to better imitate her mannerisms; still, assuming ir’Sarrin used the same rank insignias as the Karrnathi army this guard was only a sergeant, and that gave her certain advantages. “Our Lord requested these prisoners,” she snapped imperiously. “Apparently he thinks the girl will be more cooperative if she can see her friends with swords at their throats. We’re taking them to him now. You will let us pass.”

“Nobody rode back after the Lord left…” the guard said, but Len cut him off impatiently.

“He didn’t want to risk the delay; he had Mistress Irinali cast a sending. Now, are you going to stand aside and let me pass, and send a runner to have the front gates open, or are you going to disobey a superior officer and, by extension, Lord ir’Sarrin himself?” Len leaned in close. “Doesn’t seem like much of a decision from where I’m standing.”

The sergeant gulped. “Of-of course not,” he finally said, and gestured for one of his men. “You, run to the gates and have the open for Captain Verin. Quickly!” The other guard saluted, opened the doors, and dashed out across the courtyard.

“Thank you for your cooperation,” Len said brightly; sometimes, your enemy’s respect for order and hierarchy could be made to work against them. She gestured for her team to follow and crossed the courtyard without incident; the guards at the front gate saluted, and then they were out of the fortress and into the open area before the trees. Len breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

It was too soon. They hadn’t made it halfway across the clearing when bells suddenly began to ring within Sarrin; Len cursed and began to run towards the trees, gesturing for the others to follow. Someone must have found the real Captain Verin and her men stripped to their smallclothes and tossed into their own prison cell. They made it to the first line of trees and turned to see about ten guards – probably the bulk of those who remained behind – come running out of Sarrin’s gates, heading straight for them.

“Damn,” Len swore under her breath, and drew her sword.

“I knew something would go wrong,” Rinnean said.

///

And so the final stage of the fic begins! Thyra and ir’Sarrin are on their way to the Mournland, and Len and company have broken out of their cell. Len was right that ir’Sarrin’s sudden departure left the fortress in a rather disorganized state, and the word that one of the prisoners was a changeling hadn’t gotten disseminated properly yet (the officer Len impersonates was named for a character of rather slippery allegiance in the Wheel of Time series, by the way). Of course, the ruse couldn’t – and didn’t – hold for long. The mercenaries are free, but they’re about to have a fight on their hands. Otherwise, I think this chapter was pretty straightforward, but things are moving towards a climax.

-MasterGhandalf

 

Chapter 17: Divine Blood

“Damn!”

Len drew her sword as she watched ir’Sarrin’s men approach, letting her face slip back to her accustomed human disguise as she did so – the game was up anyway, and if she was going to die here, she would do it as herself, the person she had created and become. Flames rushed down the blade of her sword, and she raised it towards the enemy in challenge, a cold grin playing along her lips. Behind her, she could hear Ghazaan drop the pack he’d been carrying on his back and let it fall open; the team’s weapons, recovered from the guard room outside their cell, rolled out. Hurriedly, the others scrambled to reclaim what was theirs.

Taking her eyes for a moment from the approaching enemies, Len turned towards Yhani and shot her a smile; the elf priestess returned it, saluting with her scimitar. Neither of them had much in the way of magic at the moment – a night spent chained to wall was hardly conducive to the study or prayer they needed to replenish their spells – but they had their swords, their friends, and each other. That would have to be enough.

One of the approaching guards fell back behind the others and nocked an arrow to his bow; he let it fly over the heads of his companions, aiming directly for Len. Before it could strike, Havaktri waved her hand and it was knocked off course, thudding harmlessly into the trunk of a tree. “Is that the best you can do?” the kalashtar called in a sing-song voice; the archer scowled and prepared to shoot again, but before he could he stumbled back, one of Harsk’s arrows embedded in his chest. He stumbled and fell.

Then the other guards were upon them. Ghazaan roared a Goblin battle cry; not even bothering with his sword, he seized the nearest Karrn by the throat, lifted him up, and flung him headlong into two others, sending all three sprawling. Len and Yhani stood back-to-back, blades flashing as they parried incoming blows. Harsk and Havaktri had fallen back to the trees, keeping out of melee but using arrows and telekinetic abilities to harass the guards; Rinnean darted among the enemy with a long knife in either hand, too fast to hit but having already left two throats slit in his wake.

Yhani began to sing, then, a war-song in some extinct Elvish dialect whose eerie melody called to mind elven warriors hunting giants in the jungles of Xen’drik when the world was young; the guards seemed to hesitate at the sound, as if seized by some dread they couldn’t name. Len understood that feeling well; that song had made the hair on the back of her neck stand up the first time she’d heard it, and it would still if Yhani hadn’t explained to her what the lyrics meant. It was a song of freedom, of striking back against tyrants and oppressors, and hearing it now Len laughed and pressed her attack, forcing the guard she was dueling back. He was good, she had to admit, but she was better; her burning blade pierced his torso and he fell back, screaming.

Another guard stepped forward to take his place, taller and more heavily armed; he bore a huge mace in both hands. He swung it forward and Len danced lightly back; returning with a strike of her own, all she managed to do was score a burn mark along his breastplate. Scowling, she ducked and wove as he struck at her again; one blow from that mace would likely be the end of her. But he had to have a weakness; if she could just get her blade through his underarm, maybe that would do it…

But then the guard stumbled suddenly and fell on his face. An arrow was embedded in his neck, and Len was about to call out to Harsk in thanks until she noted its color. A silver arrow that seemed to gleam – Harsk didn’t use ones that looked like that; Len couldn’t think of anyone who did, except maybe…

“For the Flame!” a loud voice called, and an armored figure changed into the melee, bright sword swinging. One of ir’Sarrin’s men fell before him, head sliced cleanly from his shoulders. The mercenaries seemed emboldened by the coming of this unexpected aid; the guards, now down to half their strength, clustered tightly around each other, facing their foes with weapons out. Len could barely hear a hurried conversation among them, and then they turned and fled back towards the fortress.

Len turned towards the knight who had come to their aid; as she suepcted, it was Pitar. “Well,” she said, “I’m a bit surprised that you’d help us, but I won’t say I don’t appreciate it.” Sheathing her sword, she held out her hand; the paladin took it. “Good timing.”

“Don’t thank me too much,” Pitar said, looking down at the guards’ bodies. “There’s not much honor in fighting the living, knowing they’re people just like you. Give me undead or demons to face any day.”

“That wish just might come true before we’re through,” Valyria said, walking out of the trees with a bow in one hand; the silver arrow must have been hers, Len thought. “Besides, I doubt these men were innocent – do you think they worked for ir’Sarrin without realizing what he was? When he passed us on the road he had a Blood of Vol priest with him and skeleton warriors. If he’s not at least an Emerald Claw sympathizer, I’ll eat my cloak.”

She regarded each of the mercenaries in turn with a cool, level stare. “Now that I’ve helped you out of a tight spot,” she said, “I think I’m owed some answers. Let’s start with an easy one – where is Thyra?”

///

Thyra rode down the forested path with her head low, shadowed by her hood. The skeleton warrior strode beside her, keeping pace with the tireless vigor of the undead, and she could feel it’s empty gaze upon her… and the more alive, but equally cold gaze of its creator. Irinali hadn’t spoken to anyone since they’d left the fortress, but the elf necromancer had the calculatedly watchful air of someone who was carefully aware of everything going on around them. Thyra wasn’t planning to escape – for the moment, ir’Sarrin’s people were taking her right where she wanted to go – but she had a feeling that any later attempt to claim whatever artifact was in the vault would fail unless Irinali’s attention was diverted.

A shadow fell over her and she realized that ir’Sarrin’ horse was now keeping pace with her own. “Would you mind talking with me for a little while?” the warlord asked; his tone was casual, but Thyra had a feeling that this wasn’t a request she could refuse.

“I think I’m hardly in a position to say no,” she said. “What do you want?”

“True enough,” ir’Sarrin admitted. “You may correct me if I’m wrong, but I would assume that you are a Flameite, like your sister. How much do you know about the Blood of Vol?”

“Not much,” Thyra admitted. “Not many people in Thrane follow your religion. I know you worship the undead, but that’s about it.”

Ir’Sarrin waved his free hand dismissively. “A common misconception,” he said, unwittingly echoing Yhani’s earlier words. “Those of the undead who retain their intelligence and free will – their souls, if you will – are worthy of honor and respect, but we do not worship them. Rather, we see them as a stepping stone to something greater.”

The warlord regarded Thyra with shrewd eyes. “Our two faiths have many differences – I don’t think anyone can deny that. Personally, I find your Church to be narrow-minded and dogmatic, and you plainly know little of my creed. But we do have common ground. We both, for instance, emphasize the importance of the mortal spirit over subjecting ourselves to the dominion of the uncaring gods.”

Thyra shrugged. “I never thought of it that way, but I don’t think that’s wrong. The Flame is a force for good, but it can’t act unless people champion it’s cause, like Thyra Miron. It’s not a god, more of… something that inspires us to be better than ourselves.”

“Well put,” said ir’Sarrin. “I too believe in something that inspires me to better myself, but not the Silver Flame. The Blood of Vol is an old religion, and its history goes back to the elves when they first settled on Aerenal.” He looked over at Irinali, who rolled her eyes. “My associate could tell the story better, but she has little patience for her people’s histories and less for religion, so we won’t force her to. In short, after their long wars with the giants and dragons, the elves sought a means to preserve their people past death. One group focused on preserving their ancestors through worship, and thus began the Undying Court. Others sought to channel the spirits of their ancestors directly. The third group sought to defeat death itself. In the end there was a war, and the followers of the third group were destroyed – save for the last daughter of the House of Vol, who escaped into lichdom when her family was slaughtered. She kept their ideas preserved, and in time taught them to humans. We call ourselves the Blood of Vol to honor her.

“You see, blood is the divine spark that gives all things life. The gods, if they exist at all, are either cruel or criminally negligent, seeding our world with pain and death. But we believe that it is possible to rise above, to channel our own divine sparks and transcend mortality, to cast out death and make this world a paradise. The undead are one step on this journey, but they are not the end.” He regarded Thyra intently. “You of the Church seek to cast out evil in much a similar way, I believe. Perhaps we’re not so different after all.

“I was never much of a religious man in my youth – my wife was the devout one.” His gaze took a distant quality. “She died, a long time ago. The rest of my family did too; I am the last to carry the ir’Sarrin name, and there will be no others after me. My parents, my siblings and cousins, even my son and daughter – they all died in the War. My wife went last, to an assassin’s poison. This is common knowledge, no deep secret. I was desperate, maddened by grief, determined to find out why I had been spared when all those I loved had not. I turned to her books, and there I found my calling – my purpose. A way to make all the lives of ir’Sarrin matter.” He looked back at Thyra and there was a fanatic gleam in his eyes; she realized that he had meant every word. This was a man for whom there was nothing left but his religion and his country, and that frightened her far more than if he’d been a heartless monster. Then his gaze softened. “You remind me of my daughter, a bit,” he said softly. “She was training as a wizard. She was about your age, when…” his voice trailed off.

“Why are you telling me this?” Thyra said when she finally found her voice.

“Because,” ir’Sarrin said, “if what you’ve told me is true, then you have the blood of immortals in your veins, however diluted. I said that the divine spark is carried in the blood – in yours, it must be strong. If you are what you say you are, then perhaps you can be of use to me beyond merely opening a vault. Perhaps fate has led you to me for this purpose.”

“What are you saying,” Thyra asked, a sudden chill creeping up her spine.

“He’s saying, in his needlessly roundabout way,” Irinali said, “that there are people higher in our organization who’d be most interested in meeting you. One in particular, who has waited a very long time to awaken the divine spark but, alas, no longer has blood of her own.”

“Few know this, even among the faithful,” said ir’Sarrin, “but our first teacher, the last of the House of Vol, still exists. We of the Emerald Claw know better. We call her the Queen of Death, born of the mixed blood of elves and dragons, and she will lead us to glory.” He regarded Thyra with that steady, intense gaze. “She sees very few, but if you are what you claim, you might just be worth her time, especially if you are the key to giving her a weapon older even than she.”

His tone was mild, but Thyra heard the threat in it nonetheless. A new fear seized her heart; if she failed, she and Len’s company would die, but if she succeeded… then she’d be given over to this ancient lich. Maybe ir’Sarrin thought that was not so terrible a fate; Thyra didn’t share that opinion.

She managed to mumble a somewhat coherent response, but her thoughts were far away. Whatever happened, she knew now more than ever that she had to find some way to escape these people.

///

“Where is Thyra?”

Len began to walk down the road, gesturing for her team to follow her; she wanted to put as much distance between them and Sarrin as possible in case the warlord’s guards decided to come back for another round. Valyria kept pace with her. “Gone, I’m afraid,” the captain said. “Lord ir’Sarrin took her and a bunch of his people off towards the Mournland. They’re probably a ways ahead of us by now, and I’m not sure that the two of you want to be taking on that many.”

Pitar swore. “We saw them go by, remember?” he asked Valyria, who nodded with a cold expression. “Ir’Sarrin and a whole procession of his people went by a bit over and hour ago. Thyra must have been one of the ones in a cloak, and we missed her!”

“I knew he was hiding something,” Valyria said, shaking her head. “The rakshasa must have decided that ir’Sarrin would be a more useful tool than you, Captain. Frankly, I’m amazed it left you alive. Whatever it’s planning, though, I fear it nears completion.” She scowled. “The Mournland? Why there? I don’t like the sound of it.”

“Your sister,” Len said, emphasizing the relationship, “sold her services to ir’Sarrin to protect the rest of us. Apparently there’s some old vault or tomb out in what used to be Cyre and he thinks she can open it for him. We’re going to try and get her back before they get out there and ir’Sarrin finds a reason to kill her.”

Valyria pursed her lips. “I see that the rakshasa still has you under its sway. I’m sorry to hear that, Captain. You don’t seem like a bad person, but if you plan to help the fiend, you leave me no choice.” The inquisitor suddenly nocked an arrow to her bow and levelled it directly at Len’s heart. “Any sudden moves, and you die.”

Before anyone else could react, Yhani slipped behind Valyria and placed the edge of her scimitar against the human woman’s neck. “Shoot Len,” the priestess hissed, all evidence of the wise counselor or gentle lover gone from her voice – there was steel in her tone, and the timeless arrogance of Aerenal, “and you will not long outlive her. Choose wisely.”

Pitar drew his own sword, and the rest of the mercenaries tensed and faced him. Finally, Valyria sighed and lowered her bow. “It seems you have all been seduced,” she said. “Don’t you understand what sort of evil you are dealing with?”

“I think you’re the one who doesn’t understand,” Havaktri said. “I would explain, but I think maybe you have a head so full of the Flame there isn’t any room for anything else.”

“Thyra says she’s not a rakshasa,” Len said, “and before you say anything, Havaktri scanned her mind and confirmed she wasn’t lying. She says she’s mostly human, with a little rakshasa blood from way back that makes her a sorcerer – and she’s trying to find a way to get rid of that. Getting the truth out of that kid is no mean feat, but I don’t think she’s evil – just desperate and confused.”

“What about Brother Nalin?” Pitar said carefully. “His notes regarding Thyra pointed towards possession, not a sorcerer’s diluted blood. And someone murdered the Brother.”

“I fear, my good inquisitor, that you are being used,” Yhani said, sheathing her scimitar. “Someone, and I do not know who, wants you and Thyra at each other’s throats. I believe that this person murdered Brother Nalin and framed Thyra for the crime. After all, there are many things in this world that can wear a face not their own.” She glanced pointedly at Len as she spoke.

“And what would the goal of such a deception be?” Valyria asked carefully.

“Who knows?” Ghazaan said. “Unless we run into whoever’s behind this, we don’t have a whole lot to go on. But I don’t think Thyra’s a murderer.”

“Her shock and grief when informed of Brother Nalin’s death felt very real,” Havaktri added.

Valyria scowled. “Fine, then. I have an inquisitor’s instinct for these things, and I think you’re telling the truth as you see it. But I still think you’re being deceived. Why did the rakshasa flee from me, if not fearing exposure? The real Thyra would have been more than willing to submit to judgment and prove her innocence.”

“Well maybe she was just worried you’d stick an arrow in her head first, to be on the safe side,” Ghazaan said. “The kid’s pretty terrified of what you two might do to her. Considering how stubborn you’re being, I don’t blame her.”

“Maybe there’s another reason Sister Valyria doesn’t want to admit what Thyra says is the truth,” Rinnean said, sauntering forward. “Bloodlines don’t come out of thin air, after all, and Thyra is her sister. Maybe Valyria just doesn’t want to admit that if there’s fiendish blood in Thyra’s veins, it’s in her too?”

Valyria recoiled as if she’d been struck, an expression of horror written across her face. Pitar put his hands on her shoulders to steady her, and the inquisitor regarded Rinnean with wide, shocked eyes. The elf merely smiled innocently.

“Was that really necessary?” Harsk asked, crossing his arms.

“What?” Rinnean said. “It’s true, and the look on her face was worth it. The uptight ones always come apart the easiest, if you hit them in the right place.”

“Len,” Yhani whispered, “we need to keep moving. Ir’Sarrin gets farther ahead with every moment we waste. What should we do?”

Len clenched her fists in frustration. “Aureon only knows. I don’t want to have to fight them, and if we leave them they’ll just follow us; we’re all going in the same direction.”

“I have a proposal,” Valyria said, voice shaking but getting firmer as she spoke. “We both have to go to the Mournland, it seems, and none of us want Thyra – or the rakshasa – left in ir’Sarrin’s hands. So I propose a truce. We travel together, and fight ir’Sarrin together. Then after…” she paused, “after, we will have to come to certain decisions.”

Len thought it over, grinding her teeth, and finally nodded. “Fine. You can come with us to rescue you sister, and maybe then you’ll come to your Six-damned senses and we can sort things out like reasonable people without any murder. From what I hear of the Mournland, we could use all the help we can get, anyway. But like you said, this is a truce. So long as you still think Thyra’s a demon, we’re not friends.”

“Understood,” Valyria said. The company turned together and began to make their way down the road, Len and the inquisitor watching each other warily from the corner of their eyes.

///

This is a pretty important chapter for getting everything in place! We get to see Len and her team in action rather more successfully this time, something that I wanted to make sure to show considering their attempt at a raid failed spectacularly – despite their earlier showing, these are skilled professionals. The team-up with Valyria and Pitar has been a while in the planning, but it’s definitely a tense alliance of convenience, not a lasting partnership – I wanted to make sure both sides were fully aware that they might well turn against each other once ir’Sarrin is defeated.

Speaking of ir’Sarrin, he got to deliver a lot of exposition this chapter, about himself and his religion. I deliberately wanted him to be a true believer, not just a hypocrite using religion as an excuse to pursue power, and there are several reasons why he dumped all this information on Thyra. For one, he considers himself an honorable man in his own way and thought he owed it to her to explain why he was going to turn her over to Erandis Vol, and also because, as a true believer, he genuinely thought (wrongly) that he might be able to sway her to his way of thinking. But as Thyra noticed, ir’Sarrin is an affable fanatic, but a fanatic nonetheless – he’s not someone you want to be on the wrong side of, even if he’s not malicious in ordinary conversation.

-MasterGhandalf

 

Chapter 18: Mournland

Ir’Sarrin’s party travelled swiftly through the day, soon leaving the Nightwood behind and emerging onto a well-traveled highway. They spoke to no one they met, and none spoke to them – apparently, the scowling guards and coldly impassive skeletons were sufficient to convince any Karrn to mind their own business. By the time the sun was sliding towards the horizon, they’d arrived by the shore of the Cyre River.

The warlord had a boat waiting for them there, and quickly loaded his company aboard. Thyra stood near the prow, the ever present skeleton warrior hovering behind her, while ir’Sarrin gave hurried instructions to the captain. Shortly thereafter, the boat cast off and began its crossing towards the Mournland.

The sight of her destination drew Thyra’s gaze with a horrified fascination. Once, Cyre had been the jewel of the Kingdom of Galifar, most powerful and prosperous of the Five Nations, and it had contended with the other four for a hundred years of war. Now, that glory was shattered, gone almost past recall. A great wall of mist encircled the nation’s borders; Thyra watched it now, grey and impenetrable, though it shifted before her eyes as it grew ever closer. The stories she’d heard of what lay beyond… well, they were the sort that didn’t bear thinking about. Still, it drew her onward, a clawed hand of destiny stretching out and bearing her on towards her fate, whatever that might be.

“Fascinating, isn’t it?” a calm voice asked; Thyra started and turned to see Irinali coming to stand beside her. The elf shot her a cold smile. “The kind of power to bring a nation to its knees in a single day – there are many who would kill for that.”

“Including you?” Thyra asked.

Irinali laughed. “I’m not an evil wizard from some chapbook, whatever you may think of me. I’m a professional, a master of my craft, and I sell my services to those who appreciate them, such as Kharvin and his organization. I’ve no desire to see the Mourning repeated – what’s the profit in that? Even my relatives back in Aerenal aren’t worth the effort; they’ll sink into the mire of their own hidebound thoughts and drown there with or without my help.” She looked back at the fog. “But still – it is a wonder.”

An entire nation dead, a wonder. Thyra found herself shivering at Irinali’s complete lack of concern; it was an intellectual curiosity to her, nothing more. “And is it true that nobody knows what caused it?” she asked when she finally found her voice.

“Not that I’ve heard,” Irinali said. “Oh, there are theories, some of them with merit. Some say the Cyrans brought it on themselves – that they had House Cannith working on a superweapon and it went off early and blew their whole country straight to Khyber. Some say it was natural – a spillover of magic from some alien plane that interacted with ours rather poorly. Others still say it was the daelkyr, stretching their dark hand out from their prison for the first time in millennia. I’ve been into it myself a handful of times, though never for long, and they all seem equally likely – or unlikely – to me.” She looked back to Thyra. “And you’ll be seeing it soon enough. I hope you’re made of sterner stuff than you look, girl.”

You have no idea what I’m made of, Thyra thought, but she managed to resist saying it out loud. Glancing back towards the center of the boat, she saw ir’Sarrin approaching.

“Are you frightening our guest, Irinali?” he asked. “However the Mourning happened is irrelevant, until or unless it happens again. But do you want to know what it really is? An excuse.” His eyes hardened. “The excuse Kaius used to justify rolling over and showing our bellies to the world rather than pressing our attack. The excuse used to make all our losses, all our sacrifices meaningless.”

He looked to the shifting mists. “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? Meaning. Our attempts to creating meaning in a cruel, uncaring world. I found my way just as my nation lost its own, but I will show it back to the proper path.” He turned to Thyra. “Prepare yourself, girl. Tonight we enter the closest thing to Khyber that exists on Eberron. Be ready for it. You too, Irinali. Everything rests on this. We can’t fail now.”

///

Len stood on the bank of the river, regarding the wall of mist that shrouded what waited on the other side. They had made their way here, to the border of Karrnath and that which had once been Cyre, without much difficulty; now Rinnean and Pitar had gone down to a little fishing hamlet a short ways down the coast to try and barter for the services of a boat to take them across. Until they got back, all Len could do was wait. Normally she wouldn’t mind that, but now… watching the mists swirl, she pulled her stolen cloak more tightly around her shoulders, though she wasn’t cold.

“Lost in thought?” a familiar voice asked, and then Yhani was there beside her, an arm wrapped around Len’s shoulders. “Do not worry. If we are lucky, we should be able to get moving again before too long.”

“I know,” Len said softly. “But I just keep getting the feeling that we’re being… drawn out there. Us, Valyria and Pitar, Thyra, the damn Karrns – it’s like you said back at the inn at Korth. We’re caught in a trap of someone else’s weaving, and we don’t know who they are or what they want. We can’t do anything but dance on their strings.”

She paused for a moment before continuing. “That reminds me. I’ve been thinking about ir’Sarrin, and why he seemed so familiar. I knew I’d seen him somewhere before, and I think I know where.” She turned to look Yhani directly in the eye. “Remember that battle at the border fort, not long after we met?”

Yhani smiled. “You mean the one where you nearly single-handedly led the defense and got your promotion to lieutenant?” she asked. “How could I forget?”

Len shifted awkwardly. “Yeah, that one,” she said. “Well, remember at the end, after the Karrns withdrew, that one officer who stopped to salute us? I keep thinking back to it, and the more I do the more certain I am – it was him. Ir’Sarrin. I can’t put my finger on how I know – maybe it was the armor, the way he holds himself, the way he sat on his horse or gave orders – but I do.” She laughed darkly. “What a world, huh? What a coincidence that we’d meet him again after all these years? Or maybe it’s not. Maybe whoever it is planned this out too, for Aureon-knows-what reason.”

The captain let her shoulders slump. “Maybe we’ve been caught in this damn trap the whole time, and someone’s scripted out every move we’ve made or are going to make. Sovereigns, I hate how that makes me feel. Like there’s not a damn thing I can actually do!”

Yhani put both her hands on the sides of Len’s face and turned it slowly to face her. “Len, dear heart,” she said softly, “I understand how you feel. As long as I have known you, you have been so determined to forge your own path, to find your own purpose in life, and now you fear that has been taken away from you. There are many powers in this world that seek to guide it along the path of their own choosing, overriding all other wills. But let me tell you a secret – none of them is infallible. The future is so complex, so full of branching possibilities, that no mind can understand it all. Do you know why demons and dragons are so determined to read the future and shape it to their wills? Because they know, deep down, that there will always be something in it that defies their control. That is where we stand, my love; the tiny points of light that can disrupt even the best-laid plans. The small stones that can, in time, cause an avalanche.” She leaned in close. “They do not rule all things. Not you, and not me.”

Yhani pressed her lips tightly against Len’s own; for what felt like an eternity they stood there, lost in each other. Finally, the sound of approaching footsteps tore Len’s attention away; she turned, scowling at the interruption, to see Valyria standing there.

“Ah,” the inquisitor said, awkwardness plainly written on her face. Yhani pulled away from Len and adjusted her white robes, apparently trying to recover some dignity. “My apologies for interrupting,” Valyria continued, “but Pitar and your friend Rinnean have managed to secure us a boat. We should probably get going while we still have light; hopefully your shifter will be able to pick up ir’Sarrin’s trail on the other side.”

“Yes, that would be wise,” Yhani said. Turning to Len, she gave a small, encouraging smile and then began to make her way down towards the village, the captain following close behind. Valyria fell into step behind Len.

“So,” the inquisitor finally said, “you and the priestess are…”

“Yes,” Len said, an irritated note creeping into her voice. “I hope that won’t’ be a problem for you.” Her tone said that she didn’t particularly care what Valyria thought of it.

“It’s not,” the human woman finally said. “I’ve just never found the time for love myself. The Church keeps me busy. The most important thing in my life has always been the Flame… and my family.” There was a note of sorrow in her voice that she couldn’t hide.

“Thyra is still your sister, Valyria,” Len said. “No matter what you’ve been led to believe. You’re not on my team and I’ve got no authority over you, but just… think about that before you do something rash.”

“And if I’m right and you’re wrong, I take the risk of unleashing something terrible on the world,” Valyria countered. “Can I take that chance in good conscience? Everything I’ve learned over the last two years says that Thyra – the thing pretending to be Thyra – is a threat. And you have to admit she’s not acted like someone with nothing to hide.”

“You can have secrets you want to keep for other reasons than some sinister motive,” Len said quietly. “Though I guess someone with the title ‘inquisitor’ wouldn’t appreciate that.”

“I think that’s something you’d know a lot about,” Valyria said. “Pitar and I watched you for a while outside ir’Sarrin’s fortress before we helped you. I saw your face change. I know you’re a changeling.”

“Yes,” Len said, rather more sharply than she’d intended. “I’m a changeling. I’ve lived with secrets my whole life, and I get why someone might want to hide things about themselves, especially if they’re afraid of being judged. If I wore my true face every day, people would look at me and always assume I was trying to cheat them or use them just because of what I am. Getting away from that… helps. I think Thyra hides her heritage for the same reason, more or less.”

“Her… heritage.” Valyria’s tone was cool, but there was something troubled beneath the surface. “So you believe then that she really does have… rakshasa blood… in her?”

Len shrugged. “I’m no expert on sorcerers. What magic I have I learned, same as a wizard. But people I trust believe her, so I guess I believe her too. I don’t approve of everything Thyra’s done since I’ve met her, but I think she’s scared, desperate girl who needs help, not an evil monster who has to be destroyed.”

Valyria’s expression was unreadable. “We’ll see,” she said, but her voice was cold.

///

Ir’Sarrin’s boat docked on the far shore of the Cyre River just as the sun sank from the sky and left Eberron in darkness. The warlord and Irinali conferred with one another briefly, and seemingly made the decision to press on, though Thyra could see that many of their followers were nervous. The Blood of Vol priest merely looked determined, however, and the skeleton warriors’ eyes were as vacant and staring as ever. Leaving the boat behind, the company began to make its way through the mist.

For what felt like an eternity, Thyra could see nothing, just swirling shadow-shapes as the mist engulfed them. She could faintly make out silhouettes that must have been the rest of the party, but the only one she could see clearly was her skeleton watchdog, which was holding on her horse’s reins and strode close by her side, more terrible than ever in this weird, half-real world. Its presence made it almost seem as if they were passing through Dolurrh itself, but finally, after the Flame knew how long, they emerged from the mist and into open ground; Thyra released a breath she hadn’t known she was holding.

The land that lay before them was dead, a cracked waste illuminated by the moons’ cold light. Nothing moved or stirred on that desolate expanse that stretched onward into the horizon, but Thyra’s horse bucked as if it had sensed some terrible danger nearby; the other horses did much the same. The only exception was ir’Sarrin’s great warhorse, which seemed to share its master’s cold, dispassionate gaze as it stared across the Mournland.

“Cyre,” ir’Sarrin said finally. “Behold. That which once was the great jewel of Khorvaire, now broken and tarnished past all recall. Behold Death, the enemy which comes for everyone and everything in this world in time; the enemy against which we struggle. Cyre is gone, devoured by its own hubris – now Karrnath must once again take up the standard of this continent’s leading nation. Fear not, my friends – though we look upon the face of destruction, fate is on our side.”

He gestured forward with his right hand and the company began to move out, following behind the warlord in a tight group – clearly, no one wanted to get separated in this place. They passed in silence throughout the night, the dust of their travel swirling behind them, while all around them nothing stirred, nothing lived. Thyra’s horrified gaze wandered all about them, scarcely able to take in the sheer scale of the destruction; any time she tried, her mind simply reeled. Every so often, in the shadow of some hill or outcropping, she saw a dark shape that might be rocks – or might be a humanoid body. The tales of how the bodies of all those who had died in the Mourning lay here, never buried, never rotting, expressions of shock and horror still written across their faces, rose once again in her mind; she felt herself shivering, and not from the cold.

Finally, after hours of this terrible, interminable journey, the Sun began to once more rise above the horizon, though here its light was dimmed by mist and the pall in the air. It served only to cast the desolation of the Mournland in sharper relief, but Thyra welcomed it all the same; it was good to have a reminder that there was still a light in the world beyond the power of whatever caused the Mourning to destroy.

“We’ll rest here for a few hours,” ir’Sarrin said as the came to a rocky overhang shortly thereafter, “and then continue on to the camp; Irinali, send them a message to let them know we’re coming. We should be able to reach our destination by midafternoon. Recover your strength; you’ll need it.”

Thyra slid off the back of her horse as some of ir’Sarrin’s soldiers prepared to feed and water the mounts; one of them handed her a water bottle, and she drank greedily from it. Sitting against the overhang, she leaned back against the rock and let her eyes flutter closed, exhaustion overpowering her fear at being surrounded by enemies, the looming presence of the skeleton warrior, and the overwhelming horror of the Mournland.

Her eyes snapped open some time later to the sound of voices talking quietly. Looking up, she saw ir’Sarrin and Irinali, deep in conversation. Straining her ears, she managed to make out what they were saying.

“…don’t like this,” the necromancer said with her hands clasped behind her back. “I’ve been in the Mournland before, for brief times to run some experiments. Three of those times I was attacked by monsters of various sorts before I was through. Today, we’ve seen nothing, and that bothers me.”

“I would think it would relieve you,” ir’Sarrin said. “After all, few people enjoy fighting for their lives.”

“Imagine that you’re back in the war, leading an invasion of Thranish territory,” Irinali said, “but when you get there, there aren’t any Thranes. Wouldn’t you think that was odd? Wouldn’t you wonder where they all went? And the fear of not knowing could be worse than having a hundred enemies facing you directly.”

“I see your point,” Ir’Sarrin said. “Nonetheless, we’ve come too far to stop now. We press on.” He turned away, and his eyes passed over Thyra’s resting place. He regarded her for a long moment, his expression shrewd, and Thyra knew that he was fully aware she’d overheard, but he said nothing.

The next stage of their journey was much the same as the previous one had been; empty desolation on all sides. Still, none of the horrors that were said to inhabit the Mournland appeared, and after what she’d heard, Thyra was keenly conscious of their absence. A thought began to work its way into her mind – what if someone was deliberately keeping our path clear – but the implications of that were staggering and she shied away from them. Once they heard a distant yowl, like that of some immense and savage cat, and the entire company paused for a long moment while ir’Sarrin watched the area around them intently, but no threat emerged, and after several minutes they pressed on.

Thyra was beginning to grow weary once again when they rounded a low hill and came across a small camp surrounded by rock formations; it was inhabited by people who appeared to be wearing Karrnathi uniforms, and Thyra thought she saw among them the cadaverous figures of several skeletons. Ir’Sarrin led the way as the company road into the camp, and the Karrn soldiers, though weary-looking, saluted him.

A young woman – no, a girl barely Thyra’s age – in a dark robe approached and bowed at the waist. “Lord Ir’Sarrin,” she said, “and Mistress Irinali. Welcome. I hope your journey was as safe as could be expected, but I fear we’ve had no further luck in opening the sepulcher, and I fear we may be forced to abandon the project before long.”

“Never fear, Ashlinn,” Irinali said. “We wouldn’t have come all this way for nothing; we think we may have a solution.” She glanced at Thyra out of the corner of her eye. “Now, where is the sepulcher?”

“Follow me, Mistress, My Lord,” Ashlinn said, bowing again. Thyra, ir’Sarrin, Irinali and their guards dismounted and followed the girl – who must, Thyra decided, be another apprentice necromancer – through the camp, passing several dusty tents before arriving at the base of one of the rock formations. There it appeared a great deal of earth had been scooped away, leaving a hole several feet deep with a slanted incline leading to the bottom. On the side against the base of the rocks was a great metal door, unmarked with only a thin line down the middle to show it was anything but a blank wall.

“Behold,” Ashlinn said softly. “As I wrote to you, mistress, the doors cannot be opened, scratched, moved, or altered in any way, by mundane or magical force. I wish you better luck than I.”

“I think we have a good luck charm,” Irinali said, and she looked at Thyra. “Now, girl, let’s see if bringing you out here was really a decent use of our time. Come!” She marched down the incline, steadying herself with her staff; the skeleton warrior seized Thyra and dragged her along after the necromancer, with a curious ir’Sarrin bringing up the rear. Finally, they reached the bottom, and Irinali smiled as she ran her fingers along the door.

“What a fascinating construction,” she whispered. “But let’s see how much its wards are really worth. Girl, hand.” Thyra held out her right hand uncertainly; Irinali seized her wrist with surprising strength, turned the hand palm up, and then drew a knife from her belt a sliced a shallow cut along Thyra’s palm. Blood began to trickle from the gash. “Now,” Irinali said, “we shall see.”

Still holding Thyra’s wrist, she dragged the sorceress over to the door and pressed her palm against the metal. It felt cool and dry beneath her hand, and surprisingly clean, despite having been buried beneath the earth for uncounted millennia. It felt… familiar, also, as if something on the other side was calling to Thyra, welcoming her; a sudden warmth spread across her hand and up her wrist.

The door, however, didn’t budge.

Irinali sighed. “How very disappointing,” she said. “Well, girl, it seems your services are no longer required; a pity. Still, there are some spells I might be willing to try – “

“Wait!” Ir’Sarrin said. “What’s happening?”

Thyra and Irinali turned their attention back to the door in time to see the strange symbols that began to spread across it, radiating out from Thyra’s hand in elaborate patterns. Thyra could almost read them – they reminded her of some of the glyphs she’d seen in Taras’s books, but these seemed somehow older, more archaic, more… primal. Irinali watched hungrily as they spread across the door, and behind her Thyra could hear ir’Sarrin’s startled, expectant gasp.

And then the doors shook and split apart along the line down the center. With a terrible groan, as of a creature that had lain dormant for thousands of years, they swung slowly open, revealing a great, yawning emptiness beyond and a sloping dark passage that lead in and down.

///

The Mournland is one of the enduring mysteries of the Eberron setting, and its cause is something that Keith Baker seems to have never intended to give and official answer for. Explaining what happened isn’t a question I plan on dealing with in this fic (none of my bad guys did it, I’ll say that), but I did have Irinali go ahead and give some of the more common theories here. She doesn’t particularly want the power to create another Mourning herself, as she admits here – Irinali is fundamentally mercenary at heart and doesn’t have a practical use for a power that vast – but she does have a certain intellectual curiosity about it.

I was glad to be able to include Len and Yhani’s scene, and bits like this are part of the reason why I decided to make them a couple rather than just friends – they’re very different in a lot of ways, but they also just sort of fit together. Yhani is certainly a tremendous pillar of support for Len in times of doubt like this! Len and Yhani have seen part of what is going on with the fic’s plot now; Valyria and Pitar have another part, and so does Thyra, and so does ir’Sarrin, but nobody’s put it all together yet.

At least for this first fic, that putting together will be happening sooner rather than later, though! Thyra’s gamble has paid off, at least so far; the vault is open. What’s inside is a question for next time…

-MasterGhandalf

 

Chapter 19: The Vault

The great metal doors rumbled to a halt and lay still. The passage behind them sloped downwards on a moderate incline, leading down a smooth-sided tunnel and into shadow. Thyra let out a long, slow breath as she stared into that darkness, no longer mindful of how the cut on her hand stung. The sepulcher had opened. Within, or so she hoped, lay her salvation.

“Well, well,” Irinali said, sounding impressed in spite of herself. “The girl’s blood actually worked. I may have to apologize for treating her so harshly.”

“At last,” Ir’Sarrin breathed, stepping forward. “Acquiring the map and sending this expedition was not in vain – I shouldn’t have doubted. Soon, I will place whatever treasure lies within in the Queen’s hand myself.” He turned to his followers. “Get us some torches and send down four more skeletons!” he shouted. “Irinali and I going inside.”

“We should bring the girl as well, Kharvin,” the necromancer said thoughtfully. “There may be other doors or traps, and her blood may prove useful again.”

“Of course,” ir’Sarrin said, but his expression was distant; Thyra thought that his mind must be far away, already presenting the treasures he had found to this Queen of his. Irinali was right, of course, that there might be more traps or barriers within, but Taras hadn’t known anything about what lay beyond the sepulcher doors save that, somewhere down there, there was an artifact of great power. Thyra was already making plans to the extent she could to grab whatever that artifact and run; she had no intention of letting ir’Sarrin hand her over to his mistress as well.

But then, there were the mercenaries, still captive in Sarrin’s dungeon. There was a part of her that said to leave them, to save herself, but that part was overshadowed by another part, the girl who had spent her childhood and adolescence wanting nothing but to serve the Silver Flame. That part said that to leave them would be cowardice of the highest order. And, she had to admit, she’d actually liked them…

The sound of marching feet drew Thyra from her reverie; several more skeleton warriors were approaching, holding lit torches in their hands. The priest of the Blood of Vol was with them, as were Irinali’s apprentices. Ir’Sarrin looked them over and nodded approvingly.

“Very good,” he said. “I don’t know what waits for us inside, but I won’t lie and pretend there’s no possibility of it being dangerous. I think you for your loyalty in accompanying me, and if we should die, Karrnath will honor our memories someday. For Karrnath and the Claw!”

The priest and the apprentices echoed his shout; Irinali merely rolled her eyes, though there was a certain amount of affection in the gesture. Then ir’Sarrin turned and began to walk down the tunnel, two of the skeletons with torches taking up positions beside him to light his way. Irinali, the cleric, and the two younger necromancers followed; the other skeletons, including Thyra’s guard, took up the rear.

The tunnel was smooth and featureless, descending in a never wavering line. The small circle of light that was the door slowly dwindled behind them until at last it was gone, leaving the only light the skeletons’ torches. A silence fell across the entire group as they descended into the bowls of Eberron; Thyra kept glancing around herself, hoping for some writing or symbols on the walls she’d be able to read, but nothing – just smooth, curving stone.

“Fascinating,” Irinali said finally, rubbing one hand along the rock as she walked. “There are no markings here, but this can’t be natural. It’s too even, and there’s no wear on the walls or floor, or any side tunnels like you’d expect in a regular cave. Someone made this, and they must have used powerful magic to do it.”

“A good sign,” ir’Sarrin said. “Nobody would do something like this without a purpose. Very likely, there is something down here worth hiding.” Thyra didn’t speak, but privately, she agreed. The further they walked, the more she became certain that there was something waiting for them down at the bottom – what it might be, however, she had no real idea.

They walked in silence for another indeterminate span of time, and then finally ir’Sarrin stopped. “Wait,” he said. “There’s an opening up ahead. Be on your guard.” He drew his sword, and the skeleton warriors did the same; the priest rested a hand on the small mace that hung at his belt, and Irinali tightened her grip on her staff while her apprentices murmured what sounded like protective spells under the breath. After a moment, the warlord nodded and strode forward, the rest of the party close behind.

They emerged into a great domed chamber that was utterly unlike the drab, featureless tunnel. The walls were covered in elaborate carvings which depicted dragons locked in struggle with fiends in a dozen horrible shapes – but most common among them were what looked like men with the heads of tigers. Rakshsasas. My ancestors, Thyra thought, suppressing a shiver. Directly opposite the tunnel was a statue of a towering rakshasa robed like a king; his backward-facing hands were held before him, and in them rested a map. Thyra’s eyes widened when she saw it – was that Sarlona? In the northwestern corner of the ancient continent a dot had been marked, but she had no idea what it meant.

Before the statue’s feet was what was unmistakably an altar, and something that glittered rested upon it. Thyra’s eyes fell upon it, and with a sudden certainty she knew that this was what she’d sought, an ancient treasure of immense magical power. Ir’Sarrin’s eyes also gleamed in the torchlight, and Thyra knew that the same thoughts were passing through his mind.

But before the altar stood a pair of fearsome guardians – great dragons forged of black iron, their heads lowered as if to regard the intruders with harshly scrutinizing gazes. They didn’t move or react in any way, and it took Thyra a moment to realize that they were statues, not living creatures, so detailed were they. The merely stood silent, eternally watching, eternally disapproving guardians.

“How strange,” Irinali said. “The statue in the back indicates that this is a rakshasa place, but the guardians before the altar are dragons – their mortal enemies. Perhaps the fiends simply placed statues of the most fearsome thing they could think of to ward of intruders…” her voice trailed off, but her tone was troubled.

“No matter,” Ir’Sarrin said. “The rakshasas are gone. The dragons care nothing for this world any longer. This prize… it will be mine!” He strode forward, stepping between the dragons.

At once the statues’ eyes opened, revealing pools of red fire that lay within. They opened their mouths and steam poured forth in great waves. And then, as one, the constructs lowered their heads directly towards the Karrn warlord.

///

“What a terrible place!”

Len had lost count of how many times Ghazaan had said those words during their trek through the Mournland, but she found she couldn’t fault him for it. They were inadequate for the task of describing the sheer horror of what lay before them, but the captain couldn’t think of anything that might do a better job of it. If all the destruction wrought across the hundred years of the Last War could be written in the landscape, she thought, it would be here, in this place. Cyre. The Mournland. The world’s largest grave.

Their companions were all affected as well, of course. Havaktri’s eyes were as wide now as they had been ever since they first passed through the mist; the ageless, alien quality seemed to have been stripped from her, leaving only a frightened girl staring at the land around her in horror. Rinnean walked with a slouch, curiously subdued; only Yhani seemed outwardly unaffected, but Len knew her well enough to tell that even she was badly shaken under her stoic exterior. Harsk, of course, was affected the worst of all, with the lost expression of a man who had woken from a nightmare only to find that the evil dream had become reality – though he’d never truly become a druid, he remained heavily influenced by them, and the corruption of nature written in ever stone and blasted plain around them must surely cry out in offense to his very being.

Fortunately, it hadn’t hindered his skill as a tracker. It had been late last night when they’d crossed the river and entered the Mournland, and it hadn’t taken him long to located ir’Sarrin’s trail – the path of footprints of hooves that marked his part was unmistakable even to Len when they got close enough. Ever since, they’d been following it, though Harsk had made a point of always scouting forward or to the side of their group. He said he was watching for potential dangers; Len just thought he wanted to be alone.

No sooner had she finished that thought than the shifter appeared, hurrying over a nearby hill. “Captain!” he called, raising an arm. “There’s something over here I think you’d better see.”

“What is it?” Len called back.

“I’m not sure,” Harsk said. “But it doesn’t feel right.”

“I’ll come with you,” Valyria said, putting a hand on Len’s arm. “If it’s dangerous, you’ll want someone to watch your back.” Len almost said no, but practicality won out; whatever her feelings about the Inquisitor, Valyria did know her way around a fight. She and Pitar had been stoic and silent throughout today’s journey, a look of grim determination on both their faces. Len wondered if they were both imagining what they’d do if they ever got the chance to visit righteous judgment on whoever – or whatever- had caused the Mourning.

“All right,” the captain said, nodding. The others remained behind at ir’Sarrin’s trail while the two women followed Harsk over several more hills and came at last into a flat depression. A corpse lay there, a man with long, ragged hair in mismatched armor that had been marked with strange symbols. Around him lay scattered bits of what looked like more armor, but no sign of other bodies.

“What’s this?” Len asked, looking over the scene. “I don’t understand what happened here. Did someone kill this guy and just wander off and leave him?”

“No,” Harsk said, baring his sharp canines. “Look at the ground, captain. Lots of footprints; there was a skirmish here. They say bodies don’t rot in the Mournland, but based on the prints, I’d say this took place yesterday at the earliest. This is fresh.”

“So, was this man the only casualty?” Valyria asked. “Who was he fighting? And why did they leave their armor behind?”

Harsk laughed softly. “I know who he was fighting, Sister,” he said. “And they didn’t leave their armor. Look!” He gave a light kick to a nearby piece of metal, rolling it over. Len gasped as he did so, for what she had taken for a helmet was no such thing – it was a head. The metal head of a warforged.

“I’d heard rumors of some warforged warlord gathering followers in the Mournland,” Valyria said softly. “Could this have been one of his?”

“Don’t know,” Harsk said. “But I can guess what happened. These guys here ran into a bunch of warforged and they had it out. The ‘forged parts look like they’ve got burn marks on them, so I guess that the humans had a wizard or sorcerer with them who ended things pretty quickly, but not before one of them was killed. They left the body where it lay and went on to whatever it was they were doing out here. But that’s not the strange part. Take a look at this.” He walked over to the corpse and turned it over. Len saw that the man’s crude breastplate was decorated with more of the strange symbols; she couldn’t read them, but they looked vaguely familiar, some ancient language she’d never bothered to learn.

“I’ve seen these signs before,” Harsk said softly. “I know where this guy came from, and he shouldn’t have been here. This smells bad, captain. It’s not right.”

“All right, Harsk,” Len said impatiently, “speak plainly - no more Druid riddles. What is going on here?”

“I recognize some of those symbols too,” Valyria said, her voice strangely subdued. “This man was a barbarian from the Demon Wastes – a worshipper of the Lords of Dust. He was here, half a continent away from his homeland but only yards away from the trail we’ve been following, when he died. And you still think Thyra is innocent in all of this?” She turned to look at Len with fire in her eyes. “We need to get moving again. I don’t know what’s happening here, but time is assuredly running out.”

///

The dragon constructs lumbered forward, steam hissing from their mouths. Ir’Sarrin jumped backwards, sword poised to strike; as the closer construct slammed its forefoot down he dodged aside and swung hard against its limb. There was a sound of ringing metal as the blade connected, and it was knocked out of the warlord’s hand and sent spinning across the cavern floor. Ir’Sarrin yelled a battle-cry and drew a dagger from his belt, but the construct swept its foot out and struck him in the torso; he was sent flying across the chamber and slammed into the far wall. Sliding to the floor, he lay still, though his chest still rose and fell with breath; the priest rushed to his side, the words of a healing prayer already on his lips.

Irinali gave a great shout and gestured forward – the skeleton warriors drew their weapons and charged the constructs, save for the one which remained by Thyra’s side. The undead creatures struck their equally unliving opponents with a flurry of blows, some managing to gouge scores in the metal, others seizing their feet and holding tight; the constructs roared and bucked trying to free themselves.

“You two, stay here; don’t let the girl leave,” Irinali shouted at her apprentices, who saluted and seemed relieved at being told to stay out of the way; the elf necromancer herself began to make her way around the battle. The farther construct from Thyra had succeeded in knocking one of the skeletons aside, smashing the undead to pieces against the wall, but Irinali was able to slip behind it as it was distracted. Thyra could hear her intone words that made her skin crawl at the sound, and then she slammed the flat of her hand onto the constructs tail. The iron dragon gave a terrible screech and shook itself, but the damage was done; the creature’s body shivered and seemed to decay, its metal skin becoming corroded and pitted as if the effects of standing exposed to the elements for centuries had been inflicted on it in an instant.

By the wall, Ir’Sarrin rose unsteadily to his feet while the priest crouched at his side, murmuring spells and blessings under his breath. The warlord shook his head once and his strength seemed to return; grabbing his sword from where it lay, he yelled “For Karrnath!” and charged the constructed Irinali had blighted. The dragon-thing raised a paw to strike him, but as its blow fell he dodged out of the way and struck deep into the limb. Whether because Irinali had already weakened it, because the priest’s blessings had strengthened him, or a combination of the two, this time the blow fell true. The construct’s forefoot fell, neatly severed, to the ground; the creature threw back its head and howled in a close approximation of agony.

Ir’Sarrin raised his sword. “Fight on!” he called. “See, they are not invincible!” From where she stood in the back of the chamber Irinali returned his cry with a cold smile and raised her hand, preparing another incantation.

Thyra and the two apprentices watched this battle in horrified fascination; the sorceress could feel the bony hands of her skeleton keeper clutching her shoulder, a warning as to what would happen if she tried to move. Still, she considered acting, but indecision left her paralyzed. Ir’Sarrin and his people were her enemies, but did they really deserve to die down here, killed by these ancient things? And were they worth digging deep into the magic within her, knowing the potential costs?

She was torn from her thoughts by a terrible scream; the second construct, which she had almost forgotten, reared up on its hind legs and then slammed itself onto the ground, crushing the skeletons that had attacked it beneath its belly. Steam pouring from its mouth, the creature stalked forward, and the apprentices cowered and plastered themselves against the wall. Thyra could hear them murmuring the words to spells, but she knew it wouldn’t be enough – she didn’t think either of them had the power to harm this enemy. Her skeleton placed itself between her and the attacker and drew its sword; faster than Thyra could follow the dragon’s head shot down, seized the undead in its mouth, and threw it against the far wall, where it landed in a broken heap.

The construct lowered its head towards Thyra; now she had no choice. It was either act or die. Raising her hands before her, she prepared to cast a spell, the most powerful she knew, though what use it would be against this monstrosity of metal and steam she couldn’t say. The dragon lowered its head closer, opening its mouth wide, but before she could cast it stopped, bringing its snout close to her bloody palm. The construct seemed to sniff – if such a creature even breathed – and then it raised its head back, resumed the position in which it had been standing when they entered. Its eyes dimmed and it froze, once again seeming no more than a statue; across the room, its companion did the same.

“Blood of my ancestors!” Irinali gasped; Thyra thought the Aereni curse sounded strange coming from her mouth. “Is it over? What happened?”

“She stopped it!” the female apprentice – Ashlinn – said, pointing at Thyra. “That… that thing just sniffed her hand, and then it stopped.”

“They must be part of the same defenses as the doors,” Thyra said, still feeling her heart pounding against her chest. “For some reason, my blood shuts it all down.”

“I think we know what reason,” Ir’Sarrin said, regarding Thyra intently and weighing her with heavy scrutiny. “Now, let’s be about our business before these creatures wake up again. Irinali, Thyra, come with me. I want to see what’s on that altar.”

The three of them approached warily, but the constructs didn’t move. Up close, the altar was stone, covered in writing that Thyra had seen before but couldn’t read, and on its center rested – a sword. The blade was long and slender, made of some dark metal that reflected no light, giving it the appearance of a window into the void that had been cut into the shape of a blade; it made the sorceress faintly queasy to look at it. Its hilt was of a different, silvery metal, and beside it lay a scabbard – both the hilt and the scabbard were set with dark crystals. Khyber dragonshards, Thyra realized – magical conduits of great power and versatility.

“Pick it up, girl,” ir’Sarrin said softly. “I’d rather not set off any more traps the ancients may have left.”

“All right,” Thyra said softly, staring at the weapon. Could this really be what she had desired for so long? Could it have the power to free her from her ancestral curse? Slowly, hands trembling, she reached down and lifted both sword and scabbard from the altar; nothing happened as she did so, but she could feel the weapon thrum beneath her hands. There was power here – of that, there could be no doubt.

“I recognize some of these characters,” Irinali said, stepping forward to inspect the altar now that the sword was gone. “They’re Draconic, but of a very old dialect. I think it says something about this sword being a… lock? Key? It says it may bind any creature, mortal or… fiendish? maybe. But this is only a… piece? Shard? The rest of the… collection… rests elsewhere, scattered to the ends of Eberron, lest their power be abused.” Irinali scowled, then looked up at the map in the rakshasa statue’s hands, staring intently at the depiction of Sarlona. “I wonder…” she whispered.

Thyra’s heart, however, sank with every word the elf-woman spoke. This sword, this… key… didn’t sound like it had any powers that could help her, unless she wanted to bind herself away to keep the rest of the world safe from her. And if it wasn’t even complete, who knew whether it would even be capable of that? Would even a piece of an artifact be valuable? She sighed and slumped against the altar in defeat. She’d failed – Taras’s gamble had failed. Well, he at least might prophet from this – at the very least, he’d love to study this vault. That thought brought a slight smile to her face, but couldn’t raise her spirits.

Ir’Sarrin, however, appeared undaunted. “Even if this weapon is only part of a greater whole, surely the Queen can make use of it and the one who acquired it for us,” he said. “The quest was not in vain – and if I have to scour the world for the rest to give her, that I will do! We can do no more here – let us depart. And you,” he said to Thyra, “will give that to me. Though I appreciate your aid, you are not a member of my Order, and I cannot trust you with the Queen’s prize any longer.”

Thyra stood slowly, regarding the sheathed sword in her hand, gave a last, disappointed sigh, and then slowly held the weapon out to ir’Sarrin. The warlord took it carefully, smiling as he beheld it, and then hung it from his sword belt across from his regular weapon. Then he turned and marched back towards the tunnel, with Irinali, her apprentices, the priest, and the last functional skeleton warrior following. Thyra took up the rear, dreading the return to the surface, knowing that whatever fate awaited her there would not be a pleasant one.

The ascent was slow, and as uneventful as the descent had been. Thyra found herself relieved when she could finally see the light of the entrance again, despite knowing that it likely was nothing but a portent of her journey to the Queen of Death as a prize alongside the sword. But suddenly, ir’Sarrin stopped, a hand resting on his sword. The rest of the party halted immediately behind him; Thyra stood on her toes and craned her neck to see why, and her eyes widened in horror.

Four figures stood blocking the door. Three were human, with wild hair and dressed in ragged armor; swords were in their hands. The fourth… the fourth was a figure out of nightmare. Taller than a man, but of man shape, the creature was dressed like a great lord but was obviously nothing that had ever been human. It was covered in fur that was striped in silver and black, its hands were set backwards on the ends of the arms that it held folded across its chest, and its head was that of a great tiger that nonetheless regarded them with an intelligence far beyond any mere beast. Behind it, Thyra could just barely make out the sight of more of the human barbarians, who stood with swords held to the backs of ir’Sarrin’s expedition.

A rakshasa and his followers had come.

“So, you survived,” the fiend said in a surprisingly cultured voice, inclining his head to ir’Sarrin. “I’m impressed. Now, be a good mortal, and give the Key to me.”

///

Well, this was a pivotal chapter, and the beginning of our climax! Most of it is pretty self-explanatory, I think, though several pieces of foreshadowing come to a head here (and will be continued next time!) In any case, it appears that our true antagonist has been revealed, and he now has Thyra, Ir’Sarrin, and Irinali at his mercy. But of course, the mercenaries and Valyria and Pitar are on their way. We leave on a cliffhanger, but next time, it will be four factions, one artifact, and some very significant revelations about just what has been going on in this story. This is it!

-MasterGhandalf

 

Chapter 20: The Face of the Enemy

“To me,” the rakshasa said, his voice placid but with a hint of menace lurking beneath the surface, like a cat who hadn’t yet decided whether a particular mouse was worth his attentions. Thyra pressed herself back against the wall, trying to avoid that feline gaze, though the fiend had yet to turn his attention to her. Yet his presence was a weight of horror in her mind. The nightmare lived. The evil she had feared so much had come for her, not from within, but from without. Behind her she could hear one of the necromancer apprentices whimpering, and the priest was praying softly under his breath – whether a spell or a plea for salvation, Thyra couldn’t make out. Ir’Sarrin and Irinali, however, remained calm, apparently unshaken, though a quick glance passed between the warlord and his necromancer.

“I don’t think so,” ir’Sarrin finally said, sweeping his cloak back and resting his hand on his sword. “This artifact – this “key”, as you describe it – is mine by right of conquest. You may try to take it if you wish, but I warn you, I am a warrior of the Queen of Death and will not be easy prey.”

“How dare you speak so to the Master!” one of the barbarians yelled and drew his own sword, but the rakshasa raised a hand to quiet him.

“Be still,” he said, but his eyes didn’t leave ir’Sarrin. “You lay claim to the key,” he said, addressing the warlord, “but you have a claim on nothing. This artifact is older than your race, human. Even your Queen of Death is only a fraction of its age. It was forged in ancient days, when gods walked Eberron. I am a servant of those gods, and I will see those days return. You are a short-lived thing, more rodent than man, and yet the fact that you entered the vault and survived earns you a measure of respect – I was afraid I’d have to go in and claim the Key myself. Therefore, I offer you this chance to live. Give me the Key, and I will permit you to walk away unharmed.”

“I always heard that one should beware of fiends who come with honey on their forked tongues,” ir’Sarrin said; the rakshasa’s eyes flashed with sudden anger that was quickly buried. “Legend says your kind play long games, but I think that if you were capable of returning this world to the Age of Demons, you’d have done it already. Your time is past, creature – this is the Age of Man. Stand aside, or I will show you what that means.” As he spoke, Irinali surreptitiously stuck a hand into a pouch in her belt and drew forth a small object that Thyra couldn’t clearly see.

“You understand nothing,” the rakshasa said. “You are an insect crouching upon the stones of a ruined city, believing it was put there purely for your benefit. I walked this world when the dragons were young! I have seen things you cannot even imagine. You’re ignorant even of that which goes on in your immediate surroundings. Did you not wonder why your path through the Mournland was clear? My followers and I destroyed any threats you might have faced, to speed your passage towards this door that I could not open, but one of your party could. Ah, yes, I know of her.” His gaze flicked to Thyra and she shivered, desperate to be somewhere – anywhere – but here, in this terrible place, face to face with this timeless creature. “I’ve watched her for a long time – and you as well, Warlord. You both played the roles I set for you admirably. Do you not see now the faintest glimmers of the grand design in which you have been caught? Do you not see who has written your fate? Now, I will ask you one last time – give me the Key!”

“I’ll see you in Dolurrh first!” Ir’Sarrin roared, drawing his sword. “Irinali, now!” The necromancer swept up her hand, revealing the object she held within it – a human finger bone. She clenched her fist tightly and the bone splintered, speaking the words of a spell as she did so; the closest of the barbarians collapsed with a howl, his arms and legs bent at unnatural angles. The other barbarians cried out in shock, and in the camp several of the Emerald Claw warriors took advantage of the opening, knocking them to the ground and seizing their weapons. The camp devolved into a general melee, Karrn war cries mixed with the barbarians’ yells.

Ir’Sarrin closed on the rakshasa, swinging his sword towards the fiend’s neck, but the blow never fell. Quick as the great cat he resembled the rakshasa leapt backwards, throwing open his robes. Beneath he was clad in full armor, and a long, curved sword was belted at his waist. In an instant the blade was in his backward-facing hand, and then the air echoed with clash of the fiend and the warlord’s swords.

Thyra watched in horrified fascination, crouching near the mouth of the tunnel as her foes did battle, praying to the Flame for some sign as to what she should do.

///

Len swore under her breath as she crouched on a rock overlooking the Karrn camp as it dissolved into chaos. “Well,” she muttered under her breath, “looks like we found out what those barbarians were after. Now, what the Khyber do we do about?”

“Walking away isn’t an option,” Pitar said from where he crouched nearby. He pointed towards the far side of the camp, where a door was open leading down into the earth, and before which ir’Sarrin fought a man with the head of a tiger in a flurry of flashing steel. “The vault is open – whatever secrets it contains may well be exposed, and can we really risk unleashing that on the world? And besides, look at what ir’Sarrin’s fighting. That’s a rakshasa, in Tira’s name! Whatever else ir’Sarrin is, he’s human, and can we really leave him to face a creature like that alone?”

“And I don’t see Thyra,” Valyria said, shielding her eyes. “I suppose it’s possible that the rakshasa down there is the same fiend that had possessed her, but why would it reveal itself now? Still, I suspect this another piece of the same plan. I have to put a stop to it, for the Flame, and for my sister’s memory.” There was steel in her tone, and Len found herself edging slightly away.

“Len,” Yhani said, “this is your call, though I think our friends from Thrane will act regardless of what the rest of us do.” She raised her head and scanned the battlefield with her keen eyes. “Both sides here are our enemies, but given the choice between the Karrns and the demon’s servants, I would have to pick the Karrns, at least for the moment. If we intervene now, we might be able to tip the battle in their favor, and then deal with ir’Sarrin after. But I think we should act swiftly, while we still have the chance.”

Len regarded the priestess for a long, silent moment, then nodded sharply once. She slid down the rock and came to rest on the side away from the battle, where the rest of her team waited; Yhani and the Flameites followed close behind.

“Well, boss?” Ghazaan asked. “What in the Six is going on over there?”

“Looks like the one behind all of this finally showed his hand,” Len said. “Apparently ir’Sarrin got the vault open, but now there’s a demon out there who decided to take whatever he found, and he brought friends – like the one Harsk found. Now they’re having it out, and it looks like Thyra’s in the middle of it. We can’t take both groups at once, so as much as it may pain us to do so, I think if we want our client back we need to help the Karrns.” She drew her sword and flames burst from it, flickering red under the dim Mournland sky. “There’s no time to plan and no time to question, people. Every moment we waste is a moment that brings our enemy closer to victory. So let’s do this, and show the barbarians what real soldiers look like. We’ve got a demon to kill.”

///

Ir’Sarrin and the rakshasa dueled back and forth in the center of the camp, the melee swirling about them. The warlord was good – so far as Thyra could tell, he was better than either Len or Yhani had been the night she’d watched them spar – and he fought with the strength of a man who was absolutely certain in his convictions. But the rakshasa was more skilled still, and Thyra realized that the fiend wasn’t pressing his opponent as strongly as he could. This was a game to him, she realized – a game he was in no hurry to win. He didn’t consider ir’Sarrin to be a threat at all.

Irinali and the priest stalked back and forth near the vault entrance, watching the battle warily. Between them they had killed the barbarians who had been standing in the entrance with the rakshasa, and with some hurried prayers and incantations and a tap from Irianli’s staff the corpses had jerked to life and clambered back to their feet; now the zombies joined the fight against their former comrades, and fought heedless of personal injury. Still, the Karrns seemed outmatched by the barbarians, and were slowly being pushed back.

Suddenly a terrible cry echoed over the battlefield, and a towering figure came charging into the fray, his great sword held in both hands and cutting vast sweeps before him. Thyra’s heart leapt at the sight – Ghazaan! The hobgoblin was free – were all the mercenaries free? Had they actually come for her? The thought seemed to incredible to imagine, but it was true – Ghazaan was followed by Len, who ran a barbarian through on her flaming sword and sent another sprawling with a bolt of lightning from her free hand, while Yhani stood at her back with her white hood pulled over her head, warding her from harm with sweeps of her scimitar. Harsk crouched at the base of one of the rock formations, firing arrows that hit home and sent the rakshasa’s followers screaming, while Havaktri stood by his side, knocking enemies away with blasts from her mind. Rinnean darted among the enemy, a knife-wielding shadow. And there, his sword blazing with a holy light as he dueled a barbarian one-on-one – was that Pitar? Could it be possible?

They came. They came. A part of Thyra that she’d long kept buried seemed to unclench in her chest, and filled her with warmth. They weren’t just mercenaries anymore – they were her friends. She had friends. And now they fought on her behalf, and she was doing nothing. What sort of a person was she? Would Tira Miron have hid in a cave like a coward and let others fight her battles for her? No; never. Could her namesake do less?

But the rakshasa, too, had taken note of the new arrivals. Scowling – if that inhuman face could be said to scowl – he pressed his attack on ir’Sarrin, fighting seriously now. The warlord’s gaze hardened as he parried a flurry of blows, but then the rakshasa gave a sudden twist; ir’Sarrin’s sword went flying. The warlord stumbled back, eyes wide, and then the rakshasa kicked him hard in the chest. He slammed back into one of the rocks and lay still.

“This could have been avoided, you know,” the fiend snarled as he crouched by the warlord’s side and took the Key from his belt. “But mortals always do disappoint me. I’ll be going, now. Die slowly, human.”

The rakshasa turned away and raised his hand, the words of a spell beginning in his fanged mouth. Thyra tensed – now was her chance, before he escaped – but someone else acted before she could. The silver streak of an arrow shot from one of the rocks and embedded itself in the rakshasa’s bicep; the demon snarled in rage and pain and dropped his arm, spell abandoned. Thyra’s eyes widened – who could have… ?

And then she saw her, crouching atop one of the rocks and carefully nocking another arrow. Val.

///

Valyria aimed her arrow carefully at the wounded rakshasa, preparing to let fire. “In the name of the Silver Flame, monster,” she hissed under her breath, “today I send you back to the darkness that spawned you!” No sooner had the words left her mouth than she let fly.

But the rakshasa was ready. Even as the arrow left the string his reversed hand came up and made a slashing motion in the air before him; the arrow struck an invisible barrier in the air before its target and clattered harmlessly to the ground. The rakshasa bared his fangs in a grin and made another gesture; a great, invisible hand seized Valyria, knocking the breath from her, and then pulled her towards him; she collapsed to her knees on the rocky ground and looked up to see the fiend towering over her.

“Sister Valyria Entarro,” the rakshasa said. “We meet at last. I’ve been following your career for some time, you know. Most impressive. Such a dogged pursuit of your sister across Khorvaire, never failing in your determination to see justice done! Had you not shot me in the arm, I might applaud.”

“Save it,” Valyria spat, struggling to her feet. “My sister’s dead. One of your kind killed her and stole her body, murdering another innocent in the process. You’re right – I won’t stop, ever, until I see justice done. That’s my calling from the Flame. It’s who I am. And I promise you that you won’t find me as easy prey as a teenage girl or a middle-aged scholar.” She drew her dagger from her belt, inadequate weapon though it seemed, and fell into a fighting crouch.

“What bold words!” the rakshasa said. “And yet, it’s a pity that you don’t know the full extent of what I’ve wrought. If I am to be executed, then surely the full list of my crimes should be known!” The fiend’s mouth widened in what could only be a smile. “I think you mentioned poor Brother Nalin?”

Valyria suddenly went cold – she’d mentioned the priest, yes, but not by name. “Thyra – the false Thyra – killed him,” she whispered. “Because he had discovered her secret. Her face was the last thing he saw!”

The rakshasa shook his head. “No, no,” he said. “Thyra didn’t kill Nalin. It was I who did that.”

“What?” Valyria asked, the chill creeping into her heart. “What are you saying?”

“Who took Thyra’s appearance and killed the priest?” the rakshasa asked. “I did. Who hid Nalin’s body and took his shape, telling Thyra she had to flee lest the Church find out the source of her magical abilities and put her to death? I did. Who wrote the journal entries that you found, that led you to believe your sister had been possessed? I did. At my insistence Thyra fled, and I made you think she was a murderer and a demon so you would pursue, a constant threat, a goad at her back, all so that today, she would stand here, open the vault, and clear the path for me to claim what is rightfully mine! And you, Sister Entarro, played your part to perfection. But now that part is done. And so, Inquisitor, it’s time for you to die.”

The rakshasa lunged forward, slamming Valyria’s side with his uninjured side and sending her sprawling. She lay on her back, staring up at the fiend, a feeling of shame more intense than she’d ever known pouring through her. Her every inquisitor’s instinct told her that he was telling the truth, and… it fit. Somehow, it all fit more than the idea of Thyra as a possessed murderer ever had. Valyria felt used, sullied, and worse – she’d been made an enemy of her own sister, the girl she’d mourned as dead who’d come to think of her as an enemy. The sister who had been stolen from her by this monster’s lies.

Valyria stared up at the rakshasa, knowing she was about to die, prepared to meet death with a defiant stare, but suddenly a voice cut across the battlefield.

“Leave her alone!”

///

Thyra had watched the battle between Val and the rakshasa, unable to move, scarcely able to breathe. She had heard the fiend’s revelations, and they lit a fire in her belly. Here was her enemy, the one who had framed her, the one who had used her, and who now threatened her sister’s life. Thyra had never hated before – she hated now, hot and intense. But there was love for Valyria there as well, and it held her back from letting the hate consume her. And between them, they proved stronger than fear.

The artifact in the vault had proven useless as a tool to cure her condition; Thyra understood that now. And yet, as that hope died, it made room for other thoughts that had long been pushed aside to make room for it. The Church of the Silver Flame taught that not all evil was equal; it came in many guises, and was more often a small and petty thing rather than the grand monsters and terrible tyrants the bards sang of. And it was possible, sometimes, for evil to become a force for the greater good. Bind a lesser evil, use it to help defeat a greater evil, and sometimes, it was possible to change its nature. Havaktri’s words came back to Thyra in that moment – angels can fall, she said, but demons can rise. And Yhani’s as well – fate is written not as something changeless and immutable, but as an infinite web of possibility.

Thyra had power – evil power, perhaps, but it need not be so. Maybe she could change its nature, if she used it for something good. But there was little time to act. She knew what she had to do. Slowly she stood, trembling but determined. “I am Thyra Entarro,” she whispered to herself. “I am a servant of the Silver Flame, I am named for Tira Miron, and I am no longer afraid!”

Thyra strode out of the tunnel to face the rakshasa.

One of the barbarians saw her approach; taking the head from the Karrn soldier he was fighting, he charged towards her. Thyra raised her hand casually and spoke a spell; the barbarian collapsed screaming, clawing at his face, tormented by a nightmare vision only he could see. The sorceress stepped over his prone form without breaking her stride and approached the rakshasa as he stood above Val’s fallen body. “Leave her alone!” Thyra called. “It’s me you really want.”

“Well, now,” the rakshasa said slowly, turning to face her. “The little lost cub returns at last. I was wondering when you would find your courage, but it doesn’t matter. You’ve done well already today, and I expect great things in your future.”

“Burn.” Thyra levelled her hand and spoke the words to a spell she’d never used, but which was engraved on her soul as surely as her name. A thin blast of flame shot from her hand, striking the rakshasa at the center of his breastplate. He hissed and stumbled backwards, but Thyra held the fire on him; the smell of hot metal filled the air. Finally the flames died and she lowered her hand; the rakshasa regarded her and smiled.

“You have grown skilled,” he said, “but you’re not ready to face me in battle. Not yet. I’ve been watching for you for centuries, Thyra. You were a piece in our plans long before you were born. We arranged your bloodline, had one of our own sire a child with a human to ensure you would inherit our power, and I have watched and shaped your life from birth. Every step you have ever taken has been guided by the Lords of Dust. Do you really think you can stop me now?”

“I. Will. Never. Serve. You. Again!” Thyra yelled. A flurry of magical bolts shot from her hand, the rakshasa threw up his arms to shield his face. Thyra strode forward purposefully, anger filling her heart. “This is for Nalin. This is for Val. This is for our parents, and the Flame, and Len, and for me. I won’t let you use anyone this way ever again!” She spoke the now-familiar words again and another bolt of flame lanced from her fingers, scorching a black mark in the white fur of the rakshasa’s face.

The fiend snarled in fury and charged, seizing Thyra’s wrist in one hand and raising her body so she was at eye level with him. “You need to learn some respect,” he hissed, but before he could say another word someone tackled him from behind and drove a dagger into the side of his neck; he roared in fury and dropped Thyra to the ground. ‘

“You will never hurt our family again,” Valyria said, and she pulled her dagger free.

///

Irinali watched as Thyra engaged the rakshasa and shook her head. Who could have guessed the girl had it in her, after all? Well, it provided a convenient distraction in any case, and for the moment, that’s all Irinali cared about.

She gestured back towards the tunnel mouth and her two apprentices timidly emerged, Dal holding a dagger in one hand while Ashlinn had a plain wand at the ready. The two of them hurried over to stand beside their teacher and the priest, Haund. “Mistress Irinali,” Ashlinn asked, regarding the battle with wide eyes, “what are we going to do?”

“What we should have done long ago,” Irinali muttered under her breath. “With me.” She turned and began to pick her way along the edge of the battlefield with Haund, the apprentices, and a pair of newly raised zombies following close behind. The reached ir’Sarrin’s prone form where it lay out of the way and undisturbed; Irinali knelt beside him and checked for a pulse. He was still alive – good.

Irinali liked Kharvin – he’d been a good patron, and even a friend. But where he believed the Emerald Claw’s cause was worth dying for, she did not. Looking up, she saw that most of their soldiers had been killed, and they were outnumbered by both the barbarians and those damnable mercenaries – how had they escaped, anyway? It didn’t matter; Irinali had no intention of facing the victor, no matter who they might be.

“Get him up, carefully,” she ordered the zombies, who bent down and hauled the warlord to his feet. Ir’Sarrin’s head rolled and his eyes opened blearily, but he was clearly in no condition to fight or take command – Haund would probably need to say some prayers over him once they’d got to a safe distance. Following Irinali’s lead, they made their way to the edge of the camp, where ir’Sarrin’s warhorse was still tied up, tossing his head and stamping his hooves at the prospect of a battle.

“You’ll be free soon enough, boy,” Irinali whispered, stroking the stallion’s neck to sooth him. She gestured to the zombies and they helped ir’Sarrin climb onto the horse’s back. He was still woozy, but was at least conscious enough to grab hold of the reins and steady himself. Dal hurried over and untied the horse’s restraints.

“Now, let’s get out of this place,” Irinali said, and the small group turned and departed from the battlefield, leaving both sides behind.

///

The rakshasa howled and stumbled forward, the Key falling from his grasp to clatter to the ground; he shook Valyria from his back but she landed lightly on her feet and reached out a hand to help Thyra stand. The sorceress regarded her sister’s face for a long moment, taking in every detail – it was sweaty, dirty, tired, and yet she still thought Val had never looked more beautiful. “I missed you,” she said softly.

“So did I,” Valyria said. “Can you forgive me for hunting you and thinking… what I did?”

“If you’ll forgive me for running,” Thyra told her. “But I think we know now who tricked us both into doing we did.”

“Yes,” Valyria said, expression tightening. “Let’s finish this.”

Both sisters turned to face the rakshasa; the fiend was now haggard and bleeding, his armor scorched and his fine robes rent, and blood streamed from his neck, but he still seemed powerful, arrogant, and somehow in control. Valyria raised her dagger and dropped into a fighting stance; Thyra prepared to cast her fire spell once again.

Suddenly several of the barbarians stumbled between them, forming a wall between the sisters and their master. They raised their swords, but even as they did so, the reason they had fallen back became plain. The mercenaries appeared, Pitar with them, taking up positions beside Valyria and Thyra; Ghazaan looked battered and Len had a line of blood on her face, but they were alive and they were determined. The captain met Thyra’s gaze and she nodded approvingly; the sorceress returned it. Slowly, then the nine of them began to walk forward, tightening around their enemies.

“Come on, monster,” Len called. “Is cowering behind your minions when things get tough really the vaunted power of the rakshasas? I’m disappointed.” She gestured with her free hand, and flames played along her fingers. “Come on – you’ve been fighting people one-on-one, but can you take all of us? I’m waiting!”

The rakshasa’s gaze travelled from one mercenary to the next, sizing them up each in turn. “You are fools,” he said. “You think you’ve won today? You’ve won nothing. Your fates are already written. Every breath you take is one breath closer to your ends.”

“All things must die, in time,” Yhani said. “What matters is what we do with our lives before that moment. That is something your kind has never understood.” The elf tilted her head back, and Thyra gasped. Ghazaan had told her that Yhani had a ceremonial mask that looked like a golden skull; she was wearing it now. It made her seem something alien, a creature of ancient wisdom and power; small wonder Len had thought her one of the undead when she’d first seen her wearing it! The rakshasa regarded that masked visage intently, and his expression changed subtly as he did so. For the first time, his arrogance was shaken; for the first time, he seemed… uncertain.

“You were not foreseen,” he whispered.

“I was foreseen,” Yhani replied, voice calm. “Just not by you. You may go and tell your master that, despite what he may believe, he does not see all. Some things still are hidden from him, and you… but there are those who see what you cannot.”

The rakshasa was silent for a long moment; the barbarians shifted nervously. “Master,” one of them said, “what is your command?” The rakshasa stared at the mercenaries, then at the Key where it lay on the ground between them, and then finally his eyes met Thyra’s, and she knew what he was about to do.

“There will be another day,” the rakshasa said, and he reached out his arms and gathered his minions close. The words of a spell echoed in the air, and there was a sudden flash of light, and then the fiend and the barbarians were gone.

“Is it over?” Ghazaan asked. “Did he just… run?”

“I think it’s over, for now,” Thyra said. Sudden weariness claimed her then, and she stumbled forward, only to fall into someone’s arms.

“It’s all right,” Val said quietly. “I’ve got you.”

///

Climax time! For most of this fic, Thyra has been intentionally limiting her abilities, chiefly using them to hide and evade; this time she’s finally hit her breaking point and shown us more of what she’s actually capable of. This was a pivotal moment for her characterization – most of the time we’ve known her, she’s been essentially consumed by the desire to hide herself and look for a cure; shorn of that hope and seeing her sister in danger helped crystalize some things that have been in her subconscious for a while.

Speaking of her sister, Valyria also got confronted with some important developments, in particular the knowledge of how she’d been deceived. Valyria can be harsh, but she’s still basically a decent person (in game terms, she’s a somewhat hardline Lawful Good) and the realization of what she almost did and why shook her badly. But having just, in her mind, gotten her sister back from the dead, she certainly wasn’t going to lose her again!

Ir’Sarrin wouldn’t have run off if he’d been in any condition to make decisions, but Irinali is a rather more pragmatic person. Given the choice she’d rather live to fight another day, and that’s what she chose to do here. The two of them will be recurring characters should the full fic series got off the ground, hence why I spared them from a direct confrontation with our protagonists here, but they’ve still got something left to do before this first story closes.

The nameless rakshasa (well, he does have a name, but we haven’t learned it yet) who is the true antagonist of the fic got to show some of what he can do off as well; he’s got several levels of sorcerer and fighter both on top of his native abilities and is certainly a force to be reckoned with! I was a bit worried about essentially pulling my main villain out of a hat at the last minute, but I think I foreshadowed him fairly well throughout the fic. We’ll also be seeing him again in the epilogue, which will cast some more light on just who he is and what game he’s playing here (what, you thought this was just a straightforward attack? From a Lord of Dust? Nah!) And what was up with his little moment with Yhani? Hmmm…

The fic is almost done, in any case. One more chapter and an epilogue. Almost there!

-MasterGhandalf

 

Chapter 21: Unfinished Business

The afternoon sun shown muted through the overcast sky of the Mournland, casting a dreary light on the remnants of the battle. The corpses of Emerald Claw soldiers and the rakshasa’s barbarians lay strewn about the ruins of the Karrn camp, though there were fewer of the latter than there ought to have been – Irinali’s ranks of the undead must have added several new members from the bodies of the fallen. Of the necromancer herself there was no sign, and her apprentices, ir’Sarrin’s warhorse, and the warlord were also missing – no doubt they had fled when the battle had turned against them. The surviving Karrn troops must have also retreated after seeing their leaders quit the field.

The mercenaries had gathered near the base of one of the rock formations as Yhani cast healing prayers over the wounds they had received; Pitar stood in front of the open doors, regarding them with a curious expression. Thyra and Valyria had walked a short distance from the others; the inquisitor still had her arm wrapped around her sister’s shoulders, as if she never intended to let go.

“Thyra,” Val said finally, “I just wanted to apologize to you again for chasing you all across the Five Nations. I’d become so convinced that you were possessed and as good as dead that the best thing I could do to honor your memory would be to kill the thing desecrating your body before it did worse evil. I got so wrapped up in avenging you that I wouldn’t even let myself consider that you might be alive, and all it ended up mattering was that if things had gone even a little different I would have been the one to kill you.” She closed her eyes and sighed heavily. “I never wanted to make you afraid, little sister.”

Thyra took both of Val’s hands in her own and met her eyes. “There’s nothing to forgive,” she said. “We both got used – me as well as you. Nalin – that thing pretending to be Nalin – had me so scared of myself and determined to find a cure that I did things I’m not proud of either. I stole, lied, manipulated, all trying to get my hands on something that turned out to not even exist. And we both ended up playing right into the rakshasa’s hands. I don’t think we’re either in a position to judge, big sister.” And she wrapped Val in a tight hug.

After several long moments, the inquisitor pushed Thyra away, and she was smiling now. “By the Flame,” she said, “can you imagine when I tell Mother and Father about this? It’ll be like bringing you back from the dead! Mother’s been sobbing whenever she thinks no one’s looking, and Father will sometimes just stare at his books and mutter that he had no idea how this could have happened. When they see you’re safe and learn what really happened, they’ll probably throw the biggest party in Flamekeep for you!”

“It’s been too long since I’ve seen either of them,” Thyra whispered, sadness threatening to wash over her again – both for the prospect of her estrangement being healed, but also because there was something more she still had to tell Val, and wasn’t sure how.

She was spared from having to figure out at that instant by Pitar, who approached the sisters with a smile on his face. “Thyra!” he said. “I saw what happened at the battle. Val’s probably already apologized for us hunting you, but I feel like I’d better do it again for myself. I always did think there was something that smelled bad about the whole business.” He reached out a hand and tousled Thyra’s hair, something he’d done when she was a small child and he’d visited their home with Val. “I’m glad we were wrong and you’re safe, kid.”

“Thank you, Pitar,” Thyra said, giving him a quick hug as well. He’d always been more Val’s friend that hers, but still, she’d missed him too.

“I hate to interrupt everyone’s happy reunion,” Len said as she came walking over, Yhani and Ghazaan close behind, “but I do feel compelled to remind everyone that we’re in the middle of the gods-forsaken Mournland. Now that the rakshasa’s gone, I recommend we leave as soon as possible, before some local nasty decides to try its hand at us.”

Yhani knelt and picked up the sword – the Key – from where it lay on the ground. “And this is not something, I think, that should just be left lying about,” she said. “I do not know if it is possible to seal the vault again; if not, somewhere else safe should be found for it. Perhaps your Taras Zanthan will be able to offer some advice.”

Thyra turned towards the mercenaries, and then she rushed towards Len and wrapped her arms around the captain in a tight embrace. “You came back for me,” she whispered. “I never expected… thank you.”

Len looked surprised and faintly embarrassed, and extracted herself from Thyra’s hug. “I don’t go back on a contract,” she said. “Not for you, or for anyone. Besides, it looked like you handled yourself pretty well out there too. You were holding off on what you could actually do, kid.”

“Well,” Thyra said, shifting nervously, “I mostly just wanted my magic gone. But when I realized that nothing in the vault to change that, and I saw that rakshasa who claimed to have been manipulating me my whole life – I knew I had to do something. I couldn’t let him hurt anyone else – especially not Val.”

Len regarded her thoughtfully for a long moment. “Kid,” she finally said, “being a changeling means I’ve given a lot of thought about what makes a person who they are. And what I’ve come to believe is that there are some things about yourself you can’t change, but when it comes down to it, we become who we choose to be. For a while there you didn’t know what you were going to choose, and you did some things I didn’t particularly care for. But now? I think you’ve chosen, and I kind of like the Thyra Entarro I’m seeing.” Beside her, Yhani gave a quiet smile and an approving nod.

“Thank you, Capt… Len,” Thyra said. “Coming from you, I appreciate it, really.”

Valyria gave a quiet cough. “I think the captain was right about what she mentioned earlier,” she said. “The Mournland isn’t a very safe place. We ought to get going.” She smiled at her sister. “And I think we’re going to have a homecoming in Flamekeep that no one expected. You’ve been gone for too long.”

“That’s the thing,” Thyra said softly. “I can’t go back to Flamekeep. Not yet.”

Val raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?” she asked, clearly confused.

Thyra looked back towards the open vault. “This business isn’t over,” she said. “I think there’s something else left for me to do.”

///

Lord Kharvin ir’Sarrin sat slumped in his chair in Sarrin’s main hall, a goblet of wine on the table in front of him. Haund had healed his injuries once they were clear of the Mournland, but the warlord still looked rather bedraggled, his face weary and his eyes hollow. He stared into his goblet like a man without hope, and he didn’t drink.

“Kharvin,” Irinali said from across the table. “It’s been a week. Yes, we gambled, and we lost. But you’re still a Karrnathi lord, and still a member of the Order. Your people need a leader, and you can’t let one defeat get to you this badly. Pull yourself together – do you really want me to have to keep running things for you?”

With ir’Sarrin indisposed, Irinali had found herself taking charge of running the day-to-day operations of Sarrin, and she already wanted to run screaming. This was why she preferred the undead to the living. Skeletons and zombies always did what they were told and never talked back.

“It doesn’t matter,” Ir’Sarrin said wearily. “None of it does, don’t you see? I can’t hide that I travelled to the Mournland with a significant company, most of whom didn’t return – Kaius will hear of it soon, if he hasn’t already, and he’ll want to know why. If the King pursues the matter far enough, he’ll learn of my connection to the Order, and I’ll be finished. Worse, I have not one but two monarchs to fear. The Queen will not be pleased when she learns I lost so many of her warriors and have nothing to show for it. Her punishment will doubtless make Kaius’s look pleasant.” He finally took a long drink of his wine. “Whichever happens, I don’t expect to survive the month.”

“Nothing to show for it,” Irinali murmured, something tickling at the edge of her memory. Suddenly an idea flashed into her mind so brightly that for a moment she could only sit in wonderment, and then she began to dig through the pouches at her side in a frenzied haste.

“What are you doing?” ir’Sarrin asked in confusion as Irinali pulled out a hand mirror. “Is now really the time to be checking your appearance?”

“No, but it is the time to check something else,” Irinali replied, laying the mirror flat on the table before her and murmuring an incantation over it. If she was fortunate, this would work... yes. The mirror blurred and darkened, and then its image resolved into the interior of the Mournland vault where one of her skeleton warriors lay prone, its limbs damaged beyond use – but it was still animate, and she could track it with her scrying.

More to the point, she could see what was around it. Adjusting the mirror carefully, she shifted the image upward, to the statue of the rakshasa and the map it held. “Bring me paper and a pen, quickly!” she called to a servant, who hastened to obey.

“Irinali,” ir’Sarrin demanded, “will you please tell me what is going on?”

“We lost the artifact from the vault,” she said, excitement tinging her words, “but remember the inscription on the altar? It was only part of the Key – not the whole thing. And I think I know where to find more of it. That ought to buy us some time to appease the Queen.”

She looked up at Kharvin and smiled. “So, my lord, how would you fancy a trip to Sarlona?”

///

Taras Zanthan held the Key in his hands with a reverent air, running his fingers along it and turning it over to examine it closely on both sides. “Incredible,” he finally said, looking up at Thyra and the mercenaries where the stood on the other side of his desk. “It will take further study for me to determine exactly what properties this sword has, and whether it was made by fiends, dragons, or some third part, but still. This is Age of Demons craftsmanship, there can be no mistake. And it is obviously a very fine, very powerful piece. I’m in your debt, all of you.” Taras shook his head. “But I’m very sorry that it wasn’t what you were looking for, Thyra. I feel guilty for sending you into that mess without at least accompanying you. But maybe we can find something that could help you if we keep searching.”

“Thank you, Taras,” Thyra said. “I appreciate it, truly. But after the encounter with my sister and the rakshasa, I’ve been thinking, and I’m not sure getting rid of my magic is the right path anymore. The rakshasa said he’d been using me my whole life – I can’t imagine this is the only plan the Lords of Dust have, or that I’m the only person they’ve hurt. No matter what else has happened, I still follow the Silver Flame, and I can’t let evil continue when I could do something about it. I want to fight them, Taras, and I think I’m going to need all the help I can get.”

Taras regarded her for a long moment over the rims of his spectacles, and he smiled. “That’s a very courageous thing to vow, Thyra,” he said, “and I don’t think you fully understand it. By the gods, I don’t fully understand it, and I’ve studied these things for decades! But I think you’re right; the Lords of Dust have many plans, and you barely scratched the surface of them.” He looked down at the papers spread across his desk, sketches Thyra had made – with some help from Havaktri – of the inside of the vault. “I’m especially intrigued by the words you’ve copied here – the Draconic from the altar. I believe ir’Sarrin’s necromancer was correct in her translation – this sword is only part of a more powerful artifact. And the pieces remain scattered across the world. I’d heard rumors of such a thing.”

He pointed his finger at the sketch of the map. “Here, I think, is the location of the next piece – I think there are five in total, though I could be reading the number wrong. I would bet each tomb includes instructions to find the next piece of the Key.” He rested his finger on the dot in northern Sarlona. “This must mark the next location – just north of Riedra.”

“The Tashana Tundra,” Havaktri said quietly. Everyone looked at her in surprise, and the kalashtar shrugged. “My people come from Sarlona, and we remember it. This region isn’t part of Riedra, but I don’t think getting there will be an easy task. Outside of Adar, I know that Sarlona is a very dangerous place to be kalashtar in these times, at least.”

“I don’t see any reason to ‘get there’ in the first place,” said Rinnean. “The last vault was sealed for millennia until we came along and were foolish enough to open it. I say let the second piece of the Key stay in this tundra until the moons fall from the sky, while we stay here in Sharn and go out drinking. Much more sensible.”

“If Thyra is serious about wanting to oppose the Lords of Dust,” Taras said, “the complete Key might be a great help. The inscription says it has the power to bind fiends. Perhaps, when the pieces are brought together, it can bind the Lords of Dust themselves, sending them to join their ancient Rajahs in eternal imprisonment.” He paused for a moment to let the weight of that sink in.

“The Lords of Dust are among the great evils of this world,” Yhani said. “A chance to be rid of their machinations forever… can we truly pass this up?” None of the others had anything to add to this out loud, though Harsk and Havaktri both looked thoughtful, and Rinnean incredulous. Len’s expression was unreadable.

“If Thyra is committed to this course,” Taras said, “I will help her however I can. In my youth I made some discoveries that made me a wealthy man. I can’t abandon my position at the University entirely, but assuming I was given the chance to study any artifacts retrieved in the process, I would be willing to fund a journey for Thyra to find the missing pieces of the Key, wherever they may be.”

“Thank you, Taras,” Thyra said, feeling tears forming at the corners of her eyes and not even bothering to blink them away. “I knew I could count on you.”

“Of course, Thyra can’t go alone,” Taras continued. “You’ve told me her sister and the paladin have returned to Thrane to see that her name is cleared of the charges against her, but even a sorceress can’t set out to cross Sarlona alone.” He looked at each of the mercenaries in turn. “If you’re willing, I’d like to hire you all to accompany her. What do you say?”

“My people have been fighting darkness for a thousand years,” Havaktri said. “And Thyra is my friend. What would it say about me if I turned my back on this now? I’ll go with her, even if no one else does.”

Rinnean rolled his eyes. “I think this is a Six-damned waste of time,” he said, “but if the pay is good… well, I can certainly think of worse places to go. Wouldn’t want my life to get boring, after all.”

“I’ll do it,” Harsk said. “Been looking for something worthwhile ever since I left the Eldeen. Maybe this’ll be it. Maybe it’ll help me find it.”

“I go with the Captain,” Ghazaan said. “Boss – it’s your call.”

Len was silent for a long moment, then she stood. “Give me some time to think it over,” she said.

Taras nodded. “As long as you need,” he said. Len returned the nod, and swept from the office.

///

Len sat on a bench outside the building at Morgrave University that housed Taras’s office, watching students walk by under the evening sky. She lowered her gaze to her hands and sat there in thought for a long while, until someone sat beside her in a rustle of cloth.

“Still troubled, Len?” Yhani asked, resting one of her slender hands on top of the captain’s. “The others are waiting for your decision. Rinnean swore particularly loudly and said you were taking too long; the professors who had offices by Taras’s complained.” She smiled slightly; Len thought she never looked more beautiful than when she wore that expression.

“Oh, ‘Hani,” she said. “Who am I, really? I can swing a sword, throw a fireball, but what I’m I? Just a soldier whose country didn’t want her anymore, so she sells her sword for money. This thing we’ve stumbled onto… it’s too big for me. For any of us, ‘cept maybe you. I can barely even wrap my mind around it. How am I supposed to make any kind of decision?”

Yhani squeezed Len’s hand and leaned in close. “How do any of us choose anything?” she asked. “The world is far vaster than any of us – vaster even than the Undying Court, or the greatest dragon or rakshasa, or even your Sovereign Host – but it is smaller pieces, and those are made of smaller pieces still, until we at last come down to something we can understand. Think of these pieces – of our team, of Thyra. Does this not help?”

“I guess so,” Len said. “We could always use the money, and it looks like Thyra’s determined to go through with this whether we’re with her or not – and maybe Havaktri too, if she meant what she said in there. I don’t feel like letting that kid run off halfway around the world to get killed after we went through the Mournland to snatch her back from ir’Sarrin sits that well with me, but… it’s all just so much to take in.”

“My love,” Yhani said quietly, “you never talk about where you came from before we met, but I know that it was nothing you were proud of, and that you wanted to put it behind you. You joined the army hoping to find a cause that meant something. In the end, Breland was not that cause, and even if it was, the War ended with no real winner. Since then, you work for whoever is willing to hire us, but I know you well enough to know that you have been secretly hoping still to find that cause that matters. You think this may be it, but you are afraid it will fail you the way the Last War did. But I know you well enough to know that, in the end, you will take that chance, because that is who you are. It is who you have chosen to become.”

Len sighed. “Dammit, ‘Hani,” she said. “You’re right, as usual. I’ve been trying to put off the decision, but I can’t say no; if Rinnean wants to keep his job, he’ll just have to deal with it.” She leaned in and gave Yhani a light kiss. “Now, come on. Let’s go tell the others.”

The captain stood, and she and Yhani began to make their way back towards Taras’s office, still hand in hand, and a faint, knowing, but also affectionate and pleased smile playing across the elf’s lips.

///

Taras Zanthan stood at his office window, holding his pipe in one hand – a human habit, but one he’d taken to long ago and come to enjoy in spite of himself. He watched the captain and her Aereni priestess down below, and he knew that she’d come to her decision exactly as he’d anticipated. The professor of mythology set the pipe stem to his lips and took a deep draw, and smiled.

Taras knew better than any just how long the road ahead would be, but for now, all was in motion exactly as he had foreseen.

///

With last chapter being the climax, this one was mostly denouement- wrapping up the remaining threads of Game of the Ancients Part I and setting up where the story is going in the projected further volumes of this series (the next fic, as is probably easy enough to guess, will be Game of the Ancients: Sarlona). There’s a fair bit of important character moments here, including Thyra’s reunion with Valyria and some more hints regarding Len’s past (her backstory will be explored in further detail down the line – just as this fic was mostly Thyra’s story, so a later one – probably the third – will be Len’s). And ir’Sarrin and Irinali are getting ready to go after the same prize – I’d initially planned to kill them in this fic, but the idea of a series-spanning, mortal-scale set of rivals for our heroes to contrast the more remote, shadowy evil of the Lords of Dust won me over and they got a reprieve.

And Taras knows a lot more than he lets on, of course. I wonder what his story is…

In any case, this is the last full chapter of the fic. Next update will be the epilogue, which will bring Game of the Ancients: Khorvaire to a close!

-MasterGhandalf

 

Epilogue: Wyrmbreaker

The rakshasa lord stood at a window high in his citadel, staring out across the blasted lands of the Demon Wastes and towards the direction where Ashtakala, city of the Lords of Dust, could just barely be seen, a brooding shadow on the horizon. He was waiting for a report from one of the many servants he sent out among the mortals of the world to carry out his many plans, and as he waited, he reflected.

The rakshasa was old. He had been old already when the great wars came, and his mighty masters were thrown down by the dragons of Argonessen and their allies, the couatl of Xen’drik. The couatl were no more, having given their lives to create the force that mortals called the Silver Flame which held the mighty Overlords imprisoned, but the dragons… they still lived in their ancient strongholds, and some among them played an opposing game to that of the Lords of Dust. The rakshsasa lord bore them a particular enmity he’d carried across the gulf of time and through war and struggle, and for this he’d acquired the name by which he was spoken of still in hushed whispers.

He was Durastoran, considered by some the mightiest of all his kind, chief servant of the Overlord called the Shadow in the Flame, but he was also called Wyrmbreaker, a name he had earned many times over the millennia. His latest move had yet to come to the attention of his ancient foes, but he knew that in time it would, and they would oppose him as they had always done. He smiled at the thought, baring his long fangs. That was a confrontation he anticipated with relish.

Mortals tended to think of the Lords of Dust as a monolithic force – those few who knew of them at all – but it was not so. They were a loose alliance, each faction among them serving a different Overlord, and while some of the dark titans had been allied, others had been opposed in the days when they still ruled upon Eberron. There was a careful balance among the Lords and always had been, a dance to ensure that they all worked to unmake their master’s prisons, while at the same time seeking to ensure that when the new Age of Demons rose at last, their own master would be the one to stand at the pinnacle. The Wyrmbreaker was no different.

He had come close – so close – not long before, as he reckoned time. An earthquake had released the Shadow in the Flame into the land of Thrane, and for a time it seemed that he would raise a new empire with the Wyrmbreaker at his right hand. And yet he had failed because a human – a damnable, brief, insignificant human – called Tira Miron had opposed him, somehow in the purity of her righteousness becoming a living conduit for the Silver Flame itself and giving her own life to bind the Shadow once again. Thanks to her, the Lords of Dust had failed.

In the aftermath of that failure, the Wyrmbreaker had retreated to his citadel and cast his vision into the future. He studied the movements of the moons and stars, sought fragments of texts from that long-ago time when even he had been young, observed the movements of animals and mortals and even the long cycles of the planes, and at last words had been revealed to him. They spoke of a child of the Flame, with elder blood in her veins, who would find the Key and open the way, believing herself a servant of righteousness while in truth setting the stage for the Overlords’ return.

Bringing this about was only one plan among the many the Wyrmbreaker had devised in those days, but now, it was one close to bearing fruit.

The sound of footsteps echoed behind him, and Durastoran knew that his servant had arrived. “Report,” he said, his voice rumbling like thunder from a distant storm.

“Lord,” the other rakshasa said, “the first task is complete. The vault in the Mournland was open; the girl retrieved the first piece of the key. I spoke to her, and permitted her to believe that she and her companions had defeated me. Now they prepare to set forth to seek the other pieces. All has proceeded as you had foreseen.”

“Indeed,” the Wyrmbreaker rumbled. He turned to face the other rakshasa, a valued servant who was lesser in power than himself, but still one of the greatest of those who served the Shadow in the Flame. He was white-furred, like the Wyrmbreaker himself, a sign of the Ak’chazar caste – they were loners among their kind, well-suited for spending decades or centuries in disguise, away from the Demon Wastes, as this servant had done. At his master’s command he had waited in the shadows for centuries, guiding the Entarro bloodline until it produced the one they required – and then when she was born guiding her to ensure she would play the part written for her. “You have done well. Return to your duties and be vigilant. Our time of victory may draw near, but we will be opposed. We must not fail now.”

“Of course, lord.” The other rakshasa bowed, then hesitated. “There are minor complications I must warn you of. Before the map I fabricated to the vault reached Thyra’s hands, it was purchased by agents of the Emerald Claw, and they saw the Key and survived. The Lich Queen may be taking a hand in events.”

Durastoran waved a hand. “She is nothing,” he said. “She is powerful by the standards of mortals, but cannot stand in our path, any more than the parasites in Sarlona who think they play at world events when they are nothing but interlopers and pretenders. She is not a significant concern.”

“Of course not,” the other rakshasa agreed. “But there is… another. An elf priestess, from Aerenal. We foresaw those who would accompany our Child of Flame in her quest, at least in brief glimpses – but not her. She is new, an unseen factor. The Lich Queen does not concern me. The Undying Court… they do.”

In the long history of Eberron, there were many forces that had learned to find and read the Prophecy that was woven into the fabric of the world, but three that had mastered manipulating it. The dragons, who were arrogant enough to name it for themselves, the Lords of Dust, who spun schemes that covered millennia – and, youngest but not least, the Undying Court of Aerenal, whose members had transcended mortality and gained something close to the perspective of the Lords themselves. The Wyrmbreaker paused, considering this. Next to the dragons of the Chamber, there was no more formidable foe.

At last, he spoke. “The Court does not move swiftly,” he said. “Watch, and wait. Their enmity with the dragons is as great as their enmity with us; many times have I found setting them against one another to be a useful means of distracting them from our own aims. We will deal with them both, in time, and whether this year or in ten years or a thousand, our master will be free. I am pleased with your work, Tarazanthan. See to it you continue to serve well.”

The rakshasa who was also a professor at Morgrave University, who had guided Thyra Entarro in many guises to become the person who would serve the needs of the Lords of Dust, bowed his head. “As you say, so shall be. Our Master shall rise again.”

Tarazanthan vanished, returning to Sharn and his human disguise, leaving the Wyrmbreaker alone in darkness, and well satisfied. All was in motion as he had designed.

///

Well, with this epilogue, the first volume of Game of the Ancients comes to an end! This is a story I’ve been wanting to tell for a while and kept getting distracted from doing so (depending on where you’re reading this, some of you may have noticed that the prologue and chapter one were both posted in 2014, almost three years before the rest of the fic). It was a fulfilling feeling to finally get all the scenes that I’d had in my mind for years out onto the page; a big thank you to everyone who’s been following along with me, and any feedback is much appreciated!

The true big bad of the story stands revealed – Durastoran the Wyrmbreaker, one of the most dangerous villains in the entire Eberron setting (Erandis Vol, the Lich Queen, will serve as a secondary overarching villain, albeit mostly working through minions rather than directly). I made a deliberate choice to bookend the story with him, to show just how much things have been under his influence. As we see now, Thyra was only allowed to think she’d escaped the Lords of Dust’s control, and they’re still guiding her actions from afar. Of course, at some point, she and her companions are liable to work things out…

Characters hiding behind masks have been something of a recurring theme in this story. Len hides that she’s a changeling, Thyra hides the source of her magic, Yhani has plenty of secrets regarding her precise relationship to the Undying Court and reason for being in Khorvaire, ir’Sarrin pretends to be an upstanding Karrn noble while actually serving the Emerald Claw, etc. (and several of the characters have secrets that haven’t been fully explored yet…) Now, we can add Taras – or rather, Tarazanthan – to that list. I definitely wanted to foreshadow that he wasn’t all he appeared, but still wanted the reveal that he’s a rakshasa to be a significant one. He’s a somewhat interesting villain, one much more used to hanging around humans than his own kind, and getting a chance to explore him in greater detail is something I’m looking forward to in later fics. After all, he’s been taking an interest in Thyra since before she was born – he’s not going to stop now.

Game of the Ancients: Vol I is the first in a projected five-fic series that will take its characters across the world of Eberron (the others being, tentatively, titled and primarily set on Sarlona, Xen’Drik, Argonessen, and Aerenal respectively). I’m not sure when I’ll start posting the next one, but hopefully the wait won’t be too long. Thanks again to all my readers, and I hope you’ll join me next time! Sarlona awaits.

-MasterGhandalf