by Reaves, Troy
"We have become aware that the curse shrouding this wild land is a disease that has spread to all corners of our world. There is still little information to illuminate how or why these things have come to pass, but I wish to share what we do know." Mithirina waited for silence to retake the Grove before continuing, "Many of you here have noted the appearance of the demon blood orcs, or Nilorque as they are called, leading aggressive bands of raiding parties into the lands of men. Until recently the orcs were a minimal nuisance easily dealt with by the militia of the cities, requiring no intervention from the peoples that protect the wilds. The Nilorque have changed that, and we fear that they are only the outward sign of a much greater evil. Mistress Alunia will now share her observations since arriving here."
The Ardataure stepped forward, speaking in a light voice that carried over the Grove. "Many of you know the border plains in this area are home to the largest concentration of orc tribes in the lands. The hardy wild men and women who share hunting grounds with these barbaric tribes have always formed a buffer between the settled lands and the plains, even trading with the more civilized orc tribes. Nilorque, who have never in the past been encountered more than one at a time, have begun entering the plains areas in groups as large as twenty within the past few months. They are strong orc warriors imbued with power by their tribal shaman before taking on the role as chieftain in a group, and they have steadily grown more powerful than has been witnessed in the past. Something is driving them to bring together their tribes, testing the strength of this new unification with the massacre of human tribal groups also living in the plains areas, wreaking havoc and causing bloodshed with no discernible pattern or reasoning. It is as if the Nilorque, previously only honored and recognized by their individual tribes for their battle prowess and hunting abilities, have somehow been called upon by some outside power. The seeds of power planted by their tribal shamans appear to have been manipulated and multiplied tenfold by this unknown power. We have reason to believe that the power in question is either a mage or priest of some great strength in this land, who has somehow managed to take control of a Tharnorsa from the Abyss itself. The Tharnorsa, a demon lord within the Abyss rarely encountered on this plane even in its incorporeal form, is for all appearances somehow in thrall to its summoner. Word has come from Lord Silverwing that brings us to this conclusion. Lord Silverwing?"
The knight stepped forward into the spot Mistress Alunia had left. "A student of mine, Master Gregor, was completing his training in Nactium at the Temple of Light with a weapons trial. It was a standard test of arms that all knights face, and the Governor was kind enough to allow the final test to be held in the arena of the city. A witness reported to me that during the melee, two priests of unknown faith took control of the arena and, though one was slain, a Raukohaun rose from the body as the other priest disappeared. The witness described the creature quite thoroughly. It was little more than a demon whelp, spawned of an unholy bond in the Abyss, but no less a demon that required very little of its summoners. Master Gregor was able to slay the beast, and faith prevented any further deaths in the arena. There were no protective symbols or circles noted in the arena itself, indicating the summoners had not prepared the arena grounds before the creature was brought forth. Such blatant use of the summoning magic with complete disregard for the safety of the summoners is unheard of even among those misguided souls who worship the creatures in the Abyss. Master Fasurel Stonecutter has made some troubling discoveries in the barren mountains near his home lands as well. Master Stonecutter, if you will."
Master Stonecutter stepped forward to relate the discoveries of his people. He was a short, sturdy man with long reddish hair drawn back in a rough braid. His face was dominated by a broad, grizzly red beard touched with gray. Large, piercing, ice blue eyes, clearly meant to see in the caves where light was sparse, appeared to be protected by eyebrows that stuck out like ledges over them. He surveyed the large crowd uncomfortably and then looked down at the handle of the pickax on which he rested his hands, as if it would provide a better audience.
"My people have experienced loss of lives and territory in huge amounts since these damned orc tribes started unitin’ under one banner. I never seen them so organized. They are usin’ beasts of burden that resemble our own companions, only a lot bigger and a lot meaner! Instead of jus’ eatin' plants and small animals, these things are vicious meat eaters that'll turn on their own wounded and would just as soon tear apart their orc masters. Only a swift blow to th’ skull will take th’ fight out un th’ creatures." Fasurel's eyes flashed as he brandished his pickax as if to drive home his point.
"So far th’ orcs that have taken over mines have stayed up higher, and mostly to themselves, in th’ lesser-used tunnels. A few of my brave brothers and sisters who watched these camps closely have survived to report. They've seen ore laden caravans headin' deeper into the mountains toward th’ volcanic craters, where we got no interest in goin’. Our people explored them sometime in th’ past, but they be too hot to mine. They found giant lizards, hearty mosses, and smaller cave dwellers that fed on th’ mosses in some of th’ cooler caves. Nothin’ can live up on those fiery peaks." Fasurel looked up and across the crowd as he warmed to his subject, losing his shyness as he gave as much detail as he could.
"Someone or somethin' has found a way to breed a creature that can endure th’ awful heat and carry great loads." He spat on the ground and continued. "We noticed that after some days th’ minin’ camps held by th’ orcs stop producin’ and th’ caravans stopped as well. Th’ orcs must've found a way to use th’ creatures to tunnel deeper into th’ mountains and make shafts comin' out closer to where they be taken th’ ore, as we keep seeing orc drivers and lizards goin' in while only big huntin' and raidin' parties are comin’ out. We tried to send in some trackers to find out where they be takin' th’ ore but no one returned. We figure, with as much time has passed, we have to count them among our dead." Fasurel lowered his voice in obvious pain as he continued, "we pray their end was swift and th’ Goddess showed them mercy in their passin'."
"We been trying to take some of th’ orcs alive to question, but those damn lizards tear 'em apart before we can get to 'em. Soon as those lizards get loose and fill their bellies, they take off. I thank th’ Goddess for that as their hides are so tough nothin’ gets through 'em except for th’ sharpest minin’ picks!"
Suddenly realizing he was the center of attention, Fasurel blushed and looked at his feet again. "That's all I got." Master Stonecutter waved Mithirina forward while he moved back near the others. His withdrawal demonstrated such unexpected speed and agility that it drew a small ripple of laughter from the crowd.
Mithirina spoke almost immediately, as if to draw the attention from Fasurel, quieting the crowd. "Many have died to gather the knowledge these people bring to this gathering, and no doubt many more will sacrifice their lives before we are prepared to face the unknown evil that has come to this world. It falls to the protectors of man and beast alike to uncover the forces against which we stand. The council of few becomes the trial of many, which is why we have gathered you here. Drawn from different faiths, we must unite for the good of our lands and the peoples we serve. Many of you have protected these lands as individuals. That time is past. Before night comes, you will be brothers and sisters moving as one and guarding each other as we decipher the mystery set before us. Master Fasurel Stonecutter has spoken with many of you individually and chosen the most seasoned and gifted to travel into the barren lands of his home. The greatest responsibility will fall to this group of rangers and druids. We must know what evil has been sown in the mountains, no matter what the cost."
***
The deep red stone glowed in the Overseer's hand as he sat at his obsidian throne. He preferred the darkness of the sanctuary to remain unbroken but there was no way to block the glow of the orb when it was used. Tur'morival had sent the stone with the payment for Silverwing's death and insisted on using it for contac
ting the Overseer. The master of assassins could find no reason to deny the request at the time. The direct communication simplified things for them both, and the contractor had good reason for secreting himself far from prying eyes. The Overseer could respect that.
His assassins had failed to kill the ranger despite months of observation. The Overseer was not used to failure. The fallen killers had displeased the master before and had taken the responsibility for slaying Silverwing in an effort to regain faith. Their heads should have been placed with the others in the main Hall but the Overseer found pity for them and let them rot where they lay. "Perhaps I am getting weary of the blood; time wears the soul even when the body does not age," he mused in the deep quiet that surrounded him.
You would prefer to join the dust of your mentor, Overseer? Death is only the beginning, and I am certain you know there is a special place in the Hells for your eternity. Tur'morival's contact rang in his head like a bent chime, with warbling notes and a tinny, low clanging that defied music. We have known each other a long time, brother, and it would sadden me to no longer have you as counsel.
The Overseer sensed no threat in the words that rang in his ears. Mocking words had become little more than an expected greeting from the dark priest, and the Overseer treated it as such. "You had some trouble acquiring the broken blade from the boy I understand, and one of your trusted priests is dead. The Order will no doubt be exposed. Why would you take such a chance?" The Overseer awaited the demonologist's reply. Incautious words would tell him what he needed to know.
Tread carefully, master assassin. You should focus on the task set before you. The boy and Silverwing would be of no concern to anyone if they were dead. I am willing to forget the failure, but I require something in return.
"The broken blade and the boy, no doubt. Do you care if he lives or dies? I doubt you have much use for him, and the blade is easily taken from a corpse."
I want the boy alive and my reasons are my own. I sense you’re not telling me something. Would you prefer I dig it out of your mind? As if to make the priest's point, the dark red stone warmed in the Overseer's cold palm. The old killer tightened his grip in response.
"You might find that more difficult than you think, Tur'morival. You would be unwise to test the extent of my reach." The Overseer waited for the warming in his palm to dissipate before continuing. "Good, I'm glad we understand each other. It seems Lord Silverwing is coming to you. Do you want us to kill him, or would you prefer the pleasure?"
Leave the old ranger to me and capture the boy. Bring me that blade and do not underestimate Gregor. He will only grow stronger. The Overseer felt fear with the last thoughts and regretted he could not see the priest's face.
"As you wish, Tur'morival. We have already made preparations to take the boy, and I will have my people move ahead. Still it is a shame not to just kill him." The stone darkened in the Overseer's hand, plunging him into a comfortable absence of light. His words echoed through the chamber, disturbing the quiet of the tomb. "Pity we missed the first time."
***
Gregor took his gauntlets from his hands, wishing to feel the warmth of the fire against his skin. A shroud of thick clouds hid the light of the moon and stars. Gregor mused over the journey to Zanthfar so far, remembering the morning after his vigil. The great feast of the Temple of light had been filled to capacity with peasants and nobles alike when Father Oregeth announced Gregor. It had been all the newly knighted young man could do to not be overwhelmed. Applause and cheers had flooded the great Hall, causing the walls to tremble with their force as the assembled raised their voices in praise and hope. The streets had filled with those waiting to catch a glimpse of the first knight to emerge from the Temple of Light in years beyond recall, and Gregor had felt the touch of thousands of hands before mounting the horse assigned for his journey. He had been glad to bring the stallion to the road and begin moving toward Zanthfar; the air of the road hit him like a much needed taste of freedom.
Only two days from Nactium, the horse began to favor his left rear foot. Upon inspection Gregor discovered that he had thrown a shoe, and unfortunately there was no blacksmith anywhere near. However, there was an encampment of city militia nearby, and Gregor was able to leave the horse in the care of a young man in the service of the city’s patrols. The poor young man was ill-equipped for such duty and appeared to be younger than Gregor. As the boy stared wide-eyed, listening intently to the holy warrior’s instructions concerning the horse, Gregor had once more realized the burden he carried. So many young men and women just like the boy before him were conscripted into the militias across the lands to fight against forces they could not possibly defeat. The boy's face swam up in the flames where Gregor now warmed his hands, serving as an odd reminder of what was to come if he failed. The people of the lands would be enveloped in chaos and death if Gregor could not stop Tur'morival, of that he was certain.
Great guttural howls shattered his thoughts. He reflexively secured his plated gauntlets and rose to his feet. He drew his sword, noting that it was glowing with a steady luminescence. Gregor turned away from the fire, forcing his eyes to adjust as he searched the darkness within the trees surrounding him. There were shuffling noises from all sides and he caught sight of small pairs of bloody glowing orbs that appeared to be floating in the blackness. The strange apparitions winked out as quickly as he spotted them only to reappear elsewhere. Gregor kept his back to the fire until it was uncomfortably warm, hoping to force his attackers to come at him from the front. Every nerve in his body screamed in alarm as he planted his feet in a combat ready stance. As if in answer to the glow of the sword, a crimson mist came into being and moved toward him from the trees. "Who walks these woods? Show yourself!" Gregor kept his voice steady and his sword arm at the ready though his mind filled with fear. The mist was not unfamiliar to him. It was the same light that had surrounded Tur'morival when the priest had presented himself in Gregor's dreams so long ago.
"Sheath your weapon, Master Gregor. You will find little use for it against me." The voice emerged from a robed figure clothed as Father Tur'morival had been in Gregor's dream. The priest bore a staff like those possessed by the summoners from the arena that emanated the light coloring the mist surrounding him. His voice was at once mocking and respectful, and Gregor could sense no threat in it as the man continued to speak. "You know why I have come. Give me the blade desired by my master and we can return to him in peace. There will be no escape for you this time, Knight." As if to demonstrate the truth of his words, several large wolves emerged from the darkness near the figure.
Gregor was torn by anger and pity as the creatures came into the circle of light cast by his fire. The beasts barely resembled the noble hunters they once were. The glowing orbs he had seen in the trees dominated their faces. Unnatural power had swollen their bodies to obscene proportions, tearing the hides where pulsing muscle was now exposed. Deadly thick claws shredded the flesh of their paws and a bloody grimace haunted their maws, forced into being by a protrusion of grotesque fangs. There was the sound of tortured growls emerging from the space beyond the fire at Gregor's back as well.
The knight tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, readying to spring at the priest even as he answered. "I doubt these poor creatures would trouble me if I drove my blade into your heart. One who would corrupt such noble animals deserves no more, and I can find no reason to hold further counsel with you, demon servant."
The vile laugh that emerged from the hood made Gregor cringe in disgust; it was so much like the cursed voice of the priest’s Master. Only the flesh of a man on the hand that held the great staff made Gregor certain it was not Tur'morival before him now. "You'll find there is much you can learn for me, young one. You will serve the Father Tur'morival, one way or another. Would it not be better to go to your Master freely? Your God has forsaken you, giving you faults possessed by so many that have fallen before you. The beasts in my service are but a taste of the power wielded by Fa
ther Tur'morival, and the forces of good make no move that he has not foreseen. Do not dismay, master Gregor. All those who serve our Master once labored in vain against the darkness. There is only one end to that path. A meaningless death that changes nothing."
Gregor stepped a pace closer to the priest. He found his movement matched by the beasts near their dark creator as the threat in the wolves' voices deepened. "You are bold and full of deceit, priest, but do you really think these animals will save you? You speak as though I am alone even as Divinity infuses my blade." The knight angled the blade towards the priest's head to illustrate his point. "Do you think the powers of the Abyss will prevent a stab deep into your heart? You should welcome my strike. Perhaps the God of Light will take pity on your tainted soul and guide you to the divine power you have forsaken. There is no salvation for those who accept the Unnamed One, who holds sway over the souls in the Abyss, in exchange for power in this world. Do not deceive yourself even as you weave the web for me. Go back to the darkness and release these poor creatures. The only hope for you is to relinquish the hold of your master and pray to the divine power you have forsaken. I will take no pleasure in killing you if that is what I must do, except that these poor beasts will be welcomed into the arms of a loving Goddess."
There was no note of pleasure in the priest’s words as he called for Gregor's doom. "You speak well for a blind servant of a meaningless God. What can be expected but empty words from one who struggles so hard against his true destiny? All mankind craves the power we possess. The Order of the Crimson Night alone is blessed with the ability to bend this world to our desires. Serving the powers of the Abyss with the promise of immortality is more than a reasonable sacrifice to make. You will know the true power that Father Tur'morival possesses soon enough. For now know that my pets will tear the armor plates away that cover you one by one until I grow weary of your pleas for death. The powers I have at my disposal will be more than adequate to sustain you. Father Tur'morival has such plans for you, such plans." The priest waved dismissively towards Gregor. "Take him now."