(Background;
Snakeeyes & Meathead; captured! it begins…)
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ilently the pair crept along the outskirts of the fortified town of Klen-ar, now known for all time as Jun-A-Ta. They were hidden from prowling eyes as they moved in the shadows of the trees. The walls, expertly built by tough dwarven craftsmen, barely showed the evidence of the passing time. The wind blew mightily across the sea now, and its caress was often a slow death to anything that stood before the nuzzling of the salty gales. Already, though these walls were only a few years old, they clearly displayed the inescapable havoc that the cruel sea air had upon fixed, unmovable stone and mortar.
Not that these borders looked like a normal city’s. Oh no. The walls around the whole town were nearly uncountable, for at every four hundred feet the wall angled ten to fifteen degrees. If glanced at from above - the way a bird flew - the shape of the walls and roadways gave the entire city structure the look of a gigantic spiders web. The avenues further enhanced this vision as they exploded out from the basic center of town to their respective corners. The alleyways, side roads, and most of the newly constructed town stuck to that design as the connecting streets mirrored the outside walls, all the way back to the center. In fact, the only part of the overall capital's design that now ruined the illusion was the inner sanctum of Olde Town, the original metropolis of Klen-ar, and those walls dated back centuries.
The architect of this ‘new town’ was the city’s savior, Duke Joseph Centaurson. Originally from a huge continent mass called Bara, many months sailing distance in the east, he and his companions had arrived, and a few months later, had defeated the tyrannical rule of the Slavers, as they had dubbed themselves. The Slavers had dominated a full third of the landmass of Erin-Tal during their ten-year reign of terror. After Joseph ‘liberated’ the town from the criminals, the bard saw an opportunity for further prosperity. He, along with a friend of his, a Celtic bard named Cham, pooled their resources, and with the help from the local populous, started to rebuild much of ‘their’ city. Then truly the town, renamed Jun-A-Ta by the new Duke, began to prosper. Tales of the victory against the Slavers traveled with the sailors who docked at this now receptive port, offering the first known haven against another horrible group, a notorious set of outlaws that had dubbed themselves simply as the Pirates.
It was rumored at that time that the Slavers and the sea-bound Pirates were in league with each other, and in three short months after the victory over the Slavers, Cham led an expedition with another former companion of theirs that had helped with the liberation of Jun-A-Ta. He was known locally as Questar, a half-elven warrior/wizard.
Not much was ever revealed about that victory, except the fact that four days after sailing away in a small sailboat, the companions returned with two of the Pirate’s magical galleons, and nearly all of the criminals stashed in the holds of those two warships. The little isle of Jun quickly became the hottest trading spot on the entire continent.
Now fully three years after those events, the truth of the capable leadership of Joseph could be seen. Not just in the fixtures of the town, but in the eyes of every citizen of the township. Truly the haunted expressions of the common folk was gone, but not forgotten. After weathering storms, monsters, and invaders, the people at last seemed to be free.
The real irony of this story is that Joseph never wanted to be a ‘savior’ of anything. He saw a chance to earn a ‘living’ by peddling his jewels, for Joseph was a very capable gem cutter. He chiseled and sculpted when he wasn’t “adventuring” with his friends. Cham, his mentor and companion, was an expert jewel-smith. So the two often collaborated to make extremely fine rings, bracelets and the like.
But to sell the fruits of his labors, he needed a safe place to both work and sell. And no town on the face of Erin-Tal had yet to offer such, at least not that he knew of at that time, although stories came in of other ports in other parts of the country: BaLor, the capital city of Styn-A-Ton, their rival city of TaLor of Ka-A-Ton; Tala-Tordial and their sister town of Tordial, both of Lanthel, the sea-faring peoples far to the northeast; the infamous Floating City of Tora; Two Halves, the enchanted city of Kara-Ben; Krism of Dora; and finally, Krenar of KoRin, the first town that Joseph, Cham, and Questar stopped at on their journey from Bara.
But these towns were unknown to Joseph and Cham at this time, or they had not become the subdued havens that they are now, for much of this country was, and still is, too untamed and wild. That is one of the main reasons the Slavers, and not to mention the Pirates, were able to so completely decimate any kind of resistance, for most people were simply trying to survive.
Now most would scoff at this plan, but to sell his wares, Joseph decided to declare himself ruler of the isle, and immediately instigated measures to keep it safe from harm. The mayor of the town had perished during the final victory over the Slayers, and most of the populous were too shocked and stunned by their sudden freedom to care what this hero decided to do, no matter his internal motivations.
So with his own treasures acquired from nearly a decade of adventuring, he hired the now unemployed citizens to rebuild the town, starting with hotels, inns, and certain homes. As those places were finished, they became occupied and the entire process continued. Soon, the cobblers were put to work not only on the streets, but the sewers as well.
It seemed that Joseph and his friend Cham had obtained an artifact in their travels together. This device was a huge, crystal cone, shaped much like a ram’s horn or a cornucopia that adorned many of these people’s tables. It was fully twenty feet in length, and twelve feet wide at the base of the mouth. Joseph had the stonecutters build the sewers anew, from one end of the town to the other; all streets and pathways were redone to accommodate this new device. Half of the citizens volunteered their time to help complete this undertaking as old stonework was lifted out of place, reworked if it was salvageable, and the floors of the sewers were tapered off to a five-degree slant towards the direction of the lake on the volcanic isle. Underground caverns were intersected and used to help widen and enlarge this system.
There at the base, at the end of the sewage system, Cham and Joseph installed the god-forged artifact. According to legend, this original Horn of Cleansing was taken from the great sky-ram in one of Athena’s hunts. After the great meal in Olympus, Apollo, the Sun God of Healing, took the horn, and with the great smith Hephaestus’ help, made this item.
The legend didn’t matter much to Joseph, but what the artifact had been constructed for... did matter. The devices had the unusual ability to take dirty, even poisonous, contaminated matter, and cleanse it completely, fit for consumption, if that was your wish. The end result of the final constructions ended up with clear, stream-like water that flowed out the small end of the crystal cone. The water poured into an underground lake, and that water in turn flowed up an enhanced waterfall that flowed upwards to a sculpture in the park. An item in the statue, created for just such the purpose that it was serving, controlled the unique water movement. This beautiful figurine was thirty feet tall, and weighed nearly a ton, without the water inside it. That liquid now poured out an urn that was held by the two gods, brothers together forever filling this lake with pure fluids, seemingly blessed by the gods.
Joseph was bothered by the idea of the statue when the priests of Apollo conceived it. But even he understood the relevance involved for here was a device that was originally brought to the realms by Artemis, the mistress of the hunt. The other two gods later modified it, and the adventure that it was discovered is one for another tale. Twin temples now in the new city were to both the great huntress, and her brother, the god of the sun. Hephaestus disciples were among the majority of the crafters and tinkerers that helped with the new work being done in the entire city, and through out the isle itself. The bard had openly scoffed at the notion that the gods had sanctioned this work; that it was both approved, and had been blessed.
Of course, that was before the lyre appeared in the arm of the figurine of Apollo.
One morning, a woman in near hysterics had been beating on the door to Joseph’s tower. Now the bard was well known for his late night “adventures” with his lady friends. The duke was nearly infamous for the parties that he hosted well into the morning. So it was a cranky and none-too-forgiving lord that greeted his citizen that day. She finally got him to walk with her back to the lake, where a crowd was now forming. Grumbling and groaning the whole way there, Joseph was not prepared for the huge turnout of people, all gawking and staring at the statue.
The duke straightened his attire as best as he could, for appearances were everything to these people, and walked boldly to the statue that had been installed just the week before. The newness of the stonework was very evident, and would be for some time. However, Joseph did notice that the statue was not the same. Before, the gods were depicted as groaning and straining with the labor of holding aloft the huge urn that the water poured out of.
Now however, both the images of Apollo and Hephaestus were smiling, appearing to be joyful of the task of maintaining the lake’s clear environment. And in the crook of one of Apollo’s arms rested a huge, golden lyre, it’s strings glistening with the morning dew. A musician himself, Joseph climbed on the base, reached forth and strummed the instrument, pleased with the sound it made. But the lord was bothered by the fact that it was simply resting there, making the item an easy thing to take. Not including he, there were many thieves on the isle, and something this valuable wouldn’t stay on the statue very long.
In fact, the duke thought that way for many hours, until he came upon a grim-faced guard who was prodding forth a miserable wretch towards Joseph, to be judged for some wrong doing the beggar had done. The charge was stealing. The guard had caught the other man carrying the stringed instrument away from the lake, trying to hide the lyre under a cloak that couldn’t begin to cover this near-harp sized item. As evidence, the city soldier impounded the lyre and made the man carry it towards Joseph’s tower, but only three feet inside the city’s walls, the instrument disappeared. A frantic search revealed the item nesting comfortably back in the statue’s arm.
As the water that poured into the lake via the statue is so achingly pure, it attracts both the citizens of Jun-A-Ta and the surrounding communities, and wildlife that live in the realm of the park. In fact, more often than once, a stunned villager making a trip to the spill-off point scares away a few animals that come to drink at the now-pure water source.
Thinking again of the pure water made Talanon’s throat ache with renewed thirst, for he never spoke much when he did indeed talk at all. Seeing the halfling ahead of him motion him back, the agile monk slipped back against a tree growing near the weathered wall. Seizing a now rare moment, he uncorked a leather waterskin that hung from his belt, on his backside. Swallowing slowly, he felt the nourishing liquid soothe his throat, and replenish his spirit.
Todrick looked back at his friend, his outline evident even before he allowed his vision to slip into the infrared spectrum, of which his kind could see into, like many other demi-humanoids in the realms. The illusionist-thief grinned broadly, privately enjoying his companion’s discomfort. So Tal scratched his throat, he mused to himself. You would think that all that screaming he does for his warrior arts, and the hated katas that he makes me do when I study with him just might have strengthened his voice box... just a little!
Talanon recorked the flask and glanced over to the smaller man, where the monk had no trouble seeing the wide smile on the Halfling’s face. Grinning a little in return, the mystic thought he knew what was going on in his little friend’s thoughts. “He’s probably enjoying this,” he said quietly to himself. Ever since I started him on those katas...
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“Quiet Meathead, or ya’ll spoil dis!” the figure in the dark growled at his smaller but drooling companion. His smaller friend’s reply was a muffled “Rrrrff.” That was promptly silenced a moment later when a chain mail gauntlet around a closed fist thumped the bulldog right on the top of his head. The dog glanced up, snorted his usual heavy snort, and promptly pissed on the dwarf’s right boot.
Ya blasted, buggerin’, waste a’ good skin! thought the fighter, but then chuckled as the unique wardog came back from investigating something lurking off to the side. In the dog’s mouth were not one but two rats, and from their still-struggling outlines the now drooling dwarf could tell that they were still alive.
He kneeled down to retrieve one that the dog had dropped at his foot. As Snakeeyes reached for it, the dog slurped the dwarf’s bearded cheek, ending whatever problems the two friends had inadvertently started, for Snakeeyes could not bring himself to think of his dog as anything other than a trusted and true friend, a comrade for all times, thick and thin.
“Don’t get too sent’ment’l on me, now!” the dwarf whispered to his friend. Hmphh! The fighter wished for a good hot fire to cook his newfound snack, but since stealth was now a requirement, he shrugged as he bit off the rat’s head, relishing in the quiet crunch of the meal’s skull. After a moment, the only thing to show for the meal was the breath of the two warriors.
He used no light to lead his way, having learned much of this city in the wee hours of the morning, despite the curfew imposed by the Guard. ‘Rules were meant to be broken,’ was one of the shadow’s more popular sayings. This was almost immediately followed by another that was popular with his kind: ‘How are you ever supposed to know what to do, and when to do it, if you don’t do the wrong thing... from time to time?’
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“Come on!” signaled Todrick, in the private code that he and the monk communicated with. Then he signaled again, this time pointing down to the wharf, which was at the end of the long semi-cluttered street. “Do you have the map?”
** No, ** replied the monk telepathically in the mind of the halfling. ** You said you knew the way! ** he teased. Talanon was slowly turning merry watching his friend trying to find his way in the dark of the unfamiliar docks, along Warehouse Row.
With an utter look of contempt, Todrick signaled, “You’re father was a jackass!! Just how are we supposed to get in that secured building?”
Laughing mentally, Talanon replied, **
‘S a good thing I can remember what I see! I thought all good thieves could
remember the faintest of details, especially those relating to their missions!
**
The multi-classed halfling didn’t even lower himself to retort back at the amused mystic. Then a thought came to him and he signaled again to the man in the shadows. “Why don’t you use your fancy mind powers to heal your throat? Or haven’t you thought of that yet, you dunce!”
By the stunned look on the young
monk, Todrick knew he was right. Then a message came floating down to the
wharf. ** In all this time that I’ve began to explore my pscionics, I’ve
only healed myself when in combat, or after one. I would have never thought of
using my powers this way. **
Then to himself, the mystic thought, I probably never had any reason to before. He then allowed the powerful mind ability of cell adjustment to flow out, regenerating damaged organs and skin. It was no doubt a fantastic if not unique talent, though not as powerful as a priest’s spell of healing. That is a spell granted by the god the cleric is dedicated to, virtually restoring injuries as if they had not ever happened. The pscionic discipline of cell adjustment allows the user to mentally blend the entire part of the body that was damaged. So Talanon brought forth tiny microscopic bits of plasma, energy, skin, blood, and muscle tissue from other parts of his undamaged throat to lend strength to the worn and raw vocal cords. There they blended with the injury, stitching together, sewing up and providing strength and support to the tender areas. In one whole day’s rest period, the now healed throat would be as strong as it was before, the energies flying back to many of their respective sources. The only problem with this type of healing was it’s costly in strength on the part of the adjuster, sapping the user’s strength in their mental energies. The other problem was continued use of the “healed” area before it was given the natural rest period, could reinjure the area, and sometimes do even more damage.
After Tal’s pain in his throat subsided, they continued with their mission by threading in and out of temporary stalls - wagons that would be used for the next day’s sales of breads, drinks and other types of merchandise. The pair came to the first of several warehouses on the dock. These particular warehouses were of the older constructions – before the duke’s reconstruction efforts, and the monk could tell that it wouldn’t take the most skilled of thieves to break into these particular buildings. Making the evidence non-detectable, now that was another matter! The other newer warehouses were further down the dark streets, barely illuminated by candles burning in lamps. They provided a dim light, leaving far too many shadows in the alleyways, and in the recesses of the structures. Most of these buildings were used as temporary storage for incoming freight, to be sold to distributors, or as real storage for local businesses in town.
It was of the latter the pair was interested in, and even now was traveling towards. The Olde Mate was an inn frequented mostly by sailors - who nearly always seemed to have an attitude towards ‘landlubbers’ - had discovered that several casks of oil and dozens of items were missing when doing an inventory recently in their warehouse on the dockside. The owner was a retired captain of over forty years out on the sea, and Clu had complained bitterly to Father’s Folly, the not so silently recognized thieves guild in the city.
The captain, despite his mid-age, is as impressive now as he was back when he sailed. No one in their right mind would cross the ill-tempered seadog, so when he stood before Cham - ‘Father’ in the guild - the Celtic bard showed the older sailor considerable respect. Not that he couldn’t have defended himself, but the captain had obtained protection from thievery by paying a modest fee at the beginning of the year. Part of that payment lay in the blue ribbon that adorned the sign on the inn, and in the blue earring that the grizzled man wore.
Talanon smiled a little at the story that ‘Uncle’ had told him back at the Singing Bards. Under the direction of Cham and Joseph, the monk and Todrick were now investigating the theft, but the mystic was bothered by the need for such subtle methods. However Cham had explained that having armed members of the Guard, the city’s soldier militia, asking questions and disturbing the peace would be... well, disruptive. Indeed, all that confusion would aid the guilty party, and they would probably be alerted. But, having the guild discreetly examine the evidence just might allow the perpetrators to be caught.
Todrick’s soft-spoken question broke the mystic from his thoughts. “Just which building is the one we want?”
Smiling slightly, Talanon motioned further down the dark and replied, “Last one on the left side. The hidden entrance is on the other side of the building.”
But as the halfling started to leave, the mystic stopped his friend with an outstretched arm. Todrick looked back at the monk with more than a little growing concern, aware of how out-of-sorts the mystic was. “I’m still not convinced this is the best way of looking into this.”
Exasperated, the halfling threw up his small arms in disgust. He suspected this very conversation would come up. “Look Tal,” began the illusionist. “Can’t you understand what we will be doing?”
Somewhat cavalierly, and an awful lot like his father used to retort back like, the monk replied, “Yes. Investigating a theft for a group of thieves.”
“This isn’t really for the guild,” answered back Todrick, his patience wearing thin. “The inn pays a small sum each year...”
“Extortion,” said the monk, nodding his head. “Now Todrick, I’ve kept my peace about this for a while, but before we go into that warehouse, you need to understand why this bothers me so much. Back in my homeland, thieves are beheaded. In other parts of this country, they lose their hands. But here,” now Talanon threw his hands wide, “they are treated like royalty!”
“No!” whispered the irritated halfling. “You j...”
“In the name of the Guard, who goes there?” queried a strong voice filled with authority. Both Talanon and the halfling had been immersed in their argument; so neither one was prepared for this surprise. The monk recovered quickly, though, and relaxed out of his defensive posture that had automatically went into when he was startled. Todrick, however, wasn’t so lucky.
“Yaaaahhhh!!!” screeched the halfling, jumping up to the same height as the mystic, who seeing this, and the panic-stricken look on the illusionist’s face, burst out laughing.
“HALT! Or be subject to attack!!” came another voice out of the darkness.
Talanon, feeling quite relieved that this whole charade was now over, started to walk forward. “Well met, honorable soldiers of the Guard. It’s I, Talan...”
Suddenly, a whispered voice got the attention of everyone. “Eld yor ian ILLUMINIA!”
Bright light, like that of a fresh torch, appeared above the monk’s head, and he instinctively squinted, raising his hand to shield his eyes from the intruding brightness. His eyes, already adjusted to near-complete darkness, teared in response. Talanon heard the squeak of his halfling friend behind him, and the scuffle of his booted feet. Finally, unable to adjust so completely, the monk shut his eyelids, letting his body adjust slowly. Todrick scuffled behind him some more, and from the sound of his motions, the monk knew the halfling was up to something. “No! Todrick, this is the Guard. Don’t shame me by fleeing from the law of our community!”
“Who said anything about fleeing?” whispered the thief back. “I’m just getting something ready. I have a bad feeling about this. Since when does the Guard use magic-users?”
Talanon was about to reply back, but stopped, concern going across his features for the first time since this encounter. But he shrugged it away. “Calmly, my little friend. We were doing nothing wrong, and lurking in shadows after curfew is not a serious offense. They’ll let us off with a warning, nothing more.”
“Uh huh,” agreed Todrick. He didn’t sound convinced… not in the slightest.
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“Unbelievable!” uttered the dwarven fighter, who was concealed behind an odd-smelling pile of clothing, garbage, broken crates, and other assorted riff-raff that constituted the clutter of the alleyway, watching the two men before him become surrounded while they were arguing. The stout man shook his head, causing his two foot-long beard to sway this and that. When the coarse hairs moved that way, they inevitably picked up stinking, clinging bits of the decaying debris. This had the unfortunate effect of making the not-so-very-handsome dwarf just that more unappealing. Not that the dwarf seemed to care.
I’se can’t believe ‘dis crap! He thought with a small amount of despair, and with a little more resignation. Dey walked right int’ dat trap! And I’se bets myse load’d dice dat deyse expects me ta bail ‘em out, too! With contempt, the dwarf reached forward and grabbed his long beard, tucking it into his belt. When going into combat, it was just more comfortable with it out of the way. His braided, foot-long mustaches were his pride and joy, unlike other dwarves, who often thought of honor as one with the length of their beards. Snakeeyes just thought the beard got in the way. Shaving it was out of the question for after all, he was a dwarf!
The bulldog Meathead suddenly stood to attention, growling deep within his throat. His sleek fur rippled along the huge dog’s muscled frame as muscles twitched beneath the dog’s protective hide. The motion was not lost on the dog’s master.
“Whazamatter?”
The large war beast just looked up with his bulging eyes, licked his lips, smacked his chops, and glanced back down the alleyway to the scene that was unfolding before them. He growled once again, and then repeated the motion, which assured the dwarf that what the dog was looking at is what really spooked him.
“Ayuh, boy, I’se knows. I’se saws da littl’ man ‘n da back, signallin’ de udders… where’r de are! Dis is gonna gets Ogly fer sert’n. C’mon...” The shadows accepted the two newcomers as a lover would, enfolding them in her dark embrace, cutting off the living from this vision of the world.
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Talanon was sharing his smaller friend’s discomfort, for the group that they had met that pretended to be the Guard certainly wasn’t acting like any soldiers the monk had ever met before. Very few questions, and lots and lots of rope are what the mystic seemed to be able to concentrate on for the moment. The questions were basic, and too centered on the topic of where the two law-breakers were headed. The cord was because they were in the process of right now bundling up both Todrick and himself. They didn’t just isolate the hands and feet of both men, though. They were covered nearly head to foot with tightly bound, fat rolls of what appeared to be captured twine from either the looted storage shed, or one like it.
“Answer me!” growled one dressed in a sergeant’s uniform. From this imposter’s bearing, Talanon was ashamed to admit that he had thought of these people as being the Guard. Ill-shaven, dirty, and they all gave off an aura of mistrust, and more than a few were flat-out evil in nature. These were not common brigands, or brawlers. Something told the mystic that there was more here than the theft of a store’s supplies.
“What do you wish to know, o’ potent one?” jibed back Todrick, who was cuffed on the back of his head for his troubles by another “guard.”
“Quiet half-one! We w’rn’t bugger’n with you… yet!” His raw laughter grated on the two heroes, chilling the illusionist to the bone.
“You be quiet, Slayer’s son!” came the forced whisper from the mage in the shadows, his dark robes telling Talanon all he wished to know of that one’s allegiance. “Yon townsfolk will respond to blatant clues that we are not who we pretend to be. Think w’ more than your groin for once!” The chastised man stiffened with the insult, and actually appeared to be thinking about challenging the wizard, but the soft glow across the mage’s eyes halted the fighter. Slayer’s son muttered something that Talanon could not quite hear, and then he walked away, drawing his sword and disappearing in the shadows.
“Ah, Stronghelm, I wondered if it would be you that Uncle would send,” the mage said softly, his voice full of authority and confidence. The monk could practically taste the ego of the man. The wizard squatted down, putting his face close to Tal’s, confident in his superiority, and the twine that held his opponent down. “In fact, surprised am I that it’s taken this amount of time for the good captain Clu to notice his missing items. Twice daily have people gone to the warehouse, yet not once in months times three have they bothered to check… until today.” He glared at the monk and cast an even more scornful glance at the Halfling.
“Ye were expected. Darkness is our ally as well.” Then he delivered a vicious stomp to Todrick’s face, where the Halfling had been muttering to himself. The illusionist crumpled with a whimper into enveloping pain-filled darkness. “None o’ yer tricks, cherub!” The black robe turned back to the monk with a superior look, only to see the rope holding a fast-fading shape. Before he faded into the ether, the mage started on seeing the furious look in Talanon’s eyes. For a full second, the twists held it’s shape, then fell to the ground with a slight thump.
Chaos erupted as the men came forward, all armed with naked steel. Many voices started at once, all questioning what had just happened. Like fools, they kept staring at the area where the monk had been. One man even stabbed around with his broadsword in the ground, the air, even cutting the ropes.
“You idiots. Find him. He’s gone into another dimension, or something similar. He can’t have gone far.”
“Ain’t that your job, L’bran,” questioned Slayer’s son. When the wizard turned on him with a furious glare, the fighter knew he was right. One might assume that the fighter should have known better than to upset the formidable sorcerer, but common sense wasn’t his strongest trait. That became evident when the wizard raised a single finger, and uttered a power word. Slayer’s only child fell back with a shriek, glowing with the single white burst that erupted from the mage’s hand. He gurgled for a second, and then simply died, falling to the ground in a small pile of dust, the disintegration spell quick but effective.
The collaborators of the wizard all stared in shock, for Slayer’s son was their leader. He had been an equal to the wizard in authority, but the fighters and thieves owed their allegiance to him, not L’bran. That’s when all hell broke loose.
As the fighters started forward to do something, a glowing ethereal force slammed into two of them, grazing one, and killing the other outright with a smashed temple. As the two fell forward with the impact, the wizard could see the shape of the item that had hit them – the shape of a warhammer. The twelve survivors looked this way and that, but now, the darkness that they so loved became their hindrance, as the attacker could not be seen.
“Scatter!” one uttered, and although the word was almost ridiculously simple, it worked. The fighters moved around, making themselves harder to be hit.
“L’bran, you fool. Noise alone from yer spell will alert da Guard,” uttered another with a scar down his dirty face, his white-eye evidence of his partial blindness thanks to that particular strike years back. His spoken statement now became common fact as lights began to flare in windows near the fighting area. Now, stealth was no longer an option. The scarred veteran searched this way and that, then suddenly his one eye widened in surprise.
He was bowled over a moment later by over one hundred pounds of growling, snarling bulldog. The wizard gasped in surprise as he took a step away from the screaming man as the dog fastened himself to the fighter’s left wrist. The dog planted his feet, twisting hard to the right, his muscles bulging with effort. The war beast was rewarded with a ripping, rendering sound as the man’s arm tore and finally came out of his socket altogether. Hot blood fountained out of the aperture as the fighter screaming and thrashing about, fell to the ground, mercifully passing out with the pain.
Just as the mage was reading a spell to aim at the dog, not to save the warrior’s life but now his own as the blood-soaked bulldog cast a drooling glance his way, an axe, whirling end over end, slammed into the wizard. Multi-colored sparks showered the wizard and the dog as the weapon bounced off the wizard’s protective magical, and totally invisible shield. Yet the forces of the impact sent the sorcerer back on his rump, surprise showing on his face.
“Damn! Almost had ‘im!” came a reply out of the darkness, belonging to a dwarf by the accent. “Meathead! Away fr’m ‘im! ‘E’ll blasts ya fer ‘certin!”
Chaos reigned supreme, as the fight became a symphony of disorder. The wizard blinked, and the dog bounded away in the shadows. As he did so, another man, a sandy-haired thief was slammed by another hammer-sized ball of force, with a woman’s voice exalting her god. The thief did not rise, nor would he, given the massive dent presently in his chest, proof of the strike that felled him.
“Get the cleric. There on the roof, to the right!” shouted one fighter, only to be hurled aside by a dark-haired dwarf, whose physical strength was almost as potent as his body odor! The dwarf had a dagger out, and had dispatched that man almost as fast as he had stabbed another in the kidney. His bellows to his war-god were almost as frequent as his encouragement to his dog, which had again joined the battle, it’s jaws clamped onto the groin of another unfortunate soul. The wizard, recovering from his initial shock, decided to take control of the battle. He sighted in on the cleric, who was camped out on the roof of one of the lower buildings in the shadows. Out came two spell components necessary for L’bran’s next conjuration. He completed the incantation and was even now rubbing the small iron bar and feather together, grinning in satisfaction as he felt the lightning bolt spell coming into being.
“Never!” roared Talanon as he came fully into this realm from the ethereal plane. The monk had been traveling in between both planes of existence, but it took time to complete the journey. He now appeared behind the wizard, knowing he was too late to stop the mage entirely. He had hoped to disrupt the wizard, something Todrick had taught him when dealing with magiks, for if the spell caster couldn’t concentrate, the magic would go awry. Therefore he was not prepared when L’bran whirled faster than the monk gave him credit for, pointed, grinned, and uttered the final phrase.
Hot bluish-white energy boomed towards the monk, crackling with its terrifying power of electricity, one normally generated by the storms of the raging seas. Overcome, the monk caught the brunt of the spell in his chest, and was flung backwards to smash full force into stall after stall. Either Talanon or the remainder of the spell destroyed each wagon and table in the path of the human missile. The spell energy enveloped and burnt the splinters and debris to a crisp. Finally, Talanon came to rest fully thirty feet away, slamming against the wall of the city, which unlike the wooden tables and carts, didn’t budge with the effort of his impact. Mere split seconds later, the spell finished its assault on the mystic, pouring all of its violence into the warrior, his extremities twitching with the last of the attack. Silence reigned supreme as he slumped to the ground.
“Tal!” came one feminine voice, choked with worry.
“Monkey!” boomed out the dwarf.
“Rffff!” spoke the other, identifying the third with its inflections.
“Now, that wasn’t nice,” came a fourth, right behind the wizard.
Whirling in complete surprise, the wizard was unprepared for the brown staff that smashed him full in the face. Once again, the sorcerer’s shield spell held, but wavered as strike after strike from the deep-brown wooden weapon forced L’bran back, hit after hit. The Halfling grimaced with each attempt, as sparks showered about like water that splashed on rocks in fast and furious rapids. The wizard was unable to attack, for he could not concentrate enough to ready even a simple spell, so fast was Todrick, fueled now by his rage. He went into his weapon kata that his friend, who lay hurt - maybe even dying, had taught him. Anger drove the thief as he grunted with the effort of each precise hit. His form was near perfect, for when the magician stumbled, the thief shuffled and resumed his attacks. Then, seeing an opening, an idea became apparent. Whirling, Todrick stuck the staff between the mage’s legs, and continued the twirl. Down L’bran went, smacking into the cobblestone road with the impact, biting his tongue between his teeth with the surprise of the maneuver. The Halfling finished his movement, whirling around, the weapon spinning like a country waterwheel. As the staff reached it’s apex, Todrick twisted into a hardbo, and brought the staff downward in a fatal strike at the mage’s head.
Lethal it was intended to be, but the last of the magician’s energy held, then faded, so the strike only succeeded in barely getting through the field. But it was enough, as the wizard slumped into unconsciousness. Sweat poured down the illusionist’s body as he fought the equilibrium problem he caused by demanding more than his body was able to deliver. Lights flashed before Todrick’s eyes as the blood hammered in his head from the effort of his attack, causing the injury to his face to throb and pound even more.
The remaining six standing members of the enemy band huddled together. Next to L’bran and the one known as Slayer’s son, they had no veterans of extreme experience. One, an ill-tempered woman that used a dagger and dirk for her weapons of choice, rather than sword and shield, motioned the others forward. “Come mates! Dere’s only da three o’ ‘em, and yon dog or Halfling will pose n’more prob’m.”
The smartest of the other five lowered his sword in response and stared hard at his rash companion. “Are ya daft, woman? Halfling hissel’ took out our wizard with a simple stick.”
“Da war beast took out two o’ our chums too, Gray-Eyes,” replied yet another.
The woman shook her head stubbornly. “No matter, they’ll yet learn ta cross blades w’ da Black Ones!” she said defiantly.
Now the rest of the group looked at her. “Except fer yon dwarf, ya knothol’, dey aren’t usin’ blades!” one cried sarcastically. A growing murmur from the rest of the band seemed to voice their agreement.
“Cowards!” she spat. “Not a one a’ ya’s got da guts ta rightfully calls hisself a Black Un! Or mebbe,” she reasoned wickedly, “’tis balls ye lack!”
Every man in the Black Ones flinched angrily, and looked as if they might indeed attack the others, but then a darting figure grabbed Grey-Eyes from behind, and held her in a choking throat-lock. Todrick was not surprised, but was more than relieved to see his friend Talanon standing defiantly against the five men. The monk spoke harshly to the rest of the enemy band. “Back, or she dies now. I’ve no wish to kill, but will do so to defend my companions. You are beaten and can’t hope to win.” He glared at them, seizing up each of his opponents, not even seeming to flinch as the woman fought like a lion, yet the mystic barely moved, his legs like iron.
“A wise man knows when to leave a burning building,” he spoke, both rational and quite calmly. The monk was reaching the warriors as more than a few looked nervous at their present situation. Then the light from the wizard’s spell showed the scorch mark on Talanon’s chest where the uniform had been burned clear through. Not a scratch on his body was evident. The skin tone was healthy and his normal color, if not a little pinkish. One man, the youngest of the bunch, dropped his sword in awestruck silence. The clang on the cobblestone contrasted with the sounds of approaching people, and by that, it sounded like the entire town was coming their way. After the first sword faltered, the other men all became extremely tense. Their nervousness was amplified when the cleric came into the light finally, her well-worn mace ready in her hand.
“Come Lads,” urged the monk, one last time. “Don’t let the foolish ranting of this woman confuse you. You are all veterans. You know when a battle is lost. Don’t throw your lives away. Is this really worth dying for?”
That solved the problem. Almost immediately, the other men dropped their swords. One man attempted to run into the shadows, but by the sounds of the scuffle that immediately happened, didn’t appear to have made it very far. In fact, he was shoved rudely back into the illumination. The man fell to his knees, and rolled along the cobblestones, attempting yet again to leave, but by this time, the lights of many torches coming from many directions could easily be seen. The man knew he had nowhere to go, and the panic was plain for all to see across his young face, where his whiskers had only just started to grow.
“Be at ease, McDain,” uttered one man, who dropped to his haunches, and hung his head with shame or exhaustion. “We’ve lost.”
“Well said,” Talanon replied, and released the woman brigand from the horrific chokehold. In a flash she pulled a dagger from her boot. She started to swing the blade at him, but the monk casually stepped into the attack as it was intended, locked her arm, and pressed a nerve cluster in her upper forearm. Her hand opened reflexively, and the blade clattered to the stonework with a note that seemed prophetic. Still holding her arm in a twisting lock with one hand, the mystic reached upwards, and pressed into her neck, just below her ear. Her eyes rolled upwards, and with a small cry of pain she slumped to the ground. She didn’t move after that.
“Nay men, ye’ve not lost. Not yer lives… not yet!” said the dwarf, retrieving his axe from the ground, his eyes showing a not-so promising future. “De night’s still young, though,” grinned the warrior, bouncing back and forth on the balls of his widespread feet.
“Snakeeyes, my friend, leave them their dignity,” the monk replied, watching the men with more than a little concern. He was all too aware how dangerous humankind can be when it is cornered, with little options for the future. Then, predictably, one man did try to fight, picking up a sword and slashing viciously at the dwarf. The compact man avoided the down stroke, and brought his own weapon to bear. Down it came, catching the unfortunate man in the collarbone. But it didn’t stop there as the axe continued it’s downward momentum, cleaving through flesh, bone, armor, and exiting the dead man’s body near the opposite hip. Two halves of the dead fighter flew away in opposite directions, spraying hot gore near the area.
If there was any more resistance planned, that put a stop to it, as shock settled in the Black Ones, as well as the four companions. Meathead simply yawned with boredom.
***************************************************
"Can't thank yew enough, Stronghelm!" spoke Captain O'Donnelly as he stood apart from the real Guard now present, talking with the adventurers. "One thing concerns me, though. Wha' in the nine-levels o'hell are yew doing out after curfew? We all know yew to be an honorable man, something yer smaller companion is not!"
"Hey!" spoke up Todrick, truly hurt from the insult. He was cradled in Be'y's arms as she was chanting softly to her Goddess. The cure serious spell took a moment of preparation on the priestess' part. To be honest, Todrick looked like he was really enjoying the attention, being held by the lovely woman! Both Talanon and Captain O'Donnelly grinned at the situation.
"So… that's why being healed i' such a good feeling," murmured William, under his breath to the monk.
"Bill!" Tal laughed, a little offended but knowing the captain didn't mean any offense. He walked over and ruffled Todrick's hair, messing up his curls even more.
"Ow!" came Todrick's hurt reply. His entire face was swollen, and looked like his nose and jaw were broken.
Grinning, the mystic walked back over to stand next to the captain. In a more somber mood, he took the man by the arm, and walked over to the remains of the cart wagons, which still smoldered from the intense lightning spell. Nobody was near that area, and the monk wanted some privacy. He briefly told the captain what was happening. The soldier stiffened when finding that they had been commissioned to work for the underworld guild, but understood the reasons almost immediately. O'Donnelly even laughed at the image of soldiers trying to be subtle, marching everywhere, knocking on doors while the perpetrators slinked away.
"Very well, Talanon. Ah'll leave this to yew. Ha' yew cleared this with the Duke?"
The monk kept his face very still. "Sort of." At the questioning look the soldier gave him, Talanon grew uncomfortable. Joseph's double life was so similar to lying that it bothered the mystic. Many people knew of it, and the monk doubted that the bard would be able to keep it a secret very much longer. Still, the captain was a good man, and the monk didn't like to be a part of the deception.
"Well, no matter. Ah'll bring it up to him this morning. It'll make m' men feel better about this whole thing."
"How many dead guardsmen were found, captain?"
Frowning, O'Donnell replied, "None, Stronghelm! But twenty by the count of our city's uniforms collected. Roll call showed that we still have another three still unaccounted for. Ah'll check with Major Rhells in the morning on the matter. Damn! I wish Ah could go with yew on what yew find. The thought of what those basstardz did…" Frustrated, he kicked a chunk of wood away, wanting to vent much more thoroughly.
"Keep that offer in mind, William! We may yet need some aid in this quest. I suspect that we will find more than common brigands at the bottom of this. That wizard, for example…"
"Ayuh! He's an ornery cuss fer certain! We've got his hands tied and his mouth gagged, to keep him from casting anything at us. His spell components, weapons, and assorted jewelry ha'
been confiscated, and currently a member of the Magic Guild is lookin' a' 'em. Oh! That reminds me, son…" He reached into his tunic and pulled out a piece of parchment. "The mage working with us thought this was a spell scroll at first, but then realized the writin' was non-magical in nature! We still can't read it. Do yew thinks yer smaller friend can help yew here?"
Nodding his head, Talanon looked over at the Halfling. He was asleep in Be'y's lap, his grin on his face very evident. The monk laughed, and Be'y shrugged her shoulders in response and grinned back. "Well, if he can't read this, he probably knows someone who can. Best you don't ask who."
The captain cast a quick glance over at the monk, but didn't say anything. He just handed it over to the other, and looked around at the devastation. He tried to make light of the matter. "From the looks of this square, business will be severely halted tomorrow! They'll have to pull out the extra carts in the Bazaar."
The monk moved some of the cooling debris with his foot. "Check with the Duke. It's his town, and his mission."
"Ah thought you said that the Duke was "sort o'" aware of this?" At the monk's stony face, the captain merely nodded. "Ayah, that's what Ah thought!
Just then Meathead came trotting over, sniffing the ground. Talanon truly liked the dog, and was glad that he was on the monk's side. He bent over and scratched the bulldog behind the ears. Meathead stopped what he was doing, leaned into Talanon's hand, and had one rear leg sticking out. The more scratching Tal did, the more Meathead's leg shook.
"E're now! Y'll ruin 'm! 'E's a wardawg, not some lil' lap-pooch!" blustered the dwarf, who ignoring Talanon's privacy completely, came strolling over. "E're boy!" The dwarf dropped something wet at the dog's feet, and the wardog began to sniff around at it.
With horror, Talanon realized they were severed ears from the dead (hopefully!) enemy (definitely hopefully!) soldiers. He glanced away, saw the awful expression on the captain's face as well, and decided he better go wake up Todrick.
"Wha'z da matter, monkey?" boomed out the dwarf, who laughed at the quicker steps of the mystic. "E's got no stomach for dis 'ere work, eh boy?"
Meathead merely yawned, and went back to investigating what lay before him.
Todrick pored over the scroll, squinting his eyes in the feeble light, for the light spell cast by the enemy magician had dissipated, and now the tiny thief was trying to read by the flickering torches held by the guards. A few of them stood around the smaller man as Talanon and the captain looked on interestedly. Finally, the captain pulled a tiny drinking cup with a screw on lid out of his belt pouch. He unscrewed the lid, and it in turn screwed on the bottom. Light came pouring out the end of the uncovered drink mug. Talanon and the thief both glanced at the soldier in not just a little surprise.
"Continual light spell cast on a rock. The rock is cemented in the bottom of the cup," he explained. "Comes in handy when I have to look around at night."
"You're better suited for adventuring than you believe, Bill," commented the monk, who turned back to view the scroll. He didn't see the smile of pleasure cross the grizzled soldier's face as he did so. "Well, can you translate this, yieto?" he asked Todrick.
Nodding his head slightly, the
Halfling continued examining the scroll in silence. The captain frowned, and was
about to say something when Talanon hushed him. The monk projected his next
sentence directly at the captain who started quite seriously, for he had never
seen the mystic do anything like that before. ** I've seen him like this
before, Bill. He's like this when it's deadly serious. Usually his magic does
this to him. Let's wait a moment. **
"Ayuh," muttered O'Donnelly, not happy about the situation, but he let it slide without further comment. Finally Todrick looked up from his work, and rubbed his eyes.
"We've got trouble! These are military orders… there's a war going on somewhere, and they're looking to make Jun-A-Ta a home port."
Captain O'Donnelly's explosive fit of rage spoke for all of them. He stomped off, giving orders to his lieutenant to go and rouse the major of the company. He debated waking the Duke, but decided against it. The good captain was all too aware of the Duke's late night exploits, too!