Episode 20 - Come to Mummer

Sword of Air

Episode XX

"Come to Mummer"

Our heroes awaken to the distant sound of howling wolves and screeching eagles above the everpresent cacophonous roar of the Twin Falls of Qualimor. Tossing aside luxurious, gold-braided Elven sheets and woven blankets, they break their fast, prepare their spells and whet their blades and – in the case of Lightstrike – their claws. Mherren summons his familiar, turning the Quasit invisible and commanding it to remain at a discreet distance.
Looking out of their south-facing palace window, they can see the streets of Laurenost, already a hive of activity even at this early hour, and above them dozens of eagles circle lazily upon rising thermals. To the east the slanting rays of the rising sun cast the Pel Lammothramba (the Encircling Wall) of the vast sinkhole with an ominous blood red hue, while to the west the city is cloaked in eternal shade, lit by the soft, blue, ghostly light of the Calmamíri (Jewel Lamps).
Deciding to trace Elovyn’s movements over the past few days, the Fellowship make their way out of Summer Palace and across the Summer Isle to the Noldothrond, the Hall of the Wise – a plain, keyhole-shaped edifice that looms above the tapering spires and vaulted arches of the rest of the city. Entering, they find themselves in a cavernous space, lit by countless ever-burning candles, under which monks and sages are absorbed in study, surrounded by row upon row of tomes and parchment scrolls. It rivals even the Great Library of Zobeck in scale, with acres of crammed bookshelves rising right up to its dizzying ceiling.
A rather disinterested Elf looks up from his desk and frowns at the approaching ragtag band of adventurers from behind his half-moon spectacles.
“Can I help you?” he says wearily, betraying no actual desire to help at all.
“Hello,” says Zimlok, overlooking the Elf’s tone. “I’m Zimlok the Lightbringer, and we are the Fellowship of Air – you’ve probably heard of us, I imagine.” The Elf raises one eyebrow as Zimlok ploughs on regardless. “We’re looking to do some research on the Bloodst–”
At which Haji Baba elbows Zimlok painfully in the ribs and interrupts him: “We’re looking to research Koschei the Deathless, and the Sword of Air.”
The librarian huffily reaches for a thick ledger and leafs through to M for Megilvilya – Sword of Air. “Hmm… the Records of Suwen seem to document this sword you speak of quite extensively.”
He shakes his head after thumbing quickly and expertly through an index. “But I’m afraid it would appear all our histories and journals on this subject have been loaned recently to one E. Sorrowsong, care of Sumnes Horineth of Tol Silme,” he says. “Can’t help you there. As for Koschei… hmm… yes… Aisle 137, Row 463. You should find some reference works there.”
And so the party goes to investigate, ignoring the small explosions and flashes of light that seem to be coming out of a nearby back room, and eventually finding a brief digest on Koschei the Deathless in a dusty tome entitled A Concise History of Death, His Personifications and Avatars by J. R. R. Tolkley, alongside another opus by the same author on the art of fly fishing.
It tells them that Koschei was a dread figure of unknown origin, who rode a gaunt, black mare, and rode into battle in a bloodthirsty rapture of slaughter. He was cursed by his own wickedness to live on in eternal undeath as an emanation of Death, his soul embedded by the gods in an egg hidden in a duck nestled within a hare tucked inside a goat. Despite his evil nature, it is thought that destroying the egg that houses his immortal soul would lead to an unbalance in the natural order that could have far-reaching consequences for all living things. As such, his soul has been protected by Baba Yaga from those who would seek to use his necrotic power to further their own evil purposes. Haji Baba, for her part, is just relieved she rescued the egg from that big bird’s nest she found in the Bor Nyster forest of her homeland.
Their search for further information on the Sword of Air frustrated, our learned comrades pursue their only remaining lead and travel by ferry to Tol Silme, the Starlit Isle, to find one Sumnes Horineth. It does not take long for them to find her, pottering in a modest hut upon the craggy isle, which appears to be the hub above which the eagles of Qualimor are circling.
When they tell her of their concern for Elovyn’s wellbeing, Sumnes invites them inside and pours each of them some Elvish wine as she recalls fondly the blissful childhood days she spent with Elovyn, before she grew up and became enamoured with an elder deity of Light, abandoning the Elvish pantheon and controversially leaving Qualimor to pursue her vocation as a priest of Arden. She remembers Elovyn telling her how she craved to find others in Arden’s priesthood, for she was sure they exist somewhere in this world, but that for now she was content to do her part by spreading the word of her god to the human-populated lands to the north of Zobeck. The King was angered, and banished Elovyn even as she departed of her own free will, but the Queen, Sumnes believes, was more forgiving and regretfully gave Elovyn her blessing. (Indeed, you recall King Eoneril recounting how Elovyn had begged him upon her return to Qualimor to let her stay and do research in the Noldothrond – see Episode IXX, DM.)
At a meaningful glance from Lightstrike to hurry up and get on with the story, Sumnes tells them how overjoyed she was to see her long-lost friend again.
“She was changed, though, I thought. More serious. She always was such a joyful soul. But she seemed… distracted. For a fortnight she spent every day in that great library on Tol Laire, coming back with an armful of books each night. I hardly got chance to speak with her, see? She was obsessed, talking of her god’s burning eye, if yous can believe that? Then one day she packed, saddled her horse and left, taking her books with her. Barely a goodbye… she said she was going to consult with a Wizard, north-east of here… barely a goodbye…”
Sumnes sighs, and remains doleful as the companions press her on Gilmoras, the flamboyant thespian who had visited them last night in the early hours.
“I’ve seen him perform,” she says. “Quite a talent, he is – and his troupe, an’ all. One of the Queen’s Mummers… and a whisperer in her ear too, if you follow me, like?”
When the friends look flummoxed, she leans in close and winks conspiratorially: “I mean he’s a spy. Got eyes all over the city, and feeds back to Her Majesty. There are some in the Morgrod would wish her ill, would you believe it? The Lyrists, the Druids of Silvanus, those shadowy sorcerers at Barad Quali… even the King himself, some say…”
At that moment there is a draught of cool air as a beautiful eagle perches upon her window ledge. Sumnes rises and approaches the noble bird, which appears at ease as she bends down and speaks softly to it in a language that has Elvish tones and inflections but is unrecognisable to Haji Baba.
“I am one of the Thoronlambi, the Eagle-speakers,” she explains. “Along with the Onodrim, Draugi, and the King’s Rangers and Cairamar, we help to keep the Galentaur clear of threats, just as the Deep Purgers, Shadowmancers and Noldori monks defend us against the horrors of the Underdark. Eagles like Arianne here are our eyes above the forest canopy.”
“Could you ask her if she saw anything of Elovyn in the last couple of days? Or anything unusual abandoned in the forest?” asks Haji Baba.
“She says not, unfortunately, but I will send her out to look again for signs,” says Sumnes. “It would mean so much to me if you could find my friend – alive.”
“We cannot tally long here, then,” says the Druid. “How shall we know if she has found anything?”
And Sumnes beckons her closer. She mutters arcane words and traces patterns upon Haji Baba’s forehead with her fingertips, whereupon an ornate sigil appears upon the Halfling’s forehead, glowing green for a moment before solidifying as a spidery, circular tattoo.
“This is a sigil of telescription,” elucidates Sumnes. “It allows me to communicate with you from afar. If there is anything to tell, you shall know it.”
The companions take their leave of Sumnes and continue on by foot and by boat to Tol Gûl, upon which stands the sinister tower of Barad Quali, bathed in eternal, flickering shadow, even as the sun’s light passes over the eastern edge of the Isle of Sorcery.
They follow two figures, heavily robed in black, up winding hewn-stone steps to the forbidding iron doors of the tower; they seem bemused but unworried by the four handy-looking adventurers dogging their heels. The heroes petition them to be admitted, but are left rudely outside, the doors slammed in their faces. Some time passes, and just as they are about to give up, the doors swing open mysteriously and another black-robed Elf gestures for them to enter.
“You say you are the ones who brought the Bloodstone, the Egg and an unconscious Arisen to the King? … We have been expecting you. Come!”
He leads them in silence up a vertiginous double-helix staircase and along a darkened corridor to another door, through which the party are ushered. Inside, before a gothic lead-lined window is the silhouette of another of these robed sorcerers, sat in darkness before a heavy oak table.
“I am Aelar Caphaxath. I have been waiting,” he pronounces in clipped, breathy tones. “I must tell you that, albeit begrudgingly, I will do as my King asks and restore your pirate friend, but she and her crony must leave Qualimor thereafter and never return. They are lucky to leave with their lives. We do not tolerate the undead here. This is a place of life.”
The friends look dubiously around them at the gloomy room with its stifling and decidedly unlively atmosphere.
“Will you restore our friend here, also?” asks Zimlok, gesturing to Mherren. “He too was victim to the brain devourer.”
“These are not my instructions,” replies the Shadowmancer curtly.
Then a cloaked figure emerges from the deep shadows at the edge of the chamber, and speaks in sonorous tones as he pulls back his hood. It is Ostoroth, the King!
“I will have the Half-Orc repaired,” says Eoneril, spitting out the words Half-Orc with venom.
“Provided that when you locate and retrieve the Sword of Air, you bring it directly to me! Only we fair Elves of Qualimor can protect it from the forces of darkness. As I have given sanctuary to the Soul of Koschei the Deathless, and to the baleful Bloodstone of Orcus, so I will protect the Sword of Air from this new foe you allude to… that, or smite him with it!”
Zimlok: “Ah, no, now you see, O King, Baba Yaga gave us a prophecy, and she said the Sword should be kept from Light and Fair, one of which I’m presuming would be you guys, so you see we can’t really do that, in all honesty, and so–”
“Silence, bird! You speak to me of that fey witch of the Margreve? Bah! Such insolence! If we had not parted yesterday on good terms, and you had not brought me sound information at that, I would have you cast into the Oubliette or banished to the Shadowfell here and now! Only be grateful that I would let your pirate friends walk free and of sound minds. Let it be done, Aelar.”
And the Shadowmancer leads the companions from the King’s presence to an adjoining chamber, where a dozen Black Robes gather around a long altar-like table, upon which is the wrapped body of Shurq Elalle and a purple orb that begins to glow with increasing intensity as they chant an ominous dirge. The purple glow spreads to the body of Shurq as the chanting grows louder, infusing her flesh until her fingers and toes begin to twitch and her body eventually spasms to life.
She looks about her fearfully, until her gaze finds her friends, and she offers them a weak smile. Aelar escorts her from the altar in silence, and she nods solemnly at Lightstrike, Mherren, Haji Baba and Zimlok in turn, as she is led from the room, still glowing faintly purple, and out the door where they see Corazon waiting anxiously outside. They are both escorted from sight and, presumably, away from Qualimor and back to the Dead Calm. If, that is, the Summer King is true to his word.
When Zimlok alludes to his doubts over the King’s trustworthiness to Aelar, the Shadowmancer yells, “Get out!” in an unnatural, booming tone, and the Fellowship too is ushered from Barad Quali, whence they make their way over the semi-ethereal Yanta Quali bridge to Tol Hrivé, the Winter Isle and domain of the Winter Queen.
Cast in shadow and lit by the floating blue Calamíri, they proceed to the Winter Court in hope of finding audience with Queen Caerdonelle Mystra. But their way is barred by caped and platearmoured sentries with plumed, cheek-guarded helms and halberds, who tell them the Queen is not receiving guests until the commencement of her term of sovereignty in three weeks’ time.
“She is in meditation,” one guard says gruffly. “She will not see you, or anyone, for that matter.” When Zimlok inquires about Gilmoras, one of the guards says he is somewhere within the palace, and goes to retrieve him. Shortly, the chubby, painted Half-Elven face of Gilmoras is beaming at the adventurers – and particularly at Zimlok – and inviting them inside.
“Darlings! What a fabulous surprise!” he splurges. “I thought we’d agreed to meet this evening? You see, I’m busy rehearsing at the moment. Would you like to come and watch? You’ll be absolutely enchanted, I’m sure!”
But Zimlok interrupts him and insists that they should meet with the Queen as a matter of urgency, explaining that the priest on whose behalf the Queen intervened is missing and they are fearful for her safety.
Gilmoras’s visage acquires a concerned expression, and he nods thoughtfully. “Very well,” he says. “Since it’s you. Follow, if you will.”
He leads them behind the star-shaped palace, past an uncannily still pool that reflects the image of starlight though there is only the dark rock of the overhanging Menelrond above them, and the midday sun is shining over Tol Laire to the east.
North he takes them to a finger-like promontory, at the tip of which is moored a small sailing craft. They board, gingerly, and set sail across the Aeardolen towards the raging torrent of the Lanthir Numen. Over six hundred metres across and nearly a thousand feet high, the thunderous waters cascade into a churning, steaming maelstrom that glitters with dancing rainbows.
The companions look nervously askance at Gilmoras, who is blithely steering the dinghy, dwarfed by the plummeting waterfall, straight towards the broiling waters. They are just about to intervene when the craft begins to rise up out of the water, skimming across the surface above the lethal, churning waves. Still higher it rises, on course to be swamped and pulverised by the crashing, tumbling waters of the Lanthir Numen, when the falls miraculously part like a curtain and the boat passes through the gap in the veil of water unscathed, and into a cavern mouth that gapes directly behind the falls.
Our heroes find themselves in a dripping tunnel, and it is a few moments before they realise that the slow, dripping echo, and the gentle slapping of water against the hull of the dinghy, are the only sounds in here: the roar of the falls outside is completely gone. Gilmoras manoeuvres the boat to the edge of the shallow stream that pours out of the cavern to join the falls, ties it to a convenient rock and helps the companions to disembark. They climb a steep ledge of rock and follow the tunnel deep into the wall of the sinkhole, away from the falls and directly below the fast-flowing waters of the River Lantaduin.
Eventually the tunnel opens out into a large, circular cave that is filled with water save for a small island of rock in the centre. Upon this island, which is thirty feet or so below the vantage point of the party on the ridge path, are swirling outcroppings of what look like petrified flowers, and in their midst is a meditating figure, floating a foot or so above the ground. It is an Elven woman, clad in robes that are half black and half white, and her face too is painted similarly – one side black, the other white. Her delicate features look perfectly serene, except that her eyes are open, strangely devoid of pupils and flashing with a pale blue light, as though she is gripped by perturbing, mystic visions.
Gilmoras shakes his head as though to say that now is not the time to interrupt her, and the heroes pause for a few moments, entranced by the sight of this beautiful, tranquil, levitating woman in black and white. But they are shaken from their reverie by a low bark from Mherren, who has spotted a magical disturbance of some kind in the shadows beyond the range of their darkvision at the other side of the cavern. Lightstrike’s hackles rise as a sense of malign intent runs down his spine.
And lo, a moment later they are aghast to see a cloaked, masked figure dashing across the surface of the water, making barely a splash, intently focused upon the meditating Elven woman, and with the flash of a cold steel blade in one outstretched hand…