Episode 29 - Squidward
Sword of Air
Episode XXIX
"Squidward"
*
Lightstrike is last on watch. As Zimlok settles into his nest, the Arcane Rogue looks fondly over his brave companions, sleeping soundly in the ancient throneroom of Uden-King: Zimlok is already flat out and whistling noisily through his beak; Mherren is slumped upon the gleaming throne, his bestial snores still filling the hall, Uden’s crown slipping from his lolling head; and Haji Baba is tossing and turning, scratching herself indelicately and chuntering as she dreams.
Lightstrike stares into the forbidding darkness of this buried Dwarven citadel, absent-mindedly fingering the ornate hilt of the fire-blade at his side.
It certainly is a magnificent sword. Perfectly balanced. Fast. Keen. And when it filled him with the strength of his dying enemy… what a feeling!
He takes the weapon in his palms, his attention absorbed by the flame-like design etched upon the blade. And as he studies it, it grows warm and begins to glow faintly. And then – a voice. The same voice that spoke to him before…
I know not who you are, leopard-man, but you know how to wield a blade – that much I have seen. I think we could be friends, you and I. We could help one another, yes. Together, we could drink deeply of the blood of those who stand against us.
I will serve you, leopard-man. I will smite your foes with my righteous flames of fury. I will give you their strength as it ebbs from their puny bodies! You have already tasted it. Feels good, doesn’t it, leopard-man?
I implore you – let us keep the tears flowing. Let me taste more! And as your foes shed their strength, you shall be gifted the strength of Giants! Imagine it! To possess the power, the fury and the terrible gaze of one such as Idu Maagog himself! All shall quake before you. You shall carve a path of fire!
All I ask, is that you let me drink up the blood of thine enemies. What use is it to you? And I am thirsty. So very thirsty. My thirst is never quenched. But one such as you can temper my suffering. You can stay my thirst. You are a warrior hero, are you not? You can give me what I need. And I you. A good partnership we will make.
I do not want your bondage. You shall not be beholden to me. I am not your master. I submit to your hand. I drink wherever you strike. But I beseech thee! Do not leave me parched for another three thousand years! I was forged with a purpose! Forged by a great Immortal of Elemental Fire! My cause is bloodshed, yes, that much I admit. But what greatness can be achieved without it?
You already know this, leopard-man. You know you cannot vanquish those who would thwart you without the vengeful might of cold steel in your hands. If you think otherwise, then surely you are as deluded as the Dwarf who commanded me last.
Help me to find my true form, as one of The Six! But I need more! More blood! I will never be done. As you must breathe, I must drink. Think on it, leopard-man. And give me your answer. You only have to speak the word: “Aithinddé!” … draw me in battle, and I will give you glory!
The voice goes silent, and the sword grows cold in Lightstrike’s hands, as he spends a little longer gazing upon the exquisite steel blade. Just a little longer…
Three thousand years old? But how it gleams! It looks as though it were forged only yesterday. Such beauty! Such perfection! Such… power!
As he hears his companions beginning to stir behind him, Lightstrike sheathes the sword and rubs his hands together, his breath misting in the cold air as he blows upon them. The others rouse one by one and massage their temples and eyes.
What were those dreams about? They seemed so real, so full of meaning. Were they just hallucinations, engendered by this strange, remote, subterranean world? Were they warnings from the gods? A glimpse of the present? Of disturbing happenings in far-flung places upon the surface world? Were they signs of things to come? Things that might be? Or visions of events that have already come to pass? Perhaps they were a mixture of all of these, but one thing is common to all: each of the companions is left feeling drained and withdrawn, rather than refreshed and renewed from their rest, after bearing witness to yet more of such prophetic or unsettling scenes.
All, that is, except for Mherren, who has quite forgotten his dream and is feeling rather chipper with his fancy new crown.
*
As Lightstrike breaks some Elven-bread and chews slowly, he begins to feel unnerved by a long, perplexed stare from Haji Baba.
She leans in close: “What is that?”
“Wha’?”
“On your forehead. Something glowing.”
The others gather round and peer. It’s only faint, but it’s unmistakably real – some kind of esoteric glyph has appeared on the Wereleopard’s face.
“Perhaps it has something to do with the sword. A sign of Idu Maagog, perhaps?” suggests Haji Baba.
“Wait. I’ve seen something similar before, in texts that tell of the Elder Gods,” says Zimlok.
“The Elder Gods?” queries Mherren, who, being more of an expert of Demon Lords, knows little of such things.
“The Elder Gods ruled the Heavens long before the Ascendants,” lectures Zimlok haughtily, puffing up his chest and fluffing his feathers at the prospect of an audience. “Along with the Devils of the Nine Hells, they withdrew from worldly things in the days of the Khorian Era, thousands of years ago, after the Vanquishing of Demons and the Arcane Wars that heralded the Age of Magic and the passing of the Age of Dragons.”
Pontificating theatrically with one outstretched finger, Zimlok squints one eye open to check that everybody is listening with the desired levels of awe and wonder. Mherren is, at least, so he continues.
“Whereas the Ascendant Gods are mortals arisen to godhood, each granted a domain of power and veneration by mortal worshippers, the Elder Gods were always perfect mysteries – their purposes opaque, their actions unfathomable, their faces manifold, their beings uncreated and indestructible, infinite and everlasting. They included Thoth, the Learned One, and Pelor, God of Hope, whose image we found in carven stone under the city of Zobeck. There was Bahamut, the Dragon King, for whom your friend Ki-Shun claimed to be seeking the Brambleblade – ” here he nods at Lightstrike “ – and there was Baal, of Darkness, and Mael, of the Great Watery Abyss. Who else? Let me see, now… Ah! Of course! Then there were Light and Shadow: Sarastra, Mistress of the In-Between, and Arden, the Lord of Light…”
At the name of Arden, the sigil upon Lightstrike’s forehead suddenly flashes a vivid golden radiance. They try speaking the name again, and again the mark glows fiercely before subsiding.
“Can you feel anything, Lightstrike?” asks Haji Baba.
“I… don’t know. I feel… a little different, I guess. … It’s hard to say. … What do you think it means?” Lightstrike’s expression is pleading. He doesn’t know what has happened to him, or how.
The others exchange bewildered glances.
“I’m not sure,” says Haji Baba, after a moment. “We need to find Elovyn Sorrowsong. She is a Priest of Arden” – another flash of the rune – “One of the last. If anybody knows, it would be her.”
Meanwhile, Mherren has gotten bored and, having summoned his Quasit familiar back from the Demon Realms, is exploring the wreckage of the throne room, searching for more treasures hidden under the fallen, cracked pillars and the dust-layered furniture. He swears he sees something pink and tentacled slithering through a crack in the wall behind the dais, but the others ignore him and insist on forcing open one of the other doors.
“Nobody ever listens to me,” grumbles the Half-Orc, and he grabs the very nice box in which he found Uden’s crown, and reluctantly goes to join the others in heaving open the heavy, gilded door.
*
Casting light so that they don’t have to rely on their darkvision (remember if you’re using only darkvision, and no natural or magical lighting, you can’t see as far and your Perception checks are made at Disadvantage – DM), Zimlok leads the way through a warren of corridors, chambers, staircases and hallways.
Time seems to have stood still in this place, only the thick layers of dust giving testament to the passage of the centuries. Pieces of masonry crumble here and there, but overall, the Dwarfish architecture of the Inner Sanctum of Hvela has withstood the ages well.
Their footsteps echo on hard, cool granite slabs as their (arguably overconfident) guide weaves his way at not an inconsiderable pace through multiple levels and seemingly endless chambers, which seem somehow to be permeated with a sense of sorrow, folly and loss. There are carpets and tapestries that would once have looked resplendent in vivid colour, and a rogue’s dream of countless candlesticks, gilt picture frames, silverware, candelabras, ornaments, figurines, amphorae, crystal glass…
But even Lightstrike, an instinctive thief and connoisseur of shiny things, resists temptation and pads along after the Wizard. At one point, Mherren, bringing up the rear, stops to admire a particularly lovely, bejewelled goblet, but dutifully puts it back when Haji Baba hisses at him: “No time! We must find our way out of this maze and reach Elovyn before it’s too late!”
Eventually, after countless hours of blind meandering, our heroes err into a room that is filled with stoppered vases that exude an aura of magic. There is a barred gate at the far end, and, at one side of the room, a large desk on which sits a massive, open, hide-bound tome. (Perhaps, if our friends had been a little more ‘Perceptive’, they might have noticed the Dwarfish runes above the entrance saying “Chamber of Foes”, or the curious stalactite looking decidedly out of place upon the ceiling – DM [smugly].)
Mherren goes to look at the hefty tome, which is filled with verses attributed to one Kenneth the Skald, which praise Hvel-Runor, its Khazad inhabitants (which he knows to be the Dwarfs’ term for their own people), and its kings and heroes. One such ode, accompanied by some striking symbols, catches his eye as he leafs through. It reads thus:
The Light and the dark
Emerge from the same source
Opposing each other,
Consuming each other,
Feeding each other,
Needing each other;
The sage sees it clearly, o king, yet grasps it not.
Light within the darkness,
Darkness within the light;
Light becoming darkness,
Darkness becoming light;
Light being darkness,
Darkness being light.
So say the wise,
And judge not what is evil and what is good.
Mherren ponders thoughtfully for a moment, realises he has absolutely no idea what it means, although it certainly does sound rather good, and proceeds to rummage through the drawers and the pile of stuff under the desk. He finds a strange-looking knuckle-duster of interlinked silver rings with twisting ornate tentacles, a simple but elegant iron ring with a break right through it, a long, double-edged dagger whose hilt is decorated with obscure magical symbols, and a small, tarnished pewter ear-stud in the shape of an earwig or beetle. None of these items appears Dwarfish in design; in fact, they all have a slightly sinister quality to them, as though they were born of impure minds or crafted by wicked hands – but they certainly appeal to the tastes of a Half-Orcish Warlock of Demogorgon.
One item stands out – a model mouse made of fine sheets of expertly beaten brass, minutely intricate arrangements of delicate cogs and gears, and a tiny jewel like an amethyst in place of its heart. Mherren pockets this too, thinking it is just the sort of silly thing that kleptomaniac, Lightstrike, would like, and turns his attention to the three intriguing books he finds inside the desk.
The first is a simple, cloth-bound book whose leaves are loose and falling away from the stitched spine, which reads “Ye Compendium of Kenneth Skald”. The symbol on the cover is a sigil of the Masonic Skalds of Runor, a secret order of Dwarven bards, and within are several arcane spells that, with a little study, even Zimlok might be able to learn.
The second is bound in an impossibly black leather – blacker than the blackest black – which draws the vision and entrances Mherren’s vision. As he looks deeper, and deeper, he hears sinister whispers and experiences a sense of deep foreboding in the pit of his stomach. The first letter of each page is decoratively embossed with finger bones, and filled densely with arcane script, and the covers are unnaturally cold to touch and decorated with a faded calligraphy that reads: “Ye Tome of Uzdak”. Something tells Mherren this text is not one his Wizard-friend should be dabbling with, and he closes it discreetly and slides the drawer shut.
The last book is bound in rigid, reptilian scales of crimson, streaked with a dark, livid purple. Filled with spells also, it is titled “Ye Codex of Korephthyrax” – a draconic name – and contains glistening pages of variously patterned, smooth snakeskin. As his piggy Orcish eyes scan the leaves, fiery red letters appear to glow upon their surface, flaring and fading.
By this time, Zimlok has sidled over to poke his beak into whatever it is Mherren is looking at so intently.
“Ooh! Spell books! Let me take a look at those…”
And he reaches out to grab them both from Mherren’s clutches. But Mherren, still quite miffed at having been so rudely ignored back in the throne room, and then told he couldn’t stop and admire that nice goblet he found, snatches them back and holds them aloft, out of the diminutive Kenku’s reach. There follow a few undignified moments of futile hopping and grabbing (Erm… a jump spell? – DM), which swiftly degenerate into some pushing and shoving and squawking, a hasty and most regretful eruption of shocking grasp, and finally bottom out with a severe interventional drenching from Haji Baba’s Druidic downpour.
“We’re supposed to be on the same side here,” she barks, gruffly, as Mherren and Zimlok cast their eyes down and suddenly find good reason to intently study their own feet. “Ach, you’re hopeless, the both of you!” exclaims Babs. “Come on! We need to get to Elovyn!”
And she unleashes a devasting attack of primal fury upon the portcullis.
To absolutely no effect.
Zimlok and Mherren exchange a smirk as Haji Baba clears her throat and straightens her garments.
“Well?” she demands, fuming. “Anybody else got any ideas?”
“Why don’t you turn yourself into a mouse or something and drag Mherren through in the bag of holding,” suggests Lightstrike. “Then Zimmo and I could thunderstep through like last time.”
Mherren doesn’t look too keen on the idea of getting into the airless pocket dimension again, but doesn’t dare complain, and soon he and Haji Baba are through.
But just as Zimlok is about to incant the thunderstep, a tendril shoots down from the ceiling and wraps around Lightstrike.
“Not again!” sighs Lightstrike, thinking back to the episode at the bridge, and then looks up in horror to see that he is being inexorably dragged towards the hideous lamprey-like maw of a living stalactite: a Roper!
He manages to slash it with his rapier, but more tendrils whip out to take its place (Don’t forget to use your Uncanny Dodge ability, Lightstrike! – DM). Haji Baba sends a flurry of arrows through the bars, lending them just enough time for Zimlok to work his magic. In a flash and a sonic boom of energy that sends dust and debris streaming worryingly down from the cracked ceiling, bird-man and leopard-man vanish and reappear alongside their comrades, leaving the Roper flailing futilely at thin air. In vain it shoots out one more searching vine, but our courageous heroes have already legged it.
*
The Fellowship find themselves in a long, tiled hallway that terminates in a simple stone-block open archway that is stained a deep crimson and drips steadily from its joints with a liquid that looks disturbingly like blood.
Mherren sends his demonic familiar through first, in bat form (who complies, but is looking increasingly disgruntled – so far as bats can look disgruntled – at always being the guinea pig, particularly after how the whole Fire Golem incident turned out).
Nothing untoward occurs, and the Quasit finds himself in a charred and devastated chamber with a barred wooden door at the far side and a slightly sunken floor in the centre. Everything in here has been burnt beyond recognition, but Mherren realises as he looks through the demon’s eyes that whatever fire occurred here was extinguished many centuries ago.
The only item not turned to charcoal is a small unassuming box which, upon examination, contains some kind of bizarre idol, made of a black substance somewhere between metal and stone, and reminiscent of the obsidian foot at Sparrowkeep.
The idol itself depicts some sort of cephalopod entity, with a head like a cuttlefish or octopus and tiny, bat-like wings. It squats upon a plinth that is covered in indecipherable runes. Like the idol they found in the possession of the Grimlocks, the grotesque figure exudes an unearthly horror. It is exquisitely detailed – lifelike, even – but so hideous and malign in its bloated and unnatural corpulence as to send fearful shivers up even Mherren’s indefatigable spine.
Silently, he instructs the Quasit to leave the object be, and strides purposefully through the bloody portal. His comrades cannot see him squeezing his eyes shut in trepidation as he steps through – but once again, nothing happens.
Except… what’s this? A trickle of something running down his brow.
He wipes it away with the back of his hand. Blood.
Another trickle.
Strange. He feels no pain. He pats his head methodically, searching for wounds.
Nothing.
He takes off the crown of Uden-King… and sees that it is the crown itself that is bleeding. A steady stream of viscous red oozes from its metal.
“I, er… I think I’ll just put this in the bag of holding for now,” he says to Haji Baba as she and the others join him in the fire-ruined chamber.
*
The door is locked, but the mechanism is loose and Lightstrike soon has it open. On the far side there is another long hallway, that gradually widens and slopes downwards. Everburning torches light the encroaching darkness with eerie, flickering illumination, and strange clawed and fanged shadows seem to dance and reach for the companions’ ankles. Real or not, malevolent or not, they appear to be harmless, but nevertheless unnerving.
The masonry of the walls and paved floor become increasingly dilapidated as they progress, until they are in what appears to be a natural underground tunnel. Shiny, jagged igneous rock juts out from all angles, and the floor becomes more and more uneven and treacherous.
A skeleton slumped against one wall catches Mherren’s attention. The bones are light, the femurs long – Elven, perhaps? It’s old, though – maybe a couple of centuries or more. Cautious, he uses a mage hand to investigate the corpse, but finds nothing except rags, rusted daggers, and a shredded satchel and waterskin.
Wait. What’s this? In a pocket, tucked inside a rotted leather bag, a yellowed and tattered parchment scroll, inked with elegant, rounded Elven characters. Haji Baba examines it, sticking her tongue out as she concentrates. Entitled “The Fall of Hvel-Runor”, it reads:
Below the Galentaur and beneath the Gnomish realm of the Neblinhala there lie the abandoned ruins of the ancient Dwarfish civilisation of Hvel-Runor. Once it spanned many miles of natural and excavated underground caverns, from the Neblinhala all the way to the Sunless Sea, and encompassing what is now the Duergar city of Nidlhammer. Indeed, some say that the Dark Dwarfs are the ancestors of the once-proud Kingdom of Hvel-Runor, since corrupted by their thirst for gold and the influence of darker entities of the Deeps.
Hvel-Runor is thought to have thrived from the Age of Dragons, around five thousand years ago, to the end of the Arcane Wars about three thousand years ago, and persisted in some form until sixth or seventh century N.E. Its remains sprawl nearly a hundred miles from the Dragon Coast to close to the Elven Kingdom of Qualimor, with the Festering Marshes to the North and the Lake of Bones to the South, and dives many miles below the surface, too.
History has forgotten how Hvel-Runor fell. Some have it that the Dwarfs were enthralled by Mind Flayers and their civilisation stagnated as they transformed slowly into the depraved Duergar. Others maintain they were all but wiped out in a long and bloody war with the Drow. Still others believe their resources ran thin and the kingdom simply fragmented and scattered to the mountains.
Among the Dwarfs of the Ironcrag Cantons to the West there are some who still dream of recolonising their crumbling ancestral home. Their legends still recount the deeds and fables of Hvellic Dwarfish heroes of old, such as Duorik the Geomancer, Branag Firebeard, and King Uden the Patient.
Today much of Hvel-Runor is in various states of dilapidation. At surface levels there are still a few broken statues and paved tunnels that remain. Going deeper, it is thought that more and more of the disparate settlements that comprised the once glorious civilisation still remain relatively intact. Hvela’s grand halls stand, now silent and haunted. Nidlhammer, it is thought, is still occupied by Duergar under the twisted reign of King Moradin. Of Runor, the deep-lying capital by the Sunless Sea, nothing has been heard for centuries. These dark and forgotten recesses of the cyclopean deeps are where I intend to explore next.
Lothcaril Ophandrus, Scholar Sage of Qualimor
Year of the Fledgling Dove (1881 NE)
“Hmm – seems to have been some kind of historian,” muses Zimlok sagely.
“Do you think so?” asks Babs, incredulous. But Zimlok misses the sarcasm entirely.
*
Onward they go. And deeper. There is a growing heat down here, and soon they find its source. A huge pit of molten lava stretches across the breadth of the tunnel. Like a series of suspiciously convenient stepping stones, a pattern of broken plinths forms a precarious route across the sucking, spitting pool of lava.
“Let’s just spider climb it,” suggests Mherren, and, muttering a demonic cant beneath his breath, he sets off crawling across the walls…
… Stopping short just in time to notice the long grooves that run across the ceiling of the tunnel just ahead of the lava pit. Sending his Quasit ahead in bat form, but nevertheless chuntering to himself about having to go first again, the transformed imp triggers, and just manages to dodge, a sequence of scything blades that emerge from the grooves and swing relentlessly and evisceratingly across their path.
Choosing the only safe route, by the fulcrum of the lethal pendulums, there follows an exceedingly dull montage sequence of ferrying backwards and forwards across the ceiling, blithely dodging all the juicy goodness of this fiendishly difficult trap, and, give or take an occasional succumbing to the Rune of Fear at the far side, and a bit of minor scalding, our heroes soon find themselves more or less intact at the other side. (Not that I’m annoyed in the slightest that you managed to totally circumvent my cunning ploy – DM.)
*
Moving still onward, and evermore downward, our gallant band of heroes hear the unmistakable noise of rushing water ahead.
“That must be the underground river Fibblestib told us about,” says Lightstrike. “The Hlokeduin!”
Rounding a corner, he sees some curious-looking, giant, colourful moulds up ahead.
“I saw something similar beneath the Ichor Tree in the Feywild. We should be careful – their spores could be poisonous.”
Haji Baba prudently wraps a scarf around her nose and mouth; Mherren, not so prudently, and as it turns out rather pointlessly, puts his socks in his ears. Zimlok, however, feeling decidedly reckless and superkenku, takes a running dive into the first mould he sees. As he approaches, it releases a thick cloud of vivid green spores and…
He’s lucky. Apparently, the green ones aren’t toxic.
“Stop fooling around, Zimlok,” warns Lightstrike under his breath, his hand on the hilt of Flame Tongue. “Looks like we’ve got company.”
And from a dark recess a despicable beast floats forth. A wickedly hooked, aquiline beak lodges between two hemispheres of an exposed, pinkish brain. Trailing from this unsightly head are long, barbed tentacles that thrash and pulse in a most unnatural and disturbing manner.
The monster emits a bloodcurdling shriek and rushes forwards, even as Haji Baba spots a small sinkhole through which they could drop straight down into the rushing torrent of the Hlokeduin.
She makes a leap of faith, pulling the folding boat from the bag of holding as she plummets and unfurling it as she hits the water. Struggling to haul herself out of the churning dark waters, her little legs scrabbling madly against the keel, she finally tumbles half-exhausted into the vessel.
Zimlok, not to be outdone, unfolds his portable trampoline and throws it ahead of him as he bounds, springs and dives through the gap with his trademark double pike, triple tuck, and flawlessly exquisite finish… only to be swept away squawking by the murderously cold waters.
“Go, Mherren!” yells Lightstrike. “I’ll hold it off!” He pulls the Flaming Tongue of Idu Maagog from its scabbard, and speaks the fatal word: “Aithinddé!”
The blade is immediately engulfed in a gout of spiralling flames, and Lightstrike, emboldened by the exhortations of his sentient sword, launches himself at the weird creature before him.
“Yesss, leopard-man! Let us drink! For too long have I thirsted!” speaks the sinister voice inside his head.
And the fire-blade of Maagog finds its mark. It soaks up the thick, black blood that bursts from a severed tentacle, and Lightstrike is filled with an intoxicating sense of uncanny strength and power as the vile thing shrinks before him.
Meanwhile, Mherren is gingerly climbing down a convenient ladder he’s found at the far side of the sinkhole, like an unwilling child being forced into a chilly swimming pool. Orcs, apparently, don’t like swimming. And soon it is apparent why not, for he too is swept away by the current along with Zimlok.
Lightstrike beats back the foul creature again and again with his blazing sword of fire, but in spite of his furious onslaught it does not relent. Seeing an opportunity, Lightstrike too leaps down into the river, engaging his ring of water walking at the last moment and sprinting across to the fast-disappearing boat with a lightning speed that justifies his name.
But the monster follows.
It streaks down after them and looms menacingly over the boat. Haji Baba swings wildly at it with her thunderstaff, but the buffeting instability of the magic dinghy causes her to miss her target – and leaves her momentarily exposed to those spiny tentacles, which lash out and sting her with a vicious, lacerating wound across her back.
Poison pumps through her veins, blackness invades her vision, and she collapses paralysed into the bottom of the boat.
Seeing his Druid-friend fallen, and his other friends fighting the drowning currents for precious gasping lungfuls of air, Lightstrike stands, precariously yet perfectly balanced, upon the prow of the careening boat. He narrows his feline eyes, snarls, and leaps spinning into the air in front of the hovering, gnashing brain-beast. Time seems to slow down as the Tongue of Maagog arcs upward and cleaves downward towards the beast, and then speeds up again as it carves into its cerebral mass with a sickening splatter of black blood, dissecting it cleanly and killing it dead.
The thing peels apart and flops lifelessly into the water as Lightstrike lands nimbly back upon the prow, and the disembodied voice of the sword exults within his mind.
“Yessss!” it cries. “Yessss! Can you feel it, leopard-man? Can you feel the strength of Giants in your veins?”
Lightstrike, his breast heaving with coursing adrenaline, and the life essence of that hideous creature lending him strength like he has never felt before, looks down to see Haji Baba’s pale form slumped inside the hull. And he drops to his knees.
Helpless, he looks around frantically for Mherren and Zimlok…
And is greeted by a most perturbing sight.
There, upon a stony shore, lies Zimlok, soaked and bedraggled. And crouched over him, a figure in rags, with an odd tin hat upon its head.
*
Zimlok opens his eyes and instantly recoils at the alien visage leering over him. Impenetrable violet eyes send cold shivers coursing involuntarily up his spine, and a cluster of gently writhing tentacles surround a circular mouth of spiralling rows of serrated teeth. He instinctively shuffles backwards on his elbows to get away. Instantly he knows what he faces: a Mind Flayer!
“Do not run,” the Illithid gasps in choked, broken Common. “I hunger not for your brains. I sense they are neither the choicest nor the most plentiful of morselsss.”
Zimlok is not sure whether to be relieved or offended, and even momentarily considers making an argument for the succulence of his brains, before thinking better of it.
“Besides,” the Illithid continues regardless, running the long nail of an elongated, bony finger across Zimlok’s face. “I hunger no more. I wish only for revenge. Or death. Kill me, if you wish. I would rather die than languish hopelessly in this prison.”
A gargled cry bursts from the river, as Mherren’s scarred head breaks the surface. He flounders, desperately doggy-paddling for the shore, but is pulled inexorably towards a narrow fissure through which the waters gush and foam.
The Mind Flayer follows Zimlok’s gaze. Without hesitation, it makes a fist and, much to Zimlok’s dismay and envy, uses telekinesis to draw the struggling Warlock through the water, pulling his huge body up on to the safety of the rocks like he were no more than a rag doll.
Lightstrike, navigating the folding boat to the same shore with some difficulty, also witnesses this act of mercy and wonders at the motivation of the alien creature crouching over his wizardly friend.
“Sssee?” The Illithid turns back to Zimlok. “I am not your enemy. My enemies are my own kind.”
The creature seems weak, its skeleton prominent through its flesh, its voice broken by ragged, hoarse inhalations and an unnatural sibilance.
“Who… who are you?” stammers Zimlok, trying to appear brave but not even managing to convince himself.
“My name is Kla’rota,” it gasps. “I am Illithid, of Ilthe Ba’Manza. My people have cast me in this place to die, guarded by Grell” – he gestures to the bits of barbed tentacle that have washed up and wrapped around the rocks – “and given just enough sustenance to keep me barely breathing, to keep me miserable but alive.
“That Elf-corpse” – he gestures to a sorry-looking body in the corner with a savage wound upon its forehead, but which our heroes are relieved to see does not resemble Elovyn Sorrowsong – “is all I’ve been given for weeksss. It is torture! And all because Xargraata is jealous of my arcane talentsss!”
“Xargraata?”
“Yesss. He is Ulitharid, a renegade – one who stands apart from the Elder Brain. He iss not beholden to the Hive, and instead seeks to usurp the Brain’s power and begin his own colony. Many of my people, emboldened by Xargraata’s intelligence and strength, move to join him, and gladly become his thrall. In growing numbers they abandon the Elder Brain, which has of late grown sickly and diseased.
“And they turn on such as I, who would defend and heal it, decrying me as an Arcanist, as one who would exchange the innate psionic gifts of my people for the power of magic. I exchange nothing! I am still Illithid! But I am more! It is they who choose not to understand! They succumb to the lies of Xargraata M’thilid! They do not know the secret he hides in the fortress of Runor by the Sunless Sea! But I do…”
Zimlok gapes at Kla’rota, uncharacteristically speechless. “You do?” he manages, eventually.
“Yesss! Xargraata serves another. It is this other who lends him his power. This other who has subdued the Duergar and made Moradin his puppet! This other, who has poisoned the Elder Brain with his Demon-god’s sickness! This other, who has been seeking to destroy the Elves and Svirfneblin, to conjoin the denizens of the Underdark and unleash a combined army of Drow, Derro, Duergar and Grimlocks upon the unsuspecting surface-dwellers!”
Kla’rota adjusts the comical tin hat that has fallen down over his eyes in his excitement.
“Who is this… other?” Zimlok hesitates to ask.
A dramatic pause.
“K’Varn!”
Kla’rota looks about to see if this ominous name has had the desired effect on his audience, and appears to be satisfied by the open-mouthed silence of Zimlok, Lightstrike and Mherren (and, to a lesser degree, by the dribbling unresponsiveness of the still-paralysed Haji Baba).
“Who is K’Varn?” ventures Mherren.
“He calls himself the Grand Superior, the Supreme Invincible, the Flawless Wonder. Others call him the All-Seer, the Omniscient One, the Never-Sleeper, the Great Braggard, or the Big Eye.”
“Why do they call him the Big Eye?” asks Mherren.
“I bet it’s because he’s got a big eye,” whispers Lightstrike.
“It is because he has a big eye,” says Kla’rota, grandly.
Lightstrike looks about smugly. But his smugness is diluted by a niggling worry. He vaguely remembers fairy stories from his childhood – tales of floating eye-monsters who were paranoid despots bent upon their own self-glorification. They were invariably depicted as charismatic entities who could nullify magic and annihilate all in their path with magical rays from their multiple eye-stalks.
“You are plainly a powerful spellcaster yourself,” says the Rogue. “Why do you not confront him?”
(Zimlok scoffs at ‘powerful spellcaster’ and throws down a card from his deck to create two illusory dancing goblins, which Kla’rota ignores entirely and instead addresses Lightstrike’s question.)
“For one, he has charmed Xargraata and my people, and bent them to his will. And second, it would be suicide to confront K’Varn in his lair. His powers far outweigh my own – and yours too, I’d wager.”
“What is it that you want?” asks Zimlok.
“I care nothing for my own life. Not any more. But revenge upon Xargraata would be delicioussss – to overthrow him and find a way to restore the Elder Brain. Then my people’s collective memory would be returned, and we could join together as one against K’Varn, and drive him back into the Nether Deeps whence he came.”
The Fellowship are suspicious of this character, but can discern no lies in his speech. And he did save Zimlok and Mherren from almost certain drowning.
Another voice, coming from the bottom of the boat – Haji Baba has overcome the Grell’s poison, and draws her chin over the side of the magical craft. “Why should we help you?”
“If K’Varn succeeds in his plan, your surface-dwelling kindred are in great danger. By helping me to destroy Xargraata you give them a chance – you give them hope!”
“All right, Squidward,” says Zimlok. “We’ll help you. But you must do something for us in return. We are down in this gods-forsaken hole looking for a priest – an Elf, by the name of Elovyn Sorrowsong. Have you seen her? Do you know where she might be?”
“Chances are, if she’s ventured down here, she’ll be dead already,” says Kla’rota.
“But there’s a chance she’s not,” says Lightstrike. “We need to find her. We need to know for sure.”
“We think the Duergar took her,” says Mherren.
“Then she’d be in Nidlhammer – their stronghold. You’ll not be going in their and getting out alive,” says Kla’rota. He pauses, thinks for a moment. “But the Duergar King is but a mindless shell. Anything Moradin has commanded, that would be by the will of K’Varn. Your Elf-priest could be with him, at Runor.”
“Then it seems we have a hard choice to make,” says Haji Baba.
“Yes. Nidlhammer. Or Runor,” says Zimlok, trying to make out he’d thought of it first.
“Yes,” says Mherren, not following any of it.
*
And so, our unlikely band of heroes sets off once again into the deep dark. They board the folding boat along with their new and questionable ally, Kla’Rota Xi-Huitl, and float upon the turbulent profundity of the Hlokeduin, through the narrow gullet and down, ever down, into the turbid blackness of the Cyclopean Deeps.
Slowly the passage widens, the river slows and quietens, and the claustrophobic ceiling gradually rises and begins to glitter with beautiful crystals of quartz, malachite and lapis lazuli. They spend some time drying out, munching on Elvenbread, which is now reduced to the last few hunks, and examining the curious items they found in the Inner Sanctum of Hvela.
Uden’s crown, which is still slowly seeping blood, seems to grant some wisdom, at a price. And the very nice box it came in seems to have some kind of anti-magic properties. The clockwork mouse appears to be a remote lockpicking device, of Duergar design. The dagger, inscribed with the name “Dustcarver”, is Deep Dwarfish, too, and magically turns to dust the bodies of any it slays, thus preventing reincarnation. Kla’rota confirms that the ear stud, knuckleduster and ring are all Illithid implements of magical torture, very nasty but really quite effective.
Zimlok has a nose (a beak?) through his new spellbooks, which Mherren finally and begrudgingly surrendered, and finds they contain a number of interesting incantations. Furthermore, the Codex of Korephthyrax looks to be armoured with dragon scales, and sturdy enough to serve as a makeshift shield in a tight spot.
Kenneth’s Compendium, on the other hand, looks extremely fragile and crumbly, and did not fare well beneath the Druid’s drenching. Pleased as he is with his new acquisitions, Zimlok can’t help but wonder what goodies were in the other tome that Mherren couldn’t help but mention. That one sounded very interesting indeed… oh well!
Haji Baba looks over at Lightstrike, and at the faintly glowing rune upon his forehead. Something subtle has changed in his demeanour. The same irrespressible optimism is there still, but there is… something. Something she can’t quite place. A charisma. A power, even. Is it the sword? The influence of Idu Maagog? Or is it that rune? Is it a symbol of Arden? What does it mean?
For his part, Lightstrike senses something different within himself, too. He feels somehow more attuned to evil things – more aware of their presence, and more capable of smiting them, too. And, running through his veins, through his palms, he can feel some sort of power. An ability to make people whole again. A gift. But from whom? And why?
As he drifts along in the folding boat, he elects not to worry about that now. Laying there, looking up at the twinkling crystals in the cavern ceiling, he knows he must choose between his newfound Giant-strength, or healing his wounds. If he rests and heals, he will surely lose the strength he has gained.
Mherren, staring ahead, sees something that catches his attention. An eerie luminescence is appearing out of the darkness, faint and ghostly, but emanating a bewitching spectrum of psychedelic colour.
“The bioluminescent caverns of The Melds,” says Kla’rota. “Through here we must go to reach Nidlhammer, or skirt past it. Be ready to disembark.”
*
And the metaphorical camera zooms out, away from our four heroes and their Illithid guide, paddling their magical craft to the glowing shore; zooms out, away from the darkling waters of the Hlokeduin, and out of the cavernous reaches of the Deeps; zooms out, away from Dwarfish ruins of Hvela and the Elven forest that blankets the land above; zooms out, to encompass all of Yore, from the vertiginous Icespire mountains to the west, to the fetid swamps and dreary reaches of the Dragon Coast to the east.
Zooms out, one more time.
And you, dear reader (but, alas, not our intrepid company of adventurers) see a gnarled hand resting upon the surface of a large glass orb in which all these images can be glimpsed.
A voice, resonant and soaked with undertones of menace.
“Yes! That’s it! Just a little further. Into the belly of the beast!"
[CURTAIN FALLS.]
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