Episode 36 - 36,000 Fathoms Deep
Sword of Air
Episode XXXVI
36,000 Fathoms Deep
*
Behind the roaring curtain of water, seven figures disappear one by one down the spiralling hole at the back of the cavern. One, much smaller than the rest, scampers up to the largest.
“Master thinks you ain’t got it ya,” sneers Viper into Mherren’s ear. “Thinks you’ve lost your nerve hanging around with these goody goodies. You forgotten who you are, Warlock of Demogorgon?” He sniggers, delighted by his own sarcasm.
“You can talk?” exclaims Mherren in surprise.
“I’ve always been able to talk, you great lummox! But I ain’t no schmuck. I know it don’t always pay to seem smart. I’ve already been burnt to death and disintegrated as it is. But back in the Abyss, I got to speak with Master. And Master wants to know why you ain’t got any closer finding the Shaghaspondium? Why you’re still following these losers down here after some poxy Elf priest? Don’t ya wanna see your lord, the Prince of Demons, make his long-anticipated entrance into this pitiful world? Don’t you still crave the power he has offered you as his Chosen One?”
Viper, now crouched up on Mherren’s shoulder, leans in and peers into the Half-Orc’s beady, pink eyes.
“Hmmph. Maybe I should’ve left you in the Abyss,” snaps Mherren. “I think I preferred it when you didn’t talk.” And he swats the Quasit off his shoulder, sending it sprawling on to the ground.
Just then a fog of magical darkness envelops them all, and they feel something like leathery wings brushing past their faces. As quick as it comes, it is gone, vanishing up the passage behind them.
“Make yourself useful,” Mherren says, and turns the still-sniggering Viper into a bat, sending him off after the flying blot of darkness. But he cannot keep up, and as Mherren looks out through Viper’s eyes, looking out from the skirts of the waterfall, out to the ruined fortress beyond, he sees… nothing. (Oh dear, the curse of the bad Perception roll – DM.) The cavern is silent, not a soul in sight; just the occasional piece of masonry sloughing off the sides of the citadel and tumbling down into the river, and the crackling remains of the Illithid hives hissing as they fall into the Sunless Sea.
*
As they descend, the air becomes unbearably hot, and the steeply declining floor grows increasingly slippery. Cautiously they proceed, Lightstrike in the lead, his feline eyes straining to see in the pitch darkness as he pads silently ahead. Haji Baba is at the rear, her hairy feet finding sure purchase upon the treacherous rock. Between them, Zimlok and Mherren carefully tread, and Zellingar, the only one without the benefit of darkvision, clings fearfully to Elovyn’s shoulder.
Another voice speaks in Mherren’s ear.
“Are you my master now?”
The voice drips with quiet menace. Mherren glances about. There is no one else there, and his friends appear to be oblivious.
“Who are you?” he whispers.
“I am the Sword of Idu Maagog. The Titan of Fire. Immortal Efreet of the City of Brass. He may be searching… he may yet come for me. But I speak for myself. And I am thirsty. So very thirsty. Will you serve me to quench my thirst? Will you serve me, master?”
“Erm… maybe… I guess,” whispers Mherren, confused. Why does everyone seem to want him as their Chosen One? Life was so much simpler back at Og Tor’ug, before all this adventuring and warlocking lark. Although he’d hated it there, bullied by the other Orcs for his half-blood and his naïvety. Still, at least it had been just simple brawling and wrestling – none of this complicated pact-making with extraplanar beings. It was all a bit beyond him, even with his headband of intellect.
But he is saved from his dilemma, for at that moment Zimlok loses his footing, paddles on the spot for a few arm-flapping seconds, and then goes head over heels down the passageway, barrelling into Lightstrike and sending them both top-tailing all the way down, coming to an ignominious and painfully abrupt halt as they crash into a wall at the bottom.
Mherren and the rest go dashing after them, slipping and sliding in places but managing to keep their balance. When they reach the rogue and wizard, Zimlok is just dusting himself off and straightening his hat.
“It wasn’t my fault. Mherren pushed me,” he declares.
“I did not!” says Mherren.
“Did too!” says Zimlok.
“Shh!” Lightstrike is peering into the sweltering gloom, his hackles rising and a soft growl emanating from the back of his throat. “There’s something down here!”
“Did too,” mutters Zimlok again, huffily.
*
Looking around, they can see precious little. Even their darkvision cannot penetrate the inky blackness around them. Down at their feet, two pasty, short legs lie on the ground, motionless. The rest of the body is shrouded in darkness.
A sudden flapping around their heads; it is Viper, returned from his fruitless hunt.
“Go see what lies ahead,” instructs Mherren, and the bat flits off into the impenetrable gloom.
Looking again through Vipers eyes, the warlock sees only darkness. And then… the connection is severed.
“Not again!” sighs Mherren, although not without a hint of vindictive glee. He turns to his companions. “You’re right. There’s something out there.”
“Let me try something.” Zellingar steps forward blindly, turning his hands to trace the outline of a sphere, turning them faster and faster and whispering some indecipherable syllables. He raises his arms aloft and shouts a phrase, and suddenly the whole space around them is illuminated as though by daylight. Squinting into the dazzling brilliance, they see they are in a natural cavern with a crudely hewn archway at the far end, blocked by a sturdy, iron door. From the walls of the cavern viscous lava oozes and drains away through cracks in the floor beneath them. The air is hazy with scorching heat, and the ceiling is serrated with hundreds of stalactites.
Before them, they can see the rest of the supine figure that was obscured. But there isn’t much to see. It has the torso of an emaciated Dwarf, but a pallor to its skin whiter than the ashen complexions of the Duergar. Its head has been crushed beyond recognition, although there is no nearby rockfall nor sign of anything that might have caused the injury. Except…
Where Viper’s bat-body should be lying, there is a large, black, squid-like entity with leathery skirt-like folds, pulsing slowly as though it is sucking on something beneath it.
“Let’s make a dash for it!” shouts Haji Baba. “Everybody, after me!”
And the others all gawp in amazement as she pegs it across the cavern, her little legs pumping and her head half-hidden by her flail-snail shell shield. They watch as, halfway across, a stalactite drops silently from the ceiling and envelops her head, shield and all. Muffled screams emanate from beneath the leathery folds as she flies into a barbaric rage and beats the thing (and her own head) frantically with her fists.
“I suppose we should help her,” says Mherren.
“I guess so,” says Zimlok, but doesn’t appear to be in any great hurry.
Lightstrike hefts his vorpal boomerang and launches it in a spinning arc just under the roof of the cave, chopping down one – two – three – of these dark-mantled creatures, before it clangs against a real stalactite and falls to the floor. He flings Whisper so it sticks in the body of one of the fallen entities, and instantly appears where the dagger is lodged, clutching its hilt. He crouches to retrieve his boomerang and looks up in a cool three-pointed superhero stance like he’s seen in Ye Marvellous® mummers’ plays.
Zimlok summons six minute burning meteors that circle about his head. He gestures dramatically towards the ceiling, and the meteors streak off to explode upon impact, taking out several more of the ambush squids… and nearly bringing the ceiling down on them all.
Elovyn rushes to help Haji Baba, who points frantically to the diamond-edged sickle in her belt. “Mmmffff-mmmgghhhmmmppphhhh!” implores the druid, and Elovyn takes the sickle and begins hacking away at the thing that is smothering and slowly crushing Haji Baba’s head. Eventually it slides off lifelessly. Babs nods to Elovyn grimly as she wipes a sticky, black, corrosive slime from her face with her sleeve.
Stepping forward again, Zellingar moulds a sphere of fire between his palms and hurls it towards the iron door before them. It explodes in a deafening ball of flame, clearing the rest of the passage of Darkmantles and blowing the door wide open. He looks about with his strange, distant gaze, flashing his peculiar smile, as Mherren and Lightstrike stare back at him, their singed eyebrows smoking.
The others all push past and through the door, to find themselves immersed in near-darkness once more, in a wide, gently sloping passageway with a paved floor but natural cave walls. Broken pillars line the passageway, as though once they supported a roof, now long gone. Streams of lava run in deep, slow-moving gullies on either side, and far ahead there is a steady orange glow.
*
Still high on adrenaline, Zimlok holds on to his wizard’s hat and hurtles at full pelt towards the glow. Lightstrike jogs along enthusiastically next to him. The others follow with caution. Mherren detects the presence of strong magic ahead, and Haji Baba summons a rain cloud to drench her, Zellingar and Elovyn as protection against the dry, searing heat.
Zimlok skids to a halt before an incredible but terrifying sight. A great lake of magma seethes before him. Huge, severed pillars protrude impossibly in a semicircle from the churning lava, a couple fallen and floating upon the fiery surface. And within the semicircle, a swirling vortex of shimmering white heat.
“This is it,” says Zimlok, recalling his geology textbooks from Wizarding School back in his homeland of Kara-Tur. “This is as deep as it goes. Twelve leagues below. Forty miles down. Thirty-six thousand fathoms. We’ve descended right through the tectonic crust and reached the very mantle of the world!”
“Coooool,” says Lightstrike, as the others arrive steaming behind them.
Then, from within the haze of heat rising from the lava lake, they discern the shapes of five diminutive figures standing upon the fallen pillars, their backs turned. One is holding a gnarled staff and gesticulating as something rises from the magma behind the pillar: a hulking, bronze-skinned Dwarf whose entire head is wreathed in flame. As the creature emerges from the lake, the summoner turns his head and sneers at Zimlok and Lightstrike over his shoulder. In many ways he resembles a Duergar, except his skin is bloodless, his body scrawny, and his eyes devoid of pupils. His grin is wide and manic as he barks an order to his cronies and points at the intruding adventurers.
As the four minions of the corpse-white sorcerer scream a bloodcurdling war cry and charge, Zimlok adopts what he hopes is a heroic pose, his hands on his hips and his feet planted wide. “See you later, suckers!” he laughs scornfully and blinks to the Ethereal Plane. Except he doesn’t. Nothing happens except for an embarrassing release of trapped wind.
Mherren hurls Bouldir at the shaman, the heavy golden warhammer whirling through the air and slamming into his belly, doubling him over, before returning in a blur to the warlock’s waiting hand. Lightstrike simultaneously throws his boomerang, which arcs around to find the shaman’s neck just as he is straightening, cleaving his head clean off. It bounces with a gout of blood into the lava as the body slumps.
The remaining Derro look to each other nervously after seeing their leader so swiftly dispatched, but seem to take heart as the flame-headed conjuration lumbers forward. One stabs Mherren with its spear, but then Zimlok releases the last of his meteors and makes quick work of all but one. Haji Baba summons a tidal wave and directs it at the fire-Dwarf, knocking it into the magma – but a few moments later it clambers back out and catches sight of the Sword of Maagog at Mherren’s side.
“Maagog’s blade!” it exclaims in a voice like hammered steel. “It was that vile Efreet who cast me, Abn-Axam, out of the City of Brass, only to be enslaved by Karazan and these insane Derro, these Duergar perverted and maddened by the Illithids! Wielder of Maagog’s blade, thou shalt meet thine end this day at the hands of the righteous Azer!”
And with that the Azer rushes at Mherren, its flaming hammer swinging and connecting with a sickening crunch that sends the Half-Orc staggering backward. Zimlok responds by filling the air with dazzling colour that blinds Abn-Axam, leaving him open to Mherren’s vengeful counterattack with Bouldir. As the blinded Azer reels from the strike, Lightstrike sneaks in with deadly accuracy to sever its carotid artery. The mortal blow dislodges something from around its thick neck, which clatters to the floating pillar and rolls towards the lava. Mherren dives for it and his fist closes around it just before it disappears into the lake. It is agonisingly hot in his palm, but he holds on with Orcish determination. Standing, Mherren kicks the body of Abn-Axam into the magma and opens his fist: cupped by two bronze hands, a heart-shaped ruby periapt pulses faintly with healing magic.
The sole remaining Derro makes a run for it, only to be bopped squarely on the noggin by Zimlok. “Take that! Hah!”
*
Twelve stealthy figures slink shadow-like into the cavern at the base of the spiralling passage. The Drow captain stoops to examine the headless body of the Derro, and with cold observance surveys the rest of the chamber – the fire-blasted ceiling, the cracked roof, the hacked bodies of the Darkmantles.
She nods to her accomplices and motions to the blown door at the far end. Silently they creep through…
*
Their enemies fallen, our heroes are not out of danger yet, for the heat is so intense it begins to sear their skin, and Zimlok’s feathers start to smoulder. Haji Baba drenches them all to give them a few precious minutes, quite ruining the point of Zimlok’s wizard’s hat, much to his disgruntlement. She searches the body of the beheaded shaman, taking his staff and his crossbow with poison bolts, which she gives to Elovyn. The druid-barbarian also finds a small symbol, carved in bone and apparently depicting a whale.
“It’s like the drawings on the pillars in the Halls of Hvela!” exclaims Mherren.
“Exactly!” agrees Haji Baba with a knowing look, having absolutely no recollection of these whatsoever.
And Mherren boots the body of the Derro Savant into the molten lake.
Meanwhile, Zimlok, Zellingar and Elovyn have crept along the floating pillar to examine the vortex.
“A portal!” says Zellingar.
“This could be the exit Ningauble was hinting to you about,” suggests Elovyn to Zimlok.
“Yes, my thoughts exactly,” muses Zimlok sagely, but unconvincingly.
But before any of them can investigate further, Haji Baba has transformed herself into a graceful gazelle and is leaping nimbly from one broken pillar to the next. Each column in the semicircle is fractured slightly higher up than the last. From the central one a leap into the centre of the burning maelstrom would be possible. From one pillar to the next the antelope springs nimbly, soaring with easy, agile bounds.
All eyes watch with awe. Such agility! Such finesse!
One last elegant vault and…
Her front hooves scramble frantically at the edge of the pillar, but she cannot find purchase, and she slides ignominiously into the churning magma.
All eyes watch in horror. Such awfulness! Such gruesomeness!
The piercing squeals of a dissolving gazelle turn quickly into the agonised screams of a melting Halfling as Haji Baba pops out of her wild shape.
“Quickly! Do something!” yells Elovyn.
But Zimlok the Lightbringer is already on it. He steps forward self-importantly, closes his eyes, begins to chant, and raises his hands slowly in a magnificent display of all-round magical awesomeness. The lava at the base of the pillar begins to cool and congeal, affording the burning druid a semi-solid yet unstable platform upon which she manages to haul herself. Necking a healing potion, Haji Baba morphs into a giant cockroach and leaps up on to the broken pedestal.
Zimlok’s chant alters in pitch and tempo, and his hands cast forwards as a shimmering bridge of air spans from their location over the swirling portal. They run across, and Lightstrike casts a rope to Haji Baba, who snaps back to her natural form just in time to catch the end. Mherren ties the other end around his waist and braces as Haji Baba swings off the pillar and hoists herself up to grab on to Lightstrike’s proffered forearm. He pulls her up on to the invisible ledge, and they all turn to look down into the spinning vortex below.
(Haji Baba now holds the record for most damage done in a single hit - 10d10 hp - and most near-death experiences. She's been nearly lost to the Plane of Air, buried alive by sand, and now almost dissolved in molten lava. Go Babs!)
The rising heat is unbearable, but in the very centre there appears to be a still, black hole.
“Right then, everybody,” says Zimlok, pacing up and down in front of the line of companions, adjusting collars, smoothing wrinkles and straightening necklines. “Everyone hold hands, and on my count… er…”
He looks up as he goes to straighten Mherren’s tunic, to see the scarred and savage-looking Half-Orc staring down at him with eyes like hot coals. Zimlok pats him chummily on the shoulder.
“So, on my word, w– ”
Haji Baba jumps, and Lightstrike straight after her. Then Elovyn, Zellingar, and Mherren. Zimlok throws up his arms in exasperation, overbalances, flaps for a second in mid-air, and belly-flops inelegantly through the portal.
Luckily, nobody saw.
*
Nobody, that is, except the twelve creeping Drow assassins who arrive at the edge of the lava lake just in time to see Zimlok’s graceless tumble.
“Curse them!” mutters the scarred captain. “Well, no matter. They are Dagon’s now. And that makes them as good as dead.”
With that, she signals to her troop and turns back towards Runor and the Sunless Sea.
*
Falling into the vortex, the heat is unbearable – but as soon as they drop through the black hole in the centre, they are plummeting through an airless, icy cold vacuum. Distant stars twinkle. Clouds of luminescent dust tower in impossible pillars. Faster they fall, tumbling head over heel. The stars blur into spinning streaks of light.
All of a sudden, everything stops. It is as though the entire universe has glitched and stuttered.
Voooooooom!
They emerge in a pitch-dark space, surrounded by moist, warm air. A thick, stinking liquid pools about their waists. Then, a strobing light flashes and illuminates the space they are in. A confined space, slick obsidian rock behind, below and above. The liquid drains away around them, leaving black pools at their feet. A tremor. The liquid vibrates as the strobe momentarily illuminates them all. Their ears ring. And in horror they see the solid ceiling above them begin to crumple. The wall behind, too, and the floor upon which they stand. Ahead, there is a dim, purple light.
Elovyn’s eyes roll back, and she murmurs something in a low monotone, as though entranced. “The God Below is all around. You must make him bleed before you can see his true face.”
And madly, as though possessed, she rushes forward. Zellingar follows, but he is stopped by a translucent membrane that appears suddenly before him. Elovyn looks back. She is separated from the others. And behind her, the wall turns a bruised, pinkish-purple. It looks wet, viscous. Elovyn’s eyes grow wide in dismay as she is lifted off her feet by an unseen force. There she hovers, her eyes pleading, her lips trembling. Her mouth opens in a silent scream, as behind her a tunnel opens. She stiffens, and goes limp.
Formless entities crawl forth from the tunnel, their bodies made of half-congealed blood, their faces resembling nightmarish distortions of Elovyn’s. They pay no mind to the rest of the adventurers looking on in horror. They disregard Zellingar, too, still clawing desperately at the transparent membrane. The Blood Elementals wrap around Elovyn, smothering her entire form, and they pull her lifeless body away, back down the tunnel whence they came.
As the pocket in which they are trapped continues to crumple inwards, faintly the heroes discern a sound, a pulse, like a throbbing heartbeat, low and slow, from beyond the membrane. Lub dub… lub dub…
* * *
Is it a case of out of the fire and into the frying pan for our desperate heroes?
Is this the last they’ll see of Elovyn Sorrowsong, for whom they undertook this dangerous quest?
In what unholy place do they now find themselves?
And, as the walls close in around them, will they ever get out with their lives?
What is the God Below to whom Elovyn referred in her final moments?
Who is the Efreeti Titan known as Idu Maagog, who cast the Azer from the fabled City of Brass?
Why were our heroes pursued by the Assassins of Llolth?
Zellingar has revealed himself as a powerful magic-user, but what else does he withhold?
What secrets does Elovyn’s research contain?
Will it help identify the source of the sickness of the Old Margreve and the spread of the demon cults?
What entities of evil are really at work in the lands of Yore?
Can our intrepid heroes stop them in time?
Should they care, or should they just go shopping?
What truth lies in their visions of wraith-orcs, ghoulish fleets, writhing snakes, and the Black Pharaoh?
Where are Eoneril Ostoroth and the Shadowmancers of Qualimor?
Will Haji Baba return to Kagonost to find her family and homeland in peril?
Will Zimlok ever find any dragons to slay?
Will Mherren ever find the Shaghaspondium? And what will he do with it if he does?
What is Lightstrike’s destiny as the Runechild of Arden?
And who and where is Lightstrike’s lost master, Light Touch?
What does the Archwizard Kayden know?
Whatever happened to Šati, and Izachar, Warlock of Orcus? What about Illintendo Sharpchin?
And what of Corazón and Shurq Elalle? Ki-Shun and Caerdonelle Mystra? Baba Yaga? Mordenkainen?
And does anybody in this gods-forsaken land know where lieth that pesky Sword of Air?
Find out (possibly) in the next exhilarating episode of…
Ye Sword of Air!
Experience
Azer 450 Derro Savant 700 Derro 150 Darkmantles 900 Portal of Dagon 1,000 Total 3,200 XP Each 800Items gained
Amulet of the Savant of Dagon Periapt of Wound Closure Staff of the Derro ShamanItems lost
Crossbow & poison bolts Diamond-edged sickleRemove these ads. Join the Worldbuilders Guild
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