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Menha Harran and his inquisitors, satisfied for the moment with the information they'd gained and aware that the orcish slave-soldiers would soon be too drunk to provide more, returned to the Tower, and Lynien, Gorfang and Eloy sat together, watching the post-incursion clear-up with a drink in hand.
Suddenly, without the slightest warning, every dragon in the city flung itself into the air, clawing desperately for height as they spiralled upwards. The blast of down-forced air struck the city and Tower, breaking into a myriad eddies and miniature whirlwinds, scattering loose debris and staggering standing watchers. Blasts of fire and lightning flashed and flared across the sky as the dragons vented their agitation. The airborne reptiles gathered for a moment in an unbelievable flock, the mingled beating of their wings blending into a deafening roar, covering the entire sky above the valley holding the city, and then - as if at some shared signal - hurled themselves northwards, arrowing along the Versate pass towards the northlands beyond. In moments they were out of sight in the darkness, leaving a profound, shocked silence to envelop the city.
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The three companions looked at one another, speculating what this could mean, and beginning to guess at the answer. Lynien reacted first; with a little squeal of pure delight, she danced a little skipping jig for a few seconds, and right in the middle, vanished from sight. Eloy and Gorfang blinked at each other for a moment, and then simultaneously their heads turned and lifted to look at the empty fire-heights with their now dragonless caves carpeted and adorned with treasure.
A couple of minutes later, a young page dashed out of the palace and raced up to them, breathless, wide-eyed and distracted. "Sir Gorfang; Sir Eloy," he gasped, and glanced around the area, as if in hope of seeing someone else. "Lord Skufruss sends his compliments, and requests your presence in the Audience Hall with the greatest urgency." His words said requests but every line of his face and tone of his voice said begs. Gorfang and Eloy looked at each other. Both - especially Gorfang - were beginning to be a little weary of being summoned by Skufruss whenever he had dirty work to do; but on the other hand, dirty work was their business, the rewards were good, and both were very curious to find out what had happened. Gorfang eyed the barrel of ale, wondering if he could carry it, and realized that while the answer was probably yes, it wouldn't go through some of the doorways. He finished his tankard, drew another, drained it, and filled a third to take with him.
The page finished glancing around. "er, sirs, do you know the location of Lady Méabh and Lady Lynien?" he asked. "We haven't seen Méabh for weeks," said Eloy, "and I don't know where Lynien is." True, he thought, she may be halfway up or she may have got to the top. "I'll take what I can get," replied the page, then trembled as Gorfang's hideous red eyes shifted to glare at him. "urm, numerically speaking," he added hastily. "Lead on," said Eloy.
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They passed quickly through the palace, and the nearer they got to the audience hall the more agitation they encountered. With the incursion beaten off, the tension should have been dwindling, but here it was clearly increasing. Something else had happened. The two were ushered into the audience hall without delay, and found all the major players of Skufruss' court were present, milling and roiling in near-chaos. Slyfram, Lord High Chamberlain, was trying to organize and control things, but some change had occurred; the adventurers had never seen this level of disruption in Skufruss' court, even when Gorfang was waving his swords around.
The answer was at the far end. Skufruss, Lord of Dragons, sat hunched in his chair. Strain twisted his face and sweat pearled it; for perhaps the first time since they'd met him, they saw him displaying strong emotion - stress. He gave every impression of a man exerting a massive, sustained effort of willpower. Glancing up, he saw them, and his relief was clear; he lifted a hand and beckoned them urgently over.
As Lynien ran silently across the courtyard towards the cliff face, she collected some of the bulkier and less valuable of the contents of her Bag of Holding, and took it out. She paused at a likely place, and tucked the gear behind a dusty statue of the long-dead Kin Darmagan. Then she ran on, leaped at the cliff, and began to scale the sheer rock face.
The rock was rough, and wouldn't have tested a modestly competent climber, but Lynien was climbing fast, and using her skills to the utmost. She sprang from handhold to handhold, barely taking time to look for them, and soon her vertical progress cut the line of the stairway up which Skufruss had brought Gorfang to meet the dragon Ohmond. Turning onto this, she loped upwards until she reached the platform where the pair had stood to talk with the reptile.
Looking around, she saw the hundreds of caves, crafted from the rock of the valley by magic. Normally, a dragon would spend years looking for just the right cave to make his lair; whoever had made these was a genius, because each was perfect. Her eyes narrowed as she looked at them. Powerful as dragons were, their abilities to lay physical traps paled beside Lynien's epic skills as a trapmaker and trapbreaker, and one by one she picked out the pitfalls and poisoned edges and springloaded blades that the dragons had laid out to defend their treasures. None of them worried her; but with the other abilities she had she could feel that the area of the caves was alight with magic; while dragons were only averagely good with mechanical traps, they were absolute masters of magical traps. Slowly, she considered her options.
Gorfang eyed Skufruss, feeling something was missing, and then he had it - the Sceptre of the Dragon Lords was missing! Instantly, he understood the problem. The Sceptre was the key to Skufruss' hold over the dragons of Tarlanor; without it, they would turn on him and each other, and the consequences of that were likely to be extreme. The orc couldn't resist it. "Lost something?" he asked archly, saluting Skufruss ironically with his tankard. The Lord of Tarlanor's eyes tightened slightly, but he went on to explain.
 DM Note: Cheesy Fudge Hands in the Air. I knew the PCs had seen enough clues to answer Skuffy's question here, but shamelessly prompted the players to remind them. It would have been far easier if Lynien had actually seen him cut through in the previous session of course; but then she wasn't there for him to ask anyway! This Way to the Dungeon. So sue me :) |
"During the disturbance this night," he said, "someone entered the Tower with the aid of an Opener of the Way and stole the Sceptre. I know it was not the work of the Sarkrith, because whoever it was used magical assistance to break the protections around the Sceptre's store. I know it was not you, because I knww where you were. The only other holder of an Opener is Yadaran Heartmaster, though he will have needed help to pull this off. But I have no means of knowing where he will have gone. You searched his rooms, and spoke with him at least once. Do you have any ideas where he might have gone?"
Gorfang and Eloy thought back to the day they'd looted the strange half-ithilid Kin's rooms. "He had a book, and some Plane Shift scrolls," said Eloy, "we think he was trying and failing to shift to the place described in the book. It was called Some Accounts of the Abduction of the Population of Nisur, or something like that." Skufruss grimaced. "Typical dwarf," he muttered, and cast a minor spell. With a quiet pop, the book in question appeared in the air about twenty feet away and drifted to him. He leafed through and found the pages.
"Heppetah," he said with grim satisfaction.
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Heppetah was the demiplane where, forty years before, a group of mind flayers had set up a hidden fortress to which they had kidnapped the entire population of the dwarvish city of Nisur. There, they had tortured the life energy from them, hundreds at a time, to power an act of hideous evil - the recreation of an Elder Brain (one of the rulers of their vile race) from the ancient mind flayer empire. An assault by a githyanki force, allied with adventurers from the prime material, had stormed the fortress and rescued the dwarves, and the demiplane had been sealed after they had left.
"Heartmaster must have been hoping to find some secret or power of his ithilid forebears there," said Skufruss. "The Opener is one of the very few ways he could have reached it. Only those familiar with the Openers can hope to pursue him or - more important - get back. I am fortunate that you are here, resourceful as you are. Will you try to retrieve the Sceptre?"
Gorfang considered, glancing at the description of Heppetah in the book. "We are inadequate," he stated flatly, causing Eloy to blink at this unGorfang-like pronouncement. "We have little magic, we have no defence against psionics, and we can't fly - it doesn't look like we can walk anywhere there. Lend us a dragon." Skufruss bared his teeth with frustration. "A dragon?" he hissed. "Do you not understand yet? The Sceptre is gone. My control over the dragons of my realm will last a little while yet, unless the new holder returns and wrests them from me. I have forced them to fly away from here as far and as fast as possible, to get them as far away as I can before the enchantment breaks, or is broken. When that happens, they will come back." The last word was stark and grim; no-one needed a picture drawn to explain what that would involve. "With them hundreds of miles away, we will have some time to evacuate if the worst happens. Your mission will be to return the Sceptre to me before that."
He gathered his strength. "Lord Arcanist Ohmdalz?" he called. A human detached himself from the courtiers and walked over to the throne. Gorfang and Eloy eyed him carefully; they'd heard of him, but never met him.
In lands where magic was used, a king or lord would maintain a court wizard. In Tarlanor, of course, Skufruss was the Master of the Dark Tower and head of the Mageguild across the land. However, the day-to-day running of the Dark Tower and the Academy was given over to the formidable Lashasvow-Movamo Ohmdalz. Ohmdalz was human, though he had lived many lives of men and had many names; Calatin, Giraud, Ertil among others. Many of those who condemned the Dark Tower as a wellspring of evil pointed to Ohmdalz as the proof, claiming that his unnatural longevity was the result of dark pacts with unspeakable beings. Neither Skufruss nor Ohmdalz would comment but it was beyond doubt that Ohmdalz was close after Skufruss in his mastery of the arcane arts.
| DM Note: Derek was convinced that he would know if Ohmdalz was undead, but clerics don't automatically know - that's what Detect Undead is for, and Eloy wasn't daft enough to go casting spells without permission at this point. So despite (erroneous) confirmation at the table, Gorfang, Eloy and Lynien are simply suspicious that Ohmdalz is probably a lich. OK, yes, of course he is. |
Now, as Ohmdalz drew close, Gorfang and Eloy felt the air grow cold, and the aura of pure evil enclose them. Neither were noble, or good, or honest, or kind; they'd slain, stolen, lied, destroyed, betrayed. Yet this being was so far from natural, from what fitted into the world, that suddenly they felt that they did still have that in their souls that was still clean, if not especially nice, and that what Ohmdalz represented was beyond that in corruption and damnation. The sensation was familiar, and reminded both of them of the fae mhor priestess Eralevia that they'd fought in Amberlan.
The Arcanist bowed to Skufruss. "What does my Lord wish of me?" he asked in a dry, toneless voice. Skufruss gestured at the two. "These - and probably one other - are going on a mission of the utmost importance for me," he said, "for which they require magic. Assist them as you can." Ohmdalz turned to Gorfang. "As my Lord wishes. What do you need?" he said crisply. Gorfang considered, and then made his requests.
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The requirement for flight was a problem. Ohmdalz' original solution was several sets of magical wings, but neither Gofang nor Eloy were prepared to use them, though they relished the idea of seeing the effect of their movement on Lynien's chest. He next produced a magic carpet, but this was even less popular. Finally two Rings of Flying were located, which the pair accepted, along with various other pieces of equipment.
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Lynien stood, gazing at the gold, jewels and other treasure laid out before her. Her vision began to mist and her muscles to relax with pleasure; the spell of the dragonhoard. As she looked around, Lynien noticed something else; amongst the treasure in one of the lairs was a heap of large, leathery ovoids. She stared at these for a moment, struggling to grasp the power of will required to force a nursing dragon to abandon her clutch. All at once, cold the realization of how precarious her current situation could become bore down on her, and she shook herself free of the hypnotic effect of the dragongold. Time to get moving.
Choosing a rich-looking lair, she inched her way towards it, evading and disabling trap after trap as she went, until she was within the cave itself. Looking around, she carefully picked out the best of the treasure and stashed it into her bag of holding. Finally satisfied, she turned to go. Don't relax on the way out, or you will be, she recited from her early training, then frowned as she heard a tiny sound at the edges of her hearing. It rapidly increased into an eardrum-tearing siren scream, and she realized with horror that it was coming from her own hip - from the treasure she'd looted!
Rapidly she backtracked into the cave, and the noise stopped.
Lynien stood still, racking her brains for an idea. Then she reached into her pouch and drew out one of her two remaining scrolls of Teleport. She concentrated for a moment, then read the spell, and vanished from Vorsand.
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Darnivarn, Guildmistress of Thieves in Lossal, jerked awake, her hair-trigger thieves' instincts triggered by a sudden noise. It continued, and she loped down the passageway, dagger in hand, to the guild common room. There, she found Lynien standing in the middle of the room stacking cushions and rugs on top of an object which was emiiting the most skull-tearingly loud noise Darnivarn had ever heard.
Other thieves were rushing in from all directions, and some were actually passing out from the sheer sonic impact of the sound. Once enough cloth had been heaped on the bag, some communication was possible, and Lynien indicated that a mage was needed to cast a Dispelling on the bag, and no questions asked. It took an hour to find one but eventually one was brought and a few moments later silence fell.
Finally able to communicate, Lynien and Darnivarn greeted each other, and there was a brief conversation about Guild dues and percentages. That settled, Lynien stashed some of her bag's contents with the Guildmistress and used her last Teleport scroll to take her back to Vorsand.
Lynien arrived while the last of the preparations were being finalized. A pile of scrolls and other magical equipment had been gathered on a table to the side of the throne, and Ohmdalz was preparing to cast spells on the others. Gorfang and Eloy noticed that Lynien looked very satisfied and pleased, and surmized what had happened. "What's wrong with Sweaty?" she asked, jerking a thumb at Skufruss. As they explained, she began to look dubious. "Another mission for him with no contract?" she protested. "Get him to sign on the dotted!" Eloy pointed out that if they delayed too long, there'd be no mission, no-one to sign anything, and no city to raise any payment from.
Bog was sent for and produced eight bottles of Kaboom Boom. "This looks dangerous," he commented. "Do you want to come?" asked Gorfang. "I will if you ask me," said Bog unhappily. "No," said Gorfang, "you wouldn't survive."
Skufruss had been reading the account of Heppetah written by the nameless dwarvish author and believed he now knew enough of the place to visualize it. He cast a spell of Telepathy and reached out to touch the minds of the three adventurers. As his thoughts connected with theirs, they had a glimpse of the indescribable mind of the Lord of Tarlanor. The mental contact with them was the merest tendril of a touch, but behind it was a tidal wave of knowledge, thought, planning, reasoning that made their minds reel. Fortunately, contact was only momentary. A composite image of Heppetah, concentrated on its' uniquenesses, appeared in their minds, and Gorfang nodded. Should be enough, he thought.
Ohmdalz took over. First he cast a spell of Mind Blank on each, extended to last several days, as a protection against psionics. Then he cast an Anti-Magic Shell, enveloping the party in magical silence. Gorfang unpacked the Opener of the Way and, concentrating on his mental picture of Heppetah, carved an arc in the air that sliced between two planes of existence.
On the far side was a rocky cave wall. To the left was a cave mouth, with a view of a misty sky filled with violet clouds shot through with mauve light. Distant masses of rock floated in mid-air, and there was no sign of any ground below. It looked right. Eloy stepped through, looking around, followed by Lynien and finally Gorfang as he released the portal and retrieved the dagger.
This was the first time any of the three had been off the Prime Material plane, and for an instant, they experienced the differences. The gravity was different, making them feel slightly lighter; the light was a pale purple and gave everything an eerie cast; sounds echoed and were swallowed strangely. There was a sharp, chemical smell - but that would turn out to be a more localized effect.
The cave they were in turned out to be a rough-walled, round-ceilinged tunnel, leading to the opening on their left and away into the darkness on their right. Starting around twenty feet away, the tunnel was lined with huge glass cylinders, capped in black metal top and bottom. Each was a different size, ranging from less than a foot across to fifteen. Each was filled with some viscous-looking pale green fluid, which appeared to be faintly luminous, and each contained a dead creature of some description, each one different, some turning gently in their jars and others floating motionless. The dim pools of light shed by the jars receded into the distance, indicating a possible 400-500' to the end or a turning.
Eloy used one of his newly-acquired magical items, and summoned his magical lions, which he sent loping down the rocky tunnel into the darkness. They sniffed at the jars, but found them uninteresting and carried on down the passage.
Gorfang, content that nothing immediately nasty was happening in that direction, turned the other way and walked to the lip of the cave mouth. As he was expecting, it opened onto the purple sky the book had described. Looking around, he guessed the cave was surrounded by a considerable area of rock above, and perhaps fifty feet below; if the place they were in was anything like the other floating islands he could see in the distance, they were near the bottom.
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Suddenly, without any warning at all, a dozen tall humanoids appeared all around the party. Slender to the point of gaunt, with harsh, inhuman faces and complex, baroque armour, they were armed with two-handed swords; these were sheathed over their shoulders, however. The one nearest to Gorfang met his startled gaze with cold, eldritch eyes. "Come with us if you want to live," he stated flatly in a language the orc had never heard before.
Gorfang's own eyes clicked around the other newcomers. They had fanned out defensively, and were clearly on a hair-trigger of readiness - but all their attention was focussed down the tunnel, not on the party, which seemed to indicate they were not hostile - so far. "Why?" he asked. "Matrioshka." replied the newcomer flatly, as if he had answered "purple" to "what colour's the sky?"
As far as Gorfang was concerned, Matrioshka could be some kind of small pudding with raisins in; he needed more information. "Who or what is Matrioshka, and who are you? What is down the corridor, why do we need to leave, and where are we going?" he asked. The tall humanoid gritted his teeth with impatience but explained - very briefly. "Matrioshka is a fiend, and this is her island. If we are caught here, we will all end up in jars," he gestured to the green cylinders, "like that. We are the Githmorein, the Gith who Remained, and we will take you to safety." He reached out a hand to lay on Gorfang's shoulder, and the orc recoiled, reaching for his swords. The githmorein looked aggrieved. "We must go!" he said urgently. "We can teleport you to safety but we must have contact!" Gorfang kept his sword hefted and nodded briefly. The gith touched each of them lightly - and everything vanished.
At first, their new surroundings did not seem much different. A rough tunnel bored through a mass of rock, with a ragged cave entrance opening onto the sky of Heppetah. Here, though, the cave entrance was guarded by three more githmorein warriors, and there were no ominous jars lining the walls. Their escorts exchanged silent nods with the guards, and visibly relaxed as they guided the visitors deeper into the island.
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I thought this plane was sealed?" said Eloy. "How did you lot - or this Matrioshka - get here?" The githmorein grimaced. "It is," he said. "We are the descendants of those githmorein who survived the battle when it was sealed and were trapped here; as was the fiend Matrioshka, as it turned out. She has been conquering the demiplane ever since, increasing her collection of dead creatures. We served her; we had no choice. There was no escape - until the Master came. Now you have come, also, and we have hope of revenge and escape."
"The Master?" asked Gorfang, as they entered a large open area in the middle of the island. The gith nodded towards the centre of the room. The adventurers looked that way... to see Yadaran Heartmaster standing there smiling all over his wierd purple face.
Instantly, Gorfang drew his khopeshoi and charged. The cheesy smile slipped off Heartmaster's face and he began waving his hands and shouting. "It wasn't me! Matrioshka stole my black dagger and sent a thief to steal the sceptre! I haven't got it! We need to work together!" Almost reluctantly, the orc slowed to a halt, within easy striking distance, his sword still ready. Around him, the githmorein warriors were poised, hands on hilts, heads bent forwards, ready to defend their 'master'. "Explain," grated Gorfang.
"Matrioshka is a fiend, of a breed that specializes in information, and has hated Skufruss as a rival for over a hundred years. She also collects dead bodies, hence the jars. When I arrived, she mastered me instantly, discovering the use of the dagger from my mind and wresting it from me. Only these warriors, loyal to the memory of their masters, saved me, rescuing me and rebelling against her. Matrioshka had already struck at Skufruss' weak spot, though, sending the best of her remaining githmorein through to steal the sceptre."
"You know I loathe my half-brother and would sieze his realm from him. If the sceptre is not retrieved, though, there will be no realm to sieze - Tarlanor will be consumed by the vengeance of the dragons. Together, we can recover it; I have troops," he gestured around at the githwarriors, "and you have your matchless abilities as well as - it would appear - newly-gained immunity to the psionic arts. You are closed to us; you will be closed to them."
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