Before they left, Eloy snicked a lock of the assassin's bloody hair for his wife. He had a feeling the witch might be able to extend their vengeance even further with it.
In the subsequent days, the companions separated for a while to pursue their own projects. Eloy arranged the replacement of Sashia's house, this time with something a little more secure. Perhaps it was time she had some staff and guards; her husband was certainly rich enough. He also went a procured himself a pile of Mage Armour scrolls, and visited Bog in his laboratory in Southwold to discuss the possibility of mixing Neutralize Poison into the KaBoomBoom he was making these days. He wasn't admitting it to the others, but the assassination attempts were beginning to rattle Eloy.
Gorfang, although faster on his feet than anyone he'd ever met (save Lynien), turned his mind to getting the first blow in at range. Such bows as he had were starting to creak dangerously when drawn to the potential of his mighty muscles, and he had it in mind to have made a bigger bow that was up to the job. His local contacts led him to a man named Eddaus, regarded by all as the best bowyer in Lossal.
Lynien picked up some scrolls of Teleport, and declared her intention to visit one of the Dark Tower's satellite academies in quest of the enchanted gems to complete her mithril mail. When Gorfang heard this, he asked her to look out for some different gems of a kind he'd read of, puissant against the undead.
A week later, all three were back at Southwold discussing progress - or their lack of it - of their search for the source of the assassins. They’d just finished a fairly fruitless discussion about what to try next when one of Southwold’s staff came to Gorfang to announce that there was a visitor to see him. “Just one?” he queried, wondering if this was another attack. “Yes, one old woman,” was the answer. Gorfang shrugged, and stood up to investigate, the others falling in behind him.
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At the door, they discovered a hunched, cloaked figure waiting outside in the chilly November air. Coming to a halt, Gorfang eyed it – her- up and down, and cleared his throat questioningly. The figure looked up – and, changed as she was, they knew her. It was Principa.
Only her eyes were unchanged, the same spacious light grey eyes with the slight wrongness far under their depths. Around them, the face had crumpled, wrinkled and aged, and the once-blonde hair surrounding it was now stark white. The once-toned limbs were scrawny and thin, her once-snug fighting leathers hanging loose, and the fluid movements were gone, replaced with awkward, painful stiffness.
“What are you doing here?” asked Gorfang abruptly, with a perhaps understandable lack of sympathy. Principa looked up at him, and her voice quavered like that of an ancient. “I have come to try and help you catch the bastard that did this to me,” she replied. She tottered into the hall and practically collapsed onto a chair. Once she’d recovered some of her composure, she continued.
“I had held back one piece of information when… we last spoke,” she said, “intending to act on it myself. However, since then, the price I paid for the power Larira’s enchantment granted me has become apparent.” She lifted her arm, and gazed at her own hand as if it revolted her. Dropping it with a sigh, she continued. “I will be dead in days,” she said distantly, “and I bequeath my vengeance to you. Slaying the one paying to have you dead will suit you too I expect.” Gorfang snorted. “Should be easy to fix,” he said, “get to a priest and pay for a Restoration spell, or a Remove Curse.” Principa shook her head impatiently. “I’m not injured, or cursed, or ill,” she said testily, “I’m old. I’ve been to see priests, blast their false faith, and there’s nothing they can do. My life force was drained to feed the magic that gave me the power to fight you, and it is nearly gone. My last act of malice will be to try and set you on my killer’s track. Ironic, but fitting.”
She straightened slightly. “Here it is, and you may think it thin enough, but I think it’s vital. When Larira hired me, one item of her gear struck me as odd, and I memorized its’ appearance – a pendant around her neck. It had strange characters on it, and I drew them out from memory afterwards. I’ve done some research, and I’m told the language is that of the dark elves, if they be aught but myth.”
“Can you draw them?” asked Lynien. Principa eyed her critically, as if she’d asked a stupid question, and drew forth a piece of paper which she cast on the table.
To the three ta’nara, the words were clear as crystal, even though there were a couple of transcription errors. "Quarval-sharess Lolth, al'yorn mrigg-wun, ninta xund". Great Goddess Lolth, guide your (favoured) servants as they strive in your cause. It was part of the dreadful Service to Lolth, the ritual used by the fae mhor to propitiate their terrible demon-goddess.
Eloy sat back, folding his arms. “The only person to link us to the fae mhor, the only one who knows who, where, what we are – is Setram. He served them before. Is it a pact?”
The next day, Eloy took the wracked Principa and placed her in the care of his wife, and then the three teleported back into the ruins of the Dark Tower. Myrasian the scrying globe was there, right where they had left it. Gorfang began by asking it if it could be moved. Myrasian claimed it didn’t know, possibly indicating its’ sentience had awoken after it was a emplaced here. They described the pendant as clearly as they could, and asked the titanic crystal to scry the holder, but whoever it was had clearly been screened against scrying, because the only result was an image of a titanic spider of terrifying aspect. Gorfang ground his teeth in frustration.
“We could bring Sashia here,” suggested Eloy, “she has great skill in scrying.” Gorfang muttered and snarled at this idea, and Lynien pointed out that, unlike scrolls of Scrying and the use of crystal balls, the images Myrasian produced were not a function of the user’s skill; the sphere was producing and presenting them itself.
Candlelight and a softly flickering hearth illuminated the dining table at Southwold, and all three sat comfortably around preparing to eat. Lynien had just returned from the Academy at Coronos, and still no strike from their hidden foe had occurred. Corus the cellarman had just poured second glasses of a most pleasant vintage for Lynien and Gorfang, and the orc was raising his tankard to imbibe when Lynien suddenly slumped sideways and slipped off her chair with a crash.
Gorfang and Eloy glanced at each other in surprise and hurried around the table to investigate, the latter briefly clutching his stomach as a twinge of indigestion gripped it. Lynien was delirious, moaning and semi-conscious, clearly poisoned, and Eloy ripped off a Delay Poison spell as quickly as he could. This seemed to stabilize her, and she directed Gorfang to retrieve a potion bottle from her room. Once this was poured into her, she recovered considerably – though weakened and shaken – and regained her seat.
It seemed a redundant gesture, but Eloy cast a Detect Poison. His eyes widened as he looked around, for the traces seemed to be everywhere. All the food, and all the alcoholic drinks… but not his own habitual milk. Gorfang checked and sniffed, and announced that he believed the toxin to be something called Corvaine, a two-stage poison. This explained Eloy’s dyspepsia; he’d eaten the component in the food but escaped the second part in the wine.
Springing up, the three hurried through the house and through the kitchen, alarming the cooks not a little, and down into the wine-cellar. The magic of Detect Poison was still running and they established that traces of the second component were smeared on most of the wine-bottle necks. Strangely, there was none on the spigots of two brand-new barrels of Typril ale resting on their cradles, but the fluid inside was laced with the stuff. Glancing around for a common factor in the preparation of the food, all three focussed on the salt; and sure enough, the large common bowl was rich with the primary component of the poison. None of the staff had yet eaten – their meals were plated up ready for when the master and his friends were done – so none had fallen victim.
Gorfang turned on the trembling Corus. “Has anyone from outside been down there?” he demanded, pointing at the cellar. Corus started. “Why, yes, of course,” was his perhaps surprising answer. “We had two new barrels of ale yesterday, from Typril’s as usual. I helped the drayman down with them, and left him to set them and tap them.” He paused. “Now you mention it, he wasn’t the usual fellow. Short, dark lad, southerner by the looks of him. But he had the Typril barrels, and the usual note from the brewery and everything….” Gorfang snarled. “This is all your fault!” he roared. “Lynien nearly died up there! Ditch it all – the ale, these bottles, the salt, and clean up. Yourself.” Corus protested. “He was from Typril’s, milord,” he said meekly, “he had the paperwork and the barrels and everything!” Gorfang snorted. “He’s next,” he said ominously.
With Lynien restored, courtesy of Bog, the three rode to town and Typril’s brewery. Attached to the front of the great sheds holding the brewing and distilling operations was a small shed, where customers could place orders or purchase small quantities. A skinny clerk sat atop a stool behind a desk, and looked up as Gorfang entered, unconcerned; the orc was a regular customer. “Where’s Typril?” barked Gorfang. The clerk blinked. “He’s not here,” he said. “Where?” The clerk looked at Gorfang’s face and answered the question.
Typril was seated comfortably in one of Lossal’s best taverns with a wealthy-looking merchant. Gorfang couldn’t remember the man’s name, but he recognized the orc, and greeted him politely. Typril rose to speak to the orc, and was taken aback at the anger with which he was met.
He recalled the deliveries of the previous day clearly enough; his regular drayman, one Yanelis, had been taken suddenly ill, and a jobbing carter named Currund had presented himself by coincidence, scouting for work. Typril had gratefully hired him to cover for Yanelis, and sent him out with the deliveries. All had seemed well…
Gorfang, his rage clear, explained the problem. Typril was horrified, and hastened to deny any involvement, but the orc showed clearly that he blamed the brewer at least in part, and that his trade was likely to go elsewhere in future. He demanded Yanelis’ address, and Typril provided it unhappily. “I really am sorry,” he said, “your next order will be on the house, of course!” Gorfang stood. “That’s assuming you still have a business or a head by then,” he muttered, and left.
The carter’s house was a plain workman’s dwelling in the Trade district, and his weary, worried wife answered the door when Gorfang knocked. Once she’d been told why they had come, she led them to the bedroom, where the burly middle-aged carter lay delirious and sweating on his bed, clearly smitten by the same venom as Lynien. She unstoppered a potion of Neutralize Poison and tipped it gently into the dying man’s mouth, stroking his throat to make him swallow. He gulped and coughed, and then his face relaxed and he slipped into a calm, healing sleep.
For about five seconds. Then Gorfang grabbed him and shook him awake. “What was the last thing you ate?” he demanded. Yanelis coughed a couple of times as his eyes focussed, and then muttered, “Sausages. Gorbal’s sausages… and ale.” Gorfang nodded. “Chuck them out,” he said to the goodwife. “They’re poisoned, and if you eat any more you’ll be killed.” The woman blanched. “Lawks!” she cried. Gorfang moved on. “Have you had any breakins?” he asked. Yanelis’ wife stared at him in disbelief. “What have we got that’s worth stealing?” she asked incredulously. Behind, Lynien coughed and spluttered at that idea. “Take me to your larder,” said Gorfang.
Sure enough, the tiny window of their pantry had been skilfully and unobtrusively forced. Outside, they found the tracks of a brewer’s dray…
Meanwhile, Eloy was at the Assassins’ Guild, talking to Yanral. In a rather more relaxed atmosphere without Gorfang’s looming fury, he explained to the guildmaster that there were more rogue assassins loose in Lossal, and that the future safety of their guild could depend on assistance in catching him. Yanral agreed to set his forces to the task.
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